On that September Day...

Alan Jackson, the country artist, has written a beautiful song entitled "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" to commemorate all that we lost on 9/11. It brings tears to my eyes with its simplicity and honesty.

We all know where we were--I was on the Edens driving from Chicago to Buffalo Grove, listening to my friend Mary read the news on WXRT. When she and her morning deejay partner Lyn mentioned the first plane on the air, it was so unreal, "probably a single engine private plane" whose pilot hadn't had enough coffee and took a wrong turn. Philippe was in a hotel room in Minneapolis, watching the end of a movie on HBO. My brother was in Ohio, waiting for the plane he intended to catch to go home.

Within moments so much had changed--I pulled into a parking lot and my colleague Dawn yelled to me that a second plane had hit the second tower. As a former government employee, she immediately recognized what was going on and hurried me to a television. Philippe went to the hotel bar to get a coffee and couldn't figure out why everyone was staring at the television. My brother watched the second plane hit, left his gate, and managed to get a rental car to get home.

But, my childhood friend Jeffrey Gardner cannot tell us where he was or what he did when the plane hit the tower he worked in. All we know about that day is that he didn't make it out. Knowing Jeffrey, we can assume much more. If he wasn't killed on impact or severely injured, Jeffrey did all that he could to help others, either tending to the injured, trying to evacuate the building, or just leading folks in prayer.

I know this much: my generation lost its innocence on 9/11. A lot of extraordinary people were killed in the terrorist attacks and, subsequently, a lot of ordinary people chose to serve our country as we went to war. I lit a yarzheidt candle today for Jeffrey; for victims on the airplanes, the Twin Towers, and the Pentagon;, and for the members of our armed forces who have sacrificed in the past 10 years.

And I answered all of Charlotte's questions. She's not too young to know. It is weird to me that my students were children on 9/11, that a generation is growing up for whom 9/11 is truly history. I suppose it shouldn't be: Philippe and I ended the day at the movies, seeing The Debt, a film which deals with the aftermath of the Holocaust. WWII is, for my generation, truly history. So, 9/11 as history shouldn't surprise me. But, the fact of one cataclysmic day, a few short minutes, changing all we feel about our safety, security, and peacefulness seems so different.

On that September day, I was driving, enjoying the clear blue sky and the sound of my friend's laughter on the radio. On this September day, I took a 15 mile bike ride with my family (yes, Charlotte, too!), went to a picnic, made a new acquaintance, and spent good time with my husband. And not for one minute did I forget that Jeffrey Gardner was unable to do the same. I dedicate this day to Jeffrey, for whom "good day was as bad as it gets." He was, simply put, a joyous human and a kind soul. I'm proud that for his short time on earth I was able to call him "friend."

For my usual Jeffrey post, click here.

Give your kids an extra hug tonight.

Six Years in the Making

Did anyone else notice that this was the shortest summer on record? School let out yesterday, it seems. And today, after much excited anticipation, Charlotte started first grade. It feels like just yesterday that I dropped her at daycare for the first time. She said to me that she was amazed at how quickly she seemed to get to first grade. I responded, "Actually, sweetie, it's taken you a good six years to get here." I don't think she quite understood me, but as we drove to meet her teacher yesterday, I had a virtual newsreel of highlights from Charlotte's life playing in my head. Six years--six long years and yet six incredibly short years.

Charlotte has been looking forward to this day since about a month before Kindergarten ended. In fact, I think her Kindergarten diploma (Yes, she got one, but the "ceremony" was limited to the school director, her teachers, and the class.) mostly impressed her because it meant she was a first grader.

All summer we've heard about how "first graders do this" and "first graders do that". First graders, for instance, sit in an assigned chair at school; help their mommies choose vegetables at the grocery store; cross the street walking next to mommy, but don't have to hold hands; and first graders have homework (very exciting). In short, first graders are big kids.

When we asked Charlotte why she was so excited about first grade she said, "Because I'll get to do more math and science." I think her teacher will have her hands full with this one!

We walked Charlotte into the schoolyard and chatted with other parents while the kids climbed and played. It was cheerful chaos as the whole lower school (1 through 5) gathered before the bell.

We were a bit concerned because Charlotte was not put in a class with any of her closest friends and she's in the biggest class. A friend said, "Show her the list and see what her reaction is. Maybe she'll teach you something." Teach she did--while she wanted to be with Sarah and Henry, she glanced at the list, asked about her teacher, and talked about playing with her friends on the playground. She's happy to have several children from last year in her class, one of whom was at her birthday (the measure of kindergarten friendship, right?).

