Red Like Rafiki

Diaper changes are sacred. Especially when someone gets farted on mid-spiritual moment. Potty problems are bad enough. Potty problems with food allergies? That’s a fucking war-zone.

This week, we live in The Lion King, so we’ve got new names. “Zazu” (10 ish months) has a digestive system made of wet tissue and bad intentions. One mishap and it’s Code Brown: Diarrhea Edition.

So there I am, on the front lines. Wipes flying, butt cream smearing, trying not to inhale. Sis (“Nala,” age 3) is standing next to me on her tippy toes, a nosy stage mom. She gasped: “Aww, my poor little Zazu… your butt is red like RAFIKI.” I nearly collapsed. She meant it with love. Deep, weird, toddler love. Clean-up complete. Gave Nala a high five for her moral support and unsolicited commentary. Circle of life, babe.

Living life on food allergy alert is just a high-stakes escape room run by toddlers and dairy. I think I’ve covered every base. No milk in reach, snacks double checked…safe pantry. Egg and milk are the enemies. He can sometimes tolerate them when they’re baked into something dense enough to sink a boat, but that’s a tightrope walk I didn’t sign up for. It’s exhausting. It’s constant.

But here’s the part that wrecks my heart, Bubs handles it all like a champ. Seizure survivor (more on that trauma bomb another day), allergy warrior, toddler brother to a pint-sized gladiator who shows love through aerial assaults…he’s been through it. Yet, he’s unbothered, unstoppable, and somehow still squishy as hell. This kid doesn’t ask for much. Pretty much just snacks and a playlist that slaps! He’s consistent. Meanwhile I’m over here playing allergy roulette and trying not to cry in the pantry.