Boy cooking tomatoes
Our past two summers haven’t looked the way I envisioned when my son started school. We’re traveling less (and less far), and my son is home more than I expected, thanks to the pandemic.
But summer breaks remain a good time for medical and dental appointments. Yesterday’s experience was not a pleasant one — but dinnertime saved me.
A Challenge
Yesterday, my son was scheduled for a dairy challenge at his allergist’s office. This is where he tries a food he’s been allergic to under the watchful eye of a provider.
Last March, his bloodwork indicated he was ready to try milk again. His dairy allergy was improving. (Yay!) But when our governor shut down nonessential businesses because of COVID, I elected to postpone my son’s dairy challenge. (Boo!) If I had known then what I know now, I would’ve kept the appointment. But instead, I kept postponing and postponing it, eventually canceling it — waiting until we felt safer.
A couple of months before school let out, I scheduled the appointment. On Sunday, I purchased milk. I prepared my son, who is so excited about the possibility of being able to try real ice cream or some cheese on his upcoming birthday.
Then, 90 minutes before his scheduled appointment, the allergist's office called to say they couldn’t do the challenge. It had been three months too long since his bloodwork.
I teared up; I tensed up. Why was I just now getting this information? The woman on the phone agreed it was not right. But it wasn’t her decision. She was simply the messenger. The poor, poor messenger sent to call this very frustrated, very tired mom.
Working through Disappointment
In my work and in my life, I try to roll with the punches — to be flexible and adaptable. But here’s the thing: A lot went into getting that appointment. These are three-hour-long appointments, and there aren’t an infinite number of them to snag in the first place. Never mind that our summer break is short. And regardless of the time of year, it can be hard to take whole afternoons off work.
I thought I might lose it on the phone. We’d been cautious about getting our hopes up around the challenge itself, but to have them dashed even before our appointment time was too much. I was disappointed in the office for their lack of communication. I was suspicious of the motives for making me go through another round of office visits and blood tests ($$$). I recognize they are following their protocol, but I couldn’t help but question whether they bothered to consider my son’s personal medical history at all.
Regardless of whose error this was, every person who spoke to me got an earful yesterday. (And I look forward to their email survey so I can put my opinions in writing.) The lack of communication — I just couldn’t get past it. The lack of respect for my time and my son’s feelings. They managed to email and call and text appointment confirmations, including a personal phone call the day before to make sure I was bringing the milk. But somehow they didn’t realize until the day of that we shouldn’t even be having this appointment.
There was little recourse, unfortunately. So, we went through the motions of the office visit and got our order for bloodwork. I came straight home to schedule the blood draw, and even without a rigid work schedule of my own or my son’s school schedule to contend with, the soonest appointment I could get in my area was two weeks out. Results take about a week and they’ll call us after that to schedule the dairy challenge again, provided the results indicate it’s OK. But knowing how difficult those appointments are to get, I fear we won’t be able to do it on my son’s summer break. This was crushing.
Saved by the Kitchen
Once we arrived back home, my son invited me to play video games for a while. And that felt like the best use of my time in that moment. I was emotionally drained and, to be honest, still very, very pissed.
Around 4:30, I told my son I needed to go make dinner. “Do you want to help?” I asked.
No, he said. He wanted to play. This was fine. I’m sure he needed a break from me anyway. And maybe some solitude in the kitchen was good for me too, I told myself.
I went downstairs and washed my hands at the kitchen sink. When I turned around, standing there at the base of the stairs was my son.
“Actually, Mommy, I would like to help with dinner.”
Yep, I teared up. How much can I cry in one day? I’m not sure I have a limit.
My happy kid happily skipped to the bathroom to wash his hands. He helped make the chicken marinade. He made the salad dressing and taste tested it to make sure it was to his liking. He chopped the vegetables for the salad. He took orders and served as both chef and server.
It was a fairly mundane meal. It’s one our whole family enjoys, but it is one we have every week. It’s not special. There was nothing new for him to try or new for him to learn.
But yet, there were lessons. I found calm and peace cooking with him. The allergist’s screw-up didn’t matter. The wait time for a blood draw didn’t either. And neither did anything else that was bugging me. No matter how many times I learn this lesson, I clearly need the reinforcement: Time in the kitchen usually isn’t about the food. It’s about discovering joy together.