I have always loved cooking for my family. Cooking together is a bonding time full of traditions, so changing the routines that are so woven into the fiber of my family is emotional for me. I quickly realized that my son’s Autism diagnosis has changed so many aspects of what I used to consider essential to our happiness, that this was at least a change that I could control and choose. I am nothing if not a planner, and I planned for my son’s conception, birth, and health with joyous enthusiasm. Any chance to get back with the plan is a chance I will embrace. Plus, like all of us who make a trip to therapy with the same frequency as our friends make a trip to Starbucks, in the back of my mind, everything we do has a developmental spin. Swimming is fun… and builds core strength. The playground is fun… and develops motor planning skills. Imaginary play is fun… and increases abstract thought processing. So, food is fun… and healing, makes every granola bar I bake feel like a step in the right direction. I suspect we all share a laser-focus on choosing the next step on the path to make our kids’ lives better. If life without Teddy Grahams and Go-gurt and Goldfish can make that path even one step easier, I say “great.” If I have to mix supplements into syringes and choreograph a goofy “vitamin dance” to get him to take them, I smile and shake my booty. If by feeding my kids healthier we can make the countless hours of therapy more beneficial, I say “how lucky are we?” If it turns out I expected too much and the best I can say is he has regular bowel movements and shinier hair… then that’s where my hope meets its next challenge, and that’s ok. We’ve already met.
So, here we are almost three months into our GFCFSF lifestyle. He does have regular bm’s, his hair is shinier. And there is this, last month his preschool class put on a circus performance for parents. Aidan’s role was lion tamer. He participated (which he never does unprompted) with enthusiasm, running up when his name was called to put a lion and a pony through a hula hoop. He watched the other children’s performances and cheered- completely engaged in an environment where sensory overload would normally shut him down. Amazing enough. When the show was over, he raised his hand and shouted “I want another turn!” He ran up, took a baton, walked across the balance beam….then somersaulted across the mat. That same afternoon, he walked over to the karaoke machine, picked up the mic, and ROCKED Five Little Monkey’s Jumping on the Bed. I can count on one hand the number of times he has EVER spoken unprompted in 2 years of preschool.
In that moment, the combined efforts of food and vitamins and detoxing and therapy made him into a lion tamer, a rock star, a little boy who will not be kept down by a diagnosis. Not all days are monumental. Some days frankly are just plain discouraging. So, to paraphrase from our leader Jenny, at home, Aidan is my science. I will bake gluten free bread and nuggets and juice vegetables and mix supplements into syringes with the dedication of a scientist curing cancer for a day like that. A day like that lets me know than when someone tells me biomedical treatment is just a carrot dangled in front of desperate parents, I can say “CONSIDER THE CARROT DANGLED AND GRABBED!”
About the Author:
Tracy Weinstock, Mommy to 5 year-old Aidan who is currently participating in our Rescue Family Grant Program.
Read more article’s by Tracy:
A Mother’s Start to Biomedical Treatment
If you are interested in trying biomedical treatment learn more about our grant program here.