Coloring Outside the Lines with Mia

When Your Child Will Only Eat One or Two Things

One of the biggest fears I had as a parent wasn't about behavior.

It was food.

In the beginning, Mia ate only a handful of baby snacks and drank milk.

That was it.

Every meal became a balancing act.

On one hand, I was terrified she wasn't getting enough nutrition.

On the other, I was afraid that taking away the few foods she accepted would leave her with nothing at all. Even though I knew she needed to give up the bottles of milk or the baby snacks, how could I take away one of the handful of things she consumed. 

If you've ever stood in your kitchen wondering how you're going to get your child to eat something new, I understand that feeling.

It can be exhausting.

I knew I couldn't force her.

So I started paying attention to why she rejected certain foods.

One thing I noticed was texture.

For example, Mia loved banana-flavored snacks.

She loved banana-flavored cereal.

But if I handed her an actual banana...

She wanted nothing to do with it.

That's when I realized she didn't necessarily dislike bananas.

She disliked the experience of eating one. It was squishy and messy and my Mia...She didn't like messy. 

So instead of trying harder...

I tried differently.

One day I peeled the banana but left part of the peel attached like a natural handle.

Then I handed Mia a spoon and let her scoop little bites out herself.

To my surprise...

It worked.

That tiny success changed how I approached every new food.

I stopped asking,

"How do I make her eat this?"

Instead I asked,

"How can I make this feel less overwhelming?"

That led to yogurt.

Then pouches.

Rice.

Noodles.

Vegetables.

More fruit.

One of my favorite little tricks involved fruit and a large drinking straw.

I'd let Mia push the straw through soft fruit, creating tiny bite-sized pieces inside the straw.

She thought it was fun.

To her, it wasn't another unfamiliar food.

It was a game.

Little by little, those games became meals.

As she became more comfortable, we slowly changed the presentation.

Different utensils.

Different textures.

Different ways of holding the food.

Eventually, we didn't need the tricks anymore.

They had simply become stepping stones.

Looking back, I don't think the breakthrough was the banana.

The breakthrough was changing my mindset.

I stopped fighting against Mia's differences and started working with them.

That changed everything.

If you're reading this because your child only eats one or two foods, I want you to know there is hope.

Progress may not happen overnight.

It may take weeks.

It may take months.

It will almost certainly take patience.

And it may require creativity you never imagined using.

But every tiny step matters.

Sometimes success isn't taking a whole bite.

Sometimes it's touching the food.

Sometimes it's smelling it.

Sometimes it's poking it with a straw.

Sometimes it's simply allowing it to sit on the plate.

Those moments count.

Every child is different, and what worked for Mia may not work for every family. If feeding challenges are affecting your child's health or growth, it's important to work with your pediatrician or a qualified feeding specialist. But don't underestimate the value of making food feel safe, playful, and approachable.

Keep offering.

Keep encouraging.

Keep celebrating the smallest victories.

One day, you'll look back and realize those tiny victories were quietly becoming something much bigger.

---

💜 Mia's Lesson

Children don't always need us to push harder.

Sometimes they need us to think differently.

When we stop asking, "Why won't they?" and begin asking, "How can I meet them where they are?" we often discover possibilities we couldn't see before.

Sometimes the smallest bite is the beginning of the biggest breakthrough.

 

Coloring Outside the Lines with Mia

The Little Girl Who Changed My Career

If you had asked me years ago if I wanted a career in Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA), my answer probably would have been no.

Not because I didn't respect the field.

Because I knew how hard it was.

I knew about the long hours.

The emotional investment.

The burnout many professionals experience.

The responsibility that comes with helping families during some of the most difficult moments of their lives.

I respected the work, but I wasn't sure it was a life I wanted. 

See I had taken a job to become an RBT many years ago.

I quit, I didn't even make it beyond a month. It was grueling, the commitment, the hours, the studying. 

I thought that when I had left that I had closed that door forever. 

Then Mia came into my life.

Everything changed.

When Mia was diagnosed with autism, I suddenly found myself on the other side.

I wasn't the professional.

I was the parent.

And I was overwhelmed.

There wasn't a handbook for the challenges we faced every day.

Simple things that most families never have to think twice about suddenly became enormous obstacles.

Baths.

Sleep.

Eating.

Communication.

Doctor appointments.

Haircuts.

Leaving the house.

Things people often take for granted became victories we celebrated.

So I started doing what I knew how to do.

I researched.

Every night after Mia went to sleep or sometimes while she was still awake, I searched for answers.

I read articles.

I watched videos.

I searched forums.

I read parents' stories.

I wanted to understand everything I possibly could.

Slowly, something unexpected happened.

I stopped researching just for Mia.

I became fascinated with understanding why certain approaches worked.

That curiosity eventually led me to complete my 40-hour Registered Behavior Technician (RBT) training online.

For the first time, I wasn't just learning as a parent.

I was learning as a future professional.

The more I learned, the more I realized something.

Everything I had struggled through with Mia wasn't wasted.

Those sleepless nights.

