Just Breathe...and Notice

Dear Time magazine, you suck.

Pun intended.  Heh.

So I know I'm woefully late to this party, but I've been all indecisive and angsty about whether or not I wanted to share my thoughts on the Time kerfuffle.  It's funny -- I seem to have no problem sharing intimate details of life with an anxiety disorder, but I'm generally too chicken to write anything that might cause people to (gasp!) disagree with me.  Pathetic much?

I should start with some full-disclosure:  I fully embrace the ideals of attachment parenting, as well as many of the hippy-dippy lifestyle choices that seem to frequently accompany it.  My kids were breastfed on-demand, worn in slings, and slept in our bed.  Crying babies were held and comforted.  Discipline has always been gentle and non-coercive.  Diapers were cloth, baby food was homemade and organic --- blah, blah, blah.  Clearly I have no problem with extending breastfeeding (Zoe nursed until a few weeks before her 3rd birthday) or any other aspect of attachment parenting.

It is precisely because I value the ideals of attachment parenting that I take such issue with the Time magazine piece.  The cover photo is exploitation at its worst, and everyone involved should be ashamed of themselves.  The editors were going for shock value at the expense of integrity -- and, what's worse, they used a non-consenting child as their weapon.  That photo was not taken to portray the (lovely) reality of breastfeeding an older toddler, that photo was taken to elicit divisive reactions from a culture that already views extending nursing with shock and suspicion.  The worst part of that photo?  The fact that a MOTHER offered up her child for it.  One of the core values of attachment parenting is an authentic and driving respect for ones' children --  and yet Joanne Beauregard allowed an extremely intimate photograph of her young child to be used to sell magazines.  This is not just a cute little toddler-in-a-bathtub shot --- the breastfeeding relationship, especially for older children, is about a fundamental trust and emotional intimacy.  Recording and broadcasting that intimacy for worldwide consumption, without the awareness (let alone consent) of that child is disrespectful and disturbing. 

And all that before I read a single word.....

"Are You Mom Enough?"

Are you kidding me?  Really?!?

Perhaps they were worried they wouldn't sell enough magazines by simply exploiting intimacy, so they decided to throw in a heaping dose of "Let's use media to make women feel inadequate!!". You know, just in case the whole unattainable standard of beauty thing isn't enough....

Or maybe they were intentionally trying to throw some gas on the Mommy Wars.  Because everyone knows that when mothers fight amongst ourselves we lose sight of the issues that REALLY matter.  Maybe they figure if they can keep us busy fighting about what we should do with our breasts we'll forget that the United States is one of the few industrialized nations that fails to offer a maternity leave benefit.  Or that we have one of the worst maternal mortality rates of all first-world nations (seriously -- it's safer to give birth in Kuwait or Croatia or Grenada).  Or that women still only earn 77-cents for every dollar earned by men. It sort of seems like we're fighting the wrong battle, doesn't it?

The article itself was pretty unsubstantial and pointless -- but I suppose yellow journalism is more  about headlines than the substance.  Not surprisingly, it portrayed attachment parenting as an extreme and potentially dangerous philosophy.  The second paragraph described how Joanne Beauregard continued to nurse her son during her second pregnancy even though it "nearly sent her into preterm labor" -- suggesting a near-malicious negligence on her part and tapping her adherence to attachment parenting as her motivation.  I'm sure it was Time's intention to equate attachment parenting to such a dangerous idea --- scandal sells.  But I have know scores of women who have nursed while pregnant (myself included) and I can tell you this:  If indeed Beauregard put her pregnancy at risk by continuing to nurse, that decision was NOT driven by anything resembling attachment parenting.  It sure does make a good hook though, right?

Time got in another good sucker punch when it cited Bill Sears' (AP "guru") rationale for rejecting the "crying it out" model.  According to Time, attachment parenting adherents believe Sears' claim that "crying it out" causes brain damage and developmental delays.  Sort of makes Sears sound like a bit of an alarmist nut-job, which I'm sure was their intention.  Let me clear that up:  While I'm sure there is some quote out there where Sears links brain damage and excessive crying, that is not why he (or anyone else) responds to crying babies.   We respond to our children's cries because it's deeply instinctual to do so.  We respond to our children's cries because we want them to know they can trust us.  We respond to our children's cries for the same reason we'd respond to anyone's cries -- it's an act of compassion and grace.  It's NOT because we're worried about brain damage. But, of course, brain damage sells magazines --- compassion and grace don't.

I'm not gonna lie.  I believe in attachment parenting.  I strive to live by the ideals I learned from Bill Sears and Jean Liedloff and Elizabeth Pantley and Tine Thevenin and Joseph Chilton Pearce and Alfie Kohn.   Maybe someday I'll work up the courage to blog about why I love AP and what it's done for my family -- but for now, I'll say this:  All you moms out there --- trust yourselves.  You don't need Time magazine to tell you if you're enough.  You already know.

I guess I'm back to my original point:  Shame on you Time magazine.  Shame on you for being inflammatory and divisive.  Shame on you for your yellow journalism.  Shame on you for pitting women and mothers against each other.

You really do suck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cyanocobalamin -- A Love Affair

A few months ago I realized that I hadn't had a physical in 5 years.  Well, I didn't actually realize it a few months ago -- I knew it had been a while but it took over a year to finally pick up the phone and make an appointment.  I know that no one LIKES going to the doctor, but I am extra-special averse to it.  I get myself so worked up that my normal 100/60 blood pressure shoots up to 150/90, drawing all sorts of alarmed looks and raised eyebrows (which, BTW, is not helpful!). 

I justify my reluctance by telling myself I'm just trying to avoid a stroke....

Despite my fear (and slight loathing of the entire medical system!) I recognize that it's probably important to get some blood work done every half-decade or so, so I screwed up my courage and called to make an appointment. 

Which is when I learned that my hippy-dippy holistic doctor had closed her practice to go work with stroke patients (foreshadowing, anyone?).  I had mixed feelings -- I'd only seen this doctor twice and while I appreciated her holistic approach, I didn't really like her personality very much.  Now, not only did I have to deal with making an appointment,  I had to search for a new practice with doctors who were naturally-minded and on my insurance plan. 

When I went for my pre-physical appointment (to take a history and discuss what blood work needed to be done), I asked the NP to test me for anything that might explain my constant, physical sensation of anxiety.  In addition to the obvious thyroid panel, she suggested testing my B-12 levels. 

When I went for my actual physical (where I failed my EKG and was sent for a stat echocardiogram -- a story for another day!), I learned that I was profoundly deficient in B-12.  I was baffeled.  I eat a good amount of high-quality beef, chicken, fish, and eggs (all foods rich in B-12) AND take a high-potency B-complex. 

My level was low enough that I started a 6-week course of B-12 injections the following day and am now taking daily sub-lingual liquid supplements.

I am not exaggerating when I say that feel better than I remember feeling in YEARS.  My constant anxiety has diminished by 90%, my memory is better, and I am more energetic and focused.  The pain in my wrists is gone and my weird (and uncomfortable!) geographic tongue is nearly gone!! 

Mostly though, I notice the lack of anxiety and I'm SO, SO grateful!!!

Interestingly, I was actually deficient in a few other vitamins as well and the general consensus is that I have some food sensitivities that are preventing me from absorbing nutrients properly.  I was advised to eliminate all gluten and dairy -- which, in theory, SHOULD be easy considering Ean is completely gluten- and dairy-free, but actually takes quite a bit of discipline. 

Here's my PSA:  if you suffer from anxiety,  GET YOUR B-12 LEVELS TESTED!!!  Or, if you don't want to get the blood work done, just try taking a sub-lingual supplement.  The sub-lingual formulation is great because it bypasses the GI system and is absorbed directly into the blood stream.  The supplement I take has 16,666% of the RDA for B-12 (plus 100%  of all the other B vitamins).  There's not need to worry about  the high dose -- as a water-soluble vitamin, the risk of B-12 overdose is infinitesimally small.

Go!  Go now!!!

A birthday gift

Ean turned 10 yesterday.  Ten.  Double-digits.  A "tween". 

Don't ask him how he's feeling about this unless you want to watch him wrestle with his anxiety about how time is slipping away, each birthday representing another year lost.  Another year closer to dying. He didn't want to celebrate this birthday.  He begged us not to make a big deal about it.  He steadfastly changed the subject every time we brought it up.  Fortunately, he did manage to find some moments of joy throughout the day -- when he ripped the wrapping paper off the giant water blaster or felt a tug on his fishing line (we spent the morning deep sea fishing), and when he was blowing out birthday candles that kept re-lighting and filled the entire kitchen with waxy-smelling smoke.

His struggles were painful to watch.  We tried to keep him distracted and in the moment.  Sometimes we talked about what he was afraid of, our hearts twisting as we watched the tears stream down his face.  We reminded him to curse at his worries.  We went to the movies and splashed in the pool.  We strategized -- together -- new ways to keep the anxiety from creeping in.  I bought a guided-mediation DVD and said "of course" when he asked if it would be OK for him to talk to D. (his therapist).   His party is on Sunday.  I'm hopeful that a little bit of time, combined with 10+ kids, disco lights, and the general din of a bowling ally will provide enough distraction to coax him out of his own head and into the joy of the moment.

Ean and I -- we're cut from the same cloth.   I am so grateful that his complicated little soul was entrusted to me, to someone who completely understands how and why he works himself into worrying about things like the passage of time and the inevitability of change.  I get it. I understand why he can't sleep because he unsure about what happens after we die.  I also know why he nearly explodes with excitement when he has even the smallest bit of good news.  I get why he feels the need to share each and every wondrous thing he learns.  I know why he gets red-faced with indignation in the face of any injustice, his or not. 

