Posted on May 1, 2013 by

Overalls and updates and kissing.

IMG_2845I took the iPad away from the Tyrant because she had Googled “kissing.” Note: she has now seen lots of tongues up close.

Yesterday, she asked to have it back, but I was still traumatized and declined her request. She used her sternest voice ever and said, “Make the right choice, Mom, so I don’t have to yell at you any more!” But I made the wrong choice, so lots of (mutual) yelling ensued.

I’ve been yelling a lot lately. My throat hurts. And last weekend I wore overall cutoffs, a sure sign of mental anguish. In the old days – before I started working out fiendishly – I wore overalls practically every day. At the height of this regrettable trend, I owned seven pairs. I had the traditional denim kind, times two;  some khaki ones for smart casual days; black velvet for holiday parties; “short-alls” for summertime.

As I got in better shape, I expanded my wardrobe. Gradually, the overalls drifted toward the Goodwill pile.

I saved some, of course. Hot Firefighter Husband says I pull them out when I’m feeling bad about myself.

Thus the overall cutoffs a few days ago. I am feeling bad about myself. Days have become a whirl of laundry, gluten-free baking and yelling. And picking up dog poop. The omni-present gargantuan piles of crap. Honestly, though, it’s what gets me outside, so I shouldn’t complain.

The gluten-free thing is going well – my goal last week was to make something from scratch every day, and I did. REALLY! Cookies, cupcakes, chowder, muffins….I was like Martha Stewart without the illegal stock tips.

The new routine has helped the Pterodactyl dramatically. Physically, he’s transformed – taller, slimmer, and stronger. He said to me recently, “Mom, look at my stomach! I’m getting muscles!” I bit my lip to stem the tears, realizing my 8-year-old son had been aware of his soft doughy belly.

His verbal acuity has shot up as well. Instead of screaming, “NO! NO! NO!” he says stuff like, “YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS,” and “I LOVE GLUTEN! I MISS 4-up on 2011-06-21 at 18.36 #5GLUTEN! I’M GOING TO START EATING GLUTEN ALL THE TIME AND YOU WON’T EVEN KNOW IT!”

Still, he’s not yet singing Kumbaya and giving his sister daily foot rubs. We’re still caught in this sticky limbo with a smart, handsome 8-year-old boy who can solve math word problems in his head but has the emotional regulation of a Tasmanian Devil.

So I’m feeling bad about myself, because I’m a problem solver and I can’t solve this problem: how do I spend 80 percent of my time managing my son’s high-maintenance lifestyle and still stay ahead of the laundry, spend quality time with each of the girls, cook healthy gluten-free meals, take Buddy the Wonder Dog for regular walks, read books, write, exercise, sleep well, and every once in a while have sex? I exhausted myself just typing that out.

Well. Just watch me, I guess. Husband says he’s rooting for me, but I think he’s mostly talking about the sex.

Posted on April 23, 2013 by

In honor of National Garden Month: hidden symbolism included.

 

photo“Create a womb,” my husband said.

The analogy startled me; this was more than a decade ago, and we were undergoing infertility treatment at the time. But he was right. That’s what I needed to do. I dug big holes and added a little fertilizer, then filled the holes with water and swished the dirt around to create a hearty primordial soup; I then plopped in my horticultural embryos. I placed each plant carefully into its bed, then tucked in the dark earth around it. I’d never really gardened before. Houseplants withered at my touch, and the scant impatiens I’d always shoved into the ground each spring usually wilted convincingly by July.

But I became sick of looking at spiky grass stretching across my backyard like a green suburban desert. If life wouldn’t spring from me, I wanted it to spring from my soil. I wanted blooms to smile at me like satisfied children, and birds to eat sunflower seeds from my feeder while I watched. I dreamed of tending to a garden like a hen tends her eggs. I imagined photosynthesis occurring before my very eyes.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said my neighbor. He thought I was a slacker.

