Baby Girl’s colic turned out to be a dairy allergy, so about a month ago I stopped eating dairy. Since then, she is 90% less screamy, sleeps through the night except for a midnight snack, and frequently smiles. Henry has taken to kissing her fluffy little head, Sweetie gets a full 9 hours of sleep, and I have stopped requesting white-noise headphones for my next birthday.

But.

I never noticed how much I enjoy dairy foods, but now that they are out of my life I seem to be having the world’s least satisfying meals. Toast without butter? Soup without cheese? Pasta without cream-based sauce? Cereal with soy milk? It all seems so uncivilized. And then there are those foods that must be avoided entirely: chocolate, yogurt, Brie …mmmm.

Yesterday, while I was fixing a grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich for Henry, I found myself wondering how much dairy I would have to eat to upset Cleo’s stomach: a bite? Half a bite? What if I cut a tiny corner off a slice of cheese and ate it? What if I went to a cheese shop and smelled a bunch of stinky blue cheese, would that do it? In other words: am I doomed to cheeselessness for the next few months, or is there a ration I could possibly get away with?

I didn’t realize how much this was bothering me until I had to stop reading the book I was working on, Trollope’s “Framley Parsonage”. Aside from being boring and repetitive and too full of church politics, his characters were always discussing things over tea, and the requisite mentions of butter, hot chocolate, scones, toast, and clotted cream was making me feel hungry and sad. I will pick it back up in a couple months when the girl is older and able to digest cow proteins, and I will read it with a big mug of Earl-Grey-with-milk in the other hand, and a bowl of honey yogurt in the near future.