Tough girl has anaphylactic allergies, to

Eggs

Orange (what)

Avocado

Bananas

Aspirin

Penicillin

Eggplant (ew, kiddo is not missing much.)

pineapple

strawberries;

Latex

That’s just the ones that make her throat close up, not the ones that make her have full body hives. Saints preserve us. She used to be allergic to milk too, but she outgrew it.

Upon hearing I was journaling about her, Tough girl demanded to know what I was writing, and then stomped off, muttering something angry about hating eggs. Yeah, honey, I’m with you on that one.

Here’s the weird thing. Until she spent that Christmas in the hospital, Tough Girl was as tough as nails. She used to eat anything I put it front of her like a champ. Then in the hospital, she got a rash on her arm from the latex tape that kept her arm splint on. Then suddenly she was getting hives from the touch of a glove. And so on…

Today she is home from school (again, I started writing this yesterday) because of what happened last week. I am so angry and thrown off by what happened. I hope someone is reading this who can give me some advice.

What anaphylaxis looks like

otherwise titled

Why mommy looks like a crazy person with her handi-wipes.

Otherwise entitled

NEVER GIVE MY DAUGHTER FOOD MEANS NOT EVEN CANDY

I am standing in the bathroom, doing TG’s nails. Everything is fine.

She is chattering away about school, about a dog she saw outside the bus window, about something she saw on TV. I am busy trying to listen to the sound of the dryer finally breaking down to really be having an in depth conversation about what’s in a Krabby Patty, or the moral implications of an anthropomorphic sea creature eating fish. In other words, just another Friday night. I leave Tough girl in the bathroom while I go check on her sister.

I’m just getting Sunshine comfortable in bed when I hear something. It’s my five year old coughing. Not just a normal cough, but a persistent

*cough, gag…cough…gag*

I head back to the bathroom.
She has her bright red, hivey little hands clamped firmly over her mouth, like a cat who’s got a canary.

Oh god, oh god, she has something in her mouth.

My heart sinks.

“Spit it out spit it out spit it out!”

She swallows it. I waste a good thirty seconds panicking. Thirty seconds doesn’t seem like a lot, but it is when you’re holding an enormous needle in your hand. Finally, I snap out of it, and grab my daughter by the leg.
Epi-pen in the thigh…

It jams.

Oh my God. “Stay here!” I run for the second one, which is in her bedroom, trip over god knows what and twist my ankle, I don’t even feel it.

Despite being in danger of her airway closing off, my daughter is not going down without a fight. When she sees needle number two, Tough Girl takes off and dives under the bed. Now I have a possibly about to die kid hiding from me, screaming that she hates me.

We have entered the pleading stage, because no way I can reach her without taking an axe to the bed.

“Come on, honey. I’m not mad at you. Come on out of there. Okay, mommy’s sorry.” (too scared to cry, too scared to do anything but try and calm my daughter down)

“You’re not *wheeze*getting me with that *wheeze* thing!”

“I’m not gonna get you with anything.” She knows I am lying.

“You’re…a…jerk! Mommy…is a…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

You know those stories about mothers who lift a car off their infants?

I somehow turned the entire bed over, and now I am dragging her out by the foot. The neighbor underneath us bangs on the ceiling with a broom in response. Yeah, guy. Next time I will try and be more quiet when saving my daughter’s life.
I am holding my daughter, and trying to talk to the 911 operator at the same time. I don’t even remember the conversation, but thank god, I had a second epi-pen. This time it works.

Instant recovery. Hives disappear. Breathing returns to normal. It’s like it never happened, and as she lies her head down on my knee, my daughter pukes a rainbow of colors into my lap.

It’s a starburst. Her teacher gave her a starburst for cleaning up the classroom like a good girl. She took it because she trusted her teacher. She thinks I am mean for taking away her treat, and for stabbing her in the leg. Still pouting despite the fact I just saved her life, Tough Girl insists, through swollen lips

“Teacher thaid I could have. She promised it wath safe.”

She has at least five different treats I have provided, for the teacher to use for bribery, and whatever else she needs them for. I grew up with four sisters and three brothers under me, I know the power of snacks to get kids motivated. The teacher’s excuse?

“I read the label, no milk.”

She’s not even allergic to milk. I mean, of all the things. You could give her beef jerky, peanuts ( she’s not allergic but I feel too nervous sending them to school, us allergic moms have to stick together) pretty much anything that wasn’t fruit flavored or made of bits of popped balloons. She somehow managed to pick the single worst snack for TG that she possibly could.

I don’t think there’s any way I can send her back to that school, but I don’t know what choice I have. I have no husband. I have to work. I have an understanding boss, but I don’t know if she’s understanding enough to let me take a week off work to go hunt down another school for my kids to go to.

I may just request that kiddo be put in a different room, with a different teacher.

Who knew a stupid fruit chewy could be this much trouble?

Thank Jesus for two epinephrine pens.

Thank Jesus for good paramedics, who let me ride in the ambulance.

Thank Jesus, for once, for my small apartment.

Thank Jesus for my sweet daughter.

I promise not all my posts will be this long.