Sometimes Parenting’s Difficult?  Although true, not the meaning in this case.  Remember how Justin and I were called in for a teacher conference the fifth day of school?  And she said she thought Robbie had sensory issues?  And I wanted to ignore it and pretend it was from moving and being in pre-school instead of daycare?  Well, two weeks later, here we are.  At SPD – Sensory Processing Disorder.

Yesterday, I filled out a questionnaire about Robbie and a friend who is an occupational therapist scored it.  The results speak for themselves.  As I read the questions, I found myself recognizing idiosyncrasies that, alone, did not add up to much.  But, all on a page like that?  Overwhelming.  Accident prone – he’s hit the same spot on his forehead 20 times; he trips over his own feet; he falls off chairs and stools.  He likes to spin in circles – but panics if someone spins him, especially upside-down.  He doesn’t pull up pants that are sagging, which lead me to the discovery that my child should be able to dress himself.  But he can’t.  Panicking when he gets his hair cut.  Never opting for a quiet activity.  All the difficulty and frustration with potty training.  There were pages and pages of questions, and I found myself checking “frequently” and “always” much more often than I had hoped.

Part of me feels an immense relief that there is a reason for all of this.  In fact, as I realized all the symptoms Robbie had been presenting, I felt as if someone had just handed me the answer key to the past 18 months of my life.  Robbie’s aggressiveness isn’t because he is mean.  His inability to focus and calm down isn’t because he has ADHD (a common misdiagnosis of SPD, which I have learned from my crash-Internet course in the subject).  And, even better, there is something we can do about it.  Robbie will start occupational therapy as soon as possible.  I have to be honest, it feels nice to have an explanation (which is not an excuse) for his behavior.

The other part of me wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.  How could I not notice all of these signs?  And if I had, what in the world would I have thought they meant?  Had I done something wrong to “give” Robbie these sensory issues?  Too much TV?  Handing my iPhone over too often at a restaurant? Drinking caffeine and using aspartame while I was pregnant? (Again, from my crash course, the answer here is no.)

After I finished worrying about myself, I focused a little more on Robbie.  Justin and I will have to work with his teachers (who are, blessedly, onboard with anything we suggest and determined for Robbie to have every skill necessary to be successful in kindergarten) and therapist to be consistent in implementing recommendations and strategies.  But, what else could it mean for Robbie?  I don’t want him to be the little boy no one wants at their house because they don’t feel they can watch him (to quote Zhining, “Must watch this boy every minute.  Always so busy.”).  Or the boy no one wants to be friends with.

Here I was, the woman who lectures her husband about getting all the information and processing one set at a time, nervous that my child would have an IEP before he could even say the word kindergarten.  And, although I pray early intervention will be enough to get him through this, he may.  And that’s OK.  Some of my favorite people in the world have IEPs and they all turned out pretty fabulous.

I’m sure you have been waiting on pins and needles for blog posts from me.  And, yet, they haven’t come.  On top of all the changes in the past six weeks, I just couldn’t blog.

Moving home has been wonderful.  We will have a beautiful house soon.   We are around family and have help with Robbie.  I’ve even been able to run errands on my own.  And have a whole day to myself when my sister took Robbie to the lake for the day.

But it has also been more stressful than I could have imagined.  The closing on our condo has been delayed (two more weeks at the latest!).  Which put back the closing of our house in Lexington (it was supposed to be next Tuesday).  Robbie has had a difficult time adjusting to pre-school.  We are in limbo, living in my parents’ basement until our houses close.

And so, at the end of the day, with no real structure or schedule, I’m just too tired.  But, really, I am going to try.  I promise.

So…  It didn’t take long for us to get our first call from Robbie’s teacher.  Five days.  But, yesterday, during my planning period, I got a phone call.  Mrs. Smith assured me that Robbie was safe and fine, but she wanted to talk.  Immediately, I thought of all the things my sweet boy could have done.  Language.  Pushing.  Hair pulling.  But he always behaves so much better for other people…  Right?

Apparently pre-school is the exception to this rule.  Mrs. Smith was quick to tell me how much they all adore Robbie and how funny he was.  But he also has a difficult time calming himself down when going into an environment that is a little more exciting – like music, Spanish, the playground, or (horror of horrors) chapel.  He also doesn’t like other kids being in his personal space when this is happening.

Concerned about our child and his potential for success (after all, if we are failing him at three, how can we possibly help him be successful later?), we headed into school for a meeting with Mrs. Harris.  And there we sat, Justin and myself in the big chairs, and Mrs. Smith, perched on a pre-school chair.  I know my child isn’t perfect.  In fact, I might be the first person to tell you that.  But it’s quite a different story when someone else is throwing this information your way.  Particularly someone who has known your child for six days.

Now, I am not dismissing what Robbie’s teacher had to say.  In fact, she may be accurate.  However, I do not think it is appropriate to make any sort of recommendations on a child after six days without first implementing new behavior strategies.

