Fruit cake

“Agh! I am die!” he flops on the kitchen floor in a fine rendition of faint.
“What’s up dear?”
“I can be eating dah poison cakes.”
“Oh that’s o.k. they’re not for us.”
“I am not eating dah fruit cake?”
“No. They’re for the school and anyway they’re not fruit cakes.”
“You are be poison my school!”
“No, no, no. No poison, just little cakes for the bake sale to raise revenue.”
“Raise?”
“Um…..make money for the school. People pay money for the cakes and the money goes to the school.”
“People’s are be paying for poison? Dat is insane!”
“They’re not poison,er…..poisoned, just cake.”
“Cake wiv poison fruit.”
“Oh those are just decorations made out of sugar. They’re not real fruit per se…..not really real fruit.”
“Dey are real fruit cakes?”
“No. Americans are afraid of fruit cakes…..er…..I mean……American’s don’t like fruit cake and there is no fruit anyway.”
“Dey are leaf cakes?”
“It’s a leaf decorate not a real leaf.”
“Dey are apple cakes?”
“Decorations! Anyway, they’re really lemon cakes.”
“Lemons is fruits.” I put the icing bag down to take a closer look at Mr. Logic.
“The point is……..you don’t have to worry about them because you are not going to have to eat them.”
“Dey are not being my new food for dah day?”
“No.”
“Dey are sugar.”
“Yes.”
“I am like sugar?”
“Er……you like chocolate.”
“I am not like sugar?”
“Well…..I don’t think you’ve ever eaten sugar…..as such.”
“Maybe I am try to be eat dah sugar today as my new food?”
“I don’t think sugar counts as a food.”
“Maybe I can eat a sugar leaf coz I am a vegetarian?”
“Great idea, but no. I need all my leaves.”
“No leaf for me?”
“No. I don’t have enough.” I look at him. I dither. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I am saved from having to make a decision as he skips off on a project of his own. I stack the boxes on a tray on the table and start the mountain of sticky washing up, behind with the laundry, skipping homework, overdue with supper preparations and generally dilatory on all scheduled routines. My daughter appears as I pop individual cakes and biscuits into individual containers because of germs or some such nonsense designed to drive busy people barmy, “Mom when’s supper?”
“Ooo I’m not sure.”
“Whatur we havin?”
“Take a look and the board and tell me, I have absolutely no idea.”
“Ooo…..wotzat?”
“What’s what dear?”
“It says ‘new food.’”
“Does it? That’s not very helpful. I wonder what I was thinking?” I step away from the sink, dry my hands on my jeans and peer through spotty bifocals, “who wrote that anyway I wonder?”
“You din write it?”
“No. Where is he?”
“He’s in Nonna’s room. He’s pretending to be an ant.”
“Ah…..that’s alright then.”
“Is he supposed to be eatin candy before dinner?”
“No he most certainly is not.” I march to Nonna’s room, past the table with the cake boxes, with a glance back. The boxes have moved! I whiz on to intervene before his appetite dwindles too far to accept tonight’s offering, “what are you doing under there Sonny Jim!”
“I am being dah ant. I am being my ant in my ant nest.”
“What are you eating young man? Halloween candy?”
“I am not eat, I am nibble.”
“What are you nibbling?”
“Leafs. I am being dah leaf cutter ant.”

What do you mean you’re bored?

I don’t know who told him to say this, but I just wish he would stop saying it. I suspect that some well meaning speech therapist put the idea in his mind. I can almost hear her now, “are you feelin bored honey?” in that oh so soft American accent. Which of his three speech therapists would be the most likely culprit? Debatable. They’re all of that particular mindset. [translation = kindly and concerned] It's so hard to keep a track of the little mind bombs that other people set in your children's heads, once you permit them access to the outside world.

He stands before me, legs astride, clutching a cereal box to his chest, “I am bored honey!”

Well really!

I am able to understand him of course, because I am his mother, but many people would not be able to understand this sentence. The words and syllables of the sentence run together and sound more like ‘Iyamboardhunny.’ There is no inflection. The tone is completely flat. He sounds like a robot, a very loud robot with the volume control button stuck in the on position. He repeats it three times, takes a breath and then repeats it three times again. “IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” I have an overwhelming urge to separate the syllables and words with a clever, chop them all up, diced. He shakes the Cheerio’s box at me for emphasis.

