June 30th, 2009
I’ve been a pedometer fan for years. Currently, I have an excellent model from Omron, which is battery-powered, tracks ‘aerobic’ steps as well as normal steps, and maintains a week’s accessible history and a 40-day internal history that can be uploaded to my computer.
It’s a crutch, in a way; I have much less motivation to walk-as-exercise if I can’t track how much I’m walking. But this summer, I’ve been walking more than ever. It’s still not 10,000 steps a day, not everyday. But I’m getting closer.
This is what I’ve observed.
- On a day where all I do is sit on my butt in front of a computer, I manage about 2,000 steps.
- On a day where I go to the grocery store or do a lot of chores, I manage about 4,000 steps.
- On a day when I make an effort to go outside and walk, I average about 6-7,000 steps. Lately I’ve been walking laps around our cul-de-sac or back yard while Robin plays, which works better for me motivationally than, say, walking to the park– because then I become focused on the goal rather than the process and thus want to get the process out of the way.
- On days where I do walking as entertainment– mall or warehouse shopping, or going to the zoo or similar, I record 11k-14k. This usually happens at least once a week.
- I’ve managed to work my way up from a goal of averaging 4k a day at the beginning of the year to averaging 6k a day.
- I feel really lazy making this post! Various websites documenting the 10k steps recommendation make it sound so easy.
Categories: Updates From the Void |
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June 11th, 2009
Robin woke up three hours early this morning, sobbing in response to Kevin’s early alarm (the one he ignores for up to an hour).
He snuggled in bed with us for a short while, until he found himself more interested in pointing out that there were letters on my shirt, and that he has fingers, which are also associated with alphanumeric characters. (’q,r,s. q,r,s. q,r,s’ while tapping them one at a time)
I changed his diaper, hoping he’d go back to sleep. He started howling as I did this and, since the morning diaper change usually comes with milk, I said, “What, are you hungry?” The howling stopped, replaced by a frantic “‘Ys! Ys! Ys!”
He hadn’t actually used ‘yes’ previously, although I’ve been trying to teach him. As, you know, an upgrade from the snatch and grab. Don’t worry, ‘no’ is still the slashing rejecting arm gesture and an emphatic ‘ennnh!’ that he mastered in a rudimentary form about half an hour after birth. He’s started using it to reject concepts (”Would you like me to pick you up and show you the night sky?” “Ennh!” = ‘No thanks, I can see it just fine from the porch AND draw at the same time.’)
I gave him milk.
He drank it. Then he started telling me about how there were stars on a picture frame on the other side of the room. Star. Stars. He eventually surmounted the Wall of Mom and wobbled over to show me. Star. Stars. No, Mom, you can’t go back to sleep.
He’s been so cheerful this morning. It’s unnatural.
ETA: Oh sheesh, so this is why we don’t get up until after the guys leave for work, even on a good day.
Raymond came out to the kitchen, slinging his bag over his shoulder, zipping up his sweater. Robin immediately demanded to be picked up. Because Robin’s favorite thing in the world, even more than chalk and maybe even more than baths, is Going Someplace. And using cues any dog could pick up, he had ascertained that Raymond was preparing to Go. Well, he was ready! Pantsless, but all you really need to Go is to be put into your carseat, right? I mean, the changing of Pants and wearing of Shoes are also important cues, but not essential. Clearly.
My God, the sobbing as they left him behind to go to work. He’s okay now but I don’t think he’s ever quite been betrayed this way.
(The ‘go, go’ communication was another self-invented sign/body language, dating from… a very long time ago now. A year, maybe? It’s very similar to spurring a horse and shaking reins, if somebody’s holding him. He’s lately been discovering that we’re not nearly as well-trained as he’d like us to be.)
ETA 2: Now he falls asleep again. Now that I have to work on getting him ready for being babysat and me ready for a dental double feature.
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June 10th, 2009
Thanks, Internet!
Note: Robin’s hearing has been checked a few times (basic well-baby check) and he’s never had any kind of trouble with his ears. We specifically asked at his last appointment.
