I never would have labeled Bumblebee as explosive. Could she have tantrums? Yes. They were doozys. But, I could generally ward them off.
She was shy. Is shy. Tearful. Sweet. Explosive? Not exactly.
However, when I was (tearfully) venting about her episodes and my frustration to a friend, she mentioned the book "The Explosive Child", and at my wits end I picked it up. What a book! While I still didn't think "Explosive" was the best label for Bumblebee, I could certainly identify with what the book had to say. The best thing was that it helped validate many of my parenting choices. Most obviously, the fact that she gets away with a whole lot more than I'd allow her sister to get away with simply because she seems to need it.
Fast forward a year or so. I was looking up books on food additives, and the title "What your Explosive Child is Trying to Tell You" leapt off the shelf at me. (Sidenote--why are books on emotionally difficult children and books on food additives and allergies and such so close together in the library? They couldn't possibly be related, could they?) I threw it in the bag.
Reading it, my mouth fell open. It's not that explosive is the right term for Bumblebee. It's not. She's not a ticking time bomb. She's never been as volatile as some of the cases referenced in these books. However, I've had this description of her tearful tantrums. That she doesn't seem to be fighting to be difficult.
In fact, there have been times when I get a good look in her eyes, and it felt as if she were caged animal fighting for her life. We're talking a tantrum where she wanted the car parked in the driveway, and for some reason it had to be left on the street. Or her sister sat on the right instead of the left. Or I picked up Snowflake instead of Marigold when she asked for a stuffed animal. Last straws that happen when she's already upset and we're on edge from her grumping.
I've told dh that it feels like she plans out her life, and when the slightest thing goes wrong, she seems to melt down. "Take me home," "Fix it," "Squares!" (when the waffle has been inadvertently cut into triangles) etc. Certain toys have a mysterious "magic" quality. The quilt that brought great comfort is tainted from being spread on the wrong bed.
"Road map" tantrums, triggered by a child's internal "world road map" changing (and therefore "ending") describe this same observation.
They also reinforce that horrid habit I have, the one that draws the dirty looks and shaking heads at a grocery store. The one that manages to procure one or two if not several "not my kid..."s under people's breath. I don't immediately up and leave. For her, this is rewarding the behavior. It's good to read that I'm doing the right thing. It's also good to read that it's okay to expose her to frequent routine changes, and that it's perfectly acceptable to quickly avoid an incident turning into a full blown tantrum. She doesn't want to meltdown. I don't want her to meltdown. No one wants to be exposed to that.
The book did catch me by surprise with it's chapter on none-other than food related triggers. They identify food colorings, preservatives, and CORN as top triggers. Corn! Corn allergy! In a book! Published recently! I was nearly giddy.
I'm not sure the book provided any new tips, other than to reassure me that my instincts are right, and that we're on the right path (even if it feels bumpy, slow and indirect at times) But I'm happy to see corn in a mainstream publication, and food triggered reactions getting more attention. This book was not aimed at the homeopathic, granola crunching, yoga-class going moms. Which means we're breaking into the mainstream.
Bumblebee's input? She caught me reading the book. Looked at the title, broke out in a huge grin and crushed it between us as she gave me a huge bear hug. "Mommy! You're going to understand me!"
Showing posts with label tantrum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tantrum. Show all posts
Friday, January 15, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
What's in a label?
My daughter Bumblebee is...intense.
She's always been exceptional. Exceptionally sweet. Exceptionally loud. Exceptionally shy. Exceptionally quiet. Exceptionally precious.
When she was 2 ish, we went to the doctor for some run of the mill cold. She was terrified, and turned off. I was irritated with her. He suggested an evaluation for autism.
I struggled with the thought, the number for First 5 California in my hand. But as I snuggled her close and held a 2 sided conversation with her about the incident, I felt that autism was way too extreme. Out of the question.
My child was shy, that's all.
When she buried her head in my lap after racing off the playground with a high pitched scream because 2 other kids appeared on the monkey bars, I felt a fluttering of concern. But a label?
Our next discussion with the doctor left me thinking she was just special. Shy.
Yes, shy. Shy was a good label.
