One Little Legume: The Bane of Our Existence.

  As most mothers do, I tend to try to keep Callum as busy as possible during the day. I think this is both selfish and selfless. It's selfish because I purposely do this so that Callum exerts all his energy and takes a nap, enabling me to have some "me time." Oh, that sacred time that mothers covet! A day with no "me time" is like a day without air. At least for me. I need at least 5 minutes for myself a day. I think, as mothers, this is important to our sanity. Secondly, I think it's unselfish to keep Callum busy. It engages his mind and exposes him to life. Today, I realized just how "exposed" he could be.
    Our family belongs to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. I love taking Callum there. He absolutely loves it and I love watching how his curious mind just soaks up everything he sees. He is constantly running from one thing to the next. (Now I understand why mothers wear their tennis shoes to these types of places!) It takes everything I have in me just to corral the kid for one second to tell him about what he's seeing. None-the-less, he loves what he sees. And I love what I see: a child as curious as me with all the energy in the world. 
   Today, we went with Callum's cousins and aunt to the museum. Callum just adores spending time with them and I think they quite like him also. Eventually the time came when all the kids began to groan, "Mom, I'm hungry."
 Callum was viciously eyeing his cousins' potato chips. 
"I have one. Have a couple," Callum asked his cousins. 
In slow motion, imagine me jumping between him and his sweet, little, four year old cousin that was munching on chips. Now imagine me saying, "NOOOOOOOOOO," in a deep, monotone, slow-motion voice. As I am replaying this memory in my head, that's how I remember it. Because, when you're a mother of a child with a life-threatening allergy, every second counts. And those seconds turn into centuries as you replay them in your mind. "...if I had just been a second too late...if that was cooked in peanut oil...what if I wasn't around." You get the picture. I do this a lot. Replay these memories. Replay the memories of his anaphylactic reaction. The choking. The vomit. The welts. The swelling. The red and white lights flashing as I rush Callum down our stairs into the arms of a paramedic that I hope can correct my grave mistake. The absolute hopelessness that I felt. It all haunts me. Every second of every day, it haunts me.
    I've never been more aware of these memories than I was today. At the museum, as the children were getting ready to lunch, we decided to check out the cafe in the museum. In my head I thought that it would be okay as long as I asked what oil they used to cook their food in. As we approached, my heart started to skip. I stood outside of this cafe, Callum in my hands, and just looked. There were probably 100 adults and kids, standing in line to be served lunch. My eyes darted to the metal tables. At this time, the music from killer movies started going through my mind. "Eh...ehh..eh..eh." I think that is the score from "Halloween." 
    Panicked, I froze in the doorway. My eyes were continuously darting between those cold, metallic tables and those kids that I envisioned had peanut butter dripping from their hands. I was absolutely panic-stricken. The reality of the situation started to weigh heavy on my mind. He will never be able to eat in a place like that. Ever. Period. The end. I had this prophetic vision of peanut butter sticking to one of the tables, Callum touching the table, ingesting the smallest fragment of the peanut protein, Epi-Pens, and more lights. 
"I don't think this is a good idea," I said to my sister-in-law. 
She got it. No questions asked. "Ok." 
     We walked to our cars and Callum ate pretzels in his carseat. And I was sad. I want nothing more than for him to have a normal life. There is nothing, within my power, that I can do to change that. Sarah (my sis-in-law) came to the car and in casual talk said, "Yeah, I forgot to pack Nick a sandwich. I was going to make him a peanut butter sandwich and then I remembered that I couldn't because of Callum."
She was right. Callum's allergy not only affects us, but it affects the people surrounding us as well. I feel badly that it has to do that. Yet, the reality remains as so. 
     Now, this isn't a pity party for me. In all of this, it is Callum that I mourn for. I mourn the fact that he will never be able to go to a Baseball game with his father. I mourn that he'll never be able to get an ice-cream at a store, sit at a table that his friends are eating peanut butter, eat anything without looking at a label first. There are many things I mourn. And all because of a measly legume. One little legume. In my mind, this is one of the biggest obstacles: comprehending that there is one little legume standing in the way of what I believe is a normal childhood.
     This is our norm: every label is checked, every hand is washed, every little hive he gets sets full-blown panic in motion, and every person in his life has to understand the gravity of the situation. I struggle a lot because I think people take food allergies lightly. They assume Callum will ingest a peanut and get a hive, take some Benadryl, and call it a night. If Callum ingests a peanut, it could be game over. Six minutes or less to make the right decision. A gamble no parent is willing to take. So, it's all about prevention.
      That is partially why I am doing this blog. Forgive me for forgoing my recipe today. I wanted to give you a glimpse of just how challenging this food allergy business can be. I wanted you to understand that I am still, after seventeen months, learning how to cope and react to certain situations. I'm still learning to deal with those mourning feelings. I'm learning how to deal with the anger. "Why my child?" "Why don't more people understand?" I'm learning how to loosen my reigns a little bit because I know eventually, he's going to have to make his own decisions. It's all hard. And I don't know all the answers. I wish I did. I wish I had control.
       Since I can't control that, I have to focus on what I can. I can control how loving I am to my child. I can control how nurturing and understanding I am with my child. I can control my patience (most of the time!) with Callum. I can try my darndest to prevent Callum having an exposure to peanuts. I can control how much joy I take in every moment that he's with me. Because I'm ever so aware that these moments can be fleeting. 
   Here's the good news. In seventeen months, Callum has not once had a second Anaphylactic reaction. Knock on wood. Knock. Knock. Callum is an alert, happy, vigorous child. He's smart, he's curious, and he's the biggest joy in my life. He could melt my heart with his smile. I'm grateful. I'm grateful he's happy. I'm grateful he's not terminally ill; that there is something I can control. I'm grateful he's otherwise healthy. Most of all, I'm grateful he was given to me so I can learn the depths of love. 
   And, I am grateful to all of you for reading this!