Archive for the ‘cerebral palsy’ Category


I’ve always been fascinated by kaleidoscopes.  Turn the tube one way and brightly colored glass particles create a gorgeous, perfectly symmetrical array of brilliance.  Many, many moments with my son are like that —dazzling; the colors almost hurt my eyes they are so intense and the pattern so beautiful.  Occasionally, if we’re lucky, we actually have entire days of lustrous sparkle and dazzling displays.  Saturday was a shining example of such brilliance within my son. 

We took Nik to the local Fall Festival at the same orchard that hosts the Peach Festival every August; there was nary a meltdown in sight as we drove to “the farm.”  With a few exceptions, Nik was like all the other children there —clambering over bales of hay to reach the top of the slides, running through the corn maze, laughing and enjoying the glorious autumn sunshine.  Never mind that he wanted to eat the pumpkins; he kept signing apple as he tried to lick the orange skin.  Never mind that he had no interest in the petting zoo except to try to climb the fence.  The whole experience was a gigantic leap forward from a year ago when Nik wouldn’t even go near the hay or the slides, and kept losing his still tentative balance while standing in the “sandbox” full of soy beans and corn; he just wanted to climb in and out without actually touching the beans or corn—a major sensory aversion for him.  I think we lasted twenty minutes before we threw in the towel.

This year, Nik managed to hold his own— even in the face of our forgetting to give him his medication before we left the house.  He tolerated a return drive home, not getting out of the car (which usually sends him right over the edge) and was pleasant and sing-songy the entire trip back to “the farm.”  Niksdad gave him his medicine and that was that; there were slides to slide and hills to conquer.

To say I was proud of my boy would be an understatement.

Sometimes the gem-colored bits slip and tumble— tripping and sticking on one another.  The slightest change can create a jarring, confusing jumble with no discernable pattern, no rhyme or reason to the splintered shards.  Lately, it seems our days are becoming more and more like this imperfect kaleidoscope.  The colors are still there —we see glimpses as they tumble around, but the pieces are in constant motion, the formation constantly changing.  Just when we think we can detect a pattern the pieces shift again, leaving us no closer to the serene brilliance we’ve come to expect as the norm.

I’d like to think it’s simply the time of year or a time of growth for my son which causes such tremendous shifts in his daily patterns; I don’t think I can anymore.  His behaviors have become more extreme —both the highs and lows—as I cling to a rapidly eroding sense of any middle ground called peace.  Sleep has become an elusive specter which will not settle comfortably upon our house.  Instead, it teases with brief snatches of slumber interspersed with longer periods of wakefulness. 

Here, too, there is no discernable rhyme or reason to the patterns.  One night is filled with painful shrieks and injurious wrestling.  The next is a cascade of gentle laughter and quiet singing as the moon dances in the sky outside my window.  We are left weary, without answers to questions we’re not even certain of any more.

The daily behaviors are becoming more difficult to laugh off and dismiss as amusing antics.  The long-awaited physical milestones —running, climbing, throwing— have crossed an invisible threshold and become potentially dangerous for their perseveration and lack of control.  The funny videos I post of Nik climbing or standing on the back of the sofa are funny —for a few moments.  Then, they become evidence of hazardous behavior as Nik is determined to master every physical space in reach; he cares not whether we admonish him to stop.

Our home is, bit by bit, becoming a Spartan fortress.  Little by little, we have had to strip away nearly everything from our family room —where Nik spends much of his time when at home.  The end table and lamp long ago gave way to a wall-mounted swing-arm light.  That quickly was replaced by a swag lamp suspended from the loft above.  The pictures on the wall and the handmade wedding quilt  have recently been removed to keep them safe from Nik’s curious hands and to keep Nik safe from broken glass or having an oak quilt hanger crash down on his head as he attempted to swing from the quilt.  Furniture has been removed from the room.

Moments of brilliance amid increasingly longer, more frequent moments of jarring disharmony.  

The boy we weren’t sure would walk now runs everywhere.  Even his orthopedist recently remarked at how fast Nik is.  His exact words—as Nik took off at top speed down the hallway on Tuesday: “Holy cow, look at his acceleration! Give that kid a football!”  I live in abject fear of Nik getting away from me in a parking lot or in the street. 

