Evelyn chews her straws.
Every time.
She bites down to stabilize with her jaw, because she hasn’t yet figured out how to protrude her lips and create the seal. I cue her.
Over and over again:
“Lips, Evie.”
“Round your lips. Kissy face!”
“Try again — this time no biting.”
And she tries. Sometimes.
But most of the time she just grins at me, proud of herself, straw flattened between her molars like a dog with a toy.
And I think to myself,
Even with all I know, even with all the diagrams I’ve drawn and the lectures I’ve given and the hours I’ve spent in feeding sessions with other people’s children…
I’m still in it too.
I’ve got three of them.
Rex — frontal and lateral lisps, sky-high palate, a tongue tie that should’ve never been released without follow-up care.
Stella — the quieter twin, with phonological processes so strong that “dog” is still “gog.”
Evelyn — bright as the sun, speaking in full adult-like conversations at two, but grinding every straw to pulp.
They are different.
Even the twins. Even the ones who shared space and oxygen and my bloodstream, who will forever share DNA.
And I’m still learning.
Still wondering what I could’ve done differently if I’d had this knowledge before they were born.
Still grieving the months I missed when they were taken from me —
the seasons when intervention could’ve made a bigger difference.
When I could’ve mothered them better.
This space is for that grief.
And that grace.
It’s for every parent who knows too much and still feels like it’s not enough.
For the therapist who still feels like a failure.
For the mom who keeps replacing chewed-up straws
because she knows
one day
the bite will ease.
And the lip seal will come.