I know. 

I know what it is to be so easily moved.  So easily awestruck.  So easily frightened.  So easily overjoyed.  So easily hurt.  So easily inspired.

I know.

If I could give him any gift for his 10th birthday, it would be courage.  The courage to continue to live with his arms outstretched and his heart exposed.  The courage to continue to vibrate with joy, even when people laugh.  The courage to continue to welcome fear, hurt, and uncertainty as part of the complex beauty of life.  The courage to continue to be outraged by injustice.  The courage to continue to be himself. 

It takes courage to live this way, especially in a world that seems to value unaffected cynicism over unbridled emotion.   But the world NEEDS people like Ean (and me).  We need people who marvel and awe to remind us that we're surrounded by miracles.  We need people who embrace fear and hurt to inspire us to find our own fortitude.  We need people who are outraged by injustice to keep tyrants and bullies at bay.

Keep on being you, I promise you'll always find the courage.

Happy 10th Birthday, Ean.  The world is lucky to have you.

 

A shout out to my friends inside the computer....

Twelve years ago (this week, actually!), when the internet was a nascent wobbly-legged toddler and social media was not even a twinkle in a certain Aspergian's eye, I got engaged.   Rich proposed in France, or at least the most earnest ersatz of France this side of the pond:  Epcot.  It was sweet and lovely and took me completely by surprise. When we landed back in New York a few days later, I was ready to buy every glossy bridal magazine that made it into my line of vision.

If you've ever planned a wedding for yourself, you know it's only a matter of time before your looming connubiality seeps into every moment of your day.  It is because of this phenomenon that I found myself sipping coffee and perusing wedding planning websites at work one morning.  I'm not sure how I landed there, or even what the message board was called -- something like Planning a 2000 Wedding, or something equally utilitarian.  I only remember that it was hosted by iVillage and that there were lots of women offering tips for the most diplomatic way to cull your guestlist and where to buy the most supportive strapless bras.  

It was fun.

In midst of all the fun though, something more began to emerge.  Chats about wedding cakes and receptions venues were occasionally interspersed by sheepish confessions of fear and uncertainty.  We began talking, not just about weddings, but about marriages.  About how our lives were changing.  About how we felt about those changes. 

Weddings happened pretty much every weekend that year.  One by one, we stopped needing advice on centerpieces and cocktail hours --- yet we kept coming back to each other.  Planning a Wedding morphed into The First Year of Marriage.  We shared wedding pictures and honeymoon stories. We talked about navigating and negotiating a new phase in our lives. 

Twelve years ago, well before social media and virtual relationships wiggled their way into every corner of our lives, 20 or so women from every corner of the country became friends. 

In barely more than a blink,  chatter about new marriages turned into chatter about the prospects of motherhood.  We thought we shared a lot when we were planning weddings and pondering matrimony ---- little did we know how far we'd push the concept of TMI as we discussed conception and pregnancy!!  As we were each crossing the threshold into motherhood, we were also deepening and cementing a bond that, I think, took us all by surprise.

I can only speak for myself here, but I can honestly say that these women were my lifeline during early motherhood.  Oh God, those days.  Every mother knows what I'm talking about -- the days when you sat home alone, staring at your newborn, and cycling (rapidly!) between ecstasy and terror.  Like most women of my generation, I didn't have a close-knit community of women to offer companionship and support during that sacred time.

Except that I did.....

My community didn't consist of next-door neighbors and extended family.  I couldn't sit on my front porch and talk to the neighborhood mothers about feeding or developmental milestones.  Or how lonely and inept I felt.   But, in 2002, I could turn on my computer, listening as my noisy modem did its magic, and reach out for the support of one of my "board friends".

Back in those early days, when we all had newborns, it seemed like someone was always around.  Panicked questions about breastfeeding or bizarre diaper contents were answered within minutes.  Pleas for reassurance were met with love and compassion.  Many times we just wanted to know someone was out there --- and someone always was. 

We've been through a lot together:  in the 12-years since we "met", we've had over 40 children (with another on the way!).  We've shared lots of joy and laughter, and like all friends do, lots of strife and sadness.  We've held on to each other during scary pregnancies, pre-mature babies, and miscarriages.  There have been sick moms, sick babies, and special-needs kids.  We've seen each other through divorces, re-marriages, bankruptcies, natural disasters, and terror attacks.

We're a diverse and somewhat unlikely group --- we have a few teachers, some writers, a couple of photographers, a lawyer, an electrical engineer, a statistician, some marketing folks, a librarian, and a few others that I'm sure I'm missing.   Some of us are still at-home, some are back to work.  We're republicans and democrats, faithful and agnostic.  I am willing to bet that not a single one of us would have predicted the impact we've had on each others' lives.

I don't talk about these friends much -- because, really, how do you explain to people that you have these dear friends inside the computer, many of whom you've never been in the same room with? 

Twelve years ago, we started out as young brides and now many of us are into or approaching our 40's.  And as we make our way through our 13th year together, I'd like to offer up big ole' THANK YOU to my "board friends".  Thank you for sharing so much of yourselves.  Thank you for allowing me to share so much of myself with you.  Thank you for all the times you "listened" when I needed you, and thank you for trusting me with your joys and sorrows. 

Thank you for being the friends I can't quite explain....

 

 

Twenty-Eleven: The Out-Takes

OK, so last year wasn't JUST about woeful introspection:  my naval-gazing and brow-furrowed contemplation was occasionally interrupted by lighter moments.  So here's what ELSE I learned in 2011:

1 - You should be paranoid when backing out of a parking space.   At risk of compromising an ongoing legal case (complete with new and head-exploding updates as of today!) all I can say is that failure to maintain a proper level of paranoia may result in a whole host of hassle and a new level of disgust for a certain class of legal professionals.  I've also learned that, perhaps, it's better for me to avoid reverse whenever possible -- even if it means circling the parking lot until finding the perfect "pull-through" spot.

2 - The pharmacist at Walgreen's doesn't find it funny when you joke about your meth lab while waiting for your behind-the-counter pseudo-ephedrine.  The pharmacist at CVS is similarly lacking in a sense of humor.

3 - Fried green tomatoes are da bomb. This makes me an official Southerner.

4 - Féria hair-color ALWAYS makes me look like I've washed by hair with Kool-Aid.  

5 - If you spend the day driving around town, freaking out about what the hell might be wrong with your steering because your minivan is pulling (HARD!) to the right, consider taking a peek at your tires.  You might have a flat.  You might also learn that driving around on your wheel adds an additional repair expense.  You'll also learn that the men in the repair shop will laugh in your face and not feel the slightest bit bad about it.

6 - The dog can run really, really fast.  Even with a cast on his leg.

7 - When booking a flight, always, Always, ALWAYS triple-check a.m. or p.m  Always..  Then check again because there's a good chance you fucked it up.

8 - You will probably never develop a taste for scotch -- even really expensive scotch.

9 - When you've had several glasses of wine, followed by coffee and dessert, it's best to "just say no" to the pink after-dinner drinks served at your husband's holiday office party.  It doesn't matter how pretty they are or that everyone else is drinking them.  You will not enjoy the hour-long ride home.

10 - Ean will be JUST FINE in a regular-ed classroom.

11 - Gel manicures are worth the extra money.

12 - The kids love and do well on road-trips.  Even really long ones.

13 - If you fall on your head hard enough to be worried you might have done some damage, get yourself checked out.  I fell off my bike in April of 2010 and had some odd symptoms in my right ear immediately afterwards, followed by severe vertigo.  I got rid of the vertigo via the Epely Manuaver done by a competent and trusted clinician, and I thought that was the end of it.  It wasn't.  I developed tinnitus in my right ear last month, and after a full work-up by an ENT and audiologist, I learned that I have nerve damage in my right inner ear.  The most likely cause is the swelling following the head injury.  I opted not to go the the ER because I wanted to avoid the radiation associated with the inevitable CT-scan.  However, this was one of those times where modern medicine has a place.  Had I had the CT-scan, they probably would have seen the swelling.  I likely would have been treated with a heavy-duty course of steroids to stem the inflammation.  The synthetic steroids would have come with icky side-effects, but they would have probably decreased the degree of permanent nerved damage.   

14 - On the flip side, tinnitus is a GREAT way to cultivate mental discipline.  Imagine you have the equivalent of a constant dial tone in your right ear.  Now imagine that the more attention  you pay to it, the louder it gets.  Now imagine how hard you have to work at NOT paying attention to it.  Way to flex those mental muscles -- am I right?

15 - Don't spill water on your laptop.

16 -   If you do spill water on your laptop and your Facebook friends tell you to dry it out by letting it sit in white rice, don't dump the container of long-grain wild rice on the machine instead.  Long-grain wild rice is dusty and will only make the problem worse. 

17 -  Don't then try to fix the dust problem by spraying your keyboard with a can of compressed air, held about 1.5 centimeters from the computer.  That shit freezes.

18 - Your husband loves it when you tell him how much you appreciate his hard work and dedication to his family.  You should do it more often.

19 - Yoga headstands are better than xanax.

20 - I've learned that it's always a bad idea to show off your flexibility during happy hour.  While jumping into a split SEEMS like a good idea after a few glasses of wine, you will pay for it for weeks to come.

So, what did YOU learn in 2011?

 

Auld Lang Syne

I'm not gonna lie:  2011 was not my favorite year.

It was a year of losing someone very dear to me.  It was a year of loneliness.  It was a year of failing, time and time again, to really do my best.  It was a year of stagnation.

It's New Year's Eve morning, 2011 and I'm sitting -- literally and figuratively -- in the same place I was 365 days ago.  I am still a barely-employed stay-at-home mom/consultant.  I still start evey day with a promise to write something/anything.  I still end nearly evey day with the shame of having frittered away my time.  I still walk around with that same gnawing sense that something essential is missing.   2011 is ending, and I have not brought my best.  I've not even come close.

