Whitterer on Autism

Superflex – is this a good program for my child?

2010-09-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

by Stephanie Madrigal and Michelle Garcia Winner
Comic Book by Stephanie Madrigal/Illustrated by Kelly Knopp

Superflex is a behavioral program that addresses some of the behavioral and psychological issues that our children struggle with on a daily basis. There could be a number of different ways of explaining this program. The authors describe it as follows:-

Superflex®: A Superhero Social Thinking Curriculum provides educators, parents and therapists fun and motivating ways to teach students with Asperger Syndrome, high-functioning autism, ADHD and other diagnosed and undiagnosed social difficulties how to build social thinking skills. Superflex combines a book, comic book and CD to create a curriculum that develops in each student's brain their own superheroic thinking processes that can overcome the challenges in different social situations that arrive across the school and home day.

Most of us can identify a number of behaviors that are commonplace amongst our children, which may be broadly identified as inflexible and can often become major hurdles to address on a daily basis. They are often the cause of a great deal of unhappiness and angst. Rigid behavioral responses can be a significant barrier to living a full and enjoyable life. Due to copyright issues I won’t reproduce or explain the main role of the different characters involved in Superflex and the rogues who attack him, the Unthinkables, but once they have been mastered [over many weeks if not months] then it is entirely possible to invent characters who more exactly match other situations, more finely tailored to our own children.

Around here it’s a question of recognizing our own intolerance of some issues. To take a handy example we could tackle the matter of hygiene – my unwashed, filthy hands and revolting personal habits, do not spread germs nor make you ill, but you are oblivious to your own runny nose which will surely kill me. If we can both learn to recognize how our respective behaviors affect each other, then that’s progress - we need that recognition. That’s part of the flexible thinking approach. Then we move on to look for strategies to alleviate the situation.

Another [local] example would be how you cannot stand the smell of bananas, my favorite snack, but I will retch at the stench of Jif, peanut butter, your favorite snack. You need to understand that I will die, now, if I can’t banana. I don’t care how much you want to eat peanut better – it’s disgusting. Bit of an impasse really since we live in the same house and eat together in the same room. The solution is simple – you go and live somewhere else and eat your disgusting food out of my sensory range. Pity your solution is the same for me. We need a different tactic. I recognize my own feelings and someone might point out that your feelings are an exact match. It’s a startling realization. Then, it’s only a few small steps to think up different ways of dealing with the problem and finding a compromise. From that point, it’s then much easier to extrapolate from that one situation to extend it to other similar situations, especially when they are successful experiences. Unlikely as it may seem, flexibility and tolerance can be learned.

Your children may not be ready for this yet, just as mine weren’t in earlier years, but it’s always a good idea to look ahead. You can buy it at Amazon.http://www.amazon.com/Superflex-Superhero-Social-Thinking-Curriculum/dp/0979292247/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1284309692&sr=8-1

Mother’s and millstones

2010-08-15T23:17:00.000-07:00

Hurtling along at 65 mph in the car on holiday:-

“Is it…?”
“Is what dear?”
“It is…unusual?”
“Is what unusual?”
“It is ….unusual dirt behind your ears?”
“Yes it is. Most people have a shower every day and scrub behind their ears. Especially if they live in a hot country like California.”
“That’s a lie.”
“!”
“California is not a country it’s a State.”
“How true.”

**

Later, when we’ve trucked back home after a quiet and productive afternoon.

“My! That’s very sophisticated.”
“I am made it with my Legos.”
“I can see. It’s taken you a long time to make that articulated lorry. Very patient. Well done.”
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dah word that you are saying of?”
“Articulated. Sorry, I meant…”
“No.”
“No?”
“Dah other word?”
“Er…lorry?”
“Yes. It is being your English word isn’t it.”
“Sorry I forgot. I meant truck – honestly.”

Summer holidays give us time for other pursuits:-

Scaredy Blob's Adventures on U-Tube

All this technology makes my head hurt but I can't allow such triflings to stifle their creativity.

Holiday love and the preface

2010-08-01T23:41:00.000-07:00

A speech delay can be a curious thing, for both the speaker and the listener. Around here, for the longest time, my youngest son has prefaced most of his remarks with the warm up phrase –‘I am be.’ It’s the verbal equivalent of ‘um, er, well, actually.’ It’s a kind of precursor we’ve learned to live with, hardly notice. Just when we think it’s disappeared, it pops back.

After many tortuous years, our annual holiday to England, becomes easier. We have finally reached the point where my country of birth is not longer ridiculed, mocked and loathed – or at least somewhat less so. They have been won over by a few of the finer features of British life, some resurrected from the mists of time for purely artificial purposes. Archaic practices such as ‘afternoon tea,’ are welcomed. Without the actual tea, it’s a winner. A box of indulgent shop bought cakes and other nefarious dalliances. No more hand-made, wafer thin cut slices of cucumber, pre-soaked in wine vinegar with the lightest dusting of white ground peppercorns and crust-less bread, cut into triangles. I know I’m beat, primarily due to their fake, but very realistic, vomit noises – gems before minors. But we’ve made progress in other areas:-

“Tell me one new thing that you like about England?”
“I am be love dah pink meringues.”
“Great! Anything else?”
“England respects lions.”
“Oh the joys of Longleat Safari Park!” But that’s the thing about a speech delay—we bimble along the usual pathways, only to be pounced on and decimated by one perfect sentence. Frosting, glitter and sprinkles on an otherwise quite ordinary existence.
“And? Can you think of anything else? A third?”
“I am be love dah chutz.”
“Chutz? What’s a chutz? I don’t think I remember anything called a chutz?”
“They be chutz are wooden things.”
“What kind of a wooden thing?”
“Large… no small wooden things with painted.”
“Hmm. Give me another clue?”
“They are be big enough for a body to be inside.”
“A box. A coffin? Do you mean coffin? No you can’t mean that. I’d remember if we’d seen a coffin. Another clue please.”
“Sigh…No. Dey are be on the sand.”
“Shell? Rock?”
“No. No.”
“I give up.”
“It is be…for peoples.”
“Ice-cream cones, hampers, coolers?”
“No. No. No. It is be…for peoples who are be on dah beach.”
“A wooden…spade? Deck chair? Parasol? Windbreak?”
“No. No. No. No. Dey are be in dah wooden thing with paint.”
“People in wooden painted things on the beach?”
“Yes… you sayed they were be for peoples to be out of the rains.”
“I did? The rains? Ooo, you mean beach huts.”

Clearly my diction needs brushing up.

Visualization Skills

2010-07-18T23:54:00.000-07:00

How much longer does it take the average sized, larger dog, to pass safely through a door [which closes automatically] with his tail intact, than a narrower tailless small human?

It's so easy to count to four.

Independence Day[s]

2010-07-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

“Can we are have Margaritas today?”
“Um. I don’t think I’ve ever made one.”
“You are make dem?”
“I can try. We’ll look it up on the web and make virgin ones.”
“Only one?”
“No several. Maybe alcoholic ones for us grown ups and non-alcoholic or virgin ones for you youngsters. Can’t be that difficult.”
“There are being two kinds of Margaritas?”
“I think there are lots of different kinds but they’re not really my kind of a thing.”
“But you are like them?”
“What’s not to like? Are they traditional for Americans on Independence Day?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you learn that? I’d have thought they were more Mexican than American?”
“No dats Mexican Hats.”
“I don’t think anyone will be wearing a Mexican Hat in the street parade.”
“You are not being wearing a Mexican Hat.”
“No I’m not going to be wearing a Mexican Hat.”
“No! Nobody is wearing a Mexican Hat.”
“It’s o.k. I’m not arguing with you. I’m agreeing with you. You’re right no-one will be wearing a Mexican Hat.”
“I am not want to talk about Mexican Hats. I am want to be talking about margaritas.”
“I thought we’d already sorted out the margaritas?”
“No.”
“No? What have we left out?”
“I’m gonna wear the Margaritas and the other people are gonna be wearing the two other colors.”
“What other colors? What do you mean ‘wear?’”
“I’m gonna decorate my hat with Margaritas coz they are being white. You’re gonna wear Mexican Hats coz they are being red and we need a blue flower too.”
“Ah! Marguerites! The flower, not the booze.”

Very close

2010-06-27T23:45:00.000-07:00

My children like many other people’s children, rarely, if ever, volunteer information about how their day went - it’s like pulling teeth, but every once in a while they go all verbal on me.

“D’ya know what mum?”
“What dear?”
“Today we had science.”
“Did you indeed. And what did you learn?”
“We learneded about the male body.”
“Ah. What did you learn about the male body?”
“Males are different from females.”
“How true.”
“We learneded how males differ from females.”
“How interesting. Maybe we should talk about this after dinner.”
“D’you know the biggest difference is being?”
But he’s on a roll.
“I do, like I said, later.”
He’s unstoppable.
“Females are different from males because they don’t have a bladder.”
“!”

Droplets

2010-06-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

Driving home in the car, we parents talk over the chorus on the back seat – Goober Guy at 50 decibels times three – about how few people wear beards in the United States, or our part of the United States, very locally and quite recently, and whether or not this might differ from our old home, at a much older time, or not. Our findings are inconclusive.

After parking on the drive my daughter tells me that on my next birthday, she will be buying me a lifetime’s supply of earplugs, minus my current fifty years.

Which is when I hear the boys:-

“What is it, a bird?”
“Not a bird, they said beard.”
“What is a beard?”
“A beard is hair on your chin.”
“What’s hair under your nose being?”
“A moustache.”
“Like Mario?”
“Yes – but you can have both, a beard and a moustache, that’s called a combo.”
And the earplugs? Not a rush job.

Polishing our Enunciation

2010-05-23T23:53:00.000-07:00

We bimble gently along in the car on our way home to a chorus of ‘I’m gonna tell it to your face,’ the current mantra, quite brain numbing.

My son calls from the back seat,
“What’s it mean?”
“You tell me, you’ve been singing it for seven minutes now.”
“No, the other?”
“The other what dear?”
“Robert Firmly.”
“Do you mean who is Robert Firmly? I don’t think I know anyone by that name. How did you meet him? School?”

I notice a great deal of friction coming from behind me as the car vibrates, and commuter traffic fills every inch of the road in all directions.

“No. I mean what does it mean, Robber Firmly?”
“Robber? Someone’s a thief?”
“No.”

I ignore the shudders in the car and keep my eye on the police car as it cruises down the hard shoulder with the lights flashing and siren blaring.

“Where did you see this…er…Robber Firmly?” I ask as another wave of shudders rock the car and an ambulance takes the same route as the police car before it.

“I don’t know,” he says.
“O.k. – try me again.” A fire truck comes bowling along to make up the threesome as the doors seem to judder and I notice the rear view mirror quivers.
“Rabbit Firmly.”
“It’s no good. I haven’t got a clue. Try again.”

After a hefty sigh because his patience is wearing thin, as well it might, he gives it one more shot, “Rubbit Firmly,” he articulates with great clarity and just enough volume. I check back over my shoulder, just a quick peek to see him holding a Bakugan ball- a toy - in one hand while the other whizzes back and forth in a blur.

“What are you doing to that ball?”
“I’m rubbin it so the secret code will be revealed.”
“Ah! So you’re rubbing it firmly. Of course.”
“I know rubbin but I don’t know firmly.”
“Well that’s easily explained,” I sigh with relief, “firm is like hard.”

I wonder how it is that he can know ‘reveal,’ whilst ‘firmly,’ remains a mystery, because splinter skills are fascinating? The traffic begins to disperse, we pick up speed, commuters funnel on through and we glide off at the next exit.

He leans forward and grabs my chair, either side, “I’m gonna tell it to your face” he says, to the back of my head, “Good job Mom – you got there in the end.”

Multiplying factors

2010-05-16T23:28:00.000-07:00

I step out into the kitchen– my skills in the gentle art of persuasion begin flag – I need a deep breath before starting the other three double digit multiplication sums. I estimate that if it’s taken us one hour to complete six questions, it will probably take another five and a half life times, squared, to finish the last three.

My daughter peeks out at me from a curtain of hair, ear-buds firmly in place, so she yells in a friendly manner, “Wouldya like me to finish him off for you?”
“!”
“I mean…shall I help him with the last ones?”
“Would you dear?”
I can’t disguise the leaking pleading in my voice to my twelve year old.
“Sure. You make supper I’m starvin. And I am so sick of salad.”

What a deal.

What a break.

My savior, and dinner’s salvation.

Time to cook.

I beat about the kitchen but I can’t help but earwig as she takes charge, loudly, as her approach differs markedly from my own – it’s amazingly effective as she tells him how it is.

“Stop shoutin 4 x 7 over an over again! You know it alrighty. You know them all already. Y’just need to shut up and listen to yur brain.”

They sit on the sofa together; she - relaxed with soft open limbs – he - knotted like a pretzel, eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared, laboring to lay an egg, willing the answers to come. It’s agonizing, and that’s just the watching.

I stop watching and annihilate the potatoes.

I listen as her voice takes on a maniacal tone, “Just imagine that each answer is a tiny little chick and if you get the answer wrong…… the chick DIES!”

I drop the potato masher and dash into the family room, aghast, as my son tumbles off the sofa to writhe on the carpet. I open my mouth to speak and notice that he’s chortling, tears of silent laughter. I look to my daughter – “It’s o.k. Mom – it’s his favorite quote from the Simpsons.”

Drug side effects

2010-05-09T23:14:00.000-07:00

I park the walking wounded on the sofa and hand her a tablet because the icy-hot has failed to relieve her stiff neck as she lies on the sofa with a mircro-waved heat pad draped around her shoulders. I return to supper preparations for the starving millions and homework help for the tardy one.

Her younger brother, the only free agent, is always sympathetic to those with physical impairments, so he pipes up.

