Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday?

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“What?” I said, proud of how I had handled things.

“That wasn’t what you were supposed to tell her. ‘Help make him feel normal’? How about ‘Don’t call people names’?”

I could see his point. Perhaps it wasn’t the right occasion to teach Cleo about the self-esteem issues of gay boys. Especially boys who didn’t know that they were gay, or even know what “gay” is. But it’s never too early to teach a child tolerance, and so I felt my time was far from wasted.

Sometimes I think I do better with the little kids. Life is so much more clear-cut when you’re four. Pierson came out of the bathroom with poop on his hand. As you can imagine, bathroom issues in a house with six males are endless.

“There’s poop on your hands; go back in the bathroom and wash them.”

“There’s only poop one hand. Do I have to wash them both?”

In this case my message was clear and the solution was clear, on track, and nonnegotiable.

IN A WORLD THAT HAS BECOME SO POLITICALLY CORRECT THAT Santa Claus has to be careful whom he calls a ho, it’s no surprise that even the lowly peanut has become a target. There is a suburban myth floating around about a Massachusetts school district that recently evacuated a school bus of t en-year-old passengers after a stray peanut was found on the floor. Not an unclaimed backpack that could contain a bomb, not a mysterious white powdered substance. A peanut.

Once your child enters the great world of pre-k education, you are suddenly introduced to the concept that a classmate might die right in front of him if he brings a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, or in some special cases, any item in the nut or seed family. Thank God soy-based meat alternatives aren’t banned, because I don’t even know what those are. I fully acknowledge that there are children who have life-threatening nut allergies and their parents must work to ensure their safety. I am not an anaphylaxis denier. But I have to wonder—where were these kids when I was growing up? Did they just fall dead under the cafeteria table, swept up with the dropped spaghetti? What is causing the rise of the killer peanut?

There are parents with legitimate concerns, but I can’t help but believe that a few are needlessly jumping on the bandwagon. Every now and then I encounter a parent determined to have a child who is special in some way— any way—that keeps the child dependent. It’s a kind of Munchausen’s by peanut. Other kids are getting special attention, why not mine? I once knew a mother who had her son, Acheron, convinced that if he so much as looked at a peanut, he would instantaneously begin dying a torturous death by strangulation and suffocation. And, not to get off the subject, but who names their child Acheron? In Greek mythology, Acheron is the river bordering Hades. It is a branch of the river Styx, where the newly dead are ferried into hell. Basically, the kid’s name predicts a lifetime of woe that ends in misery, and his mother was going to make damn sure the prophecy came true.

She dragged Acheron around to allergists, looking for the evil airborne particles that would cause his untimely end. After endless rounds of scratch testing and other tortures, none of the doctors could find anything that he was allergic to, but his mom decided that she didn’t trust the science. Acheron was required to carry an Epi-pen around with him in a small backpack emblazoned with a red cross so he could save his own life in case of emergency—a challenge I find most eight-year-olds not exactly up for. She might as well have embroidered “Kick Me” on the little kit. Happily, no symptoms of death ever occurred, but Acheron lived in fear nonetheless—fear of peanuts and bullies.

One day Acheron’s mom called me to complain that my son had brought homemade chocolate chip cookies to school to share with his classmates. Also, she went on to tell me, I was guilty of buying her child a soft-serve cone from the Mister Softee truck on the way home from school the day I helped her out by covering pickup. Apparently Acheron had told her that he felt compelled to eat these treats because my son was his friend. I was trying to figure out why this boy would confess to his mother what he had eaten. Then she told me it was irresponsible of me to send homemade food instead of packaged food that had a label her son could scan for evil ingredients. Hang on, I put in. Homemade cookies do not come out of my house. The cookies were made from purchased gourmet dough, and there was indeed a label on the container, and Alicia had checked it. I’m not out to kill your kid with my store-bought homemade nanny-baked cookies, I said. I then suggested that perhaps our children shouldn’t play together anymore; I have no problem with your child, I told her, but the way you’re torturing him is driving me nuts.

