My non-verbal son, Lucas, has grown significantly over the years. As he enters puberty, his weight has become a focus. I share custody with his mother, so I’m responsible for his care during my half of the week. I’ve made efforts to replace sugary snacks with healthier options, but I’ve discovered that one key factor is the quantity of food I offer him without prompting. Surprisingly, he doesn’t often ask for snacks or meals as often as I had been giving them.

When children are babies, we establish a strict schedule for meals. Breakfast at a certain time, lunch at another. However, as they grow, they tend to develop their own eating routines. For example, his 15-year-old sister occasionally skips meals or indulges in midnight snacks, leaving the remnants of them on in the kitchen the next morning. Time marches on.

But when you have a child like Lucas, it’s easy to forget that he’s aging. He can consume a lot when meals are timed for him, but when allowed to follow his own hunger cues, he eats less. He still gets an appropriate amount of food, but he eats out of genuine need rather than boredom or, as previously suspected, the sensory stimulation that comes from chewing.

Breakfast is the only meal I still keep as part of our morning routine. He gets up, I help him get ready, and he gobbles up some sort of Eggo thing. Some mornings, he doesn’t even finish it before he takes his iPad in one hand, his cup’s straw in his mouth, and heads downstairs to chill on his beanbag.

Saturday was one of those days. Lucas had barely eaten one waffle before taking off to do his thing. As the hours ticked on, he didn’t ask for any food and neither of us ate anything. Much like my boy, meals are out of sight, out of mind for me. I know it’s not the best mindset to have, but it just is.

By the afternoon, our day had gotten into full swing and we went to pick his sister up from music lessons. As she got in the car, I asked her if she was hungry. Since it was a rare time we all were together in the outside world, we chose to go somewhere to sit for late lunch. Where? Well, that’s the issue.

My little lady fulfills a lot of the stereotypes about picky eaters. She tells me, right from the start, that she is open to anything. So I start suggesting things as I drive.

You want sushi?

Ugh. No.

How about like a pub place? Hamburgers?

I hate pub places.

You hate pub places? Uh, ok. Italian?

Ew.

Making matters worse, as we drove along, I’d pull into parking lots only to have her turn down the suggestion just as I put us into park. With each refusal, she added, “You can pick.” It was like I was on a hidden camera prank show. At one point, I got so frustrated that I told her she couldn’t say no to the next place.

When I pulled into the parking lot of Panera, she let out a primal groan. I asked her what was wrong and, in a voice that was far more adorable and juvenile than her age would suggest, she looked at me with sad eyes and said:

You told me I can’t say no again and I don’t want to go here.

This friggin’ kid. I backed out of the parking lot.

Then, we spotted some café that we both were vaguely familiar with. I pulled into the handicapped spot and we all eagerly hopped out. This was after nearly 45 minutes of driving.

Lucas, flying in the face of every negative thought people have about special needs children, had been an absolute angel. Despite a few arm-taps from the backseat where I assured him that we would eat, complete with the hand motion we have for it, he was cool with the whole thing.

We walked into this mostly empty café at 3:33 p.m. The hostess looked at us and smiled. I told her it would be three of us. To this, she replied:

Actually, we just closed from lunch and will be reopening at 4 for dinner. You can order drinks at the bar, though.

Almost automatically, still looking this woman in the face, I said, “G*ddamnit.” It wasn’t my proudest moment. From the corner of my eye, my daughter looked at me with a sly grin. We turned to walk out.

Undeterred, we began discussing where we would go as we entered the car. Lucas, who had been the picture of patience, didn’t follow but rather stopped at the front of my jeep. He began a loud and sustained whine. My poor guy was hungry and was now being dragged from where the food was. I felt terrible for him and tried to just coax him into the car.

Come on, kid. Get in. We have to go somewhere else to eat.

His whine grew louder and he began flailing. My heart broke as I went through every hand motion and word I knew.

No, buddy. (wagging finger) They’re closed. (hand up) We have to go (rainbow motion) to another restaurant in the car. (driving motion) Then we’ll eat. (hand to mouth) I promise. You’re being so good.

He understood. I could tell, but he was still upset and I couldn’t blame him. As I went up to him, he hung his arms on my shoulders and started falling to the ground. I held him up, hugged him, and rubbed his head. I told him how proud I was of him for his patience and that we would eat soon. I repeated, “I promise. Food is coming. Let’s go eat. You’re being so good. I get it. You want food. I know. Food is coming.”

This wasn’t a matter of miscommunication. This was agitation and hunger. I know the feeling because I had it too. I let him get his feelings out as he squeezed me and moaned in anguish. After a minute of getting it out of his system, I was able to get him into the car. We drove right to the nearest restaurant.

And that’s how my son became the happiest kid at Applebees.

The whole time, his sister had watched his near-meltdown from the passenger seat, but more importantly, she saw how I handled it. When we were seated in our booth, I made sure she understood what she witnessed.

You saw that, right? It’s important. I need you to know that the most important thing for Lucas is that he knows you understand what he’s trying to tell you. He might get impatient or upset like any other kid, but his biggest tantrums will come if he needs something and thinks we don’t know. I made sure he knew that I understood he was hungry and I made sure he knew we were going to eat.

I could see her paying attention to my words. Any parent of a teenager knows how rare that is. I made sure to punctuate that statement with a point of view I never want her to forget.

You know how upsetting it is when you want something and think other people don’t “get it”? Well, imagine if you couldn’t communicate that to them at all. How would that feel? You’d feel locked away. He should never feel locked away. We love him.

She nodded and I knew we had turned a potential day of disaster into a life lesson. Great dad moment. Great kids moment. We all were great.

The pretzel bites appetizer…not so much. But whatever, we were starving.