As a parent of a newborn, I was as naïve as they come. I had flowery illusions of bringing my swaddled daughter home, placing her in her monkey-shaped bouncy seat and watching her coo for hours until it was time to tuck her into her crib, lovey in hand.
That illusion was irrevocably shattered when my daughter decided in her first month that she no longer wanted breast milk. Or formula. Or water. And so began a multiyear journey into a special level of hell reserved for parents with children who eat to live versus the other way around.
We did it all. Appointments for the gastrointestinal tract, invasive scoping, tube and syringe feedings, emergency room visits for dehydration, feeding teams, all topped off with the frustration and feeling that if we just found the thing, the reason, she would be “cured.” But there was no thing. We had a healthy baby girl who was content to eat only enough to grow tall, but not enough to make her way onto the weight chart.
We counted the days until solid food, knowing in our hearts she would inherit our love of food, relishing mushy peas after a lifelong liquid diet. And she liked it! Apples were a smash! Plums were the nectar of the gods! Or, as we came to learn, at least the first time around. She would try anything once for the sheer novelty of it. After that? Take it or leave it. Following failed attempts at the table, we would follow her around, sliding spoonfuls into her mouth while she played.
The years marched on, as did the appetite stimulant prescriptions. While doctors counted pounds, I counted bites as though each was a medal earned in our personal nutrition marathon. I held my breath through meals, convinced that any slip on my part would land her in the hospital. For a year, the only way I could get her to eat would be to let her watch television during meals and hit pause until she took a bite. Like Pavlov’s dear dogs, she would take the bite to make the TV work again, but all bets were off once Dora said adios after 30 minutes.
Of course, she took no notice of any of it. While I tracked each ounce in a series of notebooks, she couldn’t have cared less. Because she was eating enough for her. She walked and talked and never showed any sign of suffering, other than pants falling off her nonexistent behind.
I, on the other hand, suffered greatly. I dreamt about her eating. I prayed silently that all I wanted for my birthday was for her to eat a meal. And I complained (less silently) on Facebook about the daily trials and tribulations of her food intake. The entire situation demolished me.
Eventually, she was old enough to understand the concept of nutrition. We could discuss that a rounded diet was important for growth. Today, she eats a typical kid range of foods. At her last check-up she had graduated to the 45th percentile on the weight chart. And I was happy, but it didn’t change my life. Because I had grown too. I wished only that I could time-travel back and whisper to the young mom that it would all be O.K.
This past week, my younger daughter had her two-year check-up. I couldn’t tell you exactly where she sat on the weight chart before, because she was on it. But at this appointment, the doctor told me that she had slid from the 20th percentile to the 1st, and I should schedule a weight check for the next month. And then she apologized. Because she saw my face. Suddenly, we were both back where we were all those years ago. But she told me not to worry. It wasn’t unusual to have minimal weight gain at this age.
And then something miraculous happened. I didn’t worry. I drew a long, steadying breath. And I told her O.K. That I wanted to believe her and, better still, I did. I told her we would come back, but that I would kindly ask her not to tell me where my daughter ended up on the weight chart. To tell me only if we needed to come back again or if we were all set.
For my sake, and for my daughter’s sake, I refuse to enter this weight check into a notebook. I refuse to track each bite she takes in a diary. I refuse to let my sanity be eaten alive by this number or any series of them. I have two healthy girls. And the gratitude I feel for this, and for my ability after all this time to see the bigger picture, is worth its weight in gold.