"I wouldn't say he's far behind. But yeah, he's behind."
With those words, my heart broke into a million tiny pieces. Just like the supposedly unbreakable Corelle bowl that Spence broke the night before when he ceremoniously rejected my attempt at prunes. (Yes, prunes. The love was a one time event.)
I just stared at the doctor. Her resident looked on, nodding knowingly. She looked to be about 24.
"If he doesn't start opening up his mouth and eating solids, he'll need to go see a specialist. He most likely has oral aversion."
Oral aversion? From the boy that nurses 24/7? What about kids developing in their own time? And the fact that he's only 8 months? Doesn't breast milk provide all the nutrition he needs until age 1? You rarely meet a healthy kid, which he is, who doesn't ever eat. Breastfeeding 18 year olds? I don't think so.
But, I nodded. Terrified.
"And how does he do with the Gerber Puffs? Yo Baby? ... What? You haven't given him Gerber Puffs?"
Call the Bad Mom Police. I have denied the boy Gerber Puffs. If you opt out of capitalism, you need to go see a specialist.
"Yes, he has another four weeks to see if he develops before we'll refer him. And how's he sleeping?"
I should have just walked out. It was a trick question. I had been counseled by friends to just lie in these situations, but like cows to the slaughter... I told her.
There was a whirlwind of words, clicking of cry-it-out, and doctor-giggles masked as empathy and then Spence and I were walking out of the doctor's office. A full 90 minutes after we walked in.
It took me a good 11 hours to realize that the doctor was full of shit. Before then, there were lots of self-doubt, fear and sweet potato Gerber Puffs. And now?
He's starting to feed himself. Sucker.