The tears.

The uncertainty.

The victories that took months instead of days.

They had given me something no textbook could ever teach.

Perspective.

I know what it feels like to leave an appointment more confused than when you arrived.

I know what it feels like to question whether you're doing enough.

I know what it feels like to celebrate something that other people might never notice because they don't understand how much work it took to get there.

Those experiences changed ME.

Today, I'm working toward my master's degree in ABA.

Ironically, I found myself running toward the very field I once thought I would avoid.

Not because the work became easier.

But because I realized families like mine deserve professionals who understand both the science and the human side of autism.

Mia didn't just change my life.

She changed my purpose.

Every class I take.

Every paper I write.

Every exam I study for.

Every future client I hope to help.

They're all connected to one little girl who unknowingly became the reason I chose this path.

People often ask why I went back to school.

The answer is simple.

Because one child changed my entire future.

And I'm grateful she did.

---

💜 Mia's Lesson

Sometimes the path we were meant to take isn't the one we planned.

Sometimes it's the one that finds us when we need it most.

Mia didn't just teach me how to be her mom.

She taught me who I was meant to become.

Coloring Outside the Lines with Mia

Why I Wrote Books for My Daughter

Before Mia, I never imagined writing children's books.

I didn't grow up thinking I would become an author.

I became one because of one little girl.

As Mia grew, I found myself searching for books that reflected her world. I wanted stories she could connect with stories that included children who experienced life differently.

While there are wonderful books about autism, I noticed that many were written to explain autism to others. Those books have an important place, but I was searching for something different.

I wasn't looking for another book that explained my daughter.

I was looking for books that included her.

Children deserve to see themselves in the stories they read.

They deserve to feel like they belong in adventures, everyday moments, and happy endings.

Just because a child is nonverbal doesn't mean they don't notice the world around them.

Just because they communicate differently doesn't mean representation matters any less.

I wanted Mia to grow up knowing there was a place for children like her in books.

So I decided to write them.

One story became another.

Then another.

Each one was written with the hope that not only Mia, but other children like her, could open a book and feel included.

Representation isn't just about checking a box.

It's about belonging.

It's about making sure every child has the opportunity to see someone who looks like them, learns like them, communicates like them, or experiences the world like them.

Inclusion begins long before a classroom.

Sometimes it begins with a story.

Today, I'm proud to say those stories exist.

They're not perfect.

I'm still learning as both a writer and a mom.

But every page was written with love, hope, and one little girl in mind.

If another parent discovers these books and their child smiles because they finally see a character they relate to, then every late night spent writing was worth it.

If you'd like to explore our books or follow along with everything we're creating you can find it all here:

💜 Books, Resources & Projects:
https://linktr.ee/chinitacm86?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=b9862b3f-9706-4092-a6bc-88818ee9567d

Thank you for being part of our journey.

I hope these stories remind every family that every child deserves to feel seen, valued, and included.

Because sometimes the greatest gift we can give a child isn't just a book.

It's the feeling that they belong inside its pages.

---

💜 Mia's Lesson

Every child deserves to find themselves in a story.

Representation isn't just for children who can tell us they notice it. It's for every child who deserves to know they belong.

Whether they communicate with words, gestures, a device, or simply a smile, every child deserves to feel seen, valued, and included.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can say to a child isn't spoken at all.

Sometimes it's found in the pages of a book that quietly says,

"You belong here, too."

 

Coloring Outside the Lines with Mia

The Thing No One Warned Me About: Sleep

Before Mia, I had two children.

Bedtime wasn't always perfect, but it was predictable.

You read a story.
You tucked them in.
You kissed them goodnight.

With autism, I quickly learned that "just put her to bed" wasn't always possible.

People would say, "Just keep her on a schedule."

As if I hadn't already tried.

As if years of parenting hadn't taught me what a bedtime routine was.

What many people didn't understand was that I wasn't failing because I didn't know how to parent.

I was trying to parent a child whose brain experienced sleep differently.

There were nights I slept three hours.

Sometimes less.

I was terrified I would oversleep and miss taking my older children to school or forget to pick them up. I remember driving while completely exhausted, praying I could stay alert. I didn't have someone to take over so I could catch up on sleep. There was no tag team. There wasn't another shift coming in.

I was drowning.

I was trying to figure out something I had never experienced before, completely on my own.

Friends and family meant well, but I'd hear things like, "Just put her to bed."

If only it were that simple.

The hardest part wasn't one bad night.

It was months.

I'd finally get Mia onto a schedule.

I'd remove naps during the day, even when she was little, hoping she'd build enough sleep pressure to rest at night. We'd establish a routine. We'd start sleeping again. I'd think, "We're finally getting there."

Then, almost like clockwork, the regression would come.

We'd be awake all night.

She'd sleep at odd hours during the day.

Everything we had built seemed to disappear overnight.

Then we'd start over.

Again.

And again.

People don't always see these parts of autism.

They see a child who stayed up late.

They don't see a parent who hasn't slept through the night in months.

