By Lindsay Sledge 
“Mom, do you see him?” my four-year old shouts from his perch on the tire swing at the local playground. I watch my son leap off the rubber tube, stumble two steps in the gravel, and sprint to my side.
“Him who?” I ask, peering at his face.
My son points to another child, of a similar height, meandering toward a bright yellow slide. This child has brown hair, brown eyes, and brown goop oozing from the sandwich held in his sticky hands.
“I see him,” I say with a sigh, both proud of my son’s awareness and disappointed that I failed to notice as well. “He’s got peanut butter, hasn’t he?”
My son’s blond head nods up and down.
At four years of age, my son is practically fearless. He scales jungle gyms, zooms headfirst down slides, and even manages a few rungs on the monkey bars. When it comes to peanut butter, however, he is terrified.
My son has a life-threatening nut allergy with a history of anaphylactic reactions.
I vividly recall the first time. My healthy nine-month-old swayed in the kitchen high chair to the tune of “Baby Shark” playing in the background. I twisted the top off a jar of peanut butter, swirled an apple slice around, and placed it in my son’s tiny, trusting hand.
I remember the angry, red splotches that popped up on his skin. The panic of his cry turned to gasping. There was the unusual click of his tongue as it swelled in his mouth. Then the blast of the sirens blaring from the ambulance as it rushed us to the emergency room across town.
My now four-year-old tugs on my arm and brings me back to the present. “Do we have to leave the playground?” he asks.
I ruffle my fingers through his hair to reassure us both that he is okay. “Let’s see if there’s another option,” I say.
My eyes dart to the gooey child, and I search for a parent watching from close by. I spot his mother at a picnic table, holding a similar sandwich out to a younger sibling. They all have the same brown eyes.
“Hi,” I wave on my walk over, my son not far behind. “My name is Lindsay. It’s a lovely day to be outside.”
“I’m Kim,” she replies with a hint of hesitance. I offer her a smile.
“I know you don’t know us, but my son has a severe nut allergy,” I gesture to the boy hiding behind my back. “I was wondering if your kids are eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”
She looks down at her hand, and awareness flushes her face. “Yes, this is peanut butter,” she says. I watch her glance at the sandwich and then back to my son, wondering how to proceed with this unexpected interaction. For me, though, it is not unexpected. I’m used to keeping an eye out for nut products in children’s play spaces. They are, after all, a popular snack for most kids. They are, unfortunately, a top allergen for others like mine.
“It’s really no problem,” I say, trying to put Kim at ease. “I am just wondering if you could keep this food at the picnic table? That way, your kids can enjoy their meal, and my kid can stay and play?” I hold my breath and await her answer.
Kim stands up and calls out to her oldest, “Hey Sam, would you come here for a sec?” Five minutes later, her kids finish their sandwiches at the picnic table. She even pulls out wipes for their hands.
My son calls out to me once again from the tire swing. “Mom,” he grins, “Push me higher!” I place my hands on the rubber tube and push as high as my practically fearless 4-year-old desires.
All the while, my heart leaps with gratitude for Kim and her willingness to simply be kind.
by Vanessa Colangelo 
by Gretchen Hoffman 
by Laura Lemon 
