Much That Is Hidden

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Wow, 10 months. One of the biggest reasons that this blog has been idle for that long is my disdain for the obligation of regularly keeping up with it. That and a little thing called Facebook, which has, despite its shortcomings and sundry aggravations, become my latest Internet obsession. I’ll spare any non-FBers (we’re pretty sure you must exist somewhere) the details of my fancy except to say that it sort of streamlines the Internet social experience and gives you a tad bit more control as to who enters your world (and speaking only for myself, I do NOT mean that in the prison sense). There is also the fact that most people actually use their real name.

So I don’t know yet if MTIH will get the full Lazarus, but what else to start with after nearly a year but a recap? Many of my regular readers (haha) Innertubes pals are familiar with at least some of this, but I need the therapy.

As best I can recall the transition from ‘09 to ‘10 was fairly uneventful, but as our son Max’s third birthday approached we decided to take steps toward determining something that we had growing suspicions about. In early February we received an initial diagnosis that he is “mildly to moderately” autistic. For months Max had displayed some classic tell-tale signs of autism spectrum disorder (ASD), so the news, while disappointing, was not totally unexpected.

I spoke with my sister not long after the doctor’s appointment, and later she sent an e-mail with these words which moved me to tears with their heartfelt honesty, “You are parents to a beautiful, fun, adorable little boy who brings a lot of joy to a lot of people. Max is ‘special’ not only because he has different needs but because he is an amazing little boy, and I truly believe that he will thrive and flourish, and show us all what he can do.”

Indeed, on the plus side Max has shown improvement in some of the areas we were initially concerned with. And the developmental pediatrician who diagnosed him noted some strengths that, with the relatively early intervention we’ve been provided, indicate the strong possibility that he will lead a relatively normal life.

Of course Jen and I dove right into protective/pro-active parent mode, and after some therapy assessments we determined he would do well to have weekly speech and occupational therapy sessions. It’s interesting to weigh in our minds the differences and similarities between Max and “neurotypical” kids (pardon the jargon – I’ll try to be sparse with it). For example, when he has a meltdown, is it because of the sensory overload that his autism sometimes subjects him to or is it because he’s three?

Max is a bright little boy and very sweet (except of course when he’s not). His vocabulary is solid and he often talks up a storm. The ASD is apparent in the conversations though – the vast majority of his speech is echolalia, or repeating what he has heard; he doesn’t ask questions very often and sometimes has trouble answering even direct “yes” or “no” questions (though he is gaining excellence in the art of “NO!”). He also has trouble making eye contact with whomever he is speaking to. He is not particularly socially awkward, but he is deficient in the area of respecting, much less knowing about, personal space. Sometimes it’s cute how gregarious he is, but he is big for his age (nearly 40 inches and 45 lbs.) and has been known to knock other kids over, sometimes quite forcefully. There is some consolation in that it’s from excitement and not aggression. There is also consolation in knowing that it takes extended observation or a professional eye to even notice that Max is any different from the other kids on the playground. He plays enthusiastically, climbing like a monkey or riding his balance bike (a two-wheeler without pedals and drive train – he really moves on it!). He is usually very friendly and affectionate – he likes to snuggle and be tickled and to rough house and giggle and run around the house naked.

The diagnosis has not diminished our hopes for him, it has just made us aware that we need to be especially vigilant for his sake. There are struggles with the realization that many aspects of human nature that we take for granted will be an uphill battle for him, such as humor and romance and detecting dishonesty. But his literal and logically oriented thinking may often be a plus for him.

Max continues weekly therapy and is now enrolled in preschool full time (8 a.m. to 2 p.m. and then afternoon daycare until around 4:00). The initial transition from being home with momma all summer was difficult at times, but he seems to be improving weekly.

