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  • Anti-Allergy Formula Is on the Rise. Milk Allergies Might Not Be.

    Anti-Allergy Formula Is on the Rise. Milk Allergies Might Not Be.

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    This article was originally published by Undark Magazine.

    For Taylor Arnold, a registered dietitian nutritionist, feeding her second baby was not easy. At eight weeks old, he screamed when he ate and wouldn’t gain much weight. Arnold brought him to a gastroenterologist, who diagnosed him with allergic proctocolitis—an immune response to the proteins found in certain foods, which she narrowed down to cow’s milk.

    Cow’s-milk-protein allergies, or CMPA, might be on the rise—following a similar trend in other children’s food allergies—and they can upend a caregiver’s feeding plans: In many cases, a breastfeeding parent is told to eliminate dairy from their diet, or switch to a specialized hypoallergenic formula, which can be expensive.

    But although some evidence suggests that CMPA rates are climbing, the source and extent of that increase remain unclear. Some experts say that the uptick is partly because doctors are getting better at recognizing symptoms. Others claim that the condition is overdiagnosed. And among those who believe that milk-allergy rates are inflated, some suspect that the global formula industry, valued at $55 billion according to a 2022 report from the World Health Organization and UNICEF, may have an undue influence.

    Meanwhile, “no one has ever studied these kids in a systematic way,” Victoria Martin, a pediatric gastroenterologist and allergy researcher at Massachusetts General Hospital, told me. “It’s pretty unusual in disease that is this common, that has been going on for this long, that there hasn’t been more careful, controlled study.”

    This lack of clarity can leave doctors in the dark about how to diagnose the condition and leave parents with more questions than answers about how best to treat it.

    When Arnold’s son became sick with CMPA symptoms, it was “really, really stressful,” she told me. Plus, “I didn’t get a lot of support from the doctors, and that was frustrating.”

    Though the gastroenterologist recommended that she switch to formula, Arnold ultimately used a lactation consultant and gave up dairy so she could continue breastfeeding. But she said she can understand why others might not make the same choice: “A lot of moms go to formula because there’s not a lot of support for how to manage the diet.”


    Food allergies primarily come in two forms: One, called an IgE-mediated allergy, has symptoms that appear soon after ingesting a food—such as swelling, hives, or difficulty breathing—and may be confirmed by a skin-prick test. The second, which Arnold’s son was diagnosed with, is a non-IgE-mediated allergy, or food-protein-induced allergic proctocolitis, and is harder to diagnose.

    With non-IgE allergies, symptom onset doesn’t tend to happen immediately after a person eats a triggering food, and there is no definitive test to confirm a diagnosis. (Some specialists don’t like to call the condition an allergy, because it doesn’t present with classic allergy symptoms.) Instead, physicians often rely on past training, online resources, or published guidelines written by experts in the field, which list symptoms and help doctors make a treatment plan.

    Numerous such guidelines exist to help providers diagnose milk allergies, but the process is not always straightforward. “It’s a perfect storm” of vague and common symptoms and no diagnostic test, Adam Fox, a pediatric allergist and a professor at King’s College London, told me, noting that commercial interests such as formula-company marketing can also be misleading. “It’s not really a surprise that you’ve got confused patients and, frankly, a lot of very confused doctors.”

    Fox is the lead author of the International Milk Allergy in Primary Care, or iMAP, guidelines, one of many similar documents intended to help physicians diagnose CMPA. But some guidelines—including iMAP, which was known as the Milk Allergy in Primary Care Guideline until 2017—have been criticized for listing a broad range of symptoms, like colic, nonspecific rashes, and constipation, which can be common in healthy infants during the first year of their life.

    “Lots of babies cry, or they [regurgitate milk], or they get a little minor rash or something,” Michael Perkin, a pediatric allergist based in the U.K., told me. “But that doesn’t mean they’ve got a pathological process going on.”

    In a paper published online in December 2021, Perkin and colleagues found that in a food-allergy trial, nearly three-quarters of the infants’ parents reported at least two symptoms that matched the iMAP guidelines’ “mild-moderate” non-IgE-mediated cow’s-milk-allergy symptoms, such as vomiting. But another study, whose authors included Perkin and Robert Boyle, a children’s-allergy specialist at Imperial College London, reviewed available evidence and found estimated that only about 1 percent of babies have a milk allergy that has been proved by what’s called a “food challenge,” in which a person is exposed to the allergen and their reactions are monitored.

