beyond the OT: changing gears, changing kids

All is quiet in my little domain right now - the Man is curled up with the Eldest, and the Toddles, sweetly stubborn, is coiled in my bed. He's snoring slightly, a quiet and almost contented sound, so of course I'm sitting next to him, soaking up his peacefulness.

For reasons that I'm still struggling to articulate, that peacefulness is crucial, a balance to an afternoon spent burying an urge to shriek. I'm close to the point where I can just spit it out, but to begin with? my apologies, but to begin with, I've got fragments and coherence still evolving.

*************************************

I'm wriggling around tonight, trying to fumble my way between pigeonholes.

I really like it that the Eldest's school has male teachers, I said - and I meant, I want my kid to be taught by people with different approaches to the various chaos(es) and patternings of a classroom. But I might have meant, I think that men and women teach differently, manage a classroom differently.

Boys and girls think differently, I said (and to be fair, I was quoting) - and I meant, I want a classroom and teachers that will let my kid learn however he needs to learn. But I might also have meant, I want my child to be allowed to learn from his mistakes, from free-range sponge learning.*

We know what we're looking at, I said, and I don't think we have to name it. And I meant, we know what pigeonhole this is, but shhhhh - don't tell anybody. But I think I meant, we know what this is, but I'm still hoping that it will just go away.

I don't want a label for him, I said - and I meant, I just want to understand him. But, maybe (selfishly), I want to know that my struggle is because he's a challenge, rather than I'm not up to par as a parent.

sigh. Male vs female, standard vs quirky, diagnosed vs normal - every time I opened my mouth tonight, I fell into a pigeonhole. And those haven't worked so well for us this year.

I don't think this is working, I told the OT, months ago. Every time we talk about engines, energy levels, speeds, the Eldest gets wired up and upset. She and I both paused over this, unsurprised. We're focusing on the negative, and that's making things worse.

We nodded at each other, and agreed to part amicably - if possibly temporarily. The Eldest breathed a sigh of relief, and shrugged himself into a happier state of boydom. Hidden from his classmates, I curled an arm around him, pulling him close. He flicked a glance past my shoulder, admired the clear coast, and went limp against me. Slow, confident fingers reached out, and began rubbing the back of my hand. Squish the boy, rub the mom-knuckles, and a contented sigh.

Mentally, I smacked myself for letting this comfort be painted into therapeutic terms. It's comfort, it's the finding of balance, and not the fixing of boy. This balancing becomes complicated as he gets older, thanks to the crucial thumb/oral component, this route to balance is potentially embarrassing. The Eldest knows what his peers will think when they pigeonhole his cuddle, suck, rub, and sigh.

Question: which of the following best describes this behavior? (circle one) okay for kids my age/not okay for kids my age/maybe okay for kids my age?

Bonus: if not okay, in which category does it fall? (circle one) too young/too old/unrecognized-and-thus-weird?

He's lucky that his sensory balancing act is limited to this and some fiddling with a whatsit while he works (and some mild griping about the fit of his clothes). What his friends might think - well, that's already enough for him to have to shove aside when he needs balancing, and he doesn't need any extra pigeonholing to complicate this further. Especially pigeonholing by well meaning grownups with their handy EZ-Fix-Da-Kid toolbelts.

Or so I think. It's a gamble, hoping that the Eldest can relax enough, to the point of allowing himself to use the bag of tricks that the OT handed him. That he can wear his skin with enough confidence to be able to claim that bag o' tricks. We've backed off to let him do it, and hope like hell that he'll do so while still in the window of neural elasticity for this kind of thing - which supposedly ends sometime this year. Maybe. With this maybe-real clock ticking, can we let the Eldest wend his way between pigeonholes, and learn how to be the Eldest? We'd damned well better, I say fiercely, and hope that I mean it.

