"My Ear Is Broken!"

I sent this email out to the fam on March 4:

So we had some interesting news today! Everything is fine, nothing catastrophic. But it looks like Penelope is just about deaf in her right ear, and probably has been since birth. 

When she had her 4 year checkup, she flunked her hearing test. We waited a month and had her do it again at Abby's next checkup to make sure it wasn't a weird fluke, same results. So we went to the UCSF Audiology Clinic, and they did a 75-minute test on her today. She was, of course, poised and wonderful and a very brave little champ -- the doctor, Dr. Lau, actually said that most kids her age don't have the attention span for the test, but she did. 

They did three levels of testing: they looked in her ear and found no structural damage; they did a second test that somehow checked what was getting through without her having to do anything, and it confirmed that she wasn't hearing with her right ear; and she did a rather long, involved third test that required her to wear earbuds and answer commands into each ear, and also to do the same while wearing something that stimulated her inner ear by feeling rather than sound (?!?!) to see just how damaged the area was.

What the dr. told us was that the mechanics of her ear are fine -- her eardum is intact, there's no fluid. The damage seems to be nerve/cellular damage to the inner ear most likely due to prematurity, either because she was on the ventilator (only for a day or two!!) or just due to the extra stress of those weeks in the NICU. It is not reversible, it is not treatable, but nor is it degenerative. She has absolutely perfect hearing in her left ear (in fact, I noticed she has perfect pitch, not to brag but what can I say, it's true). 

The level of deafness is not "profound," but it is "severe." This clinic does not like to deal in percentages,, though of course I tried to pin them down to one, but what the dr. told me was that normal speaking is 50-60 decibels, and she can only hear in the right ear at 90 decibels. 

Well, but the good news is, she CAN hear in the right ear at 90 decibels, so a hearing aid will work for her, and will be covered under MediCal (most likely). In the past, they didn't bother with a hearing aid for kids who had this kind of hearing loss, but that around 3rd grade they noticed kids falling behind because the extra effort of hearing everything in the classroom finally started to affect their performance. So if she has a hearing aid starting now, before kindergarten, she will not have that deficit, will be able to hear normally as long as she wears it. 

Next steps: she will see an ENT to verify that the damage isn't progressive and get more of an idea of exactly what is wrong, and will have a second audiology screening to verify the results we got today. At the second audiology screening we will also have a hearing-aid consultation and the options will be explained to us. This will happen in early May and Randy will be able to come to the appointment as well (Abe will be in school). 

Eli pointed out that this is no different than finding out she has to wear glasses, and I think he is quite right about that. She's nowhere near deaf or impaired in any way, and if this is the worst outcome of her prematurity, I think we really got off cheap. 

Anyway, wanted you all to know. Penny is VERY excited that she and Grandpa Harry "will match," and is really looking forward to sharing with him about the "ear bud" she will be wearing. Her FIRST question about it was "can I get one that is pink?" and then I explained it to her as being a very small speaker that will help her hear in the ear that is stuffy. She also told me that when she grows up she wants to be "a girl doctor who only does ears," like Dr. Lao. She is a very cool character, and I am very lucky to be her mom. 

Abby is fine, completely un-deaf and having a great time at school. :) 

iPhone Haters Gonna Hate, Sanctimommies Gonna Sanct

So this kind of thing keeps coming across my transom:

https://www.facebook.com/marshall.miller.988/posts/565842876759721
http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/dont-text-around-your-kids/

And I have this to say:

Dear other parent who has no idea what I'm doing on my iPhone:

I was awakened at 5:00 this morning by my beautiful toddler, who snuggled up next to me and wanted to nurse. Though I am happy to do this, I did wish for a few more minutes of sleep. The cozy cuddling of infant nursing has given way to the very physical, wrestling-like version of the same activity, and over the next hour and a half, I was able to lightly snooze for about twenty minutes at a time between her kicking me, accidentally biting me, and reaching up to hug me and kiss my nose. I didn't know I could feel so simultaneously overjoyed and miserable.

