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The Peanut Butter Affair by Claire Thompson
Oct. 8, 2015
Peanut butter never held much allure for me. Sure, I liked it well enough, but I didn’t have the obsession many others did. To me, it was simply a spread, with Nutella occupying the pedestal of my culinary affection. Peanut butter was decent, especially the chunky variety, but our connection was shallow.
That changed when I decided to create my son’s very first peanut butter sandwich. His first tooth had emerged a few months earlier, followed by a rapid succession of others, transforming his gummy smile into a formidable weapon against all edible things.
As I skillfully cut the bread into perfect triangles, I admired my newfound culinary prowess. I even added fresh banana slices for flair. It looked delectable, and I was sure he would adore it. Armed with my camera, I presented the meal to my son and his brother. With each snap of the shutter, my son beamed, tossed banana pieces, and unfortunately, began to break out in hives.
It turned out that my little one had a severe aversion to peanuts. A visit to the emergency room confirmed what I feared: I was now the proud parent of a child who would be the bane of classmates due to his peanut allergy. The peanut butter was swiftly discarded, replaced by EpiPens, and I conducted a thorough investigation of our pantry. To my dismay, I discovered that many items contained peanuts. Most of our food was deemed unsafe for our allergic child, leading to meticulous scrutiny of ingredient labels to avoid any accidental exposure.
To me, this didn’t seem like a significant loss. I never really ate peanut butter anyway. I figured unless my toddler had secret plans to consume peanuts in his crib, our home would remain peanut-free. Life continued, albeit with a little more label-checking.
However, the first time I indulged in a peanut butter sandwich at work, I felt like I was betraying my son. Relishing each bite of what I now deemed the “culprit” of his hives sent waves of guilt through me. After returning home, I brushed my teeth multiple times and rinsed with mouthwash, fearful that my son would somehow sense my transgression. I convinced myself it would be a one-time affair.
Yet, a few days later, after enduring one of his infamous tantrums, I found myself eagerly anticipating my next Reese’s peanut butter cup during work hours, cursing the chaos of parenting. Thus began my clandestine affair with peanut butter.
I have developed quite the collection at the office—peanut butter treats galore, all strictly off-limits to my son. Despite my attempts to scrub away any traces of peanut from my mouth after indulging, I would always promise it would be the last time. Then, inevitably, my son would throw himself on the floor in a grocery store meltdown, leaving me daydreaming of the peanut clusters awaiting me at work.
My son will remain blissfully unaware of my secret snacking habits. As he sits there flinging toys and shouting “no!”, I can’t help but look forward to the Snickers bar that will be my reward after bedtime.
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In summary, while I never had much of a relationship with peanut butter, my son’s allergy has turned my occasional indulgence into a secret affair, filled with guilt, excitement, and a touch of rebellion.