Happy Birthday Toby!

Six years ago today, I gave birth to a 7 pound 11 ounce baby boy. Today that now 40 pound boy is having a pillow fight in the next room with his best buddy (born on the same day!) Andrew.

Toby has enjoyed opening gifts, eating sushi for lunch (his request for which I am grateful), and generally being the center of attention. He has also relished listening to his birth story from the various family members who were there that day six years ago -- my dear friend Michelle, my mom, my stepdad, Greg's mom, and of course Greg. He especially likes it when Greg tells him that after 30 hours of labor his head popped out, he opened his eyes, and turned his head to look around. Greg was so stunned by this that the midwife had to cue him, "Are you going to deliver the rest of the baby?" Next, like most newborns, he promptedly defecated on both his father and mother in turn. Can't wait until he takes that one to school on Monday. :-)

This morning at dance I found myself in a pew praying to God for Toby's health and safety. Tears streamed down my face as I prayed and prayed with all of my might for his health...I love that little boy from the depths of my being and although I am accustomed to his health issues as they've become the norm, my heart still breaks for him every time I have to count carbs and give him insulin. This is only his second birthday having diabetes so I remember well his fourth birthday when he gorged on cheesecake (and not the Splenda version either) and candy from the pinata. My low-sugar birthday cake this year was far better than what I came up with last year and I have learned to put things like pencils and quarters in the pinata rather than candy.

So tonight as I prepare to tuck in the two six-year olds in the basement, I am deeply grateful that that 7 pound 11 ounce boy entered our lives when he did. Although I feel like I spend a lot of time being his nutritionist and his nurse, I have to remind myself that I am first and foremost his mother. I'm the only one that he has and I can freely love him up all that I want while he is still interested in my affection.

Happy Birthday Toby!

Ode to the ABQ Mamas

I had the great fortune this weekend to travel to Santa Fe with my dear friend of 10 years, Michelle, whom I met in graduate school back in Tucson. We went to Santa Fe to celebrate and attend graduation with her second master's degree in counseling. Yeah Michelle!

On this trip I also spent an evening with my "mom friends" from Albuquerque. These are the women who got me through four years of learning how to parent and mother...talking me through sleepless nights, breastfeeding debacles, and the terrible twos.... Traversing the foreign lands of toddler discipline, marital woes, and weight loss plans (which included running with strollers carrying very heavy cargo). The majority of our time spent together included 4 then 5 then 7 little ones as their families grew. Our conversations were ritually held over cheese sticks and goldfish crackers during our regular playgroups at the local park. Coveted were the "mom's night outs" when we left our children with the dads' and treated ourselves to good wine, yummy food, and great company to laugh about our trials in the world.

Although, I valued these friendships when I lived in Albuquerque, I have a deeper appreciation for them today. Now that I am in a place of relative peace and comfort, where rest is an expected luxury every night and I have both free and available childcare regularly (thanks Mom!), I can look back and recognize the important role that these women played in my development into an adult. I can appreciate what it takes to be a part of a community of tired, restless, cranky mothers who are trying to etch out a meaningful life for themselves between nap times with two-hour trips to the local park. These three women tolerated more complaining and whining from me than probably anyone in my life. They laughed with me as I spent most of 2003 with my upper half soaked in breast milk, talked me through Toby's constant crying when he started daycare, and cried with me when Toby was diagnosed with diabetes in 2005. Each of these women, Amy, Nancy, and Alison, added a deep richness to what, at the time, felt like a mundane existence punctuated by blessed trips to the aquarium and the zoo.

Although I have now moved to another state and only speak to my mom friends every so often, they are each lodged snug in my heart. These women are such valued family for me and as I move into another community making new and wonderful relationships, I hold dear these women who helped me learn to mother my son by mothering me.

As I drove home to Colorado this morning, I felt a deep sadness in leaving behind this community who are carrying on our rituals without me (Art Club, Friday playgroup, etc...). Part of me longed to have the comfort of these friendships and activities close by once again. But, as I keep learning over and over, nothing lasts forever -- we are riding in an ocean of life that churns and crests and is rarely still. So I feel heart-filled gratitude for the gifts that they each shared in showing up for me in a profound way during a critical time of my life.

Here's to you each of you, with deep love and appreciation.

Greg, Toby, and Fattie before Fattie went to Simla.

Urban Poultry and Saying Goodbye to Fattie...