When my older child woke up, I got us all dressed, which involved wiping a poopy butt while a little foot was playfully stuck into my ear, nose, and eyes in time to a really hilarious song that was being made up on the spot. At the same time, a four-year-old was balancing on a twirling egg-chair while tugging on my shirt for balance. The two-year-old then shrieked "NO!" at every clothing option until she finally acquiesced to wearing the dress she wore yesterday. The four-year-old has been regressing as the two-year-old has become more verbal and assertive -- understandable, and age-appropriate, but tough to deal with. So rather than snapping at her for her babyish behavior, I then dressed her as she wished, playfully pretending she was my little baby so that she could feel like she was getting the attention she craved.

Yesterday, we had a doctor's appointment where I learned this older child has significant hearing loss in one of her ears due to the fact that she was born prematurely; my task today, while my kids are in my care, is to follow up with her pediatrician, make an appointment with an ENT who is difficult to reach, and research whether and how her hearing aids can be covered by any kind of insurance. I am also going back to school, but didn't get into the program I had applied for, so I am trying to figure out if I can still get a job in my new chosen field without this particular masters program. Also, the car is in the shop.

But I don't want the kids to be stuck in front of the TV all day while I take care of this growing list of tasks, so I took us all out to the park so they could run around and get some exercise. I packed nutritious snacks, bottles of water, extra diapers, both Princess kick-balls, and the backpack so that the toddler can nap if she needs to while we're out.

Now, I am finally sitting down for the first time today. I just realized that though I brushed the girls' hair, I forgot to brush mine, and it's still in the beauty-salon clip that I stuck it in when I woke up. And, with horror, I'm also realizing that I didn't brush my teeth. I am dying for a second cup of coffee, but I'm not supposed to have too much because I have high blood pressure from two bouts of preeclampsia. So okay, I'm settling into a park bench, my ears attuned to the girls in case they start shouting at each other.

So now I am doing a little research on my phone. I am emailing links to their dad, who will follow up on some of this research between tasks in his own day. I am calling their doctor and waiting for call-backs. I am trying to plan the weekend, when my step-kids will be here. I am coordinating the preschool fundraiser on Sunday, because our budget requires that we use a cooperative preschool.

When I'm done with that, I might also be doing a crossword puzzle. I might also read the library book on my Overdrive app. If I had a magazine open in front of me, you wouldn't think twice about it.

I assure you: I pay LOADS of attention to my children. At 3am, as their father sleeps through noises louder than a hurricane, I am propelled out of bed to soothe away a nightmare. At 6am, I'm floating fitfully through half-sleep as two children pretend I am an igloo (I have no idea how this would work, but it gives me the weirdest dreams). At 9am, I'm showering with the door open and my head out from under the water so I can hear them. And so on through the day.

So if I'm taking a half hour to check things on my phone, dial back your judgment and pay attention to your own kids. Quit projecting on me. Sorry you feel like such a lousy parent yourself, but that's not my problem. Believe me, if I watched every second of your day, I could find plenty to write nasty posts about. So stuff it in your diaper genie and go do something to make the world better instead of writing toxic crap for others to post on Facebook.

And if you're a guy writing this crap, let me punch you in the taint, give you a nipple-twist, and slap you awake five times a night and THEN see if you still have the same big mouth.

P.S. And if I were paying attention to my child at the playground, you'd write some equally crappy blog post calling me a helicopter mom, so I really can't win. Which is why I have stopped trying to please strangers like you.

Love ya! Not really!

We went to the Chinese New Year parade in San Francisco this past weekend, and I wanted to make some notes for next year -- maybe they'll be helpful to other moms as well, since the sites who are supposed to have helpful tips were pretty lame.

- If you get there an hour or hour and a half early you can snag a spot at the curb. You should totally bring folding chairs, fleece blankets, and thermoses. There are porta potties. If you come with more than one adult, you can take turns taking the kids for walks up to Chinatown or down to Market for fun, food, trinkets.

- Download the map of the parade route from the official site and keep in mind where the Bart stations are. It's nearly impossible to cross the parade route once it has started. So if you stay on the Market side of the route, you'll have an easier escape. Your kids will probably not make it through the entire parade.

- That being said, as long as you map out your exit, the steps outside the bank on California and Kearny are basically the same as sitting on the bleachers, but free! They are a terrific spot to view the parade (unless you really want to be up close, in which case: curbside). We just went the wrong way when exiting so we got caught in madness, should have walked up to the Embarcadero rather than down to Powell.

