Gratitude

Last night was tough. My hubby was out, and I was holding down the homefront with my 10-year-old and 10-month-old. As the baby was finishing a yummy meal of chicken, sweet potatoes, and rice (baby food style), he decided the time had come to make maximum use of his diaper. I waited politely for him to finish. When it seemed he was going to take a little while, I put him down on the floor to give him a little private moment (okay, it was really so I could check my email). He crawled around busily for a minute or two, then proceed to spew his meal all over hardwood floor and braided rug and himself. I picked him up--naturally--which meant that I was now covered in it, too. So there I was with a baby in need of both a diaper change and a hosing off in addition to a serious mess on the floor. Ugh! I will spare you the details of how I navigated the clean up effort and will simply say that we made it through relatively intact.

So, cleanup accomplished, bath given, I plunked a happy naked baby into his crib, grabbed his diaper, and turned to discover a puddle in the crib. Baby happy, bedding soaked, mommy frustrated. While rushing around to tackle the newly arisen laundry chore, I tripped over some toys and cut my toe. Oh, and I forgot to mention the wasp that started buzzing around my head while I was scrubbing spit up baby food out of the threads of my rug.

As I said, it was a tough evening. But later, as I was wrestling the freshly washed bedding onto the crib mattress, and feeling very tired, I was grateful. Grateful because of the story that has been haunting me all week of little 18-month-old Preslee Sullenger, who fell into an irrigation canal last Friday and drowned, only to be resuscitated by a farmer who pulled her out 2 miles from where she fell in. She's currently fighting for her life. You can follow her story here.

Life is so fragile. Just two days ago, my little baby tumbled down a short flight of stairs and emerged with barely a scratch. But the outcome could have been so different. As Preslee's dad said on their blog, everything can go from fine to a nightmare in an instant. So hug your babies, no matter how old they are, and be grateful they're around to make your life difficult.

A Good Baby

Have you noticed how parents of little babies will always say, "He's/she's such a good baby!" What does this mean, exactly? I've never heard a parent describe a baby as "bad". "What a bad baby he is!" "She may be cute, but she's just bad!" So what makes a baby good? Is a baby good if he sleeps through the night, is a good eater, almost never cries? Or is he good if he makes you fall so head over heels in love with him that spotting his big wide awake blue eyes in the painfully wee hours of the morning makes you wish you could give up sleep entirely just so you could stare at him?

He's such a good baby!

Delusions of Vegetation

We did most of our Independence Day celebrating yesterday and made sure to pack a lot into it. My menfolk headed off to the parade in town, while I picked more green beans from the garden (trying to beat the heat wave). I made an apple pie--cutting up five large apples without a single injury to myself--and then we all went swimming. Then I sliced up some potatoes on my mandolin slicer for our family cookout. A slice of potato got stuck on the blade and I had the brilliant idea that I could draw it the rest of the way across the blade with my finger. Yes, the little voice in my head was very clearly pointing out to me that I was very likely to cut myself, but I didn't listen. Sure enough, just seconds later I had cut my finger and was hopping around and bleeding all over my kitchen. Ugh! I informed my husband that I was too stupid to have children, but he just bandaged me up and sent me on my way. The good thing about having a husband who is a nurse is that he has all the necessary skills to take care of all sorts of scary situations. The bad thing is, you can never really impress him with an injury.

Anyway, I finished up in the kitchen, loaded our stuff in the car, and proceeded to dump a container of milk into the van. What a lovely moment that was! I handled it with great poise and maturity, hurling the container into a tree. The cookout was fun, though, and we capped it off by playing glowstick tag, setting off Carter's hydrogen rocket, and enjoying the natural fireworks of the fireflies.

So after all of these festivities and dramas, what image do you think was dancing before my closed eyes when I went to bed last night? That's right--bean picking! There I was, lying in my comfy bed, and all I could see were bean plants. I think I just might be suffering from gardening overload.