The transition for Jen and me was interesting. She got laid off from the school system she has worked in for the past 12 years, ostensibly a “reduction in force” due to funding. While that might be generally believable by way of the governor and his fellow party legislators gutting Georgia’s education system of billions of dollars over the past eight years, it was dubious in the local sense because the county Jen works for pink-slipped over 100 teachers while surrounding counties let NONE of their staff go. Insult was added to injury but then topped by opportunity when the school system then advertised hiring for positions that included Jen’s former job. Oops! To make a long story short, there was back and forth between Jen and her union lawyer and the administration, Bob’s yer uncle, Jen still has a job with no loss of tenure.

In the fear-wracked interim of looking at losing our primary income and family health insurance, I was compelled to seek full-time employment. I was fortunate to not have to look far, as my former employer was seeking a staff writer/reporter. I don’t know who was happier – me for avoiding the dreadful beating of the pavement (which might have involved my head if it had gone on as long as my last bout of unemployment) or the publisher who didn’t have to interview a dozen unqualified wannabes.

The relatively sudden acquisition of my position and resolution of Jen’s debacle presented a new challenge – finding fulltime daycare for a yet-to-be fully potty trained special needs three-year-old. Suffice it to say that the local school system (we live one county from where Jen works) came through with essentially aeronautically navigable hues, and we found a better-than-tolerable facility to watch him for a couple of hours each afternoon.

Max had nice visits this summer with family. First his Auntie Joogie (soft ‘g’) made her annual trip down south, and then, looking at the fact that my new job would not afford vacation time for a year, we decided to return the favor and took a road trip up to Chicago. Not wanting to risk the emergence of Mr. McCrabbypants, we took overnight stops each way, and a good boy named Max took it all in with exuberance.

And now, as regular occurrence is questionable, I present The Occasional Max (I Know What You’ve Done Since Last Christmas edition):
















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Labels: autism, family, life, Max, parenthood, photography

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Sadness with a touch of sweetness. My dad was released from the prison of infirm old age last night. Too soon but still just too damn slow. His decline was more stark than my mom’s, whose prognosis can only be brought to the fuzzy outlook for all Alzheimer’s patients – “We just don’t know.”


At least we knew something of what was in store for mom, and the hope that dad could enjoy his twilight years despite her condition went gradually from bright to dim. He was so happy after they sold the house and moved to the assisted care apartment. It wasn’t his dream of independent living in Tennessee, but considering mom’s condition it was a pretty good deal. He could still drive, still go to a game or get her out to family gatherings on his own (the photo, from Christmas ’05, was the last time I saw them out together).

There are possibly several reasons for his decline. The obvious physical ones of type II diabetes, two falls that fractured a hip and then an arm, and a small stroke each took a toll for certain. But what of the emotional stress from seeing his life partner descend into a mental fog which necessitated them living separate lives while still married? She was the proverbial mother hen over their seven offspring, he the tried and true breadwinner who was comfortable not having much to say about the raising.

The staff at their facility said that a spot was available for mom in the Alzheimer’s care ward, which is for advanced cases. While she was not considered to be in the advanced stage, they recommended the move based mostly on what they said were rare openings. I’m not sure how the rest of my family feels about this, and I don’t recall the entire situation to a ‘T’, but in retrospect this strikes me as convenient for the staff and not very beneficial for my folks. There were other situations that held a similar stink (I’ll spare the details here), but this may have been the watershed event of my parents golden years, putting a tarnish to them from which my dad, as the only one who might have successfully pressed on, ultimately wasn’t able to.

In my highly subjective and inexpert opinion, my mom’s existence, basically unchanged in any positive way for more than a year now, seems cruel and pointless. My first visit after she moved to the ward left me nearly as shocked as I’ve ever been by anything. Seeing her condition and that of the other residents there was heartbreaking – small wonder that mom had declined so rapidly (again, inexpert opinion). So do I hope against hope that Alzheimer's sufferers, if not physically in pain, are given a weirdly blissful way to go with their inability to acknowledge what is going on? It's got to beat terminal cancer or ALS, where the sound mind wrestles the emotions that must come with seeing and feeling the hourglass empty.

