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The yeast of our worries

I’m obsessed with clean nipples—bottle nipples, not my own. Although, if it helped, I would stick my own nipples into the sterilizer—I think they are numb enough now that they might not notice their boiling hot steam cleaning. Yet, even with my brain operating on only 4-hour chunks of sleep, I can reason that sticking...

BottlesI’m obsessed with clean nipples—bottle nipples, not my own. Although, if it helped, I would stick my own nipples into the sterilizer—I think they are numb enough now that they might not notice their boiling hot steam cleaning.

Yet, even with my brain operating on only 4-hour chunks of sleep, I can reason that sticking my own nipples into the sterilizer might be a poor choice. My son still needs to eat, and my 1991 Madonna bras still need something to fill them out. Still, I am on a mission to keep all nipples in this house clean, (my husband better watch out) because I must beat The Thrush.

At this point I will do anything to keep all nipples my baby comes into contact with germ-free. Anything to keep away the dreaded horror that is The Thrush. I like my baked goods as much as the next girl (alright maybe a little more), but since The Thrush attacked out house, yeast has officially become my nemesis. I will beat The Thrush at its own game—as soon as I eat that last pastry.

I want to be able to give my son everything, but a yeast infection never really made it to that list. What it made us both was miserable.

I don’t know who got the infection first or how it happened in the first place, but passing a yeast infection back and forth from mother to son is not the bonding experience I was wanting. My breasts ached and stung like I have never experienced, but I could stand it (especially if I stood in a hot shower). What I could not take were my son’s cries.

At the end of the day, Little E’s mouth was tired and sore. Thrush, combined with the fussiness that always started in the evenings, turned our feedings into something out of a Saw movie. You’d think I was employing the worst kind of torture on my newborn simply by trying to feed him. I can’t even imagine what the neighbors thought. It was horrible, and most nights I cried with my son until we were both exhausted.

Finally, weeks later—we have won. My baby and my boobs are all happy again. We have beat the terror that is Thrush, and I’m not going back. So, just to give you all fair warning: If you are one of our nice friends coming over to bring us food, you’d better eat all the dinner rolls before you get here—and keep your nipples covered.

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