When she collapsed in the middle of a new gymnastics class, carefully covering her head so she couldn't make eye contact with the coaches or the helpers (who promptly chased me down in the parking lot, to return and sit through the next 8 "No parents allowed under any circumstances" classes) I shook my head. She's exceptionally shy. But special, we all agreed. There's something about her.
Discussion with the doctor left us reassured. Sure, there's something. There's something about everyone. She's shy, obviously. We could look for another label. But is it worth it? Labels tend to follow children. They set them up for expectations in school. They can leave the kids giving up on themselves. Labels lead to medication. What did we want in a label? What we were doing was obviously working. And she was sure to outgrow it.
When she started Kindergarten, our hearts soared. She came home grinning and full of stories (we later learned her part was played much differently than the version we heard from her, but hey...they were great stories)
They plummeted as soon as she tired out and began crying. When she'd cried for a week straight questions arose.
We ruled out bullying, abuse (I'm still smarting from the inquisition of my older daughter, although she didn't know what the implications were. Of course, we had the same questions to rule out about school personnel, so how offended can I be?) and physical issues. Her teacher was a saint who'd loved her since her sister was in Kindergarten 4 years previously. That left...something. Our combined patience would have impressed Job himself.
Again, the doctor's "We should think about evaluating her, have we talked about autism?" comment haunted me. Millions of teen-mom talks returned to replay themselves in my head (and I wasn't quite a teen mom. More of a college mom. I was 24 when Bumblebee made her appearance. But around here, that's early.) All those red flags I'd been ignoring jumped out and flapped in my face. Something was WRONG.
By May, she needed to be restrained so I could leave the premises. However, we all agreed that giving in and keeping her home was not the right course of action. She's bright. She reads ahead of her age level, her math skills are excellent, her comprehension on track or above. She had friends. She was grinning after school each day. Her only complaint about school was that it was too long and didn't have enough learning. But she'd cry in anticipation of my leaving.
Starting the night before.
The only diagnosis we could get was anxiety, with a question mark. It was out of her pediatrician's comfort zone, our insurance sucks and we waited for our last hope...the school counselor.
She agrees. There's...something.
But labels follow a child.
Labels set a child up for preconceived notions.
What would we really want from a label? What could it offer that we aren't getting now?
Although she's struggling, whatever we're doing is definitely working. She's doing "better". She's just...crying sometimes. And screaming. Melting down on occasion. Without a reward. We're doing the "right things".
A label might tell us why they don't work the way we want. But it isn't going to help the right things work any better.
And do we really want to resort to medication? Because that's where labels lead.
No.
No we don't want to resort to meds. No we don't think they're necessary. No, we don't need a label.
We thought we'd hit on something after reading "The Unhealthy Truth" and eliminated food dyes. And yes, food dye definitely impacts her anxiety. A candy cane recently set off the entire "You hate me, you hate me, you hate me! Stop hating me! Stop yelling!" routine when I said a simple "Hey sleepy head, it's time for school!" They handed them out in girl scouts the night before, and I wasn't thinking.
But the fussing, the morning foot-dragging, the begging after school for a quiet day with no play dates and no carpool driving, the insistence on "Please let me stay home, I can call you. I know how to dial the phone, and I can call the police, too, if the house burns down or somebody breaks in." The refusal to go to a park, or the toy store, sometimes even a birthday party. It's wearing on me. And making me think again, there's something missing.
I don't want to label her.
But as our neighbor child watches with wide eyes and asks me in a stage whisper "What is wrong with her? That's not normal." I have to think again about labels.
They may set kids up.
But they also let parents off the hook.
A normal child would never get away with the fits Bumblebee throws. But I have to balance the screaming with the fact that she holds my hand and hasn't thrown herself into the street or the fact that she's aiming her feet at her mattress, not her sister, not her friends, not her mom, not even the window. She isn't pulling things off the shelves. And if I reprimand her, she will. Not because she wants to be destructive, but because she's out of control. She's out of control, and scared. My job is to reassure her, protect her from herself as well as the people in the area who are judging and offering their two cents, or worse--intervening.
Labels are answers. Even if they don't mean anything, if I could explain the tantrum with a roll of my eyes, an apologetic smile and "Generalized Anxiety Disorder" or "Sensory processing issues" or even if she were "on the spectrum," No one would even have to know what I meant. They'd just accept it and nod knowingly, walk away.