The boy who, for years, wouldn’t raise his arms over his head now has amazing upper body strength; he can pull himself up and over nearly everything.  If he can get a good hand hold and something to push his feet against, Nik can climb anything.  I can no longer take him shopping unless I have help because he can climb out of the cart faster than I can get him back in.

The boy who has been aloof for years now wants to be in physical contact with people all the time.  Sitting or holding hands together is not enough.  He wants to be climbing my torso, flipping himself backward in a somersault and doing it again…and again and again.  He wants to ride on his daddy’s shoulders so he can hang upside down by his ankles as he squeals with delight.  Not once or twice but for as long as Niksdad can hold him.

The boy who was once oblivious to his surroundings now sees everything.   His compulsion to touch everything, to explore and dissect and analyze is all-consuming.  On one hand, these are all very good things — until he begins, literally, climbing over his neurologist to get his stethoscope or the reflex hammer.  The doctor, a really wonderful sport who adores Nik (thank God!), puts Nik down only to fend him off moments later —repeatedlyI do not sit idly observing; I am in the thick of it trying to keep Nik occupied sitting on the floor.  It is a fruitless endeavor; I finally end up having to hold him in my arms —like a sack of writhing potatoes over my chronically aching shoulders.  I am drenched in sweat by the time our visit is over. 

Sadly, this is not a one-time occurrence.

We once thought it was wonderful the way Nik explored his world so physically; it was a necessary part of familiarizing himself with the world he was unable to experience for so long.  Now, it has become a danger as well as a distraction; Nik is unable to sit still long enough to complete a simple puzzle or to play a short game of matching images.  He is no longer available for more than the briefest moments of learning.  Nik is a rapidly growing, strong —and incredibly smart— whirling dervish; we need to be able to harness that energy so our brilliant boy can learn.

We’re on the verge of adding yet another diagnosis to my child’s already hefty dossier — ADHD.  We’ve fought it for a long time, trying to help him with diet and activity.  However, the current situation is simply untenable— for all of us.  Reluctantly, we have begun exploring medications which might help Nik with some of his restlessness and impulse control. 

But there are challenges of side effects which, while never desirable, could actually be dangerous to Nik’s health.  We’re limited to certain medications because Nik still won’t chew and swallow more than soft foods or crackers and dry cereal; he certainly cannot swallow pills yet.  The remaining options can put him at significant risk for heart troubles because of his cardiac history; we have to get a full cardiac work-up before we can even consider certain meds. 

Then there’s the whole loss of appetite side effect which can be significant with some of the meds available to us.  That’s a huge concern to us given Nik’s feeding issues and history of failure-to-thrive.  Though he’s growing well now, Nik is still not even on the growth chart for weight in his age range.  My sinewy boy is still able to wear size 3T pants— despite the approach of his sixth birthday a mere seven weeks from now.

The final issue is Nik’s hypersensitivity to any medications which alter his central nervous system.  Seriously, the slightest changes can send him right over the edge; the highs get higher and the lows get lower —and the swings are faster than usual. It’s not a safe situation.

Still, we’re largely out of other options right now.  Even the neurontin —which significantly helps with Nik’s mystery pains —does nothing for Nik’s sleep.  Nor does the melatonin help.  Nik wakes every night now —multiple times most nights, at predictable intervals— and stays awake for a while playing or singing in his crib.  During the day, the combination of extreme hyperactivity and utter lack of impulse control makes it nearly impossible for me to leave Nik alone for more than very short periods of time any more.  The added layer of significantly disturbed sleep compounds our respective inabilities to cope with the stress.

It feels like a deal with the devil; we’re damned if we do, we’re damned if we don’t.  Yet, the cost of doing nothing is too great any more. 

The kaleidoscope turns and the fragments tumble again.  What will we see as the shards settle into place— chaos and disarray or brilliance and beauty?  One masks the other at any given moment.

