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.