Spinning, Stimming, Whatever

No, not the exercise class. Ha, hahahaha. As if.

No, Olivia has discovered spinning in place, or more specifically, spinning in the middle of the kitchen while Tom and I are trying to get dinner around each night.

She loves this. She loves to spin to the point that she falls over. She just lays there, dizzy for a minute and then gets up and does it again.

Let me say right here that this could very well be something that has nothing to do with 5p- Syndrome. I currently hold the record in my family for standing and spinning for three hours. My cousins were no competition at all when I was eight years old.

So I hesitate to call this behavior from Olivia stimming. I think she just likes the feeling of being dizzy. And she likes the attention she gets when she’s in the middle of the kitchen and both her parents are trying not to trip over her.

Alyssa just rolls her eyes and goes back to watching Fetch with Ruff Ruffman on PBS.

One habit that I do fear is stimming, though, is her newest thing of twirling her hair. She’s not quite pulling it out again, but she’ll twist huge chunks of hair around her fingers. Seeing her do that stresses me out to no end because it takes me back to the days of pulling. She doesn’t do it often but when she does, I bite my tongue to stop myself from telling her to stop and drawing attention to the behavior.

I don’t mind if she stims, because if she is doing it, it’s because she needs to but I wish she’d leave her hair alone. I realize it’s just hair and we’re in the stage right now where it’s being proven that it grows back but…I don’t have a good reason except that I just want her to leave her hair alone. So there.

But the spinning…so fun for all, except those of us tripping over her while holding a bowl of hot tomato soup. That’s no fun at all.

Freak Out

Alyssa has decided that being freaked out is fun. She loves to read books about ghosts or haunted areas in Ohio (she gets these from the school library.)

She’s fascinated by the books I read, such as Mrs. Peregrine’s School for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. I just finished that one and she loved the freaky pictures throughout the book.

I’m now reading Dean Koontz’s 77 Shadow Street and she keeps asking what’s happening, why that happened, what is going to happen.

I don’t mind telling her these things except…the freak out. She is now scared to go upstairs by herself. At night, if we’re all in the living room and she has to go to the bathroom, she turns on the kitchen light, the hall light and the bathroom light. The downstairs half-bath is all of ten feet from the living room.

And honestly, if that were it, I still wouldn’t be bothered.

What gets to me is that her freak outs are interfering with my life. I know! A mother having to deal with her child, the horror.

But seriously. These nighttime trips to the bathroom with her because she’s afraid to go alone? I’m over it.

So we’re cancelling the reading of anymore books about ghosts or haunting and I’m not answering any more questions about the books I’m reading.

I’m all about the fun of being scared. I love horror movies and scary books (hence my reading of a book written by Dean Koontz.) But at nine, Alyssa obviously isn’t ready for this and as her mature mother, it’s up to me to set limits. We just won’t tell her that it’s mostly because her freak outs are inconveniencing me, right?

Ballet

These days, Olivia is fascinated with all things ballet. She has a charm that used to be on a necklace that is two ballet slippers. She carries that charm with her everywhere. She won’t even consider having it put on a necklace or bracelet. No, she wants to hold it, thank you very much.

While holding her ballet slippers charm, Olivia prances around the room doing little movements that are similar to what she must think a ballerina does. She flicks her leg into the air behind her, her arms out for balance. She spins a little and kicks up toward the front with her other leg.

It’s actually kind of adorable. Except for that part where she calls out every three seconds, “Okay everybody, I’m going to do a ballet show. Watch. Mommy, watch! Daddy, I’m doing a show, watch! Gram, stop talking, and watch me.”

Yeah, that gets old. And yet, we all stop and watch every single time.

I am looking for an area ballet class for Olivia. I’m torn between telling whomever we choose as a teacher about her syndrome.

When she took gymnastics two years ago, I told her coach, Miss Maggie, about the 5p- diagnosis. I did this because I wanted the coach to understand why I felt the need to be in the class with Olivia. I also wanted her to understand that at that point, O had only been walking for about six months, so she needed to understand Olivia’s limits.

Now? I’m considering just letting a ballet teacher think that maybe Olivia is just a sort of clumsy five year old. I’d kind of like to see how she does with someone who doesn’t know something is wrong. Does that make sense? And if it makes sense, is it fair to some unsuspecting ballet teacher and to Olivia?

I want Olivia to have all the experiences other, typical kids her age have. I want her to try things and succeed and I want her to try things and fail. I want her to learn what she can do and what her limitations are. But I fear that telling every single person who comes in contact with her about her syndrome, that we’re setting the limits before Olivia even has a chance to try things for herself.
Sometimes, I find myself telling random strangers about 5p- because I’m so damned proud of Olivia and how far she’s come and how well she’s doing and how hard she works. But I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not doing her any favors by telling everyone about her medical diagnosis before they even have a chance to get to know her, Olivia, a five year old dynamite of a girl who dazzles us with her wit, her humor, her joy of life.

So…ballet class. To tell or not to tell, that is the question.

Calling it Good

As noted yesterday, the refrigerator is clean. And as of noon today, the basement stairs have been vacuumed.

I'm calling it a good weekend.

Even though the kitchen floor didn't get mopped and the upstairs bathrooms didn't get cleaned, I'm still calling it good.

Both girls got their hair washed today, the laundry is mostly put away and the cat is fluffy and no longer smells likke poop. That's definitely a good weekend.

