As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, Charlie has motor planning issues. Basically, this means he has trouble getting his body to do what he wants. It takes a ton of work and repetition for him to master a movement. Aside here: this is one of the main reasons we do Feldenkrais therapy with Charlie–it was recommended for this very issue.

Charlie has always struggled with his eyes. For a long time, they weren’t super-useful and even now, he often listens instead of looking.

In the last year or so, I’ve been working with him on smiling on command. Sounds easy, but there are a ton of facial muscles involved with smiling. He smiles spontaneously–it’s the other way that’s work.

But he’s got it! If I ask him to smile for the camera, most of the time he’ll comply with my request. There’s just one tiny issue. . .

Yeah. . . gotta work on the eyes and the smile at the same time. But you know what? I think that eye/smile combo is pretty dang cute.

I’m back from a world-wind ABR trip to Miami and and working on a nice chunky update for you guys. In the meantime, I thought I’d share a little funny since I got so many nice compliments on the matching jammy pic.

This is the matching jammy picture as you guys saw it last week:

Looking Sweet and Innocent

I usually have to take about twenty pictures before I get one that I think is “cute enough” for the blog. This time only two out of three were looking at the camera,  but everyone seems mostly happy. Charlie spends a lot of time giving the camera his look of doom, which never makes for a pretty picture.

When you take pictures of three boys, more of them look like this than the one above:

General Madness

So there it is–the secret to a cute photo–take a zillion and one of them will probably come out alright.

The other day I took the twins for one of those dreaded well visits. You know, the ones where you take a perfectly healthy child into a small enclosed space full of children with every conceivable illness? And then have strangers jab them with needles? Well, we went there and behind us in the line was a young man with a severe disability. I’m not a doctor (duh), but he had many of the characteristics of cerebral palsy: scissored legs, one arm pulled into the chest, head tilted to one side.

He was being escorted by a another young man who I assumed was his brother. I kept flashing friendly smiles, but they went unnoticed.

So I sit down and filled out those terrible developmental checklists about what your baby can do–often, I’m not entirely sure and just sort-of guess. Great barometer, no? As I walked back to the counter with their pen, I saw the caregiver lean over the man in the chair and say, “well, you’re quiet.”

And without thinking–because LORD KNOWS my mouth is often functioning without the permission of my brain–I say brightly, “he’s listening.” Because that’s Charlie all the time–his little antennae are constantly picking up on every little thing said around him. The boy is nosy with a capital N. And the man in the chair? He turned up to his brother and said, “I’m sneaky.” Turns out Charlie isn’t the only sneaky one in town.

I would have missed that little moment a few years ago. Would have felt too uncomfortable around someone who looked  different than I do. So glad I’m not missing those things any more.

Charlie and Auggie see the camera. Louie spotted the TV.