Monday, January 31, 2011


Mornings with Hassaan are, quite simply, yet again an example in extremes.  Mornings are when Hassaan is often most cuddly.  I love when he crawls into bed with me for a cuddle.  I don't, however, like it when he does it before 7am.  Yesterday I got a long, in depth description about how he played World of Warcraft with Daddy the night before and what the character did, where it went, and on and on.  The problem with this?  It was 5:45am.  Hassaan doesn't seem to possess the ability to go back to sleep after 5am.  This is the third time in two weeks that he's been up between 5 and 6 and seems to think the absolute best thing in the world would be to tell me a story.  Don't get me wrong - I love his stories.  I especially love the facial expressions that go along with them.  What I don't like his is his stories at any hour that starts with anything less than 6 and ends in "a.m.".

Anyway, today is Monday, so it's back to school for Hassaan.  A school day does not make for a fun morning in our house.  He wakes up happy enough.  Will eat breakfast happy enough.  Then he is called to get dressed.  He'll stand at the top of the stairs at the playroom and yell down "why?  WHY do I have to come down?" And I know what the reaction will be if I say "because it's time to get dressed."  Screaming, running, arguing.  Every. Single. Morning.  It does not matter how the subject is broached, it always ends the same way.  Most mornings he'll eventually come and I'll have to physically move him into the bedroom to get dressed.  He will plant himself on the floor.  Eventually he'll get dressed and life will go on.  But then there are those other mornings.  Those mornings that just say that the day is going to be long and hard and I haven't even gotten my work uniform on yet.  These are the mornings in which I end up sitting on the bed, him between my legs, trying to get him dressed with one hand while I hold his other hands to him so he can't kick, hit, punch or bite me.  He can, however, repeatedly lean forward and then throw himself backwards as hard as he can.  The number of bruises I've had on my collarbone because of this I've lost count.  I have, however, mastered the art of dressing a oppositional and defiant five year old with one hand.

The thing is, I know this behaviour isn't him.  It's the disorder.  One or both, I don't care.  What I do care about is to remind myself that this is not Hassaan himself, but that part of his brain that doesn't function like yours or mine.  Even when I want to strangle the child.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Early Life with Hassaan

Hassaan.  My cute, adorable little red headed boy who can create so much chaos and drama where ever he goes.

Hassaan.  My squishy, cuddly little red headed boy who gives the absolute best hugs and kisses in the world.

Hassaan.  My takes a licking and keeps on ticking child.

Hassaan.  My never still, always moving, very tiring child.

Hassaan.  My child who I love dearly, but whose stubborn streak often has me wanting to strangle him child.

Hassaan is five and a half years old.  From the time he was born, there was always something different about him.  The first week of his life he spent in the NICU with idiopathic pneumonia.  After he came home, his true personality kicked in.  The doctor he had for the first few years of his life commented upon meeting him for the first time at ten days old that she had never seen a newborn who moved so much in all her career - she just retired after a lengthy career, so she'd seen a lot of newborns.  Even while sleeping, some part of him was always moving - a finger, a foot, his head.

Every afternoon at about 4:30pm Hassaan would start to scream.  If he was held tight, he might stop after a half hour or so, but if he had to be put down so someone could help his older brother or for some other reason he would scream for hours upon hours.

Life with Hassaan as a baby was a contrast in extremes.  When he was good, he was very, very good.  When he was unhappy with something, he had no qualms in letting you know he wasn't happy.  He wasn't happy when I had to stop nursing and went on a hunger strike.  He wasn't happy every night at bedtime and would cry and scream unless being held.  He wasn't happy with wearing clothes.  Heck, he's still not happy with bedtime or wearing clothes, he just doesn't get a choice.