Mother Tongue…Ewwww

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The other day someone used the term “mother tongue” in response to languages in our house. That term grosses me out. I am a middle schooler trapped in an old lady body so combining the words mother and tongue could not be any more gross. But after I threw-up in my mouth at the Oedipal imagery, I got to thinking about it. When it comes to language in our house, we are both amazing and a hot mess.

Language is something I’ve learned to both love and despise. I love it for its ability to express the mirage of thoughts hurling through my head, but it also sucks because for us, language is the root of many problems.

For example, I can unequivocally say that every major argument the Turk and I’ve had in our years of marriage has come down to language and something getting lost in translation. Even though we’ve been at this for over a decade and we both speak each other’s languages we still have major miscommunications and now our kids are in on the magic.

 -quiet side whisper- “Mom, what the heck is Baba trying to say?”

“No clue kids, just nod. We’ll figure it out later.”

Then there are the languages themselves. Turkish being blunt and including no sugar coating and English being one where we might sugar coat too much. In Turkish a person is never curvy or plump. A person is fat. Just fat. That doesn’t always flow so well with sensitive English speakers.

“Why I add extra words when I don’t need? She is fat. It is true. I tell her. What is wrong with that?”

And lets not disregard issues we have with preconceived notions we face when speaking our second languages. In Turkish conversations, people think I comprehend faster than I do so they hit me with rapid-fire Turkish while I’m at “hi, how ya doin’.” In English, people hear the Turk’s accent and assume he just started learning English last week rather than 20 years ago, so they assume he’s stupid. (They usually see their misjudgment later when he hits them with a zinger.)

Number 1 Son never had an issue bouncing between languages rather than choosing a mother tongue, until he was old enough to choose. His choice of English over Turkish upset many family members while elating others, sticking his father and I in a quagmire.

Then there is Nugget. For his whole life of almost 4 years, language has been his Achilles heel. As a kid with Childhood Apraxia of Speech who couldn’t get any words to form or any sound to come out until very recently, he was no fan of spoken English. As a Hard of Hearing dude with one ear, he’s doesn’t always catch spoken language to begin with and he’s often dependent on ASL when his lone ear lets him down. However, he’s painfully aware that only a handful of people besides Mom can sign with him so if he can’t sign, can’t speak, what’s a guy to do?

Now, after a year full of daily speech therapy he’s gone from a kid with CAS to a kid with an adorable lisp and a couple other speech impediments (And mastered a find grasp of profanity because even with one ear that kid can hear every damn foul word his mother drops a mile away.) He’s also added more signs and keeps up with his ASL. Recently, spurred by his love of a fabulously flamboyant, Liberace-esque Turkish singer, he’s started picking up Turkish. So what’s his mother tongue? Who knows but 3 languages by 4 is damn impressive.

No one I knew as a kid spoke a second language but  I had great aspirations, so I ordered both French and Spanish dictionaries from the bargain section of the Weekly Reader book order. I soon learned that one does not learn a language by reading the dictionary. I tried Spanish class in high school but called it a day after, “Me llamo Margie, y tu?” I did pick up enough Spanish later to get me into trouble in Mexico, but basically I top out at Dora the Explorer level.

This week Nugget had a birthday party with some Developmental PreK buds at a trampoline park. It was his first big party and he was psyched until he realized how loud the park was and thus turned off what hearing he has (as he does in noisy situations). As I was signing to him we were surprised to see a bunch of other people doing the same. Nugget was elated and signed, Look Mom, they sign too! A group from the local Deaf school was there on a field trip and many took time out to chat with us. It was great for Nugget to share a mother tongue and great for me to hone my ASL skills.

After the party we stopped off at McDonalds (Yes, I do that occasionally. I’m not proud but it happens.) and much to my surprise, we sat next to a woman speaking Turkish to her young son. As we chatted she told me she was here for her husband’s work and didn’t speak any English. She was desperate for someone to speak Turkish with, besides her husband. She was shocked and elated to have found that at McDonalds. I was transported ten years back when I was a lonely wife newly landed in a foreign country, struggling with the language and longing for someone, anyone, to speak English with so I certainly understood. It rocks when life gives you an opportunity to reciprocate. We talked forever before exchanging numbers and she even complimented me on my Turkish (Which made me beam because I generally sound like a stammering moron in Turkish, but thanks to my early years of motherhood in Turkey I do rock the mom-talk quite well.)

So maybe we have no familial mother tongue and maybe my relationship with language has become a bit hostile in recent history, but as I settled in for my evening wine/decompression with The Turk that evening, I was damn proud of myself for having flexed my muscles in 3 languages in a matter of hours. Not bad for a girl who didn’t make it through 9th grade Spanish. Next up, perhaps we’ll all learn Icelandic…

 

 

The Birthday Clock Never Stops…

apple watch

Birthdays are awesome…until you’re about 22. Then instead of offering milestones to greatness, birthdays start tallying up the years. When you hit 30 the tally shows adulthood is inevitable. 35 means it’s time to actually stop lying about it and actually start a retirement fund. When the calendar flips to 40 you can literally feel your gums recede and the fluid actually drain from your knees. I’m pretty sure the number associated with my recent birthday led to my immediate development of diabetes while my cholesterol skyrocketed and I gained 5 pounds of belly fat all within a two hour span. Aging blows.

What I wouldn’t give to spring out of bed and…(wait, let’s just stop there. What I wouldn’t give to spring out of bed period.) but really, wouldn’t it be great to have the same excitement about your birthday at 50 that you had at 5? (FYI, I’m not 50…not yet man, don’t make it any worse.) You know, that kind of excitement that leads to wearing a paper crown with your number on the front and telling every human or mammal you encounter, “Today is my birthday! Give me cake!”

My darling husband, The Turk, has never been great with holidays. I’m still waiting for a much-hyped 10th anniversary celebration and we’re only a little ways out from our 11th. Anniversaries are not his jam but he is coming around on birthdays. This year he shopped for a gift almost an entire week before my actual birthday, a massive improvement over days of old when he would head to the nearest supermarket for some expired roses moments before closing. No, this year he even took the boys along for help. Unfortunately, that was where things went wrong.