It's not even something that happens very often, but when it does...I realize that labels do have a place. Even if it's just for parental piece of mind.
Sometimes I wish we'd gone that route.
But when it comes to parenting, I won't have the answers for another 20 years. And even then, I'll only know I took the right path if my kids decide to tell me I did. I can only hope I don't look back and know it was the wrong one.
She's always been exceptional. Exceptionally sweet. Exceptionally loud. Exceptionally shy. Exceptionally quiet. Exceptionally precious.
When she was 2 ish, we went to the doctor for some run of the mill cold. She was terrified, and turned off. I was irritated with her. He suggested an evaluation for autism.
I struggled with the thought, the number for First 5 California in my hand. But as I snuggled her close and held a 2 sided conversation with her about the incident, I felt that autism was way too extreme. Out of the question.
My child was shy, that's all.
When she buried her head in my lap after racing off the playground with a high pitched scream because 2 other kids appeared on the monkey bars, I felt a fluttering of concern. But a label?
Our next discussion with the doctor left me thinking she was just special. Shy.
Yes, shy. Shy was a good label.
When she collapsed in the middle of a new gymnastics class, carefully covering her head so she couldn't make eye contact with the coaches or the helpers (who promptly chased me down in the parking lot, to return and sit through the next 8 "No parents allowed under any circumstances" classes) I shook my head. She's exceptionally shy. But special, we all agreed. There's something about her.
Discussion with the doctor left us reassured. Sure, there's something. There's something about everyone. She's shy, obviously. We could look for another label. But is it worth it? Labels tend to follow children. They set them up for expectations in school. They can leave the kids giving up on themselves. Labels lead to medication. What did we want in a label? What we were doing was obviously working. And she was sure to outgrow it.
When she started Kindergarten, our hearts soared. She came home grinning and full of stories (we later learned her part was played much differently than the version we heard from her, but hey...they were great stories)
They plummeted as soon as she tired out and began crying. When she'd cried for a week straight questions arose.
We ruled out bullying, abuse (I'm still smarting from the inquisition of my older daughter, although she didn't know what the implications were. Of course, we had the same questions to rule out about school personnel, so how offended can I be?) and physical issues. Her teacher was a saint who'd loved her since her sister was in Kindergarten 4 years previously. That left...something. Our combined patience would have impressed Job himself.
Again, the doctor's "We should think about evaluating her, have we talked about autism?" comment haunted me. Millions of teen-mom talks returned to replay themselves in my head (and I wasn't quite a teen mom. More of a college mom. I was 24 when Bumblebee made her appearance. But around here, that's early.) All those red flags I'd been ignoring jumped out and flapped in my face. Something was WRONG.
By May, she needed to be restrained so I could leave the premises. However, we all agreed that giving in and keeping her home was not the right course of action. She's bright. She reads ahead of her age level, her math skills are excellent, her comprehension on track or above. She had friends. She was grinning after school each day. Her only complaint about school was that it was too long and didn't have enough learning. But she'd cry in anticipation of my leaving.
Starting the night before.
The only diagnosis we could get was anxiety, with a question mark. It was out of her pediatrician's comfort zone, our insurance sucks and we waited for our last hope...the school counselor.
She agrees. There's...something.
But labels follow a child.
Labels set a child up for preconceived notions.
What would we really want from a label? What could it offer that we aren't getting now?
Although she's struggling, whatever we're doing is definitely working. She's doing "better". She's just...crying sometimes. And screaming. Melting down on occasion. Without a reward. We're doing the "right things".
A label might tell us why they don't work the way we want. But it isn't going to help the right things work any better.
And do we really want to resort to medication? Because that's where labels lead.
No.
No we don't want to resort to meds. No we don't think they're necessary. No, we don't need a label.
We thought we'd hit on something after reading "The Unhealthy Truth" and eliminated food dyes. And yes, food dye definitely impacts her anxiety. A candy cane recently set off the entire "You hate me, you hate me, you hate me! Stop hating me! Stop yelling!" routine when I said a simple "Hey sleepy head, it's time for school!" They handed them out in girl scouts the night before, and I wasn't thinking.
But the fussing, the morning foot-dragging, the begging after school for a quiet day with no play dates and no carpool driving, the insistence on "Please let me stay home, I can call you. I know how to dial the phone, and I can call the police, too, if the house burns down or somebody breaks in." The refusal to go to a park, or the toy store, sometimes even a birthday party. It's wearing on me. And making me think again, there's something missing.
