A Developmental Nazi update.

After nearly a year of hearing, "Well, we think Munchkin might be autistic," but having no one available to actually evaluate him for said condition, I had enough.

While we were in the States, I scheduled an evaluation with a pediatric neurologist and a speech/language pathologist at one of the top 10 Children's Hospitals in the country. After several months of runaround, TriCare, of course, wouldn't okay it. So we paid out of pocket. More than I care to say. But it was completely and utterly worth it.

(Although, I may one day have to write a serious rant about how fucked up the Army system is when it comes to kids with developmental delays. We could afford to fly back to the states and then pay thousands for a real evaluation -- not everyone has that luxury).

And not because the assessors validated what I've been saying all along -- hell, I spend more time with him than anyone, I was pretty sure I was right. But because now I have something solid, based on established batteries, that I can take to the Developmental Nazis here. With actual suggestions on what Munchkin should be doing to shore up his abilities.

It's about fucking time.

Make mine chunky.

So Munchkin has picked up one of those summer illnesses. And honestly, hanging out at home (out of this unfamiliar sunshine and heat!) wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't a pukey sickness. To date, Munchkin has hurled on:

His bed.
My bed.
The guest bed.
The couch.
CPT Dick's car (lucky for me, I took that one to ferry Munchkin to the pediatrician, no?)
The pediatrician's examining table
My laundry chair
underneath his bedside table
and, of course, me, several times.

(But never once the toilet, no matter how hard I tried to get him there).

They were right about parenthood being an adventure. I just didn't expect the day-to-day of it to require so much Swiffering.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

So we made it across the pond.

This morning, so my kid won't have that "just-had-a-haircut" look for the family portrait scheduled for next week, I took him to the barber shop that my husband has gone to since he wasn't much older than Munchkin.

Sure, Munchkin was completely uncooperative and there were tears and a helluva lot of shorn hair that ended up in my cleavage. But the woman who cut his hair offered him a "sucka" and comforted him in that comforting New England brogue that needs no "r's." And as she leaned in close to make sure the air around his ears was cut clean, the smell of clam chowder and freshly baked bread wafted into my nostrils.

It's good to be home.

Immer Weider.

There is a great German saying: immer weider. Loosely translated, it means "always again," and is basically used to talk about those things that we seem to be permanently cursed with, too much rain, the kid not bothering to sleep through the night, and, of course, how you never realize that you are out of that one crucial ingredient until you are ready to start cooking that gourmet meal.

I love to say it. It just is such a perfect fit for so many situations. Especially for a misanthrope like myself.

And so, immer weiter, we are going to see a new speech and language pathologist (SLP) tomorrow. I'd like to be excited but I am also a little wary. This is our last shot, really. What our pediatrician called, "the only game in town." With a shortage of SLPs in the Army's medical system and those who are here being strictly resourced to injured soldiers, it's been hard to find someone willing to spend some time with Munchkin and figure out his language issues. We've had all kinds of one-off evaluations -- with only the kinds of corresponding diagnoses that you can get after only spending 1/2 hour with a toddler in a strange environment -- but no one to actually treat him.

But after fighting the Army system for months, I've been awarded a victory (not without cost, though -- when the Tricare ladies see me in the PX these days, they quickly turn and walk away lest they have to speak with me). I have won my son some space on the calendar of that one last SLP treating kids, not only for an initial evaluation but for further treament if warranted.

But as I said, if she doesn't work out, I've exhausted my last option. And then I'll have to seriously consider returning to the states.

Needless to say, I'm nervous. I want to like her but I want to make sure I like her not just because she's my only option and I don't want to leave Europe. I want her not to be another cog in the Army medical system wheel, throwing oversimplified and just plain scary diagnoses at me. I want to like her because I want her to be able to help. It's always scary to still find those last vestiges of hope, even after you've been disappointed so many times.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

What goes around, comes around.

My son never really said, "Mama" or "Mommy." We tried to coax it out of him, we did. But it never happened. And honestly, with his speech delays, I would have settled for any uttered sound that he consistently used to call for me. Ma. La. I'd even have taken Moo, though I would secretly wonder if my large post-baby ass had inspired it. But alas, it seemed not in the cards and I didn't want to press the matter so hard that he'd always associate hatred with the word, "mother." After all, we have his teenage years for that.

But as he's started to make more sounds and, now, words, I've once again been trying to get him to say, "Mama."

