Thank You

While I have a few moments to spare, I'd like to thank all of our family and friends who came out to Sherwood Brewing last night for the Utica Unicorns/FXAM fundraising night.  Some of you traveled a great distance on a Thursday night to hang out with us, and that hasn't gone unnoticed (Dennis & Beverly!).  Our local friends, so many of you came out tonight and between the rush of people as well as trying to calm the kids' anxieties, it was a whirlwind.  It almost felt like a wedding reception, with the blur of activity, people, snippets of conversation, and pausing for a few seconds to take a sip or bite of something.

Adam, Bruce, & Curtis, thanks for stepping out of your comfort zone and giving Sherwood a try. :)  You guys completely made Lori's night, more than we can express in words.

FXAM crew, this evening wouldn't have happened without you.  You welcomed us into the fold, showed us that we're not alone, and even though we can't participate as frequently as we'd like, you're always in our thoughts.  We wouldn't have gotten as far as we have with the kids without your support and guidance, as well as just the occasionally well-placed "it's gonna be okay."

From pediatrician and dentist recommendations to even something that seemed as simple as melatonin, they've been completely life-changing in our house.  To be able to meet a medical professional whose first question is NOT "fragile what?"

And of course, this evening DEFINITELY wouldn't have happened without Sherwood Brewing Company and the old Alpha Team & regulars (Mary, Erica, Meridith, Rob).  Lisa, Ray, and Corey, thank you all so much for this and so much more.  We had to leave in a rush, so we weren't able to say hi & bye to everyone, or even see who came after we left.

But know that you are all loved and appreciated.  We feel beyond humbled and grateful for your love, support, patience, and friendship.

The On and Off Switch

Part of neurological disorders is that the brain can be sending out so much uncontrollable energy on its own through the nervous system that, at the end of the day (literally), the body has no more of its own energy left and is just operating on the "fumes" of nervous impulses.

Think of it in terms of being so exhausted by the end of the day physically, but your brain won't shut up and so you have difficulty getting to sleep.  Now imagine that in a 4-year-old.

Every.
Damn.
Day.
Of.
His.
Entire.
Life.

We who are in our 20s, 30s, 40s, and beyond every so often have reprieve, because chances are that those fits of nerves come from our daily routines -- job, chores, errands, social obligations, etc.  Henry doesn't.  He doesn't have the luxury of being able to take a sick day to unplug and unwind (and thus, by extension, neither do we).

This is how his brain is wired, which means that, short of chemical intervention, he can't escape from it.

But this post isn't meant to be a downer or to bum everyone out.  It's meant to set the stage for a cute moment that just occurred (because we have to take these moments every chance we get).

Henry was clearly falling asleep while playing because he had nothing left, physically.  His body was cashed out but his mind kept going.  It got to that delicate point where even though he was trying very hard to remain engaged, his physical being had had enough.  So it was time for bed.

I called out, "Henry, bed time!"

He may be non-verbal and very delayed in communication and comprehension, but he knows certain terms, words, and phrases.  "Bed time" is one of them (as is "bath time," thankfully).

I walked up the stairs and he tried to sit up....and failed.  He curled up into a ball, forehead to kitchen floor.  "Bed time," I said again, gently.

He struggled mightily to push himself up to his feet.  He got up, and made the semi-circle around me toward the stairs.....and misjudged his turn radius.  He was so tired that he turned too wide and nearly crashed face-first into the wall.  Luckily, he stopped himself just in time, but it was enough.

I grabbed both his hands and helped him up the stairs into his room.  He collapsed onto his bed, and, as per our nightly routine, I tried to lift the bottom half of his body onto his bed and he started giggling because he's just naturally ticklish.  I flopped him into bed, gave him his monkey, pulled his comforter over him, patted his head and said "good night."

This was about 15 minutes ago.  He's already asleep.

Going Camping

Not in the literal sense.