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Apparently, I am not the only one in my family with issues of  letting go.  (I feel compelled to add, for the sake of clarity, that my issues are not akin to Nik’s!)

We saw Nik’s beloved Doctor Mary this afternoon.  It’s true, she is beloved; she is the only doctor Nik will ever fully —and joyfully— cooperate with no matter how awful he may be feeling.  He adores her and makes her laugh; it’s a win-win social skills situation all the way around. 

But I digress.

The results from the lab cultures will not be ready for a few more days; apparently the specific cultures Doctor Mary requested can take up to five days.  But we don’t think Nik has an infection, really; the severity of symptoms ebbs and flows —from severe to nearly nonexistent— in the course of any given day.  There is, thus far, always a slight lull after Nik’s had a couple of really awful days full of explosive diarrhea.  (What?? TMI?  Try living with him for a while!)

The abdominal x-ray —which I must say Nik was an absolute champ for— showed no structural concerns but did show a significant amount of stool in the large bowel.  At first blush, it appears that he is developing a bad case of  constipation —bordering on a partial obstruction.

I won’t go into graphic detail about what leads Doctor Mary to this conclusion.  Imagine your kitchen drain being partially clogged; it still works, just a little slower.  When it gets really bad, you have to, erm, help it along.  Same thing with Nik.  Of course, this doesn’t address the underlying cause of the situation; one thing at a time.

So, if I disappear over the next couple of days, though I hope not to, you’ll know it’s simply because things have gotten —as the good doctor put it— “worse before getting better.”  If that doesn’t do the trick, we’ll revisit the issue with Doctor Mary at the end of the week.  She may want another x-ray to see just how bad things look.

Fingers crossed that it all, ahem, comes out okay.

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Boxes of old papers and photographs, stacks of books, piles of medical records and therapy reports I need to scan and organize.  The loft in our small town home has become the black hole of all the little bits of our life for which we have no clear cut place.  The loose ends, the question marks —“Do we need to save this?  What if we need this?” 


While my husband has been in school and working every weekend our time together has been limited.  Much of that time is taken up with things like, oh, parenting Nik and dealing with his ongoing health issues; there is never any time or energy left over for tackling any but the smallest of projects around the house.


Niksdad’s recent job loss turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing this week.  He was home and wasn’t buried in the books so we had a chance to finally tackle the loft.  It’s not finished by a long shot but the work has begun; the “heavy lifting” of moving filing cabinets, repairing a sagging book case —the things I cannot do myself while also keeping a watchful eye on Nik —are complete.  The difference is remarkable; the loft feels larger already in spite of the boxes still stacked in the middle of the room.


I can finally imagine what it will look like when we have completed the project.  More to the point, I can already feel the sense of ease which permeates the space.  Where we once felt squeezed into our little corners of the room —where our desks sit tucked into opposite corners —already it seems more tranquil, more comfortable.  We both wonder why it took us so long to make this space —where we spend so much waking time— our own.  I say it was the vagaries of time and our limited energy supply but I think, in my heart, it goes deeper.




Nik’s recent bout of gastrointestinal illness has been very disturbing; not only has it gone on longer than any other virus he’s ever had, its intensity is unnerving when the waves wash over him.  He is unable to communicate the nature of the pain with more than screams and howls as he doubles over or as he shrieks and kicks his legs to seek some relief.  He clasps his long fingered hands together over and over asking us to help him, to ease his pain.  To make it stop.  We feel helpless to do more than hold him and croon soothing words as we rub his belly or his head, to clean up the aftermath of his body’s release.


This latest development, the hardening of his belly as his too slender body braces itself for the impending pain and uncontrollable outcome, frightens me.  It seems to last for hours and I am gripped with a fear that we are missing something that could mean the difference between life and death.  The recent loss of beautiful Evan sits heavily on my heart as I struggle with my desire to call his mother, Vicki, for advice and my unwillingness to ask her to relive that horrible pain.  I cannot; it would be too cruel.


My husband, the nurse, is quick to assure me that Nik’s bowel sounds are good and his belly does soften some after he’s had a bout of diarrhea —though not nearly back to “normal” enough to ease my fears.  I return to another memory packed away in my own mental loft —a place where there is not and never will be a neat, tidy, compartmentalized storage system for all the hurts and memories of watching my son struggle through so much of his early life.


