…and, I’m happy to report, all ten Epi-Pens returned unused and untouched. I don’t think there is even a trace of a fingerprint to chronicle so much as a remote curiosity among the adults who hosted or chaperoned my child. Her first true adventure (without the hazards that come with an anxious mom in the wings) came to a happy, uneventful conclusion. No scratchy throat, no puffy lips, no rash and, thankfully, no anaphylaxis.

But I won’t lie. My adventurous spirit (or the dark side of my imagination) was just a little bit disappointed that I did not get to take the heroic flight across the Pacific to attend to my child who would be hospitalized undoubtedly for ingesting a sesame seed. I sat on edge for the duration of her two-week trip, ready for that phone call that would summon me to the rescue.

After all the preparations–the worrying, the spiraling anticipation, the crazy Skype calls to Taipei whereby I detailed (with much animation) the administration of loratadine and epinephrine, and the stream of irrational scenarios that played out silently in my mind for months–nothing happened. I felt foolish for over-preparing for what I had written off as inevitable. So let’s call the conclusion of her trip a blissful anticlimax. And leave it at that.

But the truth is, for many parents of food-allergic kids, the mind spirals because we have to be at the ready constantly. There is no room to let your guard down. Anytime you get a call from the school, your heart jolts because you assume that call is from the school nurse telling you to head to the hospital because your child has gone into anaphylaxis and is en route in an ambulance.

So call us crazy. Yes, our minds spiral. We (over)prepare for any and every possible scenario because we have to. Over the last few weeks since my daughter returned from her trip, many of you asked what I did to prepare her and her host family for the “inevitable.” I took those questions as an opportunity to step away from the emotional component of being a parent of a kid with food allergies, and offer up a little practical information. Starting this week, I will share the steps I took to prepare and send my peanut/tree nut/seed allergic daughter to Asia. Consider this:

A Field Guide to Traveling Anywhere More Than 50 Miles Away From Mom

Step 1: The Emergency Kit

I went a little crazy and stocked up on these. But as I rationalized, if you’re going to send ten Epi-Pens, you might as well go the whole nine yards and own your crazy. Owing in large part to the sage advice of parents whose kids had attended the program in prior years, I wanted my daughter, her host mom, and her teacher chaperone each to have a kit. The extras were back-up in the event of theft or natural disaster.

By design, the packs I bought were an obnoxious bright red with large white crosses emblazoned on the front of the pack. All those Epi-Pens needed housing and I was feeling the obnoxiousness of the red packaging. So I selected the top sellers from Amazon, buying two SadoMedcare First Aid kits, three Smallest and Lightest First Aid Kits (yep, that is the actual brand name, but which turned out to be my favorite for its compactness), and two Verco hard-shell kits just to add a little variety in texture.

Removing the guts of each kit was a little chaotic as piles of gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, bandages, cool packs, hot packs and scary looking sewing kits took over my dining room table. Pausing to look at all of the medical essentials suddenly made the trip very, very real. It was a sobering moment understanding that I was acquiescing to this, and entrusting my child to strangers.

Into each now-empty kit, I packed:

Two Epi-Pens (always have a back-up in case a child requires a follow-up dose within 10 minutes of the first dose)

24 Alavert dissolvable (10 mg) tablets of loratadine (for lesser reactions such as tingling on the tongue, mildly itchy ear canals and throat)

A dozen Band-Aids (There will be blood. Cover and protect the injection site)

Sterile handi-wipes

A small space blanket (I know this sounds strange, but if a child goes into shock after getting injected with an Epi-Pen, the blanket will keep him or her warm until an EMT  arrives)

A copy of my daughter’s Action Plan (more on that later) in traditional Chinese

While I generally eschew any kind of charm, lapel button or bumper sticker announcing one’s opinion or political position, I couldn’t resist adding a little bling to each kit with these zipper charms. The effect was nothing short of darling.

Next post….The Medical Bracelet

In less than 24 hours, my daughter will be returning home through the Arrivals terminal at SFO, most likely a changed person. She has had an incredible two weeks living with a family who took her in as one of their own. They took her to visit all of the amazing sites of Taipei and its environs, and embraced her for who she is, making sure that every meal was safe, safe, safe for her. Photo accounts from the host mom made me feel more and more grateful each day that my daughter was in the best of hands.

And while I have anticipated a tearful, clutching reunion whereby mother and daughter can’t let go of one another, I have a feeling now that tomorrow night’s reunion will be a little cooler than I would have thought when we stayed until the last possible moment, waving our farewells through the glass dividers at SFO’s International Terminal until we couldn’t see each other anymore two weeks ago.