Within moments of returning and seconds after hiding the goods, Nugget with his newly acquired language skills, beamed, “Mom, we got you asshole atch.” Hubba whaaaaaa? Though Number 1 son and the Turk tried desperately to shush him, Nugget would not be silenced. “Asshole atch.” He told me again while squirming away from the hands desperately trying to cover his motor-mouth.

Because I may be geriatric  but still possess the maturity of a 12 year old boy, I immediately began to see images in my disturbed mind of sparkly buttcheeks sitting atop my wrist with a rapidly moving second hand shaped like a stink cloud. This caused me to laugh even harder. (I really am 12. It’s ok. I own it.) “You unt asshole atch?” The Nugget persisted.

While I was busy wiping the tears from my face, Number 1 was livid. “I can’t believe you told her! It was supposed to be a surprise! You suck Nugget!” Number 1 was right. He did suck but in Nugget’s defense, no one had any clue he was a blabbermouth because this was his first violation.

Somewhere around two, Nugget was diagnosed with Childhood Apraxia of Speech – which involves a misfiring of neurons the prevent kids from being able to get the information from their brain to their lips to get the words out. Up until the past few months, Nugget had only signed and offered a few brief sentences using only vowels. Since he was a silent partner, for most of his 3 1/2 years, he’d been dragged along on many secret missions with all of us comfortable in the knowledge that our secrets were safe with him. Not so now it seems.

Now that Nugget has his hearing aid so he’s hearing all the sounds, is immersed in his special school with daily speech therapy and basically spends 3 hours each day working on his communication skills, he has exploded and there is no putting any cat back in any bag. The kid never shuts up.

You can see the thought process he goes through to get every sound out. His determination is astonishing. But, as illustrated in the case of the asshole ach, he’s still working on quite a few sounds like F. Every time anyone asks him to form an F he shoots back a look that insinuates F is not an actual sound and that we are clearly F-ing with him. I consider this the universe helping a sister out since he’s already demonstrated high skill with profanity thus far that last thing that kid needs is the power of the f-bomb. Sometimes only those closest to him understand him, but sometimes (usually with his favorite phrases like – ‘what the hell?’ Or, ‘oh for godsake!’) he’s a clear as a bell. It’s a process but after 3 years of silence, we’ll take every bit of it. (Until he gets suspended from PreK for that profanity bit…)

Nugget definitely blew the surprise by telling me all about my APPLE watch and quite honestly, there were about a hundred other things I might have requested over a pricey Dick Tracy wrist piece…like a dishwasher that actually washes the dishes…or the downpayment on a car younger than my offspring…or that dental work that keeps getting shoved to the back burner over and over again. But now that I’ve got it, I do quite enjoy it, probably since I spent most of the 70’s talking to my wrist pretending to be Maxwell Smart and now I’m legit.

As the Turk said, “It your birthday. You deserve special thing you do not ask for.” True that Turk, and though I didn’t ask for an asshole watch, hearing that Nugget tell me all about it is exactly what I’ve wanted.

When Bedtime Stories Go Bad…A Cautionary Tale

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I’ve always loved a good bedtime story. Back in the day, I recall spending many a night waiting in horror for “The Monster at The End of This Book.” (Spoiler alert – It’s Grover. It was always Grover but you know, my critical thinking didn’t really kick in until I was like…35)

In my 8 plus years of motherhood, I’ve read a buttload of bedtime stories and we never, never read just one. Since there are only so many Big Trucks In Action books a gal can handle, over the years I’ve tried to pass reading duties off to the Turk but the results have never been good. From the other room I’ve overheard:

“Baba, you skipped three pages.”

  “They are not important to story. It fine.”

“Baba, you said that word wrong.”

      “No, that is how we say.”

“No, no it’s not Baba. Do you want me to show you how to sound it out?”

And when he’s tried of reading, he throws out his trademark ending. “And they did not listen to their parents so they all die.” Insuring nightmares all around. (Ah Turks…always spreading joy.)

Even the Nugget, Baba’s biggest 3-year-old fan, now rejects the offer of madcap adventures narrated in a monotone Turkish accent. (In the Turk’s defense, my reading of Turkish tales is about on par with his in English, and I’ve also been the recipient of, “Mom, do you need me to sound that out for you?” Damn kids.)

Over the years, I’ve voiced characters ranging from bus driving pigeons to underwear loving aliens. We frequent the local library more often than Betty Ford frequented rehab. But there is one kind of book we cannot have, under any circumstances. According to Nugget, there shall never be any books in which the characters say goodnight. Why? Because an illustrated bunny or hairy bug kissing his mommy and proclaiming goodnight is enough to send my sensitive Nugget into a deep, sobbing depression that postpones his own bedtime by at least 30 minutes.

A few weeks ago, fed up with Pete the Cat and his damn groovy buttons, I thought it was time to mix it up and try some new authors. With all books mentioning “Goodnight” off the boards, I had limited choices but thought a little known Eric Carle would be a safe bet.

Eager to merge into new territory and ready for respite from that obnoxious hipster Pete the Cat, we curled up ready for a new read. Like a moron, I did not preview the book in depth. (But seriously, who does that? Who wants to curl up with a nice chardonnay and a copy of Elephant and Piggy Go to Market?) It was Eric Carle of The Very Hungry Caterpillar fame. How could I go wrong?

Oh, I went wrong. So very, very wrong.

See, I chose The Very Quiet Cricket, a book about a little cricket who goes on a walk and gets upset when can’t say hello to anyone because he can’t talk. (Right???? What a moron move on the part of a mom who’s kid can’t talk.) As the little bug traverses the countryside everyone greets him and he desperately wants to reply but he can’t…because he can’t make the words come out….just like my little Apraxic Nugget. (Who knew crickets faced rare neurological disorders too? Certainly not I.)

