We have been having hard time convincing you that your food is not going to burn your stomach. It's been 3 days, each time I brought food to your mouth, you whip your head around or block it with your lips sealed like I am going to force a pair of scissors in to cut your tongue off.
Your father believes it's because you are teething. AGAIN! Like you have 900 teeth to be grown for the rest of your life that the sole purpose of having teeth does not apply to you. By the time your 900 teeth are done growing, you die.
On the rare occasion that you do eat your father and I become very still and silent, afraid that if we ever breathe, the direction of air in the room might be altered, and it will completely change your mind and turn away the fork from your mouth. However, we cannot control everything. And you always change your mind. The situation has become so maddening that sometimes I just let it go and leave food there in front of you before I bang my head into the brick wall. And all you want to do with the food is to create art on your face, hair and the hardwood floor - a hippie protesting with body art on a hunger strike.
Usually both your father and I run out of words to describe our pain. We simply read each other's mind - if I decide to throw you out with a plate hanging on you saying "Super Cute Baby FREE", your father will stop doing anything and go warm the car.