“Why is she?” as he pirouettes in the kitchen, because constant frenetic movement is an aid to speech production.
“Slept in a draught I suspect.”
“It gave her wind?” he asks, as he throws himself onto one counter and then bounces off the next, pin ball style.
“Um… no but it was a bit windy in the cabin so that’s probably why her neck hurts now.”
“Why she has it?” he says, pogoing the entire length of the kitchen, first forwards then backwards.
I try and think of other ways of packaging the essential elements of the message – sleep in draught, neck exposed to the cold, camping cabin chilly - but I’m struggling… “Er… she..the muscle…”
“No. Why she burps a lot?” he adds in time with his full-body jumping-jacks.
“I don’t think she does much, not by comparison to you two at any rate.”
“But the pill?” he continues, spin to the right, stop, spin to the left, stop.
“The pill is for pain.”
“They don’t make you burp a lot?” he says swinging his head down between his parted legs to speak to me upside down, his hair brushing the floor like an upside down cuckoo from his clock.
“She doesn’t have indigestion she has a pain in the neck.” The emphasis is purely accidental.
“Oh.” He stops abruptly, as if I stole his key. Clearly my tone is too sharp and windy with irritation.
“But it says,” he bleats as he peers at the jar, “Oopsie. Oh no it doesn’t,” he whispers. “Never mind!” he yells at fifty decibels charging from the room.

But I catch him mid dash, “it doesn’t what?”
“I thought it said ‘I burp often,’” but now I see it doesn’t.”
I turn the label around, run my eye over it again, “Hmm…yes, I can see how you might mis-read Ibuprofen.”

How are you doing today?

2010-05-02T23:14:00.000-07:00

Tricky concepts

A question of balance.....

and a visual clue and a reminder

OCD

2010-04-25T23:17:00.000-07:00

Some of us will occasionally admit to a grain or two of OCD, but for some people, sometimes, it can be paralyzing.

On a lighter note, I noticed that parents such as myself, long for their non-verbal children to speak - when or if they eventually do, I still don't understand them.

***

I find wads of sticky tape balled up and stuck to the wooden jam of the pocket door - nasty lethal finger choppers.

I seek out the culprit.

"Why is their sticky tape all over the door dear?"
"S'not sticky tape. It's Scotch tape."
"Right. So why is there Scotch tape all over the door?"
"S'not all over the door, s'jus a small ball."
"Right...So...why is it there? Were you trying to lock the door?"
"Er...no."
"It's very important to tell the truth you know. The reason I don't allow locked doors is...because of...er...um...earthquakes, right?"
"Right."
"So why?"
"To stop my ears."
"Stop your ears from what?"
"From the door jam bang."

***

Although sometimes, I think he's teasing me.

"Mom!"
"Yes dear?"
"All the peoples in dis program are ....calm.....mediums."
"Are they? What is a calm medium?"
"Itsa...itsa...Ker...media."
"Um...try again?"
"I know...they're all Canadians!"
"Canadians? Are you sure?"
"Er...no... they're all...?"
"Yes?"
"Comedians!"

Science Camp and Social Stories

2010-04-18T23:37:00.000-07:00

I'm told it's a fifth grade rite of passage, but I can think of many other descriptions. Last year I remember "reading" about it and thinking, never in a month of Sundays.. and now it's nearly here.

Now it's nearly here, although we've been preparing for over a month, the levels of anxiety are palpable.

To list the deficits would be demeaning and fail to encompass the magnitude of the challenge.

There are lots of parents with young autistic children who are struggling to learn basic skills: dressing, toileting, feeding, talking. They're not thinking about Science Camp - why would they? I certainly never did. I was a miserable skeptic before they arrived - it's genetic. Such things as science camp seemed completely unobtainable, barely struggling through the average 24 hour day. We had more social stories, step by step guides and numbered sequences than I can count, some tailor made, others from the school, all designed to address the dreadful deficits.

They cover the practical -

How to tie your shoes, [a vast improvement on 'where to hide your shoes.']

They tackle the subtle -

How to be a good friend.

We also have a vast number of fringe topics -

Words - why they work
Clothes - why we need them
Food - the ultimate life insurance
CPR for the under 5's [to ward off fear of imminent death and empower]
International flights are not necessarily fatal
Big Ben - what to do about bullies
Field trips are in the category of 'fun'
Traffic, a survival guide
Recess and other alternative forms of torture
Bubbles, what is this thing called personal space?

But children grow, quite often in spite of us, making leaps and bounds we never envisaged. Inexperienced parents, like me, toss the old social stories aside once mastered, only to have the same issue re-appear, sooner, much later, or in a whole new format.

The practicalities loom large but it's important for me to remember that although some tasks are difficult to accomplish physically, there's an awful lot else going on inside his mind. A certain degree of stress and anxiety can motivate - too much and it's paralyzing.

So would a social story help with this situation? Yes and we have one, fully and comprehensively designed by his speech pathologist at school - quite brilliant - but is it enough? Sadly no.

So whether you have a non-verbal 2 year old [been there, done that] or a tantruming 5 year old [ ditto], or a OCD 7 year old [likewise] believe you me, Science Camp is coming, it's compulsory, there's no escape.

What to do?

Many parents have transformed themselves into cheerleaders of the 'you can do it' variety - no matter how ineptly. Over the last year in fifth grade, this attitude is mirrored by the school, of the 'step up to middle school' variety. We're all on the same book if not the same page - rise to the challenge, but fear and doubt lurk about. Our children are much more astute than they're credited - they can almost smell it and I'm sure there's something in my tone and body language that gives me away. I need something concrete as much for myself as for him and that's when I remember.

I remember the ever growing hoard of social stories, a box load of abandoned hurdles and pitfalls, each of which has been overcome. If we need proof he can do it, what better body of ever growing evidence could we have? A veritable treasure trove.

Barbara's Blog Carnival -Childhood Expressions

2010-04-16T21:21:00.000-07:00

Which "childhood expression" to "pick" I wonder?

So I thought I'd change the focus from my typical topic to an atypical one.

The first comes from my elder daughter, back in the days when I was a single parent when everything was overwhelming. [hindsight really is a gift!]

Back then she was growing up much too fast just like many children of divorced parents. We read a great deal together, from the board books, baby books, picture books, onwards and upwards to independence. I had never liked 'baby talk' and so I used the same words and style of language that I do with everyone else. She had a great vocabulary as is so often the case when children are surrounded by adults: my parents, my siblings, my friends.

The details are hazy, so many years later but I remember that feeling of cozy harmony, the intimacy between parent and child when a family consists of only two units. If a parent is solely responsible for a single child a devotion develops such that communication is instinctive, words are hardly necessary - a separate world of understanding.

Madonna and child - perfection.

Maybe it was bedtime, perhaps we were at the beach, or playing hang-man? Yes! Hangman, all those years ago...

"That can't be right dear?"
"It is."
"I think you've left the 'h' out by mistake."
"It doesn't have an 'h'."
"Weren't you trying to spell Bahamas?"
"Bahamas? No, it's bajamas."
"What's bajamas?"
"Bajamas... you know... you wear them when you go to bed at night."

Now if we'd lived in America then, no such confusion would have arisen, that's why we stick to PJ's now.

A few decades prior to this exchange, I had my own mishap with my mother, along quite similar lines. Being the dunce of the family I progressed from comic books, to Enid Blyton, to Agatha Christie and I've been stuck in 'whodunnit' mode ever since. On one particularly balmy summer's day, [in England!] I was lying on the grass at my mother's feet, devotional dog that I was, as I read the latest blood curling thriller some 45 years after it was first written. My mother sat in a deck chair, knitting, as only mother's can, as she fought with a particularly complicated lacy pattern, which involved a great deal of counting and under breath cursing. Yards of fine yarn were testament to the unraveling of mistakes.

"Mum?" [I was then English]
"Hmm?"
"Can you tell me what this word means? I see it on nearly every page."
"What is it?"
"Determinded."
"Determinded? I've never heard of it."
"Oh."
"Can't you guess from the context?"
"No."
"Read me a sentence."
"Hermione Herringbone was determinded to defeat her tormentors."
"Are you sure it isn't...Spell it for me."
"D.E.T.E.R.M.I.N.D.E.D."
"Really? How odd. Here, pass it over, let me take a peek, hmm, lets see...'Daphne Dalrymple was ...' that's not 'determinded' that's 'determined.'"

What can I say? It's genetic.

One of the most useful PEC's of all Time

2010-04-11T23:17:00.000-07:00

Picture Exchange Cards, flash cards and social stories - I tend to use these terms interchangeably - the format isn't important, it's the underlying message, without the need for words which is key.

Time is an abstract concept for youngsters. It may take a while to master it completely. Meanwhile, the practical day to day, passage of time, may prove problematical. As adults, we often forget that time passes very, very, very slowly for children.

Hence, if you are designing a social story for your child to encompass a new event, outing or pursuit, it's as well to prepare in advance and include quite a few 'time' PEC's to help our children manage the unexpected.

The unexpected may come in many forms -

- waiting while everyone gets out of the car if you're in a group
- any preparatory activity by the parent such as locking the car, gathering belongings, setting up a push chair, fumbling for change to pay the meter
- a 'delay' while you pay the entrance fee

It's basically anything that isn't the 'on task' activity which means there is/are delay[s] or waiting involved.

As with all 'new' campaigns, timing is critical. Explain how it works first, in advance, many times, then pick an occasion when you can guarantee success, when you're absolutely certain they will wait for a very short time, no more than a few minutes so they can experience success and relief = times up, no more waiting. This means that short of an earthquake or other natural disaster, their waiting time will be minimal.

We experienced considerable success when we later paired 'the waiting period' with a stop watch, the kind you can hang around your neck. Minutes of waiting could be exchanged for extra minutes at a preferred activity, later.

But be careful how you adopt this with some children, those children who exhibit obsessive traits, as this approach can swiftly morph into a strait jacket for the parent - but that was just my mistake.

Before I knew it, a symbiotic relationship developed - a run of bad luck for the me: no cash for the cafe latte, the credit card that won't swipe, an error in the pin number, ditto with the duplicate, scrabbling for coins amongst the dust bunnies under the seats, the coffee spill which gums up the automatic window function, the refusal to be transported in a car like a wind tunnel, lengthy minutes squandered, static, as I explained the need to get back on track, a waste of breath, words and energy........time racks up pretty quickly.

Most commonly mis-spelled word, Friend

2010-04-04T23:21:00.000-07:00

Spelling is one skill that's often overlooked, especially if a child can read and understand the meaning of the words that he reads. Spelling that word correctly is quite another matter and may be complicated by poor writing skills, memory retention and the ability to do more than one thing at a time e.g. remember the word, the order of the letters, aural processing and the many steps of writing.

Overall, spelling can be a painful trial, a weekly dreaded nightmare where doom and failure are guaranteed. However, if you happen to have a visual learner, quite often you can take the list of words and fiddle with it until it's a better match to the child.

Sometimes simply adding color can help patterns pop that weren't immediately obvious.

Or Linking letters so that they stay in the right place.

Early:-

Many children already know how to spell 'ear' and 'hear' so use it.

Ask your child what time is 'early'? for them. Curiously, they each differ and make no reference to any event such as breakfast or bedtime. There seems to be no differentiation between night and day, but they're adamant about their particular time being early - wonder if it will be the same for you?

Then just tailor the time to fit your child.

Instead:-

Many children can remember how to spell 'tea' without too many difficulty. If so, you can use this visual to tie it in with so many of the vagaries of the English language.

A few steps to help along the road to success.

1. Show them the picture.
2. Describe the different parts and note the colors [use your child's favorites]
Check you're using the same language 'ring/fence/oval/corral.'
3. Ask them to touch the different letters with a finger or point with a pencil if digit/ paper challenged.
4. Afterwards ask them to shut their eyes and describe the scene again and ask them to visualize each bit - they can peek to check.
5. Ask them to spell the word out loud - allow them to 'cheat' and peek if necessary.
6. Repeat as necessary.

Cannot - those double 'n's can be a right pain.

Isn't - Is not

Don't let those tricky contractions fool you, just visualize them shrinking into a tadpole.

One of the most commonly misspelled words is the word friend. How many of us have been assaulted by 'fiends?' How can we best remember how to spell it correctly, and not just for the test?

For us it's easy [or soon will be - I hope]

Name for favorite food?

Yes, that's right, chips, otherwise known as fried potatoes.

Are you familiar with different types of potatoes?

Of course.

How about the "Nadine."

Take your favorite food and insert a potato, a Nadine Potato.

How can you tell if you've inserted your potato in the right spot?

The N of the Nadine should match the END of the word, right after the FRI.

Do not substitute a real Nadine for a potato.

Not everyone can be a Spelling Bee star, nor do they necessarily want to, but this way our children get to experience success in a tricky area, without too much pain.

Eggbert - the Slightly Cracked Egg by Tom Ross and Rex Barron

2010-04-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

This beautifully illustrated tale is timely for young and old alike.

Eggbert lives in the fridge where he entertains his fruit and veg pals with portraits and painting, expertly executed until one sad day, someone notices that Eggbert has a crack in his shell - he is punished with banishment.

Eggbert tries to disguise himself elsewhere as he camouflages himself with paint so that he can blend in with many different surroundings. Each disguise fails but he continues to try until one day he makes a remarkable discovery.

Seasonal greetings to all my imperfect pals.

Available "here" and at your local library.

Sensual olfactory assault

2010-03-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

It’s a recurring theme. I’m oblivious early in the morning, still dressed in my robe, as we are, just for a change, behind schedule.

Wednesday’s the half way mark of the week, and therefore attractive to some, because it’s also a half day. The weather forecast predicts coldness and some of us, even thin-blooded Californians, are more susceptible than many.

My son looks through the window to see movement of trees and quivers with wide eyes. His pale, exposed, little, shell-like ears seem to shrivel as his palms cup them for protection from the buffeting wind.

What a pity his new jacket lacks a hood.

As he leaves to go and curl up on the third stair I wonder how on earth we’ll be able to transport him from house to bus, a distance of fifteen yards with several metres of 40 kph blustering winds?

It’s not an easy calculation.

I remember the hat from England, a Plymouth Argyle Football Club supporters’ knit cap. It’s green - the wrong color, but it does sport an icon of a soccer ball and a cat in mid leap. Since felines of all descriptions find favor lately, I decide to give it a go.

I grab a Sharpie in the kitchen and write his name inside. Within seconds I’m through the kitchen, past the dining room, round the sitting room, the hall and two steps up to entice him. I can’t hear the bus engine through the closed window, yet, but it’s on the way, very shortly. I play teasing temptress as I lean over him before ramming it on his head, with my hands pressing the fabric against his ears, capturing the warmth.

