Not for sissies

One of the discussion boards I frequent has a lot if participants who have children about the same age as Liza, and a familiar refrain among us all is that parenthood isn't for sissies. Liza's behavior has been fairly good overall for the past few months, with occasional diaper-rash-induced bouts of petulance and insomnia thrown in for good measure. It's really been a joy, and every once in a while when she comes over out of nowhere to give me a hug, I look at Liza and think, "Oh, so this is why people have more than one child."

True, over the past few days I have been shit on, peed on, and vomited on; had to pull numerous pieces of half-chewed glop out of Liza's throat; and had to deal with a kid who wants nothing more than to take a walk around the neighborhood, and has figured out the trick of sitting down and becoming an immovable 400-pound lump when she doesn't want to walk the way we're telling her to walk; but I can handle that. What I can't handle is any sign that Liza isn't keeping up with her peers, and there have been an abundance of those recently.

Last week Liza's occupational therapist evaluated her progress using the official standardized tests, which are rated numerically and tell us what level of development she has reached in various skills. I was all excited to do the evaluation, since I thought that was a sign that the OT thought Liza was ready to discharge from treatment. But Liza was fighting the Great Diaper Rash Battle that day and had been up since 5:30, and she was not in the most cooperative mood when it came time to do the testing. I know that she could have done some of the tests if she wanted to, but she was not interested in trying most of them. I could tell that she was wondering where all the normal OT stuff was - the swing and the shape sorter and all the other toys she plays with every week - and why we wanted her to play with this boring stuff instead. I came away from the therapy session very frustrated, both in Liza for not participating as much as she could have, and in myself for not pushing Liza harder at home on some of the therapy we're supposed to be doing.

It didn't come as much of a surprise when the OT called today with the ratings of Liza's progress - surprise, surprise, she's still delayed. She scored equivalent to an average 14-month-old in several of the categories, and I think there was a 12-month-old rating in one category, but what really floored me was that she scored as an 11-month-old in one area. To me, this is horrifying. We started her therapy in May, when she was about 13 months old, and in this one area she hasn't even caught up to where she was supposed to be THEN? I feel like my parenting skills are only one step better than those Russian orphanages where the kids just lay in their cribs all day staring at the ceiling and crying. Maybe it would be better for her if I stuck her in daycare and went back to work.

Speaking of crying, let me tell you about Liza's first day of "school," aka a mother's day out program that meets one morning a week. Liza had already been in to meet the teacher and see the room, and she handled herself pretty well then, unvelcroing herself from my leg and sitting at the table to do the craft project Miss Stephanie had set up. And when we went to the signup meeting for the Mothers of Preschoolers group, Liza was fine playing by herself among the other kids while I was on the other side of the room. I was hoping that this was a sign that she'd do just fine in the mother's day out program, even though it would be the first time she's been on her own in a strange place without her mother or father.

Yeah, right. Today got off to a bad start, with one of the other kids accidentally knocking Liza off her feet literally 30 seconds after we got to the classroom, provoking much crying and anxiety. I got her calmed down, then Liza got her foot stuck in her dress when she was climbing on one of the toys, which required another intervention to keep her from melting down. As the other kids started arriving, Liza was busy playing and the teacher suggested I go ahead and leave so Liza wouldn't notice. I waited out in the lobby, working on some writing and keeping an ear cocked for the screaming to begin. All of the other mothers dropped their kids off and were out the door seconds later, barely bothering to look back.

Fifteen minutes later Liza apparently noticed I was gone, because I could hear her screaming 60 feet away through two closed doors. The room assistant walked her around for 10 minutes or so to try to calm her down, while I hid in the lobby and tried not to run in and rescue her. I'm not usually a "jump up at the first noise and try to figure out what's wrong" kind of mother, but it's really hard for me to listen to Liza scream when I know how to fix what she's upset about. When it became apparent that she was just getting more and more worked up, I decided to go in and see if I could get her calmed down.

She calmed down, alright, as long as she was draped over my lap or velcroed to my knees or clinging to my neck. I spent the next two hours with my daughter acting like there were bungee cords connecting us ... very, very short bungee cords. Snivel in my lap ... go play with blocks for 30 seconds ... attempt to re-enter my womb ... crawl through tunnel ... burrow head into my kneecaps ... fling cheerios on the floor ... wipe face all over my shirt ... etc. She wasn't out of physical contact with me for more than about a minute and a half for most of the morning.

Meanwhile, the teachers had their hands full with the other kids, two of whom were every bit as whiny and clingy as Liza, only they were whining and clinging to the teachers instead of their mothers. In some ways I was glad to see that Liza wasn't the only one suffering from some anxiety about the situation, but I was jealous that the other kids would accept the teacher's comfort and mine wouldn't. Through it all the teacher and her assistant were unfailingly cheerful and upbeat, singing songs to jolly along the grouchy ones and encouraging the more comfortable ones to include everyone else in their games. I really have to hand it to them - it's hard enough to do that for your own kid, much less for six other kids you've only met once before. Then again, they knew that at 12:00 the parents were coming to take the kids home, so I guess I might be able to be jolly for that long if there was an end in sight. No, actually I'd probably kill myself or end up an alcoholic after only a few weeks ... I'm just not cut out for small-child care.

At any rate, Liza was finally comfortable enough by the end of the class that she spent the last 20 or 30 minutes playing several feet away from me, only stopping by occasionally to show me things or get a quick snuggle. I guess that means there's hope that Liza may adjust to the situation in a few weeks, but I know it's going to wear me out until she does. When we're at home she entertains herself for long periods of time, but I had to constantly work with her at the class to keep her entertained ... and being "on" for that long exhausts me both mentally and physically. Not really a good time to be thinking of cutting back the dosage on my anti-depressant, I guess.

As I was sitting there with Liza dripping off of me for two hours straight, I kept having to remind myself that I hadn't enrolled Liza in the mother's day out program just so that I could have some time to myself. Sure, that's one reason, especially since I have some writing projects that need more of my concentration that just one naptime a day. But why I really wanted Liza to do this program was to help get her more socialized, help get her more comfortable being in strange situations with people other than me and Jason. I guess I was hoping that we wouldn't have to teach her how to do that, that she would take to it like a duck to water and this would just be an opportunity to practice. That doesn't seem to be the way it's working out, though.

So if I have to sit there with her for a few weeks, coaxing her into participating without touching me in some way, so be it. And if it turns out that she can't hack it in the class and we can't get her to stay without screaming her head off the whole time I'm gone, then I guess we'll just have to explore other options. Maybe we can just have more playdates with our existing friends, or find classes like Gymboree or soccer or swimming to help get her out in new situations. But we're going to get over this somehow, just like we're going to get her physical development caught up to where she's supposed to be. It may take a while, it may tax my patience to the utmost, and it may require additional pharmaceuticals for me, but I WILL give her every chance to succeed. That's my job.