Whattya Mean You Don’t Know Your Age?

My son turned three back in September. Let me just stress right now that he is the apple of my eye and I love him more than words could adequately explain. He has truly changed my life and even though his mom and I are no longer together, I want to continue to be a positive influence in his life as well as a constant…always being around for him.

I say that because I'm about to complain and get some frustrations out, and I really don't want anybody believing that I think any less of my son. He is my world.

Okay…the kid can't talk. He says words from time to time, but they're mumbled or muffled or don't make any sense at all. The Ex and I both believe that he needs tubes in his ears (he sees a specialist later this month) and that the talking will develop ten-fold once he can truly hear and understand exactly what he's saying. His hearing is fine, too…he's already passed hearing tests and seems to know what we tell him most of the time.

When sitting with a picture book, asking him to find objects like turtles and oranges and ducks are a joy because the kid seems to be able to pick out just about anything. It's quite impressive, actually.

But over the weekend we were playing Chutes & Ladders. Obviously, it's a bit of a stretch to get him to understand the concept at this point…but I thought it'd be fun to try. So I'm spinning the little dial and asking him to tell me what number it lands on (it was a 3). He doesn't know. No worries, I think. I tell him and get him to repeat it out loud and we continue to play.

He lands on the same number. He has no idea what it is.

Okay…how about if I count out loud? Maybe he just can't recognize the numbers on a page. Surely he can count to five, right?

"One…two…"

"Eight?"

Sigh.

"No, buddy…there's no eight. How old are you?"

Shrugs.

"Well, you knew your age on your birthday. How old are you, buddy?"

"Eight?"

"No, buddy. One…two…"

Silence.

I was a bit stunned. I really thought that between the babysitter he's with every day and his mom (who has custody) that surely NUMBERS would have entered into the equation at some point. I mean, it's awesome to know colors and I don't expect him to know the alphabet yet (especially where he can't even pronounce words correctly), but why can't he even count to three yet?

Am I expecting too much out of him? Am I expecting too much out of him mom? Should I take it upon myself to be his numeric teacher? I know I shouldn't be frustrated, but am I really out of line by feeling this way?

Medical Emergency

OK everyone….I need your help here. I I would not blame you all for not helping me as I know that I’ve been very neglectful of this, and all blogs over the holidays. I do apologize for that and promise to get back into the swing.

So here it is…

About 4 days ago my left thumb started bothering me and I kept feeling the need to crack the knuckle. That feeling continued all day…I cracked it all day. The next day I woke to the same thing…except the knuckle was sore. I can’t seem to go 5 minutes without cracking my thumb knuckle. I tried wrapping it with sports tape…did not work.

This continued for the last 4 days and now it is very painful and has become swollen.

I have thought about it and can’t seem to figure out what started it and/or what it is…it is my left thumb…not from texting…not my remote hand. Not my beer hand. No…and not the hand I use to pleasure myself. I don’t really use my left thumb for shit.

I wanted to try the “blocter” before going in to see a real doctor. I wanted to see if any of you know what the problem is or what I can do to help it.

PLEASE HELP ME!!!

Being Aware Can Save a Child's Life

Hot Dads is one of approximately 100 blogs helping me today raise awareness of juvenile myositis, the autoimmune disease my daughter has. Why today? It was seven years ago on this date that we found a doctor who figured out what our daughter had. It also happens to be my wife's birthday. This is our story.

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, part of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

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To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit the Cure JM Foundation.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to my personal FirstGiving page or the Cure JM donations page.