“Wot is dat smell!” he asks - more of a statement than a question. I find it hard to recall my itinerary with any degree of exactitude. I examine the options over a period of more than two hours; vat of espresso, unwashed after a hot night, Dial dish wash soap, 409 - killer the germs - solution, new Clorox toilet block, trash bag contents and recycling today, hand soap, laundry soap, as it’s best to start early, mouth wash to neutralize coffee before kiss, is there some kind of preservative in the pristinely new hat?

All in all, it’s a veritable nightmare of toxic waste - a cocktail of chemical smells - but which one would predominate……
“I think perhaps….its...?”
“I always love dah smell of Sharpies Mom!”
“!”

You can lead a horse to water

2010-03-21T23:30:00.000-07:00

I enjoy every second of my twelve-minute lie in and then dash downstairs at 6:12 a.m. – chaos.

Start calculations – need to arrive at 11 and it’s a 38-minute drive - allow an hour in case of stops, emergencies, getting lost time and Saturday traffic. 5 to 60 minutes for breakfast and clear up. 30 to 90 minutes for dressing to include, socks, shoes and teeth cleaning. 10 to 25 minutes toileting, jackets and entering car with seat belts buckled. Equals 3 hours and 55 minutes – loads of time and time to spare.

It was a definite possibility three months ago so I jumped at the chance – we prepared just in case. Horses are just like dogs, but bigger. Every time they sat on Thatcher, I’d trigger a meltdown, deliberately – ‘look at you! If you can ride a dog a horse will be easy!’

They’ve conquered ‘fear of dogs,’ and they’ll conquer ‘fear of horses.’

Both the boys have left their warm jackets at school for the weekend – normally this wouldn’t be a problem, seeing as how we rarely venture far from home, and when we do, it’s more likely to be around mid-day when the chill has burned off – today we head out to the wilds of Monterey where they have weather and mud.

Dig out second, old pair of shoes for them both, select favorite snacks as bribes, drinks, check first aid kit, and pack all possibly emergency supplies in the hope of successfully surviving as solo parent during an hour's drive. Grab camera at the last minute – if there is one single moment of joy I shall capture it for the record.

Watch a woman outside on the road running for her life, otherwise known as jogging - if I could get someone to watch the children, I would do likewise.

We were offered two places at the therapeutic riding center a couple of years ago – the boys weren’t ready. We were offered places again last year - just before the budget cuts. So here we are, third time lucky, possibly.

In the car we try to listen to a CD of Horrid Henry – ‘The Hike’ - written by Francesca Simon and read by Miranda Richardson,* over the din of the boys who scream in the back. I allow my daughter a reprieve, up in the front passenger seat now that she’s only an inch shorter than me. I keep an eye on her - self wrapped, clamped tight and hunched, as she turns her face towards me, “Horrid Henry wouldn’t last five seconds in our household!” Although the boys give every impression of oblivion, they both manage to chime in perfectly, every time the story reader says ‘Stop it Henry! Don’t be horrid!’ My daughter rolls her eyes with exasperation.

“Whadif they won’t talk when we get there?”
“Lets just hope they have their ‘listening ears.’”
“Whadif they say something unfortunate?”
“I don’t suppose it will be anything they’ve not heard before, or a variation on a theme.”
She pushes herself back into the headrest and shuts her eyes.
“I don’t know whichis worse, when they scream or sing that darned song.”
“MANAMANA" is definitely trying, but at least they’re happy.”
“I jus can’t work out how they ever heard it?”
“Neither can I. It’s ancient. From the sixties, I remember my brother, your uncle, singing it.”
“Whu!”
“I can still see it. The singer was this dark character.”
“Dark?”
“Brown, and very hairy.”
“Mom!”
“He was a muppet.”
“Mom!”
“Not that kind of a muppet, a real Muppet.”
“What the heck is a muppet Mom?”
“I keep forgetting how young you are. Bit like Sesame Street puppets. I’ll show you later when we get home. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of Kermit the Frog either? Miss Piggy?”
“Whah?”
“Never mind.”
“Whadda we gonna do if they make a spectacle of themselves?”
“If they can’t make a spectacle of themselves at therapeutic riding stables for differently abled children, where can they?” I beam.
She giggles and flutters her eye-lids – wicked.

Arrive at the stables, late, with two screaming children - doesn’t give the best impression of our family. Vomit noises emanate from my youngest – farm fresh air doesn’t suit everyone, “dat is a worserer smell dan my bruvver!” He falls out of the car, wraps his arms around his skinny rib cage, and tippy toes off like a top, in the general direction of the office. His older brother staggers in the same direction, hunched like an ancient, as if every limb drags half a hundred-weight of potatoes. The pre-teen looks on, aghast, but is quickly distracted by more interesting eye candy - horses.

One whole hour of introductory, orientation.

We drive back home - the boys are out cold in the back, mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted.

“That was funny,” she giggles.
“Hmm?”
“When he said to the lady that the horses had x-ray vision and shot laser beams at him.”
“She didn’t bat an eye-lid though did she!”

I ponder.

I think of the many, many hours my daughter has endured in waiting rooms as her brothers were tortured by every conceivable variety of therapy known to mankind, while she would salivate at the window, hoping for the chance to share a few moments occupied with similar activities. She’s been short changed for far too long, just like all the other children in the Siblings book I read last week.

“So when we go next week they’ll be there for a whole four hours. Would you like to stay and watch, or shall we go and do something else, together?”
“You don’t have to stay with them?”
“Apparently not. In fact they’ll probably do better without me.”
“Four hours?”
“Well, probably 3 if we drive half an hour to somewhere and leave half an hour before to get back on time.”
“What’ll we do?”
“What would you like to do? Your treat.”
“Um…a whole three hours? I don’t know.”
“What do your friends usually do on a Saturday morning?”
“Shop.”
“Oh. Really? Sounds great. Lego Store?”
“Not without the boys – wouldn’t be fair – wouldn’t feel right.”

I drive a few more miles in silence as I watch her brain whir, from the corner of my eye. I try to think what I did, more than a decade ago? I have no recall whatsoever. Whatever it was, it’s clearly unremarkable.

“I don’t think there’s anything I wanna buy. Anyway, I owe you three weeks pocket money.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Remember? I bought a pair of Heelies. You subbed me coz I didn’t have enough.”
“Oh. Right. What else would you like to do then?”
“The beach looked nice.”
“It did. Would you like to play on the beach?”
“Maybe. We could pack a blanket. Sit down and be quiet.”
“We could.”

It strikes me that if I sit down, static, I’m highly likely to pass out – I could win an award for sleeping if I ever had the opportunity.

“Could we take a picnic too..…with real food?”
“Absolutely.”
“No Goldfish crackers.”
“Oh go on! You like them really.”
“Spose…..I’ll take an alarm if you like?” she offers.
“An alarm?”
“In case we both fall asleep.”

p.s. I do not endorse this as being either beneficial or curative, be that cat, dog, tortoise, horse, fish or dolphin therapy, although this does appear to be an exceptionally progressive program. ‘Beneficial,’ is more than enough. Anything else is a bonus. There is the remote possibility of a little enjoyment if we’re lucky. Failing that, in any event, at the very least we shall have spent a quantity of time outside the house, otherwise referred to as the ‘cell,’ and expanded our horizons by an inch or centimetre.

* Highly recommended to improve aural processing, [and fun] but don’t blame me if your children acquire an English accent.

A bonus for the digital and tactile challenged person.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth!

Liam Knows what to do when Kids Act Snitty, by Jane Whelen Banks

2010-03-21T23:15:00.000-07:00

This is a small, short book for children, with an important preface for the adults in their lives.

I have had this book in my possession for a considerable period of time. While it's unwise to over analyze, I've been in two minds about the Liam series, for a number of different reasons. Jane Whelan Banks attacks the main stumbling blocks for many of our children - the mystifying world of social skills. In fact, I would describe this as a social story, a entertaining teaching tool.

I know a great many children, on and off the spectrum, who think and behave very similarly to Liam. Jane captures the dichotomy - Liam values his performance talents, which others do not, while other people value different skills, which Liam doesn't value at all.

Some will interpret Liam's behavior as acting up or showing off - he deserves to be ignored. Other people may see a child trying very hard to 'engage' with other children but who is rebuffed, repeatedly.

Jane concentrates upon demonstrating coping skills for Liam and children like him, as well as developing a logical explanation for the other childrens' behavior.

A few points to ponder.

Some readers object vehemently to the illustrations, essentially stick figures with splashes of color. There are several sound reasons for this approach: any child can identify with Liam. A long time ago, my children had difficulty identifying with a character who looked very different from them. Additionally complex and elaborate illustrations can distract from the message - picture books proliferate, there are many to choose from. Some children cannot bear to look at faces or pictures of faces or photographs - anything more than a line drawing is unacceptable.

Some readers may suggest they can draw better illustrations and make better social stories themselves - in which case, good for you. However, some people cannot draw, even stick figures. Other people may find there own beautifully illustrated and poignant home-made social stories are ignored by their own children as they do not have the same legitimacy as a published book.

I look forward to future publications as Liam and his family grow.

Rex - A mother, her autistic child, and the music that transformed their lives

2010-03-21T23:10:00.000-07:00

You may wish to watch this "15 minutes" video first - that way I won't 'spoil' the book for you.

Did you watch it to the end? If you did take a deep breath and try not to rant about the bit about autistic people having no emotions. Pity Cathleen wasn't able to edit that bit out, but I imagine that 'personal control' and the 'media' are contradictions in terms.

It is an astounding achievement for a first time writer to produce a readable and engaging account of extraordinary lives.

Cathleen is a woman of faith and determination - would that we all had such fortitude. Parents of special needs children will relate to her journey and the struggles they endure, all the more so when Cathleen copes as a single parent.

I read about and understood some of her frustrations, as I cheered her on in the wings, as she dragged herself up the learning curve into a whole new world, one that's always been there, but not many of us noticed, until we found ourselves in the same place, quite by chance.

I had selfish reasons for reading this book after I watched the video. I'm sure we all admire the talents of savants but I wanted to understand the disconnect between extraordinary abilities and profound disabilities, some insight or clue. Cathleen describes Rex's trials with the everyday minutiae of life - shoe laces, buttons, snaps - and yet his fingers are alive on the keyboard. My very ordinary children have similar difficulties, but now they're older, their fingers can manipulate a computer keyboard or any other electronic gaming device, slot together tiny pieces of Lego with determination and creativity. Not the same thing, but sufficiently similar to drive a parent bonkers.

The turning point for me, was towards the end of the book. Rex was struggling at school and unable to learn braille due to his extreme tactile defensiveness. After a particularly difficult encounter with the school, she called an emergency IEP meeting to address her concerns. The tension during that meeting flew off the page, the emotion palpable, but she held it together and advocated for her son in a calm, logical and persuasive manner.

Whatever the future holds for Rex and Cathleen, I'm sure it is far brighter than she ever imagined.

You can buy a copy from "Thomas Nelson Publishers" and "here" or at "Amazon."

And a quick note to the publisher:-

For those of us who are lucky enough to be able to see and have the ability to read, I thought I'd mention a little detail:-

Maybe you didn't notice, but those little blocks of italics, with an important quote from the main script are very distracting - the eye hones in on it not matter how hard we try not to.

Also, as the text flows around the little boxes, it makes the pages turn into letters - in this instance 'S' and 'C' - just in case you hadn't noticed.

Each book should come with a couple of free thumb covers.

Hope you don't mind me mentioning it.

Get Out, Explore, and Have Fun!

2010-03-21T23:05:00.000-07:00

Lisa Jo Rudy is like Switzerland - neutral.

Unaligned with any faction and without an agenda - a real breath of fresh air.

Sometimes you read the title of a book and cringe inside - 'great concept but how exactly am I supposed to do that?' Lisa Jo fails to give me a glib reply - no, 'how to fix it quick' response, which is precisely why this book is readable, helpful and practical.

Lisa Jo gives us an in-depth and well considered approach to help us change how we think about some of the difficulties we face when it comes to 'getting out and about.' Her 'no nonsense' approach is refreshing and I particularly warmed to the underlying philosophy - yes all autistic children need education and some need therapy, but not to the exclusion of everything else that life has to offer.

So far so good, but how would this book help?

This is where trouble begins. Lisa Jo's son Tom, is one speck on the spectrum, my two sons are different specks, and I expect yours are too. How can book address all these different individuals? We're back to the same stumbling block - the spectrum.

Personally, I have a deep dislike of experts with a 'holier than thou' attitude who hand out edicts from on high for us mere mortals to execute - but don't worry, we are in safe hands.

How can I get my children 'out and about' at their present stage of development? Currently, we're still tackling the basics, eating, dressing, toileting, hand-washing. Although we have 'speech' more frequently, it often abandons us at times of stress. When are they stressed? Every time we go 'out and about.'

So rather than project and guess how it might help you, instead I'll tell you how it has helped me.

Firstly, because I've been busy and out of touch with the real world, Lisa Jo's book made me realize how much attitudes have changed towards children with disabilities How much more accommodating different institutions have become and how to 'exploit' this to benefit my own children.

I particularly liked her check lists, tips and pertinent questions to ask. I'm often tongue tied and or distracted by herding children, so a list of relevant questions that elicit accurate information will put me in a much better position to decide if our chosen activity is a good fit, and hopefully avoid some of the more obvious pitfalls.

Her book is a timely reminder of lots of things that I already knew, but had either forgotten or dismissed as irrelevant - what was irrelevant two years ago is now 'doable.'

Lisa Jo also gave me lots of ideas, but I won't spoil the experience for you of finding out for yourself, but by way of example - my child may be unable to catch a ball but he could easily keep score for a team and so be involved by a different route.

It reminded me to keep trying, no matter how long the list of 'failures.' Indeed, many of our 'failures' might well have been avoided if I'd taken a few tips from Lisa Jo in my initial research.

I liked her approach, her 'out of the box' thinking, encouragement to tailor the activity to the child, their interests and fixations, but also taking account of their individual limitations.

I was interested to read her interview with Donna Williams in her chapter about the visual and performing arts - helpful to parents and students alike.

I was delighted to learn about Autism on the Seas, in her chapter about summer camps and alternatives - sufficiently motivating to make me consider tackling my own seasickness.