The discovery of Nik’s intestinal malrotation was unexpected; he’d been showing many of the same symptoms that he has over the past two weeks and he had normal bowel sounds then, too.  Then, he was considered a “very lucky little boy”; the doctors discovered a partial volvulus —an obstruction —which they said was “a time bomb waiting to go off.”


I want to assume there is no such time bomb awaiting us now but the memories of all those times we thought we might lose Nik have built themselves up into a thick, smooth scar upon which I worry —much the same way others might rub a stone or rosary beads —each time Nik’s health takes an unexpected turn.  The history is too strong and the memories run too deep. 



I want to shed the burden but I seem unable to.  There are times it is the thing which keeps me pressing forward for answers on Nik’s behalf.  I fear the complacency.




I sit at my desk, still wedged into the corner but less crowded now.  The room is the same yet it feels different.  Attitude?  Belief?  Perception?  I am uncertain what makes the difference as I begin to make my way through the boxes of old hospital bills and NICU discharge reports.  “What if I need this?  What if Nik needs me to have this?”


I examine the pages, searching for clues —answers someone may have overlooked.  On those same pages, I see hope; for each date racked up on that enormously large hospital bill, it was another day my son lived.  Another day of getting stronger, healthier —closer to coming home.


I realize the answers I seek are not to be found on those pages.  Still, I am unable to let go.

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Thank you to all of you who weighed in on my last post about our dilemma. When I wrote that post, we had not yet hit the proverbial wall; I didn’t know the behaviors would get even worse. The first night of the medication —only two doses given at full strength —left Nik in a lethargic zombie-like state the next day; the second night —doses of only half strength— accomplished the aim of uninterrupted sleep and a subsiding of the allergy symptoms but left Nik in an even worse state of hypersensitivity and extreme agitation.

We opted to forgo the medication and try to mitigate any allergic response as much as possible using some homeopathic remedies to relieve the symptoms. Now, say what you will about homeopathy —we are all entitled to our opinions —but I have personally experienced times that it works both for me and for Nik. I certainly don’t believe homeopathy —or anything else for that matter— will “cure” my son’s autism (or anything else). What I have seen, though, is that it can ameliorate some specific symptoms of physiological responses and make things a bit better —more manageable, if you will. Such has been the case with the homeopathic antihistamine we’ve used. It’s not perfect and it doesn’t solve the problem by any stretch —Nik’s still showing signs of allergy or extreme sensitivity— but it makes Nik more comfortable and less inclined to claw at his head. And that’s all good.

Anyway, we decided Nik in the aftermath of the Atarax was too close to our experience of Nik in the weaning stages with Lamictal. (You may recall that was an ugly time for us.) Nik continues to show us that he does not handle certain types of medications well at all. No amount of titration or even minimal use will work. He has had adverse reactions to four different seizure meds, paradoxical responses to another anti anxiety med plus Benadryl, and now this. At some point, we have to respect the messages he’s giving us. That point is now.

Last night, Friday, was our second night without the Atarax. Nik slept okay —not as long as I’d have liked but soundly none the less. This morning, the light is back in his eyes and the music in his voice. As I write in the loft, I can hear Nik playing happily in the family room below; he’s actively engaging with his electronic toys, singing along in time with the music and “talking” back when they make the letter sounds. “Huh” he says when the alphabet train says “This is the letter H.” Instant recall where two days ago there was confusion and extreme frustration at his inability to retrieve the information in his brain.

I witnessed the same thing yesterday in his OT session; he couldn’t recall simple things that he’s long ago mastered —this one was matching colors in a sorting activity —and he got so frustrated that he just fell apart. Yet, today he’s able to respond to a disembodied voice from his toy asking him “Where is the letter P?” He recognizes that he has to wait a moment before pressing the right button and he’s actively looking at the letters to find the right one. He even says “guh” for “good” when he knows he’s pressed the right button. He is aware in ways he hasn’t been for a few days.

