Compliments are Anathema – Misery loves company

Children come in all shapes and sizes, as do parenting guides. One of the cardinal rules of parenting is to praise a child for a job well done. Fortunately this is a natural instinctive rule that matches the facial expression of delight and possibly a hand flourish or a hug. It all fits together perfectly, or rather it does for many parents.

Other parents need to learn to suppress the facial flicker, so that no hint of pleasure registers. Dead pan is hard to achieve and takes a great deal of practice. Sitting on hands is highly recommended to stop them from leaping out and behaving in a completely predictable yet thoroughly inappropriate manner.

Perhaps you have experienced this too with your child?

Perhaps you haven’t?

For this particular kind of a child, acknowledgement of a job well done is a trigger to destruction. Before the first word has left my lips the picture is trashed, the Lego is hurled, the Magnetix are squished.

Initially it’s counter intuitive.

There can be many reasons for such behavior and sometimes knowing why can help. For some children it’s a question of realizing that they are growing in competence, which also means less reliance on a parent. This realization is scary. Often it is more complex or more simple. If you are unable to fathom the true reasons for their abhorrence of praise then it is wise to keep our own counsel. Here, we admitted defeat a long, long time ago but to praise two children and effectively ignore another, is extremely difficult.

I appreciate that this is a bit of a niche issue.

Somehow it just doesn’t seem right to force a child, or anyone for that matter, to accept unwelcome praise but looking ahead I knew that a time would come when someone would praise him. He’d be at work, in one of those little cubbies when the boss would walk in: “great job on that report Mac!” And what would follow? A tirade? I didn’t like to imagine any further; rightly or not I decided to plow ahead anyway.

I picked my attack time with care.

The best time to attack children is when their defenses are low. Mine are usually most malleable just before sleep, at bed time. My first attempts were miserable failures and effectively destroyed the peaceful night time routine I’d been engineering since their birth. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he allowed me to sow a few seeds of praise. Three small descriptive words about his character which were not false but not self acknowledged. That shaky start was over seven years ago. Gradually the list of words has grown, as has he. It’s quite a lengthy list now. I take care to keep it in the right order as the wrong order also provokes meltdowns. Every once in a while I make a proposal for a new candidate to be added to the list but it has to be appropriate.

Like many autistic people, their receptive language, [what they understand,] is so much greater than their expressive language, [what they’re able to spit out.] Over the summer months we had so many visitors, guests and bodies around the place that my son began to shine. The ‘meet and greet’ was less prompted and stilted. He delighted in sharing his toys, showing off and generally engaging everyone with his antics.

So I wait until darkness because eye contact is often the kiss of death to anything new.
“I was thinking…..”
Silence.
“I was thinking…….”
Silence.
“I was thinking maybe we could add a new word to our special time?”
“Wot?”
“Guess?”
“Er…..?”
“It begins with E.”
“Enormous.”
“Ah well yes you are getting big but I wouldn’t describe you as enormous just yet.”
“Electric.”
“Hmm also true. I didn’t think of that one either but have another go.”
“Er……Elephantine?”
“How about we steer away from the physical and move into personal qualities, like kindness?”
“Kindness don’t begin wiv an E.”
“So true, so true, but I can’t think of anything beginning with E that isn’t the word I’ve already thought of without giving the game away.”
“Equatic!”
“Aquatic starts with an A, but close.”
“How about……ENTERTAINING! What do you think? You’ve been so great with all of the playdates and so friendly and helpful……all the people who have been coming and going……”
“Yeah………I love havin company over.”
“Great!”
“Hey mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“How about a C word?”
“Which C word would you like?”
“Companyable.”

And that’s the first time he’s come up with his own label – self taught, self initialized and possibly selfless.

Works for me.

Should you have a free mo, you could always nip along and say 'hi de ho' to a new blogger called "Rachel" at "Strange and Beautiful." I shall be a bit busy myself as "Nonna" is back.

Cheers dears

"I before E, except after C"

"I before E, except after C" and a few other exceptions. There's quite a few exceptions actually and unless you're good at remembering lists then maybe a visual might help better......

The 'e' will only hang from the branch of the 'W' as the 'i' would fall off because seeing is believing around here.





........well for some people at least.