In the past couple months Nugget has moved mountains in his battle to get his neurons to deliver his words to his mouth. He wears his hearing aid like a champ (though not happily) so he can hear the sounds,  spends hours in speech therapy at school and practices constantly. He’s got a handful words that come out right every time, (and might I add “Mom” is one of those as well as “Go Eagles!” because his mother and brother make him watch Eagles football on the reg.) He’s also got a gazillion words that come out in all vowels but if you speak vowel, like those of us who spend hours with the Nug do, or those who have spent serious time with drunks, he’s pretty understandable. Unfortunately, most of the world does not speak Vowel and thus he remains misunderstood by the world.

As we read further I could see Nugget’s brow furrow and soon the tears started to drip. “Ike ee om, e ike e.”(Like me Mom, he like me.). My heart broke. That damn cricket WAS just like him but  midway through the book I didn’t know what to do. Do I read on and hope we get to a happy ending? Do I seize on the moment to reinforce that there are other kids…um or crickets… like him? Do I let Nug collaborate with me on a profanity-laced email to Eric Carle about the need for a trigger warning on his picture books? (I mean it is 2016 and trigger warnings seem to be all the rage even if I think they’re stupid.)

I didn’t know what to do partially because I was shocked he’d made the connection so quickly. When one doesn’t speak the language fluently people tend to underestimate them. I know this. It happened to me when we lived in Turkey all the time. I’ve watched it happen to the Turk countless times (and then laughed when he smacked down those who underestimated him with his big nerd brain) and now I was doing it to my own son. Why wouldn’t he catch on? He’s a super smart dude. He just can’t talk. Even Einstein had a speech problem and look how he turned out.

Thankfully, in our world of bicultural parenting, I have two schools of thought to pull from and rather than getting all talkey-talkey and American, I took the Turkish mother route. We threw the book away (in a very hostile and dramatic fashion while calling Eric Carle unflattering names in Turkish) then I kissed him furiously while reminding him he was a perfect little sultan. I know this manner of Turkish mothering does make life difficult for future wives (Lord do I know that!) but he is my perfect little sultan and if the world needs to learn to speak Vowel for him, then so be it. I’ll make it happen.

 

Hang on Toto – Dorothy’s Gotta Grab Her Purse

tornado

For a mama bear like myself, being unable to physically get to my children is enough to require a Valium drip chased with a Quaalude cocktail. I attribute this to having begun my parenting journey in a nation where mall greeters dress in fatigues and Uzis rather than the smiling geriatrics to which Americans are accustomed. Thanks to eternal unrest, Turkey’s mama bears roar a little louder and they trained me well. Add to this my recent year-long tour as translator for my apraxic/hard of hearing Nugget and boom – this mother is a hot mess control freak. Given that background, you can only imagine what happened when the Wicked Witch of Indiana decided to throw a few tornados at me last week.

At the end of a very trying Thursday that had been filled with scientific concepts leaving my students with deer-in-headlights gazes, I was not elated to be greeted by a black sky at carpool. Frantically, I shoved kid after kid into their parents’ cars, fearful that the rapidly darkening skies were about to drench my ass. As I offered my final “see you tomorrow” coupled with a yo-mama-gets-to-deal-with-you-now wave, the first drop fell.

Cockily, I patted myself on the back for beating Mother Nature and proceeded to tie up the end of my day. As I packed my bags to head home (because no matter how hard I try I can’t help but look like a Talbot’s-togged Sherpa as I parade into and out of school each-day) a text from Number One’s school shot across my phone.

            Due to weather conditions, students are sheltering in place and will not be released until tornado threat has passed

Hubba whaaaaa? There was no mention of a tornado on my check of the morning weather. Nor was there any little tornado symbol on my Weather Ap. What kind of madness was that hag Mother Nature up to?

I looked at my phone – I looked at the door. Back to my phone, back to the door. Do I make a break for it? Could I outrun a tornado? Yes, of course I could. My babies need me! It’s a 25-minute drive home, likely into the path of the twister but an old Hyundai can outrun a whirling feat of nature right? I just got new tires. Seemed logical.

Before I could grasp the stupidity behind my reasoning, the sirens on my side of town blared. Crap.

Within minutes I was hunkered down in a hermetically sealed room with 30 high school students who’d not yet been dismissed for the day. Hunkering down in a room, sans air movement, with a group of teenagers at the end of a hot August day, is like winning the B.O. lotto. The funk of that room will live in my nostrils…FOREVER.

I tried to remain calm but we were facing natural disaster and my babies were all the way across town, one at home with Grandma (And napping soundly through it all. Sometimes, hearing loss is a blessing.) and the other huddled in a broom closet, butt to butt with 25 classmates (Also, like me, feeling the funk.) The problem was, Number One Son has ridiculous storm anxiety – like hiding in the closet, shaking uncontrollably anxiety. My mind was tourmented with the thought of my normally chill son in the midst of a horrific panic attack while I was stuck listening to a sixteen-year-old repeatedly recount his unprecedented success hunting Ommpaloompas, or Hoochi-Koochis or whatever the hell those damn Pokeman things are called.

As any modern mother would do, I began frantically texting. First to the Turk.

Me: Did you get the message from Number One’s school? I’m stuck at my school. There is a warning here too.

            The Turk: Yes

Me: Yes? WTH? I might be dying in a tornado and that’s all you can say.

            The Turk: Yes

Me: Seriously?

            The Turk: …

Me: Hello??????

The Turk: I in mailroom. Can’t reach phone.

Me: Wha huh? Is there a tornado downtown too?

The Turk: Yes.

Me: Oh. My bad. Sorry. Love you. Don’t die.

            The Turk: Ok.

The incident started at 3:20 and was set to end at 3:45. No problem right? But then it was extended until 4:00, then 4:15. When the threat looked real, the line of parents waiting outside in the pick-up line had to be brought into our stanky survival zone. With them, they brought dogs, siblings, a newborn and a cleaning crew. The scent, “eau de adolescent funk,” quickly added notes of canine breath, dirty diaper and chain smoker. I seized my asthmatic card, sliding to the 2” crack in the door and sticking my nose into it.

