I have been a nutter butter. Not the cute and crunchy cookie kind. The absolute surprise supreme batshit crazy pants kind. This has happened to me twice as a parent already and I’m only ten years into the gig.
The first episode was when Duke was little and his food anaphylaxis was exploding. One meal, bacon was fine. The very next meal, bacon was deadly without warning. I was beyond the help of medication then.
The second time I lost the plot was when T-Bird went from the 90th percentile in weight to the 10th in less than 3 months. He just didn’t eat when Matt Daddy traveled for work. For those of you not in the know, travel isn’t negotiable for Matt Daddy’s work. T Bird was simply sad Matt Daddy was gone and there wasn’t a way through the sad. I just held him, hungry thru the night and sang the alphabet as often as he wanted. When T-Bird did decide to eat, it was chocolate and ketchup. Not the kind of eats to calm a worried mum’s heart.
Last week’s school pic had me browsing his snapshots in general. Three of the four in this post were collected during the chocolate and ketchup years. In retrospect, my husband and my pediatrician and my sisters and my mother and my friends were all correct. He was fine. He would be fine. And, lo, as they predicted, he is now more than fine.
This exercise serves two purposes. 1) A reminder of how grateful I am for my husband and my pediatrician and my sisters and my mother and my friends. They are such beacons when I am a lunatic. Thank you. 2) When I see a nutter butter mum, I will not say to myself, “There goes another nutter butter mum.” Nope. I will tell my inner Judge Judgey Judgerson to shut up and I will say to the nutter butter mum, “Hi! Do you like giant lattes? I like giant lattes. Let’s go get a latte.” Or chocolate. Or ketchup. Really whatever she would want is fine with me.