About halfway through that first birthday party, I questioned, albeit in haste, whether moving a child with severe nut allergies to the Middle East was a sound decision.

The day dawned perfectly for a seven-year-old’s pool party. My daughter and I arrived in high spirits, though I immediately felt underdressed in my shorts and t-shirt. It never occurred to me that this might be an occasion for high heels. I chatted with the other moms as the party dragged on for three hours, while we awaited the cake, stuck in traffic from the bakery.

I should have known it was a sign.

The Hostess assured me she confirmed twice that the cake did not contain nuts.

But clearly, the cake contained nuts.

As evidenced by the swollen red lips and the panic in my daughter’s eyes as she sprinted towards me.

The other moms gathered around us like a group of wild turkeys, squawking and twitching their feathers. Children crawled out of the pool like frogs, staring. The condominium staff, roused by the excitement, ambled toward us like curious cats.

Ignoring my own anxiety, I calmly walked my daughter into the changing room next to the pool for some privacy.

Except that the changing area was inexplicably a squat cube of a room, made exclusively of glass on three sides, without curtains. So watching on one side was the gaggle of turkeys, on another, the dripping wet frogs, and at the third stalked the cats. The only thing missing was the concession stand.

I extracted the epi pen from my purse and my girl darted to a corner of the fishbowl like a caged animal. I lunged for my sobbing, screeching child, needle ready. Finally I trapped her, grabbing her tightly around the waist and jamming the epinephrin into the top of her thigh. She screamed so loudly into my left ear that my head spun. At least she was breathing.

I dropped the used pen like a microphone, hoping for a round of applause. Outside, Team Turkey continued squawking, Frogs shivered and sobbed, and Cats screeched in Arabic. The siren of the arriving ambulance barely registered.

Once checked into the emergency room, it was me, my driver, the Hostess, her husband, her three best friends, and my daughter crowded into a cubby while a doctor, two nurses, and pulse and blood pressure machines monitored my daughter’s every breath. Together we waited the two hours to be certain there would be no secondary reaction.

The husband brought us all bottles of water. The Hostess and her friends told us their hospital stories. My driver managed all the insurance paperwork. Several Frogs called in to check on their friend. Throughout all of this, my Hostess didn’t leave my side. Not even to pee. Not once.

Upon reflection, maybe the Middle East is exactly where I want my allergic girl. Though I do wonder if we will receive any more party invitations.