But one Sunday afternoon I picked up a shovel and started digging up the grass around the perimeter of my yard. Periodically I hit big old roots, or bricks left from long-ago construction, and I kneeled down and clawed at the dirt until I uprooted the culprits. The earthworms squirmed between my fingers as I carefully lifted them out of the reach of my shovel. The dirt blackened my knees and stained my overalls. It crawled beneath my fingernails and muted the gold on my wedding ring. I dug for hours, till blisters popped up on my hands and my back felt stiff as a pine tree.

I started shopping for flora in need of a home. Roses, maybe? But I wanted to be practical. Jason worked at the nursery near my house. He had long blond dreadlocks held back by a bandana. “Bluebird hydrangeas,” he told me. “Man, they’re awesome.”

“I don’t have a lot of sun,” I said doubtfully. But hydrangeas like shade, it turns out. I bought some. I consulted a landscape designer “What do you like?” she asked. I told her I like things that will live. She pointed me toward some althea hibiscus. Then thryallis, bush daisies, native azaleas, holly ferns, lantana, African irises and a gardenia bush. Also some dianthus. And a tiny King Sago palm. I loved lantana, but my dog liked it more. He used his teeth to pluck the yellow blooms right off the stem, like he was nibbling a miniature hot dog off a toothpick.

I planted and planted, and fretted.

When I was away from the house, I thought about the plants. When the afternoon sun glared down like a punitive schoolteacher, I felt dried out. I imagined my little azaleas, their leaves drooping like arid tongues. The dianthus didn’t want to bloom, and I regretted not creating a womb for them. Classic Failure to Thrive syndrome.

My neighbor informed me that my gardenia would probably get a disease and die, and wanted to hit her. After she left, I leaned over it and searched for signs photoof stress. Sweet lemony blooms shined white against the dark green leaves. “I won’t let you die,” I whispered, feeling slightly insane.

I decided to grow vegetables. My friend Mary had some extra cherry tomato plants and she brought them to me. They were tiny, not much more than a few leaves on a stalk barely four inches high. I felt nervous taking them into my custody. We dug furrowed aisles, which we filled with Black Cow manure. That night I dreamed there was liquid napalm roiling beneath my little tomatoes, and I woke up in a cold sweat.

My dad wanted me to plant some carrots. He thought it would be cool if I raised a carrot to the sky after pulling it out of the ground and shouted, “As God is my witness, I will never go hungry again!” like Scarlett O’Hara.

My friend Walter came over to bring me a datil pepper plant and show me everything I was doing wrong. I listened to his advice on the fungus that’s bothering my tomatoes and my hydrangeas’ need for water. “Did you dig up all the old roots before you planted?” he asked. “Pretty much,” I said.

On my deck sat a ficus tree growing in a clay pot, and Walter turned on the hose to water it. “Don’t water that,” I snapped. “I hate that plant. I’m trying to kill it.”

“That’s terrible,” he said. “If you don’t want it, just chop it up. Don’t just let it suffer.” A month earlier I would have laughed at him. But after he spoke, I felt ashamed. Later I stood on the deck and observed my poor ficus tree. The tear-shaped leaves seemed droopy with grief.

Posted on April 18, 2013 by

Boston bombings, kids, and what now.

My oldest daughter sits in the very last row of the bus. Each morning, after she boards, she presses her face against the back window and waves to me as the big yellow bird rumbles away. I stand there and wave back, blowing kisses and giving thumbs-up signs, for as long as I can see the bus. Even when I can no longer see her, I know she can see me, and is watching to make sure I’m still there.

This past Monday, a neighbor distracted me, and we started talking and walking  before the bus had even pulled away from the stop. Abo

sisyphus

ut a minute later I realized I had broken our little mama-kid tradition, and I felt badly about it. Intermittently, I felt badly about it all day.

Then the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, and I stayed glued to the news for hours, trying – unsuccessfully – to grasp the horror of what had happened. I don’t think any of us can really absorb that level of evil without living through it. That night, as rescuers sifted through blood and makeshift shrapnel and children relived the images of people blowing apart, I cooked dinner, walked the dogs and folded laundry. Lucky, lucky me.