Of course, I wrote – and failed to publish – this two weeks ago.  We have continued to work on Robbie’s transition…  Oy!

So, Robbie was supposed to be potty trained to start pre-school. And he wasn’t.  At all.  I spent all day last Thursday working on the finer points of using the potty.  We had eight successes.  And five accidents – at least.  It was all I could do to maintain my cool.

Continue on all week…  Countless accidents.  Changes of clothes.  Trying to stay positive.  Sleepless nights, worried about being kicked out of pre-school because my child didn’t use the potty.

Fortunately, the teachers seemed prepared to deal with this problem.  Their only request?  Pull-ups, so they can train him without a huge mess.  And that, unlike getting my child to tell me when he has to go to the bathroom, I can do.

Last week, I was taken aback by some comments regarding my decision to be a working mother.  I made the off-handed comment that I was not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom and was met with, what seemed to me, such an attack, that it was all I could do to keep myself from crying.

Being a working mother is not a decision women make lightly, nor should it be.  Neither should the decision to have a child.  Before Justin and I decided to start a family, it was clear that we would both need to continue to work.  As many of you know, Robbie entered daycare the day he turned two months old.  Initially, it was a decision that broke my heart.  After all, what kind of woman could leave her child in the care of a virtual stranger?

I soon learned what kind of woman.  A strong woman.  A woman determined to maintain an identity outside of her family.  Now, please don’t think I am in any way undermining a stay-at-home mom; these women are incredible.  I have no idea how they are able to be patient with their children and think of new things to do with them.  This is not something I am able to do.  And every woman has to make her own decision.

As a working mother, however, it is difficult to face the criticisms of those who assume we “farm” our children out.  I absolutely do not farm my child out.  Robbie has been in daycare since he was two months old, and in the care of someone who became a part of our family.  She gave him opportunities I never could have, exposing him not only to Chinese culture but also the language.

So, my friends, I beg of you.  Do not judge each other.  Don’t judge the mother of a three-year-old who isn’t potty trained; yours may take longer, too.  Don’t judge the stay-at-home mom who looks frazzled even though she doesn’t “work”; she has a harder job than most of us.  And don’t judge the mother who makes the choice to work.  She has already judged herself more harshly.  And perhaps she is a better mother for her decision.

Today I took Robbie to the same pool we’ve been visiting every summer for the past two years.  When he was one, it was where he took his first few steps.  Last year, it was where he splashed around and went down the little kid slide.  This year, it seems to be where he has learned how to do the little kid swim.

You know what I’m talking about, right?  Putting your hands on the floor of the baby pool, sticking your legs out behind you, and kicking with all your might.  He figured that one out today, delighted by his ability to motor around the baby pool.  This eventually evolved into throwing himself around in circles, making the biggest splashes he could manage.  He spent some time jumping in the pool, laughing every time he surfaced.

I love watching this, the evolution of Robbie.  Seeing him discover new things, new ways to approach problems.  It’s amazing to watch him enjoy the same things I did when I was his age.  If only time would slow down a little to let me relish it even more…

How in the world was it three years ago?  It seems like only yesterday that Robbie was a not-so-tiny baby, IV attached to his arm.  How we were afraid the nurses would yell at us for dressing our child in our clothes the night he was born.  I remember loving him immediately but needing a few weeks to actually like him, something you can’t truly understand unless you have children.

And now, here we are.  I have a wonderful little boy.  One who loves to laugh and grab every adventure life has to offer.  One who lives to drive me crazy – throwing my Nook out of the third floor window, smearing my Macbook with a thick hand cream resulting in $800 worth of damage, snapping Justin’s glasses (and mine) in half.  One who gives the fiercest hugs and the most kisses.  One who I can’t imagine my life without.

Robbie has been looking forward to his birthday for months.  Yesterday, he ordered his birthday cake (“I want a green cake!  No, Spiderman!”).  Today, he ran around while we cut watermelon and tied balloons to the deck.  He tried to break into the laundry room where  Aunt Halaree was wrapping his presents.

We had a birthday party in the back yard – complete with a slip ‘n slide, Robbie’s first time on one.  He finally figured out how to go down on his belly.  He blew out his candles – a few times before we actually got to sing “Happy Birthday.”  He tore through his presents, more delighted by each one.  And then we went to a movie with Pops.  Finally, it was off to PetSmart to get Robbie his present from us: a fish tank.  I’m not sure what I expected from him but he was sure excited to get them.

As I tucked Robbie in tonight, I was taken aback by how grown up he was.  He told me he was really tired and needed to get some sleep for some adventures tomorrow.  And I can’t wait to see what they will be.  Or what “three” holds in store for Robbie.

So…  Here we are.  In Kentucky.  And while I probably should have written while the emotions were fresh, there just wasn’t any time.  There were trucks and moving crews to reserve.  Boxes to pack.  Utilities to cancel.  Friends to say good bye to.  And, at the end of the day, I just didn’t have the energy to write about it.  It was all just too raw.