As parents greeted each other, Charlotte had "smile conversations" with her friends, but explored the playground on her own. I tried not to worry about her social integration--her buddies clearly delighted in seeing her, and she them, so I think she just needed to run her nerves off.

The bell rang. The children lined up with their classes, hoisted their backpacks onto their backs, and, first graders in the lead, filed into school. Just after I took this picture, Charlotte turned and blew me the biggest kiss ever, movie star-style.

About four and a half years ago, Charlotte started to crawl. She got on her hands and knees, gave me one of her angelic mischievous smiles, and turned to scoot away as quickly as she could. I realized in that moment that my goal as a parent is to raise my child to be able to walk away from me with confidence and clarity, but to always know I'm there and to (hopefully) always want to come back. That movie star air kiss made me feel like I just might be getting it right (so far).

How did it get to be time for first grade?

Last night I attended an information session for first grade at the International School of Boston. The director of pre-school ended the session by joking (sort of) that he knew that the kindergartners were ready for first grade, but that he and the teachers had wanted to help the parents be ready.

Truthfully, we're not ready. We look at Charlotte and she's still our tiny little baby. Okay, she reads, writes, tells (bad) jokes, plays complex board games, and is a charming companion. But she's our baby.

Charlotte, however, is ready. How do I know? This morning she told me that she had a field trip with her class today to a mill. They've been studying wheat, so going to see it ground into flour would be a good next step, right?

I said, "No, I don't think so, sweetie. I don't remember an email."

She didn't argue or anything. "Okay."

We headed to school where I ran into one our class mothers. She said, "I'm going with the children today." I said, "Where? Is there a field trip?" "Yes," she said, "to the mill."

Charlotte's grin required me to put on my sunglasses.

I quickly remembered the email we received earlier in the month about field trips. I said to Charlotte, "Sweetie, at the mill there are no bathrooms. You'll have to squat in the woods."

She said, "I know, Mommy. Isabelle told us."

"Oh, okay. Oh no. I didn't pack you a lunch." [Charlotte has hot lunch at school on Wednesdays.]

"Mommy, I have hot lunch today. Isabelle will have my lunch. She told us that she'd have lunches for anyone who gets hot lunch today."

Apparently, Charlotte is an excellent listener at school And though I hadn't put the field trip on the calendar and didn't receive the reminder email from school, she was well-prepared.

If only Charlotte had told me last night, I wouldn't have felt like such a dope!

She's totally ready for first grade. I, however, may need to repeat kindergarten!

Heart-a-versary

Charlotte sometime before her surgery. (May, 2005)

Last Monday we celebrated Charlotte's sixth birthday. Of course, she "celebrated" with her second bout of strep throat in 3 weeks (who knew I was supposed to change her toothbrush?! We're still P.I.T.s*). Just as I finished icing the cake for school, I got a call to pick her up because of a high fever. Not to worry, she had cake that night at home, cupcakes at school on Thursday, and yesterday she had a magnificent puppet party.

Today, we pause to celebrate--a bit more somberly perhaps, but with equal amounts of joy--Charlotte's heart-a-versary.

Six years ago today, we handed our teeny-tiny baby to the anesthesiologist. I remember him as being quite tall and having an Australian accent, but I was post-surgery myself so am an unreliable witness. He cradled her in his arms and we all walked to the operating suite. There we gave our baby, our hopes, and our trust to the great good team of Drs. Mavroudis, Backer, and Stewart. On the way to the waiting room, Philippe collapsed in my arms.

We waited. And waited. And then Dr. Mavroudis came to us smiling, telling us that Charlotte was back in her room and the nurses were setting up her meds. I think that was the first time we breathed that day.

Charlotte immediately post-surgery (May 16, 2005). So little amidst all those tubes, medicines, and equipment.

So today, as every May 16, we think of those wonderful doctors, as well as Charlotte's formidable cardiologist Luciana Young; her lead nurses Nancy Smith and Samantha McCoy; and all the staff and nursers who gave our daughter back to us.

She may have been born on May 9, but it was on May 16 that Charlotte was given a fighting chance at life. We will be forever deeply grateful to all of you who helped make that happened and who supported us through the long days and nights that followed.

Charlotte last Monday. Feeling terrible with strep and exhausted after a 2-hour doctor appointment, but ready for her birthday cake.

