When I look into the face of my angel child, I see the kind of eye bags found only among the heroin chic. The pediatrician and an allergist (twice) told me nope, no allergies. I figured this was another example of how allopathic medicine doesn't have all the answers, unless you have a problem with your penis.
One of my friends insisted that I get the kid off dairy because it is evil. She has been doing research on the internet, which is not always ideal. "It's horrific," she said, "I am going on Oprah [to expose the conspiracy]." Perhaps she's right, but I am not exising an entire food group from my kid's life until there is some profound evidence to do so. I spent 17 years compulsively avoiding sugar, white flour and caffeine, and now that I have been restored to sanity, I just refuse be the food cop.
I have a kid who was not sick once all winter, despite the fact that her parents were laid out for a month each with the flu. Being sick when child is not, it a full slice of hell. Fed mostly organic food, healthy snacks, not too much juice, this kid also sleeps at least 12 hours every night. I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why my child looks, to use a horse analogy, like she's been rode hard and put away wet.
After the third refrain of "this just happens to fair-skinned children," I gave up. I had to admit that I was powerless, yet again. I let it go, sort of. I mean, I did let go of my insane need to understand the inner workings of her sinuses - for right now. Let's just say I left the issue on the desktop of my brain for review if something seemed relavant to the topic.
I learned today that it is not evil organic dairy that is causing the allergic shiners. Turns out, peanut's room is a hot zone.
I haven't spent much time in the room with my new prayer and meditation schedule. Kid gets mandatory break time to play haircutter and put stickers all over the new windows, while I get mindful. I change the sheets, read bedtime stories, pray, kiss, and I'm out of there.
It was time. There were two-inch locks of hair amid various doll clothes, sippy cups and plastic food mixed in with clean clothes. I started in the closet. My nose began to run. I started to feel faint. I was having a non-allergic rhinitis reaction to my daughter's room.
I only felt complete shame and horror for about 22 minutes. I wanted to cry that I had unknowingly let my child sleep in a room that made me feel sick. This line of thinking is the first step into the shame-pit that only a mother could understand.
I opened the windows, flipped in a meditation CD, and kept working.
When I made my list of Why Meditate yesterday, I left one thing out. The missing link. The key to this incarnation is - no big deal. Okay. Just as I was about to cry, I thought: you can cry and get all upset about this and wear yourself out and torture your family while you finish this job OR finish the job. The bad-mom talk persisted. This is not helping, I said to self.
We meditate to see clearly everything about ourselves, even the truly embarrassing things. For many years, I could see what I considered my embarrassing or shameful thoughts or actions, and then used them to build my case against myself. Normally, I would have beaten myself up for at least a month, sharing my inadeqacies as a mother with anyone trapped in the sauna with me at the gym. The thought of laughing at myself and thanking God that she is healthy is a radical approach to mothering for me.
Otherwise, I could continue with the self-flogging and then book a bed at the local mental hospital. Now we have another, well-worn aspect of the case against myself as a mother: I knew I had mental illness before I had her, I should have never subjected a child to this. Might as well book the ECT suite. Just writing this old belief is so painful that my legs go numb.
I am a very attentive mother, who makes mistakes. I am so grateful that God gave me the willingness to reorganize her room so it didn't go on forever or make her truly sick.
I got everything sorted and took an IKEA break. We had a great time laughing and picking out nice storage containers with lids that can be dusted in a lovely shade of Pepto-pink. We had lunch at the cafeteria. Organized some more. Then went to Fat Lorenzo's for pizza, and a trip to the playground.
Knowing how this day could have gone and experiencing what actually happened, reminds me of those mystery books that I used to read in the sixth grade. If you want to go to the mental hospital, turn to page 45. If you want to go the park, turn to page 6. The action of turning the page is similar to choosing my thoughts. There is no good or bad, only options. Meditation gives me the ability to remain detached so I enjoy choice. Today, I can shoot some steroids up my nose and have some fun.
No comments:
Post a Comment