    That same study reported that as many as 14 percent of families believe their baby has a milk allergy. Another study by Boyle and colleagues showed that milk-allergy formula prescriptions increased 2.8-fold in England from 2007 to 2018. Researchers at the University of Rochester found similar trends stateside: Hypoallergenic-formula sales rose from 4.9 percent of formula sold in the U.S. in 2017 to 7.6 percent in 2019.

    Perkin and Boyle suspect that the formula industry has influenced diagnosis guidelines. In their 2020 report, published in JAMA Pediatrics, they found that 81 percent of authors who had worked on various physicians’ guidelines for the condition—including several for iMAP’s 2013 guidance—reported a financial conflict of interest with formula manufacturers.

    The formula industry also sends representatives and promotional materials to some pediatric clinics. One recent study found that about 85 percent of U.S. pediatricians surveyed reported a visit by a representative, some of whom sponsored meals with them.

    Formula companies “like people getting the idea that whenever a baby cries, or does a runny poo, or anything,” it might be a milk allergy, Boyle told me.

    In response to criticism that the guidelines have influenced the increase in specialized-formula sales, Fox, the lead author of the iMap guidelines, noted that the rise began in the early 2000s. One of the first diagnosis guidelines, meanwhile, was published in 2007. He also said that the symptoms listed in the iMAP guidelines are those outlined by the U.K.’s National Institute for Health and Care Excellence and the U.S.’s National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases.

    As for the conflicts of interest, Fox said: “We never made any money from this; there was never any money for the development of it. We’ve done this with best intentions. We absolutely recognize where that may not have turned out the way that we intended it; we have tried our best to address that.”

    Following backlash over close ties between the formula industry and health-care professionals, including author conflicts of interest, iMAP updated its guidelines in 2019. The new version responded directly to criticism and said the guidelines received no direct industry funding, but it acknowledged “a potential risk of unconscious bias” related to research funding, educational grants, and consultant fees. The authors noted that the new guidelines had tried to mitigate such influence through independent patient input.

    Fox also said he cut all formula ties in 2018, and led the British Society for Allergy & Clinical Immunology to do the same when he was president.

    I reached out to the Infant Nutrition Council of America, an association of some of the largest U.S. manufacturers of infant formula, multiple times but did not receive any comment in response.


    Though the guidelines have issues, Nigel Rollins, a pediatrician and researcher at the World Health Organization, told me, he sees the rise in diagnoses as driven by formula-industry marketing to parents, which can fuel the idea that fussiness or colic might be signs of a milk allergy. Parents then go to their pediatrician to talk about milk allergy, Rollins said, and “the family doctor isn’t actually well positioned to argue otherwise.”

    Rollins led much of the research in the 2022 report from the WHO and UNICEF, which surveyed more than 8,500 pregnant and postpartum people in eight countries (not including the U.S.). Of those participants, 51 percent were exposed to aggressive formula-milk marketing, which the report states “represents one of the most underappreciated risks to infants and young children’s health.”

    Amy Burris, a pediatric allergist and immunologist at the University of Rochester Medical Center, told me that there are many likely causes of overdiagnosis: “I don’t know that there’s one particular thing that stands out in my head as the reason it’s overdiagnosed.”

    Some physicians rely on their own criteria, rather than the guidelines, to diagnose non-IgE milk allergy—for instance, conducting a test that detects microscopic blood in stool. But Burris and Rollins both pointed out that healthy infants, or infants who have recently had a virus or stomach bug, can have traces of blood in their stool too.

    Martin, the allergy researcher at Massachusetts General Hospital, said the better way to confirm an infant dairy allergy is to reintroduce milk about a month after it has been eliminated: If the symptoms reappear, then the baby most likely has the allergy. The guidelines say to do this, but both Martin and Perkin told me that this almost never happens; parents can be reluctant to reintroduce a food if their baby seems better without it.

    “I wish every physician followed the guidelines right now, until we write better guidelines, because, unequivocally, what folks are doing not following the guidelines is worse,” Martin said, adding that kids are on a restricted diet for a longer time than they should be.


