The McDonald's Season

The Dictator prepares to head
to her dance recitals.  Guess
where we ate between shows?

Confession.  This is something that has filled me with gnawing shame and guilt for quite some time.  As a mother who spent the first couple of years of her first child's life plying her with organic foods, shunning additives and avoiding sugar like a trooper, I can't believe how far I've turned to the dark side.  But necessity is the mother of obesity, and necessity has led me--repeatedly--straight into the arms/drive-thru of the Golden Arches.

Yes.  I'm aware that their food has a history of containing unfoodlike substances.  Yes.  I know they serve Coke products, which we have fondly labeled "the blood of the innocents" for Coke's consistent record of violently suppressing union activity in Central America (think: hired assassins).  Yes.  I know that McDonald's contributes to childhood obesity.  But guess what?  They have a drive-thru, "food" my children are willing to consume, and the added bonus that I won't be tempted to eat anything unhealthy, as I don't consider most of their menu items "food" per se (although I may or may not have a weakness for Wildberry smoothies and french fries).

The fact of the matter is that most of the year, my family eats home cooked meals with fresh vegetables and fruits, organic milk (and lots and lots of cheese, but we won't discuss that right now).  I can pride myself on at least being a semi-competent mom in the "nourishing" category.

But now we have entered into what I am officially calling "McDonald's Season."  This season is marked by an increase in busy-ness: piano rehearsals/recitals, dance pictures/rehearsals/recitals, birthday parties, random social events in which no one in Michigan would even dream of participating during the winter months, etc.  It is also marked by a clown-shaped blight on my parenting skills.

My McWeakness

I know McDonald's Season is upon us when I look up from turning down the volume of NPR's in-depth discussion on locavores, chemical food additives, and food justice on the car's radio and realize that I am, in fact, gazing at the drive-thru menu of McDonald's with my window rolled down and the Anarchist and the Dictator shouting "Chicken nuggets!  Chocolate milk, chocolate milk!  French Fries!  I want a GIRL toy!  Hamburger...no, cheeseburger!" at me from the backseat.  How did I get here?  What happened to my elitist hatred of corporate America and all the oppression it stands for?  Where is my refined sense of culinary taste hiding?  And why do I suddenly have a craving for a Large French Fry and Chocolate Milkshake?

Too late to back out now.  I have places to be, limited time, and hungry little mouths to feed with something that they insist upon calling "food."  I politely thank the teenager at the window, bust open plastic bags of plastic marketing ploys...I mean...toys, wipe off pickles and onions, adeptly split french fries (to be strategically withheld until apple-like wedges are consumed), dislocate my arm in an effort not to spill chocolate milk while I blindly pass it to groping hands in the seat behind me, and plunge face first into a pile of french fries.

Our Highbrow, Cultured, Educational Family Excursion (we went to Frankenmuth)

A super-sophisticated Morton family vacation.

This year at Easter, the Morton family was blessed to have coinciding breaks.  To take advantage, we decided to find an out-of-the-way vacation spot and explore its cultural riches together.  We relented to the Dictator's ceaseless demands that we go to Frankenmuth "right away."  My mother was also able to accompany us and we procured private transportation, making the short, pleasant journey in about an hour's time.  We made my mom let us use her CRV, we all crammed inside (guess who got the back seat wedged between the Anarchist and the Dictator?), the Bureaucrat drove in the torrential rain, and I tried to remain calm as tiny elbows and pages of coloring books smacked me in the face and arms.  

We selected a quaint location, away from major urban centers and renowned for its many cultural distinctions (highest concentration of Lutherans outside of Germany or A Prairie Home Companion, most buttered noodles per capita, major pilgrimage site of the Red Hat Society). 

Guess who this bus brought to town?

Answer:  A big ol' colorful load of
these folks.  Awesome.

What displaced Lutheran Bavarians do
to pass the time. 

We decided to immediately sample the local fare at a corner bistro (family style fried chicken and buttered noodles served by a lady in a German lady costume).  We had a light meal, as we planned a hike and a swim in the local springs later that evening. I totally polished of, like, three or four bowls of buttered noodles and mashed potatoes all by myself, managed to toddle out to the car to drive the 0.5 miles back to the hotel where I promptly forced everyone to either nap or watch Nickelodeon before swimming in one of the three or four Bavarian-themed hotel pools, complete with water guns.

