So it appears, from the lackluster response to the previous post, that y’all are just as underwhelmed about the whole “getting out there and meeting people” thing as I am. I was anticipating a bunch of inspiration and instead I sort of feel like… hey, so what if I die alone! Lots of people do that! And I am rather enjoying having deep discussions with my bedside lamp! It’s an excellent listener and that’s almost like having a mate!
Stop snickering at me. My lamp says you’re just jealous.
But you know, the thing that I worry about, is that I fear I’m becoming out of practice with the whole normal socialization thing. (Translation: I think I’m getting weird. Weirder than before, anyway.)
I have a lot of things on my mind, these days. There’s work, of course, and everything that goes along with that. (To simulate: Try rapid alternation between “How am I going to get all of this DONE?” and “I have GOT to get some more work in here.” If it doesn’t raise your blood pressure, try it again with FEELING.) There’s the other people in my life with whom I try to stay up-to-date and involved. There’s the kids–school, activities, chores, feeding, etc. There’s all the other STUFF that goes along with claiming to be living in a cave but really being far too available for my own good.
[Here is what happens when I'm not paying close enough attention to the words that fall out of my mouth: "Oh, yes, sure... I would LOVE to handle the PTA newsletter." Wait, what? Crap.]
Anyway. In the midst of this, I have decided to heal my son because none of the professionals involved are taking care of things quickly enough to meet my approval. That is to say, I am fighting the internal battle of Earth Mother vs. Rational, Cautious Mother.
As Earth Mother, I believe that I should KNOW (due to maternal instinct, natch) what the problem is and how to best approach it. Much the same way as I know when one of the kids is lying, or when I’ve entered a room where something has just been broken. Earth Mothers SENSE and INTUIT and whatnot. (More on this in a minute.) As Rational, Cautious Mother, I believe I am being too impatient and I should just wait for one of these professionals to tell me what is going on and how to modify Monkey’s behavior and make him happy again.
The problem, I think, is that while grappling with something of this nature, I become rather insufferable to those very people who are supposed to be helping.
But let’s back up. I actually believe wholeheartedly in the “mothers know” thing. When I stopped just FREAKING OUT and running around telling people “OH MY GOSH THE SKY IS FALLING AND ALSO MY SON HAS CHRONIC ANTS IN THE PANTS! EEK!” and took some time to just sit with it and analyze the issues at hand and the possibilities, things started coming in to focus.
So here’s my Earth Mother prediction, and I guess I can offer to eat my blog if it turns out to be wrong: I don’t think Monkey has ADHD. I don’t think he has any sort of psychological disturbance at all, actually. I think he still has food allergies. I think this is going to turn out to be linked to his diet. This is (one could argue) excellent news, if it turns out to be true.
Rational, Cautious Mother knows that this sort of food allergy is not well understood, and in fact is the domain of woo-woo homeopaths and other questionable health practitioners. This doesn’t mean it’s not necessarily the path to a solution, for us, but it DOES mean that it might be quite difficult to find the support that we need without having to drink the Rainbows and Butterflies Vegan Kool-Aid, if you catch my meaning.
So. Back to being weird. Here I am–feeling, on the one hand, rather peaceful and relieved, because I think I’ve hit upon the explanation which makes perfect sense. It all fits. He has a history of food allergies, of gastro issues, of year-round sinus issues that never seem to resolve, of asthma, of eczema. He supposedly “outgrew” an early milk allergy, but all of those things I just listed? Symptoms of milk allergy.
On the other hand, I fear The Weirdos. I would like some professional guidance, but I am not interested in someone who will tell me to eliminate milk and oh yes, by the way, also anything other than organic spelt and millet, plus would I be interested in buying this nutritional supplement made from only the finest all-natural dried ground wood sprites?
So on Friday, when I took the kids to see the therapist, I was okay on the first round of communication. I sat in her office and said, “You know, I think this is dietary, and here’s why.” I outlined my reasoning, and she nodded and agreed that it sounded probable. “So do you know someone who specializes in this sort of thing?” I asked. No, she didn’t. She could give me the name of a nutritionist, but for non-traditional food allergies I’d probably need… a homeopath. And she wasn’t sure whom to recommend. But she had a colleague who might know someone, and she’d see if she was around to talk to me.
When this other person came out to chat with me (by then, Chickadee was back with the therapist, and Monkey was folding himself underneath my chair, declaring it to be his “cozy den”), I was okay for about the first two sentences. Then I blurted out, “But you understand, I don’t want someone who’s going to recommend tongue of bat.”
She blinked at me. I think she was trying to decide if I was having some sort of seizure.
“Uhhhhh…” I scrambled to clarify, “I mean, I just need some guidance on an intelligent way to try an elimination diet for him. But I don’t want someone who’s going to insist he needs a million herbs.” Understanding dawned on her face. I smiled in relief. But then I continued, “Do you know anyone like that to recommend? Non-traditional, but not, you know, INSANE?” She moved to the far edge of her chair. It took me a minute to realize what I’d just said. (Subtext: The people you normally recommend ARE insane, but I want one of the non-insane ones! Which you probably wouldn’t know, being as how you are all about the insane ones! TONGUE OF BAT!) In my head, a small voice inquired if I have to work hard at being a socially maladjusted dork with perpetual foot-in-mouth disease, or if it just comes naturally.
For the record, I’d like it known that I never say the wrong thing to my lamp. On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to insult it while asking it for help, either.
(Stay tuned to find out if Milk Is Not Our Friend. I shall practice discussing it calmly and without prejudice with some sentient volunteers before trying it out here.)