A while back, Wonderboy’s OT gave me a booklet to read about something called “Suck-Swallow-Breathe Synchrony.” At first glance, I wouldn’t have expected it to revitalize the study of math in my home, but that is exactly what has happened.
The booklet describes how the coordinating of these three actions—sucking, swallowing, and breathing—is the brain’s first major task after a baby is born. Successful “SSB Synchrony” lays the groundwork for umpteen other developmental milestones down the road. The entire discussion was fascinating, but what really jumped out at me was the description of how, later in life, the brain uses SSB synchrony as a tension reliever or to help focus on other tasks. This is why Michael Jordan sticks out his tongue when he’s playing basketball. This is why people chew on pens, mints, and fingernails. This (I now realize) is why I seem to be incapable of writing a novel without consuming vast quantities of gummy bears or gumballs. I always thought it had to do with being a sugar junkie. I now understand that it’s about the chewing—it helps my brain to concentrate on the work.
Adults, the booklet explained, quite unconsciously avail themselves of the concentration aid provided by oral stimulation. I am reminded of the editorial meetings of my past: almost everyone at the table had something to sip, munch, or chew. Kids gnaw pencils in school, but gum isn’t usually allowed, for obvious and logical reasons. But our OT told about how she used to work in a school for the deaf, and when she convinced the parents to allow the kids access to pretzels and gummy worms while they did their schoolwork, productivity skyrocketed. A child who would normally have spent 45 minutes struggling through a page of math was now finishing his work in 10 minutes.
My kids, having heard snippets of this conversation, immediately saw the possibilities.
“Let’s test the theory!” cried Jane, my junior scientist.
“Mommy, where’s some gum?” asked Rose, wasting no time. “Let’s all do some math and see if it works.”
“I want to do math too!” wailed Beanie, who, being only four, hasn’t yet climbed on the family Math-U-See bandwagon.
“Mom will make up some problems for you,” reassured practical Rose.
And so began a routine that now occurs several times a week, unprompted by me. The kids get out math books, and that’s my cue to produce some gum. They chomp contentedly and work with impressive concentration. Whether the Impressive Concentration is indeed the effect of the gum, or whether it is the effect of the desire to continue getting gum (heretofore a rare luxury), I cannot say. And I don’t much care.
Truth be told, Jane is one of those people who loves numbers and patterns and mathematical puzzles and formulas. She is working through her great-uncle’s latest college math textbook for fun. I know, I know, it seems weird to me too. But then, when I look at a window with twelve panes, I see twelve rectangles, or maybe thirteen, counting the whole window. Jane sees—oh, I don’t know how many—my brain went numb after she passed the two dozenth rectangle. (Maybe I needed some gum.) She has That Kind of Brain. So really, I’m not sure how much additional assistance the bubble gum is giving her. But what the hey. It cracks me up to hear the girls literally beg me to “let them” do some math. Gee, I’m such a nice mommy—I always say yes.
Wonderboy has been dominating this blog lately. I realize he doesn’t exactly fit the mostly-literary theme I’ve got going here, but I can’t help it. Who can pass up material this rich?
This kid of mine, this kid of mine. What will he come up with next?
So Tuesday, as you know, was his surgery to repair a hernia (again) and remove his sticky-out tailbone that was making it hard for him to sit, poor guy, and was posing a risk of skin infection to boot. As I wrote in my last entry, the procedures went swimmingly and we got him home in record time. (Scott has a more detailed recap on his blog. But be warned: his language in this one is not for the kiddies. Don’t blame him. It’s the anesthesia.)
Yesterday morning Wonderboy woke up, turned toward me in bed, and smiled. “You seem to be feeling better,” I said. “Hey, buddy, maybe today will be a little more mellow.”
That’s when I saw the blood oozing out of his ear.
Just a little. A spot of red on the sheet, a clump of dried blood in the ear, and when I wiped that out, a bit of red oozing out of the canal. Had he just scratched himself? Or was it something to do with his ear tube? I couldn’t tell.
I called the doctor’s office and left a message for the wonderful new doc who is covering for our other wonderful family doc while the latter is on vacation this week. I love these folks. We’ve seen every doctor in the practice—numerous times—and they’re all great. Sharp, good communicators, efficient, cooperative. Plus their office is only three minutes from my front door. I can never move out of this house.
Anyway, I left a message for Dr. L. But I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit for her call, because what was I going to do? Put Wonderboy in the car on his sore bottom? Even for a three-minute ride, that’d be torture. Mainly I wanted to see what the doc thought about putting in his hearing aid on that side. Not a good idea, I assumed.