Autism Speaks

My normally sullen teen has been very chatty this weekend. Talking to him is so interesting. He is 15 in so many ways--what with all the grunting and eye-rolling and wanting to shut himself up in his room. But in other ways he is such a young boy, learning how to relate to people and approaching life with such an earnest innocence.

We were working in the garden Friday morning. As you can imagine, our children do not usually embrace this activity and can be somewhat reluctant to leave the house when invited to pick vegetables. Being told they get to eat them is not much of a motivator, either. So after some more traditional parental persuasion, Austin and I had the following conversation:

Austin: I'm exaggerated!
Me: I don't think that's the right word.
Austin (very grumpily): Yes it is!
Me: What's exaggerated mean?
*pause*
Austin: I don't know.
Me: I think you mean exasperated.
*pause*
Austin: Yes.

This exchange was followed by my husband and I sharing many examples of exaggeration that were so entertaining, my son was actually glad to be picking beans with us. Okay, I'm exaggerating.

What I love most about these conversations is that they are so ordinary. It has taken my son many years to achieve ordinary conversation. The fact that he would now rather make the effort to construct original thought than fall back on his old scripting method of speaking (in which he would recite whatever line from a book or movie seemed most applicable to the moment) makes even his grumpiness music to my ears.

The best one came the next day, though. Austin had taken a bad tumble in our driveway and was covered in nasty cuts and scrapes. I was giving him advice on how to best care for his injuries and he said to me, "I know I can trust you, because you are a righteous mother."

Some days it's just good to be me.

I Think, Therefore I Am

Paul Simon once sang a song called "Maybe I Think Too Much". I'm quite certain that I do. I tend to over-think and over-analyze things. I don't know if it's just in my nature to do this, or if it is the result of a relatively solitary childhood. Being an only child and growing up amid the seclusion of the rural Delaware woods, I did not evolve a strong sense of community. I was usually on my own, wandering through the trees with my dog and my imagination for company. There is a definite appeal to being left so often to one's own devices, but it does provide an inordinate amount of time for getting lost in thought.

I wasn't exactly a social being anyway. I wouldn't say I was anti-social, just socially inept. I now realize that there are a lot of people who look back on their teen years with that same assessment. I understand that many of us felt socially awkward during that phase of life. But you know those kids you see in teen movies who get degrading messages taped onto their backs; who are so low in the pecking order that even some of the teachers take shots at them? I was one of those. I was an easy target. My attempts at being stylish repeatedly missed the mark. I was insecure and brainy--a combination that could sometimes be spun as a quirky positive for a boy, but was a real killer for a girl. College only improved my lot a few degrees. I was no longer made fun of, but I was already such a hardened outsider that I lacked the confidence to fully embrace many of the friendship opportunities that came my way.

My tendency became to value the thinking side of myself at the expense of the other parts. I still find myself falling into the trap of mistaking being admired with being liked. I have begun to suspect that I am simply hopelessly confused when it comes to the fine art of friendship. I see people coming and going around me, making friends with apparent ease, while I continue to see myself as a floundering misfit. To make matters worse, I see my children falling into similar patterns and I am at a loss as to how to advise them.

So, here is my question to you tolerant readers: What are the elements of successful friendship? Is serendipity the only path to human connection or is there--as I suspect there is--some secret skill set?

Stop Blaming the Poor Peanut

You may have heard that peanuts are responsible for more deaths than any other food. Don't believe it. Peanuts are perfectly safe. People eat them all the time and have no problems whatsoever. My husband and I have eaten them our whole lives, and our children eat them, too. Not only have we never once gotten sick from a peanut, we find them to be quite tasty and a healthy source of protein. Why, whenever I have a low blood sugar moment, a spoonful of peanut butter sets me to rights quicker than anything else can. Less than half a percent of people even claim to have this so-called peanut allergy. If you ask me, these individuals were probably sick already and their symptoms have nothing to do with peanuts. The fact that peanut consumption appears to trigger them is most likely coincidental. All this unwarranted negative publicity for the noble peanut could do irreparable harm to the peanut industry, putting farmers out of business and depriving society of a valuable nutritional resource.

