DadaMama

Things I've Learned the Hard Way

1. Singulair has neuropsychiatric side effects that closely resemble ADHD in my child.

2. Advair appears to cause hyperactivity in my child.

3. These side effects are not well publicized. I had to dig so deeply into the Advair pamphlet to confirm my suspicions that I nearly reached China.

4. Doctors and drug companies will assure you that your child's behavior issues are NOT caused by the harmless allergy and asthma medications. I don't buy it.

5. That ADHD diagnosis my child received last week? Possibly not accurate. (See above.) We need further testing from a specialist.

6. Insurance companies are as bad as drug companies. Specialists cost more than ADHD medication--Avmed has strategies in place to not so subtly encourage people to choose meds over psychotherapy.

7. The number on my insurance card for member services? IS FOR PHONE SEX. Yes, really. Dear Avmed: your editors suck.

8. Finding the Psych Care phone number is like finding One-Eyed Willy's gold. The woman on the other end of this number has been instructed to ration provider names like the US rationed food in WWII. I was given three names the first time I called. Names of people who are NOT specialists in ADHD. I'm waiting to hear back from four more. If I want more names, I'll have to call back. I'm looking forward to it, Avmed. You'll hate me when I'm done.

9. Sobbing on the floor like my heart is broken doesn't solve my kid's problem, but it does wonders for my resolve.

10. I am angry, frustrated and determined. Either we'll get the psychotherapy we need for our kid, or several people at Avmed will be needing psychotherapy of their own.

Popcorn is a metaphor.

I made some today, on the stove, the old-fashioned way. As I listened to the kernels knocking around inside the pot, I imagined taking the lid off to let them escape: a fountain of popcorn falling like white feathers, piling up in the dusty corners of the kitchen. It would sound like miniature hailstones when it hit the tile, but it would crunch underfoot like snow. I think cleaning it up would just make me laugh; such an extraordinary mess. God, it must be so liberating. It may even be necessary. 

And what if I did the opposite? What if I let it pop and never removed the lid? I happen to know the answer to this one: it pops and pops and makes a small, moving, powerful popcorn mountain under there, until the lid just slides off by itself. Like a reverse avalanche pushing up and out, completely unable to contain itself.

Either way, the lid has to come off.

No Bad Vowels

Gus and I are in another difficult place lately; he's a hard kid and even normal tasks take on a whole new meaning some days. He often acts without thinking, and while I know this is to some degree common kid behavior, most days it feels like chasing my tail. I'm sick to death of hearing myself, so God only knows what Gus must think about me.

Sometimes, when he's made a bad choice, I ask him what he was thinking. I'm not asking this question rhetorically--I really want to know. I often get answered with varying degrees of "I don't know" or "Mmrph." Honestly, I don't think Gus knows what drives him and some days he's just as frustrated as I am.

But this afternoon was different.

"Think of it this way, Mom," he said. "I'm the vowel that doesn't always follow the rules--but that doesn't make me a bad vowel."

My son is the letter "Y." Very, very handy under the right circumstances, but a tricky one to nail down. Depending on his mood, he can start a word, end a word, or jump in the middle and seriously screw you over.

I think this makes me love him even more.

Kitchen Haiku

Pomegranate seeds:

smooth ruby cabochons in

a dazzling salad.

Your Love is Better Than Ice Cream

Brothers with ice cream cones
Originally uploaded by Precisely the Color of African Violets.

Christmas card photo shoot, take one.

I've Got My Philosophy

Originally uploaded by Precisely the Color of African Violets.

Things making me happy today: playing at wedding photography, tiny origami cranes and egg rolls eaten while listening to blue grass.

It's the little things, people.

Here Is Your Happy Thought

Joy

Today was a shitty day. I don't like to use that word, but there it is. I mean, today had its high points but mostly it sucked and so I leave you with this:

Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

--Sylvia Plath

The Last One

Will: Mom, you should get a girl baby.

Me: Where would I get one of those?

Will: At the baby store.

Me: What if they're out of girl babies and I have to get another boy?

Will: They don't have any boys, we got the last one.

(WORD.)

“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” --Martin Luther

Four years old, bobbing for apples.
 

The Best Imitation of Myself

She was the last person you'd expect to see at a Ben Folds concert: an awkward, gangly teenage girl dressed for church in a carnation-pink dress and white cardigan. The hem of the dress is gingham and printed with cheerful green frogs and butterflies--it's a dress that could easily belong to a six year old. The hem is just shy of being too short, and the whole outfit makes her conspicuous amongst the hipsters in aviator glasses and sorority sisters in club gear. I think she's here to see Ben with her mom.

Dashing Husband and I take our seats to the left of the stage, and I watch as The Girl in the Frog Dress takes a place on the floor. I leave to get a concert t-shirt and find myself in line behind The Girl in the Frog Dress. She has an enormous white bow in her hair; I imagine it's a sail. Like me, she is there for a concert t-shirt, but it's impossible to imagine her wearing something so...normal.

The show begins and I continue to watch The Girl in the Frog Dress. She knows all the words to every song, even the most recent releases. When Ben comes to the left side of the stage, she screams and jumps up and down and waves as if she's just seen the Beatles. I love him too, but my love is nothing compared to this tennage hero worship. I watch her hold her camers way over her head and fire it in the direction of the stage, something she does numerous times.

She sways and waves and tugs her cardigan back over her slender shoulders, the giant bow on her head sailing far above the crowd. I watch her sing along and cover a shocked "O" mouth with her hand when Ben says, "fuck."  She giggles and turns to her mom, the happiest fan girl in the world.