Hold the Milk, Please!

True to form, as a California girl, I gave the whole radical nuts-and-berries diet a try.

Not really to live up to our new state's reputation (if that's what I was after, I'd go the route of smoking dope and staring at the surf all day). No, actually, it was my latest attempt at pinpointing what was causing Quinn's continued digestive disruptions when fed mother's milk.

Thankfully, she hadn't had another bout of bloody stool, but clearly wasn't tolerating breastmilk like most babies could. (This puts her in Darwin's reject pile for the second, and hopefully, last time.)

After soliciting the advice of pediatricians near and far (particularly one I used to work for at a pediatric malnutrition clinic in Boston), it seemed worth a more aggressive approach. So I stopped eating all animal products (meat/dairy), wheat, soy, peanuts, and still -- no chocolate. Gulp!

The thought was that after a few weeks my body would clear all of those potential allergens and Quinn could drink my milk without an issue. At which point, I could slowly reintroduce each as an edible item for me, and see if it caused a reaction in her.

Of course, this is where Quinn played her lotto number proving to be the one-in-a-million kid who, at a certain threshold, is allergic to her own mother's milk. Her body didn't seem to notice a difference, and so the experiment ended shortly after it began.

Being that Jack is the super-sized version of our kid, I should have just tested my milk out on him to see if he got gassy or had explosive and bloody diarrhea.

Better still, would have been if he found it to be an undiscovered hallucinogen that we could market and prosper from seeing as I have purchased and filled a deep-freezer with the stupid stuff.

Maybe I would have taken it as a sign that it just isn't stellar stuff if -- hypothetically -- I were to put a bowl of it out for our dog and if he -- hypothetically -- turned his nose up at it, and instead hunted for a treat from the catbox that suspiciously looked like an almond roca.

Hmmm . . . If only the above scenario were true might I take advantage of my parents' absence and feed my mephitic milk to their dogs, both of whom could benefit from something mildly --or even better -- potently toxic.

Maybe the bottom line is , I will have to accept that no one should be forced to drink my breastmilk . . . regardless of how unappreciated and forsaken my milk ducts would feel.

More scheming (if not milk!) to come from,
the Milkless Murphys