“Ewwww,” my four-year-old son, Oliver, exclaimed, suddenly throwing up on the polished wooden table. I stood there in shock, glancing around the nearly empty restaurant, hoping for some semblance of mercy. In need of a change from the monotony of parenting, I had chosen a nearby Japanese eatery for lunch, bringing Oliver along for the adventure.
For me, sushi was a rare indulgence. I had packed his lunch, which contained the same string cheese, yogurt, and fruit puree he still enjoys at nine years old. As soon as we walked in, Oliver started complaining. “It smells bad,” he moaned as we settled into one of the vacant booths. He soon flopped around the seat, resembling the very lunch I hoped to enjoy.
“Sit still,” I urged, and he complied momentarily. But as soon as the server approached, Oliver slid to the floor again. “Get up!” I said firmly. “But Mom, it really smells!” he protested. “It’s just sushi,” I replied, trying to maintain my composure. “Behave.”
He returned to his seat, only for the cycle to repeat. What was happening? I knew he was curious and stubborn, but this was a new level of defiance. “Back here, now,” I commanded, feeling my patience dwindle. He reluctantly returned, sitting properly, but then he opened his mouth to expel his lunch.
After the shock wore off, clarity struck: it was the smell that had unsettled him. From six months old, Oliver had rejected baby food with strong odors, such as meats and pungent vegetables, growing increasingly selective as he aged. We had tried everything, from recipes to expert advice, but in the end, we allowed him to eat whatever he would, focusing on calories over variety. By age three, I realized his diet consisted almost entirely of bland foods—things like mozzarella, rice cakes, and bananas—all odorless.
Professionals identified Oliver as having sensory processing challenges. While he learned to tolerate scratchy fabrics and other textures, his aversion to food, driven by his keen sense of smell, persisted. Specialists guided us through occupational therapy techniques to help him acclimate to new foods. The first step? He needed to stay in the same room as the food, a struggle for us during family gatherings filled with enticing aromas. Each holiday, he would eat alone, his safe foods laid out before him, and it broke my heart.
Despite our diligent efforts, progress has been slow. Now at nine, Oliver’s diet includes dairy, fruits, nuts, and some baked goods, but I still worry about the nutrients he’s missing. However, his heightened sensitivity is not solely a burden; it has its advantages. His remarkable sense of smell can be astonishing.
During our trips to the school lost and found, while I sift through jackets for nametags, Oliver simply sniffs them and confidently declares, “This one is mine.” He’s right most of the time. At bedtime, as we read together, he’ll nuzzle close and make observations about scents. “Your hair smells like pizza and fresh grass,” he said one night, and correctly identified lunch I had eaten another time.
Sometimes his remarks are more wistful, like when he wishes aloud that people didn’t have to eat. One night, after a nearby wildfire, Oliver was quick to discern the difference between smoke and barbecue from our neighbors, providing comfort as we processed the fear of that night.
Apart from a couple of local eateries that cater to Oliver’s palate, my husband and I have the flexibility to take him anywhere, concealing his preferred snacks in my bag. Thankfully, his behavior has improved since that disastrous sushi outing, and I’ve learned to adjust my expectations, even leaving extra tips when necessary.
One evening at a wine bar, as my husband and I each enjoyed a glass, I asked Oliver to sniff our drinks and tell us what he detected. “Yours smells like dirt, and Dad’s has a berry scent,” he remarked, accurately describing the flavors. I turned to the server, hoping he would share my fascination, but his discomfort was evident.
We often joke about Oliver possibly ordering buttered pasta on his first date, yet I can’t help but worry about his future. Will he always be this way? Today, Oliver embraces his quirks with confidence. He openly shares his food preferences with new friends, declaring, “I’m not much of an eater. I only like white food and fruit,” followed by a cheeky nod to his love for sweets. This candidness seems to ease social interactions.
I occasionally find myself pondering what life is like for him. Is it akin to a dog perceiving sounds we cannot hear? I resolve to empathize with his experience more often, but reality sets in—we all navigate our worlds through our unique sensory lenses.
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In summary, my son Oliver’s extraordinary sense of smell, although challenging at times, serves as a unique gift that enriches his life and ours. We continue to navigate his sensitivities, celebrating the moments that make him truly one-of-a-kind.
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