    Giving up potentially allergenic foods, including dairy, isn’t without consequences. “I think there’s a lot of potential risk in having moms unnecessarily avoid cow’s milk or other foods,” Burris said. “Also, you’re putting the breastfeeding relationship at risk.”

    By the time Burris sees a baby, she said, the mother has in many cases already given up breastfeeding after a primary-care provider suggested a food allergy, and “at that point, it’s too late to restimulate the supply.” It also remains an open question whether allergens in breast milk actually trigger infant allergies. According to Perkin, the amount of cow’s-milk protein that enters breast milk is “tiny.”

    For babies, Martin said, dietary elimination may affect sensitivity to other foods. She pointed to research indicating that early introduction of food allergens such as peanuts can reduce the likelihood of developing allergies.

    Martin also said that some babies with a CMPA diagnosis may not have to give up milk entirely. She led a 2020 study suggesting that even when parents don’t elect to make any dietary changes for babies with a non-IgE-mediated food-allergy diagnosis, they later report an improvement in their baby’s symptoms by taking other steps, such as acid suppression. But when parents do make changes to their baby’s diet, in Martin’s experience, if they later reintroduce milk, “the vast majority of them do fine,” she said. “I think some people would argue that maybe you had the wrong diagnosis initially. But I think the other possibility is that it’s the right diagnosis; it just turns around pretty fast.”

    Still, many parents who give up dairy or switch to a hypoallergenic formula report an improvement in their baby’s symptoms. Arnold said her son’s symptoms improved when she eliminated dairy. But when he was about eight months old, they reintroduced the food group to his diet, and he had no issues.

    Whether that’s because the cow’s-milk-protein allergy was short-lived or because his symptoms were due to something else is unclear. But Arnold sees moms self-diagnosing their baby with food allergies on social media, and believes that many are experiencing a placebo effect when they say their baby improves. “Nobody’s immune to that. Even me,” she said. “There’s absolutely a chance that that was the case with my baby.”

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    Christina Szalinski

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  • A Radical Idea to Split Parenting Equally

    A Radical Idea to Split Parenting Equally

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    While her wife was pregnant with their son, Aimee MacDonald took an unusual step of preparing her own body for the baby’s arrival. First she began taking hormones, and then for six weeks straight, she pumped her breasts day and night every two to three hours. This process tricked her body into a pregnant and then postpartum state so she could make breast milk. By the time the couple’s son arrived, she was pumping 27 ounces a day—enough to feed a baby—all without actually getting pregnant or giving birth.

    And so, after a 38-hour labor and emergency C-section, MacDonald’s wife could do what many mothers who just gave birth might desperately want to but cannot: rest, sleep, and recover from surgery. Meanwhile, MacDonald tried nursing their baby. She held him to her breast, and he latched right away. Over the next 15 months, the two mothers co-nursed their son, switching back and forth, trading feedings in the middle of the night. MacDonald had breastfed her older daughter the usual way—as in, by herself—a decade earlier, and she remembered the bone-deep exhaustion. She did not want that for her wife. Inducing lactation meant they could share in the ups and the downs of breastfeeding together.

    MacDonald, who lives in a small town in Nova Scotia, had never met anyone who had tried this before. People she told were routinely shocked to learn that induced lactation—making milk without pregnancy—is biologically possible. They had so many questions: Was it safe? Did she have side effects? How did it even work? But when she described how she and her wife shared nursing duties, many women told her, “I wish I had had that.”

    Induced lactation wasn’t initially developed for co-nursing. Mothers who wanted to breastfeed their adoptive babies were the first to experiment with hormones and pumping. But over time, the few experts who specialize in induced lactation told me, that has given way to more queer couples who want to share or swap nursing duties. Early in her career, Alyssa Schnell, a lactation consultant in St. Louis who herself breastfed her adopted daughter 17 years ago, found that when she suggested to same-sex couples that the non-birthing partner might try nursing, “they would be horrified.” The idea that a woman would nurse a baby she did not give birth to—common in the era of wet nurses—had become strange in our era of off-the-shelf formula. Now parents are coming to her asking to induce lactation, and more of them are interested in co-nursing.

