Crying Over Spilled Milk

When not causing her mother to cry over spilled milk, Charlotte can be found helping with household tasks. Here she assists with folding the laundry. Moments later she folded Daddy's underpants using only her head.

Not everything at our house is beautifully written prose. Not every day is full of good grammar and good fun. Some days I just can’t take it.

Before you read any further, I want to clarify—this is not a complaint, though I think sometimes we certainly have a lot to complain about. Nor is it an attempt to make it seem like our parenting job is any harder than anyone else’s. I simply don’t believe in competitive parenting. No matter how difficult Charlotte’s medical situation can be, we are both always grateful to have our grinning, goofy kid in our lives. But, some days, I do cry over spilled milk.

At least once a day, feeding Charlotte is a battle. I have to hold one or both of her little hands firmly in my hand and put the glass to her lips. If she’s remotely cooperative, she’ll drink. Today’s post-nap snack found a most uncooperative urchin. She ate well at first and then got bored. She began flailing her arms, trying to knock the cup out of my hands. (Keep in mind that Charlotte drinks best from an open cup and does not feed herself. When she knocks the cup, it’s a mess.) I took one hand, then both hands and tried to get her to drink. She threw her head around, like a horse does when it really doesn’t want to follow your instructions, in order to avoid the cup.

We took a little break and Charlotte munched on a crunchy. Then I tried again. She flailed and tossed again. Then took a sip, and then tried to remove the table from her chair. She can pull the table off of her Stokke and if it were to fall, she’d get hurt. I had to sternly tell her “no.” She laughed. We tried drinking again.
This time, Charlotte was more violently opposed to drinking and managed to knock the glass pretty hard, dousing herself.

I lost it. I ripped the bib off of her neck and pulled her out of her chair. As I put her into her baby-zoo (playpen), I started to scream and cry hysterically. So did Charlotte. I turned away from her and screamed to no one in particular that I just can’t take it anymore. There we were, mother and toddler, each crying hysterically. Charlotte mostly wanted out of her baby-zoo so she could go rescue Mommy Kitty (who I had tossed across the room during lunch because she was distracting baby). Once she had Mommy Kitty, she was just fine. She’s playing nicely now, stopping every now and then to say “Ba ba ja dee da da.” As for me, I was literally crying over spilt milk. I eventually stopped crying, but, no, I’m not just fine.

This eating problem and reflux make parenting un-fun every time we sit down to eat. Philippe and I love to cook and enjoy good food. Yet, we fight daily with our baby to get her to eat. I worry that she'll never enjoy a gastronomical experience the way we do, that she'll associate eating with her mommy's distress and anger. This is not something that goes away overnight, as normal as we work to make our lives feel and appear.

How many of my dear readers have to feed their kids this way? How many of you clean up vomit daily, after watching your kid bring it up in a painful, violent manner—we’re not talking stomach flu, we’re talking violent retching. We’re talking about the body basically rebelling. And then, the kid smiles when it’s over. She’s truly amazing. Do you have any idea how hard this is if I don’t tell you? Consider this a reality check, sent with love and gratitude that you’ve read this far.

Well, Charlotte’s pump is just about to finish her snack. What does the end of snack time mean? Well, it means just two more hours until dinner.

Martinis, anyone?