Morbid Childhood Obesity-inducing
fried goodness.

After a short rest, the family explored the beautiful grounds of the hotel, the sparkling river, weeping willows, and rolling hills.  My mother, and the Anarchist--who,thinking I was too lame to be her mother any longer, had adopted my mother as her mother--went outside and ran around on the balcony for twenty minutes while the Dictator drew and watched Dora the Explorer, the Bureaucrat made big plans, and I continued to nap, buried in a happy lump under hotel covers. 

On the hotel grounds, subtle details abound.

As we dressed for the springs (hotel pool with water guns), we made time to enjoy the local color, evidenced in the architecture and history of the hotel room. Tammi Ann, Terri Ann, and Pammi Ann Popp, decked out in their finest '80's attire, grinned mad 80's grins at us, while some super-haunted looking pictures of a couple of elderly, turn-of-the-century Popps made ominous faces at us from the walls of our "Popp family themed" hotel room.  The room's designer was clever in carrying the 80's motif from the Tammi/Terri/Pammi Ann picture throughout the room.  Classy.

In an area renowned for its beauty and health(y portions of fried things), swimming was really a lovely experience.  All of us took to the spring to renew our youth and vibrancy.  The Dictator made a careful ritual out of a detailed "swimming" circuit.  The Anarchist sat on the water fountains and pretended that it was "pee pee."  The Bureaucrat was an ever-attentive father.  My mother was an ever-attentive grandmother.  I desperately tried to keep my hair dry, suck my stomach in, and hide my super-pasty legs from sight.

The Anarchist, inspired by our room's theme,
strikes an '80s glamor pose in her new swimsuit.
Just call her Anarchist Ann.

Dinner took us to a local pub, a place to really immerse ourselves in the culture: a culture distinctive for its alarmingly high rate of childhood morbid obesity, most likely due to constant access to buttered noodles, I theorized.   We had the opportunity to eat classic pub fare (greasy pizza, Kraft macaroni) and take in authentic entertainment (Power Puff girls on one television, NCIS on the other...the Anarchist was really getting into that one).

It really doesn't get any classier than this.

 After dinner, we headed to the theater to take in an edgy, ironic, post-modern satire of contemporary society.  The girls went down a slide a bajillion times, rode a Bob the Builder coin-operated truck, played games with a terrifying resemblance to slot machines, played Whack-a-Mole (okay, I played Whack-a-Mole...I'm pretty darned good, too...lots of pent up aggression), ski ball, and the like.

We ended the evening by procuring small souvenirs from a local gallery.  The Anarchist and Dictator, under the guidance of the Bureaucrat and my mother, selected flipping frogs, Crazy Band rings, flashing-light turtles (or epilepsy turtles), and plastic cars in exchange for an inordinate amount of game tickets.  I think the Bureaucrat cheated somehow...or else I am just that good  at Whack-a-Mole.



 The following morning we began with a refreshing pre-breakfast dip in the spring.  The Bureaucrat threatened to get me out of bed by farting on me. I stumbled into my swimsuit, terribly conscious of my ever-growing pre-shower leg stubble.  We swam in the pools for about 20 minutes, and it was actually not as awful of an idea as I thought it would be.  My mother somehow found a way of remaining out of the water for the duration of this little early morning dip.  Smart cookie, that one.

Please do me the courtesy of squinting when you look at this
photograph, so that you won't notice my abundant leg stubble.
Thank you.

About to straddle it for maximum "pee pee"faking realism.

The Dictator makes her obsessive rounds in the pool.

Breakfast was at a small, out-of-the-way cafe, where we ordered crepes (pancakes and banana bread french toast), frothy cappuccinos (black hotel coffee), and delectable omelets (yup). Oh, and there were potato cheese dumplings, did I mention the potato cheese dumplings?  Because there were potato cheese dumplings, which really complete a light, post-German-food-gluttony breakfast.  Mmmm...