Stagnation is an odd thing though, and not entirely without blessings.  My lack of motion left me with a whole lot of time to squirm around in my skin.  In 2011, I was like a car stalled on a desolate back road.  Without movement, I had no choice but to stare at the same scene day after day after day.  Stalled out on that desolate back road, I frequently found myself nose-to-nose with bits of myself that were easily blurred and overlooked  by the motion of more momentous years.

These bits and I  -- we've have a bit of a showdown in 2011.  Some of them I picked like scabs, then wallowed in various combinations of grief and self-pity as I bled.  Some of them I tried to cover, like hanging a picture over a chunk of broken drywall.  Some were ugly.  Many more, surprisingly, were not.  They all shouted for attention.  They all demanded to be claimed.

So that's what I did in 2011:  I tentatively and reluctantly began to lay claim to myself.  I have brushed against my own ugliness and beauty, envies and desires, hopes, fears, and scars.  And, sitting in that stalled car on a desolate back road, I've learned a little bit about each of them. 

I've learned that even the ugliest thing isn't so awful.  I've learned that envy makes me a smaller person.  I've learned that I often don't put enough energy into things that matter, and put way too much into things that don't. 

I've learned that desires and hopes need voices before they can even begin to take form.  I've learned that my deep sensitivity and deep compassion go hand in hand and neither should be stemmed.

I've learned that the most frightening thing to claim is my own beauty and power, because once I own them, I can no longer deny my responsibility to myself.

I hope I can get my car stated in 2012, because while I've made some peace with this view, I suspect there's lots more for me to see.

Happy 2012 to us all. 

May we all be be loved and accepted. 

May we all  love and accept. 

May we all bless the spaces and people we touch.

May we all be blessed.

 

Why can't he just ask how babies are made?!?

I think I've mentioned before that Ean struggles with anxiety (apple/tree, right?).  His anxiety peaked last spring/summer and included both panic attacks and some very unsettling intrusive and obsessive thoughts.  I did what I could to help him manage it, but it wasn't long before we realized we were in over our heads.

After lots of phone calls (and one false start with a therapist who suggested we needed to consider the possibility of schizophrenia) we found someone with experience in both childhood anxiety AND autism-spectrum disorders.  Ean really connected with him and has learned some wonderful cognitive-behavioral strategies for dealing with anxiety.  The most effective strategy  (or at least what we THOUGHT was the most effective strategy)?  Cursing (silently, of course!) at his worries. 

For the record:  nothing gives a 9-year old boy as sense of power like being given free reign to drop the F-bomb -- even if it's only in his head.

It wasn't long before we began to notice a rapid and dramatic improvement in Ean's affect.  Naturally, we assumed that it was attributable to all the time (and money!) spent in therapy -- so imagine my surprise when we had THIS conversation:

"Mom, I don't worry anymore.  Wanna know why?"

"Of course I want to know why -- just remember that curse words are only for INSIDE your head!".

"No.  No!  It's not the curse words.  It's God!!"

"God?"

"God!  I learned in Hebrew school that we're all God's children.  So, since parents are supposed to keep children safe, then God must be keeping me safe.  I don't have to worry about anything because God is protecting me!!  Right?  RIGHT?!?!?"

Aw, SHIT.  

Honestly?  There was a brief millisecond when I considered just running with it.  Of saying RIGHT!  RIGHT!!!   OF COURSE!!  Even throwing in a few hallelujahs and amens for good measure.   For that one brief millisecond I wondered if affirming that faith, however illusory, would give him the peace he was seeking.

I couldn't do it.  I could not, in good conscious, tell my child that he doesn't have to worry because he is protected by God.  As someone who suffers from severe anxiety, I understand the appeal of this belief.  I understand how serene I'd feel if I could be assured that nothing bad was ever going to happen.  As someone who believes in God, I also understand how tempting it is to try to place the responsibility for my safety and serenity on the shoulders of divinity.

The simple answer --- the easy answer -- would have been to say say yes. It would have soothed him.  It would have stopped the cycle of fear and anxiety. It would have made all our  lives easier, at least temporarily.

But I didn't say yes.  Instead, I stammered and muttered some lame explanation about how "God doesn't really work that way", followed quickly by "hey, who wants ice cream?!?"

And that, my friends, is how you parent your 9-year old through his first spiritual crisis. Fo shizzle.

The question has bubbled up a few times since then, though never quite as directly.  I still stammer my way through a response --- mostly because I don't know how to distill my own beliefs into words and concepts that will be meaningful for a fearful 9-year old (or an unfettered 8-year old).

I want my children to know that they are not at the mercy of an anthropomorphized, interceding God. 

I want my children to understand that lasting serenity is not found by believing in divine protection.  Lasting serenity is found by accepting that there are no guarantees, and embracing life regardless. 

I want my children to be responsible and proactive, but still appreciate that they can only live one breath at a time, because that's all we really have.

I want my children to know that the stories they learn in Hebrew school were written by people, not God, and while rich with beauty and wisdom, they should only be understood as metaphor.

I want my children to know that an anthropomorphized, interceding God is an illusion.

I want my children to understand that God is both fully transcendent AND fully immanent.   I want them to know that every bit of life vibrates with Divinity, but that God is so much greater than the sum of all the parts.  I want them to understand the greatest mystery of all:  that the full and complete God dwells within each and every person.

I want my children to embrace their own Divinity and to honor the Divinity of others.

I want my children to find true peace and serenity in their lives  -- not because they believe they are exempted from tragedy, but because they are willing to dance next to it.

Free(ish)

Back in July I made the decision to stop my meds for OCD/anxiety.  I had been taking zoloft for several years and experienced very few side effects aside from the dreaded (and common) weight gain.  I started gaining weight almost immediately after going on the meds and gained 1 to 2 pounds a month, more months than not.  It didn't bother me at first, mostly because a few extra pounds seemed like a small price to pay in exchange no longer being batshit crazy.  The problem wasn't the few extra pounds -- it was how the few extra pounds insidiously turned into TWENTY-ONE extra pounds. 

Nothing kills a pharmacologically-induced sense of serenity like having to keep buying bigger pants.   So after gasping in horror at the moon-faced pictures of myself taken during our summer vacation, I decided to start weaning off the meds.  One of the risks associated with SSRIs is something called SSRI-discontinuation syndrome, which is a collection of icky symptoms that some people experience after stopping or reducing an SSRI.  Knowing this, I  weaned slowly and carefully over the course of about 6-weeks.  It still sort of sucked (albeit mildly, compared to some horror stories I've heard) --  I had bouts of dizziness, nausea, shakiness, and assorted other unpleasantries, but nothing unmanageable.

I wish I could say that being med-free was a piece of cake.  The good news is that I am no longer gaining weight, although it's become apparent that LOSING the weight will take some actual effort.  The bad news is that it's harder, MUCH HARDER, to manage my overall anxiety and intrusive thoughts without the meds -- although, to be fair, I am actually managing.  Just managing, but managing.  When I first weaned off, I was determined that I was going to feel exactly the same without the meds as I did with them.  In hindsight, that was a pretty stupid expectation, especially since it never occurred to me that I might need any help with the emotional aspect of the transition.  So, instead of letting my friends and family know I might be vulnerable and on-edge, and possibly needing a little support, I put every bit of energy I had into seeming as anxiety-free as possible.  I was terrified ask for help because I didn't want anyone to suggest that, perhaps, jettisoning the happy pills was a bad idea. 

It was exhausting.  When I wasn't reassuring everyone that I was fine (FINE!!!), I was fighting the compulsions that were starting to wiggle their way back into my consciousness.   Obsessions, some old, some new, began their familiar frenzied onslaught.  Everyday noises became nosier, and the daily messes became messier.  Keeping up the facade of FINE!! meant I had no where to turn for support or encouragement. 

I've been lonelier the past few months than I've been most of my adult life. 

Still, it's not been all bad.  After years of blunted affect, I'm happy to welcome back the full-range of emotions.  I had forgotten how deeply I feel things, how easily moved I am by the minutia of daily life.  My anxiety is more acute  now, but so is my connection to the world around me. 

My time on meds gave me a sense of detached perspective on my illness.  During those years, I gained a better understanding of what triggers and perpetuates a cycle of OCD.  While I may not always be able to control the presence of obsessions or intrusive thoughts, I can now use cognitive/behavioral techniques to keep from turning up the volume.   I have learned that sufficient sleep, regular exercise, and a good amount of solitude are absolute necessities.  I know that I need to surround myself with loving, compassionate, and supportive people and figure out how to be authentic with them, even when I'm not FINE!

For now, I will continue to work on keeping the demons at bay though exercise, healthy food, and a willingness care for myself with the same dedication and commitment I apply to everyone else. While I don't define myself in terms of mental illness, I've  also learned that I  can't live as though I don't experience it. 

Of course, none of these insights are guarantees that I will be able to remain med-free forever.  While the past few months have been a struggle, they don't even begin to compare to where I was when I started meds.  I hope I never see those days again.  Today though -- today I am managing and I have every hope that it continue to get easier.

********************************************************************************************

Just as an afterthought:  It still seems strange to me, even as my fingers are moving on the keyboard, that I would write about such a personal and intimate topic on a highly public platform where I have absolutely no control of who reads it or where and how the information is used. 

All I can say is this:  I know what it's like to be in the throes of mental illness.  I know what it's like to live in fear.  I know what it's like to feel ashamed, and I know what it's like to feel alone. 