    About a quarter of all babies in the U.S. are breastfed exclusively for six months; more than half are breastfed at least some of the time. The statistics don’t say by whom, but that’s because they don’t need to. We can assume it’s virtually always their birthing mother. Even with the help of formula, the pressure around or preference for breastfeeding means that, in many families, the work of feeding falls disproportionately on one parent. But induced lactation decouples breastfeeding from birth. By manipulating biology, parents who co-nurse are testing the limits of just how equal a relationship can truly be.


    Breastfeeding is hard work, even when it’s “natural.” Adding induced lactation is harder work still. MacDonald was putting herself on a newborn schedule weeks before her baby was even born. She pumped at home. She pumped at work. She even pumped while her wife was in labor, because skipping sessions can cause milk supply to drop. As Diane Spatz, a lactation expert at the University of Pennsylvania and Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, puts it, “You have to start pumping like a wild person.”

    MacDonald followed a version of the Newman-Goldfarb protocol, named after a pediatrician and an adoptive mother who documented and shared the process in 2000. In addition to pumping, the protocol includes birth control, which causes a surge of progesterone and estrogen akin to pregnancy hormones, and a drug called domperidone, which boosts the milk hormone prolactin. Together they biochemically prime the body for milk production. It’s unusual, Schnell told me, for a woman inducing lactation to make enough milk to feed a baby all on her own—unless she’s breastfed before, like MacDonald had—but it’s also unusual to make no milk at all.

    In the U.S., getting domperidone can be a challenge. Though the drug is widely available in Canada, Australia, and Europe, the FDA has banned it in the United States, citing the risk of abnormal heart rhythms and even death. But these heart problems have shown up only in the elderly, foreign experts have noted, and Australian scientists concluded in a 2019 review that domperidone is safe for lactation, as long as women are screened for heart conditions. But in the U.S., parents usually aren’t taking it under the supervision of a doctor. They might buy pills with a prescription at a Canadian pharmacy or surreptitiously order the drug online through overseas pharmacies. “There was a brief moment when you could only buy it in Bitcoin,” says Lauren Vallone, whose partner, Robin Berryman, induced lactation so that they could co-nurse their daughter, who was born in 2020.

    Inducing lactation felt like a DIY project to Vallone and Berryman. As a queer couple trying to start a family, though, they were also used to doing things a different way. They eventually reached out to Schnell for guidance, but they also swapped tips in a Facebook support group that had a wealth of anecdotal advice. Not that most doctors would have been helpful. Even the idea that one can breastfeed without having been pregnant isn’t widely known, Spatz told me. “Nurses are surprised about that,” she said. “Physicians don’t know that.”

    Vallone and Berryman planned to divide nursing duties 50/50, but they didn’t know exactly what that would look like. Would they trade off every other feeding? Would one nurse while the other pumped? What about when one parent went back to work? “There’s stories of people who have induced lactation, but then there’s no, like, ‘Well, what does your day look like?’” Vallone told me. They had no script to follow, so they could write their own. They envisioned giving themselves equal roles from the start, much like how many same-sex couples share a more equal division of labor, because they do not come in with the gender baggage of a heterosexual relationship.

    What Vallone and Berryman did not want was to lapse into the roles that they watched their friends fall into, where the birthing parent becomes the breastfeeding parent becomes the default parent. The arrival of a new baby is a delicate time in any relationship—for many reasons, but in no small part because it disrupts whatever division of labor was previously agreed upon. Here is a tiny helpless human, along with a mountain of new tasks necessary to keep them alive. If the baby is breastfed, now a large share of that labor can be done by only one parent. In her case against breastfeeding in The Atlantic in 2009, Hanna Rosin described how that initial inequality persists and festers over the years: “She alone fed the child, so she naturally knows better how to comfort the child, so she is the better judge to pick a school for the child and the better nurse when the child is sick, and so on.” But what if—under very specific circumstances at least—breastfeeding did not fall solely on one parent? What if instead of parenthood starting off on unequal footing, it could be perfectly equal from the very beginning?


    For a while, Vallone and Berryman did trade off feedings, and both continued to pump, because they worried that their milk supplies would drop. They tracked every ounce in a shared spreadsheet. (This careful data logging actually allowed Schnell to write a case study about the couple.) The pumping eventually became too much—they couldn’t sleep if they were pumping!—but they have kept co-nursing for two years now.

