Imagine a theoretical college course designed for parents called Proper Family Mealtimes. The class focuses on the core ingredients required to have a truly connected meal: dinner etiquette, polite conversation, menu planning, and hosting. Backed by scientific research, parents will gain knowledge of simple yet practical steps to make mealtime meaningful again.
My family would fail this course.
When it comes to etiquette, shirts and formal seating are optional. My children pass on polite conversation, swapping in slang like “bruh” whenever possible. Our meal plan rotates between five kid favorites with the option to reject them all, at which point the children claim starvation and snack all night long. Hosting rarely happens and only out of necessity.
We have fewer mealtimes and more of a steady stream of snacking. Family dinner rarely exists–no set time for each meal, no elaborate tablescapes, or assigned seating. There’s generally no idea how, when, or what we’ll all eat each night.
***
“I can’t believe your kids don’t like chicken nuggets or hot dogs–those are classic kid foods!”
“You shouldn’t make them separate meals, that teaches them they’ll get what they want.”
“Don’t you encourage the ‘clean plate club’ at your house?”
My son’s sensitivity to textures and flavors makes it challenging to expand his horizons and add new options to the rotation. Trying new foods is a slow process, often met with irritability and pushback. I pivot and serve safe foods on repeat, remain as flexible as possible with seating, timing, and portions, and accept that some nights, I’ll need to reheat the same bowl five times. Despite the adjustments made at home and explaining our challenges, mealtimes at restaurants or friends’ homes always feel overwhelming.
“What will your kids even eat off the kids’ menu?”
“Bring over something your kids will eat.”
“He’s not eating dinner? He’s gotta be starving!”
They just don’t get it.
***
Neurodivergence was added to my vocabulary when, a few years into my son’s life, his natural childlike joy evolved into a wild and disruptive force. An official ADHD diagnosis at age five confirmed what I already knew. From that point on, I did everything I could to absorb information on brain development, emotional regulation, nervous system overload, and rejection sensitivity. Hours of researching, questioning, learning, noting, observing, watching, praying.
The resources I found became a river of knowledge to drink from. Podcasts, books, articles, and blogs about neurodivergence acted as a mirror, reflecting stories and images of what I was seeing in my own life, in my own child (and later, his brothers). The relief I felt hearing and seeing that these struggles were not unique to my family, were not the result of parenting mistakes, but common in kids with ADHD.
For the first time, I finally felt understanding and empathy. Still, I craved space to grieve the motherhood and child I thought I was getting. A moment to feel validated that God’s path for me was hard, and some days it felt more like a curse than a blessing.
***
Last fall, in search of a community, I found solace in a church small group dedicated to parents and caretakers of kids with special needs. The warmth of the group was tangible from week one, and although already established with close-knit friendships, I felt welcome as a newcomer. Each week we met, their vulnerability reassured me that the challenges I faced at home were not unique to me; they were normal. Kids with atypical needs were this group’s bread and butter. It felt safe because no explanation was required. No expectation. No judgement. They just got it.
***
There’s guilt in my voice when I tell the pediatrician my son’s protein intake must be 0g a day. She chuckles quietly. The food refusals include eggs, yogurt, nuts, and all meat, even the dino nuggets he used to adore. The doctor, a mother of three neurodivergent sons as well, intrigues him with a step-by-step method for getting big and strong. Step one: Allow new or strange food to exist on your plate. Step two: Sniff the food. Step three: Place the food on your tongue once. This goes on at a glacial speed but encourages exploration of food without the pressure. She gets it.
***
“Mommy!” my son screams at the top of his lungs. It’s 8:43 and I’ve missed the sleepy window, making bedtime exponentially more difficult. He’s hungry for a nighttime snack and requests his current favorite, but his yelling intensifies when I inform him we are fresh out. Immediately, I think of my neighbor who saved us once before in a similar situation. I rush to text her, “SOS. Do you have Doritos? We’re in a full-on meltdown over here.” A few minutes later, a Ziploc bag appears outside with a few handfuls of those familiar yellow chips inside. I trudge home in the fresh snow, victorious, and see a reply on my phone, “Cool Ranch Doritos were one of my safe foods growing up.” She gets it.
***
“He seems to be surviving off condiments at lunch,” his teacher says to me at conferences. I quietly sigh, unsurprised by this news. His inattentive type of ADHD means distractions are everywhere and he often forgets to eat altogether. Students are not allowed any beverages in the classroom except water. I make a plea to the teacher for an exception to the rule, suggesting he be allowed a protein shake for snack to ensure he consumes something. The next morning, I grab a bottle from the fridge and drop it into my son’s backpack with relief. She gets it.
***
Tonight, I’m making something on the stove when my oldest buzzes by me on rollerblades, shirtless, refusing to stop for a few calories. My middle is hyperfixated on finishing a puzzle but happily munches on saltines with peanut butter as he concentrates. My youngest will eat in bed later–he’s in the shower again, the place that calms him most. I know they’ll all eat something at some point, so I’m not worried.
It wasn’t a college degree that got me to where I am today. No textbook has the answers on parenting well or raising decent humans. There’s no “Modern Parenting 101” in next semester’s course catalog. And there are certainly no CliffsNotes for mentoring neurodiverse kids. Educational resources weren’t what got me through this first decade of parenting, but rather the people along the way. Those who have walked this path before us or are in the trenches with us, who share their wisdom and kindness, and accept people as they truly are. The neighbor on snack standby, the pediatrician with patience, the teachable teacher.
Maybe it’s time to write my own course syllabus: Neurospicy Snacks & Meals 101. Chapters may include learning to celebrate the small wins, maintain flexibility in the chaos, and remain regulated in the midst of a meltdown. Lessons about warmth and hospitality, and the importance of inclusion. Because that’s a class I know we won’t fail.
