Boys in Trouble

I. James
I was stopping at Wegmans on the way back from church, because neither Julie or I wanted to deal with cooking anything after another hectic Sunday morning, and we were almost completely out of produce.
"Hey Daddy," James called from the backseat as we pulled out of the church parking lot "Do you want to count exit signs and speed limit signs with me?"
(By the way, when James says speed limit, the first I receives a strong acute accent.)
"Sure, I'll look at those signs with you."
This is not a casual activity for James. When he looks at exit signs he sits bolt upright in his booster seat with eyes peeled. He remarks on every sign that we pass, and if anyone attempts to talk about anything else he will shush them so as to focus on the task at hand.
We made our way through the city through the light Sunday traffic over the bridge, and then pulled off at the Winton Road exit to stop at Wegmans for some victuals.
"Hey Daddy, how are we going to get back down?"
"Get back down where?"
"Get back down to where we were going?"
"Oh, I don't think we'll go back on the highway. We'll go the rest of the way home on Winton Road, up past the James Sign." (There's a sign for a St. James church on Winton Road that James points out on runs. He's still looking for a St. Owen sign.)
"But Daddy!"
I looked back and saw that he was choking back tears.
"How are we going to clap if we don't get to Exit 8?"
Exit 8 is our exit off of 590, where we pull onto Empire Boulevard. I don't think that Owen particularly cares which exit signs we're passing as we go along the highway, but James always applauds wildly when we reach our exit, and Owen is happy to join in the cheering.
"Well, tell you what. We can head back the rest of the way on the highway if you'd like."
I figured it would only add about a block to the journey, and might even be faster if the lights up Winton were unfavorable.
We picked up some brussel sprouts, some olives, and a rotisserie chicken. (By the way, the chicken salad that we made from the leftover rotisserie chicken was really good.) James had a piece of french comte wrapped in prosciutto that the sample lady was giving out. ("Daddy, this is the best cheese I've nebber had.") Owen also had a sample and then tried to impale James with his toothpick.
I pulled out onto Winton Road and started heading up towards Blossom to get over to the highway again.
"Daddy, where are we? Where's the bridge that we were on?"
"It's back the other way. We're going to head up to the highway so we can get off at Exit 8 and you guys can clap."
"But Daddy, we only got to see Exit 20! We're going to miss Exit 21, 21, 21!"
(There are, apparently, three different Exit 21 signs that mark the 590 split.)
"Sorry James, you can't get onto Exit 21 from Winton Road. But you'll get to see our exit."
The crying started in earnest as I pulled onto 590 from the Blossom Road entrance.
James, recognizing where we were, shrieked in horror.
"Oh NO, Daddy! I did not get to see Exit 6 EITHER!"
I was mostly trying not to laugh.
Less than a minute later we pulled off the highway on Exit 8, and Owen, recognizing where we were, burst into applause and cheering.
I heard "George" talking to James through his sobs.
"James, why are you crying!"
"I'm so sad! I can't even clap for Exit 8 because I'm too upset!"

II. Peanut Butter Scare
Owen gets into the dishwasher. He likes to "help" unload it when it's clean, and he's pretty good at putting spoons, forks, and knives in the right spot. The problem is that he makes no distinction between a clean and an unclean dishwasher, so if you start putting dirty dishes in he'll just pull them out again with an indignant expression. ("Hey, didn't we just take all the dishes out of this thing?")
This morning after breakfast I was loading up the dirty dishes from the morning, and I heard him rummaging around behind me. I knew that there weren't any sharp knives in the utensil drawer, so I wasn't too worried. He pit-patted out of the kitchen while I wasn't looking, and I finished loading up the bowls and plates.
A few minutes later J came into the kitchen carrying a dirty butter knife that she'd found in the library. She made to put it in the sink, and then stopped and smelled it.
It had been the knife we used for peanut buttering our toast earlier. And Owen had most certainly stolen in, carried it off, and licked it clean.
Within ten minutes he was breaking out in hives, rubbing his eyes incessantly, and turning red. We gave him benadryl and immediately dunked him in the bath.
It's hard to tell what's the result of the allergy and what's the result of the benadryl, but he's certainly been slow all morning. As J said, "He basically looks like he's drunk."
He's been snuggly and sleepy and generally kind of out of it.
On the one hand, it was good for us to see a reaction, to contain it quickly, and to know that the effects are both very real and very treatable. On the other hand, it was a scary few minutes while we watched him turn red and break out. We'll continue to remind everyone who watches him about the epipen and the list of allergens to the point of being annoying...and please feel free to remind us to the point of annoyance to never hand him off without meds and safe food.