Nursing the Hyper-Allergic Baby Part III

Most of my posts on this blog so far have been about my childrens’ food sensitivities while breastfeeding. How do I know my they are allergic to what they’re allergic to? My son broke out in hives, had bloody stool and reflux if I had any dairy products. He screamed for four entire hours after I’d had a soy milk latte from Starbucks. Anything slightly gaseous would send him into a fit as he tried to pass gas with a rigid stomach. We would feed him tea of fennel and catnip to soothe him – and it did, at the cost of our breastfeeding relationship. He weaned himself at 7 months, when my milk changed in my 4th month of pregnancy with his sister. My daughter has a greater range in her sensitivities. She’s fine with soy milk (praise the Lord), but still sensitive to…

My love affair with space

I read this article this morning. In it, Greg, a man living in San Fransisco, tells-all about how he and his wife lived in his bachelor pad of 400 sq ft until their second child came along. It’s an interesting read, though a tiny bit more holier-than-thou than I typically like. I mean, I’m glad he was able to make it work – and I wish I could – but really, what woman can breastfeed from a loft bed? Or did she camp out on the couch? Or did she simply formula feed and hope her baby slept through the night? I don’t care what she did – all I know is that if I was pregnant and my husband began building a loft bed, I would have kicked him in the head. What the hell are you thinking?! I would shout,…

Adventures in Nursing the Hyper-Allergenic Baby

I had originally planned on posting every week, WITHOUT FAIL. That’s the way to launch a successful blog, I’m told. And I failed, because I’m human, and nursing what was a screaming monster-child through two separate bouts of all-nighters. There were many tears, and I can’t say I always kept my cool. But guys. Guys. We figured it out. Our monster has turned into an angel and it’s all because of one thing. An ingredient so dastardly, we hardly give it a second thought. It hides in everything, from processed foods to condiments to beer. That’s right. Beer. It’s freaking CORN SYRUP. It didn’t dawn on me until I had a conversation with my mother over the phone. It’s apparently part of our heritage that, along with high fertility and easy births, we get the most hypo-allergenic babies there ever were.…

Nursing the Hyper-Allergic Baby and The Importance of A Mama’s Time Out

I have a wonderful husband. He has grown incredibly in the last year and a half, since our son was born, and has been so supportive with the recent birth of our daughter. It’s a hard quality to find, and I oscillate between extreme gratitude and guilt. And maybe a little jealousy because, let’s face it – it sucks when someone can so blatantly show you your shortcomings by just being a decent human being, let alone an outstanding father. Both my babies have been/are extremely fussy nursers and, as we like to say (as I laugh to hide the tears), allergic to the world. I breastfeed, and wouldn’t likely switch to formula even if I could (I don’t really have a strong opinion, except that I personally don’t like formula and would rather nurse). There seems to be a consensus among doctors…

An introduction

My name is Anna. I am one of those dreaded millennials – born on the cusp of the internet, destroying advertising and business as we know it, and championing the hipster and keyboard warrior movements (well, not personally). My tender years were spent on LiveJournal – the first social-media-like blogging atmosphere (preceding, if I remember correctly, MySpace and Blogger, though cohabitating with the likes of AngelFire and Expage). Livejournal, for those who aren’t privy, was like Tumblr, but more primitive and less artistic. We were an angsty lot, wearing Jncos and plaid and listening to Garbage. Our LJ posts were closer to diary entries – we weren’t worried about our pristine online presences, and we hadn’t yet realized what a terrible and fearful thing the internet was to splash your secrets across. Like all preteens, it was a phase and…