Sick parenting selfie.

Remember how I was all smugsby about how delightful my life was? Like, immediately after I posted that I got sick. I’m also one of those people who never really gets sick (I like to come down with major health issues instead, then have them seemingly go into remission. Ask me about my thyroid and my colon some other time). But I was fever-chills-unable-to-get-off-the-couch-sick for three days (thankfully it was Saturday, Sunday, Monday, so I was able to pull it off with some big assists from Herr Husband and my parents). Then I was sort of half-assed sick with a disgusting chest cough and general malaise for an additional week. Oddly, and thankfully, it appears HH brought this illness home from a trip to Mobile, and bestowed it upon me but not the Kinder, which is good given DBB’s pulmonary history and all. Anyway, I felt craptastic and looked worse. I finally started feeling better yesterday, and good thing, too, because today Little Liebchen and I had PEANUT CHALLENGE!

Yes, this sounds like a cage match for cute small children like LL (who, btw, is completely full-blown walking. It’s how she locomotes now, and has been for several weeks). But, no. It’s what you have to endure if the first peanut product you feed to your baby-led-weaning baby is spicy peanut noodles, and she goes just a bit blotchy around the mouth. Then you mention this offhandedly to your pediatrician, hoping he’ll encourage you to fish a peanut butter cup out of your purse (come on, don’t even pretend there isn’t one in there) so you can feed it to her, prove she’s fine, and be on your merry way. Instead, he sends you to an allergist, who does a skin test, which the baby passes, then a blood test, which she passes, then still insists she do a PEANUT CHALLENGE, wherein the doctor thinks you will feed your baby what your baby considers to be ungodly amounts of peanut butter (but which you, ESA, Mo, or several other folks wouldn’t blink twice at eating off a spoon).


Boob, boob, boob! Me, cause trouble? No way.

So here’s how that goes: They take LL’s vital signs, then bring me a spoon with 1/4 teaspoon of peanut butter on it, tell me to feed it to her, and leave the room. I coo and offer it to LL. She pushes spoon away. Repeat.  I manage to wipe some in LL’s mouth, and she acts as if I have fed her fish paste or an old sock (except she loves the latter). She won’t let spoon near her mouth again. I hand her spoon. She throws it on the floor, and begins to chant, “Boob, boob, boob,” in her adorable little fratty spring break 1999 way. I summon the nurse. The doctor tells me, “Don’t hand her the spoon. You hold it.” Does this woman have children? Did she baby led wean them in my tried and true (if by true you mean failed): “You eat broccoli while I eat fries and your brother eats Goldfish method?” I didn’t think so.

They go to get me more peanut butter.

“I’m going to wipe it on my boob.” I tell the nurse.

“Do you want me to just leave it on the knife then?” she asks. This strikes me as odd, but hey, I’m the one about to slather peanut butter on my boobs in a doctor’s office. She gives me peanut butter and leaves.

I pop out the preferred boob, and wipe peanut butter on my nipple. (Come on pervs, come and find me!). “Boo-oob,” I tell LL in my most tempting voice. She latches, then gives me a filthy look, and we undergo an epic battle where I manage to get her to eat some of the peanut butter and she manages to terrify the entire office with her screams, then pull peanut butter off of my nipple with her fingers to wipe it on my shirt.

The doctor comes in to check her vitals. “Try to keep the peanut butter on the paper on the table,” she suggests. Now I have friends with peanut allergic kids and the last thing I want to do is kill someone. I’m very allergy sensitive (it goes with my having expected people to be germ sensitive). But seriously. Does the doctor understand the battle of wills going on in here? Has she met a baby?

So we wait fifteen minutes, and they bring in a half-teaspoon of peanut butter. More of the same ensues, with peanut butter winding up all over my outfit, once she figures out she can pull it out of her mouth with her hands and still swallow breast milk.

Same vitals, etc. The good news is she’s doing fine and showing no signs of allergy. The bad news is we and the room have become peanut butter death bombs. The worse news is that the nurse returns with two TABLESPOONS of peanut butter. “Last dose!” she chirps.

I laugh. I really like the doctor and nurses in this practice, and I think they’re great. Warm, responsive, knowledgable. But not realistic. “There is no WAY she’s going to eat that,” I tell her. “If you guys want to tie her to the table and force feed her, you can try. But I don’t think she’s going to eat it.”

So the doctor releases us, deciding they’ve done enough. But releases us actually means we have to sit in the office for an hour. Thankfully, there was a sixteen-month-old boy there waiting for an appointment, so we got an unplanned playdate out of the deal (and we didn’t even kill him!). And the verdict was that she’s good to eat peanuts, ramping up slowly (which doesn’t seem like a problem, except now she’s allowed to have peanut butter cups and peanut butter crackers so she’ll want to eat 9 million tablespoons of the stuff).

And I left looking like this.




2 Comments on “Commuppance”

  1. lisa says:

    ahhhha haaaaaaa i am a huge fan. love lisa

  2. lisa says:

    oh and i would buy the book… your writing is so fantastic i felt i was in the room with you.

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