They don't see the appointments you miss because waking an exhausted child after only a couple of hours of sleep feels impossible.

They don't see the constant calculations in your head.

"If I wake her now, will she melt down all day?"

"If I let her sleep, we'll miss therapy."

"Which choice is the least harmful today?"

The only thought that carried me through some of those nights was this:

Next year she'll be older. Maybe next year it will be easier.

For our family, over time, it did get better.

Through consistency, careful routines, paying attention to diet, encouraging movement during the day, and a lot of patience, Mia eventually learned to sleep through the night. Even more importantly, she shifted from sleeping during the day to sleeping at night, allowing me to finally get the rest my body desperately needed.

That breakthrough changed our lives.

But I also know our story isn't everyone's story.

Many autistic children—and autistic adults—experience ongoing sleep challenges. For some families, this isn't a season. It's their everyday reality.

If that's where you are today, I want you to know something.

I see you.

I know what it feels like to wonder how you're supposed to function after another sleepless night.

I know what it feels like to love your child with everything you have while also feeling completely exhausted.

And I know how lonely it can feel when the world keeps saying, "Just put them to bed."

Sometimes autism asks us to rethink what "normal" looks like.

Sometimes surviving one night at a time is enough.

And sometimes, the biggest victory isn't a perfect bedtime routine.

It's simply waking up tomorrow and trying again.

 

Coloring Outside the Lines with Mia

Sometimes You Have to Color Outside the Lines

When people imagine parenting, bath time seems simple.

You fill the tub.
Wash their hair.
Read a bedtime story.
Tuck them in.

That wasn't our reality.

After we moved into a new home, Mia completely stopped taking baths.

Not for a few days.
Not for a week.

For months.

Bath time became one of the hardest parts of our day. We still had to keep her clean, so we did what we could. Sometimes I had to sponge bathe her. Other times my husband or one of my older children would help me get her close enough to running water or a sink so we could wash her as quickly as possible. She screamed through it. It was heartbreaking for everyone involved, but hygiene isn't optional.

What people don't always see is what happens after everyone else goes to bed.

I remember sitting alone at night crying, wondering, "How much longer can I do this?"

I was in my late thirties, filling an inflatable pool bucket by bucket, then emptying it the same way after every bath attempt. My back ached constantly. Every failed attempt felt heavier than the last. I knew I couldn't physically keep doing this forever, but I also knew that forcing Mia into a bathtub or shower, fighting through panic and trying to rinse her as quickly as possible, wasn't healthy either. Sponge baths were helping us survive the moment, but they weren't a long-term solution.

I felt stuck between two impossible choices.

After everyone had gone to bed, I searched for anything that might help.

I read other parents' stories.
I searched Reddit.
I looked at therapy recommendations.
I researched no-rinse shampoos.
I read article after article hoping someone had found an answer.

Eventually, I started seeing ideas that focused less on "making a child take a bath" and more on making bath time feel safe and fun.

Lights.
Music.
Bubbles.
Bath toys.

I tried recreating those ideas in our bathtub.

Nothing.

She would look at the tub, then immediately run away. The new bathtub was smaller than the one she'd been used to before we moved, and it simply wasn't a place where she felt comfortable anymore.

That's when I realized maybe I needed to stop thinking like an adult.

Instead of asking, "How do I get her into the bathtub?" I started asking, "Where would she actually want to play?"

So I bought a small inflatable unicorn pool.

I blew it up, filled it with warm water, bubbles, glowing bath toys, turned on music, and placed soft rugs around it to make the space feel inviting.

Then...

I waited.

The first few days she didn't get in.

She sat beside it.

She played with the toys.

Eventually she dipped her toes into the water.

I didn't rush her.

I sat nearby at whatever distance she was comfortable with. As the days passed, I slowly moved closer.

Soon she was sitting in the pool.

Then we could gently wash her arms.

Then her legs.

Eventually her hair.

Once the inflatable pool became a place she trusted, we took the next small step.

We bought a smaller inflatable insert that fit inside the bathtub.

Now the bathtub looked and felt familiar instead of frightening.

Little by little, she transitioned back into taking regular baths.

No magic trick.

No overnight breakthrough.

Just hundreds of tiny moments of patience.

That experience changed how I think about autism.

So much of traditional parenting advice sounds like this:

"Just take a bath."
"Just brush your teeth."
"Just go to bed."

But autism often doesn't work in "just."

It asks us to slow down.

To prepare.

To plan.

To be patient.

To become creative enough to meet our children where they are instead of expecting them to immediately meet us where we are.

Sometimes progress isn't measured in giant milestones.

Sometimes progress is sitting beside an inflatable unicorn pool.

Sometimes it's putting one foot in the water.

Sometimes it's simply staying in the same room without fear.

Those tiny victories eventually become the big ones.

That's why I named this blog Coloring Outside the Lines with Mia.

Because raising an autistic child has taught me that the best solutions don't always fit inside the lines of "normal."

Sometimes the most meaningful progress begins the moment we're willing to color outside of them.