    From the early days, they saw that nursing not only nourished their baby but also soothed her when she cried, made her sleepy when she was tired but fussy. So the work of not just feeding but all-round caregiving fell on them more equally. In the morning, they could alternate one person waking up early with the baby, the other sleeping in. At night, one parent could go out with friends without racing home for bedtime or pumping a bottle of breast milk for the other to feed. Because they could each provide everything their baby wanted, they were also each freer. Breastfeeding simultaneously deepened their relationships with their baby and allowed them a life outside of that. “You really get a sense of how radical it is to have caretaking split so evenly,” Vallone said. The couple is now trying for their second child, which Berryman plans to carry. They plan to co-nurse again.

    Vallone and Berryman did, however, run into an unexpected obstacle to their co-nursing: their baby. She at one point refused to nurse on Vallone, the birthing parent, and wanted to nurse only on Berryman. Any parent is probably familiar with how babies can develop seemingly arbitrary preferences: breast over bottle, left breast over right breast, even. As they get older, toddlers, too, go through periods of wanting only one parent or another to feed, clothe, bathe, or comfort them. In this case—as in many cases—Vallone and Berryman had to be deliberate about returning to a more even state. At its most intense, Berryman would sleep away from the baby in another room; it got better over time, but it also sometimes got worse. Equality did not come easily even with two nursing parents, which perhaps isn’t surprising. The advent of formula did not magically render all marriages equal. Vallone and Berryman still had to work toward keeping their co-nursing relationship as balanced as possible. Dividing work is also, well, work.

    Not all couples who induce lactation end up splitting breastfeeding evenly. Some are not able to, and some don’t even want to. For example, one parent might choose to carry the baby while the other takes on breastfeeding. Some of the women I spoke with were primarily motivated to induce lactation to pass along their antibodies in breast milk, or to physically bond with a baby they did not carry. Even for those who never made more than a few of the roughly 25 ounces a baby typically needs every day, being able to comfort nurse—when a baby sucks more for soothing than for nourishment—was meaningful. They could nurse their baby to sleep or calm them when upset. It brought the parents closer together too: Although inducing lactation is not equivalent to pregnancy, both parents felt like their bodies were preparing for a baby together. And later, they could troubleshoot a bad latch or clogged duct together. Breastfeeding can be an isolating experience when one parent is attached to a baby eight times a day and the other looks on a bit helplessly; co-nursing made it less so.

    Because induced lactation has flown under the radar of mainstream science for so long, a lot remains unknown. A couple of small studies suggest that the protein and sugar content of induced breast milk is in the normal range, but detailed experiments into, for example, the mix of antibodies have never been done. And why are some women inducing lactation able to produce more than others? Schnell has noticed that those who have struggled with infertility or hormonal balances usually make less milk. She has worked with trans women, too, who are able to make milk, though usually not in large amounts. Men, theoretically, could lactate as well; early studies into domperidone actually noted this as a side effect. There are anecdotal reports of men breastfeeding infants, but there’s virtually no research into the phenomenon.

    One mother I interviewed, Morgan Lage, told me that her experience inducing lactation to breastfeed her daughter inspired her to train as a lactation consultant, and she hopes now to fill in some of the many unknowns. The Newman-Goldfarb protocol is widely used as the template for anyone attempting induced lactation, but no one has rigorously studied the optimal time to initiate pumping or birth control. Lage started pumping earlier than the protocol suggested, and she wonders if that’s why she was able to have a full milk supply despite never having breastfed before. She loved nursing her daughter. She loved feeling “just as important and needed” in the fleeting, precious period of infancy.

    I know what Lage means about feeling needed, though perhaps because I breastfed solo—as most mothers do—I did not always love it. Still, I remember staring at my baby’s eyelashes and toes, marveling at how nearly every molecule in her body came from mine. We did supplement with formula, too, in part because we wanted my husband to be involved in her feeding. Although the bottle satisfied her hunger, it did not always satisfy some primal need for comfort. During her most inconsolable nights, my husband would spend hours trying to soothe her with every trick in the book, only for her to fall quiet and asleep the minute I nursed her. This frustrated us both. To be needed this way was a burden and a joy. I was sorry, for both of us, that we could not share it.

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    Sarah Zhang

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