Fox Socks and Leopard Pants and Tiger Mothers

Sophie is on another drink and food strike. She has no problem picking up a myriad of toys and putting them in her mouth, though, so I'm loathe to think it a sore throat, a toothache or a canker sore.

She doesn't seem uncomfortable -- I don't think.

The agitation I feel is probably entirely disproportionate to the problem, and I'm hard pressed to tell you why this type of thing is so very difficult for me. Maybe it's just a behavior. I've heard of older teenagers with neurological issues suddenly becoming very aggressive and difficult to manage. A long time ago, I worked with a woman on a healthcare initiative who had a young adult with epilepsy. The boy was also developmentally disabled but quite high-functioning (those are the heinous terms we use), and as his seizures decreased, his behaviors increased. He was quite uncontrollable at times and at others, severely depressed. I imagine a brain screwed up by seizures and drugs, seizures and drugs, seizures and drugs and then, finally, no seizures, no drugs, a black hole that needs to fill up, a sort of chaotic world. That depresses me.

I guess I shouldn't go there. I should put on a cheery face and not project into the future. In the moment, it's all I can do not to syringe liquid down Sophie's throat. She did finally just drink a cup of juice and water, slowly, lying on her back. I kept bringing her cup to her lips and holding it there until it dripped down her throat and her reflexes kicked in. I remained calm in a sort of willed manner and kept at it for twenty minutes.

I could never do what you do.
This is how we do it.

I can relax a bit now, tamp down the strange and primitive mother tiger fires. Wait for things to resolve.