There has been an interesting turn of events this week related to our toddler's speech disability. We learned that we may actually have a shot at therapy covered by insurance, to supplement the 1 time/week from the school district. Several phone calls later, (to our clinic, her current therapist, our insurance, her prospective therapist, to my sister for moral support) we're awaiting the verdict and hopeful. I'm just bitter our two year-old may have missed out on months of frequent therapy because the health insurance literature was deceiving.
I kind of take her delayed speech for granted on a daily basis; we have our ways of communicating, and she's generally happy. But when I start seeing her preschool peers later this month, I know it'll hit home that we're missing out on knowing what she's thinking more. There's a hard-of-hearing stroke survivor at work who seems so incredibly peaceful and trusting in those such as her husband and me when we communicate on her behalf. I'm kind of amazed she isn't more frustrated; if her husband weren't the sensitive, intuitive partner he is, her life might be hell. When I don't adequately intuit our two year-old's feelings and say them aloud for her, as in, "You really wanted your sister to share that, didn't you?" she breaks down in alligator tears that break my heart.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that our daughter will continue to find her voice, and that those of us able to communicate can pick up on the important things some can't say.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Caregivers of All Ages, Unite!
There's a Sandra Boynton children's song, "I Need A Nap." It runs through my head a lot, because it's catchy, and because I'm often fantasizing about a nap. After attempting to cut through the red tape keeping people from things such as health insurance, walkers that fit, and clinic visits, I'm having trouble switching gears to be Mommy Again.
I had to cut a work call short because of "my next appointment." I often don't tell the social worker or caregiver on the phone that my next appointment is to go home to the kids, so my husband can take his turn at work. Some people seem surprised, even disappointed, that I work only part-time. When I have reason to explain my hours, in order to schedule an appointment, for example, I intentionally adopt a matter-of-fact, confident tone: "I work half-time, mornings." It is not a stretch for me in my work role to advocate for caregivers, because most of every day, I am a hands-on primary caregiver. My care recipients are both under six, unlike the 70, 80, and 90+care recipients at work, but I still believe we have more in common than not. I'm excited about the national conversation about caregiving that's getting a little louder all the time.
On that note, I'm off to do dishes before the kids finish their show. (The one hour a day of TV time they're allowed seems to fly by!)
I had to cut a work call short because of "my next appointment." I often don't tell the social worker or caregiver on the phone that my next appointment is to go home to the kids, so my husband can take his turn at work. Some people seem surprised, even disappointed, that I work only part-time. When I have reason to explain my hours, in order to schedule an appointment, for example, I intentionally adopt a matter-of-fact, confident tone: "I work half-time, mornings." It is not a stretch for me in my work role to advocate for caregivers, because most of every day, I am a hands-on primary caregiver. My care recipients are both under six, unlike the 70, 80, and 90+care recipients at work, but I still believe we have more in common than not. I'm excited about the national conversation about caregiving that's getting a little louder all the time.
On that note, I'm off to do dishes before the kids finish their show. (The one hour a day of TV time they're allowed seems to fly by!)
Friday, August 24, 2007
Am I Hip Enough to Blog?
A Toddler On My Hip, as I Talk On The Phone about Someone’s Hip Replacement…
Who wants to read the daily to weekly musings of a suburban mom/urban social worker? Seriously—not a rhetorical question. Because I’m itching to get back to writing, and thinking a blog might provide just enough structure and stimulation to get me going. At any given time, my heart and mind are busy with the very young (our two daughters) or the very old (the elders served by the non-profit where I work mornings). It’s a pretty rich life in terms of vicarious human experience, but I’m all too often too rushed or preoccupied to appreciate all of it. I have almost perfect autonomy, and take it for granted. (I feel guilty about that—I may be Protestant in practice, but my Catholic guilt is alive and well!)
The constant exposure to the two age extremes is a somewhat unusual existence for someone in her early thirties, especially considering that I have almost no contact with my actual age peers (outside my husband). Our kids aren’t in school yet, and our opposite childcare/work schedules with no outside childcare don’t exactly make for a hopping social life. If it weren’t for listening to talk radio while I drive, and occasional internet news, I’d be even more illiterate in pop culture outside of child development or gerontology. I’m happy to have a strong nuclear family, but honestly, we could use a little more contact with the outer electrons.
