I mean, for me.
The boy is sleeping. Went down like a champ after his mid-night feed, even though his eyes were open and he was being a bit smiley and flirty. Lights out, pacifier in, and off he went.
Me, I’ve been lying in bed for over an hour, writing posts in my head. So I finally gave up and got up and here I am. Too bad my psychic blogging can’t actually be uploaded.
And speaking of psychics (oh, what a segue!)…
So I’d mentioned recently that I’d talked to the psychic chiropractor, that she’d made a few adjustments to my diet that seemed to at least be helping me, though not yet necessarily having a visible effect on the boy. She’d said, “Do this for a week and then let’s talk again next Tuesday. Same time.”
She’d also informed me that in my big box of baby toys — teething and similar — there were some items that needed to be thrown out. This is strong advice from her. M’s allergy treatments usually mean that whatever the trigger, one can heal from the reaction to it. She’s not a big proponent of only having hand carved wooden toys and organic everything. She’s into being BEYOND the toxins, rather than running around like a headless chicken trying to hermetically seal your life against them. (Think Julianne Moore in Safe.)
So for her to say some items needed to be thrown out… needless to say, I was looking forward to our next appointment.
The following Tuesday came. She didn’t call. I called her. Her voicemail was full. It has continued to be full day after day for at least two weeks now. She’s not returning emails. I have a toxic dump buried in my toy box and my spelunking guide has gone MIA. (The technological aspects of the material realm have NEVER been her forte.)
So I did what any mildly insane frequent-consulter of non-scientific experts would do. I called another dowser.
This is the woman I’d briefly worked with previous to M., who was, and turns out still is, fond of prescribing detox baths. I’d liked M. better because treatments happened on a faster timeline of days or weeks. Dowser N.’s prescriptions take one to six months.
But N. answers and returns her calls. And here’s the thing: Beyond helping me sort out the toys (I held each one in my hand while she tested them; about six items were relegated to the unsafe pile, mostly those liquid-filled teethers, plus a painted maraca of dubious origin), N. prescribed a bath series (8 over four days for me and the boy, an additional 4 for me after that, plus a set of 2 and 2 to take after each of our flights to and from Hawaii) and a more detailed food plan, covering the next six months.
You’ve heard of anorexics and bulimics, right? Well, I suffer, just a squidge, from “orthorexia,” or the obsession with the correct way of eating. Suffer used to be the operative word much more so in the past, when my obsession led me to stress out astronomically while seeking to find and execute the perfect food plan (wheat free, dairy free, sugar free, macrobiotic, high protein, organic, hypoallergenic, psychic, whatever), perfectly.
After many years of struggle, surrender, a return to cupcakes, struggle, surrender again, today I’m kind of a recovering orthorexic — mostly, if I didn’t tell you out loud, you wouldn’t notice it. I’m no longer hazing party hosts about the ingredients in their menus or breaking down in tears in restaurants if the waiter forgot to hold the mashed potatoes and butter touched my fish.
What this means today though is that after so many years of whackadoodle food plans, hardly any prescription can faze me. Plus, my brain kind of enjoys the challenge. Let’s see, I can have blueberries but not oranges, kamut but not spelt, spinach but not kale, goat cheeses… I can work with that.
It’s almost like a superpower, how quickly I can memorize a new set of rules, and start devising recipes.
Of course, initial phases of focus and execution must be followed with some kind of results, or else I will lose interest. I still LOVE food. So if I’m forgoing chocolate souffle, there’d better be a payoff.
I don’t know if excessive energy at 4 a.m. counts as a payoff, but I am feeling good after only two days on the new food and bath plan.
More importantly, the boy seems better. His skin looks clearer (rashiness was reaching new heights this last week — considered by some to be linked to food allergies) — of course we’ll reserve judgement on this for a while before we’ll say for sure that this is a new skin order; and he POOPED! Four times the first day, twice yesterday. Hall-ay-ba-loo-yah!
Oh — I did try the gripe water, but he wouldn’t go for it. Cried like I was torturing him. Of course this was the ORGANIC agave-sweetened gripe water. Last time we’d tried it, we’d used the other stuff, which must be pure sugar because, that, he’d sucked down in seconds. I also gave him a little baby-dophilus the last two days, about 1/4-1/2 tsp in some breastmilk, which may also have helped.
Six months is a long time to follow this latest set of food rules, but the mother bear/superhero in me that wants to protect my baby at all costs will likely keep me on track, at least for as long as this seems to help him.
Eczema, be gone! Poop, flow! Up, up, and a-wayyyyyyyyy…