All the rest of yesterday and all this morning, there was no new blood. Just a scratch, I figured. At this point in our parenting career, with the track record our kids have got, optimism is probably nothing more than gussied-up stubbornness, but what the heck. It works for me.
This afternoon when there was still no more bleeding, I decided to try putting in his hearing aid. Took it back out and—oh yes—there was new blood on the ear mold. That must have been one heck of a fingernail, kid, thought I (stubbornly).
Called the doc again. She was just getting off work for the day and asked if I wanted to bring him in tomorrow. “Only if you really think you need to see him,” I said. “I hate to sit him in the carseat so soon, you know?”
And then, in a turn of events more surprising than anything Wonderboy has thrown our way, she said, “Tell you what. I’ll stop by your house on my way home.”
Yes, folks, after all these years: our first house call. This is a momentous day!
She swings by with her trusty otoscope. Looks in his ear. Oh dear. Looks like the tube is not where it belongs. “Embedded” is the word she used. This is not good. This is not a fingernail scratch. This is, maybe, possibly, cause for another surgical procedure. WELL, YEAH, MAYBE NOT, insists the Stubborn Optimist. Scott speculates about the efficacy of a pair of tweezers.
It means, at the least, a trip to the ENT—whose office is forty minutes away. Wonderboy ain’t going for that ride anytime soon. We all decide that (barring more oozing from the ear) this little problem can wait until his rear end is sit-on-able.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of more odd news,” says the doctor ruefully. Odd news: this is the perfect phrase for our boy. He is Odd News personified. Which I guess makes me the Bearer of Odd News, not Dr. L.
So that’s where we are. But, you know, for us it really WAS a pretty mellow day.
Many thanks to all of you who who sent notes of concern and well wishes for Wonderboy. His surgery (hernia repair and tailbone removal) yesterday went very well. We were home earlier than expected, and he seems to be feeling all right. He was groggy and wobbly last night but today he’s steadier on his feet. It will be a while before he can sit comfortably, of course. He keeps forgetting this and squats down en route to a sit, and then halfway down he’ll remember that it hurts and he’ll just stand there in the half squat, glaring fiercely. This is hilarious and I have several times insulted him by laughing. His bottom may recover more quickly than his pride.
I dare not speculate as to what excitement he will provide us with next.
It’s his best sign, because it’s his favorite word. His favorite person!
We had an explosion here last week. A language explosion—Wonderboy is suddenly bursting with new signs at the rate of three or four a day. It’s awesome. He has even put together his first sentence—and I warn you, it’s a heart-melter. Daddy love.
Jane’s baby book (the only one that has anything written in it—sorry, children numbers two, three, and four) contains dated lists of the words she was learning to speak. I collected them with the zeal a philatelist reserves for the rarest of stamps. I would have pressed each new word between tissue like a wildflower, if I could have. Witnessing a child’s determined quest for language is one for me of the best parts of motherhood.
And this time—oh, this time is the best yet. I’m sure my daughters will forgive my saying so, because they’re caught up in the spell too. Wonderboy’s hands shape meaning from air. Mommy, Daddy, baby, cracker, help, hungry, banana, more, sick, scared, let’s go, bye-bye, mine, hi, ball, uh-oh, jump, water, kiss, signing, bird, dog, please, finished…I’m sure I’m missing some. I can’t keep up.
Hand in hand (so to speak) with the emerging signs are new spoken words. Sure, so far they’re all variations on the same few sounds—eh eh (help), ah-ah (cracker), mah! mah! (more), MAH-meh (Amen)….We’re grateful for the ASL signs that help us translate his speech. More verbal speech will come. But he already speaks volumes with his grin and his fluttering hands.
This morning he seemed to be practicing all the words he knows, hands flying from one sign to another, talking to no one but himself, chuckling with satisfaction. It put me in mind of one of Rachel Coleman’s beautiful songs on the first Signing Time video.
Tell me that you love me,
Tell me that you’re thinking of me,
Tell me all about the things you’re thinking, both day and night.
Tell me that you’re happy
And you love it when we’re laughing,
Tell me more, oh tell me more,
Show me a sign….
I have raved about Signing Time here before, and I’m sure I’ll do it again. It’s hard for me to imagine our lives without Signing Time. Rachel Coleman, the creator, and her daughter Leah, who is deaf, and Leah’s cousin Alex, who is hearing, are practically part of our family. “Rachel says” and “Leah says” are regular utterances around here. When Wonderboy watches the videos, he looks back and forth from me to Rachel, or from his sisters to the children, in awed delight. His hands soar through the air, mimicking his beloved Rachel. He understands the spoken words “Signing Time” even without his hearing aids in. (This is significant. He probably hears something like “eye-ee-eye,” but he sure knows what it means.)