I'm tired of pathologies. Of pathologizing. It comes with a degree of worry about my sons that cuts away at us, slicing up the ground under our feet, our balance, our faith in who we are and what we can handle. It tramples the idea of quirkiness, of boys being boys into therapeutic pigeonholes, and surely a Fix-Da-Kid toolbelt cannot be far behind? The thought that there might be a pathology, trapping my child in a type of behavior, freezes us between helpless and incapable, waiting for the diagnosis to prove us to be one or the other. Or to free us to adapt.

A month or so later, I walked into a variant of this conversation in the Toddles' classroom. I know what I'm looking at, and you know what we're looking at, and we love that boy that we're all seeing. But, said the teacher, and I flinched. Deer in the headlights of a car that I saw coming, I froze. If I stood still, that car would keep on going - and not in my lane, not in my kid's lane.

And damnit, I'm about to flag it down. The school is suggesting that we do some testing, I told the pediatrician, the neuropsychologist, the Man. And I'm afraid that I meant, we need some help.

But I hope that I meant, we need to understand.

************************

*if a kid is like a sponge, soaking up whatever he's offered, and you let him choose, or direct what's on offer, then that's free range kid-spongeing. Or, more or less autodidacticism.

almost? maybe? spring?

Before I jump in, take a moment to wave hello/hug/sit with Brenda: her son was just diagnosed with hemophilia. Over the phone, by the way - which means that she didn't get the hug, or the reassuring physical presence of the people who are there to help. The folks who make it possible for you to breathe, or find the normal under the shreds of the world you thought you had.

Seriously, people: over the phone. Oy.

But I digress.

After two warm, let's hit the playground after school days, I am willing to admit that - maybe - there are hints of spring. Note the qualifier, however - in New England, spring is a nebulous business. Still, I've sent in my seedling orders to the lovely folks here, and have begun perusing some marvellous garden porn. Oh. My. Gah. I want to plant it ALL.

But I'll settle for some cukes, lots of herbs, lettuces grown in the shade of peas and vining cukes, and the boys' favorite: carrots. Dang, but I want to start now. Still, wise and patient soul that I am, I know that the past two Mother's Day have come with frost. So.

We're settling for sprouting indoors, and bouncing - no, jumping - out of doors. Spring up, sprout, shoot up, stretch and bounce. The Toddles, ankles showing, is sprouting in classic style. And, given his anti-haircut platform, also in non-classic style:

With any luck, the fresh beans in our jar will imitate him, echoing my precious seedlings. Three kinds of cherry tomatoes, three kinds of heirloom tomatoes, sage, oregano, genovese basil, and the smell of rich dirt under my nails. The determined curls of green stuff, stretching in the warm sun, unfurling...it's tantalizing.

More pragmatic than I, or perhaps less bletheringly lyric, the Eldest is using his bounce and zing to demonstrate why, exactly, I would really, really like a jump-rope for my next birthday.

bounce, bounce, bounce, went the boy, solemn and flying. A small girl, thumb in her mouth, paused to watch. And happily, refrained from comment. But had she, I think she should have said:

go Eldest, go - go Eldest, get yer groove on, get yer jump on - go Eldest.

Hanging mid-air, the kid looks remarkably peaceful. It feeds my determination to make peace with his bounce and zoom, the flip of his internal speedometer from 15 mph to 87, the blur that follows a bounce. Because, as a wise friend suggested, maybe he needs it.

Looking at him here, it's inarguable. Looking at them both (currently wrapped around each other in a slightly cranky and heavily elbowed ow! hey, gerroff my weinie! who farted? boy-tangle), it's wonderful and chaotic and thank heavens, headed for bed soon. Because all of that motion and sprout - anticipated and otherwise - is exhausting.

But makes for a peaceful, giggling bedtime.

and the Eldest bites back (part three)

Don't let anyone tell you different: a diagnosis may be a blow to the solar plexus, it may be the shatter that presages your world's splintering and collapse, or it may be the best thing that ever happened to you. Sometimes, it's all three at once.

