Simon likes:

• The number 8.
• Watching us cook.
• Putting small toys into large toys and shaking.
• Making circular things spin on the ground.

Simon loves:

• Transportation, especially downtown where you can see a bus, the MAX train, and possibly the streetcar all at once.
• Machinery (the coffee roaster, the Kitchenaid mixer, the iPhone, the lock on the back door).
• Reading books, especially if they feature the number 8.
• The ladies.

Watch out, ladies!

“What’s wrong?” I asked, and he looked at me helplessly and kept crying. “Are you hurt?” Crying. “Do you need a new dipe?” Crying. “Are you hungry?”

“Ha-HAAAAAAH!” he said with a big smile.

“Do you want me to make your supper?” I made the sign for “eat.” It was an hour early for supper. He lunged toward me, index finger out, and touched my mouth. And then he scarfed down half a peach, four ounces of yogurt, and scrambled egg (in bacon fat).

I say here and now for the whole internet to read that when this child starts using words, I’ll never, ever say I wish he would sometimes be quiet. Because it will be so useful.

So basically, Simon is doing awesome. Also, he is so clever.

1. Simon’s hearing is great.
2. Simon’s ears are clear of fluid. (Also, although he hates having his ears messed with, he let the doctor look in one side without complaining. The other side…not so much, but I’ll take what I can get.)
3. Simon’s palate is healing well.

Today was a crazy day at the craniofacial clinic. I’ve never seen so many kids in the waiting room, and both surgeons were running late. The first one, by only about thirty minutes, but the second one for over an hour. Clever mother that I am, I had brought no books or toys in the diaper bag.

The waiting room at the hospital has more books and toys than most pediatric places I’ve been, and the toys are great — large cube-like things, about two feet on a side, with various non-removable things on each face for babies to grab. Simon was pulling up to kneel a lot on the cubes, and did a little crawling around the waiting area. I wanted to tell everyone to look at my baby – HE CAN CRAWL NOW. Did I mention he can crawl now?

The books in the lobby: not so much. I can only read board books to Simon in public, since he always wants to rip the pages out of paper books. The only board book I could find was about kids dressing up for a costume party, then going to the costume party and enjoying looking at everyone’s costumes while eating snacks. Seemed kind of banal but tolerable given the situation, except the boys were all dressed as cowboys, aliens, and superheroes, and the girls were butterflies and princesses, and while I’m not that kind of feminist, it made me throw up in my mouth a little. But anyway.

We ended up playing a lot with the mama’s new iphone. Simon can now take pictures of himself (he knows where to touch the screen to capture an image), and when I go to the “photos” section, he can scroll back and forth to look at the different images. He likes photos of himself the best.

The exam room where we waited (for over an hour) at the end of the day had this wonderful toy (we’ve played with it before) with buttons for all the letters and numbers, as well as some shapes, some musical notes, and some basic tunes. It has different modes so you can just press the buttons and hear the name of the thing you pushed, or you can get more advanced and put it in quiz mode, or play a tune of your choice on the numbers one through ten. So Simon likes it because it has buttons, and Todd and I like it because we can make it say funny things:

• I F 2 P (I have to pee)
• S H L O (It’s a cello)
• U 10 Square A Circle Q E D (You can square a circle! QED!)

It’s also good at proofs. QED.

Over the past week we’ve seen some pretty monumental changes in the little guy. Not simply healing and getting back to his old self, but also learning tons of new (overdue) skills.

A week ago, I noted on Facebook that Simon had started sleeping sitting up in the middle of his bed, not leaning on or supported by anything, and would stay that way for hours at a time. It was astounding, and even more so because of the balance he was sustaining despite his low muscle tone. If he fell over, he would wake up, then sit back up and go back to sleep. A few times, I tried laying him down, but it always woke him up. We just chalked it up to “oh, those crazy kids, what will they do next.” But after two days of the behavior, something just seemed not quite right, so I called the pediatrician, hoping he would confirm it was just a weird phase, all kids did it, and no big deal. Instead, he recommended we call Simon’s surgeon since normal kids don’t sleep sitting up. He was worried that Simon was having trouble breathing lying down, and thought the surgeon might want (another, this would be the third) sleep study.

So I did call the surgeon (well, indirectly, through the nurse practitioner), and they both said that the behavior was Definitely Weird, and that if it got worse, we should take him to the emergency room at the Children’s Hospital and they’d page the surgeon to come take a look at Simon. Sigh.

Of course, the act of calling medical professionals caused nearly immediate cessation of the behavior in question (is it just my kid or is this a thing?), and he’s been sleeping fine ever since. So hey.

Now, I will readily admit that I paid poor attention in Developmental Psychology class (and all my other classes) in education school. I have many justifications for this, and none of them are reasons I would accept from my own students. Development of the toddler brain seemed unrelated to any issue I could conceive of dealing with in the high school classroom.