As the countdown to 4:00 commenced, the sirens blared again and the warning extended to 4:45. This was my breaking point. I ran all possible scenarios through my head. I’d been following the radar on the Ommpalooma hunter’s phone (that kid had magnificent service, likely the reason for his great hunting success) and saw there was a small break in the tornado zones. If I hit every round-a-bout just right…nah, I couldn’t risk it. Plus did I have some responsibility to these stinky people I was hunkered down with? My phone chimed.

            The Turk: I’m out! Going home.

 Me: Be careful! There are new warnings on our side of town.

            The Turk: Tornados not hurt me. I am Turk!

Me: Um, honey, that’s not how it works.

At 4:45 there was a break in the warnings and I decided to flee. Five minutes later another alarm came along with another warning from Number One’s school –

“A new tornado warning has been issued until 5:20. Students have been evacuated from busses and are sheltering in the buildings.”

The sirens blared around me but like Batman in the Batmobile, this mom in her Santa Fe drove on. It was exhilarating, if not stupid, to be driving into potential disaster, but I had to get to my boys. I took comfort in the knowledge that if stranded, I could survive for days on the discarded french fries and granola bar remnants in the back seat.

 Me: I’m on my way. If I go missing, I was on 116th street.

            The Turk: I at his school.

Me: Inside?

            The Turk: No. Parking lot.

Me: Are you safe?

            The Turk: Of course. I am Turk. Tornado not get me.

*sigh* (someday I’ll need to explain the science of tornados to him, someday.)

By 5:30 we were all home together, recounting the horrors our noses faced in each of our respective safety zones. As the Turk and I enjoyed a well-deserved beer, we hoped our children didn’t inherit our stubbornness and poor judgment…but those chances are not strong.

Terrible Twos? Ah Hells No, Now It’s The Tyrannical Threes!

birthday drama

I’m relatively certain that the individual who coined the phrase, “terrible twos” did so before his or her child turned three. There is not a parent on Earth that would honestly agree that a two-year-old tyrant is worse than a three-year-old tyrant. Ok, maybe that Duggar woman would disagree but after passing 82 children through her lady parts, it’s understandable that her sanity might be compromised.

My darling Nugget’s birthday was this week and, as usual, the date marking my successfully delivering offspring into this world makes me a bit emotional. On both of their birthdays I can’t help get little weepy as I recount those glory years, when they were cuddly and smelled like…well…babies or dwelling on life when they were tiny bundles of love that wore what I put on them and didn’t sass me or argue about every damn thing! (Previously I would have said before they could talk but in the past year Nugget has proved that one can sass and argue just as effectively in sign language so there goes that thought.)

Amid all the mushy melancholy and buttercream frosting, I had a thought. Maybe since the Nugget had such a rough go as a two-year old, what with the whole deaf thing, the apraxia thing, the bum kidney thing, and on and on…maybe the universe will give me a break and we will waltz through three like a pair of washed-up musicians on Dancing With The Stars. I mean, after the past year, don’t I deserve it?

I have good reason to fear three. My darling, kind and loving Number One Son was literally Satan on Earth when he was three. The sweet child I’d doted on since birthing him in a crazy Turkish hospital morphed into a pocket-sized Attila the Hunn the moment he blew out those three candles. Add in his adult-sized vocabulary, stubborn Turk genes and hot temper (No really, by 4 we were seriously considering anger management classes for him.) and I often doubted that kid would see 4.

Yet somehow, like childbirth, I’d blocked that horror out, until the Nugget’s big 0-3 started to draw near. As an incident over the shade of an ice pop blew into a throw-down last week leaving a sobbing Nugget clutching me, signing Why is Baba so mad? Why did Baba make me cry? and the Turk screaming Turkish profanity followed by “What the hell is wrong with him?” It grew apparent, 3 was coming to take my Nugget as well. But being the Positive Pollyanna that I am, I tried to lay out my rational as to why three would be better with Nugget than with Number 1 for the Turk. (While I took the brunt of the horror on round one, he was not left unharmed and we both suffer from Post Traumatic Turkish Toddler issues. And since Nugget is a major Baba’s boy, it’s not looking good for the Turk on this round.)

“Maybe since he’s got a few delays, the whole three thing will be delayed too and   we’ll get it in spurts instead of all at once.”

“No. You are crazy. He is crazy. This will be very bad.”

“Maybe since he had such a rough year and he’s made such huge strides this year   will be a breeze. It’s karma.”

“No. This will be bad. I see if I can travel more for work this year.”

“Maybe since we’re really old now, it won’t bother us as much.”

“No. Now I just get piss faster.”

The signs started to show around 2.5 but it was too soon so I wrote it off. But as the sass via sign started, I worried. When he began to sigh, “Uggggg Ooooooooom! (Aw Mom!)” while rolling his eyes and storming off, I saw the tidal wave beginning to form. Then, this week when he handed me a poop-filled diaper, leaving a trail of poop on my freshly (like mere hours earlier freshly) cleaned, white carpet, and began to explain that he was uncomfortable and needed a shower “Ow!” (Now!), it was clear there would be no delays. 3 had arrived like a freight train and no one would be spared.

But as I cuddled a chubby little birthday boy who somehow appeared in my bed in the middle of the night, I got a little weepy thinking about how much has changed for him in the past year and how much he’s accomplished. Last summer he was lethargic and miserable with a kidney that just wasn’t working and now he’s an unstoppable ball of fire. Last summer he was so angry because he couldn’t hear or communicate and now he gladly wears his hearing aid and communicates in both ASL and spoken English (though he’s still only using vowels, he knows what he’s saying even if the rest of us don’t.) Last summer we didn’t really understand all that was going on with Nugget or even what BOR Syndrome was and now we’re a veritable font of knowledge on the subject and have made great strides at getting him on track.

So even though 3 pretty much sucks and we’ll be in for quite a year, I gladly take it. Especially if it means that my baby is finally catching up. (Full disclosure: I could not have chosen a better time to go back to work.) Good luck Developmental Preschool. You’re going to need it with this one!

