Chapter 11: Honey

Should I have a kid? Idk, let’s find out.

On a Monday in September, I wake up to sunshine, freshly-baked bread, and the resolve that today, I’m going to have a good day.

See, I feel I’ve finally caught my breath—

From her birth nine months ago and the fuzzy, sleepless stretch thereafter, my dad’s passing on the first day of spring followed by my brother’s wedding in Oaxaca only nine days later; a summer of family flights— over the ocean, cross-country—momentous introductions, vacations, one fantasy football draft, a memorial, and a baptism, all punctuated by my wife’s birthday, which we celebrate with the ultimate commitment to home, the purchase of a breadmaker.

Not just any breadmaker, the best breadmaker— the most important addition to our lives in, well, nine months. It looks like a fax machine and produces perfect loaves every time and today, on the day I’ve finally caught my breath, the Zojirushi Home Bakery Virtuoso has greeted us with a fresh loaf of whole wheat.

The night prior, all I had to do was measure out the ingredients per the instructions, toss them into the machine, schedule its completion time (5:55 AM, to coincide with the sunrise), and then wake to a house full of love yeast and hope.

Eleanor retrieves Ava from her crib, I head to the kitchen to fetch coffee and warm, buttered bread, then we reconvene back in bed to bask in the first day of the rest of our lives.

The bread is delicious; I roll up a morsel for baby and hand it to Eleanor, who feeds it to her. Then, she immediately asks—

There’s no honey in this, right?

Uhhh…

There is.

The recipe called for it. It’s the Zojirushi Home Bakery Virtuoso, we do exactly what it says and it rewards us a breadful bounty.

Eleanor’s eyes go wide. SHE CAN’T HAVE HONEY.

… What?

BABE. BABIES CAN’T HAVE HONEY.

While she fishes the morsel, or what’s left of it, out of Ava’s mouth, she continues to inform me—

IT CAN CAUSE BOTULISM.

What??? I’ve never heard this word before. How does Eleanor know it and I don’t?

So, apparently our pediatrician mentioned it when we started baby on solids and somehow, some-freaking-how, I managed to miss this critical point.

We phone the doctor’s office and wait for the call-back, sitting rigidly against our headboard while Ava lays there, perhaps wondering what happened to the good vibes.

I look up “botulism,” which I don’t even know how to spell, but Google shows me the way. I’m certain I’m following in the digital footprints of other negligent parents, and I don’t care that I have company, I just do not want to be here.

Botulism is a rare but serious bacterial infection that causes paralysis. It is caused by the bacterium Clostridium botulinum, which produces a potent neurotoxin.

My heart drops. The pediatrician, Dr. Krieger, rings back.

I’m hoping that she’ll dismiss our worry with a hand wave — she’ll say that this particular threat doesn’t apply to our situation, to our baby, to our Monday, which was meant to be a good day. But no.

Instead she asks follow-up questions, the kinds you ask when you’re really concerned.

How much honey was in the loaf? Two tablespoons.

How much did she eat? A morsel, if that.

Was the honey cooked or raw? … We have to think about that one for a second. Cooked. Baked is cooked, so it was cooked.

Okay. The pediatrician takes a beat. “Cooked” should be fine.

Oh thank god.

And it was cooked, absolutely! Baked for 3 hours and 15 minutes in the Zojirushi Home Bakery Virtuoso. No, I didn’t slather raw honey on a slab of bread like an ancient noble and no, I didn’t hand my baby the plastic squeeze-bear and let her go to town like a deadbeat. I abided by a recipe and made fresh bread free of preservatives to nourish my family, not strike them down at dawn!

Cooked should be fine, Dr. Krieger assures us before ending the call. We exhale. We take a beat. BUZZ BUZZ. She’s calling back. We inhale.

She’s reviewed the latest literature and is now circling back with less-than-ideal news: cooked is NOT necessarily fine. We need to keep an eye on Ava all day.

If she shows any signs of “droopiness,” we’re to take her to the ER right away.