But when evening had left and I collapsed in my bed with my thoughts, I remembered having failed to wave to the Diva, and felt enormous regret for that momentary lapse. Suppose there had been an accident on the way to school? Suppose she had been hit in the head with a ball during recess and freakishly lapsed into unconsciousness?

What if someone bombed her school? Or broke inside and shot her? (Great. Now I’m sick to my stomach.)

Don’t misunderstand me – I don’t worry about those types of occurrences. They’re anomalies, and I get that. I’m not raising my children to be afraid of this world – I hope that we instead are instilling them with the strength needed to face this world. And right now, they borrow that strength from me.

The Diva, perched on the precipice of adolescence, looks to me – and at me – for approval and assurance. Our little waving routine isn’t just habit – it’s almost like a daily transfusion of mettle. It’s me saying, “Take on this day, girl! I’m with you! Piece-a-cake!”

Meanwhile, the news from Boston continues to be grim, and the pall of mourning has weighed me down all week. What to do? Give blood? What?

Yesterday afternoon, the answer arrived in in an 80-lb. mop-headed boy who decided to face his two-wheeled bike for the first time. The Pterodactyl, you might recall, fears change and challenge. Just switching to a new brand of hot dogs seems suspicious to him. So the courage he mustered to tackle his bike nearly brought me to tears. I heard Hot Firefighter Husband muttering quietly, “C’mon, boy. C’mon,” because we both knew the trauma/drama that would ensue with failure.

I took a towel and wrapped it around his waist, held the ends to stabilize him and gave him a starting push. He pedaled like a madman.

Within minutes, the mission had been accomplished. For a few trips around the cul-de-sac, I ran alongside him, then gradually slowed down so that he could pull ahead. “YOU’VE GOT THIS!” I called out. “YOU CAN DO IT! YOU DID IT!”

I watched my boy fly away without me, propelling himself forward toward the unknown. He didn’t need me next to him, but he needed me there – imbuing him with power and nerve, waving, assuring him that through crashes and downhills and hairpin turns, he will be Oh. Kay.

In the wake of the bombings, please ignore the insipid commentary to “hug your kids tighter today.” Instead, teach your children that they can handle what’s thrown at them, and that you’re there to give them the strength they need to catch those unexpected lobs.

And Boston? Listen – you got this. If you look back, you’ll see the rest of us, pushing you up this hill.

 

Posted on April 11, 2013 by

The Circle of Life gets complicated when snakes are involved.

IMG_3200The Tyrant lugged her 6-year-old sleepy self into the kitchen the other day while wiping sleep from her eyes.

“Mom,” she said. “Guess what. I dreamed we were at a hotel, and we were staying at a hotel, and we were all there, and then we left.”

“Wow,” I said. Because I’m totes supportive like that.

“BUT,” she continued, “before we left, I was in the bathtub, and there were bubbles way up to my neck.” She put her little fingers up to her neck to show me, and waited for my reaction. “Wow,” I repeated.

“AND,” she continued, “the bubbles WERE RED.”

Ew. Like blood? That’s what jumped to mind.

“And I couldn’t get out of the bubbles,” she said, quivering just a tiny bit. She stood there in her Hello Kitty nightie scratching her tangled hair with dirty fingernails. I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist, and I imagined her stuck in a hotel bathtub full of red bloody bubbles. Where was I? Why wasn’t I pulling her out of the tub? Combining all of the heavy themes here, I consulted an online dream interpretation guide and learned that my little girl subconsciously needs to supplement her daily routine with more fun and merriment, which should help bring a sense of renewal and purpose to her life. Also, she must soon confront a very emotional issue, as indicated by blood in the bathroom.

Later that day, she bit me really hard, which may or may not be related.

Fast forward: Last night at the gym, one of the childcare workers rushed in all freaky-outy to say she needed help getting the kids off the playground because there was a snake out there eating a baby rabbit. I was all, PHOTO OP! and ran out to see.

Yep, there he was –  a big old corn snake, or maybe a rat snake – curled up with a furry little ball sticking out of its mouth. Awful, but sort of cool, like a real life nature show right there at the YMCA.

