By Karen R. Hessen
The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.
~Mother Teresa
It reminded me of a scene from the movie Oliver, those two chubby little hands holding his bowl out in my direction. He never said, "More please," like Oliver, but his pleading eyes made his case in a language I clearly understood.
The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.
~Mother Teresa
It reminded me of a scene from the movie Oliver, those two chubby little hands holding his bowl out in my direction. He never said, "More please," like Oliver, but his pleading eyes made his case in a language I clearly understood.
I had never seen anyone eat like this. It didn't matter what I put on the table; Monday Night Mystery Meal, Saturday Night Surprise or Mother's famous tacos -- this kid could eat. Thoughts of juvenile diabetes and the accompanying ravenous appetite ran through my mind. But that didn't show up in the lab. I just sat back and watched him.
We adopted Kurtis when he was twenty-three months old. He came into our lives with a number of disabilities that resulted from being hit over the head with a chair, seated on hot stove burners, and dunked in scalding water. The results of the abuse were easily identifiable. Scars, braces and multiple types of therapy accompanied each type of abuse.
The signs of neglect were subtler. Kurtis was a gorgeous child. His golden hair and his caramel colored eyes set him apart. His face had been spared during the bursts of rage he had endured and the skin on his cheeks was as smooth as cream. After sitting down to a family meal, Kurtis would eat every crumb on his plate. He would hold his plate out in my direction. I would give him second helpings. He would again eat every morsel of food, after which he would once more hold his plate out. I would continue filling his plate until I had scraped the pots and pans clean. Even meals I threw together after a raid on the pantry were eaten with gusto. His father and I would not take second helpings so there would be more for him. When there was nothing left on his plate, we lifted him down from his highchair. He would cling to the edge of the table, pulling himself along on his disabled legs, picking up any small particles of food that might have dropped from our forks while eating.
I had no doubt that Kurtis had been hungry. Hunger had not left Kurtis with a visible scar. It had left him with a subconscious fear of not getting enough to eat -- of never knowing whether there would be a next meal. He was eating to prepare himself for doing without. One more heartbreak to add to the tragic devastation that this innocent youngster had endured in his short life.
I silently vowed, "In this forever family, Kurtis will never miss a meal."
For months, Kurtis continued to consume food like he had a hollow leg. As we loved him with a consistency he had never known, he gradually gained confidence in his new family and realized there would always be another meal. He learned to trust us to provide for his needs. After a while, he began to reject any food that was white. He refused mashed potatoes, rice, vanilla ice cream, white frosting and whipped cream. Then the vegetables were pushed aside. No tomatoes, and certainly nothing green for Kurtis. He would only eat raw carrots. Our love had changed Kurtis from being the boy who ate everything to a finicky eater. When we had to implement a new rule, "everybody must eat something green every day," our best friends would serve green Jell-O. Good friends are such a blessing.
Eventually, Kurtis began eating like the rest of our family, with one exception. He shunned dessert. Even his own birthday cake did not appeal to him. His one sweet indulgence was pumpkin pie, and for many years we lit birthday candles fixed in the orange-brown spicy custard filling. I justified all the pumpkin pies as eating yellow vegetables.
Over time, Kurtis began to have favorite foods. Hungarian noodles, ham, eggs -- cooked any way, but especially deviled -- were all on his list of favorites. Kurtis's all time, number one favorite, to-die-for meal, what he wanted to eat if he was sick, disappointed, sad, discouraged, or to celebrate great accomplishments and special occasions, was macaroni and cheese. I tried to teach his independent living skills teacher to make this favorite dish so she could teach him to make it himself. She could never get the sauce to thicken.
Many years have passed since Kurtis was that little boy pathetically holding his dish out in my direction. His life has changed in many ways, but his love for my macaroni and cheese has not changed. We know each other very well, and I can tell when it is time. I pull my largest ovenproof dish from the cupboard, send my husband to pick Kurtis up and just sit back and watch as Kurtis enjoys, once again, the piping hot, creamy orange succulence of the macaroni and cheese only his loving mom can make. Greens are optional.
We adopted Kurtis when he was twenty-three months old. He came into our lives with a number of disabilities that resulted from being hit over the head with a chair, seated on hot stove burners, and dunked in scalding water. The results of the abuse were easily identifiable. Scars, braces and multiple types of therapy accompanied each type of abuse.
The signs of neglect were subtler. Kurtis was a gorgeous child. His golden hair and his caramel colored eyes set him apart. His face had been spared during the bursts of rage he had endured and the skin on his cheeks was as smooth as cream. After sitting down to a family meal, Kurtis would eat every crumb on his plate. He would hold his plate out in my direction. I would give him second helpings. He would again eat every morsel of food, after which he would once more hold his plate out. I would continue filling his plate until I had scraped the pots and pans clean. Even meals I threw together after a raid on the pantry were eaten with gusto. His father and I would not take second helpings so there would be more for him. When there was nothing left on his plate, we lifted him down from his highchair. He would cling to the edge of the table, pulling himself along on his disabled legs, picking up any small particles of food that might have dropped from our forks while eating.
I had no doubt that Kurtis had been hungry. Hunger had not left Kurtis with a visible scar. It had left him with a subconscious fear of not getting enough to eat -- of never knowing whether there would be a next meal. He was eating to prepare himself for doing without. One more heartbreak to add to the tragic devastation that this innocent youngster had endured in his short life.
I silently vowed, "In this forever family, Kurtis will never miss a meal."
For months, Kurtis continued to consume food like he had a hollow leg. As we loved him with a consistency he had never known, he gradually gained confidence in his new family and realized there would always be another meal. He learned to trust us to provide for his needs. After a while, he began to reject any food that was white. He refused mashed potatoes, rice, vanilla ice cream, white frosting and whipped cream. Then the vegetables were pushed aside. No tomatoes, and certainly nothing green for Kurtis. He would only eat raw carrots. Our love had changed Kurtis from being the boy who ate everything to a finicky eater. When we had to implement a new rule, "everybody must eat something green every day," our best friends would serve green Jell-O. Good friends are such a blessing.
Eventually, Kurtis began eating like the rest of our family, with one exception. He shunned dessert. Even his own birthday cake did not appeal to him. His one sweet indulgence was pumpkin pie, and for many years we lit birthday candles fixed in the orange-brown spicy custard filling. I justified all the pumpkin pies as eating yellow vegetables.
Over time, Kurtis began to have favorite foods. Hungarian noodles, ham, eggs -- cooked any way, but especially deviled -- were all on his list of favorites. Kurtis's all time, number one favorite, to-die-for meal, what he wanted to eat if he was sick, disappointed, sad, discouraged, or to celebrate great accomplishments and special occasions, was macaroni and cheese. I tried to teach his independent living skills teacher to make this favorite dish so she could teach him to make it himself. She could never get the sauce to thicken.
Many years have passed since Kurtis was that little boy pathetically holding his dish out in my direction. His life has changed in many ways, but his love for my macaroni and cheese has not changed. We know each other very well, and I can tell when it is time. I pull my largest ovenproof dish from the cupboard, send my husband to pick Kurtis up and just sit back and watch as Kurtis enjoys, once again, the piping hot, creamy orange succulence of the macaroni and cheese only his loving mom can make. Greens are optional.
http://www.chickensoup.com
Комментариев нет:
Отправить комментарий