Now She Is Six

Every year I write Charlotte a birthday letter. This year, I’m borrowing a bit from a poem I’d been waiting for six years to read to Charlotte. I read it last night on “birthday eve.” She squealed in delight. Forgive the slightly “holiday card” beginning, please.

Dear Charlotte,

When you were one, you had just begun.

And what a beginning it was. After you blew out you first birthday candle, Daddy and I went out to dinner to celebrate and to breathe a deep sigh of relief. Your first year was full of challenges, of the regular sort and of the not-so-regular medical sort. You delighted us daily even if your medical issues concerned and challenged us. On the day you were born, a first birthday wasn’t something we were sure we should think about. I still think it’s one of your finest accomplishments!

When you were two, you were nearly new.

Celebrating two with Sheri (Sheddy).

Four months after a second heart surgery, your second birthday found you growing at incredible rates, eating (!), and teaching yourself the alphabet. You loved having a birthday, gleefully unwrapping presents even if you still weren’t interested in the cupcake. I can still see your outfit, your glee at music class when everyone sang to you in French, the playground, and your beautiful curly mop.

When you were three, you were hardly she.



I think Milne must have meant that a three-year old is still a newling. Our three-year old was SO you. Everything you were at three—silly, smart, sassy, sparkling—you still are three years later. You had your first real birthday party and you ate your cake. You wanted to be involved in every detail of planning it, including asking me to make a yellow cake with chocolate and pink icing.

But, I’ll agree with Milne that compared to now, you were hardly you. You were simply too little for your personality!

When you were four, you were so much more.

This may be my favorite picture ever!

Four was a hoot, to be honest. As one friend’s sister puts it, “four is the terrible twos plus vocabulary.” I’m glad to say our twos weren’t terrible. And four was two plus vocabulary. I didn’t blog much that year and it’s a shame. Just a list of the things you said and learned would have made for hysterical reading. You traveled to Paris and Boston and reveled in adventures you still talk about. You started talking about your birthday in December and never wavered—it had to be arts and crafts and the cupcakes had to be….yellow cake with chocolate icing. (Your cake on the actual day? Yellow, chocolate & pink icing.)


When you were five, you were just alive.

The past year has been an extraordinary year in the life of this parent, just watching you blossom. In junior kindergarten, you had a master teacher, Corinne, who recognized your talents and challenges. She kept you front and center to keep you focused, and she challenged you. You made incredible social strides—you had a few very close friends and were also a well-integrated part of the larger group. By the end of the year, any social problems that had concerned us at age 4 were totally gone.

Not only did you eat the cake, but you figured out that birthdays are really all about the cake (and the party). You also figured out that you could ask your baker for one thing on your birthday and another on the party day. We went with a chocolate fudge cake (from scratch) on the birthday, cupcakes for the party.


You started Occupational Therapy just before your fifth birthday. From May to December 2010 you thought you were just playing for an hour a week with Miss Jill. We watched you progress in your balance, physical risk-taking, and posture. And you loved going.

Summer brought your first big day camp experience. I worried that you wouldn’t want to get onto the bus the first day. Silly me. You nearly forgot to say goodbye to me. Fred’s Camp was an amazing experience—your only knew two girls in your group, but made friends quickly (starting, as usual, with a boy). You tried all kinds of new sports, got into the pool daily, and came home every day happy, filthy, and exhausted.

In September, kindergarten wasn’t the big transition is for many children since you knew the school. But, none of your three “best” friends were in your class, in fact none of the girls you knew well were in your class. I was worried. Needlessly, it seems. Within a week, you had figured out that you could play with Felix on the playground and you relaxed and made great new friends in your classroom. Your teachers were, again, extraordinary. Mrs. Lovito made English class the highlight of each day. Marie Gladys and Laurence helped you surprise us by encouraging your reading exploration in French.

It was beginning in December that you taught me all your lessons for the year. After your holiday show at school, the movers came and packed us up. Your last night in Chicago was your first sleep over, at Trudy’s house. Then we picked up and moved east.

The transition you hadn’t really had for kindergarten happened when you began at the École Internationale de Boston/International School of Boston. As you described the change, “It wasn’t all that different. My teacher has brown hair instead of yellow. My assistant teacher is a man, not a woman. And the children are different. Otherwise it’s the same.”

I think you make it sound easy, but I know it hasn’t been. In Chicago you knew everyone at school, had a few close friends but played with and were friends with everyone. Suddenly you knew no one, had no playdates, didn’t seem to quickly be on birthday party lists, and spent a lot of time with Mommy.