If you think I'm completely, er, nuts, then you'll understand my frustration with the reaction of the medical/scientific community to the suggestion that there might be a link between vaccines and some forms of autism. While I don't believe that vaccines caused my son's autism, I can't rule out the possibility that, due to some genetic flaw or predisposition, they may have been a contributing factor. I have a friend, however, with two sons who disappeared into autism immediately after receiving the MMR vaccine. For people like her, there is no need for a scientific study to prove what she has seen with her own eyes. This is no wild coincidence; this is a definite link.

This is Dr. Andrew Wakefield, a British gastroenterologist who recently lost his medical license due to the fact that he refused to recant the conclusions of a study he conducted that found vaccine strain measles infection in the intestines of children with autism and bowel disease. You may have heard of him. If you have, you will likely have heard that his findings have never been replicated. This is not true. They have never been replicated in a published study, but they have indeed been replicated by doctors here in the US. Dr. Wakefield has never suggested that parents avoid vaccinating their children--quite the contrary--but he has been blamed for the drop in vaccine rates and a subsequent rise in measles infections among children, particularly in the UK.

Vaccines are a relatively new intervention when compared to the entire history of medicine. How arrogant to assume that we have it all figured out already; that we can say with such confidence that we know all of the potential effects they will have on the human body. We continue to heap them upon our little ones in alarming quantities, because the vast majority of children seem to have no trouble whatsoever in tolerating the brief assault on their immune systems. But what if, as with the poor maligned peanut, there is a small percentage--less than half a percent--whose bodies do not respond in the typical way? What if the immune system is already misfiring in these individuals in ways that have not yet been detected? Why is it considered sacrilege to suggest that the current vaccine program might not be the right fit for everyone? After all, it is completely unnecessary for 99.5% of the population to avoid peanuts, but for the rest, they are deadly. The CDC's unwillingness to truly investigate this only keeps the question alive for everyone. Research could help to reveal markers that could be screened for to identify which individuals are most susceptible and should be vaccinated by a different schedule, at older ages, with single instead of combination vaccines. This research is not being done. Instead, money is being put into retrospective surveys aimed at demonstrating the lack of a statistical link between vaccines and autism. This is insulting and I feel like I am back in the days of Galileo with scientists being silenced in an attempt to preserve the status quo.

As I said, I do not believe vaccines caused my son to have autism. However, my husband and I have been a good deal more cautious in approaching the vaccination of his two younger brothers. We are following a different vaccination schedule than the recommended one. I realize this means we are trying to strike a very precarious balance between protecting our children from disease and avoiding potential environmental triggers for developmental delays. However, until the CDC and the American Academy of Pediatrics get behind some real research to address this issue, I have no confidence in their recommendations. Here are the guidelines we follow, developed by Dr. Stephanie Cave (an amazing mother of a child with autism who got tired of being dismissed by medical professionals who told her, "You're not a doctor," so she became one).

Vaccine Recommendations

•    Do not vaccinate child if he/she:
  

•    is having fever (even low-grade), or runny nose/ diarrhea/constipation, or any other illness, or still recovering from an infection, or on antibiotics for other reasons. You may postpone vaccination to another day.
  
•    had any bad reaction or deterioration in health after previous vaccination.
  
•    had any past history of immune system disorder, severe allergies, convulsions or neurological disorders, vaccine reactions.
  

•    Always have full information on the vaccine's side effects.
  
•    Ask the doctor on how to identify a vaccine reaction.
  
•    Know the vaccine manufacturer's name and lot number.
  
•    Report any side effect to the doctor, NVIC, and VAERS.
  
•    Always ask for single dose, mercury-free (no thimerosal) vaccines.
  
