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The Peanut Butter Affair
I’ve never been particularly enamored with peanut butter. I appreciated it, sure, but it never held the same allure for me as it does for some. That special place of honor? Reserved for Nutella. Peanut butter was nice—especially the chunky variety—but our connection was shallow.
That changed when I decided to whip up my son’s first-ever peanut butter sandwich. Just a few months had passed since that first tooth peeked out from his gummy smile, soon followed by seven more, turning his mouth into a playground for all things edible.
As I carefully cut the bread into triangles, I felt a bit like Martha Stewart, creating a delightful sandwich paired with fresh banana slices. It looked absolutely scrumptious, and I was sure he would love it. With camera in hand, I served the meal to my son and his brother, snapping pictures as he smiled, flung banana pieces around, and erupted in hives.
It turned out my little one had a serious aversion to peanuts. A trip to the emergency room confirmed it; I was now the proud parent of a child who would be known for his peanut allergy. In a swift motion, I tossed the peanut butter into the trash, making room for EpiPens. A thorough investigation of our pantry revealed a shocking amount of items containing peanuts. It seemed that nearly everything was off-limits for my allergic little guy. Every label was scrutinized to ensure we weren’t unintentionally harming our child.
To me, it didn’t feel like a major sacrifice. I wasn’t much of a peanut butter person anyway. Unless my toddler had taken to secretly hoarding peanuts in his crib, our house was peanut-free. Life continued, albeit with more diligent label-reading.
Then came the first time I indulged in a peanut butter sandwich while at work. I felt as though I was committing a betrayal. Here I was, savoring the very food that could send my son into a panic, relishing each bite as if it were the best meal I’d ever had. I chuckled to myself, giddy over my secret snack that would turn my sweet child into a hive-filled mess. Upon returning home, I brushed my teeth three times and swished mouthwash like it was a ritual. I couldn’t bear to look my son in the eye for fear he’d sense my guilty secret.
I promised myself it was a one-time occurrence. But after a particularly challenging day, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to get to work and devour a Reese’s peanut butter cup, you little rascal.” Thus began my peanut butter affair. I found myself sneaking peanut butter treats at work, all while contemplating the “no’s” I heard from my son throughout the day or the sharp pain of stepping on a Lego. Each peanut-y indulgence settled deliciously in my stomach.
I became a serial peanut butter consumer. My work stash grew, filled with every kind of peanut butter creation, all off-limits to my son. After scrubbing away any remnants from my mouth, I vowed it would be the last time. But then my son would throw a tantrum in the grocery store, and I’d find myself daydreaming about the peanut clusters waiting for me at work.
My son remains oblivious to my secret peanut escapades. As he sits there, flinging toys and yelling “no!” I can’t help but fantasize about the Snickers bar I’ll enjoy once he’s tucked into bed.
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Summary: Balancing a peanut allergy in the family leads to surprising temptations and secret indulgences for one parent, all while navigating the challenges of parenthood.