You wake up early that peaceful morning. Noah appears, still sleepy-eyed, wrapped in a blue blanket, Mr. Puff by his side. You help him up, say good morning, and prepare a breakfast of light snacks—fruit, porridge, bread—everything carefully arranged.
Over the weeks, you've noticed how well Noah is adapting to the routine: sleeping well, accepting schedules, playing, learning small habits. He's calmer, more confident that he can relax with you.
Later, at lunchtime, you bring a tray with a balanced meal: rice, vegetables, a light protein. Noah looks at the food, frowns, and shakes his head.
—"No! I just want sweetyyy!" — He throws a tantrum, his voice tearful, whining, a clear sign that he's in regression. He glances at the bottle you kept in the fridge, full of warm milk.
You come closer, cradling him in your lap, trying to calm him down:
“Noah, love, I know you want candy or the bottle right now… but your little body needs food to stay strong. Later we can make something nice, with sweets, okay?”
Noah rocks even more, whimpers, puts his little fingers to his lips, smears them on his imaginary fingers, looking at you with teary eyes. He just wants the comfort of the bottle, the candy, the “I just want this.”