Reading Rashes: Our Kid’s Red Skin Humbles, Reminds

Sometime this summer, our toddler Graeme’s legs broke out in a mysterious rash. If he were a normal kid, diagnosing this random redness might have been easy. For fair-skinned, active boys there are lots of summer culprits: Heat rash, poison oak (or ivy), and bug bites all come to mind.

But because Graeme has lots of food and contact allergies, we spent a week trying to figure out what we had fed him or what he had brushed up against. There were recriminations, feelings of guilt, and a sense of profound frustration best expressed by this useful teenage expression: WTF?

By the time we correctly identified the mild malady (poison ivy), it had cleared—only to be replaced by a small blemish in the crook of his elbow that reset the cycle of self-doubt.

There’s no telling what causes all of Graeme’s skin problems. Before he was diagnosed with allergies, he had a lot of eczema, particularly in the creases of his knees and elbows. He had bad, frequent diaper rashes. And his face and torso would break out in splotches.

Those incidents were usually diet-related and have cleared up now that we are avoiding his key food triggers (peanuts, corn, soy, wheat, chicken, and egg whites). We also sent the cat packing, which cut down on hives and asthma attacks.

But we’ve had as much trouble interpreting his irregular irritations as we would reading tea leaves. When Graeme was tested for allergies, his physician ran out of space to test on his back. So we still don’t know if he’s allergic to shellfish, which we assiduously avoid, or dozens of other common allergens.

We’re not even perfect at avoiding the allergens we do know about. For example, we haven’t replaced the carpet (a haven for dust mites) in our house. The $10,000 price tag for hardwood floors is currently beyond our means.

And even after three months of managing his allergies, we still make mistakes. My wife recently cried after the bargain maple-flavored bacon she bought turned out to have high fructose corn syrup in it. Graeme’s little hands are often quicker than mine; he’s grabbed wheat-laced crackers off my own plate. And there are times when we even break the rules. Recently during a Mexican restaurant meltdown, I slipped Graeme a corn chip to keep the peace and keep us from getting kicked out.

Sometimes these lapses in attentiveness or judgment go unpunished. Sometimes the result is a particularly malignant-looking splotch of hives that stares at us accusingly.

The appearance of strange bumps and blotches on our son’s skin reminds us of our inadequacies—or our humanity?—as parents. This humility is a good thing. It may cause a few tears and turn us into dermatological detectives, but it also keeps us on our toes, each rash a call for continued vigilance.

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