 

I Found Dory…Kind Of…

woman with fish

That little orange hellcat Nemo, is like a rock icon in the birth defects world. (Yes, that is a thing.) He’s the mascot for a variety of groups because what better point of reference for a one-eared Microtian (like my Nugget) or a kid with a limb difference than a sassy orange whippersnapper. For kids like mine, Nemo is the man…or the fish…I guess.

With Finding Dory hitting the big screens, it’s good to have that little finned wonder back in full force when Nugget is old enough to be targeted by the typically outlandish marketing campaign. I assumed we’d see Dory eventually, likely at home because convincing Nugget to sit through an entire movie in a quiet theatre is basically akin to overseeing union negations with a bunch of drunken longshoremen. But a few days ago in a moment of weakness, I loaded up my tiny Turks and hit a morning matinee.

What prompted such madness? Heat stroke? Hormonal imbalance? Sign language threats from a knee-high Nugget? While all could be viable options, it was none of those. Rather, in my numerous special needs parenting groups, again and again posts touted that every parent of a special needs kid needs, nay, must, see Finding Dory. Now, special needs parents are not “must” kind of people. Unlike those broads on the frontline of the Mommy Wars (which I’m pretty sure didn’t exist before Facebook and might I add – girls, this crap really needs to end.) special needs parents never tell you what you should or shouldn’t do with your kid, but rather we’re more “hey, anything is worth a try” kind of people. So these recommendations held weight.

Over the past couple weeks, Nugs and I have been butting heads like a couple of mountain goats. (Goats or rams? No clue, but you get the point.) And while I attribute much of this to turning three in a month, it’s a lot more than that. We’re out of sync. So under the guise of “hey, anything is worth a try,” I hoped that finding that crazy Dory might give me some guidance. (Desperate times my friends, desperate times.)

Nugget’s been rough lately for a few reasons. For one, having a super-talkative big brother (who never shuts up) home all summer makes Nugget want to talk…which is awesome…but thanks to his apraxia of speech, he can only say vowels with the rare odd consonant. He’ll address me with phrases like, “Ay un a o ou a oo.” If I don’t immediately translate his drunken ramblings into Standard English he slaps his head and yells, “Ugh!” If I ask him to sign it, he yells, “O om!” (no Mom) while stomping off muttering “arggggg.” It’s like living with Charlie Brown. (And full disclosure, I’ve always had Lucy tendencies. The kid better not try to kick a football…)

We’ve always battled frustration meltdowns that happen when he misunderstands situations due to his hearing loss but now, since he thinks he’s talking (I guess he can’t hear the missing sounds?) he doesn’t want to sign, so no one understands him. Add to this his genetic combo of two hotheaded ethnicities and he’s become as aggressive as a linebacker with roid rage. Just to push me a bit further, he’s also developed a new love of the spontaneous nudist life (People, things have occurred in recent days that will likely take years of therapy to erase from my memory…one word…poop.). So even Dory was worth a shot. 

Five minutes into previews, Nugget said he was done and wanted to go. (Hey kid, I just shucked out 30 bucks for tickets and we are staying at least through the opening credits!) As any good (read- cheap ass) mother does, I began pulling a small grocery store’s inventory out of my “purse” in the hopes of feeding him into complacency. That bought me ten minutes until he screamed, “air uus ox?” (Where’s my juice box?) Unfortunately, an usher was unexpectedly fluent in drunken vowel speak and immediately got all up in my business. I had no choice but to hit concessions and buy a $50 box of M&Ms.

The rest of the movie was a combo of wrestling, walking up and down the stairs (again and again and again) and watching from the entrance but at least we made it to the closing credits. And while Dory didn’t solve all my problems as I’d hoped, I did walk away with three bits of knowledge.

  1. I’m never taking this kid to a movie ever again. Ever. Never.
  2. It’s really hard to fix a hearing aid in a dark theatre, especially after it has been flung down the aisle by an angry child.
  3. The groups were right – special needs parents really do need to see this movie.

Dory’s parents wanted to shield her from the world because she was born with something that was going to make life difficult for her, much more difficult than for other fish. The same is true for parents of kids born with special needs. We parents know how hard life is and how much harder is it going to be for our special little guys. Once her parents realized they couldn’t hide Dory away, just like the rest of us, Dory’s parents armed her with ways to adapt and hoped for the best. It’s the same for Nugget. I’d do anything to make his journey easier but sometimes the best I can do is arm him with tools to make his own way. I think right now we’re just stuck in a phase of tool development and he’s testing the waters in preparation for finding his own way when school starts.

I’ve thought a lot about that damn blue fish over the past days and I must say, it helps. Not quite as much as that glass of wine after he finally goes to sleep, but the movie did make things more clear. If for no other reason, it reminded us both to “just keep swimming.”

 

 

Tenacious Mom VS City Hall

Deaf Child Area Sign

Once upon a time there was a tenacious mom with a kid who couldn’t hear so well, so she decided it might be a good idea to get a sign to warn passersby. She wanted a sign that said “Yo, Slow Down Fool. Deaf Kid Up In Here.” But research quickly showed her that signs like that were frowned upon by the founding fathers of her town. (Hoosiers can be uptight like that.) So she settled on a sign that read, “Deaf Child Area.” It wasn’t as eloquent or direct as her chosen wording but it would do. Tenacious Mom called the City and inquired about how a sign like that might be procured.

The first City secretary was flustered by Tenacious Mom’s request. “Oh ma’am, I don’t know anything about signs like that. You should check somewhere else.”

The second City secretary was confused but had the good sense to redirect Tenacious Mom’s call. “Honey, I’ve got no clue but I’ll connect you to the Streets Department and I’m sure they’ll know what to do.

Much like Goldilocks, Tenacious Mom hoped her third connection would be just right. But as we all know, crap never happens like that. Tenacious Mom left a charming message and awaited what she assumed would be an informative return call from an intelligent City official, after all, City officials are there to assist the people…right? (Aw hells no. Not even in fairy tales.)