I don't want to label her.
But as our neighbor child watches with wide eyes and asks me in a stage whisper "What is wrong with her? That's not normal." I have to think again about labels.
They may set kids up.
But they also let parents off the hook.
A normal child would never get away with the fits Bumblebee throws. But I have to balance the screaming with the fact that she holds my hand and hasn't thrown herself into the street or the fact that she's aiming her feet at her mattress, not her sister, not her friends, not her mom, not even the window. She isn't pulling things off the shelves. And if I reprimand her, she will. Not because she wants to be destructive, but because she's out of control. She's out of control, and scared. My job is to reassure her, protect her from herself as well as the people in the area who are judging and offering their two cents, or worse--intervening.
Labels are answers. Even if they don't mean anything, if I could explain the tantrum with a roll of my eyes, an apologetic smile and "Generalized Anxiety Disorder" or "Sensory processing issues" or even if she were "on the spectrum," No one would even have to know what I meant. They'd just accept it and nod knowingly, walk away.
It's not even something that happens very often, but when it does...I realize that labels do have a place. Even if it's just for parental piece of mind.
Sometimes I wish we'd gone that route.
But when it comes to parenting, I won't have the answers for another 20 years. And even then, I'll only know I took the right path if my kids decide to tell me I did. I can only hope I don't look back and know it was the wrong one.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Dyes Must Die
She's been at it again. My friend, the one who kept prodding me to go gluten free. Whose whisper haunted me until I decided to just do it and prove once and for all, to myself, the doctors and her that it was NOT the gluten. (And of course, it was)
This time it's dye. My youngest has some, well, issues. She's unique. She's wonderful. She's aggravating. At one point we were advised to have her tested for autism. But, since she was cuddly, bubbly, bright and happy to interact when there weren't strangers around, we never followed up on that. Now, she has few if any of the hallmarks. However, some days I can't decide whether I should fall down laughing or curl up and cry at her antics. She's usually doing both. She finds our buttons, and not just pushes but POUNDS on them. And then she pulls them out, just for the sake of doing it again.
The thing is, she doesn't seem to want to be acting up. She gets in a state and can't seem to control herself. And the bigger she gets, the harder it is to help her gain control. It's one thing to pick up a screaming 4 year old and deposit her in her bedroom. It's quite another thing to disentangle a 7 year old who weighs almost half what you do (granted, I'm way too skinny for my own good) from on top of her sister, gently manhandle her down the obstacle course of a hallway and keep her in her bedroom for the duration of a time out. Especially when she realizes that acting like dead weight until she sees a hand hold will definitely slow you down, and might even grant her a 3 minute reprieve. During which she can strip and run screaming through the house "Mommy hates me, Mommy hates me, Mommy hates me!"
(Why does shethink I hate her? Because I'm sitting there, gently prying her hands away, and taking away privileges while I try to get her to the quiet area that she can simmer down in. When the problem is obviously her sister's lack of malleability. She won't give up her share of a treat [at least, not all of it] or abandon her game in the middle without whining or just let Bumblebee win if they're playing against one another. It's what you'd expect in a 4 year old. But she's 7.)
She's not always this way. But when she is, I'm tempted to sell her to the gypsies. Or maybe just run away and join the circus, myself. (Wait, they sell popcorn there, don't they? Nevermind.)
The school called in a counselor when they tired of prying her sobbing arms off of me as I slipped away as quickly as I could, then slunk back to sneak peaks through the window, trying to reassure myself she'd recovered. The counselor seems as baffled as we are. Is it anxiety? PDD? SID? Is there something physical we're missing? Something else entirely? Best not to label, just wait and see. (But stop peaking through windows, its spooking out the kids and some of the parents.)
My friend has patiently listened to my frustrations. At each outburst she covers the same bases. "Now, Penguin has issues with dye...have you thought about that?" "Could it be some sort of food dye?" "Do you think she's reacting to something in her diet? Artificial dyes?"
Like an ostrich, I've stuffed my head in the sand. Reassuring her, and anyone else, that Ms. Bumblebee does not seem to have any issues with food dyes at all. She doesn't get headaches from them. No vomiting. She's my healthy kid.
