Updated: Dec. 30, 2015
Originally Published: Aug. 2, 2011
I can still taste that pretzel, with its irresistible crunch and salty exterior, as I promised myself, “Just one won’t hurt.” Yet, just moments later, the bag was empty. What was going on? Had I lost all self-control?
It had only been a few weeks since my fourteen-year-old son, Jake, received a diagnosis of Celiac Disease, an autoimmune condition that wreaks havoc on the digestive system with even the tiniest morsel of wheat, rye, or barley. After a long journey of unexplained symptoms, we were relieved to finally have answers and a clear solution: a strict gluten-free diet.
When the doctor suggested that for Jake’s sake—and to avoid cross-contamination—our whole family should adopt this gluten-free lifestyle, we didn’t hesitate. Supporting Jake was our priority, and we were determined to help him feel better.
I thought going gluten-free would be a walk in the park. After all, I had navigated three pregnancies with little fuss, easily sacrificing sushi, coffee, and wine (well, mostly). My husband, eager for a healthier lifestyle, joined in on the change, while our two younger daughters happily discovered that they could still indulge in plenty of their favorite meals like steak, baked potatoes, nachos, and ice cream.
In the first few weeks, our family feasted on delicious gluten-free dishes, thanks to my husband’s culinary skills. He whipped up meals like enchiladas, barbecued ribs, and flavorful stir-fries with rice. Soon, he experimented with gluten-free pastas and flours, and to our surprise, we found ourselves genuinely impressed. “Wow, this tastes almost like the real thing!” we’d exclaim, astonished that gluten-free options could be so tasty.
I was diligent about remaining gluten-free, even when away from home. After all, Jake didn’t get to choose when or where to adhere to his diet, so why should I?
But soon, an insatiable hunger crept in. No matter how many gluten-free meals I consumed, I never felt satisfied. Lying in bed at night, I felt a dull ache in my stomach, a longing for something warm and comforting—perhaps, bread?
Eating gluten-free felt like dining in an alternate universe. Sure, the food looked normal and maybe even tasted okay at first, but by the fourth bite, it often turned overly sweet, gritty, or just plain odd. And at six bucks for a bag of gluten-free pasta or cookies, who could afford to eat enough to feel full?
Despite our initial enthusiasm, we all secretly recognized that those gluten-free substitutes were merely passable. They were only “good” in that way a castaway would appreciate the first meal after months of eating insects.
I kept my frustrations hidden, but it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t alone. My youngest daughter, Lily, started accepting odd invitations. “Really? You want to go to Jake’s T-ball game?” I asked.
“Abby said we’d grab pizza after. Sorry, Mom, but I need some gluten. I’m desperate!” she confessed.
Then, I noticed my oldest, Hannah, had missed her fifth dinner at home in a row. “Why are your study groups always at dinner time? You’re not off searching for gluten, are you?” I quipped.
“No, of course not,” she said, eyes downcast. “Well, okay, yes! I can’t help it. Gluten-free food feels like eating air. I’m starving!”
It was clear that my daughters were not just sharing my brown eyes; we were all grappling with this gluten-free ordeal together.
One day at work, I caved and indulged in those delightful pretzels. Honestly, I wouldn’t have done it if there had been gluten-free options available. As I savored those crunchy morsels, I regretted not being able to wash them down with a robust stout. It seemed pretzels were my gluten gateway drug.
However, that moment of joy quickly turned to guilt. What kind of terrible mother was I, unable to last a month without wheat for my son’s health? Was I truly addicted to gluten?
As I pondered whether to confess my slip-up to Jake while we waited at a burger joint, he asked why I didn’t just order a regular burger.
“Because we’ve committed to going gluten-free, and I want to support you,” I replied.
“It doesn’t bother me when people eat gluten in front of me. Honestly, it annoys me when they don’t eat it because of me,” he said.
“You’re sure? You won’t write about how terrible I am later?”
“No, I’m not you,” he shot back. Ouch.
So, I enjoyed my burger, bun and all, and wow, was it delicious! As I savored each bite, I admired my son’s resilience. He had managed his diagnosis and the gluten-free challenge remarkably well. Here he was, encouraging me to indulge in my cravings.
Maybe I wasn’t such a bad mom after all—or perhaps that was just my gluten addiction talking.
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