Losing Battle?

NO!

I went to Mensajeros for a few hours today. I took Pancho straight to the park to lie in the sun for about an hour and a half. He was very sensitive to touch, moreso than normal; he frequently reached for my hand, but cringed and wailed when I reached for his. He preferred to rest his head on the cement rather than my thigh, which has not been the trend in previous park visits. For the first time ever, he didn't fight me when we walked back to the house. He seemed physically well, walking relatively quickly and with a good, strong grip on my hand.

Eating was another story. He became very agitated when we sat down to eat lunch, shaking his head from side to side after every bite. You can imagine what happened--sprinkler soup. He finally stopped spitting soup, but proceeded to dump the bowl all over the table. Carmen sent him to his room to "think about it." He cried and banged on the wall the rest of the time I was there.

I had noticed this before, but today I was struck by how long his eyelashes are. They're almost double what I would consider the average length, and whispy like newborn curls. He's 17! I had been thinking more like 13, 14, but Carmen told me he's 17, and then proceeded to explain why he's been "acting up." I didn't understand, but I got the feeling it was something like "he's going through 'the phase.'" Whatever that means. The unexplainable, uncomfortable, complicated inconveniences of growing up.

Poor Teresa has a bladder infection, and I suspect she's had it for more than a week judging by her behavior--scratching, pointing, crying, lack of energy. Miserable. She almost always has some owey to occupy her thoughts. She gets little scratches on her hands or a pimple on her face and then will not stop touching and picking, so small wounds that should heal in a week are there for a month. There's no such thing as a sterile environment, either. Tough.

Maria's hair was done in pigtails today, and she looked absolutely adorable in a ruffly little tanktop. She's very, very thin, but has shape like a young woman. Seeing her physical appearance throws me for a loop, because she is such a typical toddler in the way that she plays. She's posessive with toys, very needy for attention, and finds joy in the smallest entertainment. She will play with a plastic bag all afternoon, squeezing and opening, twisting and turning. I only wish it wasn't trash...

One woman's trash is another's treasure, huh? (Yes, I said woman.)