“What do you think Owen wants?”
What does he want? That’s easy. I know what he wants. He wants to eat like a normal kid and I’m sure he would NOT want that tube thing stuck inside of him!
“Maybe you’re right. But maybe he’s hungry.”
I picture my sweet boy. Not quite five years old, big wobbly head and gangly limbs. Sagging skin. Is he even 20 pounds? He’s naturally skinny, that’s all.
I reposition myself on the puffy floor cushion. It’s getting uncomfortable.
“You said feeding is a struggle. That he cries all the time. That he doesn’t swallow well and he chokes. That it’s hard to find people who know how to feed him.”
Yes, yes I said that. It’s all true. But that’s how it is with a boy like mine. Feeding is difficult, sure. But I can’t give up. He needs me to feed him.
“That last thing. Say it again.”
He needs me to feed him! I feel tears welling. Confusion and anger. Why do these interventions always feel like a trick?
My logic is floundering and I know it. One last effort to save my ego: Okay fine maybe he doesn’t but this is how people eat!
I feel exposed. Like a fraud of a mother who can’t see that her child is starving.