Naughty Mommy

I had a frappe.  A big, delicious, foamy vanilla frappe.

Rhys and Quin spent the next two days blowing chunks.  I would use the more refined term "spitting up," but that gives the impression of something almost delicate, and definitely watery.  The yellow curds and clumps that spurted from their poor little mouths were not delicate, nor were they watery.

Dairy allergy?  Confirmed.

Interesting, because I asked our doctor at the last visit if there was any test that could be performed to confirm such an allergy, and she said no.  Apparently what she meant is that there is no humane test.  But inhumane, weak-willed mother tests?  Totally exist.

It is my sincere hope that the memory of my sweet babes bathed in vomit will last me through the summer and its wistful ice cream season, and that this memory will dissuade me from another weak moment where I gorge myself on the evil delights of dairy.

I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I am supremely excited to say that I HAVE found some worthy alternatives to delicious food that I now cannot eat.  The most heavenly and amazing of these alternatives is Pure Decadence Coconut Milk Soy Free and Dairy Free Frozen Dessert.  Or, in more succinct terms, coconut milk ice cream.  Holy Wow.  I don't care if you're allowed all the ice cream you can stomach.  Try this stuff.  It is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.  I would eat it even if I were allowed dairy.  It's that good.  And I am not a "substitutions" kinda girl.  Margarine?  Sucks (and, it just so happens, is not any healthier than butter.)  Sugar substitutes?  I spit on you.     Tofurky?  You're not fooling me.  Give me the damn bird.  But Pure Decadence?  Pure, and decadent.

In addition to my rapidly growing addiction to coconut milk ice cream, I've also managed to develop quite the palate for lactation cookies.  These call for butter, which I'm now substituting with coconut oil.  Coconuts kind of rock my world these days.  If you are a person who is currently lactating, thinking of lactating, or not lactating at all, I HIGHLY recommend these cookies.  They are delicious.  And kind of healthy.  And I ate 15 today.  Really.  Actually maybe more.

Because I know you're wondering, let me quench your thirst for more knowledge about these intriguing morsels:

Yes, they increase milk supply.

No, you will not develop breasts or miraculous lactation just by eating them.  Ask my husband.

If you're going to make them, and I highly suggest it, don't cook them for more than 8 minutes.  They should look kind of raw and puffy when they come out of the oven.  They'll set up.

I'm searching for a good closing line.  Maybe a little wisdom to impart.  But really?  I'm drinking a Guinness and thinking about food.  That's my wisdom for now.  Guinness and food.

And I should mention.  I'm writing this post in advance for future publishing.  So if it's time stamped something like 9AM, please try to convince yourself that I have not yet resorted to pouring Guinness on my morning granola.  Although I think that would be pretty heavenly.

A Scathing Letter to Infant GERD

Dear Infant GERD,

We haven't spoken in a while. This is my fault as much as yours. I have been busy cleaning up projectile vomit and attempting to soothe my hysterical four month old, who seems to dislike your presence as much as myself.

This breakdown in communication is frankly unhealthy. I would appreciate some form of advance notice before you decide to make my child's life a living hell. Your drop in visits at 3am are pretty passive aggressive, and attacking a sleeping baby is totally unconscionable. My attempts to discreetly send you on your way have gone unnoticed. I douse you with Zantac, with Chamomilla, and yet you persist. Something needs to change.

Perhaps you're unaware of who you're messing with. This mama can get scrappy. Because seriously, GERD, I'm on like zero sleep and way too much sugar for me to take this any longer. Let me start by getting all up in your face with a little verbal assault.

GERD, you are a humongous asshole. When I finally get my exhausted hands on you, I will poke you in the eyeball with a splintered toothpick. Your whole family is ugly. You think you're so cool, but every time you leave the room everyone laughs at you. You know all that puking you cause my son to do? I'm saving that puke. In a plastic baggie tied up with an elastic band. And when I catch you, you're gonna drink it. And smile. You'll have no choice because I'll be holding a large meat cleaver to your head.

Meditate on that for a while, GERD. But keep coming on over, really. I look forward to the opportunity to put my splintered toothpicks to good use.

In the meantime, I suppose it's time to call the doctor.

Tuesday

I'm a wee bit hormonal.

Case in point: I called my husband on his way to work this morning, crying rather hysterically because he forgot to bring the laundry downstairs for me. Clearly, he forgot this extremely important task because he no longer loves me.

Perhaps you're wondering why I don't bring the damn laundry downstairs myself? Well normally I would, but it just so happens that being two days post egg retrieval (12 eggies!), my ovaries hurt.

Normally, I'm a delight to be married to. And for all of you who are jealous of my sweet husband, wishing that you were married to me, let me assure you that YOU DO NOT want to be married to me this week. Despite all of my beauty, charm, and wit, despite my fantastic cooking skills and domestic fortitude, I seem to be lacking in the sanity department.

I think that this is justified for a variety of reasons.

1. I have ten fertilized eggs sitting in a petri dish in Boston waiting for their mommy. My uterus is much more comfy than some sterile petri dish. Clearly, I'm suffering seperation anxiety.

2. My house absolutely has to be meticulously and spotlessly clean. And it's not. If I do not get it perfectly clean in the next few hours, my eggies might prefer to continue their petri dish inhabitation. And it's hard to clean, cause my ovaries hurt.

3. I am testing a not-yet-FDA approved form of Progesterone. Was this really a good idea? For the next 3-12 weeks, my woo-woo is home to what looks like a big, foamy life-saver. And last night it made me puke up popcorn. Have you ever puked up popcorn before? All those little kernally things get just as stuck on their way back up as they do on their way down. More so, even. I still have kernals in my nose. And I am NOT a puker. I'm the type of girl who will throw up in my mouth a little and then swallow it back down to avoid puking for real. So let me tell you I do not appreciate violently puking popcorn for close to 30 minutes. Plus, I don't think it's normal or healthy to puke blood.

4. I'm trying to make sure my uterus is prepped to be a good home to my eggies. And it's a lot of damn pressure.