About eight weeks ago we received a call from our neighborhood post office. This is what they said on our answering machine, "Um...hello. We have a package for the Glick residence...it is...err...it's a box of chicklets." And so we became part of the urban poultry movement! Twenty-five "chicklets" to be exact. The colorful journey has included the untimely death of some baby chicks as well as full grown roosters (14 of them) trying to kill one another -- and succeeding on several occasions. We had no idea what we were getting into when we began this endeavor. And, although I could pass on crawling into the poop filled coop in galoshes and rubber gloves to apply pine tar to 11 bloody, oozy fowls, mostly the experience has been positive, albeit a lot of work, and also ripe with good story material.

So last Saturday Greg loaded the old truck up with 11 not-so-bloody-oozy roosters, happily popping their heads out the rear window, en route to Simla, Colorado...home of the local poultry processing plant. He returned with 11 plucked, processed, and plasticked chickens in a cooler. One of the roosters we had fondly named Fattie (naming him was our first mistake) when he was a chick. Fattie was...well...quite fat and put on weight rapidly -- (some chickens are apparently bred for this feature). Greg triumphantly placed nine of the neatly wrapped chickens in the deep freeze and proceeded to roast the remaining two. I was dismayed. Could I really eat Fattie?

It has been more than six years since I jumped off the wagon of vegetarianism. Since that time I have done my best to be a conscientious consumer purchasing "free-range" meats that, as Toby so succinctly put it when he was 4, "were treated nicely before they were killed." But eating an animal that I have fed and raised? Consuming the flesh of an animal that I had once held tenderly held in my hand?

Needless to say, I did not partake in the ceremonial eating of rooster Saturday with my boys. However, this afternoon I gingerly took the Fattie leftovers out of the frig and made chicken salad with him. I haven't eaten the chicken salad yet but I did prepare it...all the while feeling like I really should be a vegetarian again. I am struck by how removed I have become from my food...especially from the animals that I eat. So I sit here struggling with how to let go of my anthropomorphized version of our chickens while having integrity around what I consume.

At this moment, there seems no easy or clear answer. Maybe my solution lies somewhere between saying goodbye to Fattie and his friends with a ritual of thanks and prayer, to assuage my guilty conscience, and consuming meat with more awareness. Regardless, it looks like we're having chicken salad for dinner tonight.

Thanks Fattie.

The Knights of Columbus....

The holiday season is officially here! With the stores full of Halloween paraphernalia and Christmas supplies readily positioned to take their place, I am preparing for another season of candy, cakes, cookies, and other sugary edibles.

On Sunday, after church, we all went to the neighborhood grocery store. As we approached the entrance, I noticed a man wearing a Knights of Columbus vest ringing a bell for donations. As I began looking through my purse for some change, the man kindly offered Toby a large candy bar. Toby's face lit up as I jumped in, "No, no. Thank you sir but we'll pass." To which he replied, "No really. He can have it." Toby's hand went up to reach for the bar but I stopped him repeating, "No. Thank you but no." The 'ol knights are a persistent bunch and the fella went on, "Yes...he can have it!" It was all I could do not to thwack him over the head with my purse. When did I turn over my parental rights to this stranger? Who was he to insist upon giving something -- candy or not -- to my kid. Finally, I reluctantly pulled out my trump card..."No. He has diabetes." The man simply said, "Oh." And turned to the next family.

Of course, the next ten minutes were occupied with Toby begging for the candy and saying, "I could save it for later Mom!" I could open a 7-11 with all of the junk I have in my house that has been "saved for later". I was short with Toby, taking out my frustrations with the vested man on him as Toby, naturally, was huffy about not getting the candy.

And so the holiday season begins. I don't mean to complain about the generosity of people with my child. Certainly, Toby would love to have all of the treats that are readily available for children everywhere. However, being put in the position to explain or defend my choices as a parent is exhausting. I generally don't like to point to Toby's diabetes as the reason for limiting the sugary snacks -- I limited them, as most of my friends do, before the onset of his illness. Naming the illness...naming it to strangers...naming it to myself...it feels so painful to me. I feel naked -- like I'm exposing myself. Exposing myself to this person who I don't even know...selling a bit of soul in order to not seem rude or socially inappropriate by simply walking away. I also feel like I'm stamping my kid on the forehead with a large red ink mark that screams "DEFECTIVE" or "DIFFERENT". Sure, I am the first one to argue the benefits of a society that is diverse...where we can celebrate our differences and learn for these unique characteristics. And, there is different and there is different.

Toby is so many things besides having diabetes. I suppose part of my strong reaction to the Knights of Columbus man was feeling like (1) I had to defend my choices as a parent but also (2) I labeled my kid in front of a stranger because it was an easy way to stop the interaction. I made the choice to label Toby for my own benefit -- to get on with grocery shopping -- rather than disengaging and walking away. It's funny how I can get wrapped up in the way others might label my kid when in fact I am guilty of doing it too. It is embarassing to admit but there it is.