- Don't be cranky. It's a freakin parade.

Patti Smith Remembers Laughter

I recently finished the Patti Smith memoir, "Just Kids," and have been musing over it for the past few days. So I was doing a stitchbomb at the top of Bernal Hill and Penelopabby were wailing that this was boring, they are scared of the dogs, they want to go home, and I said, "You have to suffer for your art!"

THen i realized THEY didn't have to suffer for MY art (#aliceneel), and also, the only time I saw Patti Smith live was at a free show at Summerstage in the middle of a sweltering summer in the early '90s. Someone in the crowd yelled "What do you like to listen to these days, Patti?" and she said "The laughter of my children" and I went ugghghghghghgh what a sap. except now I totally think that and I'm also a sap.

And at the same show she stopped a song to say "I hear that baby crying and I'm a little worried, it seems like too hot a night for a baby to be out," and again I was like UGHGHGHGHGHGH MOMMY PEOPLE SHUT UP and now I'm like jeesh that was so sweet, and what a good mom she must be.

Anyway I did make the girls wait till my stitchbomb was gone, but I was nicer about it and gave them guilt-induced treats and whatnot. 

 

And as I type this I'm hearing the girls laughing together, bubbling with laughter and shrieking at each other to make more laughter, and thinking, yeah. She was right. She was right. 

 

Oh wait, now Abby's crying and possibly Penny's getting a time out. Well. It was fun while it lasted.

Abby has a favorite color, and it is purple.

She can spot purple a mile away. "A-purple, momma!" She knows the purple pillow on the couch is hers. "Ah-my purple pillow, Penny. Penny peenk. My purple." If I dare to try to put clothes on her, you better believe they're going to be purple, OR have a character on them, OR be ballet clothes, but only the RIGHT ballet clothes.

(A ballet dress is called a "la-la-la-la," all four syllables, because of the Angelina Ballerina theme song. If I wear a dress, she tells me "Momma la-la-la-la!")

We were walking down to the softball field on Sunday. She was wearing her new purple dress (but not the leggings that go with it -- "NO purple, momma. NO purple pants." It was breezy: she stopped walking, pushed her skirt down, and yelled, "Purple windy! No purple windy, momma!"

I still nurse and rock her to sweet, snuggly sleep. The other night I bent over her crib as I gently placed her onto the mattress; she stretched out, flipped over, and murmured "Purple, Momma."

I didn't know I could love a color so much.

Three And A Half

I have been struggling lately with P. She's still my delightful daughter, but has taken on a host of unwelcome new behaviors: she's suddenly terrified of everything (even mild shows like Chloe's Closet freak her out), she's extremely oppositional and distracted (I can be speaking straight to her and not get a reaction), and she's suddenly discovered the joys of teasing her little sister.

I've been reading "Your Three Year Old: Friend Or Enemy," by Louise Bates Ames, Ph.D., and find I am not so special. This is great news. As I read the rundown of what happens, typically, at 3.5, I wanted to weep with recognition. Most reassuring of all was Ames' advice to wait it out and even to avoid my child as much as possible -- she actually prescribes babysitters if a mom is feeling like she can't get through a day without screaming.

The part that sent me running to tell you guys about this, though, was this passage -- no idea what page it is, because I'm reading it on the Overdrive app. Here it is:

Emotional insecurity, which so many seem to feel at this age, may be based to a large extent on the temporary inadequacy of the motor system.

Ohhhhh.

At three, the author says, the kid had just developed a crapload of milestones; at 3.5, she is in the middle of a crapload more, and is overwhelmed. That's all that's happening. It explains the thumb-sucking, the return to tantrums, every bit of frustrating behavior, and makes me feel so grateful she's moving forward with such force. She's handling all this with aplomb, and if I can keep my cool and just let her get through it, she'll be fine as always.

This book is a quick read and is one of a series -- this is the first I've read, but what a help. Like!

The Kids Are Alright, So Are The Parents.

"Deteriorating work ethic and massive sense of entitlement," my friend posted on Facebook yesterday, linking to the Deborah Kolben article in the New Yorker about how we're all fucking up our kids by spoiling them. The example set forth in this lazy, shitty piece of journalism not up to the usual standards of either Kolben or The New Yorker, was a straw-dog comparison of spoiled little shits in Los Angeles v. a 6-year-old girl from the rainforest who was awfully helpful and very good at housework.

The conclusion, assumed as foregone before the first paragraph was done, was that our kids are completely screwed, and the fault lies with us, the loving but inept parents who've botched the job of raising them. And thus, goes the entirely unproven argument, we have raised a generation of "adulescents" who don't want to get up early in the morning or buckle down to jobs.

Oh for fuckity fuck's sake.

This is only the most recent in a long, long line of "these kids today!" and "parents are to blame!" memes that interlock and whorl together back through time to Ancient Greece and beyond. "I'll tell ya, these kids today don't know how to kill a mammoth! All my kid cares about is looking at cave paintings and planning her Sweet Six!"

Meanwhile, we go through the high mass of citing all the usual suspects. A Nation of Wimps, which I like to subtitle A Bookful of Hysterical Anecdotes With No Basis In Reality. The Free-Range Kids Blog, which is all well and good within reason, but which is cited way too often by people who don't seem to actually read it (the author is much more nuanced than the polarized conversation allows). Miserably, I pointed out that my friend's son is perfectly capable of doing all the things "kids today" supposedly can't, and that she was judging people she had know personal knowledge of -- just this mythical set of shitty parents out there. "Worry about your kids rather than judging other parents based on bad science," I lectured her, and she (being a gracious friend who understood my passion was more about feeling than being as assy as I sounded) agreed that "these kids today" wasn't a productive approach. What she worried about, she said, was a societal shift away from accountability, and THAT is something I can get behind. But I'm not going to blame parents or say only young adults are responsible. This isn't a parenting issue, and it's not the result of too much kindness or love. It's bigger than that, and harder to solve.

I knew a kid whose mom worked the night shift as a nurse, and whose dad worked the day shift as a doorman. He was about the same age as the little girl from the rainforest cited in the New Yorker article. He was alone most of the day, and would come wandering down the back alley between our houses looking for something to do, something to eat, someone to wipe his nose. "Mom's asleep," he'd explain. These were working-class parents, they were doing their best and I am not shitting on them. I'm just pointing out that this little guy wasn't learning self-reliance, he wasn't becoming some amazing work-ethic-imbued superdude, he wasn't sweeping the campsite and asking how he could pitch in. He was lost and -- having dated my share of former lost boys -- I predict he'll spend his adulthood looking for the attention, care, and love he missed. In fact, the biggest "adulescent" I ever met was the product of a mom who largely emotionally ignored him in favor of non-helicopter parenting.

Meanwhile, I'm not going to apologize for noting that the atmosphere of benign neglect that stood for parenting in the '70s left most of my friends with pretty hideous stories to tell -- of being bullied, molested, or beaten up on the way home from school, stories that are sad, open-ended anecdotes rather than character-creating origin myths. Yes. I want to be present, available, and involved. Suck on it, Hara Murano.

And by the way, in the New Yorker article, Kolbert whines that she triiiiied to make her kids do chores, but they were baaaad at it and she had to clean up aaaaafter them. Boo fucking hoo. You really thought they'd get it the first time? You really think parenting is about setting rules and watching your kids run at them like hurdles in the 100 meter hurdle race? You put the hat on. Your toddler takes it off. You put the hat on. You repeat until you want to scream. Finally either your toddler gets it, or you get a hat with a strap, or his ears fall off. Similarly, you show your kid how to do a chore. He gets it wrong. You show him again. You have him clean up after the chore done wrong. You help him do this, you do not do it for him. You do this until you want to scream. Finally, either he gets it, or you change tack. If it were easy, Elizabeth, there wouldn't be parenting books.

There is no Nation of Wimps. There is a Nation of People Who Don't Check Their Sources, but that's not a function of bad parenting.

(And p.s., this Matsigenka tribe with the 6 year old who's good at housework ... "The average tribal woman marries around age 16, and women have an average of eight to ten pregnancies." So while you're wishing your daughter would be more like a rainforest child, stop to consider whether you also want her to be a Quiverfuller.)