As for me, well, I suppose I’ll just learn to adjust and sleep less. Meanwhile, the payoff of seeing my son back to his normal rascally self is enough to keep me going. Our quest for information and answers continues.

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In the history of unpalatable decisions, there is (are?) a host of fine examples: Sophie’s Choice, Scylla and Charybdis and Morton’s Fork to name just a few. To this panoply of dilemmas we can now add “Nik’s Nightmare.”

Here it is:

Is it better to have your child wake screaming in pain in the middle of the night each night —ostensibly from as yet unproven or undiagnosed food allergies —and be relatively happy, energetic and otherwise fully functional during the day? You, yourself, on the other hand are in a constant state of siege mentality from lack of sleep and worry that there’s something you might be missing.


Would you rather have your child sleep soundly in a drug-induced state which does, in fact, relieve all symptoms of the apparent food allergy? This same medication makes your child lethargic, drowsy and hyper-irritable while also dulling much of his cognitive functioning during waking hours. The result is a day full of constant struggle and frustration for both you and your child.

Which would you choose and why? Really, I want to know.

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I’m trying hard lately to see the glass half full instead of half empty. But when my tank of sleep is running on fumes, it gets difficult to see past the haze and fog of sleeplessness and worry. In spite of getting some decent sleep last night —courtesy of a new prescription we tried with Nik which knocked him on his little hiney —I still feel exhausted and headachy today. I want a snow day off —a holiday from worry and constant watchfulness —just one day would be fine.

I’ve procrastinated too long to give the entire back story. Suffice to say, Nik is starting to show signs of developing a significant food allergy to legumes. You know — peanuts, green beans, lentils, peas, chick peas (garbanzos), guar, soy —lots of healthy sources of fiber and protein for a little guy who doesn’t yet actually bite and chew food. We’ve stopped giving him anything but fresh, plain, organic food so far in an effort to mitigate the rashes and gastric distress that seem to have popped up out of nowhere. Except, the odd thing is we think maybe they’ve been there all along and we didn’t know it. The clawing at an ear that’s not infected; the rubbing of his head and poking at his eyes in spite of being on medication to stop migraines. The gastric distress which causes him to wake screaming in the middle of the night every night —in spite of the fact that his reflux is well under control.

Nik’s modus operandi has always been to give us physical clues to follow. If we are too slow to pick up on them, his body always seems to know just when to kick it up a notch or two to really get our attention. At least, it sure seems that way every time it happens. We’ve gotten pretty good about paying attention and trying to decipher his messages before they reach a crisis stage. We don’t really have any choice; the one time we didn’t pick up on his cues for so long we almost lost him.

I feel like I am teetering on the razor’s edge all the time. Nik shows so many signs of being “normal and healthy” but the possibility of slipping off, of developing a major medical issue, is always just a hair’s breadth away. If I relax my guard, well…I just can’t. It’s the thing that keeps me so in tune to his every shiver and sigh —even in the twilight of sleep. Some people hear “food allergies” and think “What’s the big deal? Just don’t give him those foods.” In Nik’s case it’s not that simple right now.

This new development, if it really is an allergy —and wouldn’t it be nice to finally have a freaking answer— has provided a real conundrum. Where Nik is totally tube dependent right now, we must continue to give him formula. In an effort to help relieve some of Nik’s symptoms, we’ve recently stopped feeding him anything by mouth. But his formula contains soybean oil, and green beans, and pea protein. Oh, and guar (also a legume) in the form of the added fiber (think Benefiber. Yep, legume based.). Even with the absence of food —and now that we are hyper vigilant in watching for signs —we can see the changes in Nik immediately after he gets a tube feeding. The red ears, the runny nose, the clawing at his ear, tugging at his clothing —it all ramps up again. It’s the worst after dinner —his largest meal of the day.

Common belief holds that someone allergic to soy should be able to handle soy oil because the most of the sixteen different proteins are eliminated in the processing. Um, someone needs to explain that to Nik’s poor little body. He had a terrible reaction to one small cheez-it cracker yesterday at play group. (N.B. Nik has not exhibited any signs of allergic reactions to wheat or dairy.) The offending ingredient? Soybean oil.