But enough about my own navel-gazing. I’m hopeful this blog can ultimately be less navel-gazing, more shared illuminations of life’s challenges and graces as I get to witness them through the elders and our kids. Today, unable to reach something on the top shelf of the fridge, my daughter sighed, “It’s so hard being little.” Unable to reach something in the bottom drawer of the dresser, some elders at work have sighed, “Old age isn’t for sissies.” At a life stage where I can reach the top and the bottom shelves, my occasional sighs are accompanied by the refrain, “Can I finally stop multi-tasking and just live?” My serene, well-balanced retired neighbor commented in passing that she didn’t have large flower gardens until her kids were older. I hear the cautionary note in her gentle, non-threatening conversation. She’s already noticed I’m often too busy pruning the roses to smell them. I love it when she admires my kids, because it helps me appreciate their beauty and promise anew.
Sometimes, I leverage work experience as a mother. “Honey, if you don’t brush your teeth well enough, you’ll have dentures and those never fit comfortably!” Or I leverage mothering experience at work. “How are you sleeping? Are you eating fresh vegetables?” There is a certain symbiosis created by exposure to the two age extremes; I honestly don’t miss the presence of people my age. I actually abhor the mainstream culture’s way of cutting childhood short, but, paradoxically, extending adolescence. Throw out the Legos just so you can spend the next 20 years obsessing over self-image and popular culture? No thank you. And yes, I’m aware I could keep a therapist busy at least a few months delving into my own adolescence, but I don’t have time and our health insurance plan, like everyone else’s these days, is actually pretty chintzy.
The two year-old wants to play Elmo--gotta run.
Who wants to read the daily to weekly musings of a suburban mom/urban social worker? Seriously—not a rhetorical question. Because I’m itching to get back to writing, and thinking a blog might provide just enough structure and stimulation to get me going. At any given time, my heart and mind are busy with the very young (our two daughters) or the very old (the elders served by the non-profit where I work mornings). It’s a pretty rich life in terms of vicarious human experience, but I’m all too often too rushed or preoccupied to appreciate all of it. I have almost perfect autonomy, and take it for granted. (I feel guilty about that—I may be Protestant in practice, but my Catholic guilt is alive and well!)
The constant exposure to the two age extremes is a somewhat unusual existence for someone in her early thirties, especially considering that I have almost no contact with my actual age peers (outside my husband). Our kids aren’t in school yet, and our opposite childcare/work schedules with no outside childcare don’t exactly make for a hopping social life. If it weren’t for listening to talk radio while I drive, and occasional internet news, I’d be even more illiterate in pop culture outside of child development or gerontology. I’m happy to have a strong nuclear family, but honestly, we could use a little more contact with the outer electrons.
But enough about my own navel-gazing. I’m hopeful this blog can ultimately be less navel-gazing, more shared illuminations of life’s challenges and graces as I get to witness them through the elders and our kids. Today, unable to reach something on the top shelf of the fridge, my daughter sighed, “It’s so hard being little.” Unable to reach something in the bottom drawer of the dresser, some elders at work have sighed, “Old age isn’t for sissies.” At a life stage where I can reach the top and the bottom shelves, my occasional sighs are accompanied by the refrain, “Can I finally stop multi-tasking and just live?” My serene, well-balanced retired neighbor commented in passing that she didn’t have large flower gardens until her kids were older. I hear the cautionary note in her gentle, non-threatening conversation. She’s already noticed I’m often too busy pruning the roses to smell them. I love it when she admires my kids, because it helps me appreciate their beauty and promise anew.
Sometimes, I leverage work experience as a mother. “Honey, if you don’t brush your teeth well enough, you’ll have dentures and those never fit comfortably!” Or I leverage mothering experience at work. “How are you sleeping? Are you eating fresh vegetables?” There is a certain symbiosis created by exposure to the two age extremes; I honestly don’t miss the presence of people my age. I actually abhor the mainstream culture’s way of cutting childhood short, but, paradoxically, extending adolescence. Throw out the Legos just so you can spend the next 20 years obsessing over self-image and popular culture? No thank you. And yes, I’m aware I could keep a therapist busy at least a few months delving into my own adolescence, but I don’t have time and our health insurance plan, like everyone else’s these days, is actually pretty chintzy.
The two year-old wants to play Elmo--gotta run.
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