            One week later, Tenacious Mom received a call. The man identified himself as the Superintendent of Streets and when he gave his name, Tenacious Mom –also known as Smartass Mom- bit her tongue to avoid commenting as the Superintendent of Streets’ first name was the same as his last. (For the purpose of avoiding litigation, he will henceforth be known as Steve Steves.)

“Hello Ma’am. I have a message here that you are interested in procuring a Deaf Child sign for your street.”

            “Yes, Steve Steves, I am.”

“I’m assuming you have a deaf child?”

            “That’s a solid deduction Steve Steves.”

“Well Ma’am, by law in the State of Indiana, we are not required to put up that kind of sign.”

            “Really?”

“Yes Ma’am. Deaf Child, Blind Child and Children at Play. We’re not required to put those up. We get nervous mothers asking for Children at Play signs every week. If I gave a sign to every mom who wanted to let her kid play in the street, ha ha, I’d never get anything done, ha ha ha.”

            “So parents of deaf and blind children just want to let their kids play in the street too?”

“No Ma’am. I was just explaining why we don’t put up those kinds of signs.”                    

            “I’m assuming in Indiana it’s ok to run over deaf and blind children who didn’t see or hear  the car coming? Obviously they’re of less value as they can’t hear or see.”

“No Ma’am, now I didn’t say that. We Hoosiers respect our children.”

            “Just not deaf or blind ones, as it seems to be unimportant to keep those kids safe by alerting   drivers that my kid might not hear them coming.”

“Now Ma’am, there’s no need to get upset. There’s good reasoning behind this that proves these kinds of signs are unnecessary.”

            “Oh Steve, I’m not upset. We’re just discussing. Right? Now I’m pretty new to this state and I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan of some of the laws here but why don’t you tell me more about why signs protecting small children who cannot hear or see are unnecessary, because to a gal like me, that sounds a bit odd. ”

“Yes Ma’am. There have been studies that show drivers are immune to such signs and do not yield, thus the sign is of no use. Might I suggest you place something large and colorful on your sidewalk when your child is outside playing instead?”

            “Large and colorful?”

“Yes Ma’am, when our kids were young my wife and I used to pull out one of those neon turtles with the ‘children playing’ flag, to alert traffic.”

            “Ah yes, a neon turtle to protect my deaf son. Steve Steves, can I ask, do you have a deaf child?”

“No Ma’am.”

            “Do you have a blind child?”

“No Ma’am.”

            “Then you shouldn’t tell mothers to use a neon turtle to protect their deaf or blind children.”

“Again, Ma’am, I’m just trying to help.”

            “No Steve, I don’t feel like you are. I think you called to feel me out. You wanted to see if I was going to be a pain in your ass about this or if I was going to be easily cajoled by the suggestion of a neon turtle. Well Steve, as I mentioned before, I’m new in town. I’m a life-long teacher, an advocate for deaf kids and unfortunately for you, I’m coming from Philadelphia and my husband is from Turkey. Steve, I’ll be honest with you, we don’t fight like Hoosiers. We fight like Philly Turks and I’m assuming you had World Civ in school so you know how Turks fight.”

“Now Mrs. Özemet, there’s really no need to fight. There are options.”

            “Like what Steve?”

“Well, you can petition City Council with your request.”

            “Fantastic! Get us on the docket for the next meeting. The Turk and I will be there to petition. Should I bring my own expert testimony and research? Is the venue Power Point ready?”

“Um, I…I…I’d have to check.”

            “You do that Steve because I’m not going away.”

“Let me do some checking and get back to you Mrs. Özemet. Maybe there are other options I’m not aware of.”

            “Good thinking Steve Steves. If I don’t hear back in a few days, I’ll just swing by your office and we can chat in person.”

Three days later, Steve Steves called Tenacious Mom to inform her that her request had been passed through City Council without any need for her to be present. Was it fear of The Turk waging jihad? Was it fear of a Philly smack-down? We may never know, but she again fought the urge to morph into Smartass Mom and thanked the man with two first names for his assistance.

One month later, just when Tenacious Mom was about to visit Steve Steves’ office to “check” on things, City workers mounted not one, but two, Deaf Child Area signs on either side of her house. Though she still longed for a sign that read, “Yo, Slow Down Fool. Deaf Kid Up In Here,” she was pretty damn pleased with the ones she got.

The Moral Of Our Story: Men with two first names should never take on a tenacious mom and her Turkish husband.

Deaf Child Area

 

Pardon My Dance Break…

dancing boys

Like most discerning television enthusiasts just shy of age 3, Nugget has sophisticated viewing tastes. He loves the hard-hitting facts exposed in Sid the Science Kid, the fast-paced adrenaline rush of Paw Patrol and the gritty work-place drama of The Odd Squad. While he’d love to be an avid binge-watcher, he’s only allowed that luxury in the presence of phlegm or vomit. (his or mine). After a hard day on the swings, nothing takes the edge off like kicking back with a juice box in one hand and the TV remote in the other.

While his television viewing is generally age appropriate, (with the exception of his unexplainable love of The Goldbergs which I fear is due to seeing his own Smother in the adoringly oppressive Beverly) there is one show that we just can’t keep him away from and due to the scantily clad nature of the ladies, the age appropriateness is questionable. My Nugget is currently obsessed with Dancing With The Stars and while he’s danced with fandom in recent seasons, this time around he is obsessed, even requesting a Dancing With The Stars themed birthday party.

Every morning upon waking, he signs – Dancing With The Stars tonight? If my answer is yes, he’s elated. If it’s no he demands a quick fix from YouTube so he can carry on with his day. This coming week’s two-night finale is likely to blow his tiny mind. (Back to back Dancing? Madness!) An odd obsession for a toddler boy or is he merely emulating his adoringly oppressive mother’s interests much like his love of Wonder Woman and the musical stylings of Flo Rida? Or is this the first sign that finally, after losing hope with Number One Son following 8 years of less than stellar art projects and school performances, that my Nugget may have gotten my artsy farty gene? A mama can only hope but I venture to guess his current obsession stems from something far deeper.

