Good week, bad week

You have weeks that go really well. Weeks where the little guy will reach out, grab the sandwich right out of your hand and shove it in his mouth. Weeks where he opens his mouth wide for every spoonful and shoves handfuls of hummus in his mouth while making ummm noises with relish. And then you think - yes, we've cracked it. It's sorted. Who needs a fundoplication when he's doing so well?

Then something happens. I have no idea what - a switch flicks somewhere deep in his digestive system and suddenly his body can't handle it. The simplest things come up - spaghetti hoops or even yoghurt. He cries and coughs at night, until I go in and hold him upright, waiting for the food to give in to gravity and to the little guy's frantic swallowing.


Those are the weeks that the floor ends up looking like this after even the smallest snack. Here we have toasted soldiers, bits of egg, noodles, breadstick and, I think, bits of fish finger. The upturned takeaway container is the barf bucket we keep handy at all times. Thankfully empty at this point.

On bad weeks, you don't know whether to pressure him to eat to keep him alive and growing, or leave the decision up to him, then worry that he's getting weaker like he did last Autumn.

The last few months have been a mixture of good and bad. Brilliant triumphs, smiley faces then a week of spoon-phobia or, what's worse, hungry eating followed by painful retching and vomiting. I hope this operation works.