I also know the blessed rush of relief after realizing that you're nto the only one who has suffered.  I know how it feels to be able to read someone else's story and say "yes!  yes!  me too". 

I know the feeling of liberation that comes from realizing it's not just you.   

So I write in hopes that I can contribute to one small moment of blessed relief for one person. 

I summon the courage to lay myself bare because I am not alone.  And neither are you.

More unpacking

When I wrote about my writing weekend, I was so excited to articulate the feelings of authenticity and fearlessness I experienced that I neglected to share what I learned about what it means to be (and become) a writer.

First and foremost, I learned that I need to find a local community of writers.  Real, flesh and blood writers, not people inside the computer or on the phone.  As I sat knee-to-knee with other writers (and aspiring writers) I felt an unfamiliar and very welcomed kinship.  It was something I didn't even know I was missing until now.  I learned that writers, particularly those of us who write personal narratives, are a unique breed.  I learned that we're all "sharers" who feel compelled to write about the most personal and shocking parts of ourselves.  I learned that, as writers, we're all motivated by the same essential desires:  we want to create connections with others; we want to illuminate the universalities of life. 

We want you to read our stories, exhale with relief and say "Yeah.  Me too".

It was liberating to realize my need to share so much, to be so open, is part of what defines me as a writer and not just something else to be ashamed of.  Someone shared a quote, I don't remember the exact words or to whom it was attributed, but it went something like this "writers have one less layer of skin".

Yep. 

Unpacking

So, the writing weekend. Wow.

It was so many things....

I was my typical hand-wringing self the week before leaving.  It's entirely possible that I put more thought into packing my suitcase than I did into my grad-school thesis.  I fretted over how Rich and the kids would manage without me (for THREE WHOLE DAYS!).  I attempted to calculate the statistical probability that my plane would be struck by wayward space junk.

Nothing like a healthy handful of ersatz dilemmas to avoid having to address the real concern. 

Am I right?

Bottom line:  I went up there terrified that I would discover that I was a farce.   That I had no skill.  That I had no right to think I had a story, let alone that anyone would want to hear it.

I was also TOTALLY freaked out about sleeping in a room with 5 strangers.

I flew into an airport that was 2.5 hours away from Kripalu.  I drove North on the Taconic Parkway, a narrow, winding highway that requires a level of attention not demanded from most major roads.  The rain came down sideways, slowing me down and forcing me to be present.

I sang for most of the trip.  Frank Zappa (Jammin' in Joe's garage), Tanita Tikaram (Twistin' in my Soberity), and Joni Mitchell (trust me, two heads really are better than one).  I sang loud and proud.  I sang out my fears and my doubts and my insecurities.

I arrived with a slightly sore throat and a commitment to myself.  I was going to be fearless.

I checked in and dragged myself and my (very well-packed!) luggage to my dorm, where I quickly discovered that I'd arrived too late to get a bottom bunk.

Yes.  There were actual bunk beds.  

I refused to be afraid.  Not of falling off the rickety ladder on my way down from the top bunk; not of the other women coming in and out of our shared room; not of the large crowd of strangers in the dining hall;  not of the 40+ other writers gathered to learn how to tell their stories. 

My tendency is towards inhibition, though only the people who know me the best really understand this about me.  I am often one of the first to speak up and share my thoughts.  I appear confident and poised.   And it's true -- I am confident and poised and willing to speak up.  But if you look closely, you'll see that I'm almost always speaking from the perimeter, rarely the heart, of an experience. I don't surrender to experiences, I think about them -- even as I'm having them.  I dissect them and craft their descriptions.  In part, my inhibition, my lack of full presence and participation, is what makes me a writer.  It's what allows me to observe, and, eventually, describe an experience -- to bring it back to life on paper.  It provides, almost de facto, the sense of perspective one needs when writing about one's own experiences. 

The downside to this de facto perspective is that it's not fully authentic.  Authentic perspective is earned.  Authentic perspective comes from being fully present in an experience and then allowing the experience to take root in your psyche.  Authentic perspective is what happens only AFTER you've allowed yourself to be transformed.  Authentic perspective demands courage.

I knew, intuitively, long before I arrived at Kripalu, that I was going to have to climb inside this experience.  I was going to have to be transformed.  I was going to have to be fearless.

And I was.  I was fearless and I was transformed.

What surprised me most was that I was not transformed by the writing seminar (although the seminar itself was great and I came away with pages and pages of valuable information).  I was not transformed by the time I spent writing or the time I spent in mediation or the time I spent doing yoga. 

I was transformed by having made the choice to be fearless.

I was transformed by living that choice for an entire weekend.  

I was transformed by being fully present.

I was transformed by letting go.

I drove away on Sunday afternoon, on the beautiful back roads of the Berkshire Mountains, and I thought about what I would remember most about the weekend.  It didn't take long for the answer to surface:  I would remember how it felt to be fearless.

Fear.  Fear of not being enough, of not having the right to be where I am -- is what binds me to the perimeter.  Fear is what makes me settle for de facto perspective.  Fear is what keeps me from being authentic.

Fearlessness came easily at Kripalu, surrounded by strangers and enveloped in beauty.  My focus wasn't challenged by the demands of daily life.  There was no laundry to fold or dinner to cook or homework to supervise.  It's easy to see why people want to live there, or at places like it. 

Fearlessness is hard to sustain in the larger world, there's so much noise and so many distractions.

I know it's in there somewhere  -- I have the well-earned perspective to prove it.

I know it's there and I'll continue to reach for it amid the din of daily life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Live, from Kripalu.

After a flight time snafu, armrest-grabbing turbulence, torrential rain, and a few construction detours, I made it to Kripalu for my writing seminar. 

I am bunking in a room with 5 other women, sharing a communal bathroom, and sharing intimate writing with total strangers. 

I hyperventilate if I think too much about it, so I've been taking it a moment at a time.  A breath at a time. 

The first writing exercise was to write about moments in your life that were extremely salient, where you were fully present and connected.

Here are mine (the first took place in the elevator of my office building on 9/13/01.  The second is pretty self-explanatory):

*******************************************************************************************

I remember the sound of her cry.  I remember it every bit as well as I remember the sound of my children’s first breaths.

I remember the way her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

I remember the way she smelled.  The way we both smelled, a gut-turning combination of smoke and melted metal and burnt flesh.

I remember each of those 21 floors.  I remember each and every breath as an opportunity to do something. To reach out.  To connect.  To comfort. To be human.

I remember how I failed.  I remember how I stared straight ahead like a good New Yorker. 

I remember how I studied the elevator doors, expecting the image of the gleaming metal to replace the image of the heavily-armed men guarding Grand Central Station.   I remember praying that the whooshing sounds of the moving elevator would replace the keening pleas of the ash-covered searchers.

I remember knowing, deeply knowing, what I could have done.  What I should have done as I stood beside her in that elevator. 

I remember how it felt to fail.   How it felt to forgot my own humanity.  How it felt to step off that elevator, my eyes focused on the ground, as though they were willing my feet to guide me away from my shame.

I remember the countless apologies I have whispered since that September morning.

 

********************************************************************************************

I have always been the ugly girl. 

Too tall.  Too big.  Small chin.  Big nose.  Flat face.  Goofy eyes.   Crazy hair.

I am the one who trips over your dog or steps on your feet.  I am the one who bumps into you in step class.  I am the one who drops a pile of books in the middle of the quiet library.

I am the one who avoids mirrors and cameras.  I don’t like what I see.  I don’t want to see.

My lament of self-loathing has been a constant companion, for all but one grace-filled and fleeting moment.

If asked, I never would have predicted that such a moment would have taken place in a dressing room in a suburban Massachusetts mall.  If I had been given a prior scripting rights, I would have placed myself on a mountain peak or in a serene yoga class.  At the very least, I would have been wearing something that was not covered in dried spit-up.

But grace is rarely ours to direct and I am thankful for the moments I am blessed to receive it, regardless of the location or the state of my clothes.

I was a new mother, and I was awash in wild hormones and leaky breasts.  My pants didn’t fit.  I wandered through the mall, carrying my son in his sling and my new, bigger, clothes in shopping bags.   I avoided my reflections in the shiny storefronts.

I was in a dressing room when Ean needed to nurse.  It was one of those spacious and well-appointed rooms with a soft seat and a large mirror.  I sat cross-legged; cradled my newborn, my first born, in my lap lifted him to my breast.  I rubbed his head while he nursed.  I leaned over to breathe him in and capture the nepenthe of newborn odor. 

Then I raised my head and I saw myself. 

I saw beauty.  I looked at myself and saw beauty.

At that moment, my body was not too big or too awkward or too polluted with shame.  My body was strong and capable.  My body could create and nourish life.  My body brought love into the world.

At that moment, my face was not a collection of mis-matched features.  My face was a work of art, an expression of the limitless love that passes from mother to child.

At that moment, I was the beautiful girl.

There's soap on my brain.

This is one of those stories I'll have to delete from the blogosphere someday -- hopefully before Ean gets old enough to stumble across it and wonder why I felt compelled to share the breadth and depth of his dingbattery with all the people inside my computer.

God bless his spacey little heart.

He's a bright boy.  Really.  He's a brilliant writer, freakishly observant,  and has an uncanny ability to see things in unique and innovative ways.

Sometimes though.....sometimes he can't figure out how to take a shower.

It started as an off morning.  We overslept -- not my much, but if you know Ean, you know he likes his routines.  His routine is to wake up at 5:30 a.m. (not a typo!!) to get ready for school.  He does this so he has time in the morning to read or play some Wii.  This morning, after staying up late to finish math homework, he didn't get up until 6:15.

He scowled through breakfast, then stomped into his room and got dressed.

Then I reminded him that he had not taken a shower the night before. I gave him the option of taking a shower then, or waiting until after school. 

