I convinced myself it was alright to give my younger daughter a drop of peanut butter because, I told my husband, laughing, “We have Benadryl in the house!”
I convinced myself that my older daughter wasn’t, in fact, having her first allergy attack in a Thai restaurant.
“Your lips aren’t swollen, sweetie,” I said, annoyed. “They’re just chapped.”
I even persuaded myself that my children’s food allergies would define them if I didn’t take a laid-back approach. That I would telegraph my anxiety to them, and they would become social outcasts.
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