What started as a sojourn filled with the expected tears and fears of homesickness quickly morphed (and by that, I mean a grand total of 48 hours…) into an adventure where any documentation of her journey had to be supplied by the adults around her, namely her amazing host mom and her teacher chaperone. Both women are forever heroes in my book, simply for letting me know that my child was alive and (beyond) well, and that she was eating safely and embracing the culture of Taiwan. The very idea of sending me so much as a postcard, let alone a one-line text, is apparently passé. My child was just “too busy having a good time.”

Waves of guilt have entered my conscience as I now understand what my mom went through 20+ years ago when I left home for remote parts of the universe with so little regard for her feelings. I suppose what goes around, comes around.

I can’t say that I blame my child for her reticence to return home. Just look at these images of the adorable meals she’s been enjoying in Taipei this week. Ice in the shape of teddy bears? Rice dishes spooned into insipidly cute characters? Are you kidding me? It’s like the good people at Sanrio have thrown down the gauntlet, questioning my child’s allegiance to her country. If I was 10 years old and knew I could dine among such insipid cuteness, I too would defect.

Tomorrow’s return to the U.S. could be likened to the atmospheric re-entry of astronauts after they’ve touched the moon or lived on the space station. It may be anti-climactic, a return to normalcy, but for certain it won’t go smoothly. So long as she arrives alive and well with her medical bracelet still attached to her wrist, I know she is on the path to self-advocacy. A food-allergy mom couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

 

 

I have a confession to make. While my daughter has been enjoying her time in Asia with each passing day, I have been secretly indulging in the foods that could hospitalize her. Well, “gorging” is probably a better verb. Of all the food cravings/weaknesses/obsessions to have, mine is peanut butter. Who knew that one day I would have a child who cannot eat the one thing that truly makes me a better person?

As many of you know, I’ve been on a soapbox with our school and my daughter’s host family to ensure her safety and well-being for months now. The school administration and half the faculty avert their eyes whenever I walk through the hallways. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy: I’ve become an allergy evangelist. Every time there is a celebration involving food, I immediately email the parent community to find out who has an allergy and how we can accommodate it. And here I am, not unlike many evangelists, a complete and utter hypocrite.

For the record, I have accomplices and will name names, specifically citing my husband and my 6-year-old son. In the last week, I have made more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than God has green apples, seared tuna with toasted sesame seeds, ordered sushi without mentioning any allergies to waiters, warmed macadamia nuts to accompany the much-needed Martinis, added almond milk AND almond butter to my morning smoothies and pine nuts to pasta dishes, and cleared cartons of Haagen Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream–all without so much as a quick swipe of the sponge after cooking. While guilt-inducing, this new (albeit temporary) method of cooking has been nothing short of liberating. We have thrown caution to the wind, and my daughter has only been gone for 11 days. Wait until the college years, for by then we may own a pecan farm.

My conscience is polarized. I am a terrible person for eating the foods that are medically forbidden to my daughter despite the fact that she is thousands of miles away and most likely won’t have a reaction to my debauchery. But I am also giddy at the thought that I can serve whatever my son wants without editing a recipe or adapting a menu for the first time since I became a mom almost 11 years ago. A pathetic and silly statement that may be, but it’s a real, emotional tug-of-war.

So the question begs asking: At what point is a parent of a food-allergic child allowed to ensure the well-being and happiness of their other children who don’t have allergies? Is it OK to make allowances for that sibling (who ironically inherited my proclivity for chocolate-peanut butter milkshakes) when the proverbial cat is away?

 

We are now half-way through my daughter’s adventures in Taiwan, and I am happy to report there have been no allergic reactions! A few teary phone calls during the first two days were to be expected, but we have now reached the apex of the trip and my daughter is all smiles, painting lanterns with her host family, sampling tea at a local tea garden, bargaining with street vendors to purchase fruit, and sampling the world-renowned dumplings at Din Tai Fung. At least that is what the pictures are telling me.

It is astounding how, in the course of seven days, my chatty child’s correspondence has devolved into a series of monosyllabic responses to my stream of questioning. In all my years interviewing people for magazine articles, she is quickly becoming my most challenging interviewee to date. You know your child is having a great time on the other side of the planet when your conversations becomes wholly unsatisfactory.

“How was the first day at school?”

“OK.”

“What did you do today? Were you in class with your host sister? “

“Yes.”

“Do you want to schedule a FaceTime call with us? When is a good time?”

“OK.”

“How are you getting to school?”

“I walk.”

“Walk with your host sister?  That must be fun!

What a cool way to start the day. How long does it take?”

“I’m tired. Good night, Mommy.”

If I could shake that child from 6,600 miles away for details, I would.

