If I eat asparagus, will it make the baby's pee smell funny?

So anyway, internet, my boobs work. And there was something very satisfying about going to the little one's first pediatrician appointment, seven days after we brought him home from the hospital, and learning that he had gained three ounces over his birthweight already. Hey, I did that! I made that baby.

And I was continuing to make him every time he cried to eat. Every cell in that baby's body came from me in some way. And what a magnificent baby! Not to be vain or anything, but I am like a god, you guys. I mean, I can't even make cupcakes from a mix, but I made a baby from scratch, internet. And then made it grow.

And that was all heady, beautiful stuff right up until the first time the baby had awful gas. Uh oh, what did I do wrong? Every cell in that baby's body came from me, right?

So did my breastmilk contain too much lactose? Was I overfeeding him? Was I drinking too little water, and dehydrating him? Or too much, and messing up the chemical balance of the milk? Was I switching him to the second side too quickly, resulting in a foremilk/hindmilk imbalance? Was he latching incorrectly, and sucking in air while he nursed? Was my breastmilk short on the good bacteria I was supposed to be contributing to his digestive tract? Were any of the medications I take bothering him?

Should I give up dairy?
Or soy?
Or beans and broccoli?
Or eggs?
Or spicy foods?
Or chocolate?
Or caffeine? (Ha ha! On two hours' sleep, I'm going to give up caffeine?! Can I get a "hell no" y'all?)

How about I just give up food altogether? My breastmilk would be pure as the first snowfall in Manitoba, free of the pesky detritus of my complicated life.

Thankfully, no one suggested that I give up my one carefully rationed and much-savored alcoholic beverage of the day. That would be a negatory, good buddy. I'll stop eating any damn thing that might help, but you can have my poor little beer when you pry it from my cold, dead, desperate, and weary hands.

I had hoped, rather tautologically I suppose, that once the baby was born, any problems with the baby would be problems with the baby. But instead we were back where we had been all along, where any problems with the baby were problems with my defective body.

Or hell, maybe they weren't. Maybe the little guy's tummy problems were just his own thing, and nothing I could do to alter the composition, quantity, or dilution of my milk would make one damn bit of difference. The thing is, we had no way of knowing. So, that sucked.

And I guess I'm not much like a god after all.