We don't do dairy

We're now almost two weeks into Life After Yogurt, and it hasn't gone as badly as I feared. I don't know if it's the dairy free, the new drugs or just a mysterious growth spurt, but suddenly the little dude is HUNGRY. I mean proper hungry - the kind where he starts crying if you don't shovel the food into his mouth fast enough. I've never seen anything like this before.

He's taken to the Alpro soya yogurts with gusto - sometimes finishing a whole adult sized pot. Yes, they're higher in sugar but frankly I don't care as long as he's eating. He's also noshing on dairy free custard which to me - a lover of all things yellow and custardy - tastes a bit wrong.

I also bought some fake cheese, but he seems to have gone off crispbreads for now, preferring to pick them up and drop them on the floor with a look of contempt on his face.

Best of all, I was overjoyed to discover that tinned spaghetti is dairy free. Oh joy! Last night he actually ate a whole (small) can of the stuff. Again - salt, sugar, blah. Again - don't care.

I did go dairy free myself too, to stop the evil cow-milkies getting into my own supply. I was quite up for the challenge - probably because when I told my partner he laughed and said "you'll never do it," which made me determined to prove him wrong. Three days on and I'm wandering wistfully up the Waitrose cheese aisle, ogling the brie. Problem? What problem.

But the funny thing was, he didn't protest as much as I thought about stopping breastfeeding. In fact he seems to like the bizarre no-milk milk they've prescribed for him, even though it smells of bleach. He's even overcome his horror of the bottle, swept aside by this manic new hunger. Well, he's got a lot of growing to do.

PS: apologies to Florence the Cow from Real People magazine whose image has been shanghaied above. I'm sorry I drew lines through you.

I. Can't. Even.

He's so ill. Four nights of violent sickness. One day where he didn't keep anything down, where there was blood in his vomit and he did nothing but cry. His cough is getting more violent, his lungs wheezier.

We took him back to the hospital to get drugs and he was given an inhaler. It takes both of us to hold him down and clamp his head in place while we puff the chemical into his lungs. His throat is sore with crying and cuddles don't help.

The night before his next dilatation is due to take place, his breathing is clear and it seems to be settling down. He wakes at 11.30 demanding a feed - handy as he's nil by mouth from midnight. He feeds. He chokes. His lungs are full of something - milk or vom, I don't know. And then he cries.

I lie in bed holding a writhing screaming wriggler in my arms and a wave of helplessness comes over me. I try cuddling him, then putting him down. I rock him and sing to him. He just screams louder.

Eventually at 2.30am I go downstairs with him and call up a baby stimulation video on my Youtube app. For some reason the sight of buzzing bees calms him for the first time in nearly three hours. At 3.30 he is asleep.

At the hospital they listen to his lungs and postpone the operation. He looks pale (probably because of the three hours' sleep) so they order blood tests. I hold him down for 25 minutes while two stressed nurses try and fail to find a vein in his white pudgy little foot. It's worse than the inhaler and tears are rolling down my cheeks. The nurse says nothing but hands me a paper towel, and I'm grateful.

The consultant says we now have to go dairy free. Me (because of my breast milk) and him. They have given me a new foul-smelling concoction, some kind of milk free milk, to try and get into him while banning yogurt and cheese, the two foods he actually likes. Oh great.

But we have to beat this reflux thing because if we don't this might happen. A huge irreversible operation. So the food fight goes on.

Just when you thought it was safe...

No matter how hard they try to make them cheerful and fun, children's wards are not happy places. There are kids crying out in pain, a little girl pushes back her curls to reveal an oxygen tube in her nose.

But the parents' faces are the worst. The kids are making the best of things, digging into the toys, rushing around the corridors or trying to guilt-trip more sweeties out of their families. But the parents stay bunched with anxious faces around each bedside. The ward is broken into little curtained bubbles of anxiety.

Yes, we are in hospital again.

We were lucky really, we went a whole year without having a stricture - which is where the scar tissue of his repair site tightens, causing the gullet to become blocked.

But just before his first birthday he developed a stinking cold which stuck around for a week. He became snotty - really, really snotty. Then he started throwing up snotty stuff, and couldn't even swallow milk.

It turns out that happy holiday we've been having from vomit wasn't just the drugs working - the stricture had been keeping the vom down for us. And that's why he couldn't eat the spaghetti pieces, no matter how small I cut them, and why he stopped being able to eat soft pear and peach.

He was taken in for a dilatation, which is where they sedate him, then push a small balloon device down his throat and inflate it, pushing the stricture out and stretching the area.

Before the stretch, his oesophagus had gone down to 4mm, it's now 1cm. He'll be back in two weeks for another one. The plan is to keep stretching the scar tissue, keeping it supple while he grows.

At least he's getting the help he needs. And although the children's ward isn't where we'd like to be, he's surrounded by amazing, hard-working professionals who keep him alive, and keep a smile on their faces while they're doing it. We've got a lot to be grateful for.

Fingerfood Meanz Heinz

We've been having a bit of a honeymoon period. A few weeks ago the doctor put him on a not-recommended but very effective drug called Domperidone. All of a sudden, the four times daily epic rivers of vom stopped.

The kid perked up. He looked more cheerful. He started to roll around a bit more - still no sign of crawling though. And just as things started to improve, we had our first appointment with the Speech and Language Therapist.

She watched him chomp happily through a selection of snacks and open his mouth wide for Mr Spoon.

So as far as she's concerned he's doing brilliantly. We just have to make sure that he experiences different textures as he grows.

With that in mind I started feeding him Things in Tins - duly mashed up with a fork of course.

Here's how it went:

Macaroni & Cheese: Hated it and who can blame him? I sampled some myself and it tastes like it's made of plastic. Sorry Heinz. I love you but you dropped the ball on this one.

Alphabetti Spaghetti: Loved it, enjoyed grabbing it with his fingers, dodging the hated spoons altogether. Unfortunately I can't seem to get the pasta mashed up small enough to go down. Lots of scary spluttering and choking ensued. Maybe when he's bigger...

Baked Beans: A hit! You can mash these things to a pulp and the texture is still thick enough for him to be able to pick them up. The only problem is it's a bit dry, so if he's in a 'I hate water' mood he does still have trouble swallowing it all down.

However he's rapidly learning what pace suits him, and learning to love feeding himself. I'm feeling hopeful.