At 6:05 in the morning, I am not really in entertainment mode, merely breakfast mode.

“Tell you what, howabout we have breakfast first and then we’ll do something together?”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.”
“Yes I know you’re bored dear, but we’ll fill up our tummy’s first. Give us some energy to play!”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He jumps up and down a bit.
“What would you like to do after breakfast? Shall we do some colouring? Painting? Playdough?” Always best to get the messy play out of the way first thing in the morning, as it gives you the opportunity of the rest of the day to attempt to clean it up. [translation = possibility a handy hint for someone]
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He squeezes the cereal packet to his chest. The pressure is collapsing the centre of the box.
“Do you want to choose your bowl? Which spoon would you like? I think the yellow one is clean.” Why can't I distract this child to the matter at hand?
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He has a will of iron.

He thrusts the cereal box in my face on taut extended arms. I cannot think how to get over this hump at 6:07 as his sister saunters by. She links her arms round my waist and rests her face on my back.
“Good morning sleepy head.” I swivel round for a hug. She grins, revealing not properly cleansed teeth. “He woke me up,” she yawns.
“I’m sorry dear, I can’t get him to start breakfast, he wants to play.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s so bored, but if he doesn’t eat now we’ll end up being an all day breakfast diner.”
“No, he’s not bored.”
“Yes, he is. He’s been screaming about how bored he is for the last three minutes, that’s what woke you up remember?” By now, every neighbour in a three mile radius is aware that I have a bored six and a half year old.
“Oh. Oh I see. No. He saw that advertisement on the telly yesterday.”
“What advertisement?”
“The one about Honey Nut Cheerios. He wants to try them instead of the plain ones.” I release the grip on my daughter and swing the small one up into my arms so that we are face to face over a box of crushed cereal. “Is that it? You want Honey Nut ones? You want to try a new food?” [translation = this is my "neophobic" one who only eats 13 things] He grins to reveal not properly cleansed teeth, and nods his head three times. I squeeze him until I notice that I’m probably poking him with the corner of the cereal box. Poor benighted child! He verbalized his request, kept verbalizing his request and didn't have a meltdown, even though his deaf old mother was too stupid to understand him. Where did he cull this patience gene from? I stroke his sister's hair as she has rescued me, again.

I remind myself that honey has all sorts of wonderful things in it. I refuse to think about sugary snacky food. I remind myself that this is probably the first self initialized attempt at selecting a food for consumption. I will adopt a new mantra, 'honey is good, honey is good, honey is good.'

I refuse to debate the power of commercialism or advertising. I refuse to chastise myself for my lack of supervision such that he was able to see the advertisement in the first place. How did that happen with TIVO? I am unable to size up the harm that television has done to rot his brain versus the benefit of adding an additional 'food' to his paultry diet. I concentrate on all the health giving properties of organic honey, all the additional occupational and oral therapy possibilities that this opens up.


Does that count as a new food?
Tell me that counts as a new food!

Breakthrough - carnivores gnash their teeth

A year onwards from where we were last year. Chipping away at "neophobia."
[translation = a diet containing less than 20 foods]

We have been going great guns. Junior is now consuming oatmeal, pasta, rice, and applesauce. That constitutes four new foods! Feel free to congratulate us and send us your heart felt best wishes.

I know the campaign has been hard, months actually, added to every meal of the day, but it is beginning to pay dividends at last. Maybe he’s not really eating it as such, but those items do enter the oral cavity. He’s still at the 'spitting them out afterwards' stage, [after we’ve counted to four,] but it constitutes movement in the right direction. We count more slowly now too, which makes it more agonizing for him and for us, come to think of it. We try and persuade him to close his mouth, lip touching lip during the count, which is a great advance as you it is difficult to scream if your mouth is shut. [translation = more of a muffled drowning sound] Every time the mouth opens and the screams leap out, we advise him to close them again and begin the counting again, from one. Otherwise it doesn’t count. [translation = would be cheating of course]

