My hilarious hellraiser

I have never been parent to a little girl before, and I don't know all the little girl children who have ever lived, so I know this is a totally unscientific statement. But, hear me when I say: Clair is the craziest, funniest, most maddening human child to ever walk the Earth.

She will be 2 in a couple weeks and she has already hit the terrible 2s most terribly.

She doesn't just defy, she laughs maniacally when defying. She doesn't just refuse to unhand the thing you're telling her she can't have, she hurls it across the room like a shot putter. She doesn't ask for anything, she SCREAMS for what she wants -- ear-piercing, relentless, nerve-grating screams.
She hits. She spits. She throws her food off her plate when she's done eating. She shouts, "GOOD!BYE!" and storms out of rooms. She terrorizes her brothers and confounds her parents.

She is, quite simply, a piece. of. work.

And then...just when you have decided to pack her up and ship her to Siberia...just then she:

Befriends a little girl at her Saturday tumbling class:

Loves all up on the patient, sweet "kitty" (AKA miniature Schnauzer) at a SuperBowl party:

Climbs up at a keyboard and says, "I sing Farm, Mommy. McDonald Farm," and plunks away:

Takes pity on her poor father (this was in an email to me):

I just asked her for a kiss and she said no.

I pretended to cry and she said "Ho On, daddy. I readin. Finish. Then kiss. OK?"

I said, "OK. But how long do I have to hold on?"

"I READIN! Wait I finish. OK?"

"OK."

Then she closed the book, leaned in and gave me a kiss. Ha. She's too funny.

 

And sees God in everything around her (also in an email from Lester):

 

Showing me the football helmet stamped on her left hand:

Me: Who gave you a helmet?

Clair with a mouthful of cereal: GeeZus

Me: Jesus?

Clair: Yas.

Me: Jesus put that helmet on your hand?

Clair: Yas. GeeZus gave me Hal-mut.

Me: Well OK.

 

(Note: She got the football helmet after her tumbling class. A cheerful 20-something named Amberlee gave it to her.) 

Hahahaha! Too funny.

 

Clair never fails to lean in and hug a crying Dean, or say, "God bless you, Cary" when he sneezes. She asks, "What matter you, Mommy? You OK?" when you cough and she always shares her last bit of chauk-wit (chocolate) with anyone who asks.

She cracks us up; she makes us want to cry. She is a hilarious, heart-warming hellraiser.

I couldn't be more delighted with her -- or more afraid of the pre-teen and teenaged years.

Pray for us. :-)

Don't worry about things until there's actually something to worry about

This is what I keep telling myself.

Tanika, don't worry about things until there's actually something to worry about.

But it's difficult when that "thing" you're trying not to worry about is your son, who for the past couple months, has been exhibiting signs that he is having trouble hearing.

It started around Christmas, the troubling signs. And we eventually discovered he had a double ear infection and a popped eardrum. Strong antibiotics and ear drops seemed to have done the trick, though, because at his follow-up, our doctor said everything looked perfect.

But since then the signs persist.

The most obvious one is that he tells us directly, "I can't hear you," when we're talking in our normal voices. His little brow furrows and his voice sounds small. "Mommy, what'd you say? I can't hear you."

I can see him sometimes trying to decipher what I've said by watching my lips. "Do you want macaroni and cheese?" I asked him once, looking directly at him on the changing table. "Hmmm?" he said, studying my mouth. "You said, 'music class?'"

In the past week, it's gotten worse, and Lester and I have tried all the "tricks" to see if he's exaggerating a bit, or working us to avoid having to pick up the Legos. All the experiments turn out the same: He can sometimes hear me, especially if I speak in an elevated voice and he's expecting the conversation. He has less trouble hearing Lester, but there are times when even his Dad's booming voice seems lost to him.
 
Lester picked Cary up on Sunday and kissed his face. "Why do you keep saying you can't hear us, buddy?" he asked Cary in a gentle voice.

"Because," Cary responded, smiling. "Because you all keep talking softly."

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. I felt like I swallowed an apple. We're not "talking softly" in our house -- almost ever. This is one of the loudest houses on Earth.

The final straw was this experiment -- one of many, many similar ones I've tried: I stood behind him, about 3 feet away, and asked, in a somewhat quiet, but not a whispering, tone, "Cary, how about we go downstairs and get some ice cream?" He didn't respond. I tried again in a normal tone. He didn't respond. So I added in "cookies" to the treats he could have if he would just turn around and answer. He just played with his train, whirring it along my bed. Still in a normal tone, I upped the ante:
"Cary! Cookie Hood is here! He's downstairs eating cookies! Let's go see him and get some cookies!" (He is obsessed with Cookie Hood, so I just knew he'd hear that).

From the next room, Dean said, "Cookies?!" Cary still didn't move.

I went in the bathroom, put my head on Lester's chest, and cried.

The thought that my smart, silly, sweet little boy seems to have trouble hearing -- especially hearing me  -- breaks my heart so much I can't even tell you.

I'm not sure what exactly is going on, and I've spent FAR too much time on the Internet reading about all sorts of scary things I wish I never knew. But we're going to get to the bottom of it. I wanted to just get a referral to take him to the audiology center where his hearing was tested as a baby, but our doctor said he should see him first. I think this is a waste of time, as he's already seen him -- declared his ears "perfect" -- and sent us home. Something isn't right and I know it. And I am not good at being patient when it comes to things like this.

But we will take him back to the doctor tomorrow afternoon and see what he says.

Until then, I will try not to worry about things until there's actually something to worry about. :-(

My little Cary, doing his favorite thing  (listen to that sweet little cartoon voice):