I make some sort of excuse to my husband and my son to leave the house. The car needs gas. I want a slushie. We are out of diapers.
My husband doesn’t question it. No problem, honey. Drive safe.
My son is excited. Mom store? Mom store?
I cup his cheeks and give him a kiss. He doesn’t pucker up yet. His kiss is with a wet, open mouth. Hey, I’ll take it.
I wave to my husband and leave the house. Walking to the car, I feel a surge of anxious excitement, but guilt battles it back down.
Once I’m behind the wheel, I think maybe I’ll resist this time. Maybe I’ll just drive around and listen to the radio. But I don’t. I pull up to the gas station and shut off the car. I walk in and look around nonchalantly, as if I don’t know exactly what I came for. When I feel as if I sufficiently fooled no one, I amble my way to the counter.
The familiar colors of the package beckon me. The feel of the slick plastic is comforting in my hand. So close.
The cashier rings me up. I throw in a soda to my purchase. Just so I don’t feel like such a junkie.
I don’t need a bag. I’ll consume my purchase in the car and dispose of the trash before I head home. I sit in the driver’s seat in my distant parking spot and stare at the package, knowing the routine. I’ll have to wash my hands and face afterward, before I head home. And maybe brush my teeth.
I feel a flash of guilt, but I’ve already shelled out the money. Might as well go through with it.
I rip open the package, tear off the wrapping, and sink my teeth into the delicious, incomparable, nourishing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.
Such is the life of a mom with son with a peanut allergy.
I hope you enjoyed my little story. It’s very tongue-in-cheek. It’s obviously not this dramatic. But when I sat in my car the other night, downing a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in a parking of a gas station, knowing I had to wash my hands before I went home, I couldn’t help but giggle about how ridiculous the whole thing was. So yeah. I’m a mom. My kid has a peanut allergy. And I freaking love peanut butter.