Diary of a Dairy Addict

Criminy. Paigey’s skin is still miserable. Or possibly even miserabler than it was.

Given the apocalyptic heat wave we’re having it’s no surprise that she’s got a heat rash on her yeast infection on her eczema. She’s scratched the shit out of all of the above. Oh, and let’s no forget the cradle cap. The poor girl’s just a mess.

Oddly, she’s devoid of a diaper rash, but as I write this I’m sure the most unimaginably vile one is starting to fester in her diaper.

Of course I’d just be undone about the whole dermal nightmare if it weren’t for the fact that coming off of dairy has been my own personal torture. It makes the scene in Train Spotting when the guy gets off heroine look like mild discomfort.

You might think I’m being a bit dramatic. Actually, like any good addict I think I’ve managed the problem well by throwing myself head over heels into another compulsion–stuffing myself silly with soy. I’ve got the vanilla soy milk, the soy ice cream, and the little Tofutti ‘ice cream’ sandwiches. I was also poised to buy some soy cheese, but when Sacha pointed out that the package said “American cheese flavor” I had to toss it back onto the shelf. (Even I have my limits.) It’s neither delicious nor convenient eating this way, but better a shoddy stand-in than none at all.

So today, in the throes of this heat wave as I’m happily packing the beach bag to meet the Friday Mamas at the lake and thinking ruefully of all the poor saps sitting in their cubicles, I look down at the poor red blotchy baby and have a stunning moment of maternal maturity. This baby, thought I, needs to go to the doctor before the heat wave rages on through the weekend, exacerbating her dermal woes and leaving her indistinguishable from Rosemary’s baby. (Or why I imagine Rosemary’s baby to have looked like. Did they ever actually show it in the movie?)

And so, in our squeezed-us-in-appointment, before even taking off her clothes to show him the really awful parts, Dr. Robbins, (a.k.a. our friend Dan) takes one look at smiley crusty Paige and says, “Oh yeah. Wow. So we need to really deal with this.”

And by we, guess who he means? Me.

Like some John Hughes movie I’m sure it’s easy to see where this story line is going. No, the popular boy at school isn’t going to suddenly see past Paige’s pustules and ask her to the prom. The treatment is I’m being told to stop eating soy too. Apparently one-third of the people who have dairy issues eventually develop soy ones too. And it’s looking like Paige is in that unlucky third.

Dan asked me to be exceptionally strict and vigilant about it too. No soy or dairy at all, not even a little butter used for cooking. I’ve got to totally cut it out of my diet altogether, and in ten days take hopefully-improved Paige to a dermatologist, and we’ll take it from there.

The fabulous week-old espresso machine that I got for my birthday will now need to be squirreled away in the basement so I’m not taunted by it. I mean, I don’t want to pull some kind of Kitty Dukakis move by making myself a latte using nail polish remover instead of milk or something. That’d just bring shame upon the whole family.

I know, I know what you’re thinking. The poor baby is suffering a horrible bodily pestilence and all I can think about is myself. But really, I do feel sorry for both of us.

Now poor Paigey now has a second prescription funk-fighter that’s steroidal. Three times a day I’m coating her with two different stinky creams that are probably one-part nuclear waste.  You try to be all healthy and groovy and organic, then you have to use something like that on your sweet little infant. Steroids! She’ll be in a ‘roid rage throwing punches at innocents in a bar before you know it. (Hopefully she won’t develop that ridge across her eyebrows that looks all Cro-Magnon.)

Okay, Kate’s awake and we’re off to run through the sprinkler. Hopefully I’ll wash away my bad attitude while I’m at it.