Yes, we have no bananas.

Dear New Readers who have been promised Funny. (Thanks Pru!)

I’m sincerely apologetic, but I am having a crisis. I am not funny today. Today, I am a thousand words of longwinded and horribly self-involved blathering instead. Perhaps come back next week?


I do wish I could be one of those people who react to a bit of misery by losing their appetite and going all consumptive.


Quite why I rationalise that my anxiety entitles me to roughly 1000 extra calories a day


when the hulking size of my shadow is itself a major source of angst, is totally beyond me. I am exercising, but only if you count the increasingly frantic rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, looking for something illicit to sustain me. Yesterday I emerged triumphant, waving a large packet of dark cooking chocolate clutched tightly in my grubby paw. Bit of a pyrrhic victory there, really.

This evening, I was cramming my mouth full of pancakes when Hubby came home, saw baby and I sat exhaustedly in our different corners of the kitchen, and gently enquired as to the state of affairs. This brutal approach tipped me over the emotional edge and I instantly began to sob and wail; choking horribly on my pancakes as I did so. I don’t want to die of pancakes, dammit, I’m too young.

The source of the Hairy Farmer Family anguish – because I estimate that we are all suffering to a roughly similar degree – is Harry’s refusal, for the past fortnight+, to eat. He has lost weight. He has been referred for an eating assessment, whatever one of those is. The GP I saw today drew a blank with his prodding and has told me to take him back next week if he hasn’t started to eat by then.

Fuck only knows what’s wrong with him. Besides his determination for nil-by-mouth, he wakes from sleep in a turd of a mood, and is driving us utterly barmy. Hungry, I expect.  He has, admittedly, been poorly, and still has a juicy, hacking cough. The excess phlegm (nice!) was also making him cough and choke whilst eating, making it plausible that he is now frightened of having another choking episode. He does have another toothy peg breaking the gum. And he’s always been a bit of a diva over food. I know kids do have phases like this. There’s probably no reason to worry.  

You can hear my hollow laughter, yes?

I know it doesn’t sound like much. FFS! I can hear you muttering. So he isn’t hungry; why the drama? And… yeah… it doesn’t sound like much, when I come to write it down. But I’ve cried at least twice a day all this week, and I’m ridiculously anxious about him now. Harry has been distressed and upset at every mealtime. John is worried and starting to lose patience. Two and a bit weeks is close on 50 mealtimes, and that’s an awful lot of food bowls for a baby to say No to. An insanely frustrating amount of No.

I estimate he used to eat about 8oz of food per meal; now it’s one spoonful. Maybe two or three if we’re lucky. The rest ends up either in the bin, on the floor, in us, or on us. So that’s, say, 50 x 8oz = 25lb of baby food. Plus the second meals we cooked to try and tempt him. I do not mind the waste, you understand. I just mind his trousers being looser, and his poor belly being empty to the tune of about 2 stone of needed ballast.

I’m sure he is hungry. Although he refuses deliveries via spoon, it isn’t as if he won’t actually put food IN his mouth. A small slice of cheese he will simply dive toward and stuff it happily past his gleaming row of gnashers. He begins coughing madly as it hits his tonsils, and he then has both hands up to his mouth, clawing desperately inside with his fingers to eject the food. Why he doesn’t just push it out with his tongue, I dunno, but he’s never spat food out in his life. So we tried him with soft finger food – mashed potato, squishy marrow – and he does the same: grabs it with gusto, stuffs it inside, and then scrapes whatever he can manage back out with his fingers. Even yoghurt, the ultimate Harry-yummy, is now rejected outright. Today he started to cry and shake his head when he saw John merely approach, yoghurt pot in hand.

What the fuck do we do? We’re like a pair of headless chickens here. We’re just about astute enough to realise that the more worked up we become, the more antsy he will react, so we’re always Jolly Hockey Sticks and calm about meals, even when it’s going uber-shit. We’ve tried accepting his refusals immediately, hoping he’ll eat the next meal. And we’ve tried persevering in a You’re-Not-Getting-Out-Of-That-Chair-Til-You’ve-Eaten-Something-Young-Man-type manner. And we’ve tried following him round the house all day, coaxing him to have a bite here and a bite there.

There was a tiny breakthrough this morning, when we realised that he will sit and feed himself half a banana, biting off chunks and swallowing without choking and clawing at every mouthful. Hence, he has been assiduously given a banana for breakfast, lunch, and supper, and we are now Out Of Bananas.

He has to eat properly again soon. All I can see when I shut my eyes is that bloody NG tube that he couldn’t lose.


Not in a good place currently.

Send help.

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