It was my daughter’s host mom who came to the rescue and helped fill in the blanks about her first few days in Taipei. During this tumultuous time, she emailed me expressing concern that my child wasn’t eating very much. The first photo was of my daughter’s first breakfast of ham, egg and bun. Wow, I thought. How thoughtful and Westernized. Another photo from that first day showed a cute picture of my daughter with her new friend and host sister alongside a barbecued chicken–a whole chicken, right down to the head and feet. I chuckled to myself remembering that I had forgotten to tell my daughter about some of the culinary customs in Asia. Oh well! She’s got to find out some things on her own. This cultural exchange, I thought, is off to a fantastic start.

The next day, the host mom emailed me a photo of the carefully composed lunch of bok choi, sausage and white rice that she lovingly made and packed for my child. But she was disheartened to see that only the vegetables were eaten. We both surmised that my daughter was still jet-lagged and a little nervous. It was only day #2, so I encouraged the mom to give her a few days for the tummy to settle down and that my child would surely start to eat her usual balanced diet, cleaning her plate as she does at home.

By Wednesday, I received another email continuing to express concern that my child was not eating well. Our ever-patient host mom reported that “Maybe the cooking style of meat is not for her. She ate a flour cake and some fruit for breakfast, and for lunch she didn’t finish the rice and bean cake…I am worried she doesn’t get used to the lunch I prepared. But she liked the desserts and finished a cupcake quickly this afternoon.”

My face burned with embarrassment. This woman was going beyond the call of duty to make delicious, healthy fresh lunches every day for my American kid with food allergies. And my kid was turning up her delicate nose to new food. It was nothing short of a cultural affront. If she could manage to get a chocolate cupcake down, her tummy must be just fine. I would not stand for it. It was enough that we had put this mom through the ringer sending her oodles of information about Epi-Pens, a detailed action plan in Chinese, and an enormous box of “just-in-case” foods. But I drew the line at allowing my child half-way around the world to be a picky kid on top of all of that.

I fumed silently as I thought of all those stupid styrofoam boxes of instant noodles I had packed and shipped off as back-up. I considered taking the exorbitant shipping cost out of my daughter’s allowance for the next 10 years. And then I did the only thing I had the power to do from the other side of the world. I texted my child insisting on a live FaceTime call. “We need to talk ASAP.”

At 5AM the next morning, I found myself patiently watching and listening to my daughter go on and on about their excursions to the Confucius Temple, the Kuo Yuan Ye Museum of Cake and Pastry (where she was able to try the cakes despite being told she’s have to bring along a granola bar and abstain from the samples), and the Yang Ming Mountain National Park. My anger and frustration subsided just enough to observe how happy and confident she looked and sounded. So I let go of the lecture I was about to unload on her. She is only 10 after all, and she’s only been in this foreign country for 5 days.

When she was done with her detailed accounts (finally got those details I had been craving…), I thanked her for sharing. Then as gently as I could, I asked her how her tummy was feeling. “It’s OK.” Ugh. Dead-end. “OK, well, um, your host mom is a little worried that you aren’t eating enough. I understand that she’s been making you good lunches, but you aren’t eating much. She also said that you were eating dessert. So I’m guessing your tummy must be feeling better?”

Radio silence. OK, calling out your kid is probably not the best way to start a conversation. But I forged on with my diatribe: “I know some things look very different to what you eat at home, but you need to try everything, at least one bite. It is considered so rude if you don’t. Your host mom is busting her hump to make safe, good food, but you have to meet her halfway and at least try it, OK?”

“OK,” she replied sullenly.

This was not going well. I had popped her bubble of effusiveness and confidence. Caught between wanting to hug my kid and tell her that I was so proud of her for taking this adventure, and wanting to yell at her to get over her rudeness, I wondered how much of a  mom I really needed to be in this moment. And then I heard myself say it: “If I have to tell your host mom not to let you have dessert if you don’t eat your dinner, I will. I have that power, even from 6,000 miles away. Don’t push me, kiddo.” Not my proudest moment.

We said our goodbyes. I spent the rest of the day reliving that FaceTime call wondering how I could have handled the situation better. She’s just a kid! She’s still getting over her nerves. But no! She’s an ambassador of this country, and she needs to try everything. Her host mom is working so hard for her! She is not going to be that ugly American kid, not if I can help it.

Several hours later, I received two messages–one from my daughter and a picture from her host mom of the most gorgeous udon noodles I’ve ever seen. I was impressed by the mom’s culinary chops and will one day get the nerve to ask her for the recipe. But it was my daughter’s message that warmed my heart: “Today’s dinner was SUPER good.”

Whew. Cross-cultural relations still intact, even with precious little details.

 

*Photos courtesy of Linda Chen, host mom extraordinaire!