I’ve never really been a peanut butter enthusiast. Sure, I enjoyed it, but I didn’t harbor a deep-seated love for it like so many others. If anything, my heart belonged to Nutella. Peanut butter was fine—especially the chunky variety—but it wasn’t something I’d elevate to iconic status.
That all changed when I decided to whip up my son’s very first peanut butter sandwich. It had been a few months since that initial tooth made its debut in his adorable gummy grin. Since then, seven more teeth had followed suit, transforming his mouth into a veritable playground for all things chewable.
As I expertly cut the bread into triangles, I couldn’t help but admire my inner Martha Stewart. The sandwich, complete with freshly sliced bananas, looked absolutely delectable. I just knew my son would adore it.
With my camera in hand, I served my little one and his brother their gourmet meal, capturing moments of joy as my son grinned, tossed banana pieces around, and then suddenly broke out in hives. It turned out my child’s body was decidedly anti-peanut. A trip to the emergency room confirmed my fears: I was now the parent of a kid who would be the envy of no one in class due to a peanut allergy.
The peanut butter was swiftly tossed into the trash, replaced by EpiPens in our kitchen. I did a thorough investigation of our pantry and discovered that a surprising number of foods contained peanuts. Much of what I had previously stocked became off-limits for my little peanut boy. Ingredient labels became my new obsession as I scrutinized every product to avoid any accidental poisoning of my allergic child.
Honestly, I didn’t think it was a huge deal. A food I rarely consumed was now absent from my life. No biggie. As long as my toddler didn’t decide to sneak peanuts in his crib, our home was peanut-free. Life continued, albeit with a little more cautious label-checking.
However, the first time I indulged in a peanut butter sandwich while at work, I felt like I was engaging in a secret romance. There I was, savoring the very food that had caused my son distress. I giggled to myself, thrilled by my clandestine snack that could potentially turn my child into a hives-infested mess. Upon returning home, I brushed my teeth obsessively and rinsed with mouthwash, fearful of my son knowing what I had done.
I promised myself it would be a one-time affair.
But after a particularly trying tantrum a few days later, I found myself daydreaming about indulging in a Reese’s peanut butter cup. And thus, my peanut butter affair began. I became addicted to peanut butter treats at work, all while recalling the frustrating moments my son had thrown a fit or I had stepped on a Lego. Each delicious bite filled my stomach with satisfaction.
I’ve become a bit of a peanut butter hoarder at work. You name it, I’ve got it, and none of it can be shared with my son. As I scrub any remnants from my mouth, I always swear it’s the last time. Yet, when my son throws himself on the grocery store floor, I can’t help but think of the peanut clusters waiting back at my desk.
My son will never know about my hidden peanut indulgences. As he sits there, throwing toys and yelling “no!”, I can’t help but dream about the Snickers bar I’ll devour after he goes to bed.
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In summary, my unexpected affair with peanut butter has turned into a delightful secret, all while I navigate the challenges of parenting a child with a peanut allergy. It’s a balancing act of love and indulgence that I never quite anticipated.
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