No, Henry's latest gig at bedtime is to get a bit hopped up and play around for a while in his room.  And since he's in an actual bed, he can climb out of it.

At first, we'd hear a lot of stomping on the floor coming from his room.  He wasn't screaming or crying, so we weren't too concerned, but we checked on the monitor anyway.

He was missing.

Uh, wut?

Using the camera controls, we found him lying on the floor, just mumbling to himself.  And occasionally, we'd pan the camera to see him not only lying on the floor, but with his pillow, blanket, and Monkey on the floor with him.

This is what we've taken to call "camping" (and based on the noises I hear above me right now, he's doing it again).

UPDATE: he fell asleep after this latest "excursion."  I did manage to lift him up and get him back into bed without waking him.  Hooray, deadlift workouts! :)

On This Father's Day

I posted as a joke that I'm a third-rate father on a friend's post, but in a way, I realized that it's kinda' true.  I don't want to be labeled as "the best father, the best husband in the world," because then, if I was already the best, what do I have to aspire to, to work toward?

What's my goal and inspiration if I've already achieved the status of "the best?"

I have to work at this thing every damn day (and I sure as hell know that I'm not 100% successful every day).  Sure, today might be the day that Dads are celebrated, but we can't rest on those laurels, even for one day.  If nothing else, then today should remind us that we need to keep working, to continuously earn this praise and respect, not just expect it.

From a kid's perspective, I know it's hard to have lost a father.  Many of you are in this scenario, and those of you who know my history know that I'm right there with you (ESPECIALLY those for whom this occurred so recently).

I certainly had a hard time coming to grips with the loss of my dad in 2003.  I still feel pangs of wistfulness (and to a degree, guilt), but it drives me to be better in my own role.  To make my father proud of me as well as doing the best that I can for Henry and Evie.  I may not grieve anymore, but it's still weighing in the back of my mind.

Was my father the Best Dad in the World?  Of course not.  He was struggling and learning the best he could within his own circumstances, just as I am.  I know I'm not the Best Dad in the World either.  I'm just a guy trying to not be a total screw-up for these kids, and as we've seen, being a total screw-up is not defined by levels or amounts of social status, wealth, or privilege (coughDanTurnercough).

If nothing else, then today is a day of reflection and contemplation.  As the kids are upstairs blessedly having a nap so that I can sit here, drink a few beers, and work on this post, I think about my role in their lives, the degree of influence I have, and the responsibility that comes with it, especially given the "status" assigned to them and their particular needs (and the reality is the depth and breadth of that responsibility really can't be fathomed unless one is a parent of a child with special needs; it's a different world that has to be lived, not explained).

This week marks the official beginning of my summer schedule at work.  It means I'm putting in more physical labor at a higher pace and urgency than at any other time of the school year.  In a way, it's fitting that Father's Day comes as the day before this "second season" so to speak, because now I have to shift into higher gear as an effect of financially providing for the family.

This is the day of crystallizing my place in the family dynamic, of defining my role and responsibilities.  Of reminding myself within myself, "don't screw this up.  Your family needs you not to screw this up."

Today, I reflect upon my family.  Tomorrow, I get back to work, in more ways than one.

Woppen

Evie's newest word over the last two days: "woppen."

No idea what the hell she was saying or what it meant, until today when it suddenly clicked in my head: "what happened?" It must be it, because before, I'd just parrot it back to her, and she was clearly not satisfied.

Today, Lori and I both responded with "what happened? Well...." and then briefly explained what we were doing at that moment. That seemed to satisfy Evie, so by inference, that's what she meant to say.

