Sadie is on a hunger strike again. She screams when we try to feed her. She jerks her head frantically from side to side in an effort to get away from the torture device that is her formula. When she takes a couple of ounces, it’s such an empty victory because I know she won’t take more. When she drinks a little I really should try to see the bottle as half empty rather than half full – but stress has a way of taking over your emotions and completely blocking optimism.
I know there are bigger problems to have but I don’t think my body can tell the difference between “losing my house” stress and “baby won’t eat much” stress. It feels the same. Heart palpitations, panic, depression, obsession, tears, playing Annie Lennox sad songs over and over, eating rice…
I’m waiting for her GI to call me back and tell me what he thinks – in his professional $300 opinion. I just don’t want to end up going the feeding tube route. Please. I. just. don’t. It’s so weird because she did great for almost a week and now we’re back to fighting over every feeding and then waking her two times a night to eat just to make up for the calories she won’t take during the day.
The doctor had prescribed that appetite stimulant which I broke down and filled yesterday. The problem is, it’s a hormone and although there are no immediate problems being seen with the drug, how do I know she won’t get her period when she’s 8 and I’ll be kicking myself? And then of course, when I call the doctor and tell him she has boobs that totally fill out her tube top at 7, he’ll blame the chicken we eat. “It contains a lot of hormones, that chicken. Much more than the hormones she took as a baby. Please don’t sue me.”
Matilda on the other end of the spectrum eats like she just finished a season competing on Survivor at every meal. I swear in a few days she’ll be going to the fridge and pouring herself a tumbler of formula on her own. She’s huge. So there’s that.