Category Archives: Uncategorized

Cancellations, Delay, Need

Posted on by findingmykid
1

Last Saturday, Adrian and I had plans with another couple, close friends, a minister and lay person. They have a teenage son, Jacob, whom they adopted years ago, after the boy had suffered neglect and horrible abuse in foster care. Predictably, their son has lasting behavioral and emotional challenges, which our friends have weathered with grace. The day before we were set to go out, I received an email from the minister half of this couple, offering regrets that he needed to stay home because their son was bolting again: running away when he sees the chance.

I wrote him this note, which seems appropriate to share here, with permission:

Friday, when I saw an email from you arrive, I knew before reading what it would say. I’ve written the same email so many times these past six years—“I was really looking forward to our lunch, but Martin’s having a tough day . . . ,” “I can still make dinner, but I have to miss the movie. So much anxiety, he won’t go to sleep unless I’m home . . . .” Your cancellation, not unexpected, got me reflecting on our children, and what they’ve meant to our paths and relationships.

I never expected parenting to be the burden that it has become. Burden, yes. I mean the word without the negative connotation, or at least without only the negative connotation. Burden the way completing an education is a burden, or getting up to go to work is a burden. We carry these burdens in order to build a life. Some are heavier than others. Upon Martin’s diagnosis, parenting became heavy. Too heavy, sometimes.

People tell me that God makes special children for special parents, or that one day I will understand why Adrian and I were “blessed” with a child with autism. No way. I will never believe that a loving God afflicts children in order to test or to uphold their parents. Instead, I think our kids suffer the sins of this world. In Martin’s case, we have corrupted the food supply, toyed with earth’s natural abundance, believed we can overcome sloth with science, and set aside worldly order until we triggered sick kids, lots of them. Jacob’s tormentors—addiction, abandonment, abuse, neglect—are less modern but no less man-made. Autism and PTSD didn’t “just happen”; in both cases, our sons are left to absorb the sins of others.

—Which of course means that we as their protectors and caregivers are left to clean others’ messes. We chose parenting. We did not choose this parenting. But that, I suppose, is the nature of sin: Once we engage (as we must) with the world around us, there lurks evil. The Christian’s job is to fight back, and for whatever reason, you and I have Jacob and Martin as both the incentive for and the locus of our struggle. I wish it weren’t that way. I hate autism. I wish sin would have left my son out of it. Alas. For now, I try to be grateful for the weapons I’ve been given for the battle.

I’m not saying much with this note, and certainly not preaching to the preacher. I just wanted to share these thoughts, and through them to share my unceasing appreciation for your friendship and example.

Needlessly Suspicious

Posted on by findingmykid
2

Another post along the lines of “Terrified.” Sunday morning at church, during children’s time when the kids gather around the chancel for a few minutes, the pastor asked if anyone knew who Martin Luther King Jr. is. One girl answered but confused Martin Luther King Jr. with Martin Luther. (Understandable. We’ve already started commemorations for the 500th anniversary of the Magisterial Reformation, and that was where the pastor was heading, eventually, with the discussion.)

Next, Martin raised his hand. Raised his hand! Good work! When the pastor called on him, Martin launched a soliloquy on MLK’s birthdate, major accomplishments, “I Have a Dream” speech, assassination date, and the holiday honoring him. Indeed, Martin held court at some length, monopolizing children’s time and oblivious to the pastor’s attempts to segue from MLK Jr. to Martin Luther, Reformation Leader.

The congregation seemed to love Martin’s facts. They always do. As Martin was carrying on, and then when we passed the peace, and again after church, adults complimented me on Martin’s MLK Jr. fact base. No one mentioned him usurping half of children’s time from the hapless pastor.

During coffee hour, one parishioner asked me where Martin is in school. I replied that he’s in second grade at our local elementary. She said, “His teacher must be really good.”

Now, reader, what would you think she meant?

I went right for the worst: She must be asking where we found a teacher who can handle Martin’s interrupting and talking past his turn, habits that clearly flummox our pastor.

I asked, “What do you mean?”

She replied, “He knew about Martin Luther King when none of the other kids did. She must really be teaching well!”

Oh. Of course.

The following morning, Monday, Halloween, I brought Martin to the bus stop in his costume. (He was an astronaut.) After the kids got on the bus, as the parents were saying goodbye, one remarked, “See you at the parade!”

The parade? What parade? “The Halloween costume parade at school. You have to go—all the kids look for their parents, and Martin will be upset if he doesn’t see you.”

I had no idea.

“Didn’t you receive an email from your class parent?”

No. Come to think about it, I haven’t received any emails from our class parent all year, despite adding my name and email address to the class list at open house. No wonder I’ve been in the dark about different events, and occasionally blaming Martin for not telling me in advance.

Now, reader, why would you think I haven’t received any emails from the class parent?

I went right for the worst: The class parent knows that the high-need child is mine, thinks he usurps attention from other pupils, and is subtly excluding us from activities.

After the Halloween parade, it turns out, there was a classroom event with parent volunteers. Even though I wasn’t on any volunteer list (because, well, I had no idea . . .), I weaseled my way into the classroom event, where I spoke with the class parent. “Tell me your name again?” she asked. “Oh, yes! Yes, my emails to you keep bouncing back.” She pulled out her mobile phone and asked me to double-check my email address in her contact list.

My email address in her contact list had a typo. Although the error was obvious—@yahoo.com was written @yhaoo.com—it seemed unintentional error, not aimed at excluding the special-needs family. Still, I needed a little more confirmation.

As if on cue, the class parent around and asked, “So, which child is yours?”

Terrified

Posted on by findingmykid
3

Martin is doing taekwondo now. He’s breaking my heart. He’s supposed to be playing ice hockey. We’ve invested more than a year in skating lessons and hundreds of dollars in hockey equipment. It’s no secret that I reproduced primarily to give the world another hockey player. Hockey, hockey, hockey.

Alas, apparently Martin has a will of his own. Weeks ago, we had a (parent-and-school-administrator-arranged) play date with Spencer, one of the cooler kids in Martin’s new class. Spencer is close to earning his taekwondo black belt. He showed me and Martin some of his moves, and a video of him breaking boards with kicks and punches. Spencer’s family also invited Martin to Spencer’s taekwondo-themed birthday party at the local dojang. You can guess what happened next: Martin announced that he no longer wanted hockey lessons. He wanted taekwondo.

The dojang’s introductory package comes with two private, one-on-one lessons, followed by two group classes to decide whether you want to sign up for good. Martin’s first lesson, with a teenaged black belt named Brian, was kind of a disaster; Martin preferred checking himself out in the mirror to following any actual instruction. (Just like two years ago when we tried karate.) The second lesson, also with Brian, went much better; Martin was more focused and worked with Brian on the kicks and punches. (One of the dojang masters remembered Martin from the birthday party and made a point to say hi and encourage him. I think that motivated Martin.)

So it was time to try Martin’s first group class. As the class was 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday, Adrian brought him, and I received this hearsay account:

The class had one master (the one who’d said hi to Martin) and three assistant instructors, probably teenage black belts like Brian. At first, Adrian thought an assistant was specially assigned to Martin. Subsequently he realized that the assistant instructors were for the whole class but, unsurprisingly, spending more time with Martin. As Adrian observed, he texted me that he thought taekwondo could be very good for Martin.

Twenty minutes into the class, the other dojang master asked if he could have a word with Adrian, in the office.

“I was terrified,” Adrian told me, later. “I thought for sure he was going to say, ‘No more,’ or, ‘Just not the right fit for Martin’.”

“And? What did he say?” I asked, not terrified, but not terrified only because Adrian was speaking calmly, indicating no reason to be terrified.

“He said he thought Martin is going to do well there. He said they have a lot of kids like Martin—he didn’t mention ADD or anything like that, but we both knew what he was talking about—and that martial arts help a lot with focus. He contrasted it with sports where kids can get away with just running around, like soccer.”

Or hockey, I thought, before shunning the thought.

Adrian continued, “The master guy said that his ‘day job’ is as a special-education teacher at [S—] School.” That’s one of the local elementary schools.

“This sounds wonderful,” I said.

“I think so.”

“I would have been terrified, too.”

“I know.”

Having a kid with autism, or ADD, or ADHD, or (I imagine) any range of challenges entails constant fear of rejection (and sometimes, rejection realized). Last Friday, I had arranged an evening play date with a boy in Martin’s new class (Lucas, whose mother I’d talked with at the open house). We planned to meet at a playground. Friday morning the boy’s mother texted me that it was supposed to rain and so we should reschedule. She didn’t suggest any particular time to reschedule. Instantly, I was terrified. Had the classmate found out his play date was with Martin and declared himself unwilling to attend? Did he not want to hang out with the weird kid? I texted back and suggested Tuesday afternoon instead. The mom responded sure, and that she would be in touch Tuesday morning.

I wondered whether she really would contact me Tuesday morning.

I hope she would.

I feared she wouldn’t.

She did. Tuesday morning, she texted asking what time we wanted to meet.

The play date was kind of a bust. The other boy (himself kind of immature, with some challenges, though not at Martin’s level) played mostly with a pre-schooler who happened to be at the playground. Martin wanted to swing, as he always does. The other mother and I made scattered attempts to facilitate interaction, fruitlessly.

Still, later she texted me, “Let’s do it again soon!”

Disaster averted. Nevertheless, we’ve suffered enough rejections and setbacks along the way to keep the terror real, and present.

Week Four. Disaster?

Posted on by findingmykid
5

It was all going so well. Or pretty well. I mean, it was going.

Wednesday of Week Four came the harbinger that the adjustment to Martin’s new school may not be as smooth as appearances. I was working in my City office when, right about school-dismissal time, I received this email from Martin’s teacher:

Hi Mrs. [M—],

Martin had some trouble today during both “Read Aloud” time and Silent Reading.  As I was reading aloud to the children on the carpet, he made noises and distracted the other children.  I needed to stop several times to remind him how we show good listening.  The other children really enjoy “Read Aloud” time and become frustrated when we need to stop many times.  He also had trouble reading silently this afternoon during reading time and could not control his laughter and calling out. We moved his color clip to yellow today but he shouted how he doesn’t care and he’s not going to try tomorrow.  It seems that these two times are particularly troubling for him during the day.  When I do see the behaviorist this week I will ask her to help us with a plan for these two times.

I just wanted to touch base and let you know our concerns here today.

Thanks so much,

Mrs. [N—]

Oh no! Oh no! I have two greatest fears, this first month at Martin’s new school: (1) bullying/rejection, and (2) that he will be removed from general education. This email, while mostly directed at fear (2), also touched upon fear (1), namely, that Martin’s behavior was frustrating the other children. The situation came with the compounding factor that uncontrolled laughing and outbursts are often related to Martin’s biomedical treatment, as when we are “kicking up” too many bugs/toxins/parasites/whatever. “Sorry about that. Must’ve kicked up too many parasites again” is not the most practicable response to give a mainstream public-school teacher.

Immediately I responded, copying Adrian and Martin’s behaviorist:

Mrs. [N—],

Thanks so much for the update, and I can imagine that it must be frustrating if Martin was distracting the other children. Could you tell me—is this behavior new, or has it been ongoing? We have had (short-lived, I’m glad) times in the past when Martin had trouble controlling his laughter, so it would be helpful to know how long it’s been continuing this time. We will absolutely address this with Martin and also check in with Darlene [the behaviorist] about her opinion on how to handle.

I will let you know what Darlene and I discuss, and I’m sure you will have a chance to speak with her this week also. Please keep us posted.

Best,

Maria

Next, I texted Darlene:

Just got an email from Mrs. [N—] that Martin is disrupting reading time with laughter and outbursts. She wants help with behavior modification suggestions.

She responded within seconds, seemingly aware of the situation already:

Yes. Sorry, I was supposed to go there today. Still sitting at desk at home doing emails and plans. Aide reached out yesterday, said he was silly. Thought maybe tired.

We continued:

I’m contacting his doctor now about whether we can cut back on anything that might be causing the silliness, but I’m worried. I think we should get a plan in place ASAP. Can you get to [his school] tomorrow?

Yes.

At this point, Darlene telephoned me. She said that she thought Martin’s behavior—especially the part when he said he “doesn’t care” and won’t even try to achieve “green light” rating tomorrow—might be a reaction to some of his first rejection experiences. She relayed an event the previous week when the teacher had asked the class to pair up for an exercise. The pupils began turning to whoever was closest and forming groups of two. Martin missed the social cue and instead yelled, “Who wants to be my partner? Who’s going to be partner with me?” He ended up the only kid without a partner. Darlene also said Martin has been withdrawing more at recess, and that his aide has had increasing trouble getting him to engage. She did say that sometimes Martin sits with a couple kids who play with stuffed superhero toys, and that maybe he’d like to bring a similar toy to play along.

We hung up, but my mind was still on Martin, and definitely not on work. I wrote a message to Martin’s doctor, asking what we might antimicrobials we could consider relaxing, and what else I could do to support him and control the laughing fits.

Darlene and I started texting again:

Glad I wasn’t there when no one partnered up with him last week—that kind of stuff just kills me.

I know. It was a day when substitute was there.

Substitute teacher, or substitute aide?

Teacher. There was a sub teacher for a couple days last week. All these could be contributing.

Miss I [Martin’s aide] was his partner for a bit, then she switched and was a partner with someone else and Martin partnered with a student.

Eek. Need to find a better way to address these skills.

Writing to teacher and aide now.

Please let them know that Adrian and I take this seriously and will work with everyone to resolve ASAP.

I just heard from Samara. She said Martin told her immediately that he was laughing too much at school, and agreed that he lost his iPad privileges for today. She also said he said, “Maybe I can use it tomorrow,” which would suggest he was just frustrated when he said he’s not even going to try.

Exactly. I think it was just because he didn’t know what else to say. I sent email just asking if certain times of day or activities [are problematic]. How are peer relations. I did not copy you as I want them to give straightforward responses.

Yes, that’s good. I have already contacted the doctor. Since I am not at home tonight, I asked Samara not to be angry at him, but more to try to build his confidence about earning iPad tomorrow. I pass through Penn Station on my way home. I will check the shops for a superhero of the type you mentioned. I can also check Stop & Shop when I arrive home late.

This was certainly a diversion from arguing about Conjoint Analysis plus to determine consumer valuation of product attributes.

My attempts at humor are so lame. Darlene didn’t respond to that last text. Instead, she sent a picture of the stuffed superhero she’d mentioned, the kind two boys had on the playground:

fullsizerender-2

I kept going:

Thanks. I will take a look ASAP. And if you have words of reassurance, please feel free! Of course I am currently doubting whether we made the right choice for this year, but that may be just premature freaking out.

Absolutely just freaking out.

Okay. That’s me, I guess.

As horrible as it sounds it’s better for the kids to treat him as any other kid then to treat him as the class pet with special needs. Does that make sense? If they’re treating him like they see him as an equal.

        Maybe. If he’s ready.

Meaning he’s going to be going through some Growing Pains like just any other kid. My daughter comes home sometimes to say the same thing nobody playing with her. I just have to create something to help them through lunch and recess so he can get some friends.

Would you consider throwing like a fall party or something maybe even at your house as a get-to-know-everybody party. Unfortunately his birthday isn’t until June. Could you do a Halloween party? This way you could get to know some of the other moms and maybe start to have some play dates to foster some relationships just one-on-one.

Egads! Was she kidding? With my introverted nature and minimal confidence in my own social skills, I live in perpetual anxiety. What if I threw a party for Martin, and no one came?

Hmmm. Not a bad idea. But I do have a fear of no-shows! We have a play date this Friday with Lucas from his class. Fingers crossed. Also, I love the way your autocorrect capitalized “Growing Pains.”

Okay great.

That seemed like my cue to stop texting Darlene. So I did, for a few hours. At 8:30 pm, on my way home (Wednesdays I work late), I texted her a photo:

img_4400

Found this at Penn Station Kmart. Not exact but I hope close enough.

Perfect.

Hooray! I will send it to school with him tomorrow, with the instruction that he can take it out for recess. I detest the Penn Station Kmart. Only dedication to my child could make this happen.

You’re the best.

Martin is the best. Just want to help him understand that.

Adele

Posted on by findingmykid
Reply

Last year, Martin was into Adele. Adrian managed to snag three tickets to one of Adele’s September shows at Madison Square Garden. That’s the good news. As for the bad news—the show was on a Sunday night, in Manhattan, in September, when Martin was adjusting to a new school.

The concert was magical. We went by train, had a tapas meal, arrived at the Garden in time to explore before the show. Martin had been anxious about whether the music would be too loud, so I had a packet of ear plugs in my purse. We need not have worried. From the moment the lights dimmed and Adele rose upon a platform stage, singing “Hello,” Martin was transfixed. He never covered his ears. He wasn’t bored or asking to leave. He was so into the show that he tried to convince me he didn’t need to go to the bathroom, even as he was plainly kicking his feet and shuffling because he had to pee.

I forced him to go to the bathroom with Adrian. Apparently, before Adrian was done using the bathroom, Martin announced his intent to return to our seats—and Adrian let him go. My husband set Martin loose alone in Madison Square Garden and expected him to find his way back to our seats. Martin, miraculously, managed to do so, or at least to find the correct door, where he was stopped by a security guard who told him to wait for his father. If only my husband could have the judgment of a concert security guard.

It was after midnight by the time we got Martin home and in bed. While Adrian and I agreed the concert had been a resounding success, the excitement and abbreviated Sunday sleep time (like, four or five hours less than usual!) did not do his week well: Tomorrow’s blog post, which I’ve already written, is titled, “Week Four. Disaster?”

I’ll close with a few tidbits.

First, I’d hoped to hide, from Martin’s teacher and aide, why he was so tired. I mean—what kind of parents drag their special-needs eight-year-old to the City for a concert on a school night? Back in the old days, I could have hidden the deed. No more. Monday afternoon Martin’s aide left a note in his backpack, saying everyone enjoyed hearing all about the Adele show from Martin.

Second, if you’re in the mood to read, jump back to the post titled “Madison Square [Explicative] Garden” and remember the last time I tried taking Martin to a loud, noisy event in the World’s Most Famous Arena.

img_4374

Week Three, First Bullying?

Posted on by findingmykid
2

Week three of school. Martin and I were walking to the bus stop when he asked, “Why do some kids say, ‘You can’t sit here!’?”

“Do some kids say that to you?”

“Yes. Then the bus driver says, ‘You can sit in the first two seats’.”

“Which kids say that to you?”

“Big kids in the bus.”

“Does any of the kids from this bus stop say that to you?”

“No.”

“Do the big kids say that to other kids from this bus stop, or just to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think that is something kind to say, or unkind?”

“Unkind. Then I have to find a seat with one kid or no kids.”

“If someone says, ‘You can’t sit here!’, maybe you can say, ‘I’d rather find a better seat anyway’?”

“Okay.”

The conversation freaked me out. As soon as Martin boarded the bus, I texted his behaviorist, who sees him both at home and in school. With her approval, I also emailed the school principal.

The principal responded quickly: “I will look further into this situation today.  Is it possible that Martin is going to the back of the bus to sit? The long-standing tradition at our school is that the fifth graders sit in the back of the bus. The fifth graders will sometimes get overly sensitive about their ‘earned right’ to have the back of the bus.  I’m hoping that this is just a misunderstanding and an easy fix.  I will be very disappointed if there is more to it than that. I will be in touch.”

Later the same day, the principal sent a follow-up message, saying she had spoken with the bus driver, who would ensure that a seat behind him was always open for Martin, just in case.

I explained to Martin that fifth-graders sit in the back. He asked, “Then why do the twins get to sit in the back?” He meant our neighbors, who are in first grade. I had no answer.

The next morning, I consulted a fifth-grader I know, who also boards at our bus stop. She confirmed that fifth-graders sit in the back.

First bullying incident—might have been nothing, might have been something.

Subsequent bullying incidents—I’m worried. I’m always worried.

Second Week, Itchy

Posted on by findingmykid
Reply

In the weekend between Martin’s first and second full weeks of school, he and I traveled Upstate, to attend his cousin Mandy’s birthday party. The party took place at Mandy’s grandmother’s house, a country-kid-paradise with a creek for swimming, endless supply of water balloons, tractor rides, even some sort of gigantic inflatable ball for children to enter and be rolled around the lawn.

img_4222

img_4210

Martin did okaaaay, considering that Mandy, the only child he knew, had twenty other friends to entertain, the surroundings were unfamiliar, and the event was unstructured (which is toughest for Martin). He managed spattered bursts of interactive play but also spent time alone, by the creek or on the rope swing. He wasn’t always where the other kids were.

img_4216

That evening, Saturday, brought some excitement. Martin and I were having dinner with one of my high-school friends when my sister, Mandy’s mother, texted to say she and her fiancé were driving my father to the hospital. My father was hospitalized last year for a blood infection in his leg. Saturday afternoon he visited a walk-in clinic because his ankle and calf were inflamed, and the clinic doctor recommended an immediate trip to the emergency room. Martin and I finished dinner, hurriedly said goodbye, and drove an hour to meet everyone at the hospital. (Upstate, every distance is wide.)

At the hospital, lolling in a chair at my father’s bedside (it was late), Martin started to complain that he was itchy, and bumps appeared on his arms. I asked the nurse whether the hospital used any products that might cause Martin to have an allergy. Why, sure, she replied, and enumerated chemical cleaners sprayed about the facility, including on the chairs. Martin continued to itch.

As soon as my father’s situation was under control, I drove Martin to our hotel and helped him scrub himself from top to bottom in the shower. He seemed to feel better. By then it was after 11:00 pm. Martin went directly from shower to bed and soon slept.

The next morning Martin woke without hives and decided to watch television while I showered. From the shower, I heard Martin yell, “It hurts! It’s itchy!” Hurriedly I wrapped myself in a towel and went to find Martin’s arms and legs looking like this—

I had no idea what was wrong but knew I had to do something. I drove him to a local drugstore and purchased the least offensive antihistamine I could find, in terms of additives and colors. By the time we left the drugstore, however, Martin’s arms and legs had returned to normal and he’d stopped complaining. So, no antihistamine. Instead, we went up to my sister’s for breakfast and then started the four-to-five-hour drive home. Everything was fine until twenty minutes from our house, whereupon Martin started to itch again. As soon as we arrived, I administered the antihistamine, and Martin quickly felt better.

The next morning, Monday, Martin woke up fine. Adrian’s car was getting fixed, so I left Martin with my mother-in-law (visiting) and drove Adrian to the train station. When I returned after twenty minutes, Martin was rolling on the rug, screaming. Actually screaming. “It hurts! It hurts! Help!” This time his legs looked like this—

img_4241

Martin swallowed more antihistamine, then said it was “hard to breathe,” to which I replied, “Get in the car. We’re going to the hospital,” because I wasn’t going to mess around if Martin was having an anaphylactic reaction. We were barely underway to the hospital, my mother-in-law in tow, when the reaction subsided. Martin was safe, so I diverted toward Martin’s pediatrician, calling underway for an appointment.

“That’s poison ivy,” the physician assistant said, when I showed her the pictures. “He’s covered with poison ivy.” She prescribed steroids and said we could continue with antihistamines. She also examined Martin’s throat and found no evidence of swelling, meaning that his “hard to breathe” comment was probably just frustration and panic. I called Martin’s MAPS doctor, got her okay for the steroids, picked up the prescription, and delivered Martin to school, with a lengthy explanation and bottle of antihistamines for the school nurse.

The poison ivy flared on and off all week long, Martin’s second week in his new school. He was miserable and, as far as I could tell, worn out.

He survived.

And if you’re worried—my father also survived.

Third Day, Positively Sleepy?

Posted on by findingmykid
1

From my perspective, School Day No. 3, which was a Wednesday, commenced as inauspiciously as School Day No. 2. Martin woke himself early by coughing, then had to be dragged from bed to the breakfast table. (Not literally. Everyone be chill.) He barely ate, except what I loaded onto a spoon and lifted to his mouth. (Literally.) He was scratching his legs—bug bites, remnants of Costa Rica—so intently that I made him wear pants, though the forecast was steamy. We trudged to the bus stop where, again, he isolated himself.

If they don’t kick him out of general education based on whatever he does today, I will be satisfied with that, I told myself. It was the best I could conjure, in terms of reassurance.

Beginning at 1:08 pm, I had this text exchange with Darlene, the behaviorist:

[Darlene:] He is exhausted but compliant and doing his work. Looking a little warm too. Shorts tomorrow for sure.

[Me:] On it. I put the pants on him today only because he was scratching the bug bites on his legs! No behavior issues?

Nope.

He has brand-new [school name] shorts and is eager to wear them.

He started laughing at one point this a.m. and was told to stop. He didn’t. Was told to stop or he would move to yellow and he stopped immediately.

The afternoons he is tired so [Mrs. N] asked resource room teacher to pull him in morning during morning work. (This is a maintenance and review period when many ESL students get pulled.) They’re going to try to accommodate that.

He’s definitely doing a lot of writing in school. I know they already wrote up a science experiment and an “about my summer” paragraph. And today he finished a poem about himself.

Overall it sounds good, except for the laughing. On the other hand, if he stopped for yellow that’s an improvement. His old school couldn’t address that behavior well.

He’s doing great.

Thanks, Darlene.

So they did not kick him out of general education based on his Day No. 3.

I told myself to be satisfied with that.

Food Is Easy

Posted on by findingmykid
4

When we first started biomed, I altered Martin’s diet to remove grains, fruits (except avocado and limited tomato), starchy vegetables, dairy, soy, corn, refined sugar (actually, at that time, almost all sugar), and additives. Like any biomed newbie, I had my moment of standing in a Whole Foods Market trying not to cry because I couldn’t find anything my son could eat. I muddled though with elaborate concoctions. Dehydrated flax-seed crackers. Green purée. Spinach pie. When Martin started eating meat, chicken-and-egg bread.

With hindsight I realize that feeding Martin felt so complicated because I was trapped by my prior notions of diet. How could I replace bread to make his sandwiches? What crackers would he use for snacks? Pizza? Pancakes? How could I create a mini-gourmand with few of the ingredients associated with gourmet cooking? Could I invite friends over and offer them a dish of flax seeds?

Labor Day weekend we had three houseguests: my father, my niece (Martin’s buddy, Mandy), and my mother-in-law. In addition, we entertained friends for lunch on Saturday afternoon and Sunday afternoon. In our early biomed days, this might have created a meltdown scenario. (Mine, not Martin’s.) Not so today. Not so with my new mentality: simple meals, few ingredients of high quality.

Saturday morning, Adrian took Martin and Mandy to the gym so that I could prepare. On the counter I had two bags of baby Brussels sprouts; teardrop tomatoes, basil, and two cucumbers from my patio garden; avocados; red onions; garlic; an orange; and three pounds of potatoes. (I don’t do much with potatoes, usually. Organic potatoes are a once-in-a-while treat that Martin loves.)

The Brussels sprouts I washed and trimmed, then stirred with olive oil and ginger-orange salt and placed in a glass pan. The potatoes I washed and quartered, then stirred with olive oil and rosemary salt and placed in a glass pan. Side dishes—done except for baking.

Next I halved the teardrop tomatoes, sliced one cucumber and the basil thinly, and combined them with red onions, olives, capers, fresh lemon juice, crushed garlic, and olive oil. Salad—done.

Before our friends arrived, I made guacamole, which I set on the patio table next to a tray of raw vegetables. I also filled a dish with peanuts (no peanut allergies present that day). Snacks—done. I also sliced an orange and the other cucumber and put them in a glass jug with filtered water and lots of ice. Non-alcoholic beverage—done. Then I turned on the oven and set the Brussels sprouts and potatoes to bake.

Later, while guests were present, I brushed a large piece of salmon with olive oil, then added salt and capers. Main course for non-vegetarians—ready to grill.

The day before I had prepared a quinoa chocolate cake. To compliment the cake, I put coconut milk, vanilla extract, a dash of sea salt, and coconut crystals into my ice cream maker and set it to churn. When the ice cream was almost firm, I added fresh raspberries. Dessert—done.

That was the food I served: peanuts, and veggies with guac; grilled salmon, Brussels sprouts, potatoes, and tomato salad; cake and ice cream.

Everything was homemade and permissible for Martin to eat. Apart from the cake, preparing the entire afternoon’s menu took about 90 minutes. If our Saturday guests realized they were eating “recovery” food, they made no mention.

For our Sunday guests, the main course comprised burgers and vegetable burgers (no buns), sweet potatoes with coconut oil and cinnamon, garlic green beans, and more salad (the garden won’t quit).

When the time is right, I still enjoy making more complicated dishes; yesterday for dinner I fashioned “nutty patties” out of cashews, walnuts, tahini, onion, parsley, flax seeds (in a yummy way, seriously), and spices. But I’ve realized that life is easier when most meals comprise few ingredients simply prepared. I don’t need “replacements” for bread, crackers, pretzels, and other processed foods. No one misses them, anyway.