Ours was more like a great, galumphing oh, duh. Hand smacks head. Jaw drops open. Silence, then a blathering, spluttering set of epiphanies.

Who hugs you at school? I asked him, OT report in hand. His face slumped, suddenly sad. Nobody, he said, and we both stilled. Sat there, each waiting for the other to fix, or understand, or explain this. He curled up in my arms, coiled, then relaxing into satisfaction. As if, I guessed, the extra cuddle was sloshing, spilling retroactively into the hug-less school day. Oh. Duh.

I carried that melting-into-good moment with me, and used it in the face of the Eldest's uglier moments. I began hugging him at pickup, while on good days, he made resigned faces at his friends. And maybe the hug sloshed over, or maybe it didn't, but there were fewer days when he yelled at me for showing up, the anger, the shrieking, swinging a fist that almost-but-not-quite connected, the explosion of a kid who can't handle anything more. He had more days when he knew that the hug was coming, and it would let him rebalance himself. Once, twice he smiled - and on one astonishing day, he chattered happily all the way home.

My days wobbled, ousted from their solid orbit between the poles of Horrific Dash Out the Door to Duck and Grit Teeth Pickup. No fool me, I knew a solid duh when I saw one. And I began to spread the OT's advice around liberally.

A pleasantly heavy layering of blankets, and the Eldest began to sleep better - managing many nights in his own bed. Some of those nights, he managed without his brother wrapped around him, to the protests of the small, Eldest-cuddling brother. When I tried the trick on the Toddles, our bed seemed to grow cavernous and wonderful. Fuelled by slightly more sleep, I began to wonder. Duh?

I stepped into shouting matches, and hauled the Eldest into hugs. Thanks, Mum, he said, suddenly cheerful. I needed exactly that. I pressed a firm hand onto his shoulder during clashes with the Man, keeping the rest of my body neutral, uninvolved. The Eldest relaxed under my hand, pausing, and finding a new gear. Watching, we all four blinked - and I went shopping. Duh.

In a quirky little store, I found fiddly things, of fidgets, as the store owner called them. My son has ADHD, and I stock tons of these, she said, and began lecturing about their various virtues and drawbacks. A week later, fidgets blossomed in the classrooms, and any number of happy little fingers fiddled while their brains worked. And the Eldest beamed, loving that his friends shared his tactile pleasures, certain that anyone else was missing out.

His teachers beamed with him, while the air turned a happy Disney, diagnosed seashell-pink. All was right and good, suddenly. When the Eldest stood next to his chair while working, one knee on the chair - off the chair - on the chair - one foot tipping the chair backwards, that was fine, the teachers said. He often didn't join the others for a huddle and talk after a game in phys ed, but oh, that was fine, the teacher said. He drummed on his siddur, rather than reading from it - but that was fine, said the teachers, and on and on. Was it possible to be cured by dint of diagnosis alone? The Eldest seemed happier, and I? well, I was insufferably triumphant.

If the Eldest has a diagnosis, then I'm to be vindicated, aren't I? Freed from loving, caring criticism about how I parent, how I should parent, what my child really needs - or ought to do. See? I could say, he's cracked. That's why you should shut up and let me do this my way. Or, see? I could tell my Guilt-o-Meter, he's cracked. That's why you should flip that arrow back to zero, and let me off the hook. Neener, neener, neener, o ye People Who Know Better. And I sneered, happily.

It was fun, but frankly small, even petty in light of the kid himself. And to be honest, I was awed by his bonelessness in the midst of a hug, the sudden wash of peace when he found himself in my arms, or the sharp, even painful spike in energy and motion when he swung into motion. Touch and peace, motion and whooosh! - these are the two poles of the Eldest's diagnosis, and they are inevitably imbalanced, balancing each other while individually extravagant. Richly peaceful; screechingly in motion. Watching the kid teeter between these poles. knowing finally what I was seeing, the sight outweighed any neener-neener. I began trusting the diagnosis, and bullied our way into an occuaptional therapy clinic that specialized in multiply-cracked kids. Balance, not broken, I told myself, and repeated this silently as I drove to the OT appointments. Learning, not cracked. Have diagnosis, will fix. In the back seat, hugged and fed, the Eldest muttered to himself, drawing diagrams of possible coups.

