We think we might be done with the baby physical therapy. Today's session was 45 minutes of WCB crying, trying to climb over us in terror, doing her famous Ray Bolger impression whenever we tried to get her to walk, and yelling, "No! No!" at the therapist.
"Really," I shouted over the WCB screams, "she can walk with a push toy."
"Oh, I believe you," came the voice of therapist from somewhere behind the wall. He'd ducked down behind a ledge so WCB would act more natural. She could still sense he was there. It's like how dogs and bees can smell fear. WCB can smell physical therapists.
So, he left it up to us to decide if we'd come back again. We kept our appointments open for now, but I'm pretty sure we're going to be done with the therapy. Sure, maybe she'll have to crawl across the stage to get her Harvard diploma, but after today, we're willing to pay that price.