Your teachers and you said you integrated quickly into the class. Certainly, you fell into the academic routine quickly, thanks to your talented teachers Isabelle, Axel and Jeanne. It turns out that you returned to playing alone on the playground more often than not. Happily, most of the time, I think. You would play with another child if the teacher suggested it. A little girl named Natalie (from another class) befriended you. It took about three months before you started talking about your friends at school, consenting to playdates, and talking about who you’d invite to her birthday party. But, you never once complained.

I think having Jenna (our upstairs neighbor) close by for one-on-one time made the transition easier. And I’m grateful for the spontaneous knocks on the door this winter. I know Jenna made snow days more fun!

Through it all, you have never complained; (almost) always went to school with a skip and a smile; and tried hard not talk about how much you miss Chicago, the Lycée, your pretty green room, and your house. You are quick to answer the question, “What do you like best about Boston,” and you have become quite the Red Sox fan.

Your personality has been evident from your first 72 hours in the PICU—you observe the world around you, takes it in, and figure it out. You’re strong, resourceful, and smart. You’re sassy, silly, and sparkly (thanks Aunt Bobbie for the perfect birthday card; I’m totally stealing its description). You have always been all these things. But in the past six months you have begun to connect your personality to your world, live in that world socially and sensitively, and remind me always that kindness and a smile make everything better and easier.

Yesterday my friend Vanessa noted on her Facebook page that while she loved the gifts she got for Mother’s Day, the gift she gets every day is her daughter. I echo this—you are my (our) gift. You are my sunshine and my heart.

Now you are six, you're as clever as clever. I know you won’t be six forever and ever.


I will cherish every day that you are six, or as you put it this morning “the six-iest” [folks, I really don’t make this stuff up!]. As you enter your seventh year, I hope you’ll continue to be sensitive and sparkly, silly and kind. I look forward to watching you learn to swim, go to a new day camp, and (gasp) start first grade. I hope you’ll still find comfort snuggling up to read, ask me to push you higher on the swing, and dream up games for us to play. I know you’ll be as stupendously six as you have been fabulously five and I am looking forward to the ride.

May you grow from strength to strength.

Rumplestilskin

Who knew that in addition to super-fresh seafood, easy access to mountains and the ocean, and proximity to my family, our move would bring us to "the heart of the most fertile puppetry-producing region of the country."?* And that proximity would make us neighbors to the best-kept secret in Boston, The Puppet Showcase Theatre?

Yesterday we took Charlotte to her first professional (i.e., non-birthday party) puppet show, in a theatre dedicated to nothing but puppets. We had no idea what to expect beyond a puppet-rendition of Rumplestilskin. We were all delighted by Dream Tale Puppets' production of the tale, performed by two puppeteers and five tabletop puppets. A perfect 60-minutes long, the show captured Charlotte's complete attention. She was delighted by the puppets and the story (a girl becomes a queen, just her speed). We thought the staging was terrific and the story well-told. Lots of good giggling was done by all.

Stay tuned to learn about how this performance inspired Charlotte's activities for the rest of the day and this morning.

Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Month

February was congenital heart defect (CHD) awareness month. Awareness campaigns, statistics, and information were everywhere. So, I decided not to write about heart defects in February.

Okay, I didn't decide so much as not get around to it in time. But, never mind about that because in our little world, every day is CHD awareness day. I thought choosing a random day to write about it would have a bit more impact, make more sense in relating how CHD affects our lives.

We talk often about Charlotte being a gift, her results from surgery being exceptional, and the blessings we've experienced. That's not just our perception. It's the cold, hard fact.

Congenital heart defects are the leading cause of infant mortality in the United States. CHD affects 1% of all newborns in the U.S. Truncus arteriosus is rare among these--latest CDC statistics, 0.72 live births in 10,000 have TA. That's around 300 children each year. Consider that Prentice, the hospital where Charlotte was born, delivers more than 10,000 children each year. and you can begin to get a sense of how few children are born with this defect.*

A recent-ish study demonstrated that truncus arteriosus is one of the most expensive hospitalizations of any defect. An average neonatal stay is $192,781. Average hospital stay is around 21 days.* (Recall that Charlotte's first stay was 49 days; she was above average even then!)

And, the final stat for tonight: 90% of newborns survive their first repair. The degree of complications after that surgery is hard to track, I think. It depends on how much damage the heart suffered prior to repair (for Charlotte, minimal, thank goodness), what other underlying medical issues are there, and (I think) each child's individual constitution.

