Occupational therapy is a profession for professionals. Mere amateurs should steer well clear. [translation = not dabble] I leave my daughter in the car in the garage and herd the boys inside. She remains for a few minutes, unhindered and free, so that she can regroup and recalibrate her hearing system after a twenty minute drive, with continuous screaming down the freeway. [translation = stereo] [Note to self – contact architect re sound proofing the garage] I hope that the Child Protective Services don’t honour us with an unexpected visit.
Whilst she has a little breather, I debate whether to commence homework straight away, before they become engrossed, [translation = locked into a preferred activity] or whether to let them cool off too? Why are these kinds of children not fitted with a meter, like a thermometer so that you can accurately read them? I glance at my untouched list of ‘things to do.’
I park one on the trampolene and ask him if he can beat his record, whilst I snap the timer on in front of his eyes. [translation = bad choice as this reinforces his ‘I am the winner’ mentality] The other one is deposited on the wedge, a six foot square affair that he can burrow into. [translation = a bit like having a massage]
I remember hearing on the radio that most children are over-scheduled [translation = busy] which makes them over tired and stressed, amongst other things. The same is true for us but not everyone is equipped to acknowledge or deal with the situation in the same manner. In that way we are fortunate. We have the gear [translation = equipment] and we make the time, because having these kind of children means that you don’t have a choice in the matter. You give them what their bodies need or prepare to take cover. [translation = duck]
One of the brackets on my braces snaps to punish me for eating raw almonds. I can feel the tooth beginning to take flight, released. It is quite disconcerting, especially when it makes me realize that this probably means I am closet bondage freak.
“Can you deliver me to the bathroom please?” he asks puffily, but with perfect fluidity, as he has reached his goal of 101 bounces in under a minute. I lead him by the hand to the less preferred bathroom, the one with the quarry tiles that offend his feet, such that he needs moral support to attempt such a feat. I lean against the sink awaiting his performance, as he looks around the room for visual entertainment. I say nothing.
“You know what?” he squeaks.
“I fink dat maybe I am not needing infinity bounces today.”
“Really! What made you think you needed infinity bounces?”
“Well, cos my body woz all, woz all……I don know.” He peters out, frustrated. I try and think of a suitable word that describes the frenetic energy trapped inside him. Something to help him verbalise and acknowledge what it is?
“Do you mean,…..’wriggles’ or ‘itchy,’ perhaps?” Not one of my better attempts admittedly, but I’m tired too, and my nerves are still jangling from the journey. I should have stolen a few bounces myself.
“So the main thing is, that you don’t need infinity now, you feel better?”
“I can see that you look like a lovely green 1.” "[translation = Incredible 5 point scale]"
His betterness is demonstrated as he finishes up, sequences through the steps to restore clinical hygiene standards and replaces the hand towel. [translation = stuffs it into the ring. Don’t criticize this is ‘task completion.’] As the toilet flushes, he pounds his forehead into my stomach covering his ears against the rush of water and adds, “I fink you are right, I fink it is the wriggleitch.”
Oh dear, that’s not good. Why couldn’t I have thought of something a little more appropriate? Another piece of terminology that will require translation.
38 minutes ago