And do you know what that little devil does when I ask him to do so? He smiles widely and says, "Daddy, daddy!" Because, you know, he's been able to say Daddy practically since birth.

(As a side note, what is with this paternal conspiracy? I carry the boy inside me for nearly a year, breastfeed him for more than that and spend every waking moment catering to his needs and all I ever hear from other people is, "Oh, my, isn't he the spitting image of CPT Dick!" and "He's a Daddy's boy, all right." And then with the boy himself only saying, "Daddy." It's just so wrong).

But yesterday, CPT Dick called home from the field. Munchkin spent most of the day asking for the man -- pointing at pictures of CPT Dick and saying, "Daddy," and then saying "Daddy?" every time I used the phone. I know CPT Dick is missing his son and missing so much of what Munchkin is doing these days so I put the speaker phone on and called Munchkin over.

"Munchkin, it's Daddy! Say, 'Hi, Daddy!'"

*silence*

"Munchkin, don't you want to say hi to Daddy? Daddy misses you! Say, 'Hi, Daddy!'"

*silence*

"I don't understand it. He's been saying Daddy all day. Let me try one more time. Munchkin, say, 'Hi, Daddy!' C'mon now, say, 'Hi, Daddy!'"

And then Munchkin smiles widely and says, "Mommy, Mommy! Hi, Mommy!"

CPT Dick thinks I paid the kid off. If I had known that I could have done so to set up such a situation, the kid would have been rolling in greenbacks and Elmo-themed paraphernalia months ago.

Roadtrip!

With CPT Dick away playing Army, Munchkin and I have decided to go away for the weekend. We're heading to Provence to meet a few friends and I think it will be just lovely.

Except for one teeny, tiny thing. We're driving.

Now, I don't know if you are schooled in the fine art of motoring with a toddler. If you are, then I don't have to say another word, your stomach has already started to cramp up with anxiety for me. But if you aren't, let's just say that I'm going to be spending 6 hours in a car with a person who thinks that the world revolves around him. While driving that car, I'm somehow going to have to anticipate his every need and reach around to the backseat to fulfill those needs without killing us. If a peanut butter cracker gets bitten into the wrong way and falls on to his shirt on a way that is displeasing, I will have to find a way, in between the screams, to explain why it's not the end of the world. I will have to change his diaper on the floor of truckstops.

And I will do it all while listening to the Sesame Street soundtrack. Over and over again. And with no wingman to help out.

Whomever said it's not the destination, but the journey, obviously never traveled with small children. But somehow we'll persevere. And at the very least, there will be lots of wine and yummy, yummy cheese once we get there.

We have new words.

Just this week, my son can be heard muttering the following on top of his animal sounds:

Pooh
Sat
Sock
Shoe
Go
Spin
Big Bird

But still no Mommy. I hope he manages to say "Mama" at least once before he hits adolescence and I'm automatically referred to as an expletive.

Who knew that I'm such a big wuss?

Since I can't get a regular speech therapist for my son right now, I've been reading up all I can on methods and strategies for speech production and incorporating them into our every day use.

This week, we've been working on environmental sounds -- the noises that animals make, cars and trucks make, etc. What that means is that I make those sounds, a lot and often in public while people look at me strangely, in hopes that Munchkin will mimic me. He usually doesn't but at least he's amused at the lengths I go to in trying to engage him.

But we've had a breakthrough.

Yesterday, when I asked Munchkin, "How does a cow go?" I took a breath and fully expected to be the one to answer with "Moo." After all, that's how it usually works. But this time, he answered. He looked at me, smiled and gave me a big ol' "Moooooooooo." And then, I went on to ask about ducks, cats, dogs, sheep, and horses and he could tell me all of the noises they make. Just like that.

I don't know what I did this time or didn't do before but finally he's gotten it. And we've been working so hard for so long that I'll be honest -- I started to cry while I continued to drill him on animal sounds.

I can only imagine what I'll be like when he starts using real words.

Just when I was beginning to feel bad about referring to them as "developmental nazis."

Apparently, Munchkin is an enigma. Since he lagged behind his peers speechwise, he's been incorrectly diagnosed as the following:

• Motor and muscle-control impaired.
• Autistic.
• Brain-damaged.
• Autistic again.
• Hearing impaired.
• Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.
• And, maybe the third time is the charm -- autistic!

And today, the itinerant consultant who can only visit my son once a month has decided instead that he suffers from sensory processing disorder. This, of course, after a first visit of only 20 minutes.

