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Don't Pull That String
May 15, 2006 | Category: In My Life
I grew up in the era of Fair Isle and monogram sweaters. Fine wool and cotton and even, for special, maybe some cashmere.
Here was the rule: Don't pull the string.
Because, as my mother informed me, the entire sweater would unravel if you did. You'd be left standing there like a cartoon character buck naked from the waist up except for maybe the monogram letters hanging around your training bra and a pile of thread at your feet.
Also? You'd look like Betty Boop.
Meanwhile, back in reality.
The OT Specialist lady whose name means Happy (As Bear likes to say) informed us that he has a mild large-motor sensory integration disorder (still no clue what the means), a possible vision thing (referral to pedaitic opthamoligist here), and? Bear is truly non-dominant. You know, ambidextrous. Texas gold, my friend.
Except? Not.
It means double the work for my kid, whose fine motor on both hands is at about 3 years old instead of his true age of 5.5. Because he's been learning everything on both sides. For that, he will get OT therapy and a lot of it. But it is good news because he will get all the help he needs now instead of later.
But that's not all.
Included with the Ginsu knives and the dashing set of referral sheets (in Blue!) came one for allergies. So today we hiked over to the pediatrician's to check it out.
Man, do I ever suck as a mother.
Turns out that Bear's entire back of the nose-and-throat-and-ear areas are a hive of swollen and detracted and, well, I don't know the fancy term for it all. He's got allergies, right here in River City. He's got stuff to pump up his nose and other stuff to swallow.The pediatrician shook her head and said "You didn't notice?"
"Well, he's more tired than usual lately," I said (feeling like a moron).
But wait - one more thing. There is a fine sprinkling of bumps on his cheeks and hands and legs. Because he's also allergic toour laundry detergent. Tide, if you're wondering.
After she left the room to get more prescription sheets, I picked Bear up and he clung to me like a baby octopus. "Sorry, kiddo," I whispered.
"For what?"
"I didn't know you were sick," I told him, resting my cheek in the hollow of his neck as I rocked him back and forth.
"It's ok," he whispered back. "I didn't know too."
I stood there, my purse fat with referrals and information. And feeling like there must be a pile of string at my feet from a simple tug.
And then I bought him an ice cream cone to make it all better.