The remainder of our trip was spent exploring the unique boutiques and galleries of the downtown area, which was decorated tastefully for the Easter season.  We definitely went to the Cheese Haus to sample various cheese dips, look at personalized shot glasses and fantasize about what we might look like in that "Everything I need to know, I learned in jail" t-shirt.

The Bureaucrat admires a tasteful Easter decoration.

The Bureaucrat and the Anarchist become a
tasteful Easter decoration.  The Dictator was
"never going to do anything but go to the car,
ever again!"  Hence her absence.

Upside down Christmas trees festooned with plastic eggs and
yellow ribbon.  Hands down winner of the Classiest Easter Decor
award.

All in all, it was a lovely trip.  The girls learned about new cultures.  The girls learned that if they whine enough and make cute, pitiful faces, they'll get extra souvenirs...plastic Dinosaur Train characters and a Fancy Nancy book?  Unheard of!  We sampled local delicacies.  I am a buttered noodle glutton.  And we got to spend a fun time together as a family.  And we got to spend a fun time together as a family.  The girls are already plotting next year's trip to the same location, and, while I would prefer a quaint Vermont getaway, a trip to Chicago, Paris or Dublin, I have a feeling they'll get their wish.  Because, let's be honest, am I even capable of turning down an offer of limitless noodles?  I think not.

Food Allergy FAQs

The Enemy

As a result of my last post, I've convinced myself that I need to become more proactive in educating the public on the important topic of food allergies in children.  I encounter so many questions from friends, family, and total strangers, that it only seems right to address them here.  After all, this is the appropriate forum for serious discussion, n'est pas?


The following are actual questions (or passive-aggressive statements that imply questions) I have been asked.  I will attempt to answer them as knowledgeably as possible:

1)  I heard this whole food allergy thing is an overblown myth, and that most kids with food allergies, don't actually have them at all.  Can the Dictator eat this peanut butter granola bar?

The answer to your second question is, I'm really sorry, but "no."  And if you wouldn't mind backing a few feet away from us, that would be super awesome.

The answer to your first question is actually, "maybe."  At least, "maybe" to the overblown part.  Recent studies have actually shown that blood testing might give false positives and that many food allergic children may not be as allergic to some things as the testing shows.  Unfortunately, the only way to know for sure if your child is one of those false positives is to give her to Great Aunt Sally (who doesn't believe in food allergies) for the day and tell her to go ahead and feed your child lunch.  If you end up in the ER, chances are your tests were accurate.  Congratulations!  And of course, even if your child doesn't react this time, allergic sensitivity fluctuates over time, so lunch with ol' Sally next week might prove fatal.  I'm not interested in that risk.

2)  What do you think about this whole "no birthday treats at school" malarkey?  Since you're the parent of a kid with allergies (and seem like a total pushover), I'd like your opinion.

Aw, thanks for valuing my doormat-like opinion so highly.  I'd be happy to validate your impression that it is all "malarkey."  The Dictator, on the other hand, will tell you (through tears of disappointment and heartbreak) that it kind of sucks being the only kid to have to sit it out while all the other friends lick the frosting off of Spiderman cupcakes right in front of her.  But, you know, I totally feel your pain.

3)  I hear that breastfeeding prevents food allergies in children.

Yeah.  Me too.  Funny thing...the Dictator breastfed until she was almost two.  (Which, by the way, was no idyllic bonding session for me, as her eating habits resembled those of a narcoleptic Tasmanian Devil).  Like you, person passive-aggressively implying that I am a worse mother than you, I breastfed.  I'm sure it will have lasting benefits for my child.  But I can tell you that avoiding allergies was not one of those benefits.  Now please get down off your high horse so I can give you the pat on the back you so desperately seek.

4)  Do you have to carry an Epi-pen?  That must be a relief/source of ever-present anxiety, huh?

Yes.  And yes/yes.  Actually, more anxiety than relief.  When the allergist first presented it to me and went over proper procedures for ramming it into my infant and calling 911, I burst into tears and rocked in the fetal position on the exam table (holding the baby, of course) for the next hour (because that's how long it takes for them to process paperwork, apparently).  I actually cried more then, than when I found out the Anarchist might not be born with functioning lungs.  Go figure.  I have since cheered myself up by purchasing a super-cute overpriced pencil case in which to store the dreadful, but important device.  It has cupcakes on it (ones without peanuts, of course).  It makes me smile.