The OT taught us about engines, and how they can run high, too high, or too low. Sometimes, rarely, just right. It was classic self-awareness, self-regulation stuff, and I was all for it. She taught the Eldest methods for giving himself measured bits of motion, without throwing himself into the whee, whizz, bam! of bouncing-off-walls motion. She asked him to chart his engine at various points in time, gave him cards and photos to use in selecting his tools. But he despised it all. Growled. Roared - and then, in true Eldest style, became very, very calm.

And quit.

This engine thing, he said, doesn't work. Sometimes my engine is supposed to be high. Like in gym class. Sometimes it's supposed to be low. I eyed the hairsbreadth between me and a shriek, wondering if he was right. The Eldest refused to discuss engines, tools, or to actively regulate his behavior. An old pro at pain-management tools, tricks to be self-aware, the kid now sneered at suggestions that he might want to choose something to help him sit and do his homework. Something to redirect him when he was fighting with his brother. Something to help him be a better teammate? I suggested, and he roared.

After school, I was pulled over by the teachers. He's having a hard time, they told me. It's been a rough week. And then, another.

Maybe, I asked, eyeing the end of my rope, and scenting the lower third of his bucket, maybe, the kid's right? I sat down with the Eldest. Okay, I told him. Forget the engines. You are right: they are wrong. Let's try something else. And truly, we did.

We mapped out speed zones - low, medium, high - and made lists of what activities fell into each category. We designed a speedometer, and found a plastic box for him to carry it in. There! I said, triumphantly. This is better. And I relaxed, certain that the problem was the tool, the Eldest's understanding of it, and especially his sense of ownership, of investment in that tool. We've fixed it, I crowed, and the adults happily anticipated success, while the Eldest tried gamely for a few days. Then quietly gave up, choosing diplomacy over the picket line.

Is he using any of the OT's methods? I asked the teachers, curious. No-oo, they said, slowly. Thoughtfully. When we ask him about his speedometer, he just takes that as a different way of telling him that he needs to be better behaved. And the inevitable followed.

Duh, I thought. And wondered if his real rebellion was against being broken. Sproinggg! went the Guilt-o-Meter, and I rather thought that I deserved it. The Eldest dropped his tools at the bottom of his bottomless backpack, and left us staring at the flattened, battered diagnosis.

Maybe, said the OT, we should do a few more sessions, after all. And nobody, I'm sure, sighed.

thus spake the OT (part two)

The Toddles, deprived of a rather tidily built foil, is now exercising quasi-homicidal tendencies on some hapless bananas. While I'm rethinking the chances of banana bread, the Eldest is muttering about not having to do some bit of homework that he will, in fact, have to do.

While a peaceful moment staggers unconvincingly through our home, maybe I can start getting this post down on, well, electrons.

[the Eldest begins to wail something about there not being any math homework, there never is any math homework. A pause is offered by all parties, followed by some truly offensive parental logic. But I don't have my homework folder - I didn't bring it home - I NEVER bring it hoooooome. More parental logic is about to follow, and any guesses at the register of the italics coming thereafter? Right.]

So, (getting the post down ignoring whatever that was that went clunk, the small, fascinated voice saying, oh.) it begins with paperwork.