Eventually, we made it to the produce section and Toby was engaged with trying samples at the deli. As we left the grocery store, the Knights were back holding out a candy to Toby happily saying, "Here you go! Have a candy bar!"

Skate City, Go-Gurts, and other Trials of kindergarten...

I am the first to admit that I am a bit of a food snob. Okay, those of you who know me are now laughing because I am a total food snob. :-) My bourgeoisie food tendencies run deep and began way before diabetes and are now punctuated by the constant food battles with my kid, other kids, other families, school, and generally society at large. Joy.

Now that we are well into our fourth week of kindergarten, we have been exposed to a cornecopeia of sugary and sub-par food choices in sexy packaging. Everything from vanilla shake milk (with high fructose corn syrup that is oh so nutritious) being offered in the cafeteria to PTA sponsored skate night with free sodas and ice cream sundaes and after-school fundraisers with rootbeer floats. Then there are the chocolate chip granola bars for snack along with the Shrek Go-Gurt and Capri-Sun. To be honest, if my kid didn't have this disease I would likely just eschew the battle and let him have some of this stuff. The fight would be exhausting everyday if I didn't have to do it. And although I want to run through the school halls screaming when I see candy being handed out to children for being good, I get that it is just another way for adults to show affection. Not to mention that most of us are completely addicted to the stuff. Many kids are excited to bring a special snack to school and want to have the Scooby Do fruit chews and Elmo juice boxes because it is fun.

Today while I was volunteering in Toby's class, they started passing out snack ("please let it be something he can have, please let it be something he can have...") -- prepackage crackers with cheez-whiz and Welch's grape juice (25 carbs per 6 ounces). Shit. I've started bringing Toby's own snack (so un-fun as a 5 year old) which was half a pear and cheese. As the juice was being poured in the Spiderman cups, Toby rushes up to me, "Mommy can I have some, pleeeease." Since I had just checked his sugar levels and he was 343 the answer was a sorrowful no..."but you can have some water in the Spiderman cup, honey". Tears. Big, huge sobbing tears.

I almost started crying too. God the injustice of it all! I just sat on the floor in the back of the classroom holding him while he cried and buried his little face in my shirt. I told him that he could have the crackers and cheez if he wanted along with his pear. For a moment, this was of no comfort but after a couple of minutes he smiled brushing his tears away with the back of his hand and went back to his chair. His teacher looked at me sympathetically and assured me that these big emotions only happen when I'm there for snack...not when the nurse comes in to monitor his sugar levels and give him insulin.

So it all just continues. It's an ongoing lesson in letting go, trusting, and trying to show up for my kid so he can fall apart when it all gets to be too much. And my Ego wants to be Right -- I'm Right And You Suck! You make shitty food choices for your kids! You make my life hard! It is your fault.... I can be so so small and want to throw all of my hurt at other people.

But, I'm getting better at holding my white-hot quivering ball of anger. Knowing deeply that it is not about the sugar underneath it all...it is about the world not being exactly what I want, when I want it. It's about being with my kid's pain and discomfort...as well as my own. And the big one, it's about learning how to not judge people for their choices around food or anything else. Oh right, that one is also about judging myself. :-) I'm still working on walking away from Judgment. At the moment Judgment is clinging to the bottom of my shoe like dog shit that, try as you might, you just can't clean completely off -- the nasty odor remains.

Am I good enough?

It's a slippery slope playing the "am I good enough" game as a parent. Am I a good enough mother? Have I done everything in my power to optimize my child's life: provided him with interactive and developmentally appropriate activities; friends that are diverse and engaging; schools that are enriching and loving; and of course, foods that are locally grown, organic, freshly picked by well-paid workers, and transported in vehicles that are solar-powered? Oh, I can get pretty damn tight when it comes to food and my kid.

When Toby was younger [read:pre-diabetes diagnosis] I was the mother who took nauseatingly healthy snacks to the park. The mother who felt superior to the other mothers handing out their juice boxes and individually packed gummy snacks. I was the mother who spoke loudly and firmly about the dangers of vaccinating our children and giving them processed foods. The mother who would go home at night and painstakingly make peanut butter crackers for pre-school snack (with organic sugar-free almond butter -- being mindful of those with peanut allergies -- and organic whole wheat crackers) rather than purchasing the prepackaged kind, in order to ensure that my son would remain healthy and free from the adverse effects of eating harmful foods. The mother who quite frankly believed that by being good enough I could protect my son from the dangers of life. The mother who felt like if I was organic enough, unprocessed enough, natural enough, that I would be that buffer between Toby and the rest of the world.