Steps to Dealing With the Zoo

1. purchase annual membership to Detroit Zoo (because you calculated that two trips with a family of four will more than pay for the membership fee).
2. burn a vacation day on a weekday that your son has a day off from school because special-education schools need to alter their schedules and furlough days in order to continue providing services through the summer while adhering to the whole "days in session" thing (it's a K-12 thing; just follow along with me, if you're uncertain about what I'm referring).
3. pack everyone up into the van and head down to the Detroit Zoo on a Friday morning.
4. determine right away that you should have parked on Level 3 where the ramp is, because the kids freak out in elevators.
5. be thankful that you packed snacks in the backpack to stave off the hangry.
6. understand that the kids can handle about an hour at the zoo, and make your way with due haste toward the front entrance when they lose all coping ability at the back of the park.
7. be prepared for unreasonable wait times at the restaurant that you stopped at for lunch and determine that even 15 minutes is too long of a wait for a table. Leave immediately and go to a restaurant you know won't have that long of a wait for a table.
8. order your kids' lunches and a couple of extra-tall beers for Mom & Dad.
9. finish lunch, head home, dose the kids with Magic Sleepy-Time Juices.
10. Mom and Dad high-five each other. You just took the kids to the zoo and nobody had an unrecoverable meltdown.
11. think about going to the zoo again to see other things you didn't see the first time, but now armed with more information about what the kids can handle and how much time you have before having to pack it in and just GTFO.
12. use this information to plan other, longer trips elsewhere because we can't live shut in at our house for the rest of our lives.

Thanks, Evie

This Winter 2016 semester is winding down to a close. I have to attend one more class tomorrow night, and then next Tuesday is the final in another class. After that, my first year of grad school is done, and I have the summer off until September, when I begin my final year of any and all college ever again.

"Ricardo"
Cordoba GK Studio classical

But I have to thank Evie for one little thing. She insists that I play my acoustic guitar, to the point where she'll pick it up and bring it to me. She'll bat away at the strings on occasion but most of the time, she just walks away after I strum a couple of chords. But she makes me play it anyway.
You might have seen my recent project to clean up Madeleine (a very heavy-metal guitar, because it has pointy bits). I wouldn't have been inspired to do that had I not started playing again, and I wouldn't have started playing again had Evie not insisted upon it.
I started saving my allowance since the beginning of this year to do what I've wanted to do for a long time: buy an honest-to-goodness Gibson Les Paul just to be able to say that I own one (kinda' fell in love when we toured the Gibson factory in Memphis in 2007).
I don't intend to join any more bands or head out to jam nights at a bar. That's not in my lifestyle anymore. But call it a bit of a status symbol. And I was calculating about the end of this year that I'd have collected the cash to buy what I was looking at (and also proud of myself for planning the purchase with cash rather than credit). This weekend, I found a "blemished" item for about $400 less than its retail price, so I moved on it after thoroughly examining the shop's purchase/return policies and also exchanging messages with them.
Had Evie not demanded that I play, the LP might have remained an unattainable dream, and I wouldn't have thought to start saving part of my allowance every week. Or sell my bagpipes in order to generate additional funds for an instrument I WOULD play (the set that has remained in its case untouched since 2008, after I made the decision to return to college; see how all of this comes together?). The sale of the pipes pushed my savings to the point where I could move on the blem guitar.
So of course, to match the rest of the arsenal, it had to be the right color.

"Madeleine"
Jackson KE3 (standard D tuning*)

"Ty"
Conklin GT-5

This is a stock photo of what's coming:

"???"
Gibson Les Paul Studio T

It's entirely possible that I name this guitar "Evelyn," because she was pretty much responsible for this happening (and I'd have to use Evie's full name because there'd be no confusion then, since she has no idea who the hell "Evelyn" is anyway).

* Because standard D tuning makes it more metal, naturally.

"Cat's in the Cradle" Moment

Yesterday, when I was getting ready to leave for work, Henry was already up, in a great mood, and playing (much to Lori's chagrin, of course).  I had to sit with him for a few minutes just because his nature was infectious.  But time was ticking away, and I had to leave if I wanted to get ahead of the awful traffic on Hall Rd. that always backs up from Van Dyke before it dumps onto the M-59 highway portion.