Autism – back to basics

I think it’s time for a good old moan; a grumble on the topic of impairment to joint attention, one of the hallmarks of autism, a pivotal skill that’s adrift, so the experts tell me. The trouble is, when it comes to parenting an autistic child we are often advised to ‘trust our instincts.’ It is my experience that this is basically wrong, or perhaps more accurately, that my instincts are wrong. Lets just look at three of the basics. They’re universal, so I’m told. The power of speech is helpful but not essential.

First up:-

I am the parent. You are the child and we gave you a name. You have learned your name, so I call you, either because you’re hiding or you’re busy doing something, “Freddy, where are you?” You, Freddy, do not reply. It may be that you’re replying in your head but no words are coming out of your mouth. If you, Freddy, have no words, you could always just pop your head out of your room and wave, acknowledge that you heard me, aware that I’m searching for you – but of course you don’t. I don’t know what you do about this, but I take on both roles, my own as parent, and yours, as Freddy. I have an entire conversation with myself, speaking both roles:-
“Freddy, where are you?” “I’m here mum!” I wander round the house calling out these two lines until eventually, if I’m lucky, I’ll trip over Freddy and hopefully not hurt him in the process. It’s been like that for years.

Second:-

Pointing. Yes, I know it’s rude, but everyone does it when they’re little. Parents do it too, we actually teach our little ones to point, to be rude, because we’re a bit short sighted. Teach them how to point and then scrap that, it’s rude, un-teach pointing. What a pointless exercise, unless of course they don’t point in the first place. An expert will draw a parents attention to this deficit:- “he doesn’t point, had you noticed?”
“Of course I’ve noticed, it’s just that he’s an exceptionally polite child, must come from having British parents.”

But of course it wasn’t.

Why is pointing important anyway? Because it smacks of joint attention, a shared experience; it’s absence is a red flag.

Third and last, my personal favorite:-

Hand leading. Again we don’t need words. I am not a big scary bear, I’m just a big lumpy parent, hand extended, soft and warm and inviting. It translates to ‘come with me.’ When a child makes this gesture to someone else, it has the same meaning. The underlying message is the key, again, it’s that element of joint attention, a skill that we are all supposed to have, innately, and yet it’s not there. It has to be taught. Each one of them has to be taught each skill, discretely, practiced and then generalized into all given or possible situations.

It is the absence of these three, amongst other things, that still catches me out even after all this time. I forget that they’re not there. I forget to remind them and to practice because if they’re not practiced, they’re lost. It’s not just like riding a bicycle, but much more difficult.

Too much of a tirade?

Possibly.

Why mention it then?

I suppose because it’s IEP time, triennial in fact. Suddenly we’re presented with another whole host of deficits, negatives, holes, and shortcomings, all in black and white, with graphs and statistics as back up.

We’re reminded because we need to stay on track, not become complacent – yes we’re parents but we’re supposed to be dragoons, always forging ahead. I become swept up with the urgency as the grains in the timer escape and drift away. Wipe out those negatives, re-train, re-teach, reinforce, so much so that I’m apt to forget the bonuses, those freebies that are of no great import, except to us. It reminds me of "John Elder Robinson," how he learned to conform and yet lost so many of the superb abilities he had as a child, an alternative view that he’s been unable to recapture.

Yet it happened again today.

It happens most days one way or another, something that pulls me up short because I forget that they think so differently from me. Today as I reached over the sofa towards him, hand extended, called his name, beckoned with the other arm, he responded. He leapt onto the sofa and hung upside down over the back to examine my hand from underneath; an upside down aerial view. Silent. He moved each digit, an engineer checking the joints, fully functional, no creaks. He traced the lines on my palms and whorls on my fingertips, “mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I cun see yur DNA.”

How to stop autistic children from scripting

Scripting in autism can be defined variously but generally refers to the ability to repeat phrases or single words many times over. The words and phrases are often copied but can also be self generated. Scripting is generally considered to be an impairment that requires intervention and is usually paired with the word ‘fading.’ Scripting and echolalia often come hand in hand which is why so many of the phrases are easily recognizable as they’re delivered with accurate mimicry. A three year old who scripts Boris Karloff may be the source of amusement, but with an older child, public opinion is less forgiving.

Scripting serves many different functions for a child; it can be calming and self-organizing, a bit like white noise. Frequently the child is not aware that he or she is scripting, which makes it far more difficult to stop or reduce the behavior.