But the real, interesting followup: Today at the library, he pointed at one flower, two flowers, just as he’s been doing for a while. One, the other, two at once. “Flower,” he said clearly. (it’s moved from a whispered ‘ffowr’ to ‘whowr’ lately because I think he sees wheels and flowers as the same kind of thing). And then, pointing at both, he said, “Flowers,” carefully emphasizing the ’s’ sound at the end. He did it three times, and smiled, and went back to babbling to himself.
Categories: Robin |
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June 10th, 2009
OK, so there’s this quiz that I picked up from the talented yhlee. I don’t do quizzes much but I hoped this one would be motivating.
It rates you across 4 scales and then assigns some authors you’re similar and dissimilar to (based on worldview as presented in writings).
The 4 scales: High-Brow, Violent, Experimental, Cynical.
I got -19,-1,-9, 19 (aka: very low-brow, slightly peaceful, traditional, quite cynical)
Kevin also took it, and it’s his numbers compared to mine that make me really amused:
17, 9, 9, 3.
The authors it compared me to: Robert Jordan. And also: “You are also a lot like J K Rowling. If you want some action, try David Eddings. If you’d like a challenge, try your exact opposite, Gene Wolfe.”
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June 9th, 2009
In case it hasn’t been clear from previous posts, Robin’s particular brand of developmental stubborness stresses me out.
I signed up for a free Gymboree class on Saturday. I have a dream that regular interaction with other children will encourage him. That was why I went to the zoo and the children’s museum so often, but there aren’t usually a lot of other children there when we are. Maybe at Gymboree he’ll even meet the same children more than once.
And since then I’ve been browsing the web, reading blogs and so on, ostensibly to read Gymboree experiences– but as I read about more and more children much younger than Robin using full sentences or running, I find myself staring at other things. Developmental milestones. Early intervention recommendations. And I end up so frustrated.
They all say ‘trust your instincts’ and I do try. My instincts say ‘nothing’s wrong; he’s stubborn and a perfectionist’. My instincts say ‘crawling seems safer to him around a large, energetic dog who has a history of knocking him over’. My instincts say ‘he’s too impatient to learn the balance he needs to walk fast enough to make walking more attractive than crawling’. My instincts say ‘he hates saying words incorrectly’.
He walks as a game; a favorite game, even. It takes very little to entice him to play the walking game, walking to and from a beloved adult, and getting cheers and hugs each time he returns. He prefers to play it with an adult and a soft surface like a couch or bed or another adult to fall against if he loses his balance, but he’s done it without. And the praise is non-negotiable; last night I held my arms out to my sides twice and when he reached me, each time he reached up to wrap my arms around him. We can only play this game when Dante is separated, outside or in another room, because otherwise Dante wants to also get hugs and he is not as careful with Toddler Robin as he was with Baby Robin.
And when he walks, he takes bigger and bigger steps; he is never totally steady because he is never walking fast enough.
His favorite word is ‘D’, as in the alphabet letter. Every time he says it, there’s an unmistakable gleeful triumph in his tone. My instincts say that’s because he knows he’s saying it perfectly. And he uses whatever words are important to him at any given time– bottle/water is a perennial favorite, and right now there’s ‘moon’ (nin) and ‘fish’ (schy) and ‘truck’ (vroom). Sometimes a word will slip out when he’s not paying attention: ‘banana’, ‘dinosaur’, ‘giraffe’, but then he realizes what he’s done and he won’t repeat it.
He refuses to even try words for things such as ‘out’ or ‘up’ or ‘help’ or ‘open’. He has no patience for apparent idiocy and he knows damn well that we understand him when he indicates those things. A picture’s worth a thousand words, so why not point as an answer? He puts the crayon in our hands and presses it to the paper; how much more explicit does he need to be? And even through my brooding I’m smiling at the memory. He knows what he wants. And he’s in no hurry to be like grownups.
My instincts say ‘everything is fine. Yes, it’s sad that you and he are missing out on some toddler experiences, but the experience of being him is unique and important’.