People! No! It’s always applicable! You never know when you’re going to need that information!

I am getting to the point.

I feel like I might vaguely remember learning or hearing (or perhaps I am constructing a false memory to explain what I’m observing with Simon) that when kids are restricted in one area of development (like, say, having their arms restrained so they can’t feed themselves, move forward, or play with toys as they were accustomed to), they can compensate by developing in other areas. Of course, I wouldn’t know because I was paying poor attention, which I now regret.

Even if that’s not generally true, oh my goodness look at the neural pathways on Simon. Not only has he learned how to crawl for real (he previously just did a really fast army crawl), but also his receptive language and fine motor skills have…improved.

He used to be obsessed with Todd’s putting a jingle-bell ball into a stacking cup and twirling it around, but if we tried to get him to copy us, he would just throw the toys. Now, he’s putting every toy into every other toy and twirling them around. He stacks, he nests, he balances. He experiments with sizes and shapes. Small objects can fit into bigger ones but bigger ones don’t go into smaller ones. The  orientation of non-spherical shapes matters when you are using them as construction elements. And so on and so on.

He also responds appropriately when we ask him questions like:

• Do you want to dance?
• Simon kiss mama?
• May I have a turn?
• Where is Mama’s nose? Hair? Mouth?
• And of course “Do you want your bottle?”

“Bottle” in fact is one of three signs Simon uses (the others being “all done,” which he only sometimes uses correctly, and “dance,” which he always uses correctly). He talks about his bottle a lot, and I think frequently he’s just talking about it, not asking for it. For instance, I always change his diaper before giving him the bottle, so today, I said “Let’s go change your diaper,” and he signed “Bottle!”

And lastly, my favorite thing: he gives spontaneous kisses just to be affectionate, or to thank me for doing something he likes: taking him to the fabric store, to the airport, dancing with him in the coffee shop, or playing Flying Boy.

He is a wonderful baby.

Todd and I did the math on our way out of Doernbecher and realized we’d been in the hospital for about twenty-eight hours. It seemed both freakishly short for such a seemingly major surgery, but at the same time extraordinarily prolonged on account of all the adrenaline and lack of sleep. I think general relativity addresses this, but only if we were traveling some significant fraction of the speed of light, which may actually have been the case for all we know.

We (okay, I) were a little concerned they would want to postpone the surgery on account of Simon’s recently (i.e. the night before) developed cough. But apparently, the cough was just an upper-respiratory ailment and his lungs were clear, so they went ahead and operated.

Simon’s surgery was the surgeon’s first one of the day. So we checked in a little after six in the morning. By quarter after eight they were underway, and by eleven, he was done. It took him a while to wake up, and evidently did try to wake up at some point, but was very upset and “wild” (I imagine there was a lot of screaming and trying to hit people, since that’s what goes on at home) so the nurse gave him some medicine, which sent him back to sleep for a very long time, earning him the title of Narcotics Lightweight.

When he did wake up, he screamed a lot and tried to hit people, but since his arms were immobilized by the “No-No” restraints (more later), he couldn’t wind up a good swing, which just made him madder. We’ve learned that nothing really makes Simon madder than People Messing With Him and Being Restrained, both of which he was having to endure while coming off of anesthesia. “With a temper like that, you could grow up to be a surgeon!” the recovery nurse told him. Simon continued to scream as we were escorted to our private room, as we settled in, and until we stuck some Pedialyte in his mouth. Dude sucked it down (six ounces total – some kind of record we were told) and collapsed into sleep.

So we thought we had this all figured out. The Boy cries because he’s so thirsty. We give him Drink, and he returns to sleep to rebuild tissue and regenerate his stores. Neato!

And then we had a two-hour screaming freakout. Which eventually subsided. Which is enough said about that.

Our room had a bench-like bed for Todd and a pull-out chair-bed for me. The chair-bed was about six feet long and two feet wide, and comprised three sections, none of which were coplanar, and the head of which swallowed at least one pillow. This would have been endurable had Simon wanted to sleep in his own bed. And so it was that Simon and I spent the world’s longest night (technically, one of the year’s shortest, but we were traveling at 0.8c, remember) in the world’s narrowest chair-bed. He started out on my chest, I awoke around midnight, thinking it must be near dawn. The nurse came in to medicate him, and I assumed it was four in the morning. I realized I was soaked with something, felt his diaper, confirmed my suspicions, and was too tired to act. The nurse came in to medicate him again around four. It was very confusing. In the meantime, Simon had somehow shifted onto his back next to me, arms spread eagle, hogging the entire chair-bed. I wondered why his own bed would not have been satisfactory for this purpose, but whenever he would stir, and I would pat him and say “Mama’s still here” he would quiet back down and go back to sleep. So I guess it was worth it.