I happen to be fascinated by the paperwork that I'm given by medical types. As I fill it out, I play a mental game, trying to guess what the medico would think if I said yes to question 5, or frequently to question 12. This mingles gently with my awareness that I really want the doctor to like me. To think I'm sensible, possibly trustworthy. It's something I'm a bit embarrassed about (what if the cool kids don't like me?), but I'm pragmatic: a good relationship works better. When doctors treat me like a semi-sensible, primarily reasonable person who likes multisyllabic words, I am a better patient, and the relationship produces better medicine.

The paperwork isn't really an opening salvo, it's more of a formality. The real relationship building happens when the doctor walks into the room, I think - the paperwork just seems to set a stage. Gives me a chance to rehearse a little. Gives them (assuming they have time to read it) a warning about what's sitting in the room. But while medical questionnaires seem to ask largely verifiable, historical questions, therapists' paperwork seems more, oh, fluid in the kinds of information sought. Skewing them is, I suspect, much easier.

Ever so gently, I could hint that my child is very anxious - but maybe only tells me about it. That he melts down under circumstances that the OT might never see, could approximate but not reproduce. Maybe he had a bad day when you saw him, I could say. Maybe he had a very good day. Looking at the paperwork, I began to suspect that I had an alarming amount of influence in this relationship, that I had a frightening ability to talk/write/explain my kid's way into a diagnosis.

But it didn't occur to me that the tables were about to be turned.

I started answering questions, threading my way through precision and my own uncertainties. But the questions, simple as they were, started hammering at me. What are his sleeping habits? (don't ask) What are his eating habits? (when he can eat the food?enthusiastic. sometimes.) Does he like to run? (god, yes) get messy? (sometimes) dangle upside down from the monkey bars? (never, except when he does) Does he like/love/snore through/hate fireworks? (hate) the flushing of public toilets? (winces) Does he wiggle? (yes) fiddle? (yes) droop? (yes) what was toilet training like? (for me or for him?) The questions went on and on, and by the time I was done, everything seemed pathological.

What does it mean that the kid can't sleep in one bed? That he rolls around at night, is impossible to sleep with because he rubs his feet on my shins, needs to have another body (thankfully, his brother's) wrapped around him? Should I worry about that? What about his anti-firework stance? the bursting into tears during the shofar blasts on Rosh Hashana? I hadn't worried this much since I was a new parent, and frankly, I hadn't missed the experience much.

My sense of what was okay, or workable, was slipping away - overshadowed by what was Capital N Normal.

Of course, I said so out loud. And the OT nodded, agreeing. I asked her how she could make a judgement, based on an hour and a half of playing with the kid, a brain-tangling set of questionnaires, and she smiled wryly. With the clear cases, she said, there's no problem. But with the more borderline cases, it can be tricky. But that's why we follow up with more questions, if we have any. Oh. Your son is bright, and he's learned ways to cope with his bleeding disorder and allergies, which is good, because he could apply those methods to other challenges. But it also means that he's smart enough to know what answers to give, and that can make it harder to figure out what's going on. Oh. I echoed her, thinking it over. He's got enough experience with doctors to know what answers they want to hear. Right, she told me. We see a lot of kids like that. Ah. Experience with mothers like that, too.

Just in case, I handed her some questionnaires that the Man had filled out (for the uber-OT folks, who were also uber-not covered by insurance, and uber-didn't care), to offer a different perspective. More data, I said, and watched her smile manage to balance appreciation with a gentle tolerance for the overeducated, meddling parent.

And a month later, we had her report. Based on reporting by parents and observation by OT, the Eldest has a sensory imbalance in regards to motion and contact, both being under-sensitized. Therapies are recommended, roughly 8 or more visits to assist the Eldest in learning self-regulation techniques. And then there was a bibliography, including something about engines and how they run - a concept soon to be enthusiastically despised in our house.