But what if my instincts are wrong? That’s what haunts me. That’s what makes me sit here brooding rather than working on my novel while he naps.
The internet says ‘Get help now! Before it’s too late! Or else you’ll regret it so much!’
One question I’ve asked the internet repeatedly and found very few answers to is ‘what does the therapy provided by Early Intervention’ actually do? Is there a magic trick to getting past his stubbornness? Something that can’t be revealed to outsiders? How are professionals going to convince him that walking is better than crawling when his personal experience proves that to be a malicious lie? How are professionals going to convince him that it’s worth mispronunciation and misunderstanding to talk? (Although he has an advantage there; he can and does practice sounds without using real words, but I don’t think you can practice walking without, well, walking.)
He seems content with his development. Other than brief bouts of frustration with some toys, his only frustration comes from when we act like we’ve contracted Sudden Adult Idiocy Disorder. When he can’t see me to point, he’s happy to think and play by himself. He makes himself understood as much as he wants to be, he gets where he wants to go, and he’s always learning new things and new behaviors.
He’s done almost everything else late, too. I remember how, while I was pregnant, I noticed that he didn’t seem to kick as often as other unborn babies– but when he did kick, he just didn’t stop. He rolled late. Crawled late. And now he crawls backward and strafes from side to side…
I feel like I can supplement my instincts with historical and current evidence. I should feel good about things. I want to revel in my parental pride as he pushes other kids down and scribbles on the walls and mis-sings the alphabet song to himself while playing with letter blocks.
But the internet tells me he’s way behind.
And I’m afraid that on Saturday, real people will too.
A Peek Into My Head:
(And is that so bad, if they do? Well, yes. It’s bad if my instincts are wrong. It’s devastating if this is my fault somehow. And it’s double-plus-ungood if my instincts are right, and I ignore them, and put him into frustrating situations where he develops even more issues about the places where he’s behind. Maybe you don’t have enough mommy blindness. Maybe other mothers are more lenient with what they consider ‘talking’. Maybe. No getting around the ‘running’, though. Maybe you have too much mommy blindness…. Shut up. You should be writing anyhow.)
PS: Stories and encouragement to enhance my fortitude in dealing with others who say ‘how old is he?’ and ‘was he born early? really early?’ welcome. Oh, and dealing with the people who assume he’s a girl because his hair covers his neck. And his name is Robin.
Categories: Robin |
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June 3rd, 2009
As recently as a month ago, Robin was more interesting in chewing on crayons or banging them together or dropping them on the floor.
Now he takes my hand, puts a crayon or chalk in it, and then pushes my hand to the drawing surface. (’Draw something, Mom’.) I draw a circle, or a square, or a heart, or a crescent moon. He takes the chalk from me and he carefully colors it in. He doesn’t quite fill it in perfectly, but he does it as well as I would if I weren’t being careful. He’s better at triangles, worse at stars, and better with bigger shapes.
Later, I draw one line, and then another. “Two lines,” I say, when he points at both of them. He takes the chalk and draws a line. I draw a series of dots. He taps the chalk on the pavement in the same way.
As we’re cleaning up, he draws an amorphous closed shape and colors it in. I think it looks like a crescent moon, but when I ask him about it, he looks confused, and makes Raymond draw him one. He colors it in, and then points at it repeatedly.
(The other night, he started saying ‘moon’ a lot. Well, ‘nin’. He mutters it to himself now while playing. On the other hand, he out-stubborned his parents the other night when we tried to get him to say anything on request.)
When he was smaller, he used to put his fingers in our mouths as we talked, apparently to feel how we did it. I’m reminded of this when he wraps my fingers around the crayon.
Now, in his playpen with some crayons and his coloring binder, he’s whining as he tries to draw, I think, a triangle.
Oops, I’m wrong. It’s a star. (I can tell from his reaction when I try to help him.)
Categories: Robin |
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June 1st, 2009
Robin’s SweetPea music player has a mix of music I enjoy and music aimed at small children on it. One of my favorite instrumentals in the world is the opening theme to the video game Chrono Cross (called ‘Scars of Time’). It’s a gentle, soft, vaguely sad mix of woodwings and strings that picks up with a swirl of energy after the opening. Of course, I included it.