Scripting is generally deemed to be socially unacceptable, which is why it receives so much attention, disproportionately so in my opinion. If someone hums a tune, or whistles quietly in public, no-one is likely to turn a hair, but most of us will notice someone who appears to talk to themselves - a big red flag. If that person repeats the same word or phrase, you can more or less guarantee that everyone’s attention is arrested. I would hope that it is this aspect that concerns most people, how to let the autistic person continue with their daily doings, without being gawped at? I suspect that in another decade, given the arrival of the blue tooth, such behavior will become less and less noticeable.

The negative elements of scripting are well documented elsewhere, as are the many techniques to help fade this behavior, so would prefer to posit an alternative perspective. Although scripting can be irritating for the audience, or parent in my particular case, it does have a number of positive elements that don’t receive much attention.

If a child is non-verbal or has a significant speech delay, repeating the same word of phrase is basically practice. It may sound like a scratch on a record, but all those repeats add up. It may not be that practice makes perfect, but it certainly helps articulation. They also function as a prompt; if you can recall the starting phrase like: ‘once upon a time,’ ‘this guy walked into the room,’ ‘there was an Irishman, an Englishman and a Welshman,’ - then the rest of the story can flow.

The scripts around here are many and various, they change over time and often become longer and more complicated.

[please note that ‘bing, bing, bing,’ refers to BBC America where swear words and other rude references are bleaped]

***

Following the triennial I.E.P. certain pertinent facts grab my attention. Forget the academics, it’s those all elusive social skills that need nailing. Mastery is the difference between potential budding relationships and isolation – if not mastery, at least a move in the right direction. We collude and conspire for some considerable period thereafter, before the latest campaign evolves. Although he often thinks kindly thoughts, he rarely if ever voices them, aloud. He’s a taciturn kind of a guy. At other times, he volunteers information that some people would prefer not to hear, because he’s a truthful kind of a guy. Generally he’s on the periphery rather than in the center of the fray.

We adopt a two-pronged approach after lengthy discussions on tactics – rewards for speaking up in a positive manner and even greater rewards for refraining from saying negative things out loud. We practice modeling at home, all those everyday situations, examples, clues about what is expected and when.

On day one we experience three incidents where thought is put into action. He avoids telling another child how feeble and inferior her artistic creation turned out. He catches a boy as he trips to prevent the fall. He offers voluntary praise to a youngster for his sterling academic efforts.

It’s a veritable triumph. This kind of thing usually takes weeks, months, forever, a lifetime before we ever see anything. Three deeds equate to 3 M&M’s, as positive bribery is reinforcing initially.

The following day we repeat the exercise, this time at the dinner table where we are all gathered to hear of his exploits. He makes a start, after a little coaxing.

“Well I can fink of one thing that I am doing.”

“Wonderful! Tell us more!”

“There was this guy.”

“What was his name?” interjects his father.

“Dunno but he was a medium sized kind of a kid.”

He never knows anyone’s name, grade or class, “he had this rock.”

“A rock! Oh no. What did he do?”

“He was, he was, he was gonna hit this small sized kid on the bing!”

“On the bing? It’s o.k., you can say the rude word.”

“On the butt!”

“And what did you do?”

“I told him, ‘listen up buddy, don’t you hit him on the bing, bing, bing or I’ll go and tell the yard duty lady.’” He uses his most jocular tone, a good tactic when dealing with unknown rock thugs. So much of it is scripts, but it gives him flow and rhythm and confidence.

“And what did he say?”

“He jus said ‘duh’ and he hit hisself on the forehead.” He demonstrates the gesture, just in case any of us were in any doubt.

To everyone’s surprise, he recounts ten additional incidents of his intervening heroism, tales of daring do, most involving rocks, with one exception, one involving ropes.

“So this medium sized guy in a grey sweater, he has these lil kids tied up to a pole at recess.”

His credibility begins to wane,

“What did he tie them up with?”

“Rope.”

“Rope? Where would you get rope at school?” He sister leaps to his defense, “jump ropes mom, he’s telling the truth, you can tie people to trees with the jump ropes.” I do not find this fact particularly helpful, but the detail of the ‘grey sweater’ gives weight to the guise of truth.

“And what did you do?”

“I said to this guy…. ‘hey buddy, listen up……untie those kids or I’m gonna have to report yah to the Principal.’”