I might say I'm at the end of my rope with the societal mores of end-of-life care, but the metaphor seems grossly unfair to my parents and, more importantly, my two sisters aka The Troopers. Not that they disagree, and not that they wouldn't have risen to the challenge as admirably and with as much fortitude as they have. I know that the “caregiver by geographic default” factor has exasperated them at times. I say this because I know it has left this apple feeling a bit helpless in his settling spot so far from the tree.

Such irony there is in a convicted murderer being executed and at last getting released from prison. Out of love we afford the mercy killing of our pets when they have reached the point where misery trumps living another day. But with our own species, society doesn’t take kindly to enacting the suffix “–icide” in any way shape or form when it comes to mercy. Send young people off to pointless death in combat (wrap it up in the flag and call it the cost of freedom), but By God Don’t Allow A Fellow Human To Pass From This Plane With Any Push Outside His Divine Hand.

I stand disgusted, dispirited and disappointed, and if I stand in small company, looked upon askance by “civilized” and “spiritual” beings, then so be it. I’m here to call BULLSHIT on the whole affair of “natural death” and say let this essay serve at least as a temporary living will that if I ever get to such a condition of inviability, my closest kin are hereby directed to procure the most efficient legal means (or not legal if they must and can without retribution) to expedite my demise.

Sadness with a touch of sweetness, and a good measure of bitter it turns out.

Labels: death, family, me, rants

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Labels: Chicago, Cubs, family, Max, photography

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Labels: doggies, family, Max, photography

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We had a wonderful holiday - unrushed with next to nothing to do. Some family scheduling, along with illness, necessitated two Christmas mornings, something we hope does not become a tradition for fear that it will become expected every year. Fortunately there was plenty to go around - Max has been such a good boy that Santa held back some of the huge mound of gifts accumulated for him and said he will return February 11 "to bestow the remainder upon the boy." He said we could find them in Omie's garage (unwrapped because he doesn't keep birthday gift paper in stock at the NP).

The adventure grows along with the vocabulary. Max is in official parrot mode and thus we are occasionally reminded of how big the ears of little pitchers are (but until he reads and becomes computer saavy this blog will retain its NC-17 rating, goddammit). Little Dude has discovered the leg over/surmountability principle, which often works in cahoots with the "hey this thing makes me taller" principle. This has vastly improved his monkey boy skills and thus increases his mama's gray hair with impromptu excursions up bookcases and to the top of the changing table.

In the midst of all the excitements there are occasions of quiet repose. The other day I put on a Cat Stevens CD and kicked back on the day bed in Max's room while he played with various doo-dads and books. After a few minutes he crawled up next to me and laid face up with a ponderous visage for all of 10 minutes. I lightly sang along, never happier.

Labels: family, Max, photography

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Labels: family, festivities, food, friends, frolic, fun

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We're back, and we had a wonderful time, if a bit of a whirlwind tour. It's always nice to see family for an auspicious occasion like a wedding, especially with the thought in the back of the mind that inauspicious occasions for family assembly will only increase in the coming years.

The outdoor ceremony was gorgeous with weather that could not be beat, and a good time was had by all at an equally gorgeous reception at a country estate overlooking an estuary of the Chester River. It was wonderful to party with the cousins but sad to leave out the next day without much time for sightseeing.

Max was a pretty good little traveler up until getting to Dulles for the return flight, whereupon he had the biggest meltdown of his toddler career. Poor kid was tired beyond tired. He still recovered pretty quick, but it was touch and go there for a few hours.

I shot more video than I did still photos, so there's not much beyond these:




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Labels: family, friends, fun, Max, photography

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My sister e-mailed me the other day to inform me that one of our uncles had died. He passed away peacefully in his sleep. He was my dad’s sister’s husband. They lived in a nearby suburb and I remember many holidays spent visiting them or vice-versa. Although we were not very close, I remember him well as a very kind man with a good humor about him. He was 84, just a couple of years older than my dad, and so his death is yet another signal that I should be prepared for my parents to go at anytime. That will be sad but I don’t expect it will be very hard, especially in the case of my Alzheimer’s-ravaged mom.