I had my jacket on, just as Henry sat down at the top of the stairs leading down to The Pit and threw the vinyl basket that usually holds the small toys down the stairs (it was empty).  It's a game of "catch" that he plays.  Someone has to be at the bottom of the stairs to throw the basket up at him, and he throws it back down.

He wanted me to play "catch" with him.

As I started walking around him, he reached up his hands and tried to grab my hand to indicate that I should go down the stairs (remember: non-verbal, but not non-communicative).  I reflexively said, "oh, I'm sorry, buddy, but I can't play right now.  I gotta go to work."

He followed me into the kitchen as I stood by the back door, putting my shoes on.  He reached up to hug my neck (also to bring my head down for our customary head-bonk).

Then all of a sudden, that intro lick to Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" started floating through my head.

That was a difficult roll out of the garage, into the driveway, and onto the street, and not because of the weird angle of the driveway and the size of the van.

Big Boy Bed

We've moved Henry to a big-boy bed!  A twin-size daybed with a trundle.  He's outgrown the crib that he's slept in for almost 4 years, just because he's just too tall.  The only problem is that because of the bed rail that we got requires a flat, stable surface, we also had to get a box spring....which makes his sleeping surface about 25 feet tall.

We may need to improvise a bit....

Things My Kid Says

Evie: French fry!  French fry!
Lori: [hands Evie a muffin]
Evie: French fry!
Lori: No, baby, that's a muffin.
Evie: Muffin fry!

The Buckethead Kid

Years ago, Lori and I went out to dinner to Joe's Crab Shack, when it still existed at the Utica Park Blvd. location (the one by Dave & Buster's, the building which is now a Red Ox Tavern).  It was a warm evening, though not hot so we were wearing light jackets.  I don't remember if it was spring or fall.

But it was a busy enough night to where we were waiting outside, along with other parties who were ahead of us.  Among one of those parties was a little girl who was keeping herself busy while her adults were preoccupied.  She was maybe 8, 10 years old.  She caught our attention because she was indeed keeping herself occupied during the wait.  She was examining the fixtures, the landscaping, and then was clearly wandering around, making up games in her own head.

I don't remember the exact circumstances anymore, but for some reason, she had a bucket.  Maybe it contained crayons or other things, but either way, she had one.  And at some point, she ended up wearing the bucket on her head while wandering around aimlessly, waiting for a table.

We thought that was awesome, because she did so without any sense of foolishness or attention-grabbing.  She just did it because she wanted to.  None of her adults paid her any heed.

Based on her actions, her body language, and the degree of self-assuredness she projected, we immediately knew this girl was a dork.  And that is meant in the highest of complimentary ways.  We chuckled and remarked to each other that one day, when we have kids, we would be blessed to have our own bucket-head girl.

That girl is Evie.

Evie is our bucket-head girl.  She has zero qualms about looking or acting silly, because quite frankly, she doesn't know of such a thing.  Granted, she's young enough to where she hasn't been broken down by the system, telling her "don't be so silly," "stop acting foolish."  But maybe that's the point.  To her, silly is fun.  Foolish is a good thing, because it makes the adults in her life laugh.

Where is the harm in playing?  What is to be negatively impacted if one is walking around with a bucket on one's head when one is harming no one, or disrupting another?  Social norms are, of course, a complicated set of circumstances and rules.  But when one is a child, why not?

Evie has put all sorts of objects on her head, and on our heads.  She checks out her reflection, and smiles.  She poses.  She admires herself, wearing a basket on her head.  She talks on a stick of cheese as if it was a cellphone.  She has conversations with her stuffed animals.

She's two. She hasn't been told that she's being silly, or foolish.

In that, we adults could learn something.  Within the social norms, we've, in one way or another, been told to stop playing.

To take the buckets off of our heads.

Stop having pretend conversations through inanimate objects.

That gap between the couch and the end-table is not a secret passage to a mysterious land.

There is no hidden world inside the bookshelf, so stop climbing in it.

