The Banana: A Story about Masking

This week isn’t a question but something I witnessed that I’ve found fascinating — and honestly, I can’t stop thinking about it. A big part of our story is that my son behaves completely differently at his dad’s house and at school… apparently. I say “apparently” because as time goes on, I’m more and more convinced the signs are there in both places — they’re just not seen.

At the beginning of all this, I genuinely couldn’t believe one child could behave so differently in different environments. It plagued me. I thought about it constantly. Then I stumbled across something called PDA. Children who are autistic with a PDA profile often have a very specific set of characteristics — and one thing hit me like a brick…

PDA children are high maskers.

You can find yourself living with a Jekyll-and-Hyde situation, especially when there are separated parents or the home/school divide. And I knew then that this is what we were experiencing. At the time, just reading that made me feel better — like someone had handed me a tiny piece of the puzzle. Not only that but PDA children can appear as very sociable – that is definitely my son. He can make eye contact, he can be charismatic and he can actually at times monopolise a social situation. But look underneath that and you will find there are differences. Differences that cause my son a lot of trauma.

But as time has gone on, I’ve realised something else — he does show PDA traits both at school and at his dad’s. The difference is: the behaviours get explained away. For example, if he has a meltdown at his dad’s — and he does — the message I get is always, “He’s tired. You must be keeping him up late.”
Yes. Of course. That must be it. Early bedtime will solve absolutely everything. Why didn’t I think of that?

One thing I’ve never been able to wrap my head around, though, is his diet. At my house? He eats barely anything. Sometimes plain pasta. Maybe a smiley face potato. Mostly? Custard and yogurts. That’s his entire food pyramid. But at his dad’s? He eats like a king.

Meat (won’t touch it here).
Vegetables (maybe a carrot at mine once every three months).
Fruit — fruit! (never here).

It baffled me. For a long time, I genuinely wondered if his dad was lying. Then the photos started. Sent to my mum. My son eating these foods — but I could see it instantly. That look. Not crying. Not outwardly distressed. But uncomfortable. Pushing himself through it. Most people would see a kid eating a piece of chicken. I saw an act.

So then my husband and I started doing the loop we’ve done a hundred times.
Is he eating it because he wants to fit in?
If he actually liked it, wouldn’t he eat it here too?
Round and round. No answer.

But now let’s talk about fruit — specifically, the banana. He rarely eats fruit at my house. He once had a tiny apple phase when it was peeled and sliced, but that’s it. Yet he takes fruit in his packed lunch every single day. He used to take sliced apple but said it went brown, so now he takes… a banana. The banana has to be specific. Small and yellow. No black bits, no brown bits. And every day, the banana goes in. Every day, the banana comes back. And once it gets a single black spot? He wants a new one putting in. I am constantly sourcing the right-colour banana — only for it to be rejected.

This is my life.

Ironically, his dad is obsessed with bananas too – this can’t be a coincidence. He messages me saying my son “must” eat a banana before football training… as if at 42, I’ve never heard of fruit. Not quite that simple, is it? I ignore these messages now. Yes, I’d love for him to eat a banana — but he won’t. In fact, one of the funniest things happened recently. His dad had been on a banana mission, so I went along with it to avoid conflict — “yes sir, no sir” — even though my son wasn’t eating the bloody thing. Then my son played the football match of his life. His dad and the coach were buzzing. His dad turned to me and said…

“What did you give him for breakfast? Tell me so I can give him the same.”

I could have cried laughing. Because his breakfast was most certainly not a banana. It was…

One pot of Ambrosia custard.

Not ideal — I know. But it’s that or nothing. I told my son later what his dad asked and he laughed. He then told his dad himself, and of course his dad said he should have a custard and… guess what… a BANANA. Needless to say, the advice was ignored because before my son’s next football match he ate….guess what…..

Two pots of custard for breakfast. No banana.

But this weekend, the banana story took a new twist. My stepdad’s son and his twin boys were visiting. My son had met them before but didn’t remember, so he was curious. We went to my mum’s, and he coped well — hid upstairs a bit, spoke through me, but managed. After about 10 minutes, he disappeared into the kitchen. Then he came back into the room eating something. I actually did a double take…

He was eating a banana.

I could have collapsed. From the outside he looked like he was enjoying it — even making “mmm” sounds. But I recognised the performance. The mask. The fitting-in-at-all-costs behaviour. But as always, you never make a big deal in the moment. So I just observed. He got about halfway through before we had to leave. When we got in the car — just the two of us — he immediately handed it to me and said..

“Can you get rid of that? I don’t like it.”

I KNEW IT.

Now, yes, some people would start asking questions here:
Why did you take it?
Why did you eat it?
But doing that puts pressure on him. Pressure to explain something he might not even understand. Masking can be conscious or subconscious. Autistic adults can explain it — children often can’t.

I don’t want him to feel he can’t mask if it helps him cope in a moment. But equally I don’t want him to feel that he has to mask. It’s a tricky balance.

So I just said, “Yeah, I’m not keen on bananas either.”

I want him to know it’s okay not to like things — but for him, that reassurance comes slowly. It’s a long game.

So here it is: the banana has accidentally become the perfect symbol for this whole journey. On the outside, everything can look “fine” — school says he’s fine, his dad says he’s fine, the photos make it look fine, the banana looks fine. But I see the truth beneath the peel.

And maybe other people will never notice it — the tiny grimaces, the effort, the masking. But I do. And whether he’s eating custard for breakfast, refusing fruit, or performing his way through half a banana to get through a social situation, I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done…

Watching closely.
Listening for the things he isn’t saying out loud.
Playing the long game.

And yes — buying the f***ing bananas. 🍌