Just Say "No" to peanut butter death bars.

5)  So...can she actually not eat anything with nuts in it?   What about this peanut butter granola bar?

Right.  No.  Back away.  Thanks.

6)  Well, if there's only a likelihood of cross-contamination she can eat it, right?  

Yeah, not so much.  I mean, statistically speaking risking her life in this way to make things easier on everyone might not be so problematic.  She will probably not encounter peanut shards in that potentially cross-contaminated cereal, so, you know, it makes sense to just go ahead and hope for the best.  But it turns out that I'm highly uncomfortable playing Russian roulette with my baby's ability to not choke to death.  Call me a softy.

7)  What on earth do you guys eat?

You know, it's funny because I also used to get this question a lot as a vegetarian.  I think people just pictured me grazing on greens like a rabbit all day, which is the farthest thing from the truth because I can pack away more cheese and bread than any creature currently known to science.  The question gains a little more validity when asked of a family with peanut allergies.  The answer is, anything that doesn't contain: peanuts, tree nuts, fish, shellfish, or sesame.  (Also, ice cream, most candy and bakery goods are inherently unsafe.  Boo hiss!)

8)  How do you know for sure the Dictator has allergies?

Golly.  That's a good question.  With all these tests going awry, it's hard to be certain.  But I think I'll have to trust that time she woke up in the middle of the night gasping, covered in hives from head to toe, with ears like a troll/gnome/whatever fantasy creature has giant ears, I dunno.

9)  What do you think about (insert most recent medical study here)?  It seems to say that food allergies are the result of psychosomatic projection on the part of the parent/coupled with false test results/compounded by hatred for non-food-allergic kids/paired with (insert irresponsible parenting tactic here).  So...that means she can have this peanut butter granola bar, right?

Yeah.  I'm sure (insert most recent medical study here) has a great deal of scientific value and will further the important research of food allergies and their causes.  That being said, I really, really wish you didn't know about  (insert most recent medical study here), because you're totally going to misinterpret its findings as being final and all-encompassing and try to give my kid a peanut butter granola bar as a result.  Now put down the peanuty-death bar and back slowly away.  Thanks.

10)  Don't they just grow out of "those?"  

Actually, many kids grow out of certain allergies by the time they are in preschool.  That's the good news.  The Dictator grew out of her egg allergy, so now we can have real cake and not that stuff that reminds me of the foam pit I used to vault into in gymnastics class.  Hooray!  Unfortunately, with peanut allergies (and shellfish, I think), the likelihood of outgrowing the allergy decreases to almost nil if the allergic child's allergy levels increase before the child's fifth birthday.  Which means that, for most kiddos, the nut/fish thing (and of course, other allergies as well) is a lifelong thing.  So we won't be outgrowing ours any time soon, I'm afraid.

11)  Why is your daughter ruining my child's life?

Because we don't like you.  You ask too many passive-aggressive questions.  Also, we're just kind of diabolical sociopaths like that.

12)  I'm an old person.  We didn't have "food allergies" in my day.  Do you hate America?

I know.  I'm sorry.  Change is hard.  And yes, with a fiery passion.  That's why we still live here.

I hope this was helpful for those of you with questions about food allergies.  After all, some of them are even valid/useful!  For real, though, if you have actual questions that you want a real (and not nasty, frustrated and unfairly snarky) response to, please refer to the FAAN website.  ( I think they might even use real science and statistics and stuff...fancy).

Hiding in Bathrooms with Vomiting Toddlers: in which I venture an opinion and avoid a conversation

There's a conversation that, when I hear it coming, makes want to run to the nearest closet/bathroom/cave and lock myself inside (well, I guess I wouldn't have the luxury of a lock in a cave, but I feel like a sizable rock pile might do the trick).  It pops up just about everywhere, but I consistently encounter it while waiting in the hallway at the girls' dance studio.  I'm not sure if this is just what people talk about at dance studios, or if we're just particularly lucky in our choice of dance studios, but for some reason, I am consistently forced to overhear/engage in a conversation about food allergies.  Ugh!  Just saying the phrase "food allergies" causes me to instinctively scan my surroundings in search of a hiding place (it turns out there is no cave in my basement...darn!)

