A Mom Again ... and Again ...

I will not replay all of yesterday's events as they continue to trouble me. I will, however, touch on the basics as necessary.

Let me begin by saying I love my family. I have eight nieces & nephews, and 4 of them are under the age of 5. These five (Rain included) are a tribe of miscreants and minions, but they are also loving and charming.

For the next few months, Tim & I, along with all members of my family, will have to step up to the plate and help take care of my brother's two children (a boy who is 3, and a girl who is Rain's age). My brother is a good guy, but he's going to need the help.

Yesterday, his wife (whom we all love dearly and is a very petite, sweet girl) was in my attic looking for a box she wanted. To make a painful, long story short, she lost her footing and fell through the attic. She landed in our garage, back first.

I can not adequately describe the child-like, shrill she made when she hit the floor. All I will say is her brother, who saw her fall and was helpless to stop her, took a few hours afterwards to seem coherent again. I was at the other end of the house when it happened, and it took me a moment to understand who could be making such a sound.

The paramedics took her to the hospital, and I left Rain and her two children wailing at home with a family member.

My sister-in-law is still in the hospital today. She broke her back in two spots and they are awaiting more tests to see what other damage was done to her pelvis. In the meantime, her kids are at home with me. Both have looked at me several times since yesterday, troubled, and said, "Mommy? Mommy?"

I told them, "She's coming," but that's all. Until then, and for many months from now, we will all be doing things for her kids that I know my sister-in-law would rather be doing herself. Hugs, play time, racing games, even holding them up--all of that is out of the question.

For the time being, I'm stuck with troubling thoughts. I mean, let's be honest here: I'm hanging by a thread trying to keep up with Rain--how am I going to be able to watch over two others? What if I drop the ball and one of the kids sneaks off and gets hurt? What if my patience falters?

Troubling thoughts, indeed.

Work With Me!

So. Today two speech therapists came to see Rain. Yes, I said speech therapists. Because the doctor wants to make sure Rain is developing well verbally (since she's so quiet), he signed her up for both a hearing test (as discussed in my last post) and a session with speech therapists. I'm not sure how long Tim can bear to let this madness go on ("But there's nothing wrong with her!" he says. Actually, Tim would never say anything with an exclamation point, so it's more like, "There's nothing wrong with her." <*patient sigh*, continues sipping coffee>).

Anyway, so the speech therapists are doing a two-day visit which began today. I had high hopes, because for the last month, Rain has spent extensive time with her same-aged cousins. She has spoken more in the last few weeks than she ever has, so I was hoping she'd show off some of that verbiage to the therapists.

Rather than go into the details of what happened today, let me just explain it this way.

Do y'all remember that frog character on Looney Tunes?


He used to sing ragtime and dance all kinds of nuts. It always happened that some guy would come along and see the frog dancin', and he'd catch him. The man would race to show the miraculous creature to an audience, thinking all the while of the cash he would soon be swimming in. But as soon as the man pull the curtain to reveal the frog, the frog would sit there all limp, practically dead. He wouldn't move, let alone entertain. But, as soon as the man and the frog were alone again, the frog would start toe-tappin' all over the place.

Rain is my very special frog. For an hour and a half while the two therapists were here, she said not one word. Not one.

When the therapists said goodbye, Rain would not even say, "Bye!" which she says ALL THE TIME. I closed the door behind the good women, and Rain turned to me and said, "Mommy?" I was like, "Oh, now you can talk??" She then said, "Papas?" (the Spanish word she uses for food).

I fed her. After, we went for a walk outside. Rain laughed and babbled the whole way, and I wondered when she was going to start her ragtime numbers.

Testing, Testing, 1, 2, 3 ...

Last Wednesday, we took Rain to an ENT specialist. Now, I see "we," because Tim insisted that he should go, though the appointment was flat in the middle of a work day. Even though we both decided that this test was clearly going to be a waste of everybody's time, somehow it was still important that we both be there. I think, deep down, I had this peep of paranoia that whispered, "What if this turns out to be a very big deal? What if Rain can't hear as well as we think?" These thoughts perhaps played in Tim's mind as well, so off we all went to the appointment.

The specialist gave Rain a hearing test in two parts. If you've never witnessed a toddler taking a hearing test, prepare yourself.

Rain, in her defense, has never been very ... um ... baby-ish. She's not one for cutesy faces and noises from adults, and there's nothing we can do about that. The specialist, however, decided early on that the way to get Rain to do his bidding was to cajole her with a sing-songy voice.

Picture this, if you will: Rain is sitting on Tim's lap in a sound booth. She can not see me. There is one window directly in front of her. All she can see is the specialist at his controls looking directly at her. The test begins.

Specialist: [high-pitched-adult-to-baby voice] "Raaaain! Where am I?"
Rain:[turns to look at one of the box speakers in the room where the voice is coming from]
Specialist: "Raaain! The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round! Where am I?"
This is the part where I had to look away. I could only picture Rain's expression of irritation. Tim confirmed her reaction.
Rain: [Says nothing, but looks dead straight at the guy in the window. Probably wondering why he's asking the same question when the man clearly hasn't moved.]
Specialist: "Oh, Rainbow!"
Rain: [Turns to look at speaker box to humor the guy. The specialist rewards her by, no kidding, turning on the light in a shadowed box in the sound room that has ...



That's right. A Stephen King-ish horrifying clapping monkey! From that point, Rain was justifiably terrified.]

Upon leaving the sound booth, Rain decided she wanted nothing to do with this man. I have never seen her give someone the cold shoulder the way she did to him. She did not flail about, but she simply would stare off to the side every time he talked to her. I mean, she would not look at him. Her stare was focused and dismissive. Ouch.

On a happy note (no pun intended), Rain's hearing is fine.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Rain is all over the place. She paints, she sings (if shouting in one long note while holding a songbook counts), she chases--she's everything a toddler is supposed to be.

When I go to her wellness visits at her doctor's office, I don't worry. I know they will tell me she's fine, and I'll nod approvingly at some growth chart and that will be that.

And then a few weeks ago, she doesn't pass some little test, and it's time to take things a bit more seriously. Or is it paranoia and preemptive health care? No matter. Whatever the doctor suggests, I know we'll end up doing.

First stop, the ENT (Ears, Nose, & Throat specialist).