Those are the CDC stats, the numbers that parents seek out when they first hear those life-changing word, "The ultrasound shows..." After that other numbers take over, ventricular performance, pulse ox, weight, medicine dosages, food intake, months to next surgery, etc.

You've read our numbers for the past five years. So, I'll end with our latest stats.

First, the one Charlotte would like reported--she lost ANOTHER tooth on Monday, bringing the grand total of lost tooth to five. Second, when we met Charlotte's new pediatrician yesterday, we found out her latest "key" stats: Charlotte is 47 1/2 " tall and weighs 46 pounds. She's tall for her age and thin. (Duh, her tights fall down all day.)

Charlotte's new pediatrician is in partnership with my high school friend who I have promised I will not again call "Danny" in the office. Old habits die hard! We loved meeting Dr. Mitchell. And we look forward to seeing if we agree with Dan that she is "the best doctor in the universe." So far, so good!

*Data from CDC.gov and NMH.org

The Blog is Back!

I have been a remiss blogger. As my brother noted on Facebook, we've had a LOT going on--Philippe got a new job for which we've all moved to the greater Boston area. I'll be "back-blogging" about Charlotte's journey to her new home (and new school, new city, apartment-living, etc.), but for now, I wanted to share Charlotte's first day on the ski slopes, Butternut in the Berkshires, to be specific.

BEFORE:

So excited. Ready to rock the mountain!

Do you notice anything different about Charlotte? Yep, her disintegrating top left tooth has finally fallen out. And, even better, her top right tooth FELL out last Saturday night. She can fit her whole thumb in there!

DURING We started Charlotte with a private lesson today. She and her teacher, Amelia, had the coolest names on the mountain today.

AFTER

After an hour of skiing and some time walking around in those crazy heavy boots, Charlotte crashed on the way home.

Skiing, by the way, is a sport that Philippe has been concerned about in terms of Charlotte's heart. He's always wondered if it's okay for her to be in high altitudes and to move at the speeds that intermediate skiers employ. Her surgeon, Dr. Backer, told us that he skis with some of his patients in Colorado (I think), so not to worry. Our friend Jessica, also a truncus arteriosus patient, has told us that her body clearly tells her what it can and can't do. So far, all is good for Charlotte and skiing. Good thing, too. I think she caught the bug in a major way today.

She's SO ready for ski school on Saturday!

A Perfectly Innocent Question, or more ruminations of Charlotte as a "regular kid"

Our annual Virginia Beach sandcrab picture. The scar pokes up about an inch or more above the suit.

Charlotte has a couple of bathing suits and sundresses that expose her heart surgery scar. She even has one tankini that shows off her heart scar as well as her g-tube stoma. Every now and then when she chooses one of these outfits (and these are her favorite bathing suits), I'll ask if she minds that the scar or scars show. Her standard response is, "Not at all." Just recently she has begun saying, "No, of course not. I love my scars."

Charlotte knows how she got her scars. She pours over her baby photo albums. She has asked me to explain her heart defect and how it was repaired (the book It's My Heart is an indispensable resource.) And, she was recently among the honored child-guests at the Saving Tiny Hearts Society gala. We've rehearsed what she might say if someone asked how she got the scar.

We both really thought that she was as comfortable as a five-year old might be with her body and its difference.

Until Saturday.

This weekend a lovely, charming, intelligent, and curious eight-year old friend asked Charlotte what her scar was. I didn't hear the exchange or how she phrased it, but I imagine it was innocent and nonjudgmental. Suddenly, Charlotte came running into the house, angry, telling me that she didn't want anyone to talk about it. She was stomping her feet, very insistent that she would not talk about it.

Philippe and I were stunned. I've asked a few times this summer if any of her camp friends asked about it and she said no. Turns out one friend asked and she refused to answer.

Later in the day, when Charlotte had calmed down and we were alone, I asked her why the question had upset her. It took her a few moments to articulate it, but she said, "Because I didn't want R to think I was still sick." And, I'm guessing, she didn't feel she could adequately explain that she isn't sick, that she is (as she so often says) "as healthy as she can be."

Philippe and I were both dumbstruck. I still don't know what to say.

Both R and Charlotte have probably forgotten about this conversation. I whispered to R that her dad could show her Charlotte's website and she could read the answers to her questions. She's an intelligent girl and meant well. She deserves an answer. Who knows? Charlotte's story might inspire some of her life choices.