“There’s the mama bunny right over there watching,” said a co-worker. Okay, really? Please say no.

But it was true, and it was ghastly. There sat Mama Rabbit, up on her hind legs, just a few yards away from us underneath the swing set. She wasn’t twitching or acting skittish like rabbits do – she was just perched there, black eyes trained on the bottom of the bush where her baby was being digested. It was one of the saddest fucking scenes I’ve ever witnessed.

After a while we retrieved a pool net with a long handle, scooped up the snake and threw him into the woods. Mama Rabbit slowly hopped away.photo

“That’s horrible! Why didn’t you stop it?” said my friend K. when I told her about the incident. “One time I saw a snake and a squirrel going back and forth. The snake was trying to get the squirrel’s babies. I threw a ball at it.”

Well. Hopefully by today the mama rabbit has forgotten all about it. Bunnies aren’t that smart, right? Say right.

Anyway, I feel a tiny bit sad that I didn’t save that baby from being eaten in full view of its mother, and it made me remember the Tyrant’s dream, and right then I promised myself that if I ever find my daughter in a hotel bathtub drowning in bloody red bubbles, I will wrench that child from harm’s way immediately. Even if she bites me.

Posted on April 9, 2013 by

Tough love: it’s not what you think.


Photo on 2012-05-20 at 11.05 #4I love my son sooooo much when he’s asleep. Ditto for the minute he steps onto the school bus. The rest of the time, I think about military schools.

This new journey we’re on – gluten-free eating and boatloads of supplements – have helped a great deal. Physically, the boy is taller and leaner, with more energy and improved coordination. Mentally, he has progressed as well – he smiles more, does his homework and is willing to try new things. Lately he’s been attempting to master the skateboard. Two months ago, that would have seemed to him like jumping from a speeding car.

But insecurities still plague him like a bad rash, and taint his behavior. I know this; I know that when he lashes out at his sister, it’s because he feels hurt or left out. But it doesn’t change my frustration level, particularly when I’m trying to get something done or be somewhere at a certain time. Between him and the Tyrant, my parenting style can best be described as flawed, with moments of incoherence. Sometimes my jaw moves and sounds come out, but I think I might sound like The Joker.

I say things like:

Just hit him back. Do you want to just live somewhere else? You’re acting like a Butthead. You are mean, mean, mean. STOP RUINING EVERYONE’S MORNING! Fine, then, just go outside and beat the crap out of each other. And finally, the one phrase parenting experts implore you not to say: JUST. SHUT. UP. 

“He should have been an only child,” says Hot Firefighter Husband. Possibly. But then I’d think having children sucked, and that’s not (entirely) true.

Plus, the deeper relationships between the Pterodactyl and his sisters fit together like a puzzle. They adore each other. The Pterodactyl depends on them for what little independence he can muster. Making them laugh is like Red Bull for his brain, although most of his jokes are wildly inappropriate.

What are idiotic boobs? Does Teddy have nipples? I see Mom’s bra! Do you have breasts? I see Buddy’s peepee. What’s sexy mean? Can I pinch your butt? 

Honestly, I’d rather he sing Nicki Minaj songs.

I don’t mind the chaos, I really don’t, but why can’t it be pleasant? Sometimes the competition for my attention overwhelms me. Mom, help me get dressed. No, wait, first, get ME dressed. Mom, can you find me some socks? Mom, Buddy’s got Teddy. I HAVE TO GO POTTY. GET ME DRESSED! Mom, I spilled something by accident. MOM, I’M TIRED.

Welcome to 30 seconds of my day. It overfuckingwhelms me so much that I sometimes occasionally semi-frequently begin screeching, and the Diva runs up to me, rubs my back and says, “Mom? Are you okay? You okay, Mom?”

Last week, at just such a moment, she took my hand, pulled me away from the younger kids and told me a secret. “When I get really frustrated, I sing this song – ‘Everybody, everybody wants to love, everybody everybody wants to be loved…’” and she launched into the refrain of that Ingrid Michaelson song. “It reminds me that my brother needs extra love,” she said. A minute later, she printed out the lyrics to the song and pressed the piece of paper into my palm.
What? Is this my child, parenting me?

