Updated: Dec. 30, 2015
Originally Published: Aug. 2, 2011
Oh, how I relished that pretzel with its crunchy, salty goodness, vowing to myself that I’d only have one. Yet moments later, the bag was empty. What was wrong with me? How could I have been so weak?
Just a few weeks earlier, my fourteen-year-old daughter, Emily, received a diagnosis of Celiac Disease, an autoimmune disorder that wreaks havoc on the digestive system when even tiny amounts of wheat, rye, or barley are consumed. After a long and perplexing illness, discovering the cause and the simple solution of a gluten-free diet was a relief.
We didn’t think twice when the doctor recommended that our entire household also go gluten-free to avoid cross-contamination and to support Emily. Of course, we’d do anything to help her heal.
I figured going gluten-free wouldn’t be a big deal. After all, parents are accustomed to making sacrifices for their kids, and I had survived three pregnancies without sushi, coffee, or, well, a few glasses of wine (within reason, of course). My husband was on board, enthusiastic about feeling better without all those carbs. My two other daughters were equally supportive, excited to discover they could still indulge in their favorite foods like steak, baked potatoes, nachos, and ice cream.
In the first couple of weeks, we feasted like royalty as my talented husband whipped up naturally gluten-free meals like enchiladas, barbecued ribs, and stir-fry with rice. Soon, he began experimenting with gluten-free pastas and flours, surprising us with the results. “Wow, this tastes almost like the real thing!” we exclaimed, genuinely impressed that gluten-free options could be so tasty.
I remained diligent about the gluten-free diet even outside our home. After all, Emily didn’t get to pick and choose when to stick to her diet, so neither would I.
But then came the insatiable hunger. No matter how much gluten-free food I devoured, it never felt sufficient. Lying in bed, my wheat-deprived stomach ached, constantly gnawing as if something warm and doughy was missing. Perhaps, I don’t know, BREAD?
Eating gluten-free foods felt like dining in a parallel universe—they resembled normal food and tasted okay at first, but by the fourth bite, they were either too sweet, too powdery, or simply odd. And at six bucks for a bag of gluten-free pasta or cookies, who could afford to eat enough to feel satisfied?
We told ourselves the gluten-free substitutes were good, but in reality, they were just a poor substitute. It was like being stranded on a desert island for six months, feasting on insects, and then being presented with these foods upon rescue: they were “good” simply because we were starved.
I kept my discontent about the gluten-free diet to myself until I noticed my youngest daughter, Lily, accepting unusual invitations. “Really, you want to go to Sam’s younger brother’s T-ball game?” I asked.
“Abby said we’d grab pizza afterward. Sorry, Mom, but I need to get some gluten. I need it bad,” she confessed.
Then I realized my eldest daughter, Chloe, had missed dinner at home for five consecutive nights. “Why are your study groups always at dinner time? You’re not going from house to house searching for gluten, are you?”
“No, of course not,” she replied, eyes downcast. “Alright, yes, I can’t help it. That gluten-free food is like eating air. I’m just so hungry all the time!”
Clearly, my daughters and I shared more than just our brown eyes—we were a family of weak-willed bread lovers.
At work, I cracked and indulged in those delicious pretzels. Really, I wouldn’t have caved if there had been any gluten-free options, I swear. As I munched on those crunchy delights, I wished I wasn’t at work so I could wash them down with a hearty stout. Clearly, pretzels were my gluten gateway drug.
But that moment of joy quickly turned into guilt. What kind of terrible mother was I for not lasting a month without wheat for my daughter’s sake? Was I truly a gluten addict?
I considered confessing my slip-up to Emily while we waited in line at a local burger joint. As I prepared to order two “protein burgers” (wrapped in lettuce instead of a bun), Emily asked why I didn’t just order a regular burger.
“Because we’ve gone gluten-free, and I’m trying to be supportive. You wouldn’t mind, right?”
“No, it doesn’t bother me when people eat gluten in front of me. In fact, it annoys me when they don’t eat it because of me,” she said.
“Are you sure? You’re not just saying that so you can write about how awful I was later?”
“No, I’m not you.”
Ouch.
Well, I devoured my burger, bun and all, and wow, it was the tastiest thing ever. As I finished, I admired Emily for how well she handled her diagnosis and the gluten-free lifestyle. Here she was, generously encouraging me to enjoy my gluten-filled meal.
If she turned out this wonderful, maybe I wasn’t such a terrible mom after all. Or maybe that’s just the addiction talking.
For more insights into parenting and health, check out this post on home insemination or learn about pregnancy resources that can guide you.
Summary:
In this humorous tale of going gluten-free to support her daughter Emily, Jamie grapples with her own cravings and the challenges of adapting to a gluten-free lifestyle. Despite initial enthusiasm, she finds herself longing for traditional foods and dealing with family dynamics as they navigate this dietary change together, all while wrestling with feelings of guilt and addiction to gluten.