Road to Diagnosis, Part One

     When I had my first baby, I was hypervigilant about milestones. What to Expect the First Year had a permanent spot on my coffee table, and it was probably the only book I read that year. That may have had something to do with the fact that I had new-mommy brain, which severely limits the ability to remember people's names, much less follow plot lines. My now 8-year-old Ben, being the typical All-American kid he is, hit them all at exactly the right times. I found comfort in that, and spent my energy freaking out about other things, like recording bowel movements in a journal, which I've saved for him. I'm sure he'll treasure that someday.

     Every day, I would rush to pick Ben up after my half-day of teaching, to nurse him so that he wouldn't have to drink from a bottle. I would ask my in-laws, who were kindly providing many hours of free childcare weekly, to only feed him one pumped bottle during his four-hour stay at their house, reasoning that I nursed him right before I left, and would do so again when I returned. Even if he was crying. Even though they had a good supply of frozen breastmilk for such an occasion. Control freak much?

     When I had Mary, things were different right away. She had to return to the hospital shortly after her initial homecoming, for dehydration and jaundice. It was thanks to their lactation consultant that we discovered that Mary had a shortened frenulum (the thing which attaches your tounge to the bottom of your mouth), and couldn't nurse properly. She had it clipped the next week, but she had fallen victim to nipple confusion. I still blame the special care nurse for that one - when a mommy says wake me up for a feeding, you do it. You don't say, "Oh, you needed your sleep." You don't give a bottle full of Enfamil to a breastfed newborn. You wake up the frickin' mommy! So, nipple confusion, plus my poor pumping output, meant I now had a formula-fed baby.

     NOTE: I have nothing against formula feeding. I am simply cheap.

      Since Ben was breastfed, I was used to a hungry, cranky baby every two hours. Mary was placid, docile, and super sleepy. Frankly, it was a godsend, considering I had an active toddler to raise as well. Like most second children, Mary had fewer pictures taken, no poopy diaper diary, and I was far less inclined to keep track of milestones this time around. I congratulated myself on being a more relaxed parent, and simply enjoyed my baby. Even though she wasn't progressing much, I reminded myself that all babies are different, and that she would get there in her own time.

     She didn't.

     My mother and sister, both teachers, gently suggested that I should have Mary evaluated by Early Intervention. I balked, because nobody wants to hear that, especially from older, more experienced mothers to whom you desperately trying to prove your competence. Mix in some latent sibling rivalry, and that's a recipe for resentment and hostility. Lord, they were brave to confront me.

     And so, with Mary eight months old, we began our journey to a diagnosis.