See, Nugget is Team Nyle all the way and waits in anticipation for any glimpse of his dancing hero. For those of you, (unlike Nugget and by extension now, even the Turk) who aren’t DWTS fans, Nyle DiMarco is a profoundly deaf actor and model (and fine male specimen) that was the recent winner of America’s Next Top Model. (No, Nugget is not a fan of ANTM, nor am I. Tyra, love ya girl but that show is ridiculous.) Winning Top Model and being deaf gave him a direct path to the token “disabled star” slot on the latest season of Dancing With The Stars.

As with most television programing, this show also has a formula that relies on stereotypes and the token disability slot is part of that, as is the token geriatric slot, the old jock slot, the rehabilitated child star slot, the washed-up musician slot and the hottie-past-her-prime slot. But much to the surprise of both the DWTS producers and its fan base, (primarily old broads and their bored husbands (oh, and Nugget too)) this year’s token disabled star quickly proved that he wasn’t disabled at all.

In case you, unlike myself, have not spent the past few years pouring over audiograms and learning about the four levels of hearing loss, being Profoundly Deaf means you hear nothing and even aided you still hear nothing. That means that when this man is dancing, he is dancing to complete silence. (Suck on that Baryshnikov.) And in case you are not watching this season, the “disabled” man who dances to silence has been absolutely amazing, receiving top scores and far surpassing the rest for the competition for the entire season. But better than that, he’s used his time in the spotlight to push his political agenda, one that happens to be mine- bilingual (ASL and speech) language acquisition for all deaf and hard of hearing children. (Click here, in case you missed my high horse tirade on the matter and want to better understand why this is even a thing.)

From political appearances to forming the Nyle DiMarco Foundation, this man has made huge strides in the push for bilingual education for all deaf kids all in the midst of rehearsing a cha-cha and polishing his pasa doble. In addition to this activism that warms the hearts of parents like me, what’s much more important is his role modeling. My Nugget is obsessed with Dancing With The Stars because when he is watching he sees a guy that talks with his hands just like he does. He sees a guy that learns with his eyes, just like Nugget does and he sees a guy that keeps it classy in a world that is growing increasingly trashy. (Just like Nugget damn well better do when he’s a grown man or his mama is going to take care of that.)

Something tells me that when the producers filled the token disabled contestant slot with Nyle DiMarco, they had no idea that he would prove again and again that being deaf is not a disability but rather, a different approach. They also had no idea that he would bring with him not only the entire Deaf community, but the parents of deaf and hard of hearing kids, advocates, supporters, educators and anyone who works with these kids, one little chubby toddler in Indiana and tons of other kids who see themselves in this guy and millions of viewers who are shocked to have their preconceived notions of the deaf obliterated by dance.

It’s wonderful to see someone using this ridiculous platform that is Dancing With The Stars for good instead of trying to reignite a flailing career. Good on you Nyle DiMarco. This family will be watching you in the finals next week. (Not like we have any other choice…Nugget rules.) You’ve certainly got our votes but I am hopeful that this love affair will fade before I have to come up with a Dancing With The Stars themed birthday cake in July. I already have all those football decorations…

dancing girl

 

 

Thanks For The Coffee Klatch Paul Stanley

Toddlers on bench in gas masks during WWII

Unleash the balloons! Discharge the confetti cannons! It’s over. (No, not the US presidential race, we can only dream about that ending. We’re stuck in that crap-nado for at least six more months.) No, the case conference was yesterday and Nugget now officially has an IEP and is placed in a school for fall. He’s even been put on a bus route. (Though I doubt the chubster’s stump-like legs will be capable of mounting bus stairs and thus he will need a drop off, but I digress.) While the beginning of his formal education doesn’t look at all like I’d anticipated, we’ve got an education plan and the next step is happening.

We had great options but Nugget fell into the in-between and none were ideal right now, so he’ll be spending his first semester on the Island of Misfit Toys with other little buddies that need an extra push to get things going. (Side note- when we visited the Island, Nugget had a grand time laughing at a kid with enormous glasses and that kid pointed and laughed right back, because on the Island, it is perfectly acceptable for a kid with one ear and a hearing aid on his forehead and a kid with Coke-bottle glasses to mock each other. The Island is a level playing field. Socialization at it’s core.) He’ll have a full morning of social time and therapy, much like a Baby Betty Ford Clinic. Best of all, the teachers will meet Nugget in his zone, not all sign language, not all speech but a combo of both, just like Nugget.

In addition to his speech and language needs, they will also help him with his anxiety. (Again, much like a Baby Betty Ford Clinic – sans pharmaceuticals.) The plan is to bring that sassy little chunk out of his Mama-needin’ shell so he’ll become comfortable enough to entertain the masses with his sweet dance moves and vowel-based recreations of Flo Rida jams. (El-um u i ous : That’s ‘Welcome to My House’ as interpreted by the Nugget.) The kid is well on his way to comedic genius and while I’d love to save it all for my own entertainment pleasure, the world needs a good laugh right about now and Nugs is ready to lead the charge…as soon as he can get off his mama’s lap. (I’m assuming Jerry Seinfeld started on his mom’s lap as well. Right?)

While the decision is made, I still had my doubts. The what-if’s are massive in this Polly-the-Planner, Wilma-the-Worrier mind of mine. Sure, all parents worry about making a wrong choice – like will Timmy become an ax murderer because I sent him to a Waldorf school over a Montessori school? (Unlikely, but though he’ll be able to knit at age 3, he might never learn to sort beans properly.) In the realm of special needs parenting the worry is heightened because your kid is already behind and parents are often working against developmental time clocks, age deadlines, insurance restrictions and school district constraints. (Man, have I learned a lot this year!)