A well-meaning family member said to me yesterday, "You know, I read that children get childhood diabetes because of all of the high fructose corn syrup in their diets." She looked at me, as if to suggest that I somehow played in role in Toby's illness. The hot rage the welled up inside of me was like bile from the pit of my stomach. I wanted to lash out at her and scream, "DO YOU THINK I WANTED THIS FOR MY KID?! I WAS THE MOTHER WHO DIDN'T GIVE HER KID SUGAR!" I wanted to make her feel all of the pain and agony of drawing blood from my little boy 4, 5, 6, 10 times a day. I wanted her to feel my deep envy of other mothers who can drop off their children at school knowing that they won't have a seizure from being too low or too high. I wanted her to tell me that I was enough for my kid, that it wasn't my fault -- rather than feeling blamed for his illness.

Of course, the truth is that I am enough. Whether we eat processed foods or not. I have been guilty of holding tightly to my superiority in order to somehow carve out a safe place from which to judge others. The corner that I backed myself into has not served me well and being on the other side of that superiority is painful. My family member's judgment was really my own looking down at me with accusing eyes. She was likely just trying to provide me with information to help me understand an incomprehensible illness in our lives.

And, in the first 17 months of Toby's diagnosis I was quick to jump on the bandwagon of any possible cure. The long, distinguished, and occasionally ridiculous list includes: homeopathy, acupuncture, acupressure, NAET, cranio-sacral, vaccination detox, Indian herbs and tinctures, flower essences, medical food supplements, a strict no dairy diet, a strict unpasteurized dairy diet, low carb diet, positive affirmations, and a Native American healer who exorcised the evil spirits from his little body. Like any parent, I was willing to do anything to heal my little boy. And, I also felt somehow that my worth as a mother was tied to Toby's health. If I was good enough, he would not have diabetes. It sounds ludicrous to even say it aloud but it is true.

Today, I find myself in an uncharted territory of my life. I find myself loosening my vice grip on my world and trusting that my precious little mind cannot possibly know how to manipulate the world in order to keep me or my kid safe. I am opening more and more to the possibility that Toby is perfectly Toby with or without diabetes and that his health is not an outward reflection of my worth as a mother. I am also coming to understand that even if he were miraculously healed today (which I still firmly believe possible) he is still in a human body that lies prey to the physical troubles of life -- if not diabetes then cancer, injuries, RSV, you name it. We live in finite bodies which cannot be sheltered from the world in which we live. Often these bodies are our greatest teachers when we pay attention to what they have to tell us.

As I continue to wrestle with my ego who wants to be better than others, I find that the voice of my heart is becoming louder and clearer everyday. I am able to find compassion for myself and sometimes lay down that grand ruler with which I use to measure my worth and value as a mother. Stepping away from that ruler, just a bit, I can laugh of my mistakes or my social mis-steps. I can feel into life just a bit more, relax, and have compassion with myself. During these brief, but lately more frequent moments, I can feel like I am enough for me kid.

Who is SugarMama?

Tonight while watching him scarf down a slice of pizza, a bowl of pasta, an entire banana(!), salad, a glass of goat's milk, and some fruit cocktail, I thought, "Shit, have I been feeding him enough?"

Granted, my son is a lean 39 pound, 5 and three-quarters year old who is petite like his folks -- but I really had a moment where I thought that maybe I'd been depriving him of food in order to keep his glucose levels within range. Of course, in the two years since his diagnosis of type 1 (or juvenile) diabetes I haven't made it a practice of withholding healthy food -- however, cookies, candies, juice boxes (my cultural nemisis!), ice cream as well as bananas, honey, maple sugar and generally any high carb/high sugar food is scrutinized, weighed, and carbs calculated before Toby indulges. My skills are sharply honed at caluculating the carbs in both processed and unprocessed foods....one banana? "30 CARBS!" a slice of bread? "15 CARBS!" a glass of plain soy milk? "8 carbs!" a glass of goat's milk? "11 CARBS!" It's as if I'm storing up this knowledge base of sugar calculations in order to be a contestant on Jeopardy where I can slam my fist down on the buzzer and shout out my answer under hot studio lights in the hopes that I might win a trip for two to Acapulco. Of course this knowledge is invaluable everyday with Toby as it helps to keep my little boy alive and healthy. And that is why, I am the SugarMama...bravely challenging CapriSuns given out for school snack and quickly stashing away lollipops administered by well-meaning bank tellers. It's a bird...it's a plane...no, it is SugarMama. :-)

Hmmm...maybe I'll have t-shirts made. Or better yet, a cape. I've always wanted a cape.