A couple nights ago, Charlie sat down at the table for dinner, looked at his plate, and pushed it away, saying, “Dis make me sick. I go to da hospital.” We told him that it wouldn’t make him sick, using that high-and-soft tone you use when you’re trying to reassure someone, but freaking out on the inside. I don’t want my kid to be afraid that the food he’s about to put in his mouth might turn out to be poison. But that’s the risk he’s taking every time. MK and I are vigilant and we cook meals that are as safe as mere mortals can verify, but allergens have gotten through our defenses a couple times, thanks to the cross-contamination crapshoot.
I’ve also had two nightmares this week about Charlie eating foods he’s allergic to. In one, he was well into an oversized bowl of vanilla ice cream. In another, he was just finishing off an entire glass of milk. In both, I realized that epinephrine probably wouldn’t save him now, and then I woke up.
October 4th is his next food challenge. If that is successful, it would go a long way towards making me worry less. Actually, probably not.