This is an inspirational read for me. Anyone who has the ability organize and create their own camp, as Lisa Jo did, deserves my admiration. Her final chapter on 'inclusion' should fire me into action.

Lastly, I leave you with 'one' of my favorite quotes:-

'There's a strange myth out there that people with autism have no emotions.'

What more do you need to know? Hallelujah!

You can find details about the book "here" at "Lisa Jo Rudy", pre-order it from "Amazon" or straight from "JKP"

Speak for yourself - I am not a conduit

2010-03-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

I understand some of it.

Part of it is woolly terminology.

How can it be a bathroom if it only has a shower? Why is it called a sitting room when no-one sits there? Dining room is meaningless if ‘dining’ isn’t in your vocabulary. The situation is made worse by parents who do not use language consistently - where ‘corridor’ and ‘hall’ are used interchangeably, at random. How can it be a corri’door’ when there are no doors?

Then there’s the practical matter - we live in an open plan house, where a ‘room’ may have two and a bit walls, undefined, not delineated by any visual boundary, no doors bar entry.

Part of the problem is that the name of any room is unimportant anyway – off radar.
Why is the garage a garage, when it houses a car not a gar? What about the kitch, what is it? When you leave, does it become a kitchout? Isn’t every room a family room? If you share bunks why isn’t it a bedsroom? It can’t be a spare room or guest room, and a day bed is a contradiction in terms. Only the garden is easy – out-side, enclosed by a ten-foot fence, with locked gates.

When they were little they didn’t have the words to explain the confusion. Now they do, and I’m the one that’s confused. We need a map for our own home, but we keep plodding onwards and upwards.

***

I sit on the floor with my youngest son, a pair, while the respite worker, Ms. G, sits at the table in the dining room – she’s six, stride-lengths away. Conversation is encouraged by not obligatory. I start:-
“Why don’t you tell Ms. G what happened to your sister yesterday?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Can’t remember?”
“No. You tell er.”
“I think she’d rather it about it from you. It was only yesterday.”
“Yesterday is being a very long time ago for my type of peoples.”
“What about all that drama? Tell Ms. G. She’s listening.”
“Don’t know drama.”
“Yes you do – when I had to rush off to collect her from school and take her to the doctor and you stayed at home and were very good because you used your emergency crisis behavior.”
“Oh yeah.”
“So? Tell Ms. G what happened, how she hurt her finger?”
“I don’t know. I weren’t there.”
“But we told you all about it when we got home again. Ms. G wants to hear all about it, from you.”
I look at his dead pan face.
“SIGH..Basketball is a blood sport?”
“Not that bit, anyway, don’t tell me. Tell Ms. G. Remember what we talked about? Being polite. When someone’s in the same room, include them, address them directly.”
“But she ain’t in the same room.”

I look across expanse, from the open plan sitting room, to the open plan dining room where a silent Ms. G observes and grins at me.

Sometimes I’m tempted to run away and hide amongst the filing cabinets in dad’s home off’ence.’

Three Book Reviews

2010-03-07T23:52:00.000-08:00

On Their Own, Creating and Independent Future for Your Adult Child with Learning Disabilities and ADHD by Anne Ford published by Newmarket Press

Siblings the autism spectrum through our eyes edited by Jane Johnson and Anne Van Rensselaer published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

Stand Up for Autism by Georgina J Derbyshire, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

1. On Their Own, Creating and Independent Future for Your Adult Child with Learning Disabilities and ADHD by Anne Ford published by Newmarket Press, also author of 'Laughing Allegra.'

Why would I read a book about young people with learning disabilities moving into adult independence when my children are autistic and young?

Because I want to get ahead of the curve and learn from people who have already been there and done it, and because I have a secret agenda; I want to know how they fixed things, skip to the end and learn how they lived happily ever after, but of course that's where I went wrong.

Usually I can tell early on if I'm going to enjoy a particular book. Something to do with the tone, writing style and general approach, invaluable information to let me know if we're on the same wavelength.

Anne shares an anecdote, that hits just the right chord. She was called to jury duty, along with eleven other people, where naturally enough, the conversation turned to the subject of learning disabilities - we all know someone etc. It's a beautiful description of the frustration and inability to communicate with public at large - not mental retardation, not autism, not ADD, not ADHD - it's like trying to nail down jello.

The same issues arise with learning disabilities as they do with other spectrum diagnoses, we have so much common ground.

This book helped me recalibrate and look forward in a practical manner, examine our options and keep a common sense approach to what might be manageable; a fine balance between optimism and realistic expectations.

I particularly enjoyed the chapter on the topic of motivation, especially when you mix in the raging hormones of teenagers, closely tied into the nightmare of self esteem. I can definitely see myself utilizing some of those strategies.

Ultimately this book is as deeply frustrating as it is satisfying.

Why?

Because everything we are currently doing with our children to prepare them for an independent life in the future, it what we must continue to do. It's the old adage, 'a marathon not a sprint.'

So, buy it, read it, and keep it on hand as a visual cue to represent the goalpost - let's hope our aim is good.

2.
Siblings - the autism spectrum through our eyes, edited by Jane Johnson and Anne Van Rensselaer, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

It’s divided into sections. Part I is for younger children and parents, and Part II is for teenagers and parents.

I thoroughly enjoyed 90% of this book - any less than that and I wouldn't write a review. It's a slim volume of 94 pages - not too daunting for young people to read and share with their friends. It is filled with the startling insight of youngsters with siblings on the spectrum.

They share their experiences with undoubted candor and display a degree of wisdom and compassion way beyond their years. Each speaks in their own distinct voice with anecdotes, and remarkable humor.

Some have strategies for coping and the common themes of embarrassment, frustration and love. They reluctantly accept the status quo, that their autistic sibling has the lion's share of parental attention - sobering.

The 10% I didn't enjoy?

You'll find it for yourself when you read it.

Not all siblings cope as well as others. I imagine this was an editorial decision. In some ways it detracts from the honest and positive outlook of this book, but it also serves as a stark contrast - those who learn, mature, grow in strength and develop a positive attitude, and those who struggle with inner demons and conflicts. Which is why I'm in two minds about it. If I were a sibling of an autistic person and read a book where everyone had learned to cope, but I was still struggling, it could be too daunting - 'how come they're doing o.k. and I'm not, there must be something wrong with me?' All the children and young people featured had difficult issues to adjust to, it wasn't easy, and they express common difficulties that we all share.

Not everyone has access to support groups, people similarly situated, or even internet forums, so what better way to find like minded people than in a book, in the privacy and security of your own home.

3.

Stand Up for Autism by Georgina J Derbyshire, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

So here's the deal. You must buy this book, BUT you must NOT read it.

First an aside and then an explanation.

Aside -

Georgina writes about her son Bobby who, as brief short-hand, has Asperger's Syndrome. Just writing those last two words has made 80% of people switch off, people whose children are sloshing around on some other point[s] on the spectrum - and that's a problem for me, so I must declare my bias.

It's a problem for me because one of my dearest friends has such a child herself. I was there when he was diagnosed, not in the same room, but there in spirit, after-wards and forever after. She has a much tougher time than me because the disability is invisible. People see what they want to see - a mouthy, know it all kid, who doesn't have any problems that wouldn't be sorted out by a quick kick up the butt, or different, better parents - it's divisive, even in the autism community itself.

And yet, because it's a spectrum, no matter where you're located on the continuum, common factors are there to a greater or lesser degree as a child develops, skips over some milestones, regresses to pick up a milestone they 'should' have mastered several years ago, leaps ahead to stranglehold a goal they shouldn't reach for another decade, and so it goes on, fast forward and rewind over the same scattered hurdles.

And now for the explanation - why you can't read it, yet.

Wait until the mail carrier arrives, peek inside to check it's the right book, not some other book you also ordered at the same time. Once you're sure it's this one, re-seal the envelope or package and run to your bedroom. Pick up the stack of books that you are currently reading or about to read and stick the envelope at the bottom of the pile and forget all about it. Allow several inches of dust to accumulate - that's the easy part for me - and wait.

You may have to wait a week, a month or a year, but you will know when your designated reading time has arrived. That time will be when you've just experienced an exceptionally bad day, part of which may be attributable to some element of autism, probably an exacerbating factor, to an already dis-functional day. When the day comes you have my express permission to lock yourself into your bedroom - sadly that probably has to be at night time when [hopefully] everyone is asleep - and then you're allowed to read it. It will be one of those nights when you'd like to escape into your favorite genre but don't really have the stomach for it. You're tempted to read some more research to see if there is some hint somewhere that might improve your families situation, but you're too tired to concentrate and anyway, you've had quite enough of everything including autism for today. So, now you get the chance to read something which makes you feel less lonely, inadequate and pathetic, because there's someone out there, Georgina, who also has similar experiences. Do you really want to read another self serving memoir about the misery of autism - no thank you very much - so instead you can enjoy a brief snippet of someone else's life with the added benefit of a huge dollop of humor.

It's short, 140 pages.

Too short.

But that's exactly why you have to save it and savor it.

I'd also like to know who did the art work as my copy doesn't say.

So I made a quick check - what are the top ten "New York Times Bestsellers" in non-fiction? See for yourself "here," - an interesting spread but I don't notice any humor.

Humor, for me at least, should be in everyone's top ten. Don't get me wrong, I love Jessica Kingsley Publishers, my life line to sanity for many a long year, but if I could get my hands on Georgina, I'd surely wring her neck. I'd certainly give her a piece of my mind. I'd tell her she'd wimped out. She should be on the New York Times Best Seller list. Basically my unsolicited and unwelcome advice, after the fact, would be that Georgina should have held out – found an agent, someone who could hoik the manuscript to a big publisher, steal a huge advance and then sit back and watch copies of her book fly off the little shelf next to the Tic Tacs, chewing gum, batteries and cheapy, tempting toys, opposite the checkout, in every chain of grocery store, worldwide, translated into every language on the planet.

Medicine that won't go down

2010-02-28T23:29:00.000-08:00

It’s a common phenomenon for many of us with children on the spectrum – those pesky fine and gross motor skills, with a dash of scattered sequencing and a dollop of mis-matched motivation – a recipe for disaster if ever I heard one.

They come to the fore every mealtime to taunt and tangle with us. Although we persevere with cutlery my children insist that everything is finger food. Let’s be honest here, how many other parents, cooks and nutritionists also have to factor in ‘splash, spill and ping,’ distance into their calculations? But they keep getting bigger, so something must be reaching their intestines, one way or another. Just lately, it’s ‘another,’ because although they don’t conform to the conventional, they’re nothing if not inventive.

So if you find your dry Cheerios just refuse to co-operate with a fiddly spoon - this might prove to be a good alternative.

Sorry it's been so quite around here lately but it's a bit fraught with "Nonna."

Check mate - Fire breathing dragons?

2010-02-21T23:46:00.000-08:00

I lean over him to help with the tricky zipper on his back pack, “so are you ready to play Draughts now that you’ve finished your homework and packed lunch?”
“Ugh!”
“What’s up?”
He shoves past me to dive to the sink, faucet on full flow, “jus a second coz I need water before I die from the smell.” He glugs several gallons before he’s ready to come up for air.
“What smell?” I ask as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
“Ugh! I can’t breathe!”
“Are you alright!”
“I fink I’m gonna faint.”
“Faint? Do you know what that word means?”
“Yes, it’s like dying but only temporary.”
“!”
“Aghhh!”
“Give me a minute, I need to close the seal on the snack bag before we start, don’t want it to go soft.”
“It is being your snack?”
“Yes.”
“What is it being? It’s being worse dan peanut butter poison.”
“The smell? Oh it’s Bombay mix, an Indian snack, I’ve not been able to eat it for…….years! I don’t think you’ll like it though as it’s pretty hot and spicy. ”
“You’re gonna be eatin with it ….again?”
“Yes, it’s my favorite treat now that my teeth are finally fixed.”
“O.k. but don draught on me.”
“Do you mean breathe?”
“Dat’s dah English?”
“Er…yes I suppose so.”
“Don’t Draught on me when we play Checkers.”
“!”

An experiment

2010-02-14T23:13:00.000-08:00

It is a well documented phenomenon:-

a youthful individual has a mishap on the play-ground and the autistic child nearby laughs.

Remember that one?

We could of course go into lengthy explanations as to why this should be so, sometimes, with some children – how some emotions, or rather the expression of those emotions, can flip over to their exact opposite – a trip switch.

Frequently, these explanations don’t ring true. This is usually for one of two reasons.

The first reason is when the speaker uses too much jargon, so the listener falls asleep from boredom, not that they were very interested in the first place.

The second, because the explanation is too simplistic, just not good enough to be convincing.

Anyone you know still need convincing?

Here’s my version of convincing.

A small autistic child is depressed – bear with me here, I know few people believe depression is possible in a child – a credibility gap - but it really is true.

So, where were we?

Ah yes, a small sad person comes to you; they’ve been encouraged to express their emotions, not bottle them all up. The small sad person has acquired words, lots of them. The delivery is often a bit dicky but it’s still a vast improvement. The listener must be patient as the child gains confidence, builds up to the moment. They cannot be hurried. Use prompts judiciously. There may be several false starts and sputters. There can be many ways of expressing hurt feelings, feelings of self-loathing and poor self esteem - many parents are familiar with these too. 'Negative talk' is another common phenomenon in autism. Because they are children, the terminology may differ from adult versions on the same subject. The listener must adjust to age appropriateness, calibrate carefully, tune in to any special areas of need. It’s a serious business for us, as we wallow in his ‘cat phase,’ of development, no jokes allows. We must step into their shoes, see the world from their perspective, their sensitivities. Under no circumstances should the child’s concerns be trivialized, dismissed or belittled, no matter what. Sincerity and an open mind are essential elements of being a coach to the sufferer in their time of need, so that when that sweet innocent appears before me, lifts his fragile chin and turns his pale liquid eyes towards mine, fear, pain and suffering etched into the tiny creases at the corners, beneath a curtain of silky dye cut hair and parts those soft cherubic lips to announce:-

“I’m …..I’m …bad….real bad…..really, really bad...I’m as bad…..as bad ……as bad as a pile of dog poo!”

Don’t you dare laugh.

