Simply Rooted

I’m browsing the shelves, wandering through the New Age, Parenting, and Self-Help sections.This is how I care for my family. I read through the titles until I spot a book promising to cure a problem in my family. Sometimes this problem is only just revealed by the existence of a book on the subject.

I pick one up called “Little Sugar Addicts” by Katherine Maison. Hmmmm. Now this looks interesting. I’ve known for a while that my son can’t hold his sugar. He had a lollipop at 20 months on Halloween, and all I can say is, thank goodness he was strapped down with a five-point harness in his car seat. Given that he was dressed as Elvis (the fat Vegas version) the experience was downright eerie. It was next Halloween before we let him have another one.

I start reading the introduction. “Do you have a smart, creative, compassionate child…” Yes, yes I do! How did she know this? I keep reading. “…who is also spacey, inattentive, cranky, and sometimes obnoxious?” Wow. It’s like she’s writing about my child. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. Ok, I’ve read enough to convince me that this book is well worth fourteen dollars, when I consider the magnitude of the problem I am facing. My son is an addict! He doesn’t even know what that means. But as his concerned and ever vigilant mother, I have already diagnosed and found the solution to his problem.

While we are standing in line to pay, my son asks for a blueberry muffin. My poor child. Why didn’t I see the signs before? I just thought he had a sweet tooth. We make it to the car without any more overt displays of “chemical dependency”, as described on the back of the book. I anxiously start reading on the ride home, educating myself on how to save my child.

So far, so good. The author has a scientific approach, with full descriptions of the chemistry of sugar dependency. This clearly goes beyond Dr. Phil; it’s like having a pediatric specialist on my team. I’m feeling more confident that I will be up to the challenge. I skim through the book and find a section on recipes. Aha! This is where I will start.

The next day I gather up the ingredients for an apple pear crisp. It contains no sweeteners of any kind. I’m feeling smug because I will be able to let my son have all the “desert” he wants, without having to suffer the consequences. I’m also hoping this turns out better than the vegan macaroni and cheese dish I made after bringing home “The Uncheez Cookbook”.

My son is bouncing around the kitchen in anticipation of apple crisp for desert. He eats his “colors” with minimal fuss while waiting for his treat. I serve it piping hot out of the oven. We all dig in, and then look to see what the other thinks. Quietly, we all slow down and take smaller bites this time. I am reminded of a personal rule of mine: sweets must remain purely separated from anything that is healthy, such as fruit. My silver bullet tastes like, well, not much at all.

Back to the book. I start at the beginning, looking for what I missed in my twenty-minute overview skim. Several pages in, I come across a suggestion that the problem may be genetically handed down from one or both parents. I put the book down. I don’t even want to go there. This isn’t about me!

I pick it back up. It is about me. I am the monster who has spawned the next generation. My relationship with sugar comes rushing back, like the first heady bite of a Snickers bar. The hidden Russell Stover boxes my grandfather shared with me. The pile of penny candy consumed in one sitting on allowance day. The pan of brownie edges washed down with a two liter Pepsi on graduation day. Desperate nibbles of stale jujubes my mom had stashed in the utensil drawer.

When I recover, I look to see what approach the book suggests. Cold turkey. No sweets at all. A plain potato before bed to boost my serotonin – is this the sugar addict’s version of a Higher Power? A cold potato?

It’s too much too soon. Besides, I need to pick up some chocolate from the store before my son gets home.