One day, someday, although my money is on it not being today, I will learn to shut my stinking piehole and not tell the Internet things. This was published yesterday, and you'll notice that I ever-so-casually mentioned that yeah, neither of my kids have any food allergies! Isn't that great? I mean, so far, and all, knock on Ikea end table made of a wood-like material.
So of course after dinner last night, poor Ezra erupted in hives all over his arms and legs. Mama erupted in a case of raging alcoholism.
And because I'm a cocky know-it-all MORON, I'm having a hard time pinpointing what caused the reaction, since while my in-laws were here we showed off Ezra's admittingly amazing palate and appetite like a goddamned party trick, allowing him to eat pretty much anything off the table without keeping track of how many new ingredients he was getting exposed to and how many times. I THINK we can blame it on some spring garlic that I bought by mistake at the farmers' market and just started using in place of leeks (which Ezra has eaten multiple times, which is what I meant to buy but was in a hurry and grabbed the wrong stalks), in a couple of his veggie dishes and stews. And my mother-in-law gave him something else with regular garlic, I think, so...yeah. I was really on the fucking ball this weekend.
It wasn't that terrible of a reaction, as these things go -- he barely seemed bothered by the rash and it never spread to his torso or face -- but irregardless I'm demoting him back to Normal Baby Eating Habits for awhile, all single-ingredient and boring and shit. No more lamb stew with chickpeas and eggplant! No barley and asparagus medley! Eat some stupid sweet potatoes like the rest of the seven-month-old population. Sorry.
Tomorrow morning is our IEP meeting with the school district. The last report arrived yesterday, from the school psychologist who observed Noah at the evaluation and at school. Still not getting any easier to read these things. Or write about them. The details are Noah's, not mine. Seeing him reduced to such clinical language, his behavior framed as unrelentingly negative, reminds me that this blog shouldn't do the same, but should be the alternate record, the one with the good stuff, the funny stuff, the stuff about the kid who I love the stuffing out of, no matter what.
Regardless, I think it's okay to share that I am very anxious about tomorrow (Jason too), even though I know we won't have to make decisions on the spot, or anything. (I've dragged my feet on a few health-related doctor forms for precisely this passive-aggressive reason: I want an excuse to stall and hem and haw afterwards.) We're more or less assuming at this point that Noah will qualify for some level of help. My wager on just what level (he could attend as little as two days a week and as often as five, or get itinerant services as needed) changes by the hour.
I was getting pretty comfortable with our initial decision to keep him more or less mainstreamed and send him to Montessori, where at least THERE the teacher observed some of Noah's more -- ahem -- self-directed behavior and immediately framed it as a positive, as a good thing. We're not getting much of that from anyone else, frankly, though I know in order for Noah to qualify for the district's preschool program the evaluators HAVE to make everything sound dire and significant. I don't want to turn down free services for reasons that might have to do more with my own wounded pride than me really truly knowing the level of help my child requires. I also don't want to hand him over to a program -- because it's free, because it's the almighty school district -- that aims to squash the very things that make Noah who he is in the name of getting him to some lowest-common denominator level of "success." I don't want to lose my grip on the fact that we are talking about PRESCHOOL.
I don't want to let him down; I don't want to admit just how lost I am sometimes. I do want to take him out for lunch and then go to the playground. Yes, let's just do that instead.