Blame

At 425, I got in my car to pick up Sam from a play date. On my way, I listed the rest of the day’s activities in my head:

 

Pick up Sam.

Drive to Brain Balance.

Write while in waiting room.

Drive home.

Make dinner.

Do exercises.

Build Legos - wait. Did I send Sam with a snack to his play date? No.

Did he tell the mom that he can’t eat dairy? Maybe.

Did he read the ingredients on whatever snack he chose? Maybe.

How did he feel when all he had to eat is fruit and his friend got to eat a better snack?

Did he forget all about his dairy free diet?

How could I forget? I am a bad mom.

Was I that busy this morning? Not really.

How could I forget? I am a bad mom.

How can I expect an eight year old to take care of himself? I am a bad mom. I am the worst.

Maybe it will be ok. Maybe they had Oreos as a snack.

Park and go inside calmly. It’s not the mom’s fault. Maybe it’s all fine…

I followed the sound of little boy laughter to the backyard. There were Sam and his friend, Alan, running around being goofballs. They were pulling Alan’s little brother (the youngest of four boys) in a wagon up the driveway and letting it roll back down to crash into the garage. It’s amazing how much more relaxed moms are with their fourth child! All was perfect and Sam was behaving like such a normal kid - right down to the Cool Ranch Doritos (!!!) in his hand.

Alan’s mom told me that they had been really good. She loved how nicely they played together and we planned a sleepover for the following weekend. Alan is a new-ish pal of Sam’s. He’s one of his few friends that doesn’t also have an IEP. So it’s always a relief to hear that Sam behaved himself and that there were no issues.

I waited till we were in the car and turned back to look at Sam.

What are you eating?
Doritos.

Did you check and see if there was milk in them?

Oh no.

Let me see…Contains milk ingredients.

Let me see. Oh no. You’re right. I’m so sorry mom. I’m so sorry. But it’s OK. I feel fine.

It’s not fine Sam. We have to start from the beginning. That’s three weeks wasted.

NO! They don’t know my body. I’m fine. I don’t need to do no dairy anymore. They don’t know me. I know me.

We have to talk to Casey. Maybe she’ll say we don’t have to start over. How many bags did you have?
Five (laughs).

Oy. This stinks. There’s no way she’s going to say you can keep going.
I’m so sorry mom. I am stupid. I’m stupid. I’m so sorry.

Oh Sammy. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I should have sent you with a snack. It’s not your fault.

I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.

No Sammy. It’s not your fault. Now you know for next time and I will try really hard to remember to send you a snack. You’re not stupid. You just didn’t check the ingredients. Next time try to remember.

Sam has always been quick to criticize himself in every kind of situation; whether he can’t remember a character’s name in a book he’s reading or he doesn’t manage to swing all the way across the monkey bars or is confused by a complicated math problem…he usually blames himself and leaps to being stupid or dumb or weak or any other kind of negative adjective that you don’t want to hear come out of your child’s mouth. Years with a psychologist have increased his confidence and he doesn’t usually sink into pits of self loathing like he did when he was younger. Whenever I can, I try to take the blame but he won’t always let me.

As soon as we arrived at Brain Balance, Sam announced what he ate. His sad mood was gone and had been replaced by laughter. He is giddy and the silliness is oozing out of him. I don’t know if it’s from all the attention he's getting, or the relief over not getting in trouble or maybe his body was celebrating the return of dairy. But whatever the cause, he was high as a kite and we were all amused by his energy and lack of remorse.

No big surprise when Casey confirmed that he has to start the elimination diet again.  As we headed to the car, Sam said – let’s get some Fro Yo! And you know that I can never say no to that. So off we went for a night of dairy: frozen yogurt, followed by a glass of milk and pizza rolls. Climbing into bed was a challenge for him - he had no energy left; he was floppy and defeated. Sadly he said – Maybe Casey knows what she’s talking about. My tummy feels bad.

Maybe she does. Only 12 more weeks to go.