“Grruuuuukk,” my four-year-old son Leo suddenly exclaimed, unleashing a torrent of vomit onto the polished wooden table. I stood frozen, horrified, glancing around the largely empty restaurant, thankful for the small mercy.
In search of a break from the daily routine of parenting, I had decided to treat us to lunch at a local Japanese eatery, with Leo in tow. Sushi is a rare indulgence for me, and of course, I packed his usual lunch—string cheese, yogurt, and a fruit pouch, the same meal he insists on to this day at age nine.
The moment we entered, Leo began to whine. “It smells,” he complained as we settled into one of the vacant booths. He wriggled on the seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Stop it. Sit still,” I reprimanded, but he slipped off the cushion and onto the floor.
“Get back up,” I commanded. “But mama, it smells!” he protested. “That’s just sushi,” I shot back. “Behave.”
He reluctantly returned to his seat, but it wasn’t long before he slid back down again. What was going on? I knew he was curious and stubborn, but this was new behavior. “Back here now!” I snapped, my patience wearing thin. He returned to his seat, hands neatly folded, and just as I let out a sigh of relief, he vomited again.
Once the shock wore off, a single realization struck me: the smell. From six months old, Leo had rejected baby food that contained meat or any strong-smelling vegetables. As he grew, his aversion to unfamiliar foods became more pronounced. I devoted countless hours to researching parenting strategies and food blogs, determined to help him.
Eventually, with guidance from our pediatrician, we adopted a simple approach: let him eat what he wanted, as long as he met his nutritional needs. I soon noticed that at age three, his diet consisted almost entirely of bland, white foods—mozzarella cheese, rice cakes, and bananas—all of which lacked a strong scent.
Experts identified Leo as having sensory processing challenges. While he learned to cope with his tactile aversions, his extreme sensitivity to smells remained a hurdle. Occupational therapies were introduced to help him accept new foods, starting with the basic step of staying in the same room as food. This was crucial, especially since he had spent two Thanksgivings away from the dining table, overwhelmed by the smell of turkey and gravy while munching on his string cheese alone.
Despite our consistent efforts, success has been gradual. At nine, Leo’s diet has expanded to include dairy, eggs, fruits, nuts, and baked goods, but I still find myself awake at night worrying about the nutrients he might be missing.
Interestingly, his heightened sense of smell has its advantages. It’s reminiscent of superheroes in comic books, like Spiderman or the Hulk; Leo’s ability to sniff out things is impressive. While rummaging through the school’s lost and found, I check for name tags on sweaters, but Leo simply sniffs them out. “This one’s mine,” he often declares, and he’s right most of the time.
During our bedtime routine, as we read together, he snuggles close, sharing his observations. “Your hair smells like pizza and exhaust fumes,” he remarked one night. “Oh, you had spaghetti today,” he noted on another occasion. Sometimes it seems like a wish rather than a statement when he muses, “I wish people didn’t have to eat food.”
Living in the Oakland hills, we once faced a neighborhood fire when Leo was seven, which destroyed some of our yard but spared our home. For a year after, the scent of smoke would trigger memories of that night, but Leo often reassured me. “It’s just someone barbecuing,” he’d say, sniffing the air as if identifying the source of a treasure.
When dining out, aside from two local restaurants that cater to Leo’s tastes, my husband and I have the freedom to take him anywhere, sneakily packing his food in my purse. His behavior has improved since the sushi incident, and I manage my discomfort by leaving a larger tip.
One evening at a wine bar, my husband and I savored glasses of red wine with dinner. “Hey Leo,” I asked, “Sniff our glasses and tell me what you smell.” He leaned in, inhaling deeply. “Yours smells like dirt, and Dad’s smells like berries.” He was spot on, as my wine was earthy while my husband’s was fruitier. I caught the server’s eye, hoping to share my pride, but his expression was more perplexed than impressed. Goodness, I thought, it’s not like I’m letting him drink it!
We joke about Leo’s potential request for plain pasta on his first date, but beneath the laughter lies genuine concern. Will he always be like this? These days, Leo embraces his food quirks, confidently stating to new friends, “I’m not really an eater. I only eat white food, fruit, and sugar,” often leaving others momentarily speechless.
Sometimes, I pause to imagine what it’s like to experience the world through Leo’s senses. Is it akin to a dog hearing frequencies we can’t? I remind myself to step into his perspective more often to share his world, no matter how different it may be. After all, we all live in our own sensory bubbles, navigating the unique realities we each carry.
For more insights into parenting challenges, check out this article on building strong families. If you’re interested in fertility options, this resource is highly informative. And for additional perspectives on parenting, visit this blog post.
Summary
In this reflective piece, Jessica Harper shares the story of her son Leo, whose heightened sense of smell transforms his experiences with food and social situations. While Leo’s sensitivities present challenges, they also offer unique insights into his world and the way he navigates his environment. As his mother, Jessica learns to embrace his quirks and understand his perspective, fostering a deeper connection between them.
Keyphrase: my son’s unique sense of smell
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]