He slumped to the floor , looking like I'd just informed him that the dog died.

More scowling and stomping, but he made his way into the bathroom.  I heard the shower go on and, for a few hopeful minutes,  I thought we were in the clear.

"MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  HELP ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I *run* to the bathroom and throw back the shower curtain, prepared for large pools of blood or a, at the very least, a missing limb.

"I have SOAP in my eyes"

Are you fucking kidding me?

"So, um, rinse them?."

"I can't.  HELP MEEEE!!"

"What do you mean you CAN'T?!?"

"I can't. My hands have soap on them"

"SO RINSE YOUR HANDS!!!"

"Oh"

At this point he tries to GET OUT OF THE SHOWER!

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Going to rinse my hands.   You told me to rinse my hands"

God bless him.  He was headed for the freaking sink.

"In the SHOWER.  Rinse your hands IN THE GODDAMN SHOWER!"

"Oh.  But I can't open my eyes to see where the water is"

"Give.  Me.  Your. Hands."

I rinse off his hands FOR HIM and tell him to splash water on his eyes.  I walk out of the bathroom, planning to ask Rich if he's SURE he never dropped the baby on his head.

"MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  HELP MEEEEEE!!!"

I go BACK into the bathroom to find him naked, dripping wet, and standing on his (fresh! clean!) school clothes.  Eyes squeezed shut, shampoo suds oozing from his hair.

"I need a towel"

"Open your eyes and GET BACK IN THE SHOWER!"

"But I'm already clean."

"GET.  BACK. IN. THE SHOWER."

At this point I'm a raving lunatic and ranting about how he's NINE FREAKING YEARS OLD and should know how to TAKE A DAMN SHOWER!!  I rinse his hair for him, hand him a towel and storm out of the bathroom.

He emerges a few minutes later, wearing damp clothes.  His shirt is inside out.  He's crying and apologizing. I felt like I was one-step away from being a full-on child abuser. 

We hug, apologize, and chalk it up to a bad morning for both of us.

I walk in the door after getting everyone dropped off at school.  The phone is ringing.

"Mom.  I forgot my lunch box"

Finally!

New blog is up!

http://justbreath.typepad.com/an_extraordinary_ordinary/

 

The Year of The Dudes!

Look!!  The kids went back to school last week:

A 4^th grader and a 2^nd grader --- both with BOYS for teachers!

As usual, I got all misty about the passage of time and how my squishy wittle babies are now freakishly big and starting to develop offensive body odors.  Today they're bickering about whose turn it is to walk the dog -- and the next time I blink they're going to be bickering about who has to visit me at the "home" on Thanksgiving.

Ean is in a mainstream class this year -- for the first time since kindergarten.  He spent 3 consecutive years in an inclusion classroom, with the same core group of kids.   He made tremendous academic strides during those years, and he's at or above grade level in every area.  As thrilled as we are about his academic progress, he still struggles socially and, in many ways, that's even more painful to watch.  Our hope for this year is that he'll find a friend among this fresh crop of kids. 

I thought Zoe was going to be freaked out by a boy teacher.  I was prepared for at least some degree of drama when I told her, but she just shrugged and told me she was craving a cheeseburger.  She did cry, though, when I told her that none of her favorite girl friends were in her class.  It's hard to be 7.  So for she seems positively smitten by her Dude Teacher!

I am thrilled to have them both back at school!  Like every summer, I started as Mary Poppins and ended as Cruella de Vil.  I'm looking forward to having some more time to write -- both here and on some other projects as well.  I'm working on the design of a new (additional) blog, but I've been all fretty and hand-wringy about launching it.  I've given myself until Monday -- and I'll link it here when it's ready!

Trigger, pulled.

I've been sort of quiet this summer.  Not because I haven't had anything to say -- more because I haven't wanted to say the things that needed to be said.

Cryptic much?

Really, there's nothing going on.  No earth-shattering revelations to share. I've just been avoiding myself.  I've been lazy.

About 6 months ago I heard about a program being offered at Kripalu -- a yoga retreat in the Berkshires. The program is called Devotion:  Crafting Your Journey Inward Through Memoir.  Here's a snippet from the description:

"How do we begin to know our own stories, an"d tell them in a way that feels universal? How can we structure our inward journeys so that they resonate with others? In this interactive workshop, we will explore multiple aspects of writing a memoir."

I talked about wanting to go.  Then I talked some more.  Then I put off registering.  Then I put it off some more.  Then I forgot about it for a while.  As the dates drew closer I agonized about going.  Should I spend the money?  How will I figure out childcare while I'm away?  What if it's too hard? Scary? Awkward? 

The program is in less than a month.  I finally picked up the phone yesterday, to find out if there were still spaces left.  To be honest, I was hoping it would be full.  I wanted the decision and responsibility to be taken from me.  I wanted to curse my procrastination and then get back to making dinner and preparing for a possible Hurricane Irene.  I wanted to stay safe.

There are spots left.

I sighed and then went back to making dinner and thinking about how I should probably pick up some hurricane supplies (even though we're out of the cone for a direct hit).  I herded the kids to bed, played Words with Friends, chatted with Rich and went to sleep. 

And I dreamed.  I dreamed about writing.  About how it was what I wanted and needed.  I dreamed about telling my story. 

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. and tried to convince myself that I'd rather take a photography class; to learn to focus outward instead of inward.

Then I thought about how I would feel if I failed to take this opportunity.  I'd feel like a coward. 

I dragged my bleary-eyed self to the computer, and at 5:00 a.m. this morning, coffee in hand, I registered, paid, and declared myself a tiny bit courageous. 

 

Have shiny red Prius. Will travel.

ROADTRIP!!!

We are heading into day 4 of Summer Vacation 2011.  All family members are accounted for, there has been no significant blood loss, and we still have all four tires.  So far so good!!

We  headed out on Saturday morning armed with gluten-free doughnuts, a play list full of good driving music, and high hopes for a lucrative license plate game ($1 per state -- we're such high rollers!).  The kids did great, with the exception of a brief (but intense!) sob-fest as Zoe realized Ean's height gave him a significant edge when it came to spotting plates.  Another plight of the youngest sibling.

Rich apparently thought this year's vacation would be a good opportunity to gain 20-lbs (each!) and raise our LDL cholesterol:  before we left, he mapped out all of the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives restaurants on our route.  We stopped at a place called Southern Soul on Tybee Island, GA.  I will probably forgive him for the 10 years he took off my life, because I have never tasted such succulent swine in my life.  Seriously?  I would sell my liver for those ribs -- and ya'll know how much I love my liver.

We made it to Savannah on Saturday afternoon, too late for any of the tours but just in time for Rich to do something horrific to his back.  Despite the nausea-inducing pain, we headed downtown where we wandered/hobbled around a bit.  We saw a wine tasting in progress and tasted the most shockingly horrible wine ever fermented.  The look on my face was so extreme the proprietor didn't even charge us. 

Then it rained.  Really, really rained.  Buckets.  We headed into a kitchy-artsy store to wait it out.  Zoe picked up a big sparkly pink necklace and then proceeded to drop it on the tile floor.  It broke (of course it did!) and we fleetingly considered shoving back on the shelf and slipping out of the store.  Poor Zoe was devastated as we brought it up to the cashier and offered to pay for it (they sweetly declined) and sob-fest number 2 commenced as soon as we left the store with promises never to return.

Feeling tired, sore (poor Rich) and a little thwarted, we slipped into a small restaurant for some dinner (Paula Dean's was booked and we were all rain-soaked - did I mention I was wearing a white cotton dress during the deluge?).   Our meal was inedible, but we had some wine so it wasn't a total loss.  Not wanted to tempt fate with another attempt at an activity, we headed back to the hotel where Rich and I sat in the hot tub, the kids swam and we all headed to bed early.

Some Savannah:

 

We got up early on Sunday morning, thinking we could see a little of Savannah before we headed out to Charleston.  Specifically, we wanted to bring the kids to see the synagogue because it is the only gothic-style synagogue in the country (world?).  We figured they'd be open for tours on a Sunday morning, but because our time in Savannah was decidedly Griswald-esque, it was closed.  At that point we decided to just cut our losses and head to Charleston.

Charleston was wonderful!  We stayed at the Marriott in the historic district, where we met the best concierge in the country (he might be in the market for a new job though -- and I'm SO SORRY, Kevin).  He directed us to a great place for lunch and then mapped at a tour of the city that included a lot of walking, along with a horse-drawn carriage ride/history lesson.  One of his must-sees was the inside of a catholic cathedral.  He shared with us that his neighbor was the organist for the cathedral and that his neighbor said that he could tell guests that there was a secret elevator that we could use to a get to a balcony inside the cathedral.  I got all that information, but apparently missed the part where he stressed the importance of discretion.  We got there and there were a few people in the sanctuary, right near the elevator.  Rich, who did NOT miss the plea for discretion, was giving me all sorts of bug eyes as I started to explain that Kevin and the organist TOLD US WE COULD USE THE ELEVATOR AND EVEN GAVE US THE SECRET INSTRUCTIONS!!!  I was looking at Rich wondering what the hell was wrong with him and his goofy bug eyes, and he was looking at me wondering why I was throwing our super-nice concierge under the bus. Rich shuffled outside with Zoe in tow and I somehow managed to convince the church-people to let Ean and I use the elevator. 

After, of course, I supplied them with the name of our hotel and conceiarge. Oops.

Here's some of Charleston (including a nice shot from the church balcony).  It is,, by far, the most charming city I have ever visited:

We left Charleston and headed to Asheville -- stopping at another Triple D place along with way (Pawylee's Front Porch).  It was just eh.  Our cabin though -- is not eh!  Here's our view:

Nice!!!

