My nerves are still completely shot, even 16 hours after the event. Which just goes to show, I am one rather flakey Suburban Mama, when it boils down to it.
It all started at a normal dinner time with D yesterday. Normal for us entails:
- Us optimistically feeding D all sorts of exciting new foods and flavours
- D throwing them unceremoniously to the floor.
'After all, he's got to try it some time!' I chirruped cheerfully. (Also, in the back of my mind, I was thinking 'yeah, and he'll definitely eat it, because its all sweet and sickly, which is definitely where D's palate tends to veer towards.').
The other half looked at me dubiously. 'Are you sure?' he said hesitantly. 'After all, if he does have a reaction, the car is absolutely f***ed at the moment and getting to hospital would be a bit of a mare'.
But no, despite that warning, I insisted cheerfully that the Annabel Karmel book said it was ok, and that lots of other mothers fed it to their chubby offsprings far earlier. (despite having ridiculed Ms Karmel about a week earlier for her outdated ideas...)
So in the peanut butter went, into D's initially suspicious little mouth. And, as predicted, D tucked into it with relish, slurping it off the rice cake (then dumping the stripped rice cake on the floor, an empty husk stripped of sticky peanutty sweetness.)
Imagine if you will, my horror, as I suddenly witnessed D start to shriek.
Loudly.
'Perhaps it's just because he wants to get out of his high chair?' said hubbie helpfully.
I eyed D with growing alarm, as his face began to swell and turn red.
'Er... I don't think so' I squeaked.
When D started to break out in huge angry welts all over his body, we hurtled out of the door and into the car faster than a pair of rats up a drainpipe, with me chanting 'oh my god, oh my god' under my breath like some deranged old biddy. Matters were not made any calmer by D going unconscious in the car, all the time while hubbie was desperately trying to steer a car safely through narrow roads and bends, when it didn't have any functioning brakes.
Fortunately, the hospital were AMAZING, and, a large injection and a huge amount of screaming later, D was back to his usual self, though looking very puffy eyed and resentful of his STUPID mama. (totally understandable, given that yes, I'd just unintentionally poisoned him.)
We left the premises with me feeling rather chastened. It had to happen some time, after all, a nut allergy can rear it's ugly head at any point, but oh, the terrible guilt of knowing that you've hurt your own child! It was like a boulder pressing down upon me, a terrible weighty boulder of solid heart-stopping guilt. And that terrible feeling of 'if anything should happen to you, it would be ALL MY FAULT.'
Still, thankfully this time, D is none the worse for his experience. And I've lobbed away the offending jar of peanut butter, and (more reluctantly) the half full bag of peanut M&M's in the fridge.
We're at home today, due to faulty car, and it is most fascinating listening to the builder's conversations outside. Honestly, there is so much sweat and testosterone flying around the house at the moment, it's like a football ground changing room or something. Lots of grunting and 'arrrgh-ing' and that sort of thing, and big old manly pattings on backs and rude sweary jokes that I don't quite understand. Miraculously, D is currently napping through the tremendous amounts of noise. Which begs the question - how is it, that when I try to settle him in peaceful surroundings, he doesn't want to know, but as soon as there are loads of drilling and hammering and shouting noises, he nods off almost straight away. Contrary or what?
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