It’s lovely and magical, this angel girl’s willingness to save me from my scary self. When she slips her slender arms around my neck and kisses my cheek, she whispers, “I love you so much,” and her words flood over me like a warm shower.

My son does the same thing sometimes with his thicker, stickier arms, often just after pulling his sister’s hair, or knocking over a pile of books, or breaking a photopencil in half. But he just stares at me, blinking his brown eyes shyly, hopefully, a tiny hint of a smile tugging at his pouty lips as he silently apologizes for being who he is.

I feel his pain in my heart and my brain and even my lungs, and know he needs my love so much. So I smile at him, and forgive him (again), and count the hours until bedtime, when I kiss him good night, breathe a smidgeon more easily, and gratefully remember how much I need his love right back.

Posted on April 4, 2013 by

First-time visitor? Here’s what you’ve missed.

photo
Have you been living under a rock in Outer Mongolia? Yes? Welcome back! It’s so strange to think there are people uninformed about my life.

Anyhoo, if you’re visiting here for the first time, you’ll need a recap. Here is the abridged version:

I grew up in New Orleans, have red hair, and learned to drive in a 1977 kelly green Cadillac El Dorado. I drank a lot in high school.

I graduated from the University of Notre Dame then worked as a deckhand, swamp tour guide, and purser on the Mississippi Queen steamboat before earning my Master’s degree in journalism from Boston University. I started working at a newspaper on Cape Cod, where I met a hot guy who happened to be my editor. We had an affair and moved to Florida (WHEEE!) then to Minnesota (BRRRR.) then back to Florida (WHEEEE!). I married the hot guy.

We couldn’t get pregnant, so instead we bought a sports car, moved to a beach house and planned a trip to Italy. Then we decided to have children.

We adopted our first child, the Diva, from Vietnam when she was five months old. She’s now 11. She loves makeup, cooking, surfing, and orchestrating everything. She talks of being a writer (sniff!) and remains cautiously optimistic about the existence of Santa. She is nearly perfect except for the squalid condition of her room.

Our third child, the Tyrant, was born in Guatemala. She nearly died in the orphanage, so we sort of took her and didn’t return her and rented an apartment in Guatemala City so we could nurse her back to health. We brought her home when she was 13 months old. She’s 6 years old, doesn’t like to wear underwear, and can shimmy up stop signs. She loves music videos, her Teddy, Barbie, and swimming. She is afraid of nothing except the Grinch. She throws stuff at people for emphasis.

The Pterodactyl was also born in Guatemala, and came home at age six months. He’s so nicknamed due to the mind-numbing screech he developed as toddler. Our son began challenging us when he was two years old with tantrums and bouts of misery, and we spent the next six years trudging from therapist to doctor to therapist. He has been diagnosed with attachment disorder, depression, being naughty, and having bad parents, all of which may or may not be accurate. He’s currently under the care of a doctor who thinks he has a chemical imbalance caused by vitamin deficiencies and an intolerance to gluten and dairy products. So we are now a gluten-free, dairy-free household.

The Pterodactyl, now 8, loves Pokemon, Legos, and his sisters. He’s a perfect angel in school, and his teachers look at us quizzically when we mention problems at home. He does not share. He would love to reside at Target. He could live on hot dogs and Lemonheads.

My husband had a mid-life crisis after our first daughter came home and left journalism to become a Hot Firefighter Husband. He is a sports nut and a political junkie.

We have two chocolate labs: Damn Gem, who is addicted to paper, and Buddy the Wonder Dog. I traveled to Wisconsin to get Buddy last year in order to train him to become a service dog for the Pterodactyl. It hasn’t worked out like that. Buddy loves me like I am a slab of bacon, and seems to have his own attachment disorder. So far he has eaten three pairs of flip flops, two pairs of eyeglasses, and four socks. But he’s very handsome.

