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?