The Monster in the Woods
When my son was diagnosed with a peanut allergy, his pediatrician had warned us that the most dangerous period of his life wasn't going to be his early years. Instead, he would be most vulnerable when he is a Tween to his early Teen years. The reason? He is going to occasionally forget his Epipen, and he's not going to have us around all the time as backup.
This was illustrated to me on Sunday when I took the three kids to one of the local County parks for a little hiking. The trail I selected is no big deal: a short 45-60 minute hike in a loop that covers a bit over a mile, and the elevation being no worse than going up and down a couple of hundred feet. (It's Western Hamilton County, just out of reach of the last glacial advance of the previous Ice Age, so you get used to hills around here.) However, things began to get interesting when I got out of the car and noticed that my son wasn't wearing his fanny pack. "Where's your Epipen?"
"I left it at home," he replied.
Right on cue, his somewhat overprotective older sister sucked in her breath as preparation for freaking out.
"Buddy," I admonished him, "you're supposed to bring it everywhere."
He got out of the car and shut the door. "What do you think is going to happen anyway?" he demanded, giving his sister a stern look. "There isn't going to be some giant peanut coming out of the woods after me."
"There may not be, but people you meet on the trail might have peanuts on them."
He tried to shrug it off, or at least act unconcerned.
"Do me a favor, don't touch anything, okay?"
"I'll be fine."
"Yeah right. That's up there with 'Don't worry, the dragon is sleeping!'"
We went on our hike, and on the whole things went well. Toward the end, however, I waited until my son and his younger sister were in front of me, then I grabbed them and pointed off to my left. "Look out!" I shouted. "It's a giant peanut!"
"Yeah yeah yeah... Very funny, Dad!"
This was illustrated to me on Sunday when I took the three kids to one of the local County parks for a little hiking. The trail I selected is no big deal: a short 45-60 minute hike in a loop that covers a bit over a mile, and the elevation being no worse than going up and down a couple of hundred feet. (It's Western Hamilton County, just out of reach of the last glacial advance of the previous Ice Age, so you get used to hills around here.) However, things began to get interesting when I got out of the car and noticed that my son wasn't wearing his fanny pack. "Where's your Epipen?"
"I left it at home," he replied.
Right on cue, his somewhat overprotective older sister sucked in her breath as preparation for freaking out.
"Buddy," I admonished him, "you're supposed to bring it everywhere."
He got out of the car and shut the door. "What do you think is going to happen anyway?" he demanded, giving his sister a stern look. "There isn't going to be some giant peanut coming out of the woods after me."
"There may not be, but people you meet on the trail might have peanuts on them."
He tried to shrug it off, or at least act unconcerned.
"Do me a favor, don't touch anything, okay?"
"I'll be fine."
"Yeah right. That's up there with 'Don't worry, the dragon is sleeping!'"
We went on our hike, and on the whole things went well. Toward the end, however, I waited until my son and his younger sister were in front of me, then I grabbed them and pointed off to my left. "Look out!" I shouted. "It's a giant peanut!"
"Yeah yeah yeah... Very funny, Dad!"