•    Ask for separate vials of measles, mumps, and rubella, and give them separately, months apart.
  

Recommended vaccine schedule: (By Stephanie Cave, M.D. - DAN! Practitioner and Vaccine Expert)

Birth - Hepatitis B only if mom is Hepatitis B Positive; otherwise, no vaccine shot.  

4 months - Hib, IPV  

5 months - DTaP 

6 months - Hib, IPV  

7 months - DTaP  

8 months - Hib  

9 months - DTaP  

15 months - Measles  

17 months - Hib, IPV  

18 months - DTaP  

24 months - Prevnar (1 dose only)  

27 months - Rubella  

30 months - Mumps  

4 years - Varicella (if not immune already)  

4 - 5 years - Hepatitis B series, DTaP, IPV boosters; test titers for MMR and do not give unless not immune. Immunize only for vaccines found to be negative.

•    Ask the doctor to check vaccine titers to check for immunity before giving boosters.
  
•    If you have to vaccinate, give the following:
  

     Vitamin A (cod liver oil) 1 tbsp for three days before and on the day of the shot.      

     Vitamin C 100 mg twice daily for infants and 300mg twice daily for toddlers for three days before and on the day of the shot.

NVIC (National Vaccine Information Center) 

421-E Church Street  

Vienna, VA 22180  

Tel (703)9380342  

www.909shot.com

VAERS (Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System)  

P.O.Box 1100  

Rockville, MD 20849-1100  

24-hr toll free info line (800)822-7967 

 www.vaers.org  

Email: info@vaers.org  

Fax: (877)721-0366

The Sleep Quest, Part 100--The Surrender

I made a distressing realization this past Saturday night: I'm the only one in my house that actually wants to sleep at night. There I was, lying in my bed, exhausted to my bones, at 11pm. My sweet, though sometimes oblivious, husband was downstairs reading. My adorable, though too-curious-about-his-environment-to-ever-sleep, baby was in my arms nursing. My 15-year-old was down the hall, laughing hysterically about who knows what. My 10-year-old was in his room crying because he was so overtired he couldn't fall asleep. I was trying with all my might to communicate with my husband (did I mention he is sometimes oblivious?) via ESP to come intervene with our two oldest while I endeavored to create as boring an atmosphere as possible for the baby. It was all for naught. The baby remained awake, the laughing and crying continued, and my husband was aware of none of it. That was the moment of the aforementioned realization. Sleep did come to our home eventually, but it involved depositing baby with daddy, popping a forgotten melatonin pill into a teenage mouth, and practicing a little guided imagery on the 10-year-old. Watch out family members! I may start spiking your juice with Benadryl!

Love Me, Love Me, Love Me, I'm a Libertarian!

A friend of mine asked about my political beliefs today. I promised her a blog post to attempt to explain them. Comments and questions are welcome, with bonus points for anyone who can identify the reference in my title.

When I was 18, I registered to vote. I had never been especially politically savvy up to that point, though I believe I had some lofty ideals about how the world should be. My father was registered as a Democrat and my mother as an Independent, so I registered as a Republican to be different from them. I don't remember having any real sense of what that meant, but I was excited to do it.

I would describe my political views during my college years as moderately liberal. I was what my father called a "tree hugger" and I spent some time as an angry, man-hating feminist. By the time I met my husband, I had a pretty good chip on my shoulder. His ability to defuse me was probably the main thing that drew me to him. He and I also shared anti-establishment inclinations. The year we were married we voted for Ross Perot in the presidential election and harbored the hope that a strong third party would arise to really shake up the system.

Around that same time, I had a personal spiritual reformation of sorts. I undertook a good deal of religious study across many belief systems and solidified my core testimony of my LDS faith. It was on the heels of this that I became a mother for the first time. My philosophy as a mom pushed me more into conservative territory and I really felt like I identified myself as a Republican for the first time. Unfortunately, I have never been happy with any Republican presidential nominee. I find it really distressing that I enter the voting booth having to hold my nose and vote for someone based on the fact that I consider them the least repugnant choice. Feeling so disenfranchised has made me reexamine my political views over the years, which brings me to where I am today as a defiant libertarian.