We're here until Sunday morning and will be visiting the Biltmore, doing lots of hiking (and probably lots of eating!), and some general poking around.

The kids have declared this the "best vacation ever".  Can't beat that!

 

An open letter to my children

Dear Spawn:

First -- it goes without saying (actually, I say it every day.  at least once), that I love you both very, very much.  And because I love you, I am offering a few pointers to help get us through the next 10+ years of co-habitation:

1)    There is a difference between an "inside voice" and an "outside voice".  I start to twitch when you confuse them.  Here's a hint:  if you look up and see ceiling, turn down the volume a bit.  Exceptions include gushing blood (not to be confused with oozing blood), outright flames (not to be confused with a simple smolder), and Ed McMahon at the front door (not be be confused with the nice Irish neighbor).

2)    When I ask you to be quiet for a bit,  I'm not just asking you to stop talking.  Quiet also extends to humming, snorting, finger snapping, hilarious attempts at whistling, and the intentional release of gas from any orifice.

3)  The intentional release of gas is never appropriate at the dinner table.  The same rule applies to  the lunch table and the breakfast table.  It also applies to car rides, airplane rides, and when we're under the covers together.  We have multiple bathrooms.  Use them.

4)    Vegetables will always be served.  Stop looking so surprised.

5)    There's a reason I don't let you troll around YouTube without supervision.  Someday you'll understand why.  Sometime after that you'll thank me. 

6)    Asking you to clean your room is not code for asking you to shove everything under your beds and dressers.  I understand that it's your duty as a child to employee this cleaning strategy.  It's my duty as a mother to bust you.

7)  You begged and begged and begged for a dog.  We spent a small fortune on the little asshole and now you complain about having to play with him.  Everyone told me to expect it, but I still think it's pretty shitty.  Unless your arms are broken, I expect you to throw him a ball for a little while every day.

8)    The answer to "wanna smell my butt/armpit/breath?" will ALWAYS be no.  Save your breath.

9)    Stop asking if the tooth fairy is real unless you really want to know the answer.

10)   Another thing to stop?  Stop writing school essays on how we take you to bars.  It makes us look bad.  Besides, we take you to PUBS, not bars. 

11)    Don't hug me and then tell me you love how soft and squishy I am.  That soft and squishy was the direct result of 46 hours of labor (31 for Ean and 15 for Zoe).  The more often you say it, the more often your ungrateful butts will get dumped the the gym childcare.  Tread lightly.

12)   You're only 9 and 7 and you've been to 20 of the 50 states.  I hope you appreciate this.

13)   Ean:  I don't care if you're "going for distance".   When you miss the toilet and pee on the bathroom floor, things start to smell.  It's gross and I'm the one who has to clean it.

14)   Sometimes Mommy and Daddy kiss.  It's not *always* and invitation for a family hug.

15)   Not all family hugs have to include the dog.  He licks his ass and has bad breath.  Sometimes it kills the moment.

16)   I do, in fact, have eyes in the back of my head. 

17)   I hate homework too.

18)   Know what else I hate?  Chuck E Cheese.  Please, please, please stop asking to go.  Stop trying to tempt me by reminding me that they serve beer. 

19)   Know what I love?  Seeing how much you love each other.  Hearing you laugh.  Watching your kindness and empathy.  You know what I don't love?  How your sweetness can turn on a dime and transform you into mini psychopaths.  Listen,  it's not rocket science:   when your brother/sister says "stop poking me", remove the offending phalange.  Immediately.  It'll save us all a lot of hassle.

20)   Just so you know, I come in your rooms when you're sleeping.  Your sleeping faces bring back memories of how helpless you once were.  I miss those days.  If you ever catch me, please don't ask me to stop.

Hope this information proves helpful to you both.

Love,

Mom

Small Plates

• Rich just went to the store because Zoe requested pickles.  How cute is he?  On his way out the door he reminded me that there's no such thing as healthy store bought pickles --- thus giving birth to our first project of the summer:  homemade pickles.  Yum.

• So, summer!  Thursday was the last day of school and we officially have a 2nd grader and a 4th grader.  Hard to believe.  I have been having mini freak-outs about how quickly time is flying.  We're at that sweet spot  where the kids are old enough to be independent in all the good ways but still young enough to hold our hands and crawl into bed with us.  I am savoring every moment because I know they will be gone in a heartbreaking blink. 

• It wasn't the easiest school year for Ean -- 3rd grade was just a vile as I remembered it.  He rose to the occasion though -- bringing home all A's and B's  and passing his FCAT (Florida's NCLB test) with flying colors.  He started the year reading well below grade level and ended it reading everything he could get his hands on.  

• Zoe had an equally stellar year -- going from a crazy fear of chapter books to finishing the first Harry Potter!  Rich -- who's not much of a reader -- is in awe of the fact that his 7 year old read (and loved!) a 300+ page book!  She started book 2 last week and is plowing through it!

• We booked our summer vacation -- we're driving to Asheville, NC (with stops in Savannah, GA and Charleston, SC along the way).  We're planning on climbing mountains, sliding down rock waterfalls, and touring wineries.  We can't wait!

• Just in case you might have wondered, I am NOT a 40 year old varsity cheerleader.  In a pathetic attempted to jump (JUMP!) into a split last weekend, I managed to tear my hamstring.  Now -- it should be noted that I can actually do a split but I had had a few glasses of wine and thought I could impress my husband by JUMPING and landing in a split.  It looked less like a well-executed athletic move and (a LOT) more like a Saturday Night Live skit.  Complete with limping and ugly bruising.

• THEN -- thinking I was healed and all sorts of spry, I decided to attempt a handstand in yoga class.  Again -- I can actually DO a handstand!  I was all straight armed and strong shouldered, I had one leg all up and pointed.  I was brining my second leg up and Something Bad happened.  The next thing I knew I was in a fetal position fighting back tears. 

• Then, THEN I came home and decided to clean the ceiling fans.  Long story short -- wiped out on hardwood, completely failing at fighting back the tears.  Things were swollen and ugly.  Now I limp.

• To add insult to injury, we went to the beach today.  Now -- we have lived in South Florida for 6 years and have been to the beaches many, many times.  We (carelessly) left our ubiquitous Florida flip flops in the car and walked to the beach (can you see where this going?).  The sand was so hot that I have BLISTERS on the bottoms of my toes.  Actually, honest-to-god blisters.   Now I limp even more.

• Also?  I am officially addicted to Words with Friends.  Play with me?  My username is TDBC1170

I am cheered by your stupidity. Thanks for sharing!

I'm grumpy and blue.  The past several weeks have been filled with losses -- one big and profound, and others smaller but still sad.  I've been lonely and unsettled and have spent more than one insomnia-fueled night researching ways to sell our house (damn housing bubble!) and move back North.  

Since I can't actually run away (damn housing bubble!!), I suppose I have to stop wallowing and move on.  So, towards that end, I have some funny stories that demonstrate (at least to me!) that I'm not the MOST pathetic person in the world!!    Under typical conditions, I get annoyed with people who walk around asking "what is wrong with people?" -- as if they are they are the standard measure for the  sound-minded.  But today, in a totally pathological attempt to bolster my own lagging self-esteem, I will join the ranks of crazy-bashers and (hopefully!) feel cheered!

 

Crazy Person.  Case 1.  The  kids and I took the dog (who's a shoe-eating asshole, by the way) on an after-dinner walk through the neighborhood.  At one point, Zoe started to run with him -- something I encourage because it wears them both out.  When we were half-way down our block we saw a man with 2 dogs at the far end of the street.  We didn't think anything of it.  We saw him again after we turned the corner (apparently he was taking the same route we were) and, out of nowhere, he starts screaming at us.

"What the hell are you doing?  What's wrong with you?!?"

It didn't register at first because I couldn't imagine that he was speaking to US!  I figured it out pretty quickly after he stopped walking, turned around, and pointed his finger at us. 

"Why are you following me?" 

"Are you looking for a fight"

"Do you want a FIGHT?  Is that what you want"

Zoinks.

From what I was able to gather based on his screams and flailing limbs and the way he dragged his dogs across the street, he was angry that we were letting our dog get too close to his dogs (pit bulls). 

He had one final screaming outburst for us as we walked by on the opposite side of the street:

"You people need to learn some courtesy!"

 

Crazy Person.  Case 2. Bah.  Had to remove reference to crazy person number 2.  Apparently (according to my much wiser husband -- who has MUCH tighter lips than me!!) one should not discuss ongoing litigation in a public blog. 

 

Crazy Person.  Case 3.   I volunteer at  Zoe's school on Thursday mornings.  Like everyplace else in our post-9/11 world, security is tight.  After the x-rays and the pat-down by Homeland Security, you have to sign in at one of two computers in the school lobby.  When I got there, another mom was filling out the "first time volunteer" forms on one of the computers. 

And by "filling out", I mean cursing at the screen.  The computer screen. At the ELEMENTARY school.

I laugh the laugh that's supposed to be interpreted as "oh, computers -- they never work when  you're in a hurry". 

She set me straight though and informed me (sans curse words!) that it was NOT FUNNY.

Clearly they removed her personality when they implanted her boobs and placed the stick up her ass. 

She marches (really -- she actually MARCHED!) over to the front desk to tell the school secretary that her name started with an L and NOT with a T and she didn't appreciate the computer telling her that her name started with a T.  She then turned on her heel (again -- actually turned ON HER HEEL) and marched back to the computer and stood there with her arms folded.

After about 30 milliseconds she yelled loudly enough to quiet the entire lobby and demanded to know when someone planned to come and help her because she did NOT have all day.  I would have stayed to watch the rest unfold, but I was laughing so hard I snorted.