Contractions can be tricky

2010-02-07T23:58:00.000-08:00

I nip upstairs to check progress, or lack there of. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, without stitches, surrounded by every shirt he owns, piled up on the carpet in heaps the size of earthworks, as well as his brother’s, a solid mass, indistinguishable, an impenetrable mountain range. But that’s only in my mind, an exaggeration, really there’s only half a dozen. It’s a metaphorical mountain and a distraction to the main event. The main event is to have my son dressed and sequenced through his daily routine in time for the school bus. However, this goal may be hijacked by other competing campaigns: self-care, personal responsibility, natural consequences for actions. I dither. I estimate that on a good day, without any other distractions or pressures, it would be possible to put one, maybe two shirts back on their hangers and into the closet, but that has to be balanced against the amount of time expended on a task that’s unlikely to be completed, could well result in major upsets and quite possibly destroy any possible of the first goal – ready of the bus. Speech and communication has always been the priority, reduce frustration, enhance understanding, but they’re bigger now, in a different place, way further along the road, and someone keeps moving the goalposts. In the midst of my indecision, he speaks.

‘It ate my shirt.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He holds a tan colored top in one hand, blinking at the design on the front.
‘It ate my shirt.’
‘What are you saying.’
He flaps it towards me, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake distracted by his feet trampling the other clean shirts strewn across the room.
‘It ate my shirt.’
‘Who……or what ate your shirt?’
It’s almost a dance now as he travels around the perimeter waving the shirt.
‘It ate my shirt.’
‘That’s what I thought you said. Doesn’t look like it to me. You’re saying that this shirt, ate your other shirt, or shirts, or what?’
He stops for a moment, still, static and startled, as something clicks into place. He looks at the shirt and then at me.
‘Oh no, I meant…….it’s her shirt…..it ain’t my shirt.’
‘Fabulous. That’s much better.’
So stunned by the percolation of the missing ‘n,’ I leave stuffy shirts for another day. [diction]

Notable Quotes and a quickie

2010-01-31T23:32:00.000-08:00

My daughter to her little brothers:

‘You guys are just impossible!’
‘No! We’re not guys! He’s a cat and I’m an "Uglyworm."’

My son - after a long, tortuous and circular argument:

‘I am Mister Understood.’

At breakfast, before I am truly awake:

‘You may wish to get some more cereal from the garage, the choice is a bit lean.’ He doesn’t move but continues to stare at the cupboard. I watch him and try again, with far too many words, ‘I’m sure there’s some new packets out there, pretty thin pickings in here.’ He remains rooted to the spot as he slopes into a 65 degree angle with his cheeks sucked in, although its unlikely to make him any skinnier.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend

2010-01-24T23:30:00.000-08:00

We survive the drama of the ripped hang-nail and a micro bead of blood. His wounded hand hides in his pulled down sleeve for protection, as his other hand crushes the blood flow.
“Which are you be likin betterer?”
“What’s my choice?”
“Anna….annanem….ammanemoni!”
“Anemones, the flowers?”
“Dey are be lookin like flowers but they are being dah sea creatures.”
“Oh. Of course you’re right, Anemones are animals.”
“So?”
“Hmm?”
“Which are you likin betterer?”
“Anemones or what, what am I choosing between?”
“Nude….nude…. Nudibranchs.”
“Fancy you remembering Nudibranchs! The enemy of all free thinking Anemones.”
“They are predators.”
“So I’m choosing between Anemones and Nudibranchs?”
“Right.”
“I think I prefer Anemones to Nudibranchs.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Coz then you are on the right side.”
“The right side of what?”
“You’re one of the good guys.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Why am I one of the good guys?”
“Coz Nudibranchs are dah enemy, predators.”
“Anemones are beautiful. Did you know they’re called the flowers of the sea? Such lovely colors. I can see why you like them. You’ve always had a fondness for flowers.”
“!”
“You still love flowers, right?”
“I love Daisy flowers but I like Anemones because they’re invertebrates and…..”
“Yes?”
His face glowers as he growls, Boris Karloff style, “ and they’ve vicious carnivores,”.
“!”
He releases the grip on his hand so that the fingers can wiggle free from the fabric. He examines the damage to the digit closely, without the use of a microscope,
“and if they lose a tentacle, they can grow a new one.”

Children with Special Needs

2010-01-18T23:02:00.000-08:00

I shall be diplomatic now because this isn’t my story to tell.

My son, the birthday boy and host is busy, occupied, as we order our drinks in the restaurant. His friend makes two strenuous attempts to request a beverage from the server. His voice is as clear as a bell and quite as piercing, but the message has failed to penetrate. I intervene:- “yes he’d like half Pepsi and half Sprite please?”
The server is perplexed and distracted as he mines for information. From a distance we look like any other party of 12. Close up, it’s different. It takes a different format in each child. Collectively it can be disconcerting. It’s as if we each have three heads, fluent in Swahili.
“Er?”
“Can you do that? Mix Pepsi and Sprite in the same glass please?”
“Er….well…..um?” Throughout our exchange, our young friend repeats his request in a loop of ever increasing frustration, since my translation appears equally as useless.
“Do you think that would be ok.?” I ask as I try to arrest the server’s attention.
“Is he er…..does he…….is he…….does he have…..special needs?”
“Yes Sprite and Pepsi, mixed in the same glass please, special order.”
“Right.” He disappears without a murmur, to return shortly afterwards. We go round the table for the food order, until we reach our same young friend, “chicken nuggets please and no fries.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“No fries.”
“It comes with fries. Would you like fries or one of these other choices, see at the bottom of the page?” Persists the server.
“No fries.”
“Would you like something else?”
“No, no fries.”
“You don’t want fries?”
Our young friend turns to me for full on eye contact, the faulty conduit, gives up on the server, to explain what should not need any further explanation. With an electrically charged tone of voice that carries over 10 tables in the noisy restaurant, “don’t give me fries, don’t give me anything with potato products or I’ll vomit.”
The server flinches, stabs himself in nose with his pen - a gasp and a laugh of relief as he skuttles off to the kitchen with mirth. My daughter watches him leave without initial comment, until she is quite certain he is out of ear-shot, “I never thought you need good listening skills to be a server.”
“It a much more highly skilled job than most people realize, at least if you want to do it well.”
“I wouldna believed it if I hadna heard it for myself.”

Perspective taking – Nice but dim

2010-01-10T23:13:00.000-08:00

I remember the festive season when I was small; my family confined together in cozy home with condensation on the window panes. My mother’s expression was one of displeasure with large blotches of annoyance – a message without any other clues. Being clueless, she added words – “why don’t you play in your room!”
“O.k.”
Lots more toys up there.
“What do you think your bedroom is for?”
Sleep?
“Do you think you might do something to help?” Helping seemed like a good idea; I considered myself to be a helpful sort of a child. Given the choice between unhelpful and helpful, I’d definitely opt for helpful; who’d choose the negative? I thought, quite wrongly, that my beaming smile was an indication of willingness and readiness. I should have probably added words to match my demeanor, something like, ‘yes, here I am, awaiting orders.’
“Open your eyes!”
They were already, so I blinked, just to make sure.
“Look at this place! Look at the mess!”

I looked.

There were my toys, quite a lot of them. My little brother’s toys were scattered without any noticeable order – very messy. There was my teenage sister’s paraphernalia; boring stuff with very little entertainment value. My Dad’s papers, books, stamps, albums and equipment were neatly arranged on a small collapsible table, poised in front of his winged backed chair. Next to it was my mother’s winged backed chair, because they were a pair. On and around her chair were masses of bags and boxes, with a side table at arm’s reach. Every surface was piled high with knitting, embroidery, darning, mending, many books on a wide variety of topics, all open, not even stacked – a veritable mountain of mess.
“Shall I tidy it?”
“Yes you will!”
I stood alone in the room for a moment, pondering my mother’s lair. What, if anything, could be squished into something else? It was just as I was jamming the knitting into the basket that my mother returned and squeaked, “mind!” but I was ahead of her, I had no intention of impaling myself on the needles. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Tidying.”
She shooed me away as you would a chicken, flighty creatures renowned for their small brains. “For the last time!”
Last time?
“Will you pick up your toys?”
My toys?
Well why didn’t you just say so in the first place and I might have acquiesced to your unreasonable demand, I’m nothing if not helpful.

It’s my turn now because I’m the mum. I often misjudge - forget. Sometimes it takes me a couple of attempts. It’s usually just when I’m about to blow my stack with exasperation that I remember.

There’s a lot to be said for specificity and logic.

There’s none so queer as folks [idioms]

2010-01-03T23:54:00.000-08:00

He accosts me in the kitchen, burbling, the same phrase over and over.
“It’s not good dear. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. It’s sounds as if you have a mouthful of marbles.” He skips the next repeat, cups the palm of his hand before he spits out a large green stone, heart shaped, spittle covered, “does ‘my heart’s in my mouth’ be meaning ‘I’m in love’?”
“Yes, it does. Why? Are you in love with someone?”
“No…..it doesn’t work - I wuz just checkin.”
“!”

Without pausing for breath he’s off on another tangent.

“Ooo dats bad.”
“What’s bad dear?”
“Dat white stuff in yur hairs.”
“Ah, yes it exploded – I was lucky not to get burned.”
“Yuck it smells even badderer.”
“Yes, acrid charring is never pleasant.”
“Ooo dere is being dandruff all over your body.”
“I think I may as well give up and change, maybe shower.”
“Dere is being snow all over the kitchens – it is being like a winter wonderland!”
“You would never think that three exploding Chestnuts could do quite so much damage really.”
“Armageddon……..but smellier.”
“!”
I step to one side to retrieve the dust buster as my daughter skitters into the kitchen to whisper to her little brother, although not quietly enough:-

“Cun you remember what Mom said she’s cookin tonight for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Well? What’s she cookin then?”
“Bad.”
“No. What’s it’s name? Chest Nut what? If I ask again she’ll have my guts for garters.”
“No. Not guts. I seened it wiv my eyes.”
“So what is it then?”
“Smashed to smithereens.....dah brains of small dead creatures.”

Quotes – speech delays and diction

2009-12-27T23:59:00.000-08:00

“Can we watch dah ceptions?”
“Deceptions? What’s that about? I don’t’ think I’ve ever heard of that before?”
“Yes you know.”
“I don’t, honest. Do you mean Deceptocons, from the Transformer thingummy do dah?”
“Nope.”
“He’s right mom. You let us watch it yesterday.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“Sure you do. You remember.”
“I don’t, honest.”
“It’s dah cartoon with dah yellow people.”
“Yellow people?”
“Yeah. We watched it with Dad.”
“Really? Hey Mike?”
“Hmm?”
“What did you watch yesterday with the children?”
“Telly.”
“Yes, I know, but which programme?”
“Er…?”
“It had yellow people in it. Something from Animal Planet or National Geographic?”
“Er….”
“Something medical maybe…..jaundice?”
“Er….”
“You didn’t let them watch House did you?”
“No! Never. Ooo! I know!”
“Hmm?”
“The Simpsons.”
“!”

Greater than the sum - Bird Brain

2009-12-27T23:30:00.000-08:00

It’s the usual rigmarole, or rather it isn’t - a variation on a theme. I’ve not visited the Bird shop for a couple of years, so I am quite delighted on Christmas Day. The boys went there, with their Dad. It was as much an exercise in perspective taking as gift buying, more or less one and the same, although Dad footed the bill - the value of money is still a work in progress.

It’s a whole 24 hours later and there they all are, the most extraordinary collection of peculiar shaped items - gift wrapped. I’d understand if each one was the same as it’s fellows, uniform in shape, or size, but they’re not. If I had chosen something three foot long, the shape of a lollipop, I’d remember what was inside. Nor could I forget something heavy, like an upside down umbrella. There aren’t many things that are shaped like a triangle, metallic – but that’s just me. Me? I’m an expert at recognizing objects, just by the feel, renowned for my x-ray vision. It’s a big event, a huge step forward, so I make the most of it. The genuine surprise and delight is easy – the joy of giving and receiving – but the first niggles of distress are present. My ‘what could it possibly be?’ as I squeeze the package, provokes anguish. I’ve not had the practice. A rhetorical question translates to the third degree – the stress of forgetfulness. I back off but it’s already too late - set the ball in motion. Body squirms and hair wrenching are only the beginning.

I was taught the social norms until they became effortless, the gracious words of thanks, the smile that didn’t travel to the eyes. The drill - easy. Since then I’ve learned compassion – the crow’s feet don’t lie.

Its like a blip that doesn’t fit. If you show me the toe nail of Pachyderm, I can visualize the whole elephant. If I show my boys a minute fraction of an obscure Pokemon, a barely visible fragment of the Lego logo, their response is immediate and 100% accurate – visual acuity at it’s finest, but other things are quite baffling. If its excruciating for the outsider, how much worse for the insider? But I remember how much I’ve always hated game shows and quiz nights – finger on the buzzer – hide under the table. It’s the pressure, the need to perform, but within a given time frame.

It’s a complex tangle, as with many children, where different issues compete but it’s difficult to determine which one[s] dominate. I could mention specifics but they’d be different for every child. Here, there’s the fingers that don’t function as he would wish, an irritation that escalates frustration, difficult to ignore. He knows that he should remember, but it’s just out of reach. Everyone is looking, waiting, expectant. The position of power should help – he’s above me – but that only helps with conventional people.

He’s also acquired some notions, nebulous little hazy things, on the periphery, slightly out of focus. Social conventions that have been off radar until recently, things that most of us take for granted as - so ingrained. Deconstruction and translation of the conventions - explain and demonstrate in a meaningful manner - impossible in these few minutes.

It’s what my chum calls the ‘disproportionality’ of the incident. Her ledger would illustrate the imbalance – on one side there would be ‘the subject gives a gift to his mother for the first time, voluntarily’ – on the other side of the ledger would be a very long list of ‘issues’ that might interfere or affect the experiment. She would weight or rank each issue, but no matter their number or severity, none, singularly or collectively should result in an outburst. An outburst would be deemed disproportional. It makes me a little sad that she can sum it up so dispassionately, so dismissive.

So we compromise – a little paper rip so that he can peek inside while my eyes are averted, so he can capture recall, but it’s not enough; only when he can see the whole thing does the penny drop – failure stares him in the face.

