I'm sure it's stress...

I'm worn out and cranky, that's all. I'm hyper sensitive and hormonal.

I'm embarrassed that my daughter's class needs help making papier mache, and I can't do it. The starch, the flour, the blowing up of balloons...all poison to me. And I'm a stay at home mom, I'm supposed to do these sorts of things. Some parents take time off of work. Hint, hint.

"So, you'll get sick. Big deal, you have time to spend a few days in bed," I hear myself thinking.

The landlord laughs at my complaint that I need a working sink because I can't eat out. Can't.
A stranger overhears my dinner frustration and says "Honey, that's when you pick up the phone and call for pizza." I can't? They wouldn't stand for that. They'd make the dr give them something.

My daughter remembers at 8pm that there's a party tomorrow and of course she's providing the cookies, she's the one with the allergy. Do you know how much it would cost to feed 30 kids store bought allergy free cookies? I turn on the oven.

I find an email in my inbox stating that they've decided to have a pizza party at an afterschool event, and they know that I'll be happy to send a safe alternative for my allergic daughter. I wouldn't want her to "feel left out".

We're invited to a party, don't bring anything! But they forgot the promised fruit plate and veggie tray. Oh well, it happens. We leave early, the kids are hungry.

I overhear a comment that "Those food allergy people need to grow up and learn to cook," in response to some news story. I read comments on boards suggesting that food allergies are in our head and I want to scream. Spike their food with ex-lax, send them to work and then shrug and innocently ask if they've considered stress as the culprit? Or maybe it's just in their head.

And then my mind wanders. I actually think those of us who deal with food allergies might manage stress more efficiently than "normal" people. Because we deal with it daily, a constant knowledge that each bite of dinner is a dance with danger. A kiss can be deadly. A lunch date needs an inordinate amount of planning, analyzing and agonizing. A simple invite to a kid's birthday party can become a feat of ingenuity to spare the host's feelings. And we appear to make it all work seamlessly, magically.

"I'd never manage," someone tells me when I finally break down and vent. But what other choice would they have?