long days

I thought it would never happen.

At the end of one of our most challenging days in recent memory, she sat down on the potty and went pee and poop. No big whoop. Except it is about the biggest whoop there is. First time ever pooping on the potty, and only the second time ever peeing on the potty (the first time was this weekend.)

Tomorrow we are going to pick out her new Tinkerbell costume.

People, keep your fingers crossed.

L, looking over my shoulder while I make my way through my daily reading: "Mommy, can I have that?" she says, pointing to the 'Fuck Rehab shirt' currently featured on PerezHilton.com.

Me: "No."

L: "Please?"

Me, trying to quickly scroll to down the page: "No, you may not."

L, still looking over my shoulder: "Mommy, who is that lady?"

Me: "Um, her name is Posh Spice."

(insert snort from husband, listening to the exchange from across the room.)

L: "Posh Spice? Is she a princess?"

Me: "Um. Kind of."

We are finally done breastfeeding. I have given up the pretense. I have stopped wrestling with TJ as she squirms and screams when I offer it to her, and accepted the fact that at 10 months we are DONE.

I have ditched the stress of worrying about pumping, my supply, how much wine I've had to drink, and why it takes so long for my milk to let down with TJ even though it never did with L.

I have banished from my memory the many 3 AM feedings over the past few months where I would have to toggle TJ back and forth from the pacifier to the boob, because she would get so impatient and furious waiting and waiting and waiting (5 minutes? 10 minutes? I never did figure out how long it took) for the milk to come out.

My nipples are finally healed from December, when she made them her chewtoy during some teething phase.

I am fine with this. My intermittent sadness about my now kind of spotty track record of breastfeeding is fading. I don't feel like as much as a failure as I did. I'm ok and she is more than ok, now that her beverage of choice comes out as fast and as plentifully as she can suck it down. From a bottle.

All right, I'm not especially proud of the few times last month where I would sneak into her room while she was sleeping and nurse her when she were too sleepy to know what was up. That was desperate. I admit it.

And, let's be honest, the last month was pretty much a joke. Only one side was still making milk, and just a trickle at that. It's for the best that we have all accepted reality and moved on. (I even started using a not-safe-for breastfeeding anti-wrinkle cream, that's how over it I am.)

So why, 2 weeks after our last breastfeeding session, and months after you had any interest in actually creating enough milk to sustain a baby, did you decide to get engorged NOW? Who are we kidding here? Now that we're all done and have moved on and had closure, now you want to kick up the production? I think not.

This dysfunctional relationship is over. Protest all you want, you're not even getting any cabbage leaves.

When it comes to holiday attire, she does not mess around. I have a feeling she will also really embrace Christmas sweaters as an adult.

L needs to nap, but it's a struggle. She gets wiggly and giggly and squirmy and can't lie still without me sitting in the room next to her, coaching her through it. "Close your eyes... just relax... no, close your eyes. Without your hands. Lie still. You can't nap if you're picking your nose... close your eyes. You aren't napping if you are making noises with your mouth. No, I know you're not napping... No, you're not. If you're arguing with me, you are not napping. Because you are not."

And so it goes.

I have found it more expedient to bring in some rewards and consequences to the napping experience. Reward: a star on her sticker chart if she rests. Consequence: I start removing Princess crap from her room until she lies still. First go the box of dress up costumes ("No, no not Snow White and Belle!") and then the collection of Princess books. It usually doesn't get that far. Once the gowns leave the room, she can usually settle down.

Today, we were in need of some consequences at nap time. Princess gowns were carted out of the room. Wailing commenced. "No, no mama, bring back my costumes. I NEED Belle and Snow White! Don't take the books! Bring back my Princess lamp!!!"

"L., you can have the dresses back after your nap. And you don't have a Princess lamp."

"But I need one! I need a Princess lamp! For next Christmas, I need a Princess lamp!"

Only my child could turn a punishment into an opportunity to beg for more branded Disney crap.

Once L. finally went to sleep (about 5 minutes after this exchange. I may be ruthless, but I am also effective.) I went in to check on her sister, who had been punctuating our naptime routine with various babblings, exclamations, and gurgling. When I poked my head in her door, she looked up at me and smiled with joy. She had removed her sleep sack and her pants, and was rolling around in her crib, half naked, in only a diaper and shirt. Unfortunately, she is too young for my gestapo nap tactics.

I called their father at work. "I blame you," I said.

A few days ago I visited the preschool for autistic kids offered by the city we live in. It seemed like a great program, with tons of staff, and on site speech and occupational therapists, ABA next door, and a social skills group in the morning before school. The director told me that most of the kids come from 8:30-3:30, with 2-5 hours of behavior intervention therapy daily after preschool. At the very least, it sure would cut down on driving from appointment to appointment.

I had to walk away at one point during the tour and pretend to study the daily schedule, so I could stop crying and pull myself together.

Even though the program takes only "higher functioning" kids, it was so depressing. Each kid was a little planet unto himself (mostly himself, a few herselfs.) You know how when you walk into a preschool, all you hear is noise -- talking, laughing, crying, yelling. Not here. It was eerily quiet. Some kids were talking, but many were not. And the kids who were talking, were only talking to adults -- there was no chatter or conversation amongst the kids. None. Not one word.

I don't think we can send L. there, even if it's the best option in terms of treatment. I could never leave her there without crying. I know it's not as sad as I think it is -- those kids will all go to regular kindergarten, some with aides and some without. These are not the kids to be crying about. I know that.

Maybe what was so upsetting was to realize that L. has more in common with these kids than she has differences. And it was also realizing what the world would be like if all kids were like her, and that was sad too. So I'm going to cling to the idea that what she needs most are normal kids to copy and learn from, until someone proves to me otherwise.

The same night, before bed, I watched Toni Braxton on The View on the DVR, talking about her son with autism. We couldn't watch much of it -- it was extremely depressing, and also weird to watch different families talking about their kids' disabilities with the children sitting right next to them on stage. They talked about different therapies, and the warning signs.

I had a hard time falling asleep, thinking about those warning signs. I can't let myself think about that list, without getting unproductively angry. She had some of those warning signs, at as early as 15 months, and nobody, including me, did anything about it.

From the time she was walking, I was expressing my concern to her pediatrician about her toe-walking. Everyone oohs and ahs about how cute she is walking on her tip-toes, but it's less cute when you realize it's a physical symptom that is often a marker for autism. I took her into the doctor at 24 months because she had her fingers in her ears whenever there was a loud noise or she was scared. That should have been enough to at least ask some questions about her social development. Did she ever line up her toys? Why yes, yes she does. Is she anxious in social settings? Most of the time, yes. Just a few questions, and we could have gotten her in to see a specialist by the time she was two years old. So much time wasted.

But it's also a waste of time getting worked up because the doctor didn't pick up any of the admittedly very subtle warning signs. I could jump on the anti-vaccine mercury poisoning bandwagon, or one of the other theories du jour, but the truth is that at this point there's really no one to blame. Other than myself, for not listening to the nagging voice inside my head telling me that she was different from other kids.

In the meantime, she won't be going to the autism school. They may have the best therapists all in the same room, but how is she ever going to learn how to converse and play and collaborate and work together with other kids -- if she's going to a school where nobody talks?