We are both exhausted by the emotional explosion. Only a few minutes, but super charged. If we were ‘out,’ the situation would be exacerbated – socially inappropriate always requires public comment – but what do they know? But we’re not ‘out,’ we’re ‘in,’ and what do I know? Probably even less. All I do know is that this simple common place event should bring pleasure. Instead he’s robbed of the moment, the joy stolen, replaced with a slew of stress. Hobbled by the miniscule hic-cups of the every day.

We should expect them, we should be able to deal with them but so often we fall short - always expect the unexpected - which is why we’re off guard on down time. It’s home, it’s safe, or it should be.

I take him and the bird feeder out into the garden – change of scene, change of pace, chance to breathe – on a chilly bright day with a clear blue sky. Barely have I shut the door when he’s off, “look mom!” He bounds across the asphalt, over 50 yards away on a quest as he hurls himself down on the concrete, bare chested. I gallop after him, “what is it dear?”
“S’on it’s back. See dah legs? Its a lady bug.”

Fools Seldom Differ

2009-12-20T23:07:00.000-08:00

I’m not a great fan of ‘teachable moments,’ or rather I am in theory, it’s just the practice that’s time consuming and such hard work.

I learned my lesson a very long time ago. I think it’s basically a male thing, but I could be wrong. One wrong thing you can do, especially if you happen to be female, is to bounce into the room and sing “Ta dah! What do you think?” This is a universal invitation to disappointment. The response could be any one of the following: ‘I didn’t know you could sing / are you going to finish the rest of the song now / you really shouldn’t bounce like that wearing high heels.’

No.

To flounce out in a huff is childish. Far better to give a hint, or a clue, or better still, a plain explanation. “Hi! Do you like my new frock, the one that I’m wearing right now?” Care should also be taken in other more vague areas. Instead of asking ‘do you like my hair this way’ it’s better to ask ‘do you like my new hair cut / dye job / hair style.’ In effect, there should be as little wriggle room as possible. In fact, in some cases, it’s better to feed the line, “I’m sure you like my new shoes as much as I do.”

Some may feel that this kind of extracted and contrived compliment isn’t worth the spittle of production, and I would be inclined to agree with you. Part of the problem is that in ordinary every day life, this kind of thing crops up all the time. Far better to equip our children with a rudimentary arsenal, for protection.

That of course, takes practice.[*]

One of the many funny things about autism, if you don’t happen to be autistic yourself, is that some fundamentals remain the same. I’m not saying that they don’t grow and change, more that some major underpinnings are always present. You would think that most people with half a wit, parents such as myself, would know this. And yet over and over again, I forget. While my children have a good vocabulary, [now] there are little holes in the lexicon, bits and bobs that just aren’t important enough to file away for future reference.

“Hey guys! What do you think of my new ear-rings? See here….my ears?”
“Ear…….rings?”
“Yes, look at my ears. See these things hanging from the little hole?”
“Dey are not rings. Dey are being fish….fish……hooks with dangly bits.”
“Do you like the dangly bits?”
“Is is an ellipse.”
“Yes I suppose they, are sort of.”
“It is browny beetle colored.”
“I thought they were honey colored?”
“No honey is being golden. Dat is not being golden.”
“Right. So do you like them then?”
“I fink it is sight pleasing but are brain hurting.”
“Ah.”
“I fink it is bad to put sharp things in your body parts.”
“Hmm. Right. Fair enough.”
“But it’s o.k. mum!”
“Is it? Why?”
“Coz peoples are likin and dislikin different things.”
“!” There’s nothing like having your inadequate ditties quoted back at you.
“Any ways……”
“Hmm?”
“Dey are not be rings.”
“Yes you already said that…..you explained that they’re really hooks.”
“No but…..?”
“But what dear?”
“Um…….not plural.”
“Plural?”
“It is only being singular.”
“Dang! Where’s the other one gone then!”

[*] for future reference, for anyone that doesn’t already know, when you’re presented with the new thing for comment, the response ‘how much did it cost?’ it's always wrong.

Compliments are Anathema – Misery loves company

2009-12-13T23:17:00.000-08:00

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"

2009-12-13T22:31:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-12-06T23:52:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-29T23:49:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-22T23:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T23:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-08T23:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-01T23:44:00.000-08:00

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?”
“!”

Do we not Bleed?

2009-10-25T23:59:00.000-07:00

The great thing about growing up is that life becomes so much more calm, relatively speaking. The bad thing about growing up is that the cues become more subtle, or at least they are for complacent, half witted parents, such as myself. Both the boys have gradually acquired a wide variety of coping mechanisms which they’re able to access more frequently these days. Since their outward behaviour is more conformist, I’m apt to forget that it’s still all there, just a scratch beneath the surface. Luckily for me, a little reminder here and there helps keep me grounded.

The reminder arrives in the morning, early, never my best time of the day, during the heavily sequenced morning routine. Amid copious prompts, we wend our way towards readiness for the school bus.

The boys are draped over their cereal bowls at the table, munching, wordless. Everyone has demands and needs whether they’re able to voice them or not and I have a tendency to focus on the squeaky wheel. Whilst the squeaky wheel is entirely capable of making her own breakfast, this morning, she’s more squeaky than usual:-

“Where’s the bacon you said you’d save for me?”
“In the fridge dear.”
“Can I have it for breakfast?”
“I thought you wanted to save it for a sandwich?”
“Please, please, please can I have it now?”
I hear a mutter of dissent from other quarters, “oh come on! You’re needs, you’re needs, you’re needs.” Part of the conversation and yet not, at the same time.
“Sure. Help yourself.”
“I can’t find it.”
“I labeled it for you. Have another look. It has a yellow post-it attached.”
“Where?”
“Right there. In the door.”
“There on the stair! Where on the stair? Right there! A little mouse with clogs on….”
“It’s not here. I’m gonna starve to death.”
“Dem bones, dem bones, dem …..dry bones.”
“Here…………there you go.”
“Yum.”
“It will be tastier if you zap it for a couple of seconds.”
“How long?”
“Start with 10 seconds…..nope, leave it in the bag or it will explode all over the microwave.”
"T.N.T. it's dynamite!"
“Ooo look at it crackle, yum!”
“Hurry up dear, look at the clock!” I urge as he hear my son muttering, “time is money, time is money, time is money,” to his nearly empty cereal bowl.

Miss Squeaky moves to the table with relish as one brother leaves. One down, two to go. The remainder, the smallest brother, turns his back on us and the table with a breathy gasp in one smooth movement, not easy when you’re hunkered down on a carver chair. His head sinks low down into his shoulders until he has no neck, elbows closed in tight like a bird settling it’s wings, compact and silent. I step nearer because he’s either stopped breathing entirely or holding his breath. I slip round to his front side to see his fluttering eye lids as he appears to be about to pass out, woozy with little electric shudders. “Breathe love! Are you alright?”
“Agh!” is all he can manage as he springs over the arm of the chair, hits the floor and rolls into a corner where he pants in recovery mode. Rarely, if ever, has there been a more finely executed example of escapism as he lies on the floorboards gasping like a recently landed fish.
“Are you feeling better lovie?”
“Better…..but I’ll be betterer when I am …….awayer.”
“Away where?”
“Awayer from dah dead meat stink.”
“!”

Blood Hounds

2009-10-18T23:55:00.000-07:00

I dry my hands carefully so I can put a fresh plaster on my finger, post washing up and then nip upstairs to bed down the smalls. I whip up the ladder to start with the smallest one on the top bunk.
“Night, night luvvy.”
“Agh!”
“What’s the matter dear?”
“Dat is dah worstest.”
“What is?”
“Dat smell?”
“Hmm sorry about that. I was a bit heavy handed with the garlic tonight.”
“Not food smell.”
“Which smell?”
“Yur finger stinks.”
“My finger?”
“Dah one wiv dah band aid.”
“Can’t, I’ve only just washed them. Is it the soap? Doesn’t smell much too me.”
“No dah blood.”
“You can smell the blood?”
“Yes it is being still wet.”
“So if it was dry you wouldn’t be able to smell it?”
“Duh!”
“!”
“Scabs smell differenter.”
“Do they indeed?”
“But wet blood smells strongest and yours is badest?”
“Other people’s blood smells ……er…….nice?”
“My blood smells nice.”
“What does my blood smell of that’s not nice?”
“Too much…….. metal.”
“What does your blood smell of?”
“Stones.”
“!”
“And…..more of…… salt.”
“Does everyone’s blood smell differently?”
“Duh!”
“!”
“I think you’ve missed your calling as a tracker dog.”
“Tracker cat!”
“!”

All Systems Go – Cruise control

2009-10-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

We’ve always had problems with green, for as long as I can remember. Such a simple word that can be described in so many or few; a secondary colour, mix blue and yellow, use different proportions of each primary colour to produce different shades. But still those five letters elude him.

It’s a little bit like when I try to remember something myself, some every day kind of a thing, like a film star’s name. I can see the boyish face, now morphed into middle age, it’s an easy name, I can see the roles he’s played but the name, that ever so average name is buried under pile of mis-filed ‘to do’ lists and a heap of other detritus. An irritating nebulous nameIt’s on the tip of my tongue but hides behind a stack of unread book spines. It is not until later, at night when the chains fall off my brain and suddenly up it pops as I sit bolt upright, Tom Cruise! But there’s no-one to listen, no-one to pat me on the back, tap me on the cranium and say, ‘there you go, back to sleep now.’

Now that he’s older he can sometimes retrieve it, green, on command, but more often than not, he can’t, so we use alternatives. Emerald is always first on the list, a starter, a favourite, and from that point on the colour wheel we can go left or right, up or down, carefully narrowing down the choices because we must be accurate because accuracy is very important and those subtle shades are calibrated with precision, hues enhanced, narrowly tailored.
“That’s too dark.”
“What about that one?”
“No.”
“Lighter?”
“More……neon.”
“What about this one?”
“I think that it. How you say it?”
“Um…I’m not sure of the pronunciation….er…. Chrysoberyl……I think?”
“Got it!” he hares off, shouting to the other players, “hey guys! It’s called Chrysoberyl.”

Well that slips off the tongue like extract of malt but it’s nice to know that he’s not red/green blind, like my dad.

Where oh where?

2009-10-04T23:08:00.000-07:00

Sometimes these things creep up on you when you least expect them. This one runs at me, bowls me over and catches me out on a day when we’re running behind schedule, loudly drowning in the minutiae of the early morning schedule, the one designed to have everyone ready for school on time, although we are rarely truly successful. It’s always an approximation of harried, as no-one around here will be hurried. The minutes tick by as we fall further and further behind, flustered and frustrated, just for a change. By the time he comes downstairs for the umpteenth time in a state of bewilderment, I know that we need to take a few steps back as I’m expecting too much too soon, as there are too many distractions to ever achieve task completion unaided. “Come on, up we go, let’s go and get you dressed.”
He looks at his own body, still clad in pyjamas, surprised that they are still there, that the visit upstairs didn’t transform him Clark Kent style into his school clothes without effort, and some days everything is an effort.

In the bedroom he stares at the contents of the wardrobe as he begins his debate. I’m so tempted to choose for him but that will only stall progress. I mentally hop from one foot to the other rather than physically, as that would also be a distraction. Eventually he reaches for a pair of trousers, plops to the floor and starts to insert one foot, “just a minute dear.”
“Wot?”
“Haven’t you forgotten something…..look.” He looks but brightly coloured pyjamas are not that dissimilar from brightly coloured underwear, “you need to take your pyjamas off first.”
“Oh yeah,” he wrenches them off and holds them bunched in his hands uncertain what to do next. It occurs to me that it is uncommon for pyjamas to remain on his body for very long, either because they are surplus to requirements for the majority of the time or because they are no longer wearable for a wide variety of reasons, They never make to a second night. “Wot I do wiv dem?” he asks as he shoves them towards the center of my body as my hands are by my sides, but I can still feel them through my shirt, “they’re still warm,” I comment to myself, as much as to him, “and they’re ……..dry!”
“So? Wot I do?”
“I think perhaps……” what do you do with cleanish dry, nightwear? I have no idea. What does one do with pyjamas after one night, lightly used with only the odd dead skin cell on board? What is the norm? Clean pyjamas every night is the norm around here, sometimes several times a night but what do other people do? Is it permissible to wear them more than once? Is there some chance that this late in the day I might redeem myself before Mother Nature and resist this small addition to the ever burgeoning laundry pile? Is this the shape of the future? Is there any possibility, no matter how slight, that some time soon we might just reduce the deluge to two or three loads a day?

There must be some easy solution but it’s been several years, many years. I have some vague recollection back through the mists of time, what did they used to call that thing……a pyjama case! But of course we don’t have one, what would be have one for? Pyjamas are on the body, in the wash or very briefly in the cupboard, clean. There are no other options but we need to mark the occasion, this novel outcome, this once in a life time step forward. “I know………how about you put them under your pillow and then you can use them again tonight!”
“The pillow?” His tone is one of amazement.
“Yes.”
“Under?” Mystified.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because…….isn’t that what you do with them?” He gives me the look, the one we reserve for people with very small brains when trying to be kind, no matter how daft the suggestion, “o.k. Mom. There yah go. They’ll be all safe for yah now.” I watch him pat the pillow affectionately with a very strange, amused and vaguely patronizing expression on his face, before he whispers, “it’s o.k. Mom…… ……I’ll keep yur lil secret.”
“!”

One makes a difference

2009-09-29T06:31:00.000-07:00

I prompt them from the calendar, the speech calendar from school that provides a daily prompt, as much for me as for them:- “so…...…what do you know about your grandparents dear?”
“Dey are nice and dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Nonna next door, she’s only napping dear.”
“Oh……I meaned…......….deaf.”

