I’ve been largely vanished this week because the baby’s been under the weather—he seemed to be getting better, and then Thursday and Friday were pretty ghastly. He was howling and howling, and he’d want to nurse and then refuse the breast, and he just kept spitting up. . . . It wasn’t until after I’d had supper on Friday that it started to come together. He had only had one other day like this, some time ago, and I remember wondering whether it might be a dairy sensitivity—but I eat dairy every day! Of course, on that particular day—and on these last couple of days, now that I think of it—I’d been drinking a lot more milk, because I was eating peanut . . . butter . . . sandwi—oh bugger.
When Mr. Book trudged home at 10:30 Friday night, he was greeted with a good news/bad news: the good news is that I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong with the baby, and I can fix it! The bad news is that I can’t have a Reece’s cup for EVER. Mr. Book has a big basket of food allergies that express themselves gastrointestinally, so I probably should have seen this coming. Poor little tyke. I spent Friday night festooned with spit-up, rocking the baby and telling him that although I was very sad about the necessity, I love him more than peanut butter and that this won’t be happening again. At least, not until we find something else that he’s sensitive to. These things go away sometimes, right?
Joey remains a sweet and cheerful child, when he’s not being sort of poisoned by his careless, allergen-ingesting mother; even on those rough days, he had periods of great sweetness and cheer, generally just before I got hungry enough to eat peanut better again. I am very fortunate. More soon!