What this means for me is that individual freedom is paramount. Agency is the gold standard. Laws should protect liberty rather than take it away. I do not believe in a paternalistic government that imposes a standard of conduct on my personal behavior. I should have the freedom to fail and to do so spectacularly if I choose. I believe you should have that freedom, too, but that I should not be compelled to subsidize your behavior and protect you from whatever negative consequences may arise from it. I do not believe the government has the right to take my money by compulsory taxation and spend it on other people, no matter how noble the cause. Morally I believe I am obligated to take care of those less fortunate than me and do not feel I should abdicate that obligation to the government. I believe in a free and unfettered market in which big companies are allowed to fail, small companies are free to flourish, and the consumer's wallet is the only regulator. I believe that I have the right to own a gun without having to account for it to the government. I believe in individual responsibility and accountability and that generosity and morality cannot be legislated.

Surveying the Damage

The mountains of snow are steadily retreating, making me long even harder for spring. It's been a very rough winter. I've been reminded just how important my food storage is and just how punishing that pretty white precipitation can be. The roof of my friend's barn collapsed, nearly killing her alpaca herd in the process. My husband and my father worked for hours saving the roofs of both our houses. It took weeks before we were able to reliably navigate our driveway without the aid of heavy farm equipment. The wildlife here has suffered too. I actually had a falcon stake out my bird feeder. And when the bird seed ran out, the birds were desperate enough to empty the cat food dish on my back porch, one piece at a time. One morning I came outside to find a fox standing on top of my duck pen, staring hopefully through the 3-inch vent at the two frightened ducks inside it.

Now, as spring's official beginning is right around the corner, my thoughts are turning to my poor plants. I took a little stroll today to see the condition of things as they emerge from the melting snow.

 

Our lean-to, hoping to be a shed when it grew up, gave out under the weight of it all

 

Already damaged by the initial snowfall, my poor abelia took the brunt of the rooftop snow removal

 

 This was once a massive forsythia--now flattened

This snapped off metal stake used to support a wall of honeysuckle

  

 I have no idea how much of this azalea hedge will be left when this snow finally melts

  

One destroyed ivy arbor

  

This cedar tree was removed from the land my church was built on--transplanted here on the day of the groundbreaking

  

There is bamboo debris everywhere

  

 My poor flattened euonymous

 

My wiegela--the hummingbirds' favorite--half broken off by snow from the roof

So, apologies to all you snow lovers, but I don't want to see any more of the stuff for a very long time.

Milestones

As I approach the end of the first six months of my new baby's life, I am a bundle of mixed emotions. Each little milestone has been a moment of pure joy, but there is always the tiny voice in the background whispering, "Slow down!" While I long for him to experience new things, to see him grow and develop, I want to cling to the newborn that has already long since vanished. Each new skill acquired and each adorable article of clothing outgrown is a heart-squeezing reminder that another little chapter has ended. Knowing that this will be my last child brings an added dose of melancholy to it all.

Oliver is mostly sitting up unsupported now. The thrill it gives him and the look of radiant pride on his sweet little face remind me that there is still more joy in the journey than there is sadness at the loss of what is past. I have so enjoyed watching my older children grow and evolve as they become more fully the people they are. So I look forward more than back, eager to see who my smallest son will become.

In the midst of all this sleep-deprived emotion, I am approaching my own personal milestone. This is the year I will turn 40. While I believe I have been dreading this ever since I turned 30, I am pleased to say that the dread has lifted. I am no more thrilled than I was before at the sound of the number, but I am much more ready to wear it with pride at what those 40 years mean in my life. I am mostly pleased with how I have spent that time and with where I am as I cross this particular marker. I am pleasantly surprised to report that I still feel very much a young woman and not past my prime or over the hill in any sense. I imagine a good deal of that must be due to this unexpected opportunity to be a new mommy all over again, but the rest I will just credit to good old-fashioned happiness.

