Elias sits in his new therapeutic chair putting blocks in a wooden box with different shaped slots on the lid. A gift from my parents last Christmas, a toy I played with as a child. Elias is just now showing an interest in doing more than throwing the blocks behind the couch, or hiding them in the paper recycling, or sliding them under his crib. As I watch him play, I'm impressed by his focus.
On top of Elias's other issues-- mobility, vision, growth, and respiration--some of his therapists have also expressed concern about his attention span. A gambler would see a sure bet in his odds of having a learning disability due to his premature birth, but as someone who has never done the exact same job two years in a row, same employer maybe, but different job description, and who often confuses my husband by jumping from one random thought to the next during a ten minute drive, lack of sustained attention is not high on my list of concerns.
But a spoken concern about your child does not disappear, even if it does not weigh as much as breathing, growing, seeing, or moving. For we all know the feather can buckle the camel's knees.
And I know that we all need moments of sustained attention to learn.
While watching Elias, I notice he is able to put the circular block in the correct hole on his first try every time. With the other shapes he asks for my help.
Not that one, no, not that one, I say until he finds the slot that matches the shape of the block and then I help him adjust how he holds it, so it will slide easily inside. Good Job. Applause.
Smiles.
He picks up the circular one again and does not go right to the round hole but instead holds it over the square one and waits for me to say, not that one, no, not that one. We are playing a game now and so he chooses the round hole last.
When I return to unloading the dishwasher, he puts the round block directly in the correct hole three times in a row. When I don't respond to his requests for help with the more difficult blocks, he adds the Cheerios left on his tray to the wooden box. He drops them easily through the different slots.
More Oh's.
Only if you're going to put them in your belly. Not in the box.
Oh's in belly. More Oh's. Oh's in belly.
OK, a couple more. I pour him a few more Cheerios, the baby crank cereal he demands daily. MORE OH's. I thought he'd grow out of his addiction to sand-colored circles by now but not my boy.
(Though I must admit to being an enabler of his Oh habit since he can only independently feed himself finger foods and I'm no 1950's bride. The 20 ounce yellow box on top of our fridge gives me stall time, disorganized prep time--where I stare into the refrigerator in hopes Betty Crocker is hiding inside--and snippets of me time. So yes, even though they don't fit into his high protein, high fat diet, I feed into Elias's addiction to Cheerios.)
Oh's in belly, Elias repeats. Then he lifts up his shirt to rub his fistful of Cheerios on his little buddah. Oh's in belly.
Oh, how I love my little echo with a mind of his own.