“You seem to have turned into a superhero overnight dear.”

“Yeah.”

“And did you tell the Principal?”

“No, I ain’t no tattle tail.”

“!”

“And there’s another one.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, this big guy was peeking at the girls’ restroom.”

“Peeking?”

He demonstrates the act of peeking, such that we can be in no doubt as to his meaning.

“Really. And what did you do?”

“I said to him I said, ‘listen up buddy, don’t you go being all bing, bing, bing.’”

“Did you use a rude word?”

“No I jus wanted him to know about the rudeness.”

“!”

“And there’s another one.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, this guy called me a ‘bing, bing, bing.’”

“What word did he use?”

“Dickhead.”

“!”

“Yeah.”

“And what did you do?”

“I said ‘yeah, that’s right, I’m a bing, bing, bing.’”

“You used the rude word?”

“No, I used the ‘bing, bing, bing.’”

“!”

I begin to feel dizzy with the speed of his delivery - conversations of this type are more rare than hen’s teeth. So animated, so jovial, centre stage and frolicking in the limelight – cheeky little monkey. This is positively unprecedented.

“And dis is the last one.”

“Last one?”

“Yeah, it was recess and this medium sized kid had a rock and he was gonna throw it at the Principal.”

“The Principal?” The skeptics amongst us exchanges glances – either he’s forgotten the boy that cried wolf or he’s had a personality transplant without our knowledge – which is more unlikely?

“Yeah.”

“And what did you do?”

“I stood in front of him with my body and went ‘hey dude, get a load of this!’ and then I made my funny face.”

“And what did he do?”

“He walked away.”

“Did anybody else see this?”

“Sure there was loads of kids – it was recess.”

“Savior of the Principal! Did the Principal see you do this?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say anything to you……for saving her?”

“Yes. She gave me two gold cards to go into the raffle for the ‘Student in the Spotlight’ this month.”

“Do you have the gold cards?”

“No she put em in the raffle.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What a truly spectacular day you’ve had. That’s earned you 12 M & M’s.”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna get a whole packet I fink.”

“We shall all enjoy watching you earn them, since you’ll be home, because it will be Saturday.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow? No School?”

“That’s right, you’ll have to be a superhero at home. Won’t that be fun.”

“You ….you…..you…. got any spare rocks around this joint?”

This may come across as a fairly standard family conversation, nothing out of the ordinary, how would I know, I have no point of comparison? But around here, it’s heart stomping.

Why would I share this, now that they’re so much older? Isn’t it too private? Perhaps, maybe it is. All I know is the numbers of google searches that bring people to my site. The search is a variation on a theme – ‘how to stop autistic kids from scripting’ – it might be an idea to re-think that one – it’s not all negative, it can be a springboard.

So….was it true or was it false? I don’t know and I actually don’t care. Six years ago I would never have dreamed of such a conversation. What if he is prone to a little exaggeration? It’s all in the mind afterall. What really is the difference between a rock, a pebble and a wee nubby chip of gravel anyway! It’s all about scale or do I mean perspective?

p.s. I came across this site called “love to know” – autism. They have an empathy quiz. It's about half way down on the "left margin." I’m not suggesting you take it yourself because as a seasoned Cosmopolitan quiz taker myself [several life times ago,] I think we all know how to fudge the answers to get the right result. That said, it may just be that there’s someone new in your life who is really trying to make an effort to get to know your children and family, so this would be a gentle introduction in 10 quick questions without the intimidation. For me, as a parent of autistic children, I feel I have a duty to tread gently when it comes to the mainstream. It’s easy to forget how different our world is from other people’s. We’re unlikely to win over public opinion with a battering ram – our greatest asset is our children themselves, who they are, as individuals.

Some mother’s do ave em

It was one of those ‘time stood still moments.’ Perhaps fifty adults and maybe 30 children, all assembled on the day of my daughter’s wedding. Everything had been prepared in advance and I’d practiced my brief speech, in my formal role as ‘mother of the bride.’ Because I am an anal retentive type, I had already taken account of every possible eventuality, everything except that one.



