Tuesday is decidedly worse than Monday

For many people Monday is the most dreaded day of the week, but for me I have come to harbor some serious anxiety over Tuesday. Every Tuesday Devon and I kick off the day with his weekly occupational therapy appointment. His OT is a lovely woman who has an enormous, if not infinite, well of patience and creativity when it comes to dealing with his eating issues. She works our 60 minutes like nothing else with her encouragement and motivation. She plays games with Devon, rocks him in a cocoon-like hammock thing, slyly bribes him and shares many a laugh with him during our visits. Devon adores her. Sounds like a fairly painless way to spend every Tuesday morning. Only it’s really not. Because much like a box of chocolates I just never know what we’re gonna get with Devon at these appointments. Some days he will embrace a new food with semi enthusiasm. Other days, like today, I want to grind my back teeth to powder over my frustration of watching him do everything short of climbing the walls to escape from ingesting a bite or two of food.
The past week has been based on grapes. We pick a new food every week to ten days and introduce it in various forms each day to entice Devon into accepting that food as a friend rather than the evil foe it was previously perceived as. Another aspect the OT has been focusing on is chewing the food and after an agreed upon number of chews he can calmly walk to the garbage bin and spit it out. Sure, it borders on the whole bulimia thing but it is the actual chewing action we are going for here. The swallowing gig is supposed to naturally follow at some point when Devon feels enough trust to do so. But here is my fear: I simply don’t believe that day will ever come, not after a day like today. The OT grappled with Devon for nearly 44 minutes until he would allow a bit of carrot bathed in butter and brown sugar to pass his tender lips before he ran to the trash to rid himself of the horror. And then? Oh. My. God. The. Drama. There was thrashing. Rolling. Gnashing. Wailing. Because the carrot, although smooshed at this point by Devon and the OT, had texture. Yes, TEXTURE. It had bits of nature, perhaps a string or two and it was bumpy. Not smooth and kind. Not the way things obviously should be for a lad so accustomed to all things bland and without any form.
It is at these moments in OT when I realize how far we have to go. Yes, Devon has come leaps and bounds from where he was this summer when he had a completely liquid diet. He now eats small amounts of pasta, although it must be a certain brand from a particular box and he requires he participate in all facets of preparation. Chicken nuggets are a small part of his diet. I have seen him eat bites of bananas. Occasionally cheese will pass his lips. He has an affinity for baby food sweet potatoes. These are all new and huge steps for my Vanilla Boy. But swallowing anything other than the above foods and milk and yogurt? I just can’t see it right now. I want to see it, damn but I would give up red wine for the rest of eternity if I could see my little guy down a carrot without registering panic on his face and running to the trash like a bulimic after a buffet. Tonight I gave up and gave him his favorite foods for dinner. I just couldn’t face a meal of hassling. This is why I hate Tuesdays.