Maybe this is why we're so angry with and mean to each other on the Internet.  We've been told to stop playing so often in our real lives that out of envy, we want to make sure others don't have the fun we can't have.  Because when they do, they don't seem to grasp the gravity of the horrors of reality.

But who says we have to?  Why do we have this need to memorize the horrific details of every current event, whether criminal or merely salacious?  Why are we not allowed to play?

What happened to our buckets?

Evie has hers (even if it's a cheap vinyl basket).  I hope she never loses it.

The Kids' Words

Evie:

• Naan, choo, swee, DOOHHH! = one, two, three, GO!
• Ee efchee ay chai chi = E F G, H I J
• Woh woh = any four-legged animal, regardless of whether it's a dog or not
• Appo = any round red fruit or vegetable, though color is sometimes optional
• Up down = pick me up or lift me higher
• Thit thit thit thit = Lucy, sit, before Dad puts your food bowl down (she's heard me tell Lucy to sit in this situation)
• Sesedo = Super Grover
• Sti = veggie stick
• Sheee = cheese

Henry

• *headbonk* = I love you
• AI!!! = See you later, I love you
• *grab hand, drag to spot in basement, squat down, pat floor* = Please lay out this quilt, then lie down on it so that I can lie on the floor next to you and play with my plastic ball.
• *wave off with hand as someone approaches him standing at his basketball* net, then look toward the person he wants to play with him* = No, I want Dad to play basketball with me.

Henry has more pantomimes and physical actions to indicate what he wants.  

* By "basketball," I mean this thing:

Confirmation, Maybe?

A while after we got the official diagnosis for Henry's FXS, and we had to explain not just his behaviors, but delays in progress to the layperson, I started harboring thoughts in the back of my mind that I sometimes wished that Henry would just be officially diagnosed with autism, just so I could stop having to explain what FXS is, how it works, and what it means.

We had a consultation with a neurologist to look into Henry's sleep patterns, and while I won't get into the utterly ridiculous suggestions this doctor had to "resolve" Henry's sleep issues, part of the paperwork involved exactly what I wrote above in the first paragraph.

A review/examination to determine if Henry is on the ASD spectrum.

I think it's a foregone conclusion, actually.  Since ASD is such a broad-ranging condition, no one person with ASD can be effectively compared to anyone else with ASD and expect to see similar results.  Henry doesn't necessarily exhibit the "typical" characteristics of an autistic person, but that's because there's really nothing "typical" about autism.

What a lot of people may think when they hear "autistic" is Dustin Hoffman's Rainman.  That's not a typical representation.  Not every person with autism looks forward to fish sticks and Judge Wapner.

We hear qualifiers like "high functioning."  That's pretty much a rationalization to say that a person with autism isn't nearly as Rainman-like, which may make those who are unfamiliar with this world a bit uncomfortable.  It's a way to reason a degree of "normal" when such "normal" is not an option.  It's how to determine how close to "normal" the person with autism is, so that it's not as uncomfortable to deal with.

To note: this is not meant as a criticism; I understand that the world of special-needs kids and adults can be rather scary to the general public, because it's a world of unfamiliarity.  As a parallel illustration, while Lori has familiarity with Japanese culture, it was a complete world-turner when we all went to Japan a few years ago and experienced the train station at rush hour.  Even going to the Outback Steakhouse that was down the street from our hotel and sitting at the bar to have a few beers was just slightly different than what we would experience here in the US.

Nevertheless, there is a recommendation to determine officially if Henry is on the spectrum.  This, to me, is a mere formality and confirmation that Henry is indeed autistic.  Of course, that also means that I have to work out how to describe it -- is he autistic, as a characteristic in the vein of being tall or half-Asian?  Does he have autism, akin to having brown hair?

At the end of the day, I think that's something I'll have to work out later.  But for now, it's just one step closer to pretty much having that one word to describe him without having to spend any additional sigh-filled effort in explaining the ins and outs of FXS.

