September 26, 2011
SNAP!!!! The cracking sound of Justin’s tray being disengaged from its seat stops me in mid-swig from my Coke 90, and I quickly abandon my caffeine fix to rush back to the kitchen table. I look down at his plate and take in the completely disregarded toast and bacon pieces I’d hope would constitute breakfast, and insist that he sit down once again and try to eat something. Unfortunately, me and my boy have been at the “breakfast wars” going on ten straight days now, and I’m running out of ideas.
Over the past week I’ve attempted pancakes (the smell of the first burned batch lingered for days), and French toast (met with such disdain it was as if I’d poisoned it). I would have happily made the supreme sacrifice to actually fly to France and procure croissants for him if he’d just eat SOMETHING (I know, I’m that kind of mom), but since that option’s out, the best I’ve been able to do lately is get a piece of bacon into him. I offer him a strip of cholesterol in the hopes he’ll take it, and instead am met with a forceful shove of the hand, followed by my son standing up and in no uncertain terms disposing of his plate. He’s eight now, and only a head shorter than me. Force-feeding him is no longer a reality, so I let him go.
So much for breakfast being the most important meal of the day.
There was a time five years ago when we actually had to force-feed him, which out of all the distressing issues that arise with some types of autism (and there are many), this ranks up there as one of the worst. Justin’s appetite had decreased a bit prior to me and my husband taking a vacation, but our boy has always had a rather ambivalent attitude toward food, and we didn’t think anything of it. We left for five days, and by the time we returned home he had stopped consuming absolutely everything. In only a week’s time he had begun to take on that skeletal, “starvationesque” appearance, and my mom was fairly frantic.
We all figured once his parents returned and routine was restored, Justin would resume eating. He didn’t. He in fact did not even permit a carb to pass his lips until we’d hired an eating consultant to teach us some behavioral tricks, techniques that in the end amount to fancy force-feeding. It took two days, but eventually he ceased trying to attain his perfect modeling weight, and to our delight, even consumed a vegetable.
It never happened again, but I have it on video.
I admit, I am really frustrated with him right now. This is mostly because I know that like his mother, unless he consumes something edible every few hours he’ll be in a bear of a mood, and I don’t like to send him off to school this way. He was up at 5:30 this morning so we have some time to kill, and as he plays the same scene from Despicable Me over and over, I search relentlessly through the fridge and pantry to come up with an alternative. Nothing jumps out at me (this kid even rejected Pop-tarts, which made my husband wonder if he was really his), until my eyes light upon an egg carton, one I’m justifiably afraid might have been there since the last presidential administration.
Thankfully, it turns out to be democratic dairy.
I know my chances of getting him to eat an egg (it’s a textural thing) are about as great as having a child on the spectrum, but since we all know how that turned out chez McCafferty, I figure it’s worth a try. I recall somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain that he’s become a fan of one of the Tastefully Simple spices I use when I pretend to cook, and I decide it couldn’t hurt to try to bribe him with Garlic-Garlic. I whip up two cylindrical orbs, lead a confused boy back to his seat, and present him with a new meal, fork in tow.
Damned if he doesn’t eat every crumb, with the added bonus of independently employing a utensil.
I’m not sure which is more shocking- that he’s actually eating breakfast, using the same fork he’s rejected for six years, or wolfing down a meal his mother herself concocted. At this moment, I admit, I really don’t care. Justin finishes quickly, gives me a smile and quick kiss so full of garlic I know the vampires will stay away, and happily escorts his empty plate back to the sink. I reward him with the hugs, kisses and praise I thank the entire universe that he’s always craved, and quickly start administering the twelve thousand supplements we have him take first thing in the morning.
I savor this victory, as for years around here that word was an elusive guest.
I also remind myself that I have to keep trying new things with him, even if every instinct in my body says the foreign intrusion will be rejected. Over the past few months I’ve seen him spontaneously request toys on his iPad, respond to a game of “chase” with Zachary, and once (albeit mistakenly) consume a piece of fruit and keep it down. Granted, these are all small accomplishments, perhaps not even recognized (except for the fruit consumption) in most typical homes. But here, these milestones are huge, and I want to make certain to notice, and to appreciate, every single one.
And as I catalogue yet one more battle won in the war for a happy, safe, and productive boy, I feel my stomach rumble, head toward the fridge, and remind myself that my pre-dawn Garlic-Garlic idea was pretty appetizing after all.