The true price of love – in the nick of time*

2009-09-19T23:36:00.000-07:00

Weddings are such a complicated business. But that’s one of the great things about growing old, you have the chance to step into the shoes of the previous generation. Now I will be a mother in law, mother of the bride. I have the chance to experience the very same angst that my own mother must have experienced a long time ago, or close enough. I distinctly remember being close to collapse by the time my own wedding arrived, a true challenge to my organizational skills, as the only way to command a cheap wedding is to do it all yourself. Hence, at short notice, a mere two weeks, I attempt to do likewise for own my daughter as she marries Mr. B, but I have other far more complicated hurdles to jump this time. Those hurdles consist mainly of explaining the concept of marriage to my children with their many and various perspectives upon life. My son takes the news the hardest, close to tears because weddings are a very emotional time.
“But I don want Mr. B to marry her.”
“Oh dear. Why not luvvy?”
“Coz he is my friend.”
“Yes he is, but he’s her friend too. You can have more than one friend. Just because they’re getting married doesn’t mean that he won’t be your friend any more.”
“It won’t be dah same.”
“Well….”
“Is he gonna leave?”
“No, they’ll both say here with us, a big family of 8, so you’ll still see him every day.”
“But then they’ll be the babies.”
“What babies?”
“They’ll have babies and then he won’t love me no more.”
“Oh there won’t be any babies for a very long time, you don’t have to worry about that, babies come later, much later.”
I hope.
“Besides, you love babies, so that won’t be too bad.”
“Yeah but you can’t love babies and your friends.”
“Believe me, there’s enough love for everyone, you definitely don’t have to worry about that one.”
“It stinks.”
“What does? Babies? Babies nappies?”
“No! Getting married stinks.”
“Actually, you know I’ve been thinking.”
“Wot?”
“When they’re married, Mr. B will still be your friend, but do you know what else he’ll be?”
“No.”
“He’ll be your brother in law.”
“Brother?”
“Brother in law.”
His skull hits my sternum like a medicine ball as his finger tips dig into my flesh, overcome, wordless and ecstatic.

Doggy droppings - bonus

2009-09-18T23:59:00.000-07:00

Life in a foreign country is both an adventure and a learning experience. I find that even though I have lived in California for 14 years there is no end to list of things that I do not know, just on that one topic, California, or even on an even smaller topic like San Jose, or even on an even teenier topic such as what occurs between my own four walls.

With only a few days to go before the wedding I nip out to the garage to restock with a six pack of paper towels and dump the recycling but as I hear yelling from within, drop them all and dash back inside. Inside I find my sons squabbling, loudly. I listen carefully on a fact finding mission prior to dispensing justice, assuming that they are unable to resolve their differences alone, “but I have being injured my toe, I am need of my sock for protectiveness dumbass!”
“Dat was years ago, it’s o.k. now, take off dah sock I wanna make another puppet.” I am about to open my mouth to speak when both boys coo, “oooooo!” as their gaze follows something moving in the garden. The thing that is moving in the garden is Thatcher, the dog, leaping and bounding through the air with abandon as he kills toilet rolls, merciless. As paper falls like confetti through the air the sprinklers start up. A papier mache garden was not on my ‘to do’ list. As I watch, my daughter approaches to add her oooos to the chorus.

“Geez mom, the whole garden looks like it’s been teepeed!” I turn to look at her face of glee. My face is not in the least bit gleeful as I have discovered something else that I don’t know how to do. “In what language are you speaking?”
“Teepeed, dontcha knowit?”
“Indeed, I most certainly do, but my knowledge is limited, and in this instance it is limited to Native Americans, a structure of poles covered with animal hides for protection and shelter.” A take a deep breath of rarified air with a hint of damp dog.
“No mom, dontcha know nothin?”
“So it would appear.”
“How come you don’t know this stuff when you’re so old….er…. I mean mature….um…..”
“Adultish!” offers her brother.
“Verily.” I am without functional brain cells. I wait for my daughter to put me wise.
“Teepeed is like, you know….‘toilet papered.’”

So I have two more unanswered questions:-
Why is the smell of soggy dog so all pervasive and how do you remove six shredded toilet rolls from a lawn after it has baked to perfection in the Californian sun?

I may have no choice but to return to the convent from whence I came.

Watch-cat

2009-09-18T23:31:00.000-07:00

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When we first took Rascal to the vet as a kitten we were told that he had
‘bonding issues and behavioural problems,’ Nonna was most amused at the time. Here you can witness his issues as he guards the boys at night, from 8 o’clock sharp he starts to yeowl for them to come up to bed and then he stays there, up and down the ladder, checking, in-between nips next door to check on my daughter. He’s usually pretty tired by the morning, it’s a nocturnal thing of course, perfectly natural in a cat.

The Age of Reason

2009-09-17T23:28:00.000-07:00

The great thing about having older children is that you can begin to reason with them. Parents can drop the bribery tactics and move swiftly on to persuasion, trading and tit for tat.

“Tell you what?”
“What is it now mom?”
“You make your packed lunch and I’ll make you supper?”
“Great I get to pick out my own food!”
“!”

“Tell you what?”
“Wot?”
“You make your packed lunch and I’ll make you supper?”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you need to learn to become independent and do things on your own.”
“Why?”
“Because then when you grow up and leave home you’ll be able to look after yourself properly.”
“O.k. I get dat.”
“Where are you going?”
“Play.”
“What about your packed lunch? What about supper?”
“Das o.k. mom I ain’t gonna be leavin home.”
“!”

“Tell you what?”
“Wot?”
“You make your packed lunch and I’ll make you supper?”
“No.”
“No? Hang on a sec, where are you going? What about your packed lunch? What about supper?”
“I’m gonna die of malnutrition.”
"!"

Share and Share Alike

2009-09-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

We explain important human relationships to the boys, kith and kin, blood ties, legal ties and the thing that is about to happen to change their lives.
“So of course you understand that once they’re married things are going to be very different.”
“Different?”
“Yes. You’ll have one more person to share with in the family.”
“More sharing?”
“Indubitably. And what is the most important thing that you have to share?”
“Computer time?”
“Nope.”
“Dats o.k. den. We can be sharing everything else.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that you’ll be able to share your chocolate pudding with Mr.B.”
“Never!” he howls making a fine impression of wolf.
“Well you have to start somewhere. Look around the table.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me which person you could start to share with?” Each person watches him as his eyes travel from one to the next, steadily, silently, round and round and round. It appears that we are all of us inadequate for such an honour. Then we witness the decision maker spark as a very bright idea occurs, as they so often do, given time. “I know! I am choose mum.”
“Ahh thank you dear. You are so kind and generous.”
“Yes but also I am knowing.”
“What do you know?”
“You are not liking chocolate pudding.”
Well that would make the decision easier of course.

Well spotted

2009-09-15T23:25:00.000-07:00

He saw it first!

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

"Nonna" always welcomes visitors.

Sock Puppets

2009-09-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

Only teeny tiny this week as I have a wedding to arrange for Sunday the 20th and so all my energies are otherwise tied up.

It's a kit for children aged 3 and above which I've had for an awfully long time.

Although it's 'glue free' ours needed a little bit of help.

With great results though. What's more they have played with the end results, way out of our comfort zone.

Tongue twister

2009-09-13T23:31:00.000-07:00

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

What is it?

I'm so glad you asked:-

A fossilized, flat, four footed, platypus skeleton. Don't try saying that in a hurry. It would appear that the tactile defensive amongst us have mastered tape.

Notable quotes

2009-09-12T23:59:00.000-07:00

I watch his performance, robotic dancing and in time until he collapses in a sweaty heap, “sighhhhhh!”
“You are such a fun guy.”
“Wot did you be callin me?”
“Fun guy?”
“Ooo…..I thought you be said fungi, nevermind, I am liking fungi betterer.”

Three little monkeys

2009-09-11T23:18:00.000-07:00

Get the code:-
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Say "hi" to "Nonna" for me.

Caring and sharing

2009-09-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

On Labour Day afternoon after another nocturnal phase with my older son, we are determined to wear them all out in the pool. It is immediately apparent that the water is one degree cooler than on the previous day. My youngest son, in his wet suit, shrieks as his toe touches. Only 18 lengths to go. I do not know how many breaths the average person takes per minute. I do know that every breath equates to one 50 decibel shriek of agony interspersed with cries of “I gonna freeze into an iceberg.” Despite the protests he persists and doesn’t escape from his watery end, but continues to persevere and decrease his average length time. I’m sure that all of our neighbours also enjoyed the experience of his progress as they certainly couldn’t fail to hear the running commentary.

Afterwards he is calmer, spent and in a much more malleable frame of mind, which is just as well as we thrash our way through the evening meal:-

“All I’m saying is that perhaps, just this once, you could share your chocolate pudding with your brother and sister?”
“I would raver die!”
“Come along now, it’s not really fair that you get two desserts every night is it?”
“It is justice for the poison one.”
“Well if it Queen’s Pudding scored a 3 then it’s not really in the same category as poison, is it? Could you give it a try, just this once? I just didn’t have time to make dessert tonight.”
“O.k. but only a very teeny tiny one, not dah whole darned puddin.”
“Ah thank you dear, that’s so sweet of you…..so mature.”
“Dis is dee manifestation of adultishness.”
“For you…..that is most probably quite right.”

Health and safety at play

2009-09-09T23:21:00.000-07:00

“I have an incredibly brilliant solution to the problem,” he announces as he dives into the stationery drawer to rummage around. “I have invented safety improvements.” His toe still bleeds. The supply of band aides is running low. He reaches for the tape dispenser and reels off strip longer than his own arm to wrap around the band aid on his toe. “Dere you go! If life gives you lemons make bloody beef stew.”
“!”

Halloween practice well in advance

2009-09-08T23:55:00.000-07:00

The artist sets to work with her little brother as model, caught by the throat, one handed life drawing. Miss Incredible, who can extort the required behaviour without apparent force.
“Ugh you have dog breath,” he squirms.
“Grrrrr sit still you little mongrel or I’ll eat yah fer breakfast. A dogs’ breakfast!”
“Meow.”
His older brother watches, cautious in his Vampire suit, “can’t eat Vampires anyways.”
“Shut up Mister, your turn's next so take those teeth out…..I said now!”
“!”

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

"Nonna" always welcomes visitors.

Two for one

2009-09-07T23:52:00.000-07:00

Only tiny ones for us after our four day weekend.

One:-

Read and weed some, so that the pile goes down.

And two:-

Each child to reproduce a picture of 'cat' to inspire "Nonna" to get on with her commissioned portrait of next door's moggy

= done.

That's about all I can manage for "today."

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Je m'appelle Funny Bear - Full French Version

2009-09-06T23:51:00.000-07:00

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

I have made a Bakewell Tart and a couple of loaves of fresh bread but I am completely incapable of filling in the rest of the menu for the night as my brain has been numbed by twenty minutes of the sing songy exchange:-
“Come to the dark side.”
“The health inspectors are here!”

I don’t know from whence it has come, but I sincerely I hope that it doesn’t stay too long as the Boris Karloff maniacal laugh that accompanies it, is far too realistic for peace of mind. Frankly I do not consider this an improvement on Axel F sung at 50 decibels in chorus, even though once upon a time I did find the theme song to Beverly Hills Cops quite jolly. I remind myself that it is just a phase, a phase during which we are quite likely to starve to death as the noise level interferes with what little brain activity I have left. For those unfamiliar with the updated version of this song, which depicts as ever so slightly "demented frog" with a foreign accent who continually punctuates bars with the ditty "bing, bing, bing," in a thoroughly electronic tone of voice. So I’m just saying, a word to the wise, do not allow your children access to U-tube, no matter how virally popular something might be at school when that video is linked to the "Gummy Bear” contagion with the same electronic voices, you may soon find yourself as a parent with a serious brain infection. I do not know exactly how many languages this has been translated into thus far, but I do know that this is not the ideal way to learn French or Japanese. You have been warned. The only up side to the current nightmare is that my son has decided that robot dancing is the way ahead. He exerts enough energy to make a small dent in his energy reserves after his 30 minute limit. That said, now I come to think of it, I think I have the perfect recipe for dinner………frogs legs.

Spare a thought for "Nonna."

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Notable Quotes

2009-09-05T23:31:00.000-07:00

Speech delays are curious things. If you combine them with a smattering of echolalia, sprinkle with scripts and stir in a penchant for colloquialisms, you can end up with a very special recipe. So if you also find that you can't remember the name of an actor, or that the name of the movie is on the tip of your tongue or you can't remember the right word, try these strategies instead. Don't say 'er, um, actually....'

Try:-

“We’ll be right back……after these messages.”

Or:-

“I have short term memory loss.”

Be imaginative and try alternative strategies to solve unusual problems:-

“If your dog doesn't have a leash use the dog’s tongue instead coz they’re better by design, inbuilt.”

Appreciate expanding social awareness:-

"Elders" are takin over dah world!"

Always try and keep your sense of humour well oiled:-

“It’s called butt kissing.”

Family Time

2009-09-04T23:10:00.000-07:00

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Full of activities so my productivity is more or less zilch.

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Waiting

2009-09-03T23:18:00.000-07:00

Child abductions are rare but currently in the news, as are a rash of sex offenders. These things are on my mind when my son unlocks all the locks on the front door and bounds out into the garden at 7:40 in the morning. He dashes down the path all legs and limbs like Bambi. He stops at the gate and hangs on it before he glances back at me to give me a thumbs up sign. He gives me another thumbs up sign because he knows that I am old and may not understand the hand gesture of the young and hopefully hip because he’s considerate like that. He argues with himself for a few moments, debating. I watch him debate as he weighs the matter up, both sides before his better side sighs and stomps back to the house, to me, his mother, who is waiting. He takes the 'yell through the open window' option, “iz o.k. mom……I’m waiting for dah bus.” I beam, “I guessed that!” He flaps a hand in my direction a dismissal and a whatever before his feet turn to propel him back to his waiting position, his body follows a nano second later.

Too many ‘firsts’ to count.

He does press ups on the gate post to pass the time of day. His body is precarious as it wobbles to and fro over the top of the gate but he doesn’t topple over into the street. His cat waits with him winding in and out of the picket fence posts. I watch from behind the window as a humming bird darts in and out of the flowers in the forefront with the back drop of my son, my much larger son. He gasps as the cat departs and flits across the road. I watch him resist but impulse control is always a trial. I know he’d fall for that one:- ‘here’s a picture of my kitten, can you help me find him?’ We’ve talked about it with all of them but there will always be a new line of temptation for the unwary. Children by their very nature are unwary. Parents see them grow and learn, we are wary, worried and watchful because we need to nurture their independence without paying a higher price. He vaults into a victory dance, opened mouthed silent yelling as the bus pulls in.