It makes Robin sob his heart out.
I first noticed this when he broke a crayon, realized it was broken and not going back together like his legos do, started sobbing and crawled over to make the SweetPea skip to the next song. Or, in this case, the previous song.
I figured he was crying because of the crayon and just taking it out on the music player. But when the previous song ended and the strains of Scars of Time began, he burst into tears and hurled himself at the music player.
This isn’t a kid who cries often. Even when he’s frightened of a toy, he usually stares at it and pokes at it and curls up in a little ball and it takes him a lot of exposure to work up to sobbing. He whines when he wants stuff, but again, sobbing is rare.
It’s happened since then, too. Just now when he was getting ready for bed, unexplained tears! Freaking out! Until Kevin realized that song was playing.
He sounds so sad when he’s sobbing, like the world is ending. Kevin thinks he just strongly associates it with the breaking crayon. I don’t know. He doesn’t cry when other crayons or chalk break, since then. He’s really ANGRY at them; he refuses to use them and throws them away from him. But he doesn’t sob. I really don’t know if he reacted before that event; there’s 50 or so songs on his player and because he hits ‘back’ as often as ‘forward’ it can take him a long time to work through the set. I wonder if he’s partially reacting to the mournful beginning of the music itself.
He’s been more sensitive than usual lately, as well. He was scared to tears by a delayed Peek-a-boo from Kevin, and at dinner tonight, at a pizza place, he got so upset he worked himself into hysterics. We’re still not sure why– I think he realized we had pizza while he had bread and got so upset that we were eating while his was cooling that he refused it by the time it was ready (but eventually calmed enough to eat it in hisb traditional fashion), but there also seemed to be some element of the table itself scaring or upsetting him, or maybe the busyness of the decor of the restaurant.
And he’s intermittently crying upstairs now. Sad, sad whimpers and single sobs. I keep going up to rub his back and comfort him and it seems to work but then he feels sad again.
I’m having unpleasant flashbacks to my own childhood. Even as a small kid, I would get into nasty anxiety-powered fear-based thought cycles I couldn’t get out of, and I remember crawling into bed with my mother, or having her come in to find me weeping in my bed. Afraid of loss. Afraid of things breaking. The only thing I’ve really learned since growing up is that you just can’t think about that stuff. You can’t let it consume you, even though it would be so easy.
I’m not looking forward to going through that again from the other side. At least I should be able to apply my own experiences learning to cope to helping Robin learn to cope as well.
Categories: Robin |
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May 28th, 2009
He can now walk an indefinite number of steps, unsteady but usually not falling down, in shoes, up slopes, and around corners. He can stand up without something to pull up on. And yet, he still chooses crawling as his primary locomotion with knee-walking a close second. Walking is a fun game– anytime I sit on the floor with him, he scrambles over to me, giggling, to climb up me, walk away and get cheered at. That’s the primary benefit of walking: hugs and cheering.
From Babycenter, the Attention to Detail article and part of why I can no longer compare my child to most developmental standards:
“She’s fascinated with little things, especially bugs (don’t be surprised if she tries to eat them!). Part of the reason for this is that she has the coordination now to bend down and pick up small objects.”
Obviously untrue.
And yet, his attention to detail is amazing. So is his sense of congruency. One of his latest methods of entertainment is to point at two similar things at the same time. Two stars. Two seahorses. Two dogs. Two cars. Two lights, one his ceiling light and one his lamp. Two balls, one he was just given and the picture Kevin drew of it while he watched. And yesterday when I called him ‘baby’, he crawled to a stack of old diaper boxes (now containing baby clothes) to point out the baby on the side. Thoughtfully, I asked him where Elmo was. He peered at the box– and then pointed at the Elmo on the baby’s diaper. And then the Elmo crawling around the logo. And then finally noticed the big Elmo image that had been the only one I noticed. 2 Elmos!
