Milo has food allergies.  And he has them bad. He’s one of those kids who has to bring his own cupcake to birthday parties and school celebrations, who has to have a shot of epinephrine close by in case he accidentally ingests an allergen, who hardly ever gets to eat in restaurants.

Which means he needs to be tested once a year to gauge the severity of his allergies and determine if he’s still scarily sensitive to seemingly benign little things like cheese curds and peanuts. We had our annual allergist appointment on New Year’s Eve.

Allergy testing can take two forms: skin testing, which is a barbaric, yet informative process where someone, usually a nurse, pokes tiny drops of suspected allergens under Milo’s skin with needles. It leads to tons of itching and much misery. The other kind is just a blood draw. Just a blood draw? Right.

 Anyone who would say that, doesn’t know Milo. He’s generally a pre-emptive crier, wailing and gnashing at the slightest hint of a glinting syringe heading in his direction. Usually a burly aide has to hold him down while the deed is done. Or I at least have to threaten to call in an aide.

On New Year’s Eve, however, he took his needle like a champ. He might have trembled a little. He might have curled his lip and opened his mouth wide, but then the scientist in him took over and he stared at his blood filling the vials.

 When the allergist told him he should eat food with tiny bits of egg and milk baked in to help him outgrow these allergies faster (not appropriate, by the way, for all allergic children), he pumped his fists and grinned. And when we left the doctor’s office, he said, with stars in his eyes, “Maybe someday I’ll get to have ice cream. And pizza.”

At that, my mom’s heart grew two sizes, and then broke into a million, tiny pieces.

We know peanut butter will never be in his future. He’s just too horrendously allergic to nuts. But yes, maybe ice cream and pizza someday. My heart can only hope.