Except when she has these outbursts. And then, she's still healthy. Just in danger of being disowned.
It's not the food dye. There wasn't much in my house. Occasional fruit "snacks" for only her, some medecines, valentine and Halloween candy. Our staples are dye free (And if you think yours are, check the ingredients on marshmallows, pickles and tooth paste.)
But after reading "The Unhealthy Truth", I resolved to stop spending money on artificial food colorings. I don't want that gunk in my kids, even if it is only the blue that hurts Penguin. I don't want to support the industry that pours chemical concoctions into the bodies and brains of growing kids, but only in the USA. (Many international countries already use natural food dyes in products found in other countries)
So, I sat the kids down and we replaced the occassional cheap fruit snacks with the occasional, not-terribly-expensive Florida's naturals and the not-so-cheap Annie's gummies. Things improved, but of course, it wasn't JUST that we've been dye free. Besides, we did still have melt downs, and occassionally my friend would gently point out correlations. "I did see her eating a popsicle with her class..." "Do you think it's related to that bright blue tongue?" No. No I didn't. Well, I did, but I didn't want to.
And then we had VBS. The kids had a phenomenol time on the "Boomerang Express"; singing, crafting, playing games and earning...starbursts? That's okay. I didn't think twice.
Until Wednesday. We were putting on our shoes, gathering our handpicked canned goods to donate and heading out the door when Bumblebee burst into tears. "Pick me up early!" she entreated.
Huh? The entire day lasted maybe 3 hours. She'd been having so much fun she hadn't been ready to leave all week. "You don't love me! I'm scared. If you loved me, you'd pick me up early!"
This was sounding very familiar. Very after-a-birthday-party-ish. Very I-don't-want-to-go-to-school-ish.
And she'd earned at least 3 starbursts the day before.
During another tantrum that afternoon, I sat down and talked with her. (This isn't easy when a child is screaming that you hate them so they hate you.) I told her that I was worried about the tantrums. And that I noticed that she might be feeling a little more cranky than normal (Fighting fire with fire just gives us both sore throats, so I thought I'd treat her matter of factly, and play down the screaming.) and I wondered if she thought it might have anything to do with what she'd been eating, like the starbursts.
To my surprise, she turned on me and said "NO! I was watching too and guess what? When I eat candy with dye in it you get REALLY REALLY MEAN!!! Even when I don't even tell you that I ate it! You just start hating me for no good reason!"
Wow.
After the storm had blown out she agreed that "everything and everyone is meaner" after she eats dye. She won't agree that it makes HER more upset. But she did say that she might, maybe, sort of, kind of be willing to give it up. She doesn't like crying.
I'm not certain that it is the dye. Like most parents, I'm tempted to blame the excitement of the day, and the weather, and say she's coming down with something. Food should be fun. I don't want to place unnecessary restrictions.
But, echoes of my friend's voice are haunting me. And *shaking sand from my ostrich feathers* I think it's time to say...It just might be the dye.
This time it's dye. My youngest has some, well, issues. She's unique. She's wonderful. She's aggravating. At one point we were advised to have her tested for autism. But, since she was cuddly, bubbly, bright and happy to interact when there weren't strangers around, we never followed up on that. Now, she has few if any of the hallmarks. However, some days I can't decide whether I should fall down laughing or curl up and cry at her antics. She's usually doing both. She finds our buttons, and not just pushes but POUNDS on them. And then she pulls them out, just for the sake of doing it again.
The thing is, she doesn't seem to want to be acting up. She gets in a state and can't seem to control herself. And the bigger she gets, the harder it is to help her gain control. It's one thing to pick up a screaming 4 year old and deposit her in her bedroom. It's quite another thing to disentangle a 7 year old who weighs almost half what you do (granted, I'm way too skinny for my own good) from on top of her sister, gently manhandle her down the obstacle course of a hallway and keep her in her bedroom for the duration of a time out. Especially when she realizes that acting like dead weight until she sees a hand hold will definitely slow you down, and might even grant her a 3 minute reprieve. During which she can strip and run screaming through the house "Mommy hates me, Mommy hates me, Mommy hates me!"
