The diet
They say that autistic children would rather starve than eat something they don’t desire.
No amount of parental intention—no matter how well-meaning or how many times I repeat, “when the child is hungry, they will eat”—seems to make a difference. It simply doesn’t work for them. They are too stubborn, too revolted by certain things. For years, my struggle has been with my autistic children’s insatiable craving for carbohydrates, knowing full well that these are damaging to them. I persist, repeating my efforts, trying not to buy sweets, bread, or pastries, and preparing an abundance of vegetables, meat, and fish. Yet, it’s all in vain. For when Kende experiences one of his binge episodes, he finds every last piece of moldy chocolate I’ve hidden away, as if guided by a finely-tuned radar for sugar. Kíra, now a young woman, has her own money, and when she’s hungry, she pops into a bakery for a quick fix of easily-digestible carbohydrates.
Eight years ago, I managed, with great difficulty, to impose on them and the rest of the family what is known as the GAP (Gut and Psychology Syndrome) diet, which for six months had us eating only meat, fish, vegetables, and fruit—no carbohydrates, no dairy. It was grueling. I lost weight myself. We were isolated, unable to attend social events like children’s parties, for our strange behavior had already distanced us enough from the world. Even at school, the children could only bring the meals I prepared in advance. And in the summer, no ice cream was allowed. But despite all of it, the diet brought no results.
Time has since passed, and now the situation has shifted. It’s no longer I who dictates what is eaten. Nowadays, if I tell Kende that I’m not baking pancakes, he’ll simply mix the batter himself, starting a chaotic process of splattering and spilling. Eggs spill onto the furniture; flour drifts through the air; the cat laps up the milk from the counter… and so begins the inevitable kitchen cleanup. When I buy cocoa, because my younger son asks for it, Kende will pour the entire packet into a glass of milk, creating a mass so sweet it’s nearly undrinkable. He cannot control his impulses. Thus, the consumption of carbohydrates is something we cannot avoid.
So, I was taken aback when Kende announced last week that he was going to Grandma’s house on his scooter, because she has a blood sugar monitor.
For years I’ve told him that all these carbs and sweets could lead to diabetes, that he must be careful. It was as if I had never spoken. Naturally, I didn’t take him seriously. But then he called Grandma to say he was coming. Grandma told him, if he had already eaten, not to come because blood sugar should be tested on an empty stomach. I thought, surely that was the end of his interest. But the next day, he asked again, and this time, he managed to skip breakfast. He waited patiently until Grandma woke up and called her after 10 a.m. He went over, allowed them to prick his finger, and they measured his blood sugar. It was high. He was alarmed. “What does this mean?” he asked. We explained. We also explained what he should and shouldn’t eat. The same things I’ve been telling him for years.
With a quiet resignation, I continued my teaching, knowing that he would not be able to control his binge-eating urges. Later, I called him to lunch. He did not come. Confidently, he declared, “I don’t want this meat. I want pasta.” The usual routine. I told him pasta is full of carbohydrates. He sulked, stormed off to the couch, and said he wouldn’t eat anything at all. I explained, “That’s not good because soon enough, you’ll be so hungry that you’ll end up scarfing down some sweets again. How about I make some cabbage with tomato sauce? You like that, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t want that… (various profanities)!” came his sullen reply.
The old script. But then, after a while, he came back with a resigned tone, still sulking, and without looking at me, said, “Then make the cabbage.” I got him to say “please” and knew that, once again, I could make him do anything. Abandoning my own lunch, I rushed to prepare the cabbage. I praised him for accepting, but once again, I was met with the familiar response: “Leave me alone… (more profanities).”
But it didn’t matter. The important thing was that something had shifted in him. He ate the cabbage and didn’t ask for anything else. I stared at the empty plate, then at him, in quiet disbelief. In the afternoon, we stopped by the DM store. There, he usually asks for chocolate or soda, and when I say no, he throws a tantrum, shouting, swearing, drawing the attention of everyone in the store. But this time, he asked in advance from the car, “Can I have a low-carb bar?” For a moment, I thought I had misheard. I assumed there would be trouble again—after all, when we get there, he will surely want chocolate—but I answered, “Of course, we’ll get you a protein bar (no matter what it costs, I thought to myself).”
In the store, as I searched for stain remover and toilet paper, he patiently (pat-ient-ly!!!!) repeated, “I want a low-carb protein bar, when will I get it?” Again, I praised him for his patience, took him to the shelf, and said, “While I shop, you can pick one, okay?” Eagerly, he searched, returning four times, as if his very existence depended on this decision, and eventually, we stood in line to pay. By the time we left the store, he had already consumed the entire bar. My poor little hamster must have been starving after his cabbage. But I didn’t scold him for devouring it. After all, I know from sixteen years of experience that it’s pointless.
Instead, I asked, “So, was it good? Were you really hungry?” He nodded. This was more than I usually get in response to my questions. Encouraged, I asked, “Was it tasty?” He nodded gravely and, to my surprise, suddenly said, “I ate a sponge, a rag!”
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