The Stolen Child

Thanks to Amy for recommending this book. I have never read a book on the changeling myth and I really liked the way it was developed here. As the mother of a child with autism, the idea of having your child stolen away and replaced by an imposter had particular poignancy for me. Having a child who seems healthy and "normal" transformed almost overnight into one who is disconnected and beseiged by bizarre behaviors can make a distraught parent entertain the possibility of the body-snatcher scenario. There is some evidence that indicates a link between the changeling myth and special needs children back in the days before such disorders had been scientifically identified and explained. Apparently, such children who came to be labeled as changelings were often abused, abandoned, or killed.

In "The Stolen Child", however, the parents accept and raise the changeling child despite their suspicions that he is not their true son. The story follows the stolen child and his changeling replacement through the years leading to the attainment of adulthood. One faces the ramifications of living a life he stole from another, while the other deals with the pain of learning to let go of what he has irrevocably lost and to embrace his new reality. Underneath the supernatural trappings lies the fundamental struggle of the misfit. It is a story that is often painful, sometimes disturbing, but ultimately optimistic as the characters succeed, not in eliminating their problems, but in finding ways to take control of their circumstances and move forward with purpose.

Keith Donohue is a great storyteller whose writing is believable and full of subtle insights. I will be interested in reading him again and wholeheartedly recommend this thought-provoking book.

Sad But True

The Sleep Quest Revisited

So last fall I was distressed over my baby's lack of napping prowess. Little did I know that things could (and would) get worse. On the positive side of things, I am happy to report that Oliver has nearly mastered the fine art of napping and now takes 2 or 3 naps of a respectable length each day. However, my happiness is greatly tempered by the fact that he (at the ripe old age of 5 months) is still not sleeping through the night. In fact, while he only woke once or twice a night as a newborn, he is now regularly up 3 or 4 times every night. A typical night involves him going to bed around 10 p.m., waking around 12:30 or 1, waking around 3, and then waking around 5. He'll then be up by 7 a.m. Some nights he'll add an extra waking around 4. It's downright painful.

We started him on solids today for the first time. He has been showing a lot of interest in food, so we feel he's ready. I don't expect to see any benefit right away, but I'm hopeful that this may fill his little middle enough to keep him sleeping longer at night. We'll see.

Meanwhile, I'm open to suggestions.

Koobideh

Once upon a time, I went to a Persian restaurant with my friend Kimberly. I had not been before, nor have I gone since (I don't even remember exactly where this particular place was), but it was some of the best food I have ever tasted. One of the dishes we had was these ground meat kebabs served with roasted tomatoes over basmati rice. Thinking about that meal recently, I decided to search out a recipe and try to duplicate it at home.

These were made with 1 pound of ground beef, 1 egg, 2 medium onions (the recipe called for them to be grated, but I minced mine very fine in my food processor), 2 minced cloves of garlic, 1 teaspoon turmeric, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. I mixed it all together and let it sit in the refrigerator all day. Then I pressed the mixture around the skewers and broiled it until it was good and browned, about 20 minutes. The tomatoes should have gone under the broiler, too, but I sauteed them in some olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper. 

I think it turned out looking pretty nice, but the taste did not come close. They tasted good, but not nearly like what they made in the restaurant. My teenager gave them 5 stars, but that's just because it was meat and he's a raging carnivore. My hubby and I went for 4 stars, and the 10-year-old gave them 3 (3.5 when he added some more salt). If I make these again, it will be with a different recipe. I'll keep hunting.

So, Kimberly, when you are ready to renounce your vegetarian ways and come back to the dark side, perhaps we can hunt down that restaurant again. Call me.

Indoctrination

Yet another reason why I homeschool my kids. The following is from an email I received from my senator, Tom Carper.