Now that we’re home, Simon’s demonstrating amazing resolve in getting back to normal. He’s required to wear his No-No (unofficial name) arm restraints at all times for four weeks, to keep him from putting fingers (his favorite) or objects (a close second) in his mouth and reopening the cleft. Each arm is encapsulated in what looks to most people like an oceanographically themed air cast (so most people, strangely, don’t ask about them). In reality, they’re thickly velcroed splits with a piece of sturdy substance (metal? plastic?) in them to keep him from bending at the elbow.

Do you know how useful elbows are? Simon does. He started off the morning pretty upset that all he could do was pick up a toy and toss it behind him. But by the afternoon, he was pointing, turning pages, patting toys, and hitting Mama in the face. Watching him negotiate eating, playtime, and reading time between morning and afternoon was like watching a time-lapse reenactment of his babyhood developmental milestones. I’m pretty sure in the next day or two he’ll learn to move from place to place (currently, he just looks longingly and whiningly at where he wants to go, but hasn’t figured out how to make it happen). At this rate, he will start walking, speaking, and doing physics before the month is out.

But anyway, it’s eleven at night and too late for this Mama to be up. I’m so very proud of the Boy and how well he’s adjusting to his new situation. Would that we were all so resilient.

And then, one day last week, there he was, in his high chair, shoveling his own food into his own mouth. His favorites are still cheese and carbs (a cheese pancake might conceivably be his favorite, but I haven’t quite worked out the recipe for that yet). But he will also eat fruit on purpose if that’s what’s on his tray. Especially strawberry. Especially Oregon strawberry.

Now, maybe to most families the transition from the bottle to solids isn’t very groundbreaking. But to us, it’s like the most fascinating, earth-shattering thing in the whole world. I can put food on his tray and watch him eat it, without feeding it to him one piece at a time. Really, this is revolutionizing our lives. I know I say that about a lot of things. But now I can eat my own food, while sitting near Simon, who is also eating, and have a conversation. It’s like a date, every time we have a meal. (Mainly, his conversation is still limited to  “mamamamamama! mamamoooooo! Ayayayaaaaaaa.”)

So while we were celebrating (and hoping that it wasn’t just a transitory preference) the new eating regime, a new toothbrushing regime started at our house.

We’ve been trying to be really diligent about brushing Simon’s teeth (he’s teething, like, all the time, and has lots of teeth, and they’re super-adorable, and also sharp), since his “toddler” formula is composed mainly of water, sugar, oh, and some nutrients. Now, let the reader understand, Simon is what professional people call “orally defensive.” I couldn’t even get my finger in his mouth let alone a foreign object (c.f. food). So toothbrushing time was mainly a family togetherness experience where one parent would immobilize the hands, while the other one, while holding the toothbrush, would squeeze Simon’s cheeks together enough to expose teeth, and begin brushing. At some point, this would infuriate him enough that he would open up to scream, handily exposing the molars, which would then also get brushed. At some point, he got wise, and started screaming with his mouth clamped shut. Still, we would prevail, but the whole process took longer. It always seemed a little incongruous to follow toothbrushing with our family prayer, blessing, and hymn. But then, really, do you do the prayer, blessing, and hymn, and then follow it with toothbrushing? There was no real solution.

And then. One day (at the same time Simon started feeding himself), he just started letting us brush his teeth. He opens up voluntarily. He barely fusses. He also likes holding the toothbrush and playing with the bristles, or chewing on it. He throws a little short-lived tantrum if we have to take the toothbrush away. It’s been a toothbrush-attitude-180-plus-also-love-affair at our house this week.

At this point, we felt like we were pressing our luck with one breakthrough leading to another. (And narratively, telling the reader how very advanced your child is, maybe can wear thin? But I figure we’re justified because he’s behind in his skills. I’ll be brief.)

So bathtime: He used to love it, then he started screaming the entire time, for no apparent reason. And then tonight we let him hold the toothbrush during the bath. Problem solved. Happy bath, happy baby, disgusting bath-toothbrush. But I bought a pack of four, so we now have a bath-toothbrush and a real toothbrush.

In other news, I’m back from the Science Olympiad trip. Simon and Todd did great on their own, and I may just have to go on another solo trip, to say, Veracruz (kidding, Todd). And my team got a fifth-place medal (out of sixty teams) in Experimental Design (one of the twenty-three events).

Oh, and Simon got a haircut and looks like a Big Boy now. At some point, we’ll post pictures or see you in person.

Flash forward to Ear-Tube-Containing Boy! We were pretty sure, about a day after the surgery, that his hearing was much more acute. But we needed evidence. You know, aside from turning toward our voices, waking up when his bedroom door squeaks, or anticipating every truck and lightrail vehicle coming from a block away.