Speaking of poop, Olivia finally managed a really big poop after working at it for two days. She's GOT to feel better which without a doubt means we've got it good.

I filled my car with gas today and managed to do so for under $50 (okay, so it was only 30 cents under $50 but I'm still calling it good.)

Tom and the girls let me sleep until 9:30 this morning and then, while he was off at antique stores and visiting his brother, I snoozed again in the recliner for about 45 minutes while Alyssa watched a movie and Olivia sat on my lap playing iwth a doll. That is absolutely my definition of good.

While there were moments of frustration and annoyance, I'm choose, today at least, to look at the good instead, to concentrate on my successes instead of my failure. Sometimes, it's more important to be my own biggest cheerleader than my own worst critic.

Today, I cheer.

Making Messes

This morning started early, with Olivia waking up at 5:30, which, to be fair to her, is the usual wake up time during the week. But it's painful when she does this on a Saturday, a day when we don't have to get up. I managed to convince her to lay there for another hour but by 6:30, her growling stomach convinced me that it really was time to get up.

I greeted the day feeling motivated. I'd planned to clean out the fridge this weekend and that's just what I did.

It was quite a chore that took quite a bit of time and attention.

As I was cleaning, Olivia was making messes.

Did I mention at the beginning of the school year she hated scissors? She refused to even try to use them. She hated the way they felt in her hand and she hated trying to use both hands together to hold a piece of paper while cutting.

But now, six months later, she's become a cutting maniac. Just a couple of weeks ago, I found strands of her hair beneath the table at my mom's house. O had cut her own hair. Not enough to make it obvious but...damn! We've just gotten past the pulling thing, please let's not experiement with self-styling here, kiddo.

She's promised never to cut her hair again and because I know how important using scissors is to her fine motor skills, I have to trust her.

So this morning, as I was throwing away food that expired back in 2010, she was sitting on the living room floor with a pair of scissors and several magazines.

I waited to vacuum until after she was done cutting. I thought. But you know what? These are the kinds of messes I don't mind at all. We've worked hard for her to get to the point where she CAN make messes with paper and scissors. I'm not going to take that away from her just because I don't want to clean up a mess.

So tonight I have a sleeping little girl, a pile of cut up magazines and a clean refrigerator.

I'm calling it a successful Saturday.

Sleep Talking

Tom is an intense person. He’s intense when he’s awake and when he’s asleep. He’s a very hard worker and he takes his work, whatever that might be at the moment, very seriously.

Which is why he never really shuts down.

Back when he was working in management at Walmart, he often talked in his sleep about work. He’d mutter something about moving the skids. Then he’d get angry in his sleep and say, “No, not there! Over there!”

I’d always just say calmly, “Okay, I’ll move them.”

That seemed to sink into his unconscious mind and he’d settle again, content in the knowledge that the skids were going to be moved.

A few weeks ago, he actually woke himself up by talking in his sleep. He was talking about calories and fat grams. When he woke up and saw me looking at him, he smiled sheepishly and said, “Oh crap.” Then he turned over and went back to sleep.

This intensity is something he passed on to both Alyssa and Olivia. Neither of them talk in their sleep nearly as much as he does, but they do both do it on occasion.

Last night Olivia was muttering in her sleep. At first it was intelligible, just whimpers and whines and a few sounds of frustration. Then she finally said quite clearly, “No! I don’t want it.”

I rubbed her hair back from her face and said gently, “You don’t have to have it.”

It worked the same way my comments work with Tom. She settled back down and stopped fussing in her sleep.

I love that I can comfort my family even in their sleep. It makes me feel like I’m doing something right in the grand scheme of things.

Of course, during their awake hours, they’re all three still very intense and during those times, my gentle words don’t always make quite the impression I’d like them to make. So sometimes, I just shake my head and walk away when one or two or even all three of them is (are?) in an intense mood. I just let it ride and know they’ll work it out.

I do so love the sleep talking, though, because sometimes it gives me an insight into what’s really going on in their heads. When they’re sleeping, they don’t have the filter that sometimes hides the intensity during the day.

Does that make me something like a peeping Tommie? Maybe, but I’m kind of okay with that. I’ll take whatever I can get to understand them all a little better.

And no, I don’t think I’m much of a sleep talker. Or if I am, I never say anything interesting enough for anyone to remember and tell me about the next day. Hmmm...

Notes to Self

-Two donuts for breakfast are not a good idea. It gives me a rush of sugar that my body is no longer used to. I don’t want to get used to it either because that will mean I’m on the road to regaining the weight I lost over the last few months.

-Caffeine consumption on the weekends is a bad idea. It just leads to a withdrawal headache by Tuesday afternoon. Abstain, self. Seriously.

-My real husband is not responsible for things he does in my dreams. Just because the dream husband is a shit doesn’t mean that I can be mad at the real husband when I wake up.

-I do not have to accept every single invitation I receive to dance marathons. It is okay to decide that driving four hours for a five minute speech is too much to ask of my family. I’m grateful for the invitations, truly, but I’m getting to the point that I feel guilty when I can’t accept and I’m going to just go ahead and get over that right about now.

-Speaking of guilt, Self, as husband does not feel even a smidge of guilt when he leaves the entire evening routine to me, from dinner and homework up to and including stories, tooth brushing and carrying a sleeping Olivia to bed, I refuse to feel guilty for leaving the morning breakfast/oral hygiene routine to him. So, Self, stop feeling guilty for not feeling guilty. Do you even realize how stupid that is? Seriously.