Happy Mother's Day

I didn't always know I wanted to be a mother.

I never "loved kids" the way some of my friends claimed to when we were young.  I loathed babysitting and camp counseling and all things sticky, smelly, and noisy.  I also grew up fast and early and missed many opportunities to be a carefree child and adolescent.  Unlike many other young women, I didn't dream of the day I would settle down with a husband and children -- I dreamed of a day when I could live freely and for myself. 

I imagined motherhood to be burdensome and joyless. 

Many women who grew up with these same experiences and perceptions simply decide not to have children.  I could have easily joined their ranks.   I was a young woman living the free and unburdened life I had always craved.  I was terrified that motherhood would steal my freedom.  I was terrified that I would never be able to forgive a child for forcing me to make that sacrifice. 

But -- because I am nothing if not inconsistent and somewhat paradoxical -- I never felt like I didn't want to have children. 

I'm not sure when the shift started to happen.  There was no single ah-ha moment (sorry, Oprah).  I didn't have a particularly profound conversation that changed my heart.  I didn't read a deep and meaningful book.  My friends hadn't started spawning like guppies.  I hadn't met someone who suddenly sparked my dormant maternal insticnts.

I think I just started to......unfold.

Bit by bit, I unfolded, and, in the process, I saw parts of myself I had never seen before.  Parts that had been confined by fear or, perhaps, simply by the need to experience some freedom and autonomy. 

Whatever the reason, my perceptions shifted.  And while I wasn't suddenly clamoring to be a kindergarten teacher, I started to consider the possibility that joys and burdens weren't mutually exclusive. 

I had been carrying burdens for a long time.  Many were handed to me by circumstance, and some I placed upon myself. 

None were chosen with love.  None brought me joy.

It turns out I was half right about motherhood. It is a burden like no other.  But, unlike the other burdens I'd carried in my life, I chose the burden of motherhood.  I chose it with love and I carry it with joy.

Because, as it turns out, joys and burdens are NOT mutually exclusive.

Today is my 10th Mother's Day.  The burdens have taken different forms over the years -- from long and exhausting births, to endless nursing and sleep deprivation, to fear-filled trips to the hospital for scary medical tests.  Someone always needs something.  There are always school projects to supervise, clothes to wash, meals to cook, and toothpaste gack to wipe. 

Each burden is its own sacrament.  An opportunity to express love in its most holy form.

Without these burdens, I would not have the joy of a child's unquestioning love. 

Without these burdens, I would not have overheard the whispered plans for how to celebrate Mother's Day.  For how to make me happy.

There would not be faces that light up to see me every afternoon.

There would not be that wonderful feeling of a soft, small hand slipped inside mine.

There would not be the slow weekend mornings with sleepy bodies draped over either side of me, pinning me in my bed.

There would be no one bringing me wilted flowers picked from the bush in the front yard.

There would be no one to say "Mom, I will love you forever".

The burdens of motherhood are a little like geodes -- heavy and unadorned at first sight, but full of a surprising and sacred beauty.

I am blessed to carry them.

Milestones (arbitrary) and Projects (new).

I have a new project.

I thought it was somewhat fitting that, as I sat down to write about it, I noticed that I my last post was post number 100.  Of course, I'm not sure how TypePad counts posts and it's entirely possible that my little centi-milestone includes all the unpublished detritus and half-finished thoughts currently languishing in my queue. 

Whatever.  100 posts!   When I first started blogging in August of 2009, I wasn't sure if it would stick.  I was half-expecting that my blog would wind up like the barely-started scrapbooks collecting dust in my hall closet.  But I started writing -- anonymously at first, then slowly coming out to friends, and, eventually, the entire internet.  I've discovered that thoughts that might not make any sense in my head (and make  even less sense when I try to verbalize them) suddenly come to life through my fingers.  More often than not, I sit down to write and find myself typing things that I had no idea I was thinking or feeling.  And, I have no explanation for this, but the clarity only happens when I'm writing things I know other people will read.  I've tried writing things with no intention of sharing and I may as well be trying to explain the Fibonacci sequence to Homer Simpson -- it just doesn't click.

So....this new project requires some background and explanation.  I started blogging all those 20-months ago because Zoe was headed to kindergarten and I was faced with being a stay-at-home mom with no kids at home for 5+ hours a day.  I was terrified.  I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself and my time.  I tried working full-time -- which was a full-on disaster (not to mention a less-than-ideal choice for our family).  I'm consulting now, which is great in terms of work/life balance and some extra money -- but, while I have every intention of continuing my consulting business, I need something else.  Something more. 

I want to be more. I want to be better.

It was so much easier when the kids were really young.  I jumped off the career path and launched myself into motherhood.  The needs of young children are so immediate -- food, diapers, sleep. 

I have always been a navel-gazer and a questioner. A seeker and a thinker.  I have always lived in my head.  It was a shock to discover that the immediacy of caring for two very young children required an awareness of each physical moment.  I was ripped out of my Ivory Tower and propelled into the messiness of Life.

Food, diapers, sleep. 

Food, diapers, sleep. 

It was a walking meditation.  Instead of chopping wood and carrying water, I was nursing babies and changing diapers.  And even through all the challenges of new motherhood -- the fatigue, the isolation, the hormones -- I recognized that I was right where I needed to be.  I knew I was learning to live in a new way. 

There were occasional reminders of my former self.   The self that was constantly striving to know more.  To be better.  They were quiet reminders and were always quickly lost in the din of infancy and toddlerhood.  I don't regret the lose.  I chopped my wood and carried my water.  I cared for my babies.  I learned to live in my body.

Lots of things have happened as the kids have gotten older.  They are no longer my 24/7 companions.  They still need me, but not in the same physical and immediate way they once did.  The din has quieted  and the reminders are not so easily lost. 

I've tried to lose them.  I watch bad TV, read mediocre novels, and drink a little too much wine.  I turn the music up, clean the house, and shop for shoes.  I complain about my wrinkles and threaten myself with botox. 

There is an ersatz for everything. 

The problem with ersatzes is that when they fade (and they always do), we're right back where we started.  I may have a clean house, a knowledge of wine, and a closet full of shoes, but I'm no closer to understanding who I am and what I want my life to mean.   I still wake in the night, terrified of being left all alone.  I still feel the anguish of my own perceived inadequacies.  I still allow fear and pride to inform my decisions.  I still look to other people to determine my worth.  I still withhold the truest parts of myself.

I am still not living the best of who I am.  I am cheating myself.

I know I'm not alone.  Most of us are afraid.  We're living in the shadows of ourselves.  We're waiting for a sense of peace, for a flash of purpose. 

We're waiting to be extraordinary.

But how the hell to we get there?  Apparently the directions are NOT in my navel (trust me, I've been looking forEVER!).  They're also not in mindless TV or brain-candy novels or bottles of wine.

[PS:  don't worry, this project does NOT involve me surrendering TV, novels, or wine]

I also know that I won't find peace and purpose by simply thinking about it or praying for it -- maybe some people do, but I've tried both and I'm still clueless.

The only thing left (at least for me) is action. 

“Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it. Action has magic, grace and power in it.”

Good 'old Goethe.

So, action.  The next question was form.  What form would this action take?  I considered yoga, daily meditation, acts of service, etc.  Nothing was really fitting though -- largely because I knew needed something more defined.  I needed a guide.  I'll spare you all the iterations of what I considered and tell you that I decided on something called Mussar.

Mussar is part of a Jewish spiritual practice that focuses on the belief that each person is holy (or extraordinary!).  The belief is that we are all capable of living and projecting our own holiness (or extraordinay-ness!).  We are, they believe, all capable of being better.  Of being more whole.  Of finding peace.  The Mussar offers a series of exercises aimed at removing the things that block us from these goals.  Unlike many spiritual practices, there is no retreating from daily life -- the practices are all designed to create habits and awareness withIN ones day to day life.

Another big part of this undertaking is documenting it.    So, in the spirit of taking action -- I will document.  And, in light of my need to write for an audience, I will be creating a separate blog -- a public blog -- for the purpose of documentation. 

There's a magic in action, according to Goethe.  I sure hope he's right.

 

Birthday Recap plus some Miscellaneous Minutia..

Ean had a great birthday.  For 364 days of the year we're pretty strict about his gluten-free, casein-free diet (as well as an overall healthy diet).  But his birthday is all his and has turned into a gustatory free-for-all. 

Breakfast was chocolate chip pancakes and chocolate milk:

Lunch was pepperoni pizza and a Cesar salad:

We took a brief brake from the carb fest to his a local art and music festival.  Everyone knows that a local festival is not complete without utterly unsafe carnie rides:

 

Foot washing is optional during one's birthday month:

Dinner (which had been planned for MONTHS) was at a place called Grease near the waterfront in downtown West Palm Beach:

 

Have you ever seen such a happy kid?

Due to some scheduling conflicts, we're having his party on Saturday.  It'll be a gaggle of boys (plus Zoe and one of her friends), cake, and a 17-ft inflatable water slide.   

I may need to update my homeowner's insurance.  LOL.

In other news: 

• We're selling the kids to the government as partial payment towards our federal taxes (damn 1099). 

• Someone recently mentioned that they hadn't heard any good Bodhi stories recently and suggested that they assumed he was behaving himself.  I don't remember who it was, but I'll be meeting SOMEONE behind the bleachers for a good cat fight.  Thanks to your jinx, in the past 48-hours, the asshole has eaten 2 pairs of shoes (both mine), a dress (also mine), and a bra (mine as well).

• I need 4 crowns.  Long story.  Going to the dentist in a few minutes.  Will be there for over 4 hours.  Going to puke.

