Category Archives: food issues

October 5, 2012 · 11:42 am

Pancake Party

If you give a pig (Dylan) a pancake,

He’s going to scream and cry.

When he screams and cries,

He’ll probably end up in a timeout.

While he’s in a timeout,

Mama will pour herself a glass of wine.

When he’s done with his timeout,

He’ll have to taste a pancake,

Which will probably make him scream and cry.

He’ll end up in another time out,

Which will give Mama a chance to pour another glass of wine.

You get the picture.  Alongside blogger, personal driver, laundry folder, undefeated Connect Four champion (they never see the diagonal win coming), human bedtime “blankie,” and Play-Doh hater, you can add food therapist to my list of accolades and qualifications.

I’ve been told many times that food behaviors are the hardest to change, and I happen to have a child who’s dysfunctional eating behaviors are so ingrained in him – and from such a young age – that he doesn’t even know why he’s doing them.  The sensory issues that sparked it all are buried under layers upon layers of fear, avoidance, control, and defense.

We’ve been immersed in intensive behavioral therapy since August to get at the root of Dylan’s food issues.  Unfortunately, it hasn’t been very fruitful (pun intended).  Without getting too descriptive about the experience (I don’t like to gossip, except, well, nevermind…), the company we worked with proved to be unimpressive.  We had a lovely and well-intentioned case manager and tutor assigned to our case, but neither of them had the experience or capability to tackle Dylan’s food and eating behaviors within the context of sensory processing disorder.

It took me a little while to figure it out (it always does), but eventually I realized they weren’t addressing Dylan’s strengths and weaknesses or taking into account his specific needs.  Instead, they imposed on him a methodology that only exacerbated his sensory sensitivities.  I saw with my own eyes how their approach was shutting Dylan down instead of opening him up.

I tried to express my concerns, make changes to the program, and enlighten them about the ins and outs of sensory processing disorder, but then it dawned on me that I shouldn’t have to do that.  They are supposed to be experts.  They are supposed to have answers.  Or so I thought.  Did I give them enough time, you’re probably wondering?  I don’t know.  I really don’t.  But my gut told me to end it, and if I’ve learned anything on this journey, it’s to trust my instinct.  Earlier this week, I made the difficult decision to end services with this particular therapy program, and as you can imagine, I feel a lot of different emotions.

Sadness.  I thought this was the answer we’d been searching for.  I really did.

Failure/Guilt (of course).  Why can’t I figure this out?  Why can’t I get it right?  Why can’t I help my son?

Relief.  Three to four nights per week of tidying up, prepping food, and hosting someone in my house was exhausting.  The past few nights alone – with just our family – have been a reprieve.  The anxious anticipation of each night’s menu, whether or not he would eat, and how he would react was an emotional rollercoaster.  Wanna know a secret?  The nights when he took bites of food were worse than the nights when he didn’t.  I wanted to be happy when he tasted, for instance, a new macaroni and cheese, but as soon as he swallowed a miniscule bite he would declare, “I hate this,” or, “Now I never have to eat it again.”   He wasn’t eating.  He was surviving the session.

Panic.  F—k.  Now what?

Inspiration. Even though, in the end, this therapy program wasn’t the right choice for Dylan, the time we’ve spent at the dinner table has given me a renewed sense of confidence.  Instead of shying away from this daunting job (his worst mealtime behaviors happen around me), I choose to own it.  I may be off the “math parenting” hook, but I’m not out of the woods.  Not by a long shot.  There is still the pesky problem of the boy who hates new food.

Tonight, I planned a pancake taste test:  sweet potato, blueberry, and chocolate chip.

Riley dove right in.

He liked them all, but the blueberry pancake (from Yummy In My Tummy) was his favorite.

After Dylan finished his Oscar worthy meltdown, he sat the table and took one teeny-tiny bite of the sweet potato pancake, which he didn’t even swallow.  Ditto for the blueberry one.  He successfully swallowed a crumb from the chocolate chip pancake (with a Gatorade chaser), and declared, not surprisingly, “I don’t like it.”

And that was it.  The pancake party was over.  But the journey is far from complete.

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Filed under food, food issues, sensory processing disorder

August 30, 2012 · 1:31 pm

Trying

A few weeks ago, I took Riley to the doctor because he snores like a troll, always has a stuffy nose, speaks as nasal as anyone I’ve ever met, and is a horrible morning person.  He’s also failed a basic hearing test in his left ear twice in less than six months.  After a thorough examination, the doctor agreed that his adenoids might be the culprit.  We were given a nasal spray, a prescription for blood work to check for allergies, and a referral for a pediatric ENT.  For most people, this would have been good news.  A step in the right direction!  Solutions!  Not me.  I felt the burden of something being wrong rather than the relief of questions being answered.

I promised myself that when Dylan finally wore pants or a long sleeved shirt I would throw a party.  Or hire a sky writer!  Instead of celebrating the incredible victory, I immediately set my sights on the next challenges – food and bounce houses.  I couldn’t enjoy the moment because I had so many more things to worry about.

On Monday, day six of food therapy, when we transitioned from green light (easy) to yellow light (hard) foods, I found it easy to be pessimistic about Dylan gobbling up a grilled cheese sandwich, a food that I haven’t been able to get him to eat at home in more than a year.  There was no victory lap for me – only a cynical feeling that he succumbed because the alternative, a piece of chicken, was far too difficult a proposition.

On day seven, I was in my element.  After two hours of crying, hiding, and failed manipulations, Dylan failed to eat a single bite of his dinner choices.  Our therapist left the house with a big, fat zero in her “percentage of bites taken” column.  Oh, how I reveled in the anger, frustration, and guilt!  The crying and the second-guessing came so easy!

Yesterday, in a moment of clarity (or mad desperation), Dylan declared that he would eat celery during his dinner session.  To say that I was surprised would be an understatement.  It was an odd (and green and fibrous) choice for child who’s never eaten a vegetable in his life that wasn’t hidden in macaroni and cheese.  The only point of reference I could think of, besides a few occasions where we’d served celery with some kind of dip at home, was the “Wonder Pets,” and if I had them to thank for Dylan’s inspiration then it wouldn’t be the first time I’d expressed my gratitude to Linny, Tuck, and Ming-Ming.  Suspicion crept over me, but we stopped at the grocery store and bought a head of celery anyway.

Are you wondering what happened next?  Are you sitting down?  He ate the celery.  It was really hard for him to do, but he swallowed his fear and, by golly, he swallowed some celery.  Speechless.  Shocked.  Flabbergasted.  These are pretty good word to describe how I felt.  I praised him and went through all of the motions a proud parent would do after witnessing such bravery and achievement, but I didn’t feel the way I thought I would feel the moment ate “new food.”  Instead of feeling happy and relieved, I felt confused and duped.  I wanted so badly to believe that celery was the hammer that would finally knock down the wall, but I didn’t.  Of course not!  My strength lies in wallowing in anxiety and doubt rather than basking in the wonder, albeit odd, of Dylan eating celery.  Celery, for Pete’s sake!  One of my rules, which were published at Voices of Sensory Processing Disorder a few weeks ago, is to savor the victories, especially the small ones.  Believe me, I’m trying.

Do you ever find it easier to be sad than happy, pessimistic than optimistic, or worried than relieved?

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Filed under anxiety, food issues, sensory processing disorder