The immediate reaction was small in and of itself but it tipped the balance just enough that Nik was miserable for the rest of the day —the screaming, crying, clawing at his ear, hitting himself in the head which have become so disturbingly familiar to us.

We saw the pediatrician yesterday to rule out an ear infection; we were all certain it wasn’t that but had to know before we could proceed down other avenues. We now have a referral to an allergist and a new prescription antihistamine, Atarax. Nik can’t take Benadryl because he has a paradox response; he’s up for hours and it gives him very little relief. Atarax is actually used for anti-anxiety as well and works differently than Benadryl. Where Benadryl works on peripheral histamine receptors (think skin and extremities), the Atarax binds to receptors within the GI and respiratory tracts —working more from the inside out than the outside in. Of course, that also means it has a bit stronger effect on the whole nervous system.

We gave Nik a dose just before dinner. I have to say, it did do wonders to keep the allergic response at bay. But poor Nik conked out at the dinner table and had to be poured into his pajamas and bed! He woke, briefly, about six and a half hours later —but he woke happy and pain-free! We gave him another dose —and a quiet toy to play with —and another half hour later he was out cold for the rest of the night. The drawback is that it knocks him out cold and has some lingering systemic effects. Today, he is off-balance and very subdued. He feels funny and knows it; he’s been very clingy and easily upset. Not a good long-term solution; we fought too hard to get him off of medications that affect him this way to go back. Oh, and let’s not forget the potential effects of central nervous system depressants on respiration; not a good fit for a child with a chronic lung disease.

So, here we sit, betwixt and between. We have theories but not enough evidence, some evidence that doesn’t fit, and a little boy who keeps trying to tell us what he needs but cannot make himself understood.

I think I understand how he feels.

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His cries echo in the darkness; the witching hour has begun again. Each night it’s the same routine; he beckons with his plaintive cries as he bangs his head on the side of the crib. Some nights it’s as simple as soothing him with a touch —a gentle rub on his back, a firm pressure over the right side of his head.

Usually, he will settle fairly quickly and hover at the edge of sleep, held there by the warmth of my hand. If I move too soon, the spell is broken and he startles, frantically clutching at my arm, imploring me to stay. Knowing how little he asks of me, I settle in like the sentinel I am, keeping the discomfort at bay with the only weapon I have —my unflinching, consuming love for him.

I enter the room to find Nik sitting, propped up by the side of the crib. His cries sound the same but his rocking —his punching himself as he seesaws back and forth alternately slamming first his forehead then the back of his head against the crib —is different. In the dim glow of the nightlight, I can see the splash of tears on his cheeks, the dark splotches on the sheet where fat, hot, frantic tears have cascaded down in the darkness.

“Mama’s here, baby. Mama’s here. Shhh, it’s ok, lovey. Mommy’s going to make it better.” My throat constricts as I choke back my own hot tears. He needs my strength right now; there will be time for me to cry later. I quickly unzip the crib tent and lower the side, reaching in to pull his little boy form into my arms. He sits with his back against my chest, the lowered wall of the crib between us. I wrap my arms around him and press my head against his.

His head continues to rock forward and back as if he’s seeking some sort of release or some sensory input that will change whatever uncomfortable sensations he is having. I feel the heaviness of his skull as it thumps against my chest. I whisper soft words to him, hoping they bring him ease. The rocking begins to slow as I gently start to sway side to side with him. He squeezes his delicate hands together —“Help me, Mama,” they say to me. It’s a gesture we’ve recently begun to use when he asks for help during play as well. I am momentarily stunned at his presence of mind and ability to retrieve this particular gesture just now.

“Show Mama what hurts, baby. Let me help you,” I croon softly against his hair. My own fat, hot, anxious tears flow now; I cannot hold them in. He puts my hand on his forehead and presses. Instinctively, I begin to rub back and forth in the same gentle motion I used when he was just a slip of a scrap of a baby in the hospital. I would sit for hours, gently stroking across his forehead —willing him to feel the love and strength in my fingertips. Nik sighs and settles against me, his wiry form relaxing in my embrace, head nodding forward —toward the precipice of sleep.