The problem with the "food allergy" conversation is that I have an opinion.  I never like having opinions.  Remember?  We discussed this before.  I'm kind of like Switzerland...or at least, Canada.  Anyway, I have an opinion, and it's a strong one, because the Dictator is a sensitive little thing, and her immune system is no exception.  As such, I get to be one of the super-lucky parents who gets to relentlessly advocate (i.e., annoy the heck out of everybody else) for her peanut-allergic child.

The Dictator enjoys a peanut-free snack.  Boy, do I love reading
labels, interrogating waitstaff, feeling "special."  It's my
favoritest thing EVER!

Now, when you heard that, you probably thought one of two things:

1)  "This is one heroic woman with a big task ahead of her.  People need to be more educated regarding food allergies, thereby increasing their sensitivity to the very real danger of fatality that a growing number of children (8%) face on a daily basis."

2) "Stupid allergy nazi, trying to destroy my baby's right to eat peanut butter sandwiches/enjoy birthday cupcakes/go on field trips to the local peanut roasting facility.  You're such a bad, self-centered witch, and I don't particularly care if your child gets a rash/turns blue/dies.  I think you're making it all up, anyway."

Okay, so realistically, you probably fall somewhere in between.  Sadly, I was more of a "2," than a "1," before the Dictator had to go and be all allergic on us.  I'll chalk it up to sheer ignorance.*  Most people just don't realize how truly severe a lot of these allergies are, how many people have them and how scary it is for parents/teachers who really would rather not see a small child go into shock/suffocate in front of them.**  I think it's actually a completely understandable stance to take, as long as it stems from ignorance (otherwise, you might be a psychopath or something, in which case, I am backing slowly away and resuming my search for that cave I was looking for earlier).

Because of my history of irritation with those parents who I considered to be hyper-vigilant, followed quickly by my conversion to being  one of those parents (who turn out to be reasonably-vigilant), I actually welcome the opportunity to provide information, share our experiences, and have a rational conversation about the implications of our culture's handling of the rise in food allergies amidst its juvenile population.  I swear I do.  The problem is, that's never how the conversation starts.

It usually begins something like this:

"Can you believe how ridiculous this is!?!?  Maddie/Sophie/Jacob/Jaden/Bella/Aiden went to hand out her/his traditional Peanut Butter Almond Shrimp Surprise Cupcakes for her/his birthday in class, and the teacher told her/him they weren't allowed.  I mean, I know the school has a very clear policy about such things (and knew it even before I sent in allergen-ridden cupcakes), but why even bother being born if you can't celebrate annually, in school, in your classroom containing three fatally peanut allergic children, by passing out Peanut Butter Almond Shrimp Surprise Cupcakes!  Tell me that isn't the dumbest thing you've ever heard!"

At which point, all the rest of the parents murmur emphatically that it is, in fact, the dumbest thing they've ever heard, that in their day no one had allergies, and this is obviously just a scam perpetrated by some parents to get everyone to treat their kids differently.

The Dictator arrives home after her birthday celebration at school.  She
passed out small toys instead of cookies.  I bet all her little
classmates will hate her for an eternity for ruining their
enjoyment of her birthday.  Okay, maybe not.  But some of
their parents will.

I don't know about you, but that's totally what I'm going for.  I mean, what parent doesn't want their child left out, socially ostracized, living in terror, and carrying around a sharp needle full of medicine intended to be thrust violently into her tender flesh?

Man, those other parents really have me pegged!  That's exactly what I want!  But I can't complain (yeah, I know, I just did).  Because I used to be those other parents.  So instead of arguing I look for a closet...or a cave.