“Droopiness.” I picture my little action baby “drooping” because I fucked up and it breaks my heart. Oh, honey.

I’m so mad at myself.

How did I miss this? I don’t know, but as far as guesses, I can venture more than a few:

I was in the doctor’s office, preoccupied. I was holding Ava, who was being cute and squirmy. I was bracing for her shots, which make her cry big fat tears and me and Eleanor, tiny, more discrete ones. I was tired, surely. I was distracted by the giant Minnie Mouse on the wall. I was admiring her growth chart, which had her smack dab in the middle of the bell curve despite being born a bit small. I was basking in the fact that I’d just asked a good question and let the answer go in one ear, out the other. I was being the “chill” parent while Eleanor took notes. I was admiring the trophy I’d just received, just from being a dad who shows up.

I’m mad at honey.

Betrayed, really.

I’d counted it as one of the more wholesome things in this chaotic world. I’m out here worried about microplastics, fascism, and raised Ford F1-50s that can not see children in the crosswalk but it’s the nectar of the bumblebee that could be our downfall. Next I’ll learn that considering the daffodil can kill you and rainbows cause night blindness.

I’m mad I wasn’t MADE to know this.

Why do I know that dogs can’t have chocolate but I’m only hearing about the Honeythreat™ posed to all babies is right now, moments too late! From the moment the algorithm detected conception, we should have been fed anti-honey propoganda: Pooh holding a sickle, killer bees and the whatnot, and made to take a No Honey Oath.

For a split second, I consider blaming the Zojirushi. But no, I could never.

More than anything, I’m embarrassed. Whatever, who cares about all that right now—

All that matters is we make it through this day, this Monday, the one that’s supposed to be a good day, with no signs of droop.

Today, we have the help of our part-time nanny, which was part of the original good day. It was a day to get good work done, and a day to catch my breath. Instead, I’ll be at my desk, half-heartedly checking off to-do boxes while I wonder and worry.

I recently asked my mom what her least favorite part of being a mother is. Her answer: the worry.

Mom used to hitchike, bushwack, date musicians and in one fateful case, even marry one. Now she sends me articles about the potential of mudslides in my very general region, just so I know. Nobody sets out to be a worrier.

I could very well be a worrier myself.

I can picture every worst case scenario, with vividity and sharp dialogue. I can spiral, hover, and obsess with the best of them. And so I steer myself sharply in the other direction, self-issuing constant reminders to breathe, to enjoy whatever I might be enjoying, to give myself a break now and th—

— Oops! I gave myself a break and now I’m sat here wondering if a microscopic spore that can live in honey is preparing an attack on my child.

Ava goes down for her late-morning nap, and she’s her usual self, nothing’s awry.

Of course, there’s a massive gap between worrying all the live-long-day and paying full attention at the doctor’s. And if there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s this—

I can not force Eleanor into being the one and only backstop, the one who must always take notes. Left to my own earthy ways, I could see myself praising honey as a source of “unrefined sugar,” buying one of those honeywands, drizzling it across her highchair and calling it “nature’s dessert.”

There’s a time to show up, and there’s a time to lock in. A time to swing Ava by her ankles, throw her into the air but watch out for ceiling fans, let her eat a little sand and no honey we do not chew on that rock. Just get us through this one day with no signs of drooping and I’ll find that balance, I swear it.

Ava wakes up from her nap, still herself as we know her. She’s had a perfectly normal morning, and she’ll go on to have a lovely afternoon, dinner, bathtime bedtime and Monday.

A few weeks later, I’ll be calling in takeout from a Thai spot for the three of us. I confirm over the phone — there’s no honey in the pad see ew, or the cashew stir fry, of course there’s not, why would there be? But I confirm again in person, the lady goes so far as to check with the kitchen, and inquires about my anti-honey agenda. I tell her, she exclaims—

Babies can’t have honey???

No, babies can not have honey, they absolutely can not.

Should I have a kid? Idk, let’s find out!