Whitterer on Autism

We have had food fights around here for many a long year, a battle of wills I thought. As usual, as it turned out, I thought quite wrongly. It was not a battle of wills but something quite different indeed. It was neophobia, a fear of new foods. Once I discovered this mind changing fact, I changed my mind, my attitude and my approach.

At that time my young wee neophobe was very fond of the alphabet and numbers. He also had any number of hard and fast rules. One of his hard and fast rules was that he would only eat or drink from particular pieces of crockery, one bowl and one plastic cup. As a busy old mum, I found this most inconvenient as I was always challenged in the washing up department. If the particular bowl or cup were unavailable, soaking perhaps, or in the dish washer, he quite simply would not eat or drink until they reappeared.

Being of a somewhat laxidaisical frame of mind in the housework department, I recalled that in my own youth I was also fond of a particular bowl, one iwht a rabbit at the bottom. The bowl would be full of whatever, but bit by bit, spoonful by spoonful, ever so gradually, the tide would fall and the bunny, in all it’s gloriousness, would be revealed. With this recollection, I had yet another brilliant idea. I would fashion a bowl to tempt my neophobe to do likewise. It was genetic. It was bound to be a sure fired solution to the food problem. I played on his passion and exploited it ruthlessly.

Pottery is a time consuming business, but after a few weeks and several attempts, I eventually managed to produce a bowl with a tempting array of the alphabet on the rim and a semi icon on the bottom. On the bottom, under the food, were the letters ‘E M P T Y.’ How could anyone resist those adorable capitals, because as we all know, capitals are always especially adorable.

I presented the bowl, whilst empty to my youngest son and he was indeed delighted with the bowl, or rather the letters on the bowl. I permitted him to carry it around for a few days, clutched to his chest to familiarize himself with his new acquisition. He put dinosaurs in it, counted them in, counted them out. All was going spiffingly to plan.

One morning, inauguration morning, I filled the alphabet bowl with baby oatmeal, the gluten free, casein free variety of oatmeal that would clear out his little intestinal system, add no end of beneficial nutrition to his three only food diet and all would be well. I beamed at my beloved, soon to be no longer a neophobic son. He, on the other hand, did not look at me. He looked at his bowl, full of unaccustomed slime, but I had anticipated protest, I was used to the yelling, I knew he’d run away.

I did not know that he would upend the bowl and empty it. But I still have a lot to learn.