I’m a work-at-home mother, writer, and fitness instructor specializing in boxing. I yell a lot then kiss my children’s faces off to make up for it. I love salad, wine, and Cymbalta.IMG_2553

 

Posted on March 27, 2013 by

Shifty weather, changing brains, and chilly beaches.

Something has shifted.

We are in Destin, Florida for a beach vacation, but it’s 54 degrees and the beach is only tolerable after a few doses of rum. Reminder: the kids are too young to drink. We’ve spent a decent amount of time shopping, visiting the go-cart track, and grocery shopping. Lots of grocery shopping. Reminder: we are a gluten-free, dairy-free family.

photo-1Traditional restaurants don’t cater to us, which upsets me. Honestly, I think saying the word “gluten” to a server evokes the same reaction as the word “herpes.” I point to an item on the menu and say something like, “My kids and I are gluten-free; do you know if this contains gluten?” and the server kind of steps back and peers closely to see if I’m branded.

The children and I drove here in Splenda, our new mini-mini-van which I wrecked last week because Spenda has a blind spot. Also, her rear bumper crumples like linen.

Halfway through the drive, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the Tyrant fast asleep. And I saw her brother’s hand on her arm. I opened my mouth to whisper/shout (whispout?) at him to LEAVE YOUR SISTER ALONE but then I realized he was caressing her arm. I looked at him; his head bobbed, and he struggled to keep his dark eyes open. But still his fingers moved up and down on her brown skin, as if to make sure his connection to her remained fast and tangible. Tears sprang to my eyes. I could feel his need for her, his need for all of us. We are his connection to the promise of a happy life.

Later I asked him about that moment, and why he was rubbing her arm. “Because I love her,” he said shyly, wrapping his arms around my neck.

He loves her furiously. As the Diva grows up, she slowly leaves her brother behind, forsaking make-believe games of  family and school in favor of watching videos and reading books. On this vacation, in particular, the Diva and her like-aged cousin have spent every minute of every day in the same room. They’ve possibly melded together.

My poor Pterodactyl understands he’s not fit for this girly world of make-up and gossip; he turns instead to his younger sister, and together they build Legos and watch movies and give their stuffed animals rides on the condo ceiling fans.

But the Tyrant’s six now – a sassy, independent girl who likes to get her way. When she asserts herself, or when she needs some time alone, her brother dives into an inconsolable pit of despair. He pulls her hair, hides her Teddy, breaks her toys.

These tantrums have been better over the past few weeks, but here in Destin, he has collapsed into an unpredictable mass of a boy. We’re not sure if it’s the change in routine, or that we’ve had trouble monitoring his diet – but his mania has escalated. He spends long minutes shrieking, laughing hysterically about boobs, saying MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. over and over again, or engaging in all three at once. Yeah. It’s really possible.

But he remains clear-headed, after the hard moments have passed, about his behavior. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he says. “She just hurt my feelings.” And he dutifully swallows his plethora of vitamins and supplements twice daily: seven pills in the morning, nine at night. This clarity – to watch his mind process it all – is breathtaking. That my 8-year-old son understands his lack of control, and is willing to help us help him….well, it feels miraculous. Monumental, like watching a dark cloud break apart to reveal the brilliant blue of the sky.

And so something has shifted. My son’s little heart throbs with love for his sisters, and aches with his fear of being without them. His brain gives him bad advice sometimes, but then it explains to him exactly what went wrong, and then he shakes with exhaustion. .

He is that dark cloud, this child – brooding and mysterious, striking in its abstract nature. We anxiously wait for it to blow away, and we’re breathless with the glory of the blue sky behind it. Yet…. and yet. We step into the bright sun to feel the warmth, and instead feel the sting of an unexpected chill.

Posted on March 19, 2013 by

Blue skies. Warm temps. Still a stinker of a day.

photoSunday was one of those days my kids would have been better off without me. But damn, we were stuck with each other.

First: I’ve got some kind of nerve problem happening in my neck and left shoulder blade, and it’s causing my hand to catch on fire during the night. It’s excruciating for my hand to be on fire. Also, I’ve been trying to cut back on my Cymbalta dosage. I mean, I WAS trying. Hot Firefighter Husband put a stop to that immediately.

In short, I felt cranky from the minute I woke up. And by “woke up,” I mean was yanked into consciousness by the Tyrant shoving her tangled mess of hair into my face and shrieking, “I WANT SOME ORANGE JUICE, MOM.”

Then the Pterodactyl crawled up behind me and whispered, “I wanna snuggle with you, Mom.” I said, “Okay, let me get your sister some orange juice,” and he was all, NO! NO! STAY HERE. and the girl was all, MOM! ORANGE JUICE, PLEASE! and I had been awake for five minutes and was already thinking HOLY DAY OF REST MY ASS, HOW LONG UNTIL BEDTIME?

Side note: Someone was complaining to me last week about having a colonoscopy, and I thought, really? You got to stay in your bedroom for 24 hours and the only place you had to go was your bathroom? Could you lock your door? Bring it on, dude. And yes, I’ve had a colonoscopy. I know what I’m saying.

In addition, looming over our heads were two school projects due Monday that we’d known about since time began and had not started. The Tyrant, who is in kindergarten, had to make a leprechaun trap. Now, you may recall how I feel about this leprechaun business. Remember when all we had to do for St. Patrick’s Day was wear green and pinch people? Those were the days. The idea that parents and teachers are introducing yet another imaginary character into children’s lives in honor of a nonexistent holiday appalls me. And a character who leaves chaos and mess in its wake? Seriously? I’ve already got three leprechauns year-round. Five, if you count the dogs. I won’t count Husband, because his chaos is mostly accidental.

For the other assignment, the Pterodactyl needed to turn plastic Easter eggs into something else. It’s called the Egg Transformation project. Gentle reminder: he’s eight. He told me he wanted to create a dragonfly, and needed pipe cleaners, plastic wrap, and some really strong glue.

Also, my mother-in-law has been in town. And it was her birthday.

I tried to rally for her. We went to the beach and enjoyed a very relaxing 10 minutes until the children got cold at the exact moment the pool attendant ran out of towels. Bust.

All day, I told myself that life was okay. We are healthy and clothed, with little chance of being swallowed by an earthquake. But I couldn’t shake the yearning desire for this wicked day to end, topped by guilt that I was wishing time away.

Through it all, my mother-in-law, who turned 76 Sunday, remained calm and cheerful. She ate french fries with the kids, and helped my son with his dragonfly project while I cooked dinner. She read books to the Tyrant until she fell asleep, and straightened the kitchen while I sang songs to the Pterodactyl.

Later, when the house was finally quiet, I thanked her for putting up with me all day, and keeping me from the proverbial ledge. “It’s okay, dear,” she said. “I’ve done it all. Some days are just better than others.”

It struck me as the wisest perspective I’d heard in a long, long time.

Posted on March 12, 2013 by

Let’s be clear: GLUTEN, YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.

imagesLast week we had our first follow-up appointment with the doctor who’s Changed Everything. To recap, we went to see her in lieu of setting up a juvenile defense fund for our 8-year-old son, or perhaps building him an in-law apartment.

This doctor thinks the Pterodactyl has an intolerance to gluten, a protein found in wheat, and casein, which is a dairy protein – and as a bonus, she says he is deficient in a slew of vitamins and minerals. #CHEETOSDONTMAKEAMEAL

But apparently a month makes a difference in this business.

In the four weeks since we’ve gone gluten- and dairy-free, the Pterodactyl has gained half an inch and lost four pounds. He has started doing his homework voluntarily for the first time EVER. And we’re seeing a gradual improvement in his ability to verbalize his frustrations. Last week, for example, he explained to me why he hates bathing: he doesn’t like being cold when he gets out of the tub or shower. And I was all, DUH! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! So I bought him a space heater, and now he smells clean on an almost regular basis.

In addition to the diet, he takes a boatload of supplements – Vitamin D, a probiotic, something else, maybe elephant tusk shavings, for all I know. Hot Firefighter Husband understands it all so I don’t have to. The pills are ginormous, and the boy swallows them down twice a day with barely a flinch; he knows they help him feel better.

The whole family dynamic has changed. Since the Pterodactyl isn’t the beast he once was, we aren’t so desperate to get away from him – so we don’t need babysitters as often. We have more family dinners, and I AM COOKING STUFF FROM SCRATCH! I SWEAR TO JULIA CHILD! Last week I made an apple-chocolate chip coffee cake that was UNBELIEVABLE. Obviously we have not cut out sugar.

Dr. B was very excited for us, but since I perennially see the glass as half-empty, I emphasized that we still have a journey in front of us. “I get very frustrated,” I said. “I’m impatient, and I lose my temper.”

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“Well, listen,” she said. “You’ve been through a lot with this child. Sometimes you might be reacting to memories of his previous behavior. It’s like you have PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).”

I practically screeched, I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! I KNEW I NEEDED A SERVICE DOG! See, I TOTALLY need Buddy the Wonder Dog to help me overcome my PTSD! I’m going to train him to do that as soon as he stops eating socks. Buddha certainly works in mysterious ways.

We left Dr. B’s office pretty optimistic, with Husband thinking she’s an underrated genius for finding out what’s wrong with our son, and me cautiously hopeful but still a little skeptical, because the whole gluten-free thing seems sort of voguish and genteel, a mere health fad like chia seeds and the Master Cleanse. I used to roll my eyes at people like me.

BUT THEN. I took the children to a birthday party Saturday afternoon at a park. When we arrived, the picnic tables were decorated with bowls of snacks – pretzels, Goldfish, and crackers. I think. I’m not sure. I just saw giant neon GLUTEN signs illuminated everywhere. The Pterodactyl, his little sister and some friends immediately found a hiding place at the park and began shuttling armfuls of GLUTEN there as though they were stocking up for the apocalypse.

Bummer. Also, it was wicked cold outside, and nobody had brought a corkscrew for the wine, and I had already finished off the contents of my pre-emptive go-cup. I was feeling very unfestive.

The situation worsened. Because halfway through the party, the Gluten Discs with Melted Casein arrived. Pizza, you regular people call it. Dr. B would call it a poison festival.

“Mom, please, can I have some pizza?” the Pterodactyl pleaded.

“Honey, I don’t think you should,” I said. “Please don’t.” See, I’m not all patchouli-smelling and hairy-legged. I want my kid to fit in. So I asked him nicely, but did not act like an Enforcer.

“Okay,” he said. Then he snuck two or four pieces back to his hideout and snarfed them down like cocaine.

The party ended not soon enough, and we shuttled home, where Hot Firefighter Husband was preparing dinner just as hell began freezing over. We enjoyed a pleasant family dinner with some lengthy discussions about feces, butts, and what it means to POP SOME TAGS. I hope Bono forgives me for liking that Thrift Shop song, but damn, it’s catchy.

Soon after dinner, the Pterodactyl began to shift from 8-year-old boy into child-sized Mephistopheles. The transformation began with casual obstinance. It progressed into near psychosis. This child was utterly incapacitated – flinging Legos around the room, digging his nails into my arms, screaming, barely able to stand up. He head-butted me whenever he could. He shouted nonsense at us. Honestly, I didn’t rule out taking him to the hospital to be sedated.

Husband and I kept looking at each other, slack-jawed. We could not understand why our son had shapeshifted from hilarious trickster to rabid warthog in the span of an hour or so.

Near 11 p.m., as he slumped facedown on his bed, heaving in exhaustion, I figured it out. “The pizza,” I said to Husband. “It must be the pizza.”

The regression lasted into the next day, and finally began abating mid-afternoon. By that time, I was a convert. DIE, GLUTEN, DIE. If you’re even a living organism. I have no idea.

I can tell you this, though. We are a gluten-free, dairy-free household for good. Roll your eyes at me if you want; this mama cares not. But don’t go slipping my kid a cookie. If you do, I will TAKE. YOU. DOWN. Or maybe make you sit with him for day or so.

Either way, you’re likely to get hurt.

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