Happy Birthday, Beautiful Boy

I know your actual birthday isn't until tomorrow, but we've got a busy day planned for you and I don't want to miss my chance to write your birthday letter. 

Besides -- I was in labor for 31 hours and you were nine and a half pounds, so the LEAST you can do is allow me an early birthday letter. 

Oh Ean. 

It's so cliche to say it, but I can't believe how quickly time has gone.  I look at you now -- at 9 years old  -- and I vacillate between beaming with pride at how far you've come and clinging desperately to the child you're leaving behind. 

It's all happening so fast.

You made me a mother.  I held your small, warm, jaundiced new body and you taught me about transformation.  I nursed you through countless nights and you taught me about letting go of what I thought I knew.   I've watched you grow and discover and become, and you taught me to love fiercely and without boundaries.

And now here you are.  You are full of dirt and noise and boy-jokes.  And yet you're so much more.

You are unapologetically, loudly, and proudly:  YOU. 

You are the boy who comes in from climbing trees and then wants to discuss the role of God in the creation of the universe. 

You are the boy who, one minute is laughing hysterically at SpongeBob, and the next minute is watching the entire "I Have a Dream" speech on YouTube. 

You are the boy who tells us about the new Wii game you really, really, realllllllyyyyy want, but also tells us that you have a very special job in this life -- and that job is to help heal the world by loving it.

You take your job seriously -- because, boy, do you LOVE this world.  You approach everything you do, every experience you have, with unabashed joy and enthusiasm.  It seeps through every cell in your body - and it's beautifully and blessedly contagious.   It is your greatest gift to the world and I hope you cherish it as much as I do.

Keep being who you are, Ean.  Keep listening to your heart.  Keep it open to the joy. 

You are a miracle and a blessing and are very, very loved.

Happy, Happy, Happy Birthday to my beautiful, unique and astonishing little boy.

 

Winter in South Florida -- a fair trade for summertime frizz!

Most (sane!) people don't envy our summers -- they're blazing hot, dripping with humidity, and go on longer than Brad Womack's Bachelor run.

But the winters... 

While our Northern friends and family are still shoveling snow and fending off frostbite, we are taking mid-morning walks in our shorts and  flips flops. Camera in hand.

It's impossible not to notice the beauty of this place....

 

 

Your statistics ate my gluten.

I know that this will be the second autism post in a row, but this has been on my mind for a while, so bear with me!!

I want to talk about gluten (and casein and soy....) and the "lack of evidence" regarding the efficacy of a gluten-free, casein-free (GFCF) diet to address some of the symptoms of ASD (and ADHD).

Every parent of a child with autism has heard of the GFCF diet.  Anecdotal reports from parents/teachers/therapists claim either miraculous results or no effect --  the diet either works or it doesn't.  But -- when it works, it WORKS.  Eye contact improves, language skills explode, impulsivity decreases, and attention skyrockets.  The distinction between kids who respond and kids who don't is generally explained (based on anecdotal evidence) by the presence or absence of gastro-intestinal and/or atopic conditions. 

Basically -- if you have an autistic child with gastrointestinal complaints and/or symptoms of allergies, there is a strong likelihood that you will see an improvement with a GFCF diet.  If you have an autistic child without these complaints or symptoms, the diet is less likely to work.  Again -- all based on anecdotal evidence.

So, what's up with the anecdotal evidence?

Anecdotal evidence is essentially evidence presented in the form of testimonials.  This type of evidence is in contrast to traditional scientific evidence which requires statistical confirmation in order to be considered acceptable. 

There is very little traditional, statistically-supported evidence for the efficacy of a GFCF diet to treat the symptoms of autism.  Consequently, the vast majority of physicians dismiss its value and actively discourage parents from attempting it.  My own experience with Ean's doctors has ranged from benign condescension to an angry admonishment that my son was "....going to grow up to hate me".

Still, no lack of statistically-supported evidence is going to deter a parent who has seen his or her child transform on this diet.  Ean's transformation happened both physically and developmentally.  Prior to starting the diet, Ean exhibited  symptoms of severe allergies (allergic shiners, Denni-Morgan lines, inf lammed nasal membranes, constant mouth breathing, asthma, etc.), all despite the fact that extensive allergy testing revealed no significant allergens.  He had idiopathic inflammation in his finger joints -- to the point where we had to tape his fingers straight before bed or else the joints would lock and he would be unable to straighten his fingers.  He also suffered from severe and chronic constipation, resulting in bloody stools and hemorrhoids.  Every single one of these symptoms resolved within 8-weeks of being GFCF.  Every. Single. One.  The developmental benefits were no less dramatic.  Rich and I both cried the morning, after only 2 full days on the diet, when Ean made eye contact with us.  His attention and focus improved, as did his memory and ability to follow directions.  His teachers and therapists were uniformly stunned. 

When I share my anecdotal evidence with physicians, they pat me on the head and tell me that there is no "real" data to support the diet.   They tell me that whatever I am seeing must be a coincidence or my imagination.   And I'm not alone in this experience.  I have spoken to countless parents who are equally amazed at the effect of the diet, and equally as dismissed by their children's physicians.

These dismissals aren't coming from a place of malice.  Physicians aren't trying to thwart our attempts at treatment.  They generally want to best for their patients and their families. 

So what gives?

The reality is that (with a few exceptions) the studies DON'T support the efficacy of the diet.  Given that physicians are trained to practice medicine based on the results of medical research, it makes perfect sense that they would uniformly dismiss treatments that have not been proven (and have actually been disproven) by standard research methodology.   

But, the fact remains that thousands and thousands of families report dramatic  benefits when they institute a GFCF diet.  And if you've ever met a parent of a child with autism, you know that these parents are among the most well-informed researchers and advocates out there.  Rich and I are no exceptions -- we are both bright and well-educated.  We both have backgrounds in science.  We are both well-versed in statistics.  We understand research methods and the importance of the scientific process.  We are not superstitious, desperate, or grasping at straws.  Like thousands and thousands of other families, we know -- unequivocally -- that the GFCF diet has helped our child.

Again -- what gives?  Why are there thousands of well-informed parents claiming one thing while thousands of physicians are claiming the opposite?  To answer this question we have to know a little about medical research and statistics and a little about the nature of children with autism.

Let's start with statistics and research design.  Research studies, particularly research studies using human subjects, are very expensive and very time-consuming.  It is for this reason that a significant number of medical studies are sponsored by the pharmaceutical industry (this is the work I used to do).  Pharmaceutical companies have the money and manpower to sponsor and/or conduct large-scale, well-controlled studies.  No other type of organization can come close to matching their resources.  And, because pharmaceutical companies are for-profit organizations, they are only going to make significant investments in studies that will benefit their interests.  No judgements here -- it's just the way capitalism works! 

So here's our first point -- the only industry realistically capable of conducting a large-scale, well-controlled study has no vested interest in such a study.  In fact, one could argue that they have a vested interested in NOT conducting such a study, since positive results may threaten profits by decreasing the number of children on behavior-modifying drugs.

The handful of studies that have been conducted have all be very small -- with the number of participants ranging from 9 to 72.  The small number of participants presents a HUGE problem when it comes to a concept called statistical power.

In the simplest of terms, statistical power is the likelihood that a research study and accompanying statistical analysis will detect an effect.  Think about a microscope -- if you try to see a single cell on a low-power microscope you will look and look and then report that there's nothing there.  It's not until you turn up the power and use a greater magnification that you will see the cell that was there all along.   An underpowered study will fail to detect an effect -- even if that effect is actually there.

There are several factors that affect statistical power, particularly number of participants (aka, sample size) and the amount of natural variability in the sampled population.  Both of these factors are compromised in the existing GFCF studies. 

As discussed above the agencies most interested in investigating the effects of the GFCF diet do not have the financial resources to conduct a large-scale study.  Because of these limited resources, the published studies are based on very small sample sizes, resulting in woefully little statistical power.

A lack of power resulting from a small sample size wouldn't necessarily be a problem if there wasn't so much variability among children with autism.   Have you ever heard the phrase "if you meet one child with autism, you've met one child with autism"?  What that means is that there is no single face of autism.  Two children with the very same diagnosis can present so differently that they may as well be from different planets. 

What does that have to do with statistical power?

Well -- imagine you were doing a study on the effect of sun exposure on fair- versus dark-skinned people.  You wouldn't need a big sample size to determine that fair-skinned people burn more quickly than dark-skinned people, right? You could figure that out pretty quickly.   Staying with that logic, if children with autism were a fairly homogeneous group, you wouldn't need a very large sample size to determine the efficacy of a particular intervention.  But - children with autism are a VERY diverse group, which means that researchers need to use a sample size that is large enough to compensate for that (through increased power).  

It is also worth noting that in addition to the natural diversity seen in the autistic population, a study of dietary interventions automatically lends itself to a significant amount of compliance variability.  Removing gluten and casein from a diet is not as simple as remembering to take a pill every day.  The complicated nature of the diet means that there will be "user errors"  which will further increase the variability within the sample and, thus, the need for a sample size large enough to sufficiently power the study.

The sample sizes in the published studies are minuscule by all medical research standards.  In other words, the studies are completely and totally underpowered.  An underpowered study will fail to demonstrate an effect -- even if the effect is very, very real.

So, what's my point?  Basically, when your well-meaning doctor tells you that the GFCF diet has no scientific merit, he is basing that conclusion on studies that are fatally flawed.   The only way you will know if your child will respond to the diet is to try it.  Find  someone who has done it and pick their brains.  If you don't know anyone in your community, go on-line.  There are countless groups and countless parents willing to talk you through it.   Ask for advice, shopping lists, menus, and support. 

And if it works for your child, then be ready and willing to lend a hand (and a statistic text book) to the next unsure mom or dad headed down this road.