Today, I got the evidence.

Simon and I were waiting at the DMV to renew my license. He was sitting on my lap, and started making the sign for “dance.” It’s not so much a “sign,” per se, as a whole-body vertical enactment of The Worm. He made it up himself. He only does it when there’s music playing and he wants me to dance with him. “Son, there’s no music right now. I don’t want to dance. Do you want a cracker?” “Dance! Dance!” he insisted. I was perplexed. And a little concerned. Was this the start of a continuous Silent Stadler Dance Marathon at the DMV and All Day Long? Did he now think dancing was the Most Fun Thing All The Time?

And then it got really quiet in the already-pretty-quiet DMV. There was, in fact, terrible waiting room music playing very softly from a speaker on the other side of the room.

So I acknowledged his acute hearing and my error in recognizing that there was, in fact, music playing. And I offered him another cracker.

This has proved very charming indeed in some situations, where Simon demonstrates strong preferences for things like strawberries and cheese, or persists in climbing up onto the couch when we only expect him to go halfway. But there are other scenarios where Simon exercises all his tenacity to demand something that, well, just seems not to warrant one of his First-Rate Tantrums.

As near as we can tell, the most recent 4 tantrums (in the past 24 hours) have been attempts to communicate the following:

• I want a cracker! Shopping for curtains is boring and I hate it!
• I threw my ball and I didn’t see where it went! Now I can’t find it!
• I thought I was going to get x, but you are offering me y (where, say, x = milkshake bottle* and y = clean diaper)!
• This playground baby swing I thought was so great two days ago is scaring the pants off me!

Now, we’re not talking fussing or whining, but full-out wailing, back-arching, kicking screaming. About…a plastic ball? It’s so hard to take seriously, but I usually feel bad for laughing.

When he’s not in the middle of throwing a tantrum, Simon seems to be trying to communicate more. He’s kind of quit using his three baby signs (although when I asked him yesterday what he wanted for breakfast, he did sign for his milkshake bottle). But now that his ear tubes are in, he’s hearing a lot better, and as a result, listening more intently. When he’s fussing, and I start guessing what he wants (“Are you all done? Do you want water?”) he perks up, smiles, and says “hah!” or “uh-huh!” when I guess the right thing. So that’s usually helpful.

*milkshake bottle: Now that Simon has turned one, his dietitian wants him to use a toddler formula rather than an infant formula. So we’ve switched from a relatively easy-to-mix powder to PediaSmart**. Toddler formulas are designed to give supplemental nutrition up to age thirteen, so they’re packed with sugar in order to make them appealing enough to drink. And I get that. But I wish there were an option to offer my baby that weren’t labeled “vanilla” or “chocolate.” In any case, we now refer to the formula as milkshake, because that’s what it looks and smells like.

**Making a bottle of infant formula involved scooping and shaking. Making a bottle of PediaSmart requires using the kitchen scale, a whisk, and incrementally pouring and mixing the water and powder together, while whisking vigorously. I think it’s stupid, plus I hate it. We considered using the ready-to-drink equivalent, but I prefer the powder because it’s easier to discretize. Sometimes, I want to offer only, say, six ounces of milkshake bottle, and since I am a math teacher (sometimes), I can handle the proportion, and then I don’t have two ounces of liquid milkshake languishing in the refrigerator. More than anyone needed to know, but that’s why it’s down in a footnote.

Let “carrot,” “cheese,” and “cracker” represent his willingness to consume each item respectively.

• cheese > 0
• cracker > 0
• carrot < 0

So he likes cheese and he likes cracker, but he doesn’t like carrot. What if we mix it up?

• cracker + cheese > 0 (as you might expect)
• cheese + carrot > 0
• cracker + carrot < 0
• cracker + carrot + cheese > 0

It would seem that we can conclude:

• |carrot| < |cheese|
• |cracker| < |carrot|

And therefore:

• carrot < cracker < cheese, but
• |cracker| < |carrot| < |cheese|

I will leave it as an exercise for the eater to assign a numerical value to each item.

Me: I don’t want him to become a picky eater.
Dr: He is a picky eater.
Me: Oh…I, um, don’t think…yes. Yes, I see.

To wit:

• Simon won’t feed himself; Todd or I have to do it.
• It was only last Wednesday that he learned to eat from a spoon.
• When he eats from a spoon, I have to top every spoonful of food with a Cheerio. He notices if there is no Cheerio and thwacks the spoon away.
• Most non-pureed food gets stored in his cheeks until later.

I think a lot of this comes from poor sensory awareness in his mouth. But even so, I’m ready for him to put his own Cheerios in his own mouth.