He loves his crayons and wishes to color on everything. Clean white paper is best, but unmarked boxes will do. So will Michelle’s Tivo, the floor, a canvas crate, the backs of puzzles, his table, his plastic crates… He hasn’t discovered walls yet but I’m sure that will happen soon. I have some chalk coming for our driveway.
He still loves wheels and, to a lesser degree, vehicles. Vrrm, vrrm. We were playing WoW the other night, doing a raid battle that involved driving giant cartoony siege vehicles around. He watched over Kevin’s shoulder and eventually started making the vrrm vrrm sounds.
He also loves to go outside, and to just– go. He’s crawled to the car and asked to be put in his carseat. He’s had little angry fits when I put his shoes on him and then don’t take him outside to the car or his wagon.
Not so mini update, I suppose. He’s a fun kid. A final image: I’ve been trying to teach him ‘yes’ and ‘no’ (up until now he’s gotten by just fine with ‘grab/push away’) and when he tries to nod, he nods from the knees up.
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May 28th, 2009
Kevin is watching a recorded lecture for an introduction to Japanese class. And it’s bewildering how stressful it is. The lecturer approaches the end of the session with instructions how to sign up for the mailing list and how important it is and I’m feeling residual panic.
And I finally figure out what it is. Gotta pay attention gotta stay focused. Despite the fact that I’m actually trying to do something else entirely.
And suddenly I understand a whole lot more about my stress, and what happened in college.
I think I probably only do well with lectures of 20 minutes or so. Longer lectures provoke madness via boredom, or, if I really care about a subject, a panicked, miserable attempt to stay focused.
I can’t go an hour with somebody talking at me without zoning out. If I have nothing else to do, like in the studio art 3-hour group critique sessions, it is a form of torture. That’s not really an exaggeration– one or two of those sessions and I abandoned plans for an art major. And I still think that if I hadn’t had that professor with his craziness, I would have really enjoyed and appreciated an art major.
I don’t learn well from lectures. I have trouble internalizing what I’m told. I prefer to read instructions, or have an interactive personal conversation, or try something out and learn from my mistakes. That’s my favorite method, really– I often don’t really understand what I’ve read without talking about it, writing about it or otherwise trying it out (unless it’s in the form of a narrative. I follow narratives exceedingly well.)
Augh lectures. Are you reading this, aunts, Dad? That’s what happened to college, all those classes I did poorly at and why I lost all motivation for staying at college once my social life disappeared. I have to limit myself to 2 hours of Wikipedia reading a day. I am really interested in what this guy on Kevin’s tv is saying about how Japanese works. And yet– I have to go upstairs now to avoid panic. Because it’s a lecture, and I just can’t keep up.
Categories: Updates From the Void |
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May 18th, 2009
[I've been thinking about this for a while but I'm finally inspired to post about it by a friend who spent the afternoon handing out flowers to random strangers.]
In Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files, the first time you stare into a wizard’s eyes, you see each other’s souls. But most of the time when the author/narrator explains this, he also points out that something intimate happens even when normal people make eye contact. Go up to a stranger, he challenges, and look into their eyes. You might get into trouble, because it’s uncomfortable. A connection is formed.
Each time I read about this, I think about smiles. Because as far as I can tell, they’re like… the bright side of eye contact. I like to smile at strangers. There’s something magical about sharing an unprovoked smile with a passerby on the street. I’ve smiled at somebody who didn’t notice at first, lost in their own thoughts, but when they did, a huge genuine grin came over their face. I’ve been on the receiving end as well and being smiled at by a stranger has brightened my whole day.
I mean real smiles, of course. Not the ‘howareyou’ smiles or generally pleasant expressions some people cultivate. The sort of smile that comes from inside when you feel the joy of being alive. It’s easy to tap into that joy when you meet the eyes of a stranger. Personally, I think it’s because it’s a near-tangible reminder that you exist, you’re real and even in an incredibly tiny way, you matter. You’re connected. But whatever the reason, I think Harry Dresden should try it sometime.
Categories: Updates From the Void |
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