Welcome to my musings on home, health and hearth in the light of Christ.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

My Picky Eater

I'm sure I mentioned my oldest son, D is diagnosed with Autism, PDD-NOS, which is short for "We don't know what the heck it is, but we know it's Autism of some kind".  He is 'high-functioning' which means his version is relatively mild.

He can be a very picky eater, but his speech skills are such that he can't always tell us why he doesn't like something.  Often he will like something for weeks and change his mind for some unknown reason and won't or can't tell us what the reason is.  I rack my brain trying to figure out what and how to cook, because I am a Mom who likes to cook food that people will actually...heaven forbid...eat.

Many times I get frustrated.  I admit I will bury my head in the corner of my kitchen and cry because I am so upset with how much he doesn't like, or that I can't figure out why he doesn't like something today that he liked perfectly fine last week.  I wonder if it's all worth it, if I should just give up and go back to Tyson Chicken Nuggets (and those of you who did watch Food, Inc. understand the depths I would have to be in to even consider such a horror being in my kitchen).  I wonder if the work I put in is worth all the effort. 

Truth is, I really enjoy cooking such healthy food for my family.  It was one thing to bake cookies or cupcakes back in our 'non-NT' days, but it's a completely different feeling to make something so utterly basic, like bread or cheese or butter.  I feel as if I am doing something very important by providing my sons and husband with the most nutritious food I can manage.  However, I must admit some selfishness in it, a little twinge of humanly pride when I see how pleased they are, when my husband comes home and beams "OOH! You made Baguettes today!" and the boys see I made homemade Lemon Ice for dessert.

Then I make something for dinner, say Pasta Primavera or even just baked chicken, and one of my boys complains.  He refuses to eat it.  Something.  It's like getting a sharp paper cut.

Something my husband once told me often picks me right up again.  He said that the boys will remember the things I do now.  The smells of bread baking, watching me make Tortillas and begging me for a bit of the dough to snack on, licking the mixing bowl I just made cookies in, waking up to fresh bacon and pancakes or scrambled eggs and waffles.  Maybe some day they will know and understand not just what I did, but why.

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