Only one problem -- I keep looking at this checklist and he doesn't have a cluster of any of these symptoms. She based this on his love of climbing. But he hates to be upside-down and gets dizzy when he spins while dancing. And frankly, looking at some of the other items on the "hyposensitivity to movement" list, I have to wonder if it isn't just a list of descriptions for toddler boys in general. I mean, have you seen the kind of physical feats a three-year-old can master when he thinks his Mom ain't looking? I've experienced it firsthand and let me tell you, it is not for the faint of heart.

I don't want to be the Mom whose kid's diagnosis has been staring her in the face all along but she refused to see it -- whether out of vanity or fear of the long-term consequences for her child. I really don't. But I see nothing that indicates that he is autistic or has attention problems. We've had the medical tests to rule out hearing impairment and brain damage. So that really just leaves the language delay. Why can't get I get a diagnosis for that? I mean, apraxia, articulation disorders, auditory processing disorder, dysfluency -- it isn't as if there aren't a whole host to choose from. I keep being told that early intervention is key. But how can I know the best way to intervene if I don't know the problem? What am I missing here?

(I could go on about how fucking difficult it is to actually find a qualified speech-language pathologist to evaluate him. The Army has commandeered all area SLPs to help soldiers with brain injuries. And while I certainly don't begrudge the soldiers all the help they can get, I find it hard to believe that one -- just one! -- can't schedule us in for an hour to help make some sense of all of this).

Following directions.

Well, in the past few months we've learned quite a bit about why my son does not talk.

We learned that Munchkin can hear but he does not like to listen.

He can say words but often does not opt to.

Despite the fact that every Mom/Oprah-watching wannabe behavioral psychologist has suggested that my son must be autistic, he is not.

He's way above board when it comes to physical and cognitive (outside speech) development.

And we've agreed to the developmental Nazis plan to help this matter and somehow, someway, it's helping.

My son can sign. He's been consistently signing please, thank you, help and Mommy since his speech therapy session earlier this week. It is absolutely amazing to be able to have even these simple exchanges with him.

Whaddya know. Things may be starting to change around here.

My son, the magician.

For a two-year-old, my kid has quite the movie collection. Since we don't have television, the kid gets to occasionally (and sometimes more than occasionally) watch DVDs, usually of the Disney or Sesame Street variety.

Lately, some of the DVDs have gone missing. Munchkin likes to play DJ, putting in one disc and then catching sight of another and switching them out. Not all discs get put back in the cases. And so, right now, we have about three DVDs that have disappeared into the land of unmatched dryer socks and extra extension cords.

Today, Munchkin started doing the switcheroo game again. But this time, I was damned if he was going to lose another DVD. I watched him carefully and as he put down one DVD, I made him help me put it back on its case and then back on the shelf.

But, somehow, someway, one of the DVDs once again went missing. I searched high, I searched low. I opened every DVD case to make sure that we didn't put it in the wrong one. I went to his room to make sure he didn't take it there accidentally. And I was about to start pulling apart the adult DVD case (no, not that kind of adult -- we keep our porn in the bedroom because we're classy), the kid walks right up to the DVD player with the missing disc and pops it in.

I have no idea where he got it from since I was so busy looking for it. I'm imagining that every possible lost item is stashed there just waiting for him to take out at his leisure. I tell you, either my kid is a magician or he is much, much smarter than me.

I wonder how long it would take him to learn how to run his own shell game scam.

Can you hear me?

The boy can hear. He handled the test like a pro and has hearing well within the range of normal. Apparently, when we think he is not hearing us, he's just choosing not to do so. Oh yeah. My kid, right there.

And so, back to the Developmental Nazis for another evaluation.

A little down.

Munchkin had another visit with the Developmental Nazis today. And the speech-language pathologist said that he presented just like a kid with significant hearing loss. So we're going to have his hearing checked with an audiologist next week.

I'm both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because it's probably not something neurological, not something that we can't pinpoint and help.

But, dear readers, I have wondered about his hearing since he was about 6 months old. I have stated my concerns to friends, family, pediatricians and specialists. They all told me I was crazy and would not schedule a hearing test. During the first visit from the developmental nazis at our last duty station, they didn't even bother to send a speech-language pathologist to evaluate him. They sent a physical therapist and developmental psychologist intead. They also kept suggesting it could be autism. Don't get me started.

Only once he turned two did someone finally listen and send us to an ENT. Hence the adenoid removal.

