We had pizza for Shabbat dinner tonight, and Curious Girl ate a whole piece.
Not much of an accomplishment for many other children, but for CG, it's awesome. It's not her first piece of pizza, but it's still one of the very few times I can remember her becoming what my grandmother would call "a member of the clean plate club." I looked at her plate tonight and felt teary. A whole piece, gone. Into her belly.
She couldn't swallow, once upon a time. A couple of years of therapy later, she's chewing, and swallowing, and eating, and drinking. After dinner we had a pajama popsicle, and she said, "I like to eat." Wahoo!!
Her grandfather is half a continent away, recovering from a bad fall. We don't know how much he'll recover; things are hazy now, and it's hard to know what will happen. He's old, he's fragile. He's not making much progress. Last week, in the hospital, he was having trouble swallowing. He couldn't clear his mouth well. It's hard for him to finish the food they bring him--it's hard for him to start the food they bring him, since he's not always strong enough to lift it to his mouth. We're scared.
Eating. It's a precious thing, amazing, really. And the doing of it, or the not doing of it, can take my breath away.