TEACHING KIDS ABOUT THE CENSUS

The 2010 Census is less than three months away. So earlier this month, I hosted a kickoff event for the "Census In Schools" program in Delaware. This program aims to provide educators with the resources they need to teach students about the importance of the census, so they in turn can help deliver this message to their families and improve the response rate.

 
I fail to see the educational value in a program with the stated purpose of training students to be vehicles of social propaganda. I have nothing against the census and nothing against the notion of educating students about it, but why are our children being used to serve a government agenda? It's little, seemingly insignificant programs like this that have been eroding our freedoms bit by bit for years without alarming anyone enough to speak against it.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

What a lovely, lovely book! Everything I found wanting in the characters of The Lost Symbol, was present in spades in this novel. Every character was purposefully developed and wonderfully unique. The plot was well paced and multi-dimensional. There was a nice balance between the conservation of words and the grace and artistry of the prose.

The novel is set in England at the end of World War II and has the dual focus of a look back at the German occupation of the English Channel island of Guernsey and the personal journey of self-discovery of the central character, Juliet Ashton. Juliet is a young author in London who gets caught up in a correspondence with the members of the title society.

The entire book is told in letters, telegrams, and notes. Shaffer and Barrows execute this style brilliantly, letting each character's narrative style distinguish itself from the others, while still only revealing them bit-by-bit at the same pace at which our heroine gets to know them. Some letters are missing, leaving the reader to guess at their contents from the letters written in reply. The subject matter hops from one topic to another depending on who is writing to whom, simultaneously revealing the story of the past and moving forward the action in the present. The overall effect is that of finding a box of keepsakes in your grandmother's attic and exploring it at your leisure.

It is charming and poignant, touching on difficult topics with the perfect blend of somberness and the lightness of hope. I have read many books on the subject of World War II, but I have never read one that made me smile as much as this one.

(Much thanks to Heidi for the recommendation!)

Living Without Dairy

When I was a kid I loved milk. I didn't drink much else. When I was 11-years-old, I developed a scalp condition similar to an infant's cradle cap. My hair was coming out in clumps. The diagnosis? Cow's milk allergy. Our solution? Dairy goats. We raised dairy goats from then until I left for college 7 years later. At that point I gave up drinking milk altogether. I would have regular old cow's milk on a bowl of`cereal, but that was all. I never realized how dairy-dependent my diet was until the past 4 months.

When my little Oliver was born at the end of August, I was determined to breastfeed him as I had done my second son, Carter. My sweet husband hates to see me put any of the responsibility for my oldest's autism on to myself, but I can't help but wonder how things might have been different if I had nursed him as well. I'm not burdened down with guilt over it--I made the best decision for myself at the time--but the fact remains that I had a bottle-fed child with a developmental disability and a breastfed child without one. I had no plans to test out the odds with my third.

Getting started brought the same blood, sweat, and tears as it had the last time, but I was too stubborn to throw in the towel. However, we soon faced an unexpected element to the whole mix. The peeling skin typical of post-term babies seemed unusually persistent and began to intensify around Oliver's face in a way that made us believe it was not typical after all. In addition, he was excessively fussy and gassy and his stool was bright green. Based on my history, Austin's subsequent dairy troubles, and what we turned up with a little research, it seemed we were dealing with an allergy to the cow's milk protein that was passing on to him from what I was consuming.

Removing milk and cheese from my diet brought swift improvement, but there were still some lingering symptoms. It took some serious digging to discover all the many sources of dairy there were in my diet. Did you know that there's only one type of margarine in my grocery store that is totally diary-free? Did you know that English muffins have milk in them? How about breadcrumbs? (I found this out after making a meatloaf and spending a sleepless night with a cranky, miserable baby afterward.) Tastykakes, salad dressing, croutons, fish sticks, crackers, chips, cookies, the list is extensive. Not only that, but I was surprised to discover how many of my favorite meals are made with milk or cheese. As for restaurants? Forget it. Pretty much any roll, biscuit, or breaded item is off limits. It has been truly miserable, though I would have to credit this situation with forcing me to rely less on prepared foods and go the homemade route more.