Rachel’s songs have become my personal highway belt-it-out favorites (along with Marie Bellet and Bruce Springsteen), because she *gets it* so completely. Leah was a year old when her parents learned she was deaf. Rachel’s family’s love and occupation is music, and my hat is off to Rachel Coleman for finding a way to so beautifully combine her old life with her new one. Next to the joy she has brought my children, my favorite thing about Rachel Coleman is her honesty in lyrics. Her song, “The Good,” expresses my understanding of motherhood better than anything I’ve ever written: “Maybe we won’t find easy, but baby we’ve found the good.” And the inspiring “Shine” on Volume 6, written with both Rachel’s children in mind (her younger daughter, Lucy, has spina bifida and CP), speaks frankly of the pangs that sometimes hit the heart of the parent of a special-needs child:
Sometimes I see you stuck
For such a long time
A daily nothing new
Pretend I don’t mind
With lists of things you’ll never do
Until somehow you do
And you do – you do – you shine
The days and months and years,
they run together
Is it just one day? Or is this forever?
You’ve taught me in your lifetime
More than I’d learned in mine
And you do, you do, you shine
Shine Shine Shine Shine Shine
Shine your light on me
Shine Shine Shine Shine Shine
everyone will see
Shine Shine Shine Shine Shine
I’m so glad you are mine
Oh how Rachel nails it! I’m so glad he is mine. Yes, maybe we haven’t found easy, but baby, we’ve found the good. And so very good it is. All the signs say so.
Related posts:
• More about Signing Time
• Rilla Signs
• Unsolicited Signing Time Commercial
• Signing with Babies, My Favorite Topic
Mary P. on our county homeschooling list just posted about a cool timeline game called Chronology. “Where does this card fit into the timeline? Place 10 events in order to win the game!”
Sounds fun! Thanks, Mary!
Google shows it at a bunch of sites—here’s one. Educational Learning Games
Wonderboy was sitting on my lap this morning when Rose tried to pick him up. He, being quite comfy at the moment, yowled at her and squirmed away.
She shrugged. “I know, I know,” she told him. “Mom’s your favorite character.”
Just a little recordkeeping here…
June 24, hospital outpatient clinic visit. Arrived at 1:15 for a 1:15 appointment. Taken to exam room at 3 p.m., saw doctor around 3:20. We adore this particular doctor and I know the long delay was not his fault. Just the nature of the outpatient clinic. I’m pretty sure the appointment times are established in a parallel dimension in which the laws governing the passage of time bear no connection to those in our own dimension. Just a theory. I could be mistaken.
July 5, different hospital, pediatric surgeon’s office. Arrived at 1 p.m. for 1:15 appointment. Was informed by jovial secretary that there had been an “oversight”—the doctor wouldn’t be in until 2. “Oversight” is, of course, a synonym for “really big scheduling mistake I, the secretary, made but would prefer not to cop to.” I know this because I heard her murmur the truth to another patient whom she seemed to know very well. We, being new patients at this practice, were not privy to the inner circle of truth regarding clerical screw-ups. As for the doctor “coming in at 2,” that translates to “entering the building at 2:25” in actual Earth time. But I’m sure he was on time according to the clock in that other dimension I was talking about.
July 12, back to the first hospital. Different doctor (also a guy we really like), different department. Neurosurgery this time. Arrived at 11:00 for an 11:00 appointment. Shown to exam room at 11:25, visited by doctor at 12:10.
During the past two months, I’ve racked up over a dozen hours of waiting time in various medical offices. Shouldn’t there be some kind of “frequent waiter” policy that earns you, say, a $20 deduction from the hospital bill for every X minutes spent in the waiting room? Ooh, and double points for wait time in the actual exam rooms, because it is so doggone hard to keep a toddler occupied in one of those tiny little semi-sterile spaces in which the most interesting objects are the sharps container and the biohazard wastebasket.
At the very least I think you should get a card that permits you to cut to the front of the line in the hospital cafeteria. And free pudding. Yeah.
A suggestion passed along by my friend Sarah B., quoted here with her permission:
“Anthony at teacher’s edition had a great idea for our timeline. We bought strips of brightly coloured paper which allowed us to make a comparative time line of ancient history for the different continents – yellow was Asia, Blue was Europe, Red was Africa etc which allowed us to see really clearly what was going on in the other continents when the pyramids were being build in Egypt, for example. It really helped clarify things for me because obviously we tend to learn in a linear way – Sumer then Egypt then Greece etc etc, but this really allowed us to see the way the whole world was developing at any given time.
“And it’s a lovely bright addition to our wall.”
Here’s a site that sells printable timeline figures—my kids love exploring the CD-rom, hunting for their heroes.
