Four weeks of feeding therapy behind us, and Eliot is starting to show signs of progress. After watching her behavior for the past month, the therapist does not believe Eliot has an oral aversion, but instead is showing signs of disorganization. That's her diagnosis:
D-I-S-O-R-G-A-N-I-Z-E-D.
She never had enough practice with a bottle, and would therefore get stressed at the sight of one. Her tongue didn't know what to do, so her arms would begin to flail; then her head would thrust from side-to-side; and then she would break out in hysterics. If we swaddle her tightly, take her in a quiet room, dim the lights, and do some warm-up work with a pacifier, she usually attempts a bottle without problem. For the last few days, she has consistently been taking at least one ounce at most of her daily feedings (we need to work her up to twenty-eight ounces a day, so we've got a climb in front of us).
So, that's it: disorganization. I can deal with that. For Mike, however, "an everything has its place; all of my shirts face the same way in my closet; making Excel spreadsheets IS fun!" kind of guy, the news was shocking.
"Disorganized? That can't be possible."
"It can if she's my kid!"
Which she is, and boy does that explain it.
Always eager to rise to the challenge, however, Mike put his "Type A" skills to use, and became a master swaddler overnight. He now makes the best El El Bean Burrito this side of Atlanta.
