The Purple Dinosaur Song, or I'm Totally Going to Lose It

In 100 years, a melodious tune with sadistic lyrics will drift from a children’s playground:

“I hate you!  You hate me!  Let’s go out and kill Barney!  With a big shot gun and a bang bang on the floor!  No more purple dinosaur.”

One child will pause and ask, “Who’s Barney, anyway?”

“According to the song, a purple dinosaur.”

Because that song will never, ever die.  Daniel is helping it to live on right now.  And it’s fine.  I’m not on the verge of losing it at all.

I’m totally on the verge of losing it. 

Since Ella’s diagnosis, life has shifted a tiny bit- the future looks a little blurrier than a few weeks ago.  Ella’s had two weeks of relatively good behavior at school.  She has settled into the routine.  Of course, she is removed from her classroom throughout the week for various therapies and assessments.  I think her absence endears her more to her teacher and contributes to the positive feedback we’ve been receiving. 

We got the results of her physical therapy screening yesterday, and John said it was the most amusing thing he’d read all year.  It was filled with fascinating observations:

Ella can transition from the floor to standing through a right or left-kneel position without using her hands.

She can gallop with either foot leading, hop on her right of left foot inconsistently up to five times in a row and skip.

She runs with functional mechanics and speed.

The therapist noted that Ella did trip a couple of times when she was in the physical therapy room.  This is thought to be due to her impulsivity and distractibility.

Ella’s gross motor skills are currently functional for the school setting. 

Her school report card was rough.  A lot of “not meeting expectations.”  I think I cried a little.

Okay, I cry all the time.  I cried during the preview of the film “Les Miserables,” even though I find Anne Hathway’s singing voice sub-par.  I cried during Obama’s acceptance speech.  I cried during Mitt Romney’s concession speech.  I cried during a documentary about Walmart, because you would not even believe how many women are raped and then murdered in Walmart parking lots. 

I also watched a National Geographic show about volcanoes with Caleb.  The other week, I was worrying about global warming bringing about more Sandy-type hurricanes.   Now I know Yellowstone’s massive volcano is going to erupt any time now, and an ice age will commence.  I thought about raising my kids during an ice age. 

I cried about that, too.

The kids seem un-phased, not because I am particularly good at disguising my emotions, but because children are narcissists who only care about themselves.  And they always want snacks.  All the time. Like, I’m on the phone with a friend having a rather intense conversation, and Danny’s all, “Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom. Mom.  Mom.”  I put my hand over the receiver.

“WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHAT DO YOU WANT???”

“I want a snack.”

Sometimes I yell at my kids.  And then I cry about it a little bit.

But sometimes something like this will happen:

“Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.”

“What Ben.  What.  What.”

“Have you seen my spork?”

I know exactly where his spork is.  It’s in the dishwasher.  He is thrilled to be reunited with it.  Turns out, apples taste better when they are sporked.  Ben’s on a quest to rid the world of frivolous eating utensils. 

The kids sit at the table and eat their apples- most by hand, one by spork- and begin singing the no more purple dinosaur song. 

What do I have to cry about?  Perhaps I’m not really on the verge of losing it after all.  Perhaps things are actually just fine. 

(Though that makes for much less interesting blog fodder…)