I feel kind of like a baby bird pushed out of the nest by its mother, forced to fly and fend for itself. The analogy doesn’t quite fit—I’m not a baby and this isn’t the first time I’ve been on my own—but the feeling lingers despite the obvious discrepancies.
Last week I took Alex and Ben to the Feeding Clinic. Brief recap: For years these two little ones have struggled with below-the-charts growth, severely limited diets, inadequate nutrition, and the threat of “failure to thrive” diagnoses. We took them to the Feeding Clinic to “fix” this, and apparently we’ve succeeded.
My boys are hardly weighty fellows. They’re on the growth charts now, but the 90/10 trajectory (in Alex’s case) persists—that’s 90th percentile for height and 10th percentile for weight, or tall and skinny in lay terms. Ben isn’t quite so tall, but he’s on the skinny side.
We’ve done all we can. They’ve maintained their own growth trajectory, we’ve succeeded in introducing needed nutritional supplements (meaning they actually consume them), and they’re all-around healthy.
All good things.
But now the visits to the Feeding Clinic are at an end. They’re not needed any more. The great, supportive team that has helped us so much and have supported us so well, have succeeded and are no longer needed. And I know it’s time. It’s just that…
I’m going to miss them.