After a brief silence, the mom mumbled something between an apology and a plea for sympathy, asking me to reconsider, as my son was one of Acheron’s very few friends—no surprise. By that time I was spooning a lump of peanut butter into my mouth and wondering what would become of this child.

Why did this woman feel the need to unnecessarily traumatize her child? Did the thought of him being in constant mortal danger give her a sense of purpose? I have no problem refraining from dipping into the Skippy if doing that will save the life of a child, but do I have to take prophylactic measures against allergies that don’t exist? Ghost allergies? Ironically, science shows that exposure to peanuts in school-age children actually reduces the risk of allergies. Avoiding nuts out of fear becomes a self-fulfilling snack-time prophecy.

As if raising healthy children isn’t time-consuming enough, how do these moms find the time or energy to deal with crises that don’t even exist? Once we get them vaccinated, checked up, louse-free, de-pinkeyed, and straight-toothed, and have the occasional broken bone set, who has time for any more medical drama?

And why do these hypervigilant parents single out nuts? If the peanut is such a threat to the general population that schools “have peanut-free zones,” why not insist on shrimp-free schools? While 3.3 million people are allergic to nuts, 6.9 million are at risk from treacherous crustaceans. Lightning causes 100 deaths per year, about as many as die from all food allergies combined. Should children be required to wear little helmets with lightning rods affixed to them?

Apparently adults need to be special these days, too. Peanut hysteria seems to be part of a wave of new serious conditions that went either unnamed or unacknowledged when I was growing up—conditions like lactose intolerance, formerly known as burping and farting; restless legs syndrome, formerly known as “Get up and take a walk;” or the grand-daddy of all illnesses that didn’t previously exist, chronic fatigue syndrome, formerly known as motherhood.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m hardly the perfect school mommy. In fact, I think I’ve given new meaning to No Child Left Behind. My worst mommy crimes tend to happen when I forget where all my kids are. My friend Libby has had to call me several times at 8:30 P.M. because I’ve forgotten to pick Truman up from an “afterschool” hangout. I’ve also gone to Beau’s house to get Truman when he’s actually at Mason’s, and one time Peik went to spend the night at Gordon’s and it took me a couple of days to figure out that he wasn’t home. Of course Alicia knew where he was, but it didn’t even occur to me to ask her. Even little Finn has made his escape from my Alcatraz by slipping unnoticed down the elevator and into the lobby before being stopped by a neighbor.

Luckily for me, my kids are very self-reliant around the apartment. They take this practice to the extreme when they are guests elsewhere—I’ve often been thanked at the late pickup time (when I’ve eventually remembered where that missing kid must be) for how gracious and helpful my son is, how he put his dishes in the sink or he played with the younger children while the mom took a shower, worked out, what have you. Still, as full as my house is, it probably wouldn’t hurt for me to do a head count around six instead of at eight-thirty, when Nicole is lining them up for baths.

I NEVER UNDERSTAND THE MOTHERS WHO GET EXCITED JUST BEFORE summer break, as if getting to sleep for thirty extra minutes in the morning is worth having to take care of your own kids all day. Sure, camp helps, but there is no camp that can possibly accommodate all five of my boys. Besides, sleepaway camps don’t take toddlers. Not for three straight months, anyway.

As September rolls around, I joyfully get the kids ready for school. I secure the necessary color-coded folders and three-ring binders. I stock up on loose-leaf paper and mechanical pencils. I fill out all the necessary forms and artfully forged vaccination records so that everything appears up-to-date. I dig out backpacks with operating zippers, and rotate summer clothes, providing easy access to back-to-school wardrobes. I line up nannies and mannies, reading tutors and homework helpers, because God knows New York City private school tuition is not enough to cover the actual cost of education. Armed with the appropriate pharmaceuticals, I can sit back and watch my carefully hatched plan spring into action: avoid the children during school hours at all costs.

This fall I made it exactly one month into classes before having to set foot on campus. Not an easy feat, but