I have an alter-ego. And she hates to feed her daughter. HATES it.
Having a baby with a feeding disorder is awful. The cycle is all-consuming. In July, it seemed we were making progress with Eliot taking an ounce at every bottle. For the past two weeks though, she has refused just about everything - now only taking in one to three ounces a day. Everyone says it's reflux; everyone says we have to be patient, and wait it out.
"No problem," I think. "I've got about five more hours until I am certifiably crazy."
Our current feeding therapist has exhausted her efforts, and requested we see someone else. (Are we getting dumped?) We have an appointment with the head of feeding disorders for a prominent children's hospital in Atlanta this Thursday. Maybe she will have a magic trick that will help.
"Maybe she will!" says Dr. Jekyll. "I doubt it," laughs Hyde.
I'm having a difficult time finding the balance I need to deal with our situation. We are so fortunate, but I am so frustrated. 27-week twins are VERY early. We are lucky that both of them survived their birth and made it out of the NICU relatively healthy. I really do understand that. I know the sad stories; I saw them. That's why I feel so incredibly guilty for whining about my kid not loving the bottle. I should feel nothing but blessed . . .
But then, I try to feed Eliot, and every bit of blessed feels like it's biting me on the butt. And that's when my alter-ego tells me to run away from home. No, just kidding. It's not that bad yet. (It really isn't, mom.)