He is standing 10 feet away from me as I talk an injured Max into rejoining his gymnastics class. My back is turned for such a short time and he is just watching a Baby Einstein video on a portable DVD player which another mother has brought for her daughter. As I turn back around what is it I yell? "Owen!" or "No!" or "Oh my God!". I don't exactly recall.
There in his hand, touching his lips is one of those little pretzel sandwich things. What is in the middle?
"He's allergic." I say pulling him to face me.
"It's just cheese!" the mother replies, her face concerned, contrite.
"He's allergic to milk." I say.
"I am so sorry!" she says "I think he only got part of the pretzel."
The sandwich does appear whole. No hives on Owen. Caught in the nick of time.
Honestly, even when Max was younger than two, he did not accept food from anyone but me. He did not pick up food and just eat it. I always thought he had such a great sense of self-preservation. He always just seemed to know. I swear some of his first words were "Read label?" It was a blessing for him to be so conscientious and a curse that food (sometimes even safe food) was considered the enemy.
Owen on the other hand has no sense of self-preservation. If it looks edible he is going to try it. Again, a blessing and a curse. A blessing that he will try and like so many foods, a curse because he doesn't seem to inherently know his boundaries like Max does.