Hide and seek

2009-09-02T23:10:00.000-07:00

I enjoy another pointless conversation with my children now that we have conversations, pointless and otherwise. “Come on you two, let’s play hide and seek with Fred.” My older son looks pleased at the prospect, his younger brother thinks I am a fool, “why we play hide and go seek wiv a tortoise? Are you nuts mom?”
“Not at all. Come on it’ll be fun.”
“Not fun.”
“Yes it is. Anyway it’s not fair as Fred’s already hidden himself and unless you go and find him he’ll be hiding for ever.”
“Dat’s not good…..if no-one comes lookin for ya.”
“Right! So come into the garden and see if you can find him.”
“He is losted?”
“No he’s hiding.”
“Oh…dats o.k. I already seened him when I came home from school.”
“Yes but now he’s in the pen outside but you won’t be able to find him as he’s hiding.” They’re less enthusiastic than I would wish but still compliant. I wax lyrical, “it’s quite amazing how he’s camouflaged himself, in the grass, he’s invisible. We peer into the pen to see four square feet of grass and no tortoise, or at least, I can’t see him. “May be he sneaked up the down pipe like the incy wincy spider?”

“He ain’t no spider mom. Anyways up down……he’s dere. We found him. Wot now?”
“You can see him, already? Point to him. Show me where?”
“Dere!”
“Can you see him too?” I check with his brother.
“Sure! He right dere.”
“Point to him dear.” He steps over the fence, reaches in and pulls out Fred, just like that! “Iz o.k. mom wiv your old and mold eyes.”
“!”

Diamonds are some girls' best friends

2009-09-01T23:22:00.000-07:00

Other girls make other choices

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

This Lovely Life by Vicki Forman

2009-08-31T23:56:00.000-07:00

Remember the book "giveaway?"

Well I'd just like to let you know who won. However, first of all I must come clean and admit that I think that the drawing was grossly unfair. When I tell you who it is, read the name quickly and see if you make the same association that I do? Of course I can't be certain that he really cheated and the other two are no better as they share the same bias.

Do you know this little guy?

Isn't it awfully close to this "chapess":-

"Kirkby" So "congratulations" I'll let Vicki know but I'm doubtful whether her carrier pigeon is up to transatlantic. [Should have thought of that first]

Garfield rules

2009-08-30T23:16:00.000-07:00

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Yes, he had to correct my spelling!

Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" as the winner will be announced tomorrow and spare a thought for "Nonna."

Hey good lookin!

2009-08-29T23:57:00.000-07:00

My children enjoy yet another year in the public school education system. Whilst the speech delays are still with us nevertheless they grow and change daily.

We arrive at the weekend after completing the first successful week, hopefully the first of many. It is whilst I am cooking lunch that my son accosts me in the kitchen.
“Wot?”
“What what dear?”
“Wot is it being?”
“What am I cooking? Um.....a fragrant concoction.”
"Wot it is being?"
"Concoction?"
"No."
"Fragrant?"
"Yes."
"Fragrant is another word for smell."
“What you be fragranting?”
“The smell or fragrance? That’s probably the Oregano, it’s a herb. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Wot?”
“Hmm?”
“Wot is it being?”
“The other smells? Take a peek in the pan and a sniff. It’s either bacon, garlic or possibly the beans you can smell?”
“Beans, beans they make you smart, the more you eat the more you fart.”
“!”

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway."

Growing up

2009-08-28T23:15:00.000-07:00

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My girls......11 is catching up with 28!

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Breeding perfection

2009-08-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

Part of the reason for choosing the Labradoodle breed of dog was because the boys have eczema and asthma. We were advised that this breed amongst a few others may lessen the adverse impact of a new pet upon our already very complicated family life. To date, this evidence has proved to be true.

Our pet, Thatcher, has won us all over. No-one could ask for a more laid back puppy, huge yet gentle. He sheds like many other dogs but my toils with the vacuum are well worth it. Unlike the rest of the youthful household, he is not in the least bit phased by the whirring of the vacuum. He has already added so much to our family that I cannot imagine life without him any more.

We have adjusted to his little doggy ways and the occasional deep baritone bark of warning;- woof, it’s a squirrel, woof, it’s a human pedestrian, woof, it’s someone at the door. There’s quite a variety but we know them all. It is because we know them all, including the puppy whimpers of bad dreams and chasing deamons full speed whilst lying sideways on the floor, that I am surprised by an entirely new kerfuffle of a noise. I run to investigate the fearing the worst. I find the worst, my son wrapped around the neck of the hound that sneezes.

Most peculiar.

Half gag half whimper.

“Iz o.k. mom! I fink Fatcher has allergies.”
“!”

Multitasking logic and instant confiscation

2009-08-26T23:50:00.000-07:00

British people are often, quite wrongly, said to be scatological, obsessed with bodily functions and toilets. Sadly, this mis-apprehension is further advanced by Gillian McKeith, whose programme has recently arrived in the USA. I feel duty bound to dispel this myth, as quite frankly anyone who spends more than a few minutes in a bathroom is need of some serious professional help. As for people who have reading materials in their bathroom, they too need their head’s examined. No-one should have enough time in the bathroom to read anything more than ‘please wash your hands.’ Some people argue that they are so busy that they have no choice but to complete other tasks whilst closeted in the bathroom, or at least that was the executive’s excuse, he who insisted upon continuing dictation back in the days when people employed secretaries.

It’s not that I’m against multitasking. In principle, I’m all for it and do it frequently. I suspect we all do to a greater or lesser extent, indeed if we didn’t, we’d reduce our efficiency quotient by some quite horrible margin.

Cooks do it all the time, just in the cooking and preparation department. Sometimes they load themselves up and chat on the phone, listen to the radio, read the recipe book, do a few rows of knitting while the water comes up to boil, plan next weeks menu, fold the washing……well maybe not, but you get the picture.

However, instinctively I some how know that there are limits, although I’m not terribly sure where the boundaries lie. That said, I know with a degree of certitude that some things should not be combined, such as knife throwing and swimming. Who wants rusty knives? Then a few other things spring to mind such as using a chainsaw and doing anything else at all. It’s just not on. Some tasks just require the usage of too many brain cells to permit distraction or the consequences are dire.

In my son’s case it is a different order or magnitude. Broadly speaking, I think it is safe to say that neither are into multitasking. Both prefer mono tasking, preferably without end if it is a preferred ‘task,’ more especially so, when the task is an electronic game.

Hence it is with a certain amount of awe when I find him in the bathroom. I see something that I have never seen before. I see something that I cannot imagine anyone ever doing. I find him sitting in the bathroom doing what most of us choose to do alone, together with his Gameboy and a carton of Goldfish crackers, eating, playing Mario games and…..well……doing. Forget the Gameboy! Eating and doing are not tasks I could ever imagine occurring at the same time. I realize that I have had a much more sheltered existence than I ever thought possible because no matter how hard I try, I just cannot envisage doing likewise. I am tempted to squeak something irrelevant like ‘Hygiene!’ but I realize I am silent when he blinks up at me, “wot?”
“I er….you shouldn’t…….can’t……don’t want to……”
“Go away. I am needing my privacy.”
“But…..eating and toilets aren’t a good match dear.”
“But I’m saving time.”
Somehow I don’t really like to make further enquiries, in part because I already know that in his mind eating is always either a chore or in the alternative, a complete waste of time. I can feel a social story coming on.

Maybe it’s just a male thing?

Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."

One Man's Meat

2009-08-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."

Quick Fix

2009-08-24T23:19:00.000-07:00

I somehow thought I would have more time, but I don't. If you, like me, need a quick solution to the ever hungry masses, try re-introducing dessert to the menu, both a filler and a bribe for the very average meal. My difficulty, or one of them, is how to add this whilst we have two diabetics in residence. There are lots of diabetic and other healthy alternatives but if I make two versions of the same thing I can guarantee that no-one will take the diabetic option. [I know, I've already tried that] As I'm still keen to encourage my "little chef" with something mouth watering, we've compromised. Bite sized desserts. These little parcels taste a bit like pain au chocolat, but don't take my word for it, give it a go yourself.

You will need:-
1 packet of puff pastry thawed to room temperature
Some Nutella
Parchment paper on a cookie tray

Unfold the pastry and cut into nine even squares
Put a dollop [teaspoonfulish] in the centre of each one
dampen the edge of the square - brush with water
pull up the corners to form parcels and squeeze tight
bake in a pre-heated over at 425 degrees for about 12 minutes

Leave to cool for at least 5 minutes on the parchment paper [if you transfer them they will glue themselves to whatever you put them on / in

It you place them closer together you could probably cook them in a toaster oven outside in the garden to avoid heating up your house.

Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."

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Garfield

2009-08-23T23:26:00.000-07:00

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

I think it would be fair to say that he's developing his own 'Garfield' based character.

When I reminded him that school started tomorrow [today] he said, in Garfield mode in a tone of dripping ice:-
"Sigh........oh what joy! I'm so FUR Get FULL."

I guess he's mastered sarcasm.

And on we go - typical sibs

2009-08-22T23:41:00.000-07:00

My daughter bounces out of Middle School orientation to greet us, beaming. She walks a few steps ahead with her little brother whilst I guide the spinner. I am extremely grateful for the extra wide path as he circles and lurches between bushes filled with bugs and cement pavers full of cracks. He has another year to familiarize himself with the new territory, vicariously, before he joins his sister at the very same school. He is silent and busy and not making much progress as the other two dawdle, waiting for me to get a grip. “Hey look at that!” she points.
“What is it being?”
“Litter!”
“Dere is being litter out of dah Middle School. Dey are not nature lovers?”
“Gross. Dya know that’s called a cigarette butt?”
“Butt!”
“Yeah!”
“You mean……Middle School is dah litter and dah Nature hater and dah rude!”
“It’s not really rude when it’s a cigarette butt……is it Mom?”
“Hmm I suppose not. I’m not sure really, we’d need to ask an American.”
Surely better than dog end or fag end?
“But we is being dah Americans Mom!”
“He’s right ya know.”
“Hmm indeed.” I hold one by the shoulders as I watch the other one ping, just as if he’s been touched by a cattle prod as he sparks into action, “I know!” he bellows in robot mode, “Ban dah butt! Ban dah butt! Ban dah butt!” We watch him, arms up, full bounce as he chants his new cheer. His sister looks at him, from him, to me, from me to him, rolls her eyes as a drift of Middle Schoolers pass by and giggle. It’s a knowing look, wise beyond her years, half resignation half beam.

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."

Boing, boing, boing

2009-08-21T23:17:00.000-07:00

Get the code:-
Cut and paste
from this little
boxy thing below

One heck of a fun day!

I just wish I'd had the video to hear those squeals......all the way up.....and all the way down.....again and again and again. Now that's my kind of proprioceptive input.

In addition today, if you have a spare moment or are looking for other autism sites you may with to nip along to "Nurse Practitioner" where you can investigate a "list" of diverse sites about "autism."

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."

Tongue twister

2009-08-20T23:53:00.000-07:00

I make breakfast for the masses and listen to my son chat to his sister. He’s at the age where baby teeth fall like confetti. The tooth fairy has been banned from our house as no-one enjoys night time un-invited prowlers.

Currently we enjoy a two-fold extravaganza during all conversations, a backdrop of singing Axel F, the theme song from Beverly Hills Cops, as well as the added bonus of a new form of oral punctuation. Everywhere there is a period, a full stop, my son adds ‘bing, bing, bing.’ As with most new bursts of development, it can be a little disconcerting at first. The theme tune is sung in tune whilst the other person talks, to sort of fill up the empty air space. I don’t really understand how his voice can sing and yet he can also hear what is being said to him at the same time. I suspect it’s just another of those self calming techniques to aid concentration.

“Does my teef look cute, bing, bing, bing?” he asks with his very best wheeling voice.
“A bloody tooth is not cute. Why would I wanna look at that thing?”
“I’m gonna call him Max, bing, bing, bing.”
“You’re gonna name your lost tooth?”
“Yeah and I am give my self a new name too, bing, bing, bing.”
“Alright….tell me already?”
“I am being called Bucky…….Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, bing, bing, bing.”
“Sure is some kinda awesome title.”
“S’not a title. It’s…….a way of being, bing, bing, bing.”
“Maybe….but that’s not something yur gonna be able to repeat in a hurry.”
“Er… Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, bing, bing, bing!”
“Geez! What was I thinkin!”
“You wer nt fink in, bing, bing, bing,” he adds in robot mode, ‘nev er un der est I mate dah cat part, bing, bing, bing.”
“!”

I swear I shall never again complain about the Pokemon and Mario Brothers tunes.

Exclusive – you can only find them in one place, I’ve checked

2009-08-19T23:32:00.000-07:00

The back drop to my life is a constant stream of little ditties, scripts on the whole. It’s like wallpaper, always there but not particularly noticeable once you’ve grown accustomed to the pattern. Because they’re collected from such varied sources, the ‘voice’ changes. It’s a bit like flicking through radio or television channels, variety. Here we have TIVO for many different reasons, mainly parental censorship and a need to avoid all advertisements. But now we have "Nonna" in residence so we also have adverts.

I try my best to hold a coherent conversation with "Nonna," very early in the morning:-

“Wot you do den?” she asks, bleary eyed in the kitchen.
“Just getting a jump on breakfast,” I bellow since it is unlikely that she wears her hearing aid at 5:10 in the morning.
“Bananas…….an excellent source of Potassium.” echoes from the family room.
“It is dark. Is it night time or already is it dah morning? Where iz dah clock?”
“Over there, above your head, it’s just gone five in the morning.”
“Price line! Knee Go Tee AyTor.”
“Why you ave dah television on?”
“I don’t……..well…….the radio is on. That’s probably what you can hear.”
“Make a U-turn if possible.”
“I tink I watch dah BBC. You can turn it on for me…..please?”
“Are you sure, it’s still very early. Would you like to wait a bit, maybe later?”
“Dya wanna have music in your soul?”
“Wot time you say it iz?”
“Early, very early in the morning. You don’t usually get up this early.”
“You are making breakfast or dinner?”
“Breakfast.”
“Love! Show me the love.”
“I tink I am confused a bit because it is dