I play in a softball league for local women. We have four teams, comprising mostly moms in their 30s and 40s. It’s fun.

At one practice, a few of us were discussing Martin’s move from a private self-contained, special-education setting into our local school. (I’m so anxious. I raise the topic with anyone who knows anything.) I said that my son—no one on the team knows Martin—has ADHD and language delays.

Someone asked whether we’d considered the district’s own self-contained, special-education classroom for Martin. I said that we’d observed that classroom and liked the teacher but (1) we didn’t see any advantage to moving from one self-contained setting to another, and (2) our district representative wasn’t sure Martin would fit well with the students in the self-contained classroom. I worded the second point carefully, so as not to suggest that the class was behind schedule, or that Martin was “better” than its students, in case any mom present had a child in that classroom.

And indeed, one mom did have a child in the district’s self-contained classroom. She started talking about her son. She said that they’d considered trying to switch him to general education with an aide (that’s what we’re doing for Martin) but felt that the move from a 12-student-or-fewer classroom to a 20-student-or-more classroom would be too much for him to handle.

We have the same concern for Martin, I told her. I’m wondering how this year is going to go.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” she replied. “It wouldn’t work for my son. My son’s ADD is so bad.”

I’ve seen this woman’s son. He comes to watch our practices and games. To me, he looks absolutely typical.

I said, “Academically, attention is our main concern, too. Martin has so much trouble paying attention.”

“Not like my son,” she said. “Seriously, once my son even had an autism diagnosis. Now he’s on absolutely the highest dose of every medication he takes.” She named three pharmaceuticals, none of which I recognized. “For every one, he’s got the highest dose they allow. Based on his body weight, they won’t even let him take more. That’s how much he needs, just to pay attention.”

As she spoke, I grew uncomfortable. First, the way she said “autism diagnosis” conveyed, “You can’t even believe how bad his condition is.” I abhor “autism” being used as a synonym for “territory you don’t want to be anywhere near.” Last year I helped a special-education acquaintance request a neurodevelopmental psychiatric evaluation for her son. When I asked later how it went, she (despite knowing Martin’s then-diagnosis) replied that she hadn’t completed the exam because, after only the first session, the doctor said her son didn’t have autism. “That’s really what I needed to know,” that mother told me. “I mean, thank God, at least he doesn’t have autism.”

Second, as I’ve written before, I can’t say that we will never allow Martin to use a pharmaceutical to address his poor attention span. For example, if we get to middle school and a pharmaceutical can make the difference between fully mainstream and still being pulled from the classroom, maybe we will try the pharmaceutical. (Maybe.) That being said, the thought of an eight-year-old child, like softball mom’s son, taking a variety of drugs to alter his brain chemistry turns my stomach—especially because the family doesn’t seem to be making any attempt to address overall health. Every time I see the boy, he has goldfish crackers or an ice-cream cone or an artificially flavored popsicle or even a soda pop in his hands.

Third, softball mom’s comments were tinged with—I don’t know—pride, or bragging. She sounded like we were trying to outdo each other: My son has so little attention span that he needs three drugs, maximum dose. Can you top that? I suspect that, if we ever compared our children, I could top even three drugs, maximum dose. But who on earth would want to play such a game?

Sitting quietly and typing my blog, I can expound the three reasons her comments disquieted me, and come up with the kind of helpful response I could have given, something like, “I’d really like to hear more about your experience with the self-contained classroom. Can I give you my number so maybe we could grab coffee?” or maybe even, “We’re always looking for new friends. Do you think your son would like to do a play date sometime?”

On the softball field, however, I panicked, confounded as usual, nothing productive to offer. I said only, “Wow, it sounds like you’ve really got your hands full!” and hoped she would change the subject.

For ahen these situations arise, I’ve got to find some middle path that is neither my opening monologue to the biomed revolution nor a throw-away comment to move the conversation along. Regardung my veganism, I’m able to thread the needle; I respond honestly but non-graphically to any questions (no one wants to hear about factory farming at the dinner table) without pushing an agenda. What is the biomed equivalent? How do I gently suggest that a non-pharmaceutical option is available, without affronting or appearing judgmental?

Suggestions welcome.