The good byes started well over a month before the move, with my students graduating and leaving for the summer.  And then, as I had my last moments with people.  Spreading them out as much as I could, trying not to see more than two people for the last time on any given day.  Realizing I hadn’t made the most of the time I had with friends was painful.  Not getting to say good bye to others was eye opening.  As were the ones who went out of their way to make sure we had a chance to say good bye.

And then there was Robbie.  Not sure how to really explain to him that we were moving for good, I talked to him about it a little every day.  The last day, he said good bye to our house, all the fire stations, Arlington (once he realized we were leaving and Arlington was staying).  And, when one of our good friends dropped him off, he hugged her tights and said, “Have to say good bye.  QiQi move Kentucky.”

The actual day of the move was brutal.  Waiting for the movers to come – they were almost three hours late – and not really having anything left to do.  And then, all of a sudden, we were done.  The house was empty, just like it was when we moved in.  Except it was so full of memories from the past five-and-a-half years.

The place in the basement where I called Justin for the first time to tell him I was standing in our basement.  The exact spot where my mom saw Robbie for the first time.  Where our Christmas tree stood.  The kitchen sink where Robbie took his first bath.  And now, all of a sudden, it wouldn’t be ours anymore. 

It was all more dramatic because it was dark when the movers finally left at 10:00.  Turning off the lights in each room had a much greater sense of finality because it was completely dark.  And closing the door for the last time, knowing I would never be back, broke my heart. 

And yet, here I am.  Three days later and in Kentucky.  It still feels like I’m on vacation.  But things are looking good here.  We found our perfect house.  Our buyers signed a purchase and sale on our condo today.  And we get to be with family again, which, as I watch my son practice “running hugs” in the backyard of his aunt’s house, means everything.

Every now and then, Robbie has one of those special bedtimes.  The one where he looks at me, grins, and exclaims, “I love you, Mom!” while touching my face.  The ones where he wants to have special talks about everything he wants to do.  Tonight was one of those.  Our conversation went a little like this:

“Mom, need to go fishing tomorrow.  ‘K?  I share with Pete.  First my turn.  Then his turn.  Then Mommy’s turn.  Then Daddy’s turn.”  I actually have no idea what this means, but I tell him how proud of him I am when he shares.  This seems to be an acceptable response.

“Want to ride a shark tomorrow.  OK, Mom?”  I’m pretty sure I do a double-take at this one and tell him that might be dangerous and, other than the great whites out at the Cape, I’m not sure where to find any sharks.

“Well, want to ride an alligator.  PLEASE, Mom?  Pleeeeaaaase, can I?”  Again, I tell him this might be dangerous, which gets us onto a new tangent.

“Dangerous to run away.  QiQi run away.  Get in big trouble.  Mommy ever run away?  Daddy ever run away?”  He doesn’t actually want to pack his bags and run away; I figure we still have a few year before that.  He just gets in trouble when he runs down the street after I ask him to stop.

“Want to ride a zebra.”  I tell him this could maybe happen; after all, it did in Swiss Family Robinson.  Although I hope we’re never stranded on an island that pirates frequent…  Before I can even finish my sentence, he’s moved on.

“And an elephant.  Need to ride an elephant, Mom.”  Here, I finally have something to add.  I actually have ridden an elephant.  He’s pretty impressed.  It’s kind of a big thing if your mom has ridden something like an elephant.

“Daddy ride an elephant?”  When I say we’ll have to ask, Robbie takes this in for a minute before asking, “QiQi need to ask?”  I told him I would check.  And, no, Justin hasn’t ridden an elephant.

“Need to go on a picnic tomorrow, Mom.  At the small beach.  And get ice cream from ice cream truck.  Gotta catch the ice cream truck. But first go play playground.  No, first wake up.  Then get dressed.  Then have picnic lunch and get ice cream and play playground.”  Sounds like a pretty good plan to me, although I still don’t know how he learned about the ice cream truck…  Neither justin or myself has ever taken him to get ice cream that way.

Shortly after, he asked me to sing, “Edelweiss”, rolled over, and went to sleep.  And I hurried down to write before I forgot any of it.

Determined to continue our Boston adventures, Robbie and I went to Davis Farmland today with our good friends, Pete and Rebecca.  We had been last year, but it was a totally different experience with two big boys.

We fed and brushed month-old calves.

Held some two-week-old goats.  Until they ran away.

Fed a few sheep.

And a few goats.

Took a tractor ride around the farm.

Rode a horse.

There as swimming, bouncing, and a general good time.  We went for ice cream with an incredible view.

It was the perfect afternoon.  The boys got along brilliantly.  Well, until Robbie called Pete a baby, which created a whole new set of problems and ultimately resulted in me being called a baby as well.  It’s so wonderful that the boys get along so well, especially since Rebecca is one of my best friends.  But it’s heartbreaking, too, because it’s one relationship that probably won’t foster for the boys the way a lifetime friendship since birth should.

And then, blessedly, the boys collapsed in heaps of exhaustion.