After a few words to the adults, it was time to include the children, as speeches are especially boring for youngsters. So I called them, all the children. Invited them to join their parents for a few seconds, and of course they all did so, little obedient lambs, except one, the black sheep of the family. I had him in my sites, clearly. I could see him as he froze in response to my call, caught in the act, deer in the headlights, an immobile statue of exaggeration. No one else on the planet could hold that pose, a caricature of startled innocence. It wasn’t disobedience; but bewilderment, pure and complicated. “Parent!” I repeated as he blinked wide-eyed. His arm bent stiffly at the elbow to point to his own chest, in the universal gesture of ‘are you talking to me?’

“Yes! Where are your parents?” I yelled as my arms beckoned, huge flappy waves as everyone waited in the blistering 90 degree heat. I stood next to his father on the single step, waiting. I watched him percolate as he searched around to retrieve the lost word – what was that word again? ‘Parent’?



I saw when it stuck him, a little sharp dart of recall, a small convulsion of conviction that sparked him into movement as he skittered over to my side, a cheesy grin of recognition because progenitor elastic had snapped him back.



Next time I’ll prepare more carefully, save myself a lot of bother – one little rustle of the packet from 50 miles away will set him running - the power of Goldfish crackers still reigns supreme.





Meanwhile.......tis the season for.....? Something or other. We're pretty much buried in Thanksgiving for now, shortly to be followed by a whole slew of birthdays, "Nonna's" arrival before we bump into the Holiday season. That said, despite all the busyness it maybe worthwhile to pause amid the fray and spare a thought for those "abroad" Maybe you're in need of some "festive cards" especially if your own children eschew such materials as glitter, glue and paper. I'll make no bones about it, I plan to pass them off as our own - or maybe not. Even if you're fully supplied with cards, it might be that you can spare a little something as a donation, a freebie, with no pay-off? I hear that there are some people like that, who give freely without any desire for a quid quo pro, although I we wouldn't know anything about that around here. If you think that might be something that tweaks your funny bone, then nip along and say "hi de ho" to "Cordelia," and her chums.

Hole in one

I watch him hit Bukugan balls across the kitchen floor with a plastic light saber with quite an alarming degree of accuracy.
“How many balls are there in bill birds?”
“I have no idea. Is this one of your new jokes luvvy?”
“No. I’m askin. How many balls are there in bill birds?”
“I don’t think I know what a bill bird is?”
“Bill birds is dah English game which is being called Pool properly.”
“Ah! You mean billiards!”
“O.k.”
“Super. Glad we sorted that one out then.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“How many balls is there?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know, I’m not really very sporty.”
“Sporty?”
“Yes, Billiards is an Olympic sport…..isn’t it? I was never any good at Trivial Pursuits.”
“S’not trivial, its importint!”
“!”
“Itsa game not a sport.”
“Oh, well you’re the American so you would probably know best.”
“So how many?”
“Like I said, I don’t know……I can look it up if you like?”
“No, jus look in your head.”
“Pardon?”
“Can’t you see it?”
“Where?”
“In yur head. I can see it in my head.”
“Oh, like in my mind’s eye………no I still can’t see it. Can you?”
“Of course.”
“How many then?”
“I can be seeing 15 in dah triangle thingy.”
“Can you really?”
“Yes. Wot do you see?”
“A headache.”

Proceed with caution

One of my many duties as Head Cook and Chief bottle washer of this joint is to tackle the accumulation of miscellaneous stains that have recently appeared around the premises. Although we are in the midst of a heavily armed, hand-washing campaign, nevertheless I find I have been remiss in my vigilance.

Whilst I can think of many other things that I should prefer to do, there comes a time when the graffiti can no longer be ignored. Armed with my trusty scrubber, soap and several gallons of elbow grease, I make a start.

The first one is an ominous brown smear but it passes the sniff test, so I know that is benign, Belgium Chocolate pudding I’ll be bound. As I scrub I hear the sweetly melodic strains of my youngest son’s latest ditty, “threedy boogie college,” to a familiar tune, with his usual robotic dance steps. I move swiftly on to the next one, marker that is neither magic nor washable. “Threedy boogie college,” wafts down the stairs, a chorus of cherubic artistic expression. Bless his little cotton socks.