But now the adenoids are gone and he's still having some trouble hearing.

I feel guilty. I feel like I should have pushed harder. I know hindsight is always 20/20 but maybe if I had stamped my feet a little louder, intervention could have happened earlier. Maybe we wouldn't be at this point. I don't know.

But I'll tell you one thing, next week can't happen fast enough.

Shiny, happy people.

Everybody says that you take millions of photos of your first kid. And they were right. Poor kid probably thought I had a camera for a face for the first 12 months of his life.

But then Munchkin went mobile.

And since then, between him reaching for the camera to press the buttons or racing towards mortal peril as I try to frame the perfect shot, the photo ops have been few and far between.

And people, there have been serious complaints. I never knew grandmothers could be so damn cranky when they are forced to go a few days without new grandbaby photos. Think about the old days people! You might have had to go months! Years, even! Give the mother of a toddler a break, please!

So to quell the screaming hordes, I've been trying harder to pick up the camera, even when I know that doing so is just going to result in my having to leave it in an unsecure place as I go chasing after my kid.

But today, for whatever reason, it was the perfect opportunity to take Munchkin's picture. Despite outdoor antics and eating lunch with a spoon, his shirt remained (mostly) clean, his face didn't have any discernible scratches or food bits and he was sitting still on the couch giving me the cutest, sweetest little boy smile EVAH.

And so I picked up the camera and told him to say, "Cheese!" A few flashes of light, the tell-tale clicks of the shutter and I had not one but several photos of my two-year-old in this near perfect, totally unheard of state.

But then I looked at the photos.

Somehow, someway, every time I said cheese, he made this weird, totally wacked out grimace face. Not the smile I had seen on his face before I got the shot. The little monster had done funny faces ON PURPOSE. It's at moments like these that even though he is the spitting image of his father, I so know he is mostly mine.

The Grandmas are not only getting these photos emailed but embossed and framed.

Throwing myself upon the mercy of the Developmental Nazis.

Well, after Munchkin's last evaluation by the developmental nazis called for an intervention, maybe, and then his ENT diagnosed a hearing problem, we went ahead and decided to okay the adenoidectomy.

That was nearly two months ago. And we have seen a difference. He's listening much better and seems to be using a few more words much more consistently.

But I'm not certain that he's where he should be. In fact, I'm not at all sure where that place is.

And so we will return for another evaluation. I'm calling it Developmental Nazis: The Return.

Wait a second. I can't call it that. That's how I referred to our last visit. Man, I'm losing it.

There's just something about these people that just gives me the total heebie jeebies.

Watching the boy learn.

It's amazing to watch my son figure stuff out. Yeah, yeah, I know -- I'm a total cliche. What parent doesn't like to watch this? But I just find it so amazing to watch him soak everything up like a sponge. I also find a lot of humor in the things that he's decided are worth pursuing and perfecting.

We're a raspberry family. Not a day goes by that our son doesn't get his shirt pulled up and have one of us blowing on his belly to make the tell-tale *thpppbt* sound. It makes him laugh and I love to make him laugh. He's reciprocated in the past by pulling my shirt up to expose my belly but so far he's not been able to figure out how to make the accompanying sound. Instead, he just sort of headbutted my navel, first in attempts to copy, and then, I imagine, in sheer desperation.

But yesterday, we were out in the yard blowing bubbles. He's only just figured out how to blow bubbles and even still he's only at about a 70% success rate. But while he was filling the yard with translucent little balls of soap, I couldn't resist giving him a big ol' raspberry. As I finished, he picked up the bubble wand and was about to blow another bubble when he stopped and looked at me. I couldn't figure out what was up so I came closer. And as soon as I was within reach, the kid lifted up my shirt, placed his mouth to my belly and blew.

It totally sounded like I farted. The sound reverberated throughout the whole yard. He was thrilled.

And you know, I couldn't have been prouder if he had just graduated Harvard. What genius! What problem-solving ability! My boy can do raspberries!

Attack of the killer mosquitoes.

Poor Munchkin. Kid got into a fight with a mosquito the other night and lost big time. His ear has swelled to three times its normal size. Luckily, it makes it less likely to notice his eyelid, which is almost swelled shut, and his poor ravaged arms and legs.

Luckily, the bites don't seem to bother him -- they just look ugly. But man, I'm going on a serious mosquito-killing rampage today. 'Cause when you attack my kid in such a manner? You know, I take it a little personally.