Relationships with my extended family have been fairly tepid if not totally non-existent. Some aunts, uncles and cousins I have not seen since I was a child and would not recognize them on the street, while some others I may get to visit on trips back to the stomping grounds if time permits, though it usually does not.

Since I have lived in the south I have had occasion to witness some contrasts in family dynamics, particularly with regard to death. The ancestry of my midwestern clan is Scandinavian, hence rather stoic and often bland, whereas much of the native southerners (which includes my wife) are descended from the more jovial Scots-Irish. And boy can you tell it from the funerals. In both regions the grief of the immediate family of the deceased is kept fairly private, but a brave face is soon put on amongst southerners because, well, there’s some celebrating to do.

Out of financial and scheduling necessity, I won’t be returning for my uncle’s funeral this week. I imagine it will be a tame affair with baleful hymns and rice pudding. By contrast, when my wife’s father died recently, and also when a family matriarch of her mom’s side of the family passed away last week, relatives from all over the lower 48 poured in. And when all the funereal business was complete, it was family reunion time. Barbeque, beer, bourbon - we’re not talking frat party here, though alcohol consumption is generally robust. But the fellowship is one of happiness and remembrance, and I for one think it ought to be so.

When my time comes, hopefully from natural causes at a ridiculously advanced age, I will expect my survivors, descendants and friends to gather one last time in happy memory of me. Drink some and laugh a lot. The only tears I want at my after party are ones of laughter from stories like how grampa got arrested those few times or lost all bladder control during a particular concert experience. Hopefully there won’t be too many sour glares from the lutefisk crowd at the other end of the room.

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Labels: death, family, life, me

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Huzzah! This month's plethora of photos include some kindly contributions (thanks to Auntie Rachel and Uncle Terry). We've been busy:













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Labels: doggies, family, Max, photography

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A recent Parenting magazine poll revealed 69 percent of respondents confessing to telling their children more than one little white lie a day.

The definition of "little white lie" is certainly open to interpretation, but this factoid has me a bit puzzled from both sides. First of all I'm taken aback by the sheer volume. Perhaps parents of older children can enlighten me as to why you'd have to be dishonest with your kid more than once a day. Am I naive to think I can avoid this as my son becomes more inquisitive with age? I'm of a mind that most white lies revolve around something akin to simplifying a complicated answer, but to me it seems that if your going to go that distance why not just give the kid the truth. If it happens to go over their head, well at least your integrity is intact. It seems that to take the easy way out fosters intellectual laziness, in both you and your child. Anyway, I'm not thinking I will never tell Max a white lie for convenience or to spare his feelings, etc. But exceeding one a day still strikes me as somewhat pathological. And while I realize kids can be an emotional and psychological handful at times, I certainly want to avoid making a habit of swaying him to my bidding through dishonesty.

One parent responding to the poll disagreed with propagating myths like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, citing her own childhood devastation as cause for her disdain. I'm kinda "gimme a break" on that one, for my own memory serves up that it was no big deal for me to learn that it was my parents. I feel that any parent who can semi-skillfully instill their child with basic logic should likely see similar results. It is with older children that I can see the benefits of honesty-as-best-policy reaping the most rewards. If you don't want your teen to drink, smoke or fuck, don't offer vague moralizations. I intend to tell Max why I don't think it's good, not why Jesus doesn't or that Satan takes delight in swaying him toward error (fortunately, there are also parental rules to provide enforcement capacity).

Another polled parent related that her daughter's friend told her she didn't like the food she prepared for the kids. "My daughter was taught to act grateful even if she doesn't like what's served to her," was this mother's take. I'm not sure where being tactful enough to eschew speaking your mind and be grateful would be a white lie (she did say "act" grateful though, didn't she?), but yeah, the lippy brat probably wouldn't get invited over to our house much.

I'm interested to hear from the commentariat on this, especially youse moms and dads out there.
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Labels: family, parenthood

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This month: The Great White North













Somebody loves me - it's Auntie Julie !










There are two doggies here, too !

















...and then a nice sink bath.

















And the agony of the faceplant.

Labels: doggies, family, frolic, fun, Max, photography