As the walls become ever more patchy because this is an ongoing process, I notice that the paintwork is wearing thin. I pause to consider whether it might be more expedient to re-paint the entire interior of the house but decide against it on the grounds that a few more years will probably pass before any such transformation is possible. “Threedy boogie college.” How much better to wait a wee while so that I may bask in the delights of innocent childhood. I can almost look forward to my dotage, armed with a paint brush, ladder and a walking frame for support. It is whilst I daydream of the future that my daughter saunters across, “whatya doing Mom?”
“Cleaning.”
“Ya missed a bit.”
“Did I? Where?”
“Jus there.”
I peer and sniff, “what do you suppose that is?”
“He says it’s art.”
“Art?”
“Yeah, didncha hear him singin it? It’s a 3-D booger collage.”
“!”
“Ask him yourself. You should ask him about his gallery.”
“Gallery?”
“Yeah, I said he should call it a gallery and charge admission.”
“Admission?”
“Yeah, gallery’s opening tonight, right around bed time.”
“Bedtime?”
“Yeah! Top bunk bed, pillow end.”
“!”

Who was the Great Master who cut off his own ear? I’ll bet his mum did it.

Hands free hair washing

The hygiene of my children is very much a hands on affair.

Having overcome the seasonal changes from baths in the winter, to showers in the summer and then back again, I can honestly say that the painful transition period has shortened considerably over the last decade, from months to a mere few weeks, testimonial to the fact that they continue to grow.

I’m uncertain if I’m there in the bathroom to prevent escape, provide entertainment or minimize carnage, but in any event I consider that I could probably be using my time in a more constructive manner, elsewhere.

That said it comes to my attention late in the day, that the all elusive ‘independence’ factor is adrift. It would appear that originally I was present at bath-time to prevent babies from drowning, ten years later I’m still there, with much physically larger off spring, with considerably greater surface area of skin. I notice that my boy children are no longer babies, because I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, despite the all too visible evidence to the contrary, backed up by the dated growth marks on the grimy kitchen door frame.

In a sudden flash of genius I realize that pretty soon, one way or another, I may be well out of my depth, and deep in the mire of puberty. I’m told that it happens to us all, but I’m no scientist. I use my exceptionally large memory bank to recall ‘what is the correct age?’ When should they be able to bathe themselves? Just in the nick of time I remember that I threw out all the useless books about averages, developmental milestones and what to expects, at about the same time as I realized that my particular family had deviated from the norm.

I e-mail trusted pals and chums who universally confirm the magic age of 7. Whilst I am tempted to sulk, instead I return to the base line, other parents with similarly off-beat children. We collude and conclude that with all other things being equal, a parent should, in an ideal world, aim for independence immediately prior to the arrival of the first spot of acne, just to be on the safe side. Armed with this nugget of information but without a crystal ball, I calculate that I should have begun this process approximately eighteen months, 3 days and 45 minutes ago.

I decide, unilaterally, without consultation to the parties herein concerned, that they will learn to wash their own hair, if not by themselves, at least with less maternal physical input, eventually.

As usual, I find I fail to think through the plan of action thoroughly, merely launch myself feet first into another campaign.

The first thing I forget about is the need for ear-plugs. My son is quite reasonably outraged at my unreasonableness, withdrawal of services without warning or preamble. His facial expression is a study in contempt; what is the point of having a parent if the parent fails to perform as a parent should? It’s a tempting argument, one I have been susceptible to for longer than would be strictly necessary for anyone else with one wit of common sense.

But we persevere.

As we all know, hair washing is a multi step sequence, each one of which is every bit as vile as any of the other bits.

It’s a challenge.

I remember that the tools that we most commonly refer to as hands, are located at the ends of their arms. I also remember that when hands are expected to function in a new and uncertain manner, as often as not, the arms turn to spaghetti. I have no choice but to opt for the 'hand over hand' model of progress. It feels like back to square one and I wonder, not for the first time, what exactly have I being doing with my time all these years?

With my hand over his I swiftly slap a dollop of shampoo on the apex of his skull, with a little too much vigour, more of a smack than a plop and it’s pretty much down hill after that.

His brother looks on, or rather scowls with contempt as he plots and observes. It’s written all over his face, how to avoid the same fate as his little brother?

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Do you wash dad?”
“Er……well……..I…..um….not usually but I did wash him when he broke his leg a few years back.”
“Oh.”
“People learn to wash themselves, with practice, in time.”
“I’m finkin………. about time.”
“Ah. What about time?”
“What is betterer I’m thinkin?”
“What is better than what?”
“Gettin a wife or breakin yur leg?”
“!”