I sat down, landing on some of the evaluation papers, feeling unexpectedly gut-punched. I'd walked into this mess, eyes open - or so I'd thought - but somehow, I'd managed to keep the rosy lenses in. This, I'd told the learning guru, is not what I'd expected you to say. It wasn't what I'd expected the OT to say, either. I thought about it, about the kid who hates crowds, and spent years hiding upstairs during his own (small) birthday parties. The kid whose shrieks of laughter seem to be higher, shriller than his friends, whose joys will inevitably be higher, and his challenges probably harder. Did this label fit him? I looked at the Eldest's binky-sucking, ancient sweatshirt rubbing, loud noise-hating brother, and mentally filled out his paperwork. Oh. Did this label fit him, too?

Could we trade the label in for an explanatory paragraph? I heard my father's voice, warning about medicalizing what could otherwise be an ordinary, messy life.

Watching the Eldest wriggle, pop out of his seat, and run, I wasn't sure. I can't stop, he told me, and ran down the hall. He flung himself into the air, bouncing off of a wall, and ran on, giggling - while something inside me quailed.

But still, does it fit? Cautiously, we accepted the diagnosis, and watched puzzle pieces fall into place. Until the kid himself staged a sit-in.

next post: the Eldest respondeth (part three)

whither the OT? (part one)

Okay, so you might recall that oh, back in September, maybe? I mentioned a drift of stuff, and an OT report buried in there somewhere. Well, it was. And it all started last year, with a teacher grab & chat:

Teacher: just so you know, the Eldest has been disrespectful in class today.

Me : oh, no!

Teacher: yes. This is a real problem. You will speak to him?

Me (calculating bucket volume, withdrawal quantities): absolutely.

And I did. And then I did again. And was informed that I needed to do so again. I changed gears, shifting my tone from understanding to irate. Each time, the Eldest promised to try, and I do believe that he did. It was an uphill battle: the kid just didn't like this teacher, and offered me any number of reasons why not. Listening to other parents, I realized that the Eldest was not unique in this, and changed gears. After a long chat with the boy about being respectful to those in authority, be they oh so irritating to folks under a certain height, I went for an end run.

If I complain about a teacher, then I am yet another mom, blaming everyone but her kid. But if another member of the school has a professional concern, ah, well. That's different. So I sat down with the school's learning guru, and asked her to offer a fresh pair of eyes. Maybe there's something I'm missing, I said, certain that there wasn't. I'd love to hear what you have to say, I said, sure that I already knew.

What could follow a set-up like that, other than the part where my jaw drops faster than my hand can catch it? Right. He seems to need to move more than the other children, the guru told me. He's mostly moving to get some sort of physical contact with something - it's disruptive, but doesn't seem to be deliberately so. Oh. I took furious notes for roughly half an hour, and then stared at them. Are you talking about ADHD? I asked.

Her pause scared me. Not necessarily, she said. What do you know about sensory integration?

Um, I said.

My understanding is that sensory integration is essentially when one or more of the senses is either too sensitive (everything sounds very, very loud, or most fabrics feel like sandpaper, and the tags on that shirt are pure evil) or under-sensitive (noise! need noise! need textures to feel, rub and roll in! Need to live on the swings, back and forth, back and forth, whooosh-up, whooooosh-down, whoooooooooshhhhhhhh). There's more to it, of course, and apparently you can have one sense turned way up to hypersensitive, and one way down, to under-sensitive, and a kid frantically trying to feed the under-fed sense (under-sensitive) and protect another, overloaded sense. Or so I understand.

But I have to admit that I learned this from sources other than the CDC, and that makes me a little, oh, twitchy.

From what I can tell, sensory integration dysfunction, or sensory processing disorder is a big, hissing argument between experts, with kids tangled up in the middle. I know parents of autistic kids who swear by the therapies, who talk honestly - poignantly - about the effects of the condition, and there are certainly any number of earnest, if not enthusiastic foundation/professional websites. And a book or two. The diagnosis has been around since the 70s, but there's no entry in the DSM-IV (TR) for sensory integration dysfunction. Will there be in the 2012 edition? Maybe. There are articles in journals. Databases being constructed. Hmmm, said my data-loving guy, and valiantly tried to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

Certainly, it didn't bode well when we discovered that the local experts did not accept insurance. Nor, I was told, would our insurer cover therapies for sensory integration, when provided by an otherwise in-network medical personage. Although, our go-to insurance person said, this was not because of the lack of formal diagnosis - it's an occupational treatment, not a medical one, said the nice lady, and both sides braced for the argument.

(purely gratuitous note: I won it. On a technicality, but still. Ha.)

Sitting in the guru's office, I smelled a concerned parent trap - one of those things that you can't ignore (concerned, right?), because it might be causing your kid problems, and you can't quite dismiss. So, you end up feeling obligated to plunk down hours, co-pays and oh yes, brain space on it.

And oh, I know that a kid with one medical condition can start a collection of them, as other diagnoses march in and politely join the group. Maybe it's because there's lots of people who care about the kid, and they are watching. The Eldest's grandfather calls it the medical microscope, and when it's on, says he, seek and ye shall find...something. But I wonder if the working assumption is that if the kid's cracked in one way, then surely he's cracked in another.

Silence fell in the room, while the guru waited. And I knew what I had to do: the unspoken deal between a school and a parent of a kid with a bucket is, we take you seriously, and you take us seriously. It's fair, respectful, and makes for a decent working relationship.

I settled on a position of sincere skepticism, and asked politely for second opinions. The school learning guru agreed to talk to some relevant medical types who know the Eldest, and heads were put together. Notes were compared. Because, I pointed out, a kid who is (alas) annoying, who clowns or is uncooperative could be a kid under stress. And some degree of stress is the way of things when you have a chronic condition. So, before we slap another label on the kid, let's take a moment to think about whether this is just an old wolf, in a new outfit. Please?

When the huddle broke, the guru's question still stood firm.

The coping clinic, a.k.a. psychiatrists at Big Famous Local Kid hospital who specialize in kids with chronic medical conditions, said that roughly 20% of children with chronic medical whatnots, also have some sort of sensory out-of-whackness. The psychiatrist and nursing chief at Hole in the Wall told me that their kids with diabetes and bleeding disorders have amazing pain tolerance - and we hemo-mamas tend to say the same. High pain tolerance could be the result of desensitization, I was told. And nobody laughed at the idea of putting this sensory thing and the Eldest in the same box. It's worth looking into, I was told by the coping clinic.

And I just didn't know if I wanted to agree.

The Eldest has a humbling array of coping mechanisms, from cuddles to thumb-sucking (with his dentist's reluctant approval), to the particular, odd sensation of the skin as it slides over a bony joint. Try rubbing the skin over your elbow sometime, sliding the skin over the bone. Does that feel good? It gives me the willies, but that soft-bony combination does something oddly soothing for the Eldest. A solid, loving squeeze makes something in the boy relax, resetting some sort of emotional metric. When I throw in a small rocking motion, he becomes boneless. He goes into my hugs wired, frustrated, furious, shriekingly joyous - and comes out a solemn-eyed happy. Calm. Like whatever he's carrying at that moment got rebalanced. But couldn't that come from the love, wrapped around him and holding him close? The silent, snug reminder that I love you, and I'm here?

Maybe. And maybe, echoed the learning guru, the coping clinic, the things I read and my own instincts. And so, sensory integration? I said, staring at my pages of notes. I've never heard of it. And the lovely, thoughtful guru at the learning center explained. You start with an occupational therapist's evaluation... and we did.

Oh, and the teacher? Ah, well, said the guru. And smiled apologetically. You might want to cut your losses there, she sighed. My shoulders slumped. If she'd disagreed with me about the teacher, then I'd have labelled her as a Person to Manage, but not a person worth listening to. But she agreed, offering a number of thoughtful observations while clang! went the concerned parent trap, and ouch, went my foot.

And possibly also the kid's.

next post: what the OT saith (part two)