While the kids have likely moved on, my heart breaks for Charlotte's broken heart and for her bruised spirit. This time the question was caring and considerate. Next time it might be cruel, teasing, or exclusionary. And, I have idea how to help her deal with this. She wants so much to be a regular kid. And in so many ways she is about as regular (and extraordinary) as a kid can get. But, no matter how regular she is, she'll always have a "zipper" down her chest and she'll always be a heart patient. Even if congenital heart defects are the number one birth defect, there ain't nothing regular about that.

OT/DT Odyessey: The Final Chapter, OT and beyond

Charlotte posing in front of the new Ann and Robert H. Lurie Children's Hospital of Chicago. Construction is on schedule. At this critical juncture we still need funds--the building is up, but we need to complete the interior. Please click here to donate and be a Hero for Life. And check out the hand etched into the windows at about the 8th floor, screen left.

After nearly 8 months of research, evaluations, and hair pulling (mine, really), we were ready to find an Occupational Therapist. The evaluating practice was out of the question so I, once again, turned to Team Charlotte.



Since Amy Zier & Associates was not an option because of insurance and the recommended OT at Children's Memorial was on maternity leave (very inconvenient timing), I turned to Oaktree Developmental Center. Its lead OT, Kathleen Stanton, was recommended by Cheryl Mercado, the OT who evaluated Charlotte during her years in Early Intervention.



My first conversations with Kathleen were very calming--she is familiar with both therapies that had been recommended, was willing to set us up based on the BO&A evaluation, and clearly wasn't planning on jumping to conclusions about anything until she (or the assigned therapist) had met Charlotte. Charlotte was happy with any clinic we might find as long as there was a ball pit.

Finally, in early March we were matched with Sarah S., an OT fresh out of school with a wonderful way with children. Charlotte dove right in. Literally, she dove right into the ball pit. While it is clear to me that she still needs work with fine motor strength and skills, her willingness to try new physical challenges was already (in March) vastly different than it had been when we first begin this odyssey in June, 2009.



After 4 weeks, we could already see the difference in Charlotte's upper body strength and daredevilness. She looked forward to therapy as a big playdate with a new grown up friend.


Then...while on a brief vacation during our March break, we received a call from Kathleen to let us know that Sarah had had to suddenly resign. [Family reasons. Not mine to tell, but I will say that she is not only an amazing young OT, but that she is clearly a wonderful daughter and niece.] Because Oaktree is so small, Kathleen couldn't schedule Charlotte with an OT until she hired someone new.

Back to square one....this time I cast a broader net and did some of my own research, calling Team Charlotte to ask "Have you heard of this practice? That OT?'

I found a new practice and set up an appointment with an OT who sounded lovely on the phone. She could start nearly immediately, in early May, but would have to hand Charlotte to a co-worker for two months during the summer while she took a medical leave. Oh, and the facility had no ball pit. (I didn't tell Charlotte that.)



The morning before the appointment, I called Kathleen to see if, on the off chance, she'd hired anyone. She said, "I was about to call you. I can start you with my new OT on June 6," and proceeded to tell me all about Jill.

Philippe and I weighed the options:


A) Beginning quickly with a new OT, new facility with a break in continuity. Big bonus, lessening the weeks of no OT. Big minus, Charlotte would just get used to her new OT and then have a sub. Oh, and no ball pit.


B) Waiting about five weeks to return, but going back to a known facility (with a ball pit) and continuous service with the same OT.



We choice option B. The OT on whom I cancelled (I can't remember her name, but would dig through my notes if we need to go through this again) sent me a very supportive email saying that choosing the known facility and continuous OT would likely be less disruptive for Charlotte. She thought it made perfect sense, promised to shred all our intake documents, and told me to get in touch if I needed to.

So, Charlotte's been playing with Miss Jill at Oaktree Development Center every Monday since June 6. The changes in Charlotte are evident and exciting. She's working on balance, core strength (serious ab work, folks), fine motor strength, and complex task sequences. She starts and ends each session in the....ball pit! But, she's riding a zip line to jump/fall into it. She is so excited to go to OT, that she doesn't say goodbye when she runs into the room.



That, folks, is the end of the OT/DT Odyssey tale. It began with a surprising and shocking comment by an astute, sensitive teacher. Charlotte travelled through junior kindergarten with a master teacher who nurtured her and helped her blossom. We discovered her intellectual strengths, physical deficits, and potential challenges. Charlotte went to camp and became a sort of daredevil (more on that another time). And she goes to OT weekly to lessen (or at least learn to manage) the discrepancy between her fine motor skills and intellectual capabilities.