I didn't blog last night because I really didn't want to reflect upon the day. Alex's feeding therapy session was eerily reminiscent of some one those first therapy sessions with his behavioral therapist from Early Intervention in the summer of 2006, right after he was diagnosed and I was about half-way through my pregnancy with Miranda. (Having some trouble typing; Marshall replaced the keyboard on my laptop last night because the old one had been doused with apple juice one time too many, and this new one is a little stiff yet.) In an hour of therapy, he spent at least 35 minutes crying, throwing toys, hiding under the table or otherwise being completely uncooperative. It was like he sized up the situation after the first 5 minutes, recognized that this was therapy and that he was having none of it. I know being out of school for a week didn't help, since he was out of his regular "work" schedule; we do our best here at home, but we don't structure his life therapeutically. Most of my time with him is spent simply persuading him to eat, hence the need for the therapy in the first place. We tend to leave the ABA stuff to his teacher and her team at school.
Break for an hour
And Alex and I just went another 10 rounds. God, I hate this.