The problem is, there is no cave at the dance studio.  There are bathrooms, but they're usually full of sweaty teenage dancers (no thank you) or vomiting toddlers (enough of my own, thanks).  So I'm forced to stick around and advocate (lamely) for my child.  I'm bad at fighting.  I'm a lover, not a fighter.  Flowers in the barrels of guns and all that jazz.  Maybe I could just stick flowers in the mouths of the other complaining parents?  That would at least silence them temporarily, right?  Right?  But no.  It's not spring yet (okay, maybe technically, but not really), there is a dearth of flowers, and I don't want to waste the ones I've got. 

The ones I've got.

So I attempt a brave, but diplomatic response:

The Dictator enjoys a friend's
entirely nut-free birthday tea.
We have amazing friends!

"Yeah.  It really is tough for your seven year old to wait to eat his peanut butter sandwich until he gets home.  I completely understand how awful it must be for your little girl to get amazing pricey toy favors on every child's birthday instead of sugary, peanut filled snacks.  That's quite a bit of trauma, and I don't know if it's necessarily fair to make everyone adapt for the safety of a few kids.  I mean, I think my daughter has food allergies.  She's tested positive.  And there was that one time we rushed her to the ER because she was covered in hives, gasping for breath, and each of her ears was the size of her face, but that might just have been my imagination. Actually, I've considered homeschooling because I hate to impose on your kids.  I hate imposing.  To be honest, I feel more bad for your child than for mine..."

At which point I realize I'm a terrible advocate for my child and seek to inhabit the nearest bathroom full of sweaty teenagers and vomiting toddlers.  Because anything's better than talking about food allergies.


* That, and those lovely parents who give the rest of us a bad name.  Namely, that customer I was assisting during my previous life as an underachieving bagel shop employee.  You know who you are.  I was 23, entirely incapable of making corporate level decisions and didn't react well to being screamed at and accused of "plotting your child's death" by selling products containing tree nuts.  You, my friend, were actually a nut job (no pun intended).  No wonder people think we're all crazy!

**The Bureaucrat will also be quick to point out that the Constitutional right of all children to a public education has a higher priority than the Constitutional right of all children to consume peanut butter on school property, and that the legal obligation, blah, blah, blah, trumps the lower court's decision blah, blah, blah, etc.

The Morton Hams say "Cheese!"

The Morton children had dance pictures last night.  For those of you unfamiliar with suburban dance studio culture, dance pictures refers to the time of year when a bunch of tots run around in makeup and tutus, and some poor, ridiculously patient soul attempts to corral them into one fairly cohesive photograph where at least 80% of the tutu-clad crazy people are neither crying, nor picking their noses.  There is a schedule, but it is almost never accurate.  One in every five children goes missing for an extended period at some point during the process. Adorable, dressed-up chaos ensues.

I'm fairly certain that of the dozen or so shots taken of the Anarchist's class, the Anarchist was proudly picking her nose in at least eight of them.  Fantastic.  At least she didn't cry.  In fact, she very "helpfully" went around to the smaller--and sometimes larger--children, encouraging them not to weep, "assisting" them with their costumes, and reassuring their parents with, "Don't worry.  I've got it under control."  Oh lord.

For her part, the Dictator did an excellent job of masking the fact that she was coming down with a terrible fever (I promise we didn't know about it ahead of time...we're not germ-passers, I swear).  She would look hopelessly sluggish, peaked and miserable, and then instantly flash a winning smile at the click of the camera.  Despite the fact that she was drowning in her over-sized pile of velvet and tulle and the fact that feverish malaise is not the best look for her, I think we might just have pulled off a halfway decent picture.

The Bureaucrat was most helpful throughout the entire ordeal.  He served alternately as a tutu rack, fringe shelf, and arm pouf holder, cared for an ailing Dictator, corralled an Anarchist bent on anarchy, and kept all of the paperwork in check. A+ work, Bureaucrat.  A+ work.

I, on the other hand, managed to elicit glares from every person in the room when I chose to converse with the one mother who, despite repeated shushing, could not use her indoor voice in the picture room.  You know it's bad when middle school kids are glaring at you contemptuously for talking too much.  Guilt by association.  Fail.


In the face of these obstacles, however, the Mortons pulled through.  But after all, was there any doubt?  How could anything but success possibly occur in a room full of crying toddlers in mascara?