Just as I was getting ready to dosi-do into a second-guessing square dance over my morning coffee, I got a little gift from Paul Stanley that seemed to put things in perspective. Paul Stanley, yes Star Child from Kiss and a founding father of hair metal, has the same ear deformity Nugget does and even wears the same kind of hearing aid. Didn’t know Star Child was half-deaf with one ear did ya? (There is your useless trivia for today. You’re welcome.) That’s why he started the hair thing – to hide his ear. And I guess that also explains the whole volume thing too. Gene: Turn it up guys, Paul can’t hear a damn thing, he’s only got one ear! Paul Stanley never went public about his Microtia until recently and since then he’s been a huge supporter of tiny Microtians doing great things for kids all over. (And you thought he was just some sleazy, tight pants wearin’ rock star didn’t you? Nice, Judgy Judy)

Anyway, this morning an interview with Paul Stanley came across my inbox and my second-guessing ceased. In the article, the writer asked Stanley his secret to overcoming the huge obstacles placed before him as a kid. He replied, “You don’t take giant steps. You initially take baby steps appropriately. As you have small successes and small wins, it encourages you to go the next step.” Logical? Yes, but sometimes when wisdom is delivered by a hairy rock icon it sticks better. Thank you Star Child.

Nugget is doing just that. He started by signing single words and now he’s signing sentences. He used to be a miserable, grunting tyrant and now he uses sign language to recreate hilarious adventures from his day. (Explaining how he got an owie is usually Oscar worthy.) Signing has given him enough confidence to try verbal approximations and he just keeps building. It really doesn’t matter where he is in school because right now, he is taking baby steps at his pace and eventually those will lead to great success. In time, Nugget might just pick-up a guitar and forge a new sound that will take the world by storm. (Though in all honesty I look for him to be more R&B than Metal. Chubby guys are good at smooooooooth.) Take your time Nugget and keep going with those baby steps. We’ll get there. I have no doubt about it.

 

Hold On America, Mom’s Comin’…

Portrait-Face-Photo-Female-Male-impersonator (1)

Here in Indiana, the land of Hoosiers (And no, even after 3.5 years I still don’t know what the hell a Hoosier is and why these people have hung on to the moniker.) the political scene has been, well, there has actually been a political scene for once. Usually the presidential primary race is determined before the Hoosiers get a chance for input but this year being the gigantic cluster duck that it is, Hoosiers had a say yesterday. While I was elated to have a break in the nonstop bore-ass coverage of the 100th anniversary of the Indy 500 (Seriously, if you hate car racing as I do, May is rough here.) I must say that if I see one more nasty, spiteful, crap-filled political ad, Mama’s gonna blow.

I’m sure most of my Stateside readers have suffered through most of the same ads, with the exception of incessent references to Hoosier Sensibility.(Something I see in the general populous but has yet to be demonstrated by their elected officials. I’m lookin’ at you Governor.) And while a few of the ads were tolerable, the rest resembled a third grade playground smack down. (Sorry third graders, I know you’re more mature than that but you get my point right?) All of this got me thinking, do you know what kind of president America really needs? America  needs an old, hard-assed mom for prez. Who better to whip this country into shape? Moms multitask 24/7, negotiate with hostile parties hourly, placate stubborn dictators daily, and solve monumental problems maintaining tight budgets on the reg. Many African nations have figured out that electing moms is the answer, so get on it America.

So as of today I am officially launching an inquest into my presidential run as a mom-centric third party candidate. (PS- that 3rd party will be called the Wine Party. It opens a treasure trove of wine/whine wordplay ad options.) America, I get it. You need me.

Years ago I threw my hat into the ring for VP on the Ronn Paul ticket but was wholly disregarded. (And yes, my bitterness remains.) Prior to the white smoke confirming Pope Fran, I also lobbied to become replacement Pope but was denied. (The Vatican said something about me having lady parts and being a heathen ruled me out. Whatevs.) But third time’s a charm, right? Before you all rush out for yard signs, I need to do a little background cleansing and issue a few payoffs. I’m pretty sure Chris Christie can guide me through the process. (Plus we share the chub card and chubs help chubs.) Once I’ve fully expunged the early 90’s I’ll be ready to roll.

As we are at the inception of my campaign, I’ve only begun to hash out the details of my platform but here are some of my top plans:

On Immigration: I’m not a jackass with absolutely no understanding of the US immigration system who believes mass deportation is a moral and ethical option. However, I am going to implement mass deportation of the Stupid by Choice. Those who are offended by the innocuous (I’m looking at you red Starbucks cups people.) as well as the woman now bringing a $5 million lawsuit against Starbucks for putting ice in her iced coffee, will top my list. It’s time to make America intelligent again (Or at the very least, let’s make America C students again.).

On World Policy: Like my potential opponents, I am also highly concerned with world affairs. (Let me clarify, like a couple of my potential opponents. There is at least one who is “uuuugely” clueless about world affairs.) After sending my secret team of CIA moms to bump off a few leaders who must go, (No one would suspect murder by mom and Lord knows moms can handle it.) I will then eliminate ISIS by assembling the Legion of Badassery. The Legion of Badassery will be led by the Turkish mafia backed-up by members of other Eastern European crime families. ISIS has nothing on these dudes. Thanks to my years in Turkey, I’ve got connections. You’re welcome world.

Pay Inequality: (Excuse me while I play my woman card.)  I will take care of the gender-based pay gap by issuing all women a 27% pay increase to make up for the difference. Any male business owner who does not comply will be sentenced to 9 months of wearing a pregnancy simulator, while driving a filthy mini-van full of tired toddlers and hormonal adolescents after a full work day. That should solve that. On a related note, any male politician who takes it upon himself to write legislation pertaining to any component of women’s health will likewise be sentenced to 40 years of wearing a menstrual cramp simulator for one week each month. During that week there will be no sick days accepted and they will be commuting in the above mentioned mini van. (40 years jackasses, think about it.)

In addition I will bring diversity to the White House with my Muslim-born First Man, my foreign born First Midget and my hard of hearing First Nugget. These past weeks of political overload have moved me. America, I’m here for you. I mean… as long as I can get some big money behind me to fund my run. Super Pacs, you know where to find me- on the playground, at the bottom of the swirly slide.

innagural parade float