Joey is about to turn four. His birthday is on Thanksgiving this year, poor lamb, which means that we will be serving soy orange “chicken” alongside the more predictable holiday fare; the dessert options will include Skittles. I started planning a pirate party for him last month—and then I started thinking about a guest list, and got tense. When Mister Book visited last week (which was lovely, and I hope to write about that), I put it before him: Should I have a birthday party for him? I don’t know that anyone would come. If I were confident that at least three kids would come, I would go for it. But. Mister Book and I agreed that we won’t have a party this year, and Joey will neither notice nor care—but I feel crummy about it.
Joey’s doing well. One of my most painful memories from the time in which we started to worry about it, got him assessed, and started receiving services is of a conversation with a speech therapist who asked what Joey calls me. Nothing, I said. “Well, what does he do when he wants to get out of bed? What does he say?” Nothing, I repeated. He rattles the doorknob. I hadn’t even realized that this was a problem, and there were a lot of those, and I started to cry—the therapist realized what had happened and hurried to her next question in a not unkind sort of way. I tell you this so that you will know what a big deal it is that he now comes up to me a few times a day and says “Hi, Mima.”
I’ve started to pick out Christmas gifts for the kids; usually I’ve got that done by now, but this is the first year that it would be wholly inappropriate to give Joey gifts designed for kids his age, and that’s slowed me down more than it probably should. Joey is not making the progress on his school goals that anyone would like to see, but he loves school—today his class took a field trip to a pumpkin patch, and he had a ball.
I’m sorry to have been so gone for so long. I think about blogging often, but that feels miles away from actually sitting down and writing about what’s happening.