Personally I think his therapist is getting a bit above herself. There’s ‘positive’ and ‘enthusiastic’ but there’s also ‘are you completely mad!” I think I managed to cover my surprise quite successfully at the time, when she suggested that we should put the pressure on and make him try meat. Yes! Meat! Has the woman taken leave of her senses? Is she completely insane or merely certifiable? My eyes are wide but I keep my lips firmly clamped together as I process this suggestion. Turkey? Perhaps a little beef? Now I know she’s lost it, but I smile cautiously giving the illusion of agreement and consensus. It’s not as if he’s a vegetarian by choice as such. In fact,if you consider his fish consumption this is clearly untrue, although categorizing ‘goldfish’ in that manner might be a bit of a stretch.

We leave occupational therapy with our four little tubs of tester food; oatmeal, pasta, rice and applesauce. I strap the children into the car, deep in contemplation.

Meat? Turkey, chicken, lamb, beef? What is the blandest, most textureless, flavourless meat on the planet?

Of course! Hot dogs!

I worship the ground that their little American feet walk on.

Weaning onto 'solid' food

I attempt friendly chit chat with a stiff upper lip to hide the cat’s cradle of elastic bands covering "my braces." As it turns out, this woman works at some health thigummy place and her husband has had jaw surgery. She commiserates with me about liquid food and stray fibres. She advises me of the importance of protein in my diet. I used to have a vague and random knowledge of the subject, but over the last few years and especially lately, such matters have dwindled in priority. Too stress the point, she reminds me that a lack of protein can have dire consequences for an otherwise healthy person. She leans forward to belabour the point, ‘yur hair il fall out in hand fulls!” I consider the tufts of grey hair that currently decorate my scalp.

I return home with renewed vigour to consume yet another chocolate shake with extra soy protein powder to clog up the braces and lure cavities.

I do not share my son’s need for perfection. The ‘that’ll do’ approach dominates. [translation = if in doubt, give up] For novelty’s sake, I decide to read the label and torture my brain with a little mathematical calculation. I determine that two ‘scoops’ of foul protein powder should be the new order of the day. The only problem with this plan is that I have mislaid the measuring scoop, or more truthfully, that "a certain lizard" of our acquaintance, has a greater need than mine. Now that it has been contaminated I am less inclined to retrieve it. I ‘guess,’ plop a couple of shovelfuls into the liquidizer and stab ‘on.’ Once the power has been cut, junior emerges from his hiding spot with his hands still over his ears, with a touch of "enthusiasm."

“You are have chocolate milkshake?” he beams rhetorically.
“I am.”
“It is cold?”
“Oh no, just room temperature, just the way you like it.”
“I do not like it.”
“I know.”
“You do not like it either I am finking.”
“You’re not wrong there matey.” I tip it into a tall glass, a glass glass because plastic tumblers that are mangled in a dish washer are foul. It takes a long time for the contents to empty, thick, foamy, glutenous. We look at it together.
“It is a liquid?” I don’t answer immediately as I try to work out the ‘right’ answer.
“I fink maybe you are going to be eating it.” Always better to let him answer his own questions, as it’s bound to save on a few meltdowns. “Maybe you are wanting a straw?” he seems to ask himself. I am delighted with this considerate consideration. “Perhaps, you are needing a spoon. You are needing a very small spoon?” he mentions in a dubious tone as we both contemplate braces, elastic bands and mouth hardware in general. We look at each other, pupils locked on pupils. I lift the glass and tilt it to my lips. The surface fails to yield. My glass is filled with a solid cylinder of milkshake. For the moment I would prefer to avoid the debate about what foods are "solid" to be eaten, and which are liquid, to be drunk.

“I know!" he pipes, "it is chocolate pudding, so I can be eating it for you!”
Oh good o, that solves that one then! He is such a solution orientated little guy. If there is a causal connection between "male pattern balding" and "neophobia," he may just have licked it! Or maybe, eaten it. It's enough to make your "hair" stand on end, if you have any. I assume that I am therefore destined to be the bald one of the family. At least I already have my "glasses" as a prop.

p.s.Yes, it is a ‘new food’ because it’s voluntary, it is a familiar food in a different form or at least it is if "neophobia" is in your household.