These are the moments I wish he were a tiny baby again so I could scoop him into my arms and shelter him against my bosom. I’d breathe in the softness of his skin and the gold in his hair. My whole body would drink him in and fill him with healing light and strength. I would rock him into restful ease. Instead, I can only will all those things to flow through my arms and my fingertips, hoping he feels it just the same.

Nik slumps against my arm. As I gently lay him down, he startles; reflexively, he reaches for my hand. “Shh, I’m right here, angel. Mama’s right here. I won’t leave yet, I promise.” He curls his long limbs into a tight little ball —one hand tucked between his knees and the other laying upturned next to his cheek. He accepts my hand into his soft, spindly grasp. My thumb rests against his cheek as he snuffles and begins to settle. I can feel the moment when he slips gently over the edge of consciousness.

His deep, even breaths tell me he is at peace —for now. I gently lift the side of the crib and secure the tent before returning to the warmth of my bed. Settling in next to my slumbering husband, I am unable to go back to sleep right away. One thought keeps echoing in my brain: “He asks so little.”

All he wants is the simple, soothing touch of my hand in the fitful, frightful darkness. I want to give him more; I want to make the need go away. I need to make the need go away.

I cannot rest until I do.


Wipe those tears away from your eyes
Just take my hand you don’t have to cry it’ll be alright
I’ll make it alright
Don’t let the world get you down
Reach for the love that’s all around
It’ll be alright baby we’ll make it alright

I’ll pick you up when you’re feeling down
I’ll put your feet back on solid ground
I’ll pick you up and I’ll make you strong
I’ll make you feel like you still belong
Cause it’s alright, yeah it’s alright let me
make it alright, make it alright

Stay with me tonight, stay with me tonight
Sometimes the words well their just not enough
Afraid of feeling and in need of love
To make it alright, baby, I’ll make it alright
Where will you run to where will you hide
I know the pain comes from deep down inside but
it’ll be alright baby we’ll make it alright Baby
Let me make it alright, Make it alright
Let me make it alright, Make it alright

Stay with me tonight, stay with me tonight
It’s alright, yeah it’s alright
It’s alright, yeah it’s alright
It’s alright, Stay with me tonight
I’ll pick you up when you’re feeling down
I’ll put your feet back on solid ground
I’ll pick you up and I’ll make you strong
I’ll make you feel like you still belong

Cause it’s alright, yeah it’s alright let me
make it alright, make it alright
Stay with me tonight, stay with me tonight

It’s alright, yeah it’s alright
It’s alright, yeah it’s alright
It’s alright, Stay with me tonight
It’s alright, yeah it’s alright
It’s alright, yeah it’s alright
It’s alright, Stay with me tonight.

Alright by Reamonn

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The lovely Deborah from 5 Minutes for Special Needs interviewed me recently. You can read all about me over here!

Happy February!

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For more information about these teaching materials:

The Fisher Price Fun2Learn Workbooks & Flash Cards are discontinued; I found them at Atlantic Books in my town. I think they’ve been replaced by the Fisher Price “Little People” line of products which are sold separately.

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My eyes are still blurry as I pour my first cup of tea. We’ve been up for a while now —a slightly bumpy start to the day but an otherwise good night. I’ve already changed and dressed Nik, given him his morning medicine, and sent his father off to school in the falling snow. Nik plays happily with his toys in the adjacent room.

I take my first blessed sip of chai. Then I hear it—

The familiar scraping sound of an empty plastic toy bin being dragged across the room, followed by a slight giggle. “Ng, Ng, Ng”* says a small sing-songy voice with a hint of knowing. It is followed by the sound of a small, sneakered foot stepping onto the overturned toy bin.

I’m prepared for it but the sound of puzzle pieces clattering on the floor startles me momentarily. Proud little boy giggles follow.

It’s a tough call; should I admonish him for his climbing or be proud of his accomplishment? Choosing pride, I smile into my steaming mug of chai.

* Translation: “No, no, no!”

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