While I do explain FXS whenever I can and at every opportunity, I read my audience and most times, I see that glazing of eyes when the attention is slipping and I'm about to lose them.  Those are the times when I'd wished I could just say "he has autism," and be done with it, because despite the controversies surrounding Autism Speaks, it has at least put autism closer to the forefront of the social consciousness such that people understand that even if they don't know what it means to be autistic, it's at least something they've heard of to understand that when we say our child has autism, or that they see that we're sporting that colored-puzzle-piece merchandise, they understand that we have a long and hard road ahead of us, even if they don't know what it'll be like.

(and that was a hell of a run-on sentence, if I do say so myself)

Point is this: people have heard of autism and as such, can display more sensitivity and tolerance toward our children's behavior.  I don't have to explain what it is, which can get exhausting (and thus making me feel like a terrible FXS advocate as a feedback loop).  I had wished for a DX of autism just so I could stop explaining all that Henry is.

It appears I may be getting this wish.

Of course, just because it's on paper doesn't mean that my son is any different.  The diagnosis doesn't change who he is or what he does.  He's still that same goof who wants to be tickled until he collapses; who tries to walk from the car whenever we got to the store, but starts to get nervous when we enter the store until he feels secure in a cart; who loves Aldi's veggie sticks; who has incredible hand-eye coordination to be able to track a rolling ball no matter how big or small it is.

What it would do, though, is give us an out.  Which was what I'd wished for earlier.  And now that it's becoming a likely reality, I'm having second thoughts.  Doubts.  I don't think I want to let the explanation go with just "he's autistic."

I think he and the FXS community deserve more than just me blowing it off because it's inconvenient for me.

The Voice Inside

At almost 2, Evie's vocabulary continues to grow slowly.  She happily babbles to herself in what sounds like words she's making up, even if they make no sense to adults.  There are variations in intonation, enunciation, and definite repeated sounds that might as well be words, even if we don't know what they mean.  She also has a few adult-perceptible words, like "appo," "shee," "awdun," and "whoa whoa."

(Apple, cheese, all done, and animals that might as well all be dogs)

I see also that her patience is sometimes a hindrance to using words.  She's lately dropped the "awdun," because she just wants out, dammit.  She's said "up" on a few occasions, but she insists more with just arms raised.  And she's learned how to throw a fit when she doesn't get what she wants or is told "no."

I want to hear what's going on Henry's head.

When the bus got home yesterday, I went down the driveway to pick him up.  I saw his face peeking out of the window of his seat, split into his wide, toothy grin where his eyes just disappear into slits.  The bus aide helped him to the stairs, and he squealed with glee.  As soon as he was in my arms, he leaned in for a head bonk (it's what we do).  He didn't even give me a chance to say good-bye to the driver or the aide.

As we made our way up the driveway, I put him down so he could walk the rest of the way.  He excitedly scampered toward the door, and waited with barely restrained happiness for me to open it.  He clambered up the steps with his hand in mine, and announced his return with his usual "AHHH!!"  He ran to the living room to play with his toys, shoes still on, and barely an acknowledgement of Mom or Obaa-chan.

Later, when my mother was gearing up to take the kids for their afternoon walk, she got the brand new double-stroller we got unfolded, and we saw Henry's face in the window of the screen door.  With his face-splitting grin, he began excitedly hopping up and down.

Henry was the embodiment of pure joy at that moment.

Once seated and belted in, he was just babbling with happiness.  But unlike Evie's babbling, Henry's babbling is just noise and syllables, no real discernible words or word-like sounds.

I want so desperately to listen to what's going on in his head and understand it.

This played out later on at dinner when he was upset.  But upset about what, we don't know.  He was clearly frustrated that we weren't clued in on what he wanted, which then turned into a negative feedback loop.  He got more upset that we couldn't fix the problem, but we didn't know what the problem was, so he kept getting more upset, which then made us frustrated and helpless.

We want so desperately to hear what's in his head.

I know he loves us and knows we're his safety net.  His teachers and even bus driver say that he says "mama" as an actual word rather than as a noise, and that it seems like a typical emotional safety blanket that kids this age use.  They asked Lori if she ever gets sick of hearing it.

I imagine that Lori's heart broke a little at that moment, because we don't hear it at home at all.  They were surprised by that.  What we hear is the nonsensical "mamamamamamamamamamama," which is more like lip or mouth exercise than actual intent to say "mama."  The only time Lori heard Henry say "mama" and mean it was when it was in absolute terror during the failed sleep study, when he was screaming and shrieking to be saved.

We want to hear what is in Henry's head because this means that he's assimilating what he's hearing.  It's just not coming back out after processing.

I'm going to take a detour for a moment, but it's in the context of an analogy as only my geek-nerd self could do in order to make a point.

In the core of a star, the chemical and physical processes result in photons.  Those photons are what result in what we call "light."  Light is mathematically and theoretically (in a scientific sense) composed of photons (which makes the whole idea of a "photon torpedo" from Star Trek a little silly at first glance...what are we going to do, shine flashlights at the Klingon fleet?!  I digress.....).  A photon is calculated to take about a million years or so following its generation in the core of the star to escape to the surface, which then takes about 8 minutes to travel to Earth in the form of visible light.

The reason it takes so long for a single photon to escape the interior of a star is because of the utter chaos of physics that occurs in a star.  Energy and gravity play havoc on the path of that photon, so it gets bounced around in its journey within that star.  And considering the mind-numbingly insane sheer size of a star, even one as small as our own yellow sun (yes, it's a smaller one, on a cosmic scale), can make the journey of a single photon a really long one.

This is how I imagine language to be in Henry's head.  He has some words and others are developing.  We know this because he understands more than what he speaks.  He comprehends.  Not just tone of voice, but the actual words.  He can differentiate meanings even in different languages (English and Japanese).  It's just that they're not returned outward from within his own stellar core...or at the very least, they're on a very long journey.

I just hope I don't have to wait a million years and eight minutes to hear them.  I want to know what's going on in my boy's head, because I imagine he's got a lot of interesting things to say....if only he could.

See Whoa Whoa

Henry's situation has set the bar of expectations rather low for Evie, which I've mentioned before as being both a good and bad thing in my other posts.  So the fact that she's pointing at objects and clearly having conversations that only make sense to her rather than just meaningless babbling noises is significant, but also new territory.

While the words and sounds she's using are meaningless to us, they clearly have some sort of definition and structure in her mind because of how specifically she's using them.  So in other words, she's learning to speak as a typical child.

Our hearts are swelling at this prospect.

She has a few words and phrases now, and it began a while ago with her learning how to sign "more," and use it properly in context. She uses that one interchangeably between "more" and "again," but I suppose the intent is still the same.

When she hears "peekaboo," she responds with "I see...."

When she sees (and wants) either an apple or tomato, she says "appo" (she doesn't actually want to eat it.  She just wants to play with one, which makes me fearful of one day walking into a room covered in squashed tomatoes).

Occasionally, when she wants out of the high chair or bathtub, she says "awdun."

And the one that kills us is one that I just managed to interpret, although she's been saying it for at least a week.  She would say something that sounded like "see whoa whoa."  We only caught the "see" part, so we figured it was just her exploring various ways to say "I see it."

No, she's actually referring to dogs.  And here's how I made that connection.

I just happened to notice coincidentally that she was including the "whoa whoa" consistently after "see," but not all the time.  So then I was curious as to what the difference was, and then it became clear.

Lucy.

Lucy was the common connection.  Which also explains why she would say "see whoa whoa" when my mother would take the kids out for walks and they pass by the house that owns a boxer who constantly runs up and down the fence, barking.

Evie is associating Lucy (the "see" part) with barking ("whoa whoa"), because that's all Lucy ever does.

"See whoa whoa" is Evie's word for dogs, because of Lucy.

Evie has words.