Formula is out of the question. Our one attempt to supplement with soy resulted in a violently ill baby who kept nothing down for 5 hours. So I continue to breastfeed, dreaming of having a bowl of cereal, and trying very hard to not imagine the summer with no pizza or ice cream ahead of me.

Crockpotting

I love cooking in the crock pot. I think I mainly enjoy the fact that the work of the meal is so far removed in time from the eating of it, that it feels like a shortcut. I have always been fond of tossing a roast in the pot on Saturday night, turning it on Sunday morning, and coming home from church to a cooked meal waiting for me. And it always turns out fairly well. But, in keeping with my new recipe vow, I was determined to find a new way to slowcook my roast. So, courtesy of my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, I took on a Pot Roast in Cider.

The recipe calls for a 1.5-2 pound boneless pork shoulder roast, but I substituted a 6 pound blade roast instead, which is pretty much the largest thing I could fit in my crock pot. The first step is one I've seen in other recipes but have always skipped in the past: brown the roast on all sides in 2 tablespoons of oil. Let me tell you, it was not easy to wrangle that piece of meat around with hot oil spitting at me. But I did it and it looked quite nice afterward. I sliced up a medium onion into the bottom of the pot, put the browned roast on top, and poured 1 1/4 cup of apple cider, mixed with 2 teaspoons of beef bouillon, 1/4 teaspoon of dry mustard, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper, over the whole thing. I cooked it on high for about 6 hours and it was seriously the best pork roast I've ever eaten in my life. It even got the stamp of approval from the picky 10-year-old, which is really saying something.

The Lost Symbol

I received this book for Christmas and was very excited to read it. I very much enjoyed both The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons, so I had high expectations. Unfortunately, I was mainly disappointed. There were certainly elements I liked. Learning a little bit about the Masons (which I know I must take with a grain or two of salt) was very interesting and there was a truly gratifying plot twist at the book's climax that literally made my jaw drop. In hindsight, though, I think I might have seen it coming had my brain been more fully engaged in the characters than it was.

The characters are where the bulk of my complaints lie. They seemed to be secondary, as did the plot, to an overall agenda on the part of the author to expound upon a pet philosophy. Nearly everything in the book took a backseat to the apparent need to elaborate on the various fine points of Brown's personal belief system. The characters were largely wooden mouthpieces, placed into various contrived situations for the sole purpose of pontificating on the matter.

All this was capped off with a series of unlikely strokes of luck that took even more teeth out of the plot. A character dies, but doesn't really die; another's life's work is destroyed, but there's a surprise secret backup copy of everything; a third has his hand chopped off but is well enough that he doesn't even need a trip to the hospital before being deemed fit to saunter across town and descend every step in the Washington Monument.

And the great mystery of the lost symbol? There really isn't one, unless you count the buried Bible referred to in the post-climactic ending. I won't say it was a bad read, just not a very good one. It either fails to measure up to its predecessors, or Dan Brown's storytelling has become too formulaic to remain fresh.

Doctor, Doctor

So Oliver went in for his 4 month well-baby visit today. My adorable little cherub weighed in at 15 pounds and is now 25 inches long. He dutifully messed his diaper moments before the doctor came in. He then smiled and babbled and kicked his way through the exam, not getting crabby until vaccine time. We are using a modified vaccine schedule to minimize the stress on his little immune system. I have mixed feelings about the autism-vaccine connection, but I definitely feel better erring on the side of caution. So today was Oliver's very first vaccine. We did two, actually: Hib and polio. He has been cranky and feverish all afternoon, but seems to be feeling a bit better now.

Note to my little son: your doctor tells me that you do not need to eat at night, so I would appreciate it ever so much if you would stop waking me up every 2-3 hours.