Ronan took a bottle at any temperature. Cold, tepid, warm — he didn't care. He was happy to eat.

At some point, I learned cold bottles were hard on the digestive system. Ronan did spit up easily. So, if warmer bottles could make him more comfortable, then why not? And, in fact, they did. However, rather than broaden his spectrum of acceptable temperatures, he developed his first dogmatic behavior.

If we offered him anything but a 98-degree bottle, he'd throw it on the floor. No matter how hungry he was, there was no negotiating. When we hit the Reheat this bottle or we're gonna be here a while stage, I'd pick up Ronan, grab the full, lackluster bottle, and head for the kitchen. As we descended the stairs, his sharp breath translated to: Garçon, remove this swill and do it right this time.

I'd drop the bottle back into the warmer and entertain a less-than-pleased little man.

Every four hours, Ronan made an unignorable request for his next bottle. So long as it was warm, he'd drain it. There wasn't much more to his life other than sleeping and eating, and he loved them both dearly.

Then came an afternoon when Ronan refused to eat. Not one bite of solids made it down. Whatever was on the plate had no appeal? No problem — he'd make it up with a bottle.

Twenty minutes later, we sat down with said bottle. As soon as it entered his mouth, he smacked it away and onto the floor. Ronan balanced like a Jenga tower in my lap as I groped at the floor. Once found, I tested it on my wrist. Plenty warm. We repeated this several times before returning to the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back upstairs, and the same bottle, a bit warmer, was offered to him. Ronan refused it.

His defiant behavior caught me off guard. Why aren't you eating? You love to eat! Fatigue had shut down my higher functions, leaving me with my lizard brain. My frustration rose. Why won't you listen to me? I know you better than you know yourself.

We were spiraling. Cait stepped in. He was asleep in her arms a moment later.

When Cait came downstairs, we questioned each other: Was he overtired? Teething? Sick? Is it dangerous? Innocuous? No clue.

Ronan was at the doctor's the next day — the diagnosis: hand, foot, and mouth disease. The inside of his mouth was covered in open blisters.

I felt terrible. He was in pain. He couldn't bear to have anything in his mouth, and the day before, I couldn't break from trying to feed him. I wouldn't listen when he was trying to make himself more comfortable. I wasn't dealing with a practiced game theorist. He only had the capacity to communicate what he needed.