(Why does shethink I hate her? Because I'm sitting there, gently prying her hands away, and taking away privileges while I try to get her to the quiet area that she can simmer down in. When the problem is obviously her sister's lack of malleability. She won't give up her share of a treat [at least, not all of it] or abandon her game in the middle without whining or just let Bumblebee win if they're playing against one another. It's what you'd expect in a 4 year old. But she's 7.)
She's not always this way. But when she is, I'm tempted to sell her to the gypsies. Or maybe just run away and join the circus, myself. (Wait, they sell popcorn there, don't they? Nevermind.)
The school called in a counselor when they tired of prying her sobbing arms off of me as I slipped away as quickly as I could, then slunk back to sneak peaks through the window, trying to reassure myself she'd recovered. The counselor seems as baffled as we are. Is it anxiety? PDD? SID? Is there something physical we're missing? Something else entirely? Best not to label, just wait and see. (But stop peaking through windows, its spooking out the kids and some of the parents.)
My friend has patiently listened to my frustrations. At each outburst she covers the same bases. "Now, Penguin has issues with dye...have you thought about that?" "Could it be some sort of food dye?" "Do you think she's reacting to something in her diet? Artificial dyes?"
Like an ostrich, I've stuffed my head in the sand. Reassuring her, and anyone else, that Ms. Bumblebee does not seem to have any issues with food dyes at all. She doesn't get headaches from them. No vomiting. She's my healthy kid.
Except when she has these outbursts. And then, she's still healthy. Just in danger of being disowned.
It's not the food dye. There wasn't much in my house. Occasional fruit "snacks" for only her, some medecines, valentine and Halloween candy. Our staples are dye free (And if you think yours are, check the ingredients on marshmallows, pickles and tooth paste.)
But after reading "The Unhealthy Truth", I resolved to stop spending money on artificial food colorings. I don't want that gunk in my kids, even if it is only the blue that hurts Penguin. I don't want to support the industry that pours chemical concoctions into the bodies and brains of growing kids, but only in the USA. (Many international countries already use natural food dyes in products found in other countries)
So, I sat the kids down and we replaced the occassional cheap fruit snacks with the occasional, not-terribly-expensive Florida's naturals and the not-so-cheap Annie's gummies. Things improved, but of course, it wasn't JUST that we've been dye free. Besides, we did still have melt downs, and occassionally my friend would gently point out correlations. "I did see her eating a popsicle with her class..." "Do you think it's related to that bright blue tongue?" No. No I didn't. Well, I did, but I didn't want to.
And then we had VBS. The kids had a phenomenol time on the "Boomerang Express"; singing, crafting, playing games and earning...starbursts? That's okay. I didn't think twice.
Until Wednesday. We were putting on our shoes, gathering our handpicked canned goods to donate and heading out the door when Bumblebee burst into tears. "Pick me up early!" she entreated.
Huh? The entire day lasted maybe 3 hours. She'd been having so much fun she hadn't been ready to leave all week. "You don't love me! I'm scared. If you loved me, you'd pick me up early!"
This was sounding very familiar. Very after-a-birthday-party-ish. Very I-don't-want-to-go-to-school-ish.
And she'd earned at least 3 starbursts the day before.
During another tantrum that afternoon, I sat down and talked with her. (This isn't easy when a child is screaming that you hate them so they hate you.) I told her that I was worried about the tantrums. And that I noticed that she might be feeling a little more cranky than normal (Fighting fire with fire just gives us both sore throats, so I thought I'd treat her matter of factly, and play down the screaming.) and I wondered if she thought it might have anything to do with what she'd been eating, like the starbursts.
To my surprise, she turned on me and said "NO! I was watching too and guess what? When I eat candy with dye in it you get REALLY REALLY MEAN!!! Even when I don't even tell you that I ate it! You just start hating me for no good reason!"
Wow.
After the storm had blown out she agreed that "everything and everyone is meaner" after she eats dye. She won't agree that it makes HER more upset. But she did say that she might, maybe, sort of, kind of be willing to give it up. She doesn't like crying.
I'm not certain that it is the dye. Like most parents, I'm tempted to blame the excitement of the day, and the weather, and say she's coming down with something. Food should be fun. I don't want to place unnecessary restrictions.
But, echoes of my friend's voice are haunting me. And *shaking sand from my ostrich feathers* I think it's time to say...It just might be the dye.
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