Five

Dear Moe,

Today you turn five. I've been thinking a lot about what I want to tell you on this day. I've imagined all the things moms tell their boys on their fifth birthdays. How big you've gotten. How you'll be heading off to kindergarten soon, officially a big kid. How I hope you enjoy your party.

But I can't really say those things to you. Of course you have grown, but you are still very much a little kid. You are still in diapers. You are still learning to communicate, need help eating and getting dressed. You are not a tall boy (you can thank me for that) and next to other kids you still look so very small. You explore the world through your senses. You are beautiful and innocent, if sometimes a little, shall we say "spirited."

You won't be going to kindergarten next year, and we aren't having a big birthday party for you. Though we did celebrate your birthday - and YOU - at the autism walk . We were a team for you and all you've accomplished, and all you will continue to achieve.

I don't know how much of that you understood. But I'm pretty sure you enjoyed your cupcakes.

With every passing year, Moe, you bury yourself further into my soul. Even as your needs get more complex, as I find myself so often at a loss over what you want or need, I feel our connection growing.

When I wake you up in the morning, you smile at me and hold out your hand. When I sing a song, sometimes you sing along with me. And though you don't run to me when I pick you up from school, or tell me you love me, you do still like to cuddle up on the couch. And you have a smile that I know is reserved for me, when we are sharing a funny moment or simply enjoying each other's company.

So much of your days, Moe, are spent with people who are trying to get you to change. We ask you to learn new skills. We ask you to calm down, or play appropriately or try to use words. But there are some things I hope you never change.

Never stop singing.

Never stop experiencing the world as a joyful place.

Never stop giggling, even if you are the only one who knows why.

And never stop eating you cake with as much gusto as you like.

My Excuse

I have so much to blog about but just have not been able to. Some things, like the details of our latest IEP, I can't write about now. Other things, I would love to write about, but the kids really do require constant attention. Here's a snippet from today.

1. Jelly is momentarily occupied watching TV.
2. I hear a noise from Moe's room. He's on top of his bed, messing with the blinds. He's already broken one of the strings so he really can't be up there. Oh, and he could fall. I get him down.
3. Moe runs from the room. I start to make dinner which will take all of 5 minutes because I'm just reheating leftovers. Moe starts asking (pointing to the gate) to come in the kitchen. I notice he has a dirty diaper.
4. I bring him to his room to change him. He's wild, tired, and hungry and starts grabbing and kicking me. I know he's trying to tell me he wants to be eating, but I'm so flippin' tired of being kicked every time I change a diaper.
5. I get through it, and nearly trip over the dog who insists on being in the way whenever there is any commotion. I make it back to the kitchen.
6. Plate the quiche and and the chips I didn't eat at lunch. (Surely, I will lose at least a pound for that, right?) The chips entice Jelly to come to the table. I go look for Moe.
7. He is once again on top of his bed. I get him down. On the way back to the dinner table, I notice Jelly's shutters are open, and the valance is messed up. I see Moe has somehow gotten the finial off. I suspect he's been working on that for days. I pick it up and put it "someplace safe" for when I can get a step stool or Jeff gets home. It's probably already lost.
8. Safely at dinner, I get exactly 23 seconds before Jelly pushes herself back from the table. She gets down to retrieve her new Dora bathing suit which she has been carrying around all day. She climbed back up and asks to be pushed back in. I get up, and push her in. "Jelly," I tell her, "don't get down again."
9. She pushes herself back from the table. I push her back in. Repeat 1,000 times.
10. "Jelly, no more chips if you push yourself back again." It works!
11. Moe gets down from dinner table. I make him sign "all done." I feel like I've done my job.
12. I hear Moe on top of the bed tent. I trip over the dog. I get Moe down from his bed.
13. He comes back. I slice an apple so we can work on using a picture card to request more.
14. He doesn't want any apple.
15. Jelly starts asking for tape. I tell her no. She asks. I tell her no. She asks. I tell her no. Sheasksitellhernosheasksitellhernosheasksitellherno. She wants tape to cover a staple sized hole in the baby gate. I tell her she can have one piece of tape if she stops asking. She is quiet, but I can tell it is really hard. It is worth it for the 30 seconds of silence.
16. I trip over the dog looking for the tape. I give a piece to Jelly.
17. Moe is spinning wildly in his swing. I decide he needs a bath. I trip over the dog.
18. Jelly hits me while Moe is in the bath and I am writing this. She gets a time out, which involves taking away the Dora bathing suit.
19. I think I hear Jeff pulling into the garage. There is only one question left. Beer or wine?