After years of my son having dark circles under his eyes and being congested for six months out of the year, I decided to have him tested for allergies. The first appointment I made was through the Northwest asthma and allergy clinic. After hearing the appointment would take at least three hours and I was expected to be present the entire time, I groaned in agony for the inconvenience. But when I heard my son would be receiving “skin tests” for that entire time, I said “no way, I’m not subjecting him to that” and canceled the appointment. I put a humidifier in his room and tried to entice him with the magic of neti pots (he was not enthralled and screamed “it burns” during his first and last netti pot experience), but for the most part, nothing changed.
I wanted to take him to a naturopath to see what they would propose, but my kid’s state insurance doesn’t cover naturopaths. As often happens, a solution appeared when I wasn’t thinking about it. While leaving Gaia’s Temple one day, a woman offered to help me carry some of the stuff falling out of my arms because I was too fixated on shoving a piece of cake into my mouth. We had both just read for The Memory Keeper’s Daughter for the second time, I was leaving for Denver, she had just returned from there and recommended I attend a fabulous bump and grind class while there, and she explained she was a naturopath specializing in women and children. I believe in fate and synchronicity, so although I knew a slew of naturopaths, I also knew this was the one I was going to take my son to. Sure enough, her office was six blocks from my home and she said she would work with me on the fees.
A couple of weeks later, the kids and I trooped into her office. After talking to my son she drew some blood, sold both kids on fish oil, gave them each a stuffed dolphin, and we went home. No skin tests, no three hours of agony, no driving over to Sand Point. We left with the impression that once we knew what he was allergic to, we could reduce or eliminate these items and his dark circles would disappear as well as his congestion, he would no longer talk in his sleep or be anxious, he would have more energy, and over all be a healthier happier boy.
The follow-up appointment occurred on Jason’s watch. He and the kids arrived at my house the following day with stacks and stacks of information about “food sensitivities,” a calendar stating which days I could feed my son certain foods, and the worst news ever, “He’s sensitive to wheat, peanuts, soy, dairy, eggs, and several other grains such as rye, oat, wheat gluten…” My son’s entire diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, mac and cheese, pizza, quesadillas, sushi drenched in soy sauce flashed before my eyes and I said, “Well, what the hell am I supposed to feed him then?”
Jason calmly explained that on blue days I could serve him dairy, on green days he could have some wheat, but I cut him off before he could explain what red days were. “That’s never going to work. I can barely keep track of my schedule and theirs, I’m not adding blue and green days to the mix. Plus, we’d never be able to swing that with them being at your house half of the time.”
“That’s what the stickers are for,” he said optimistically. I shook my head and glared at the calendar. “I know this is going to be a pain,” he whispered, “but he’s kind of excited about it, so just go with it OK?” I looked over at my son reading the back of all of the rice cracker and cereal boxes he had just picked out at PCC and sure enough, he had a smile on his face. Maybe it was the learning aspect, because he is insatiable in that regard, or maybe it was the mere joy of being the center of attention, but my son seem to be thrilled about his new “food sensitivities.”
To say I was not as enthralled, would be putting it mildly, but I tried to remain positive when grocery shopping now took us an hour and a half and cost twice as much as it used to. Rather than green and blue days, I decided to go cold turkey on all wheat products, peanuts, soy, and all dairy except cheddar cheese, which thankfully he wasn’t sensitive to. We drank coconut milk, ate cashew butter rather than peanut butter, and tried a wide variety of gluten free breads and pastas. For his birthday, I made a gluten free cake, which no one ate, except my son. By the third week, we had four different breads in the fridge, all of which my son could barely choke down, no matter how much honey I put on them. The pastas were deemed “gummy,” we were sick of rice and rice cakes, and even the three kinds of bread I made from scratch using brown rice flour or garbanzo flour sucked. They were hard as a rock and stunk up the whole house. My son was starving, no matter how many rice crackers and pistachios he gobbled down, and the thrill of food allergies had worn off. Even worse, the dark circles remained, he was still congested, lethargic, and if anything groaning more in his sleep than he had been before.
I called Jason and said, “It’s not working.”
“I know,” he said. “They said it should only take a couple of weeks to see improvements, but it’s been a month and…”
“I know.” I sighed. We were quiet for a moment, both of us thinking of the hundreds of dollars we had just spent, not to mention the hours poring over ingredients. I couldn’t stand to think it was all in vain. A mere “Corbin whim,” that ended up being futile, so I thought about some of the new foods that the kids now ate. I thought about all of the conversations I had with the friendly gluten-free guy at Greenwood market and the day the kids and I spent baking bread, even though it tasted like dirt and smelled worse. Maybe it was a whim and maybe it was a waste of time and money, but at least we had bonded as a family over it.
And even more important, I was grateful that I had the option of it being a whim. If he had been allergic, rather than merely “moderately sensitive,” we would be forced to eat this way all of the time. And with that thought, I hung up with Jason and ordered a large pizza with extra cheese. Just because I could.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor and author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which has been nominated for the 2011 PNBA book award. Her essays have been featured in over twenty five publications including, The Seattle PI, Mothering, and Hip Mama. She teaches memoir and personal essay writing classes in Ballard. Contact her for details.