So I think I ate too much turkey and gluten-free pie over Thanksgiving because I can’t seem to snap out of this funk I’m in. Or maybe it’s because the season of holiday parties is upon us and I hate, hate, hate having to do the food two-step every time a well-meaning host offers me a plate of cheese . . . and then a plate of sliders . . . and then a plate of desserts.
I usually love the holidays, but this year I want to hibernate in my Snuggly with my Netflix subscription until New Year’s Day.
I think I know why I’m feeling so blue. And it’s not just that I can’t bake cookies without buying a college education’s worth of allergy-friendly ingredients, or that Breakfast with Santa means no breakfast at all.
It’s because I’m tired of the people I love STILL NOT GETTING IT.
There. I said it. On the Internet. For everyone to read.
It’s been almost six years since I first learned the food I was eating was making me sick. Six years! I’ve had time to adjust. My loved ones have had time to adjust. Yet Dear Old Mom still reminds me how I ate everything and anything as a kid (yes, I was on the plump side). Is this her way of saying the numerous doctors I’ve consulted are all wrong about my dozen plus food allergies? Does she think my celiac disease–which was passed on by my parents’ genes!–is a figment of my imagination?
Then there’s Darling Husband, the Eater of Everything. Unlike Mom, he doesn’t dispute that my allergies and celiac are real and he supports my need for a special diet.
He just doesn’t want my restrictions to restrict him.
He still insists on eating at his favorite restaurants–including the ones that gluten or soy or dairy me every time I eat there. He loves Italian food, and he doesn’t understand–or want to try to understand–why I’m fearful of restaurants that can’t help having wheat flour floating in the air. Nor does he get how monotonous the plain salmon and spinach gets after eating it every Friday night year after year.
Recently, during a rather heated discussion about where to go for dinner, Darling Husband, Eater of Everything, said, “Can I pick the restaurant this time?” As if I’d been choosing the places to eat these last years for fun–not out of the need to stay healthy and keep breathing.
And then there are those “friends,” the ones who think it’s funny to mock my special food requests after I place an order. It is not funny. It is annoying. It is hurtful.
A fellow allergic foodie recently expressed in an online support forum how upset she was when her family didn’t want to come for Thanksgiving because they didn’t like her allergy-free food. I’m pretty sure people have passed on dinner at my house for the same reason. But this was THANKSGIVING. A time for loved ones to come together and be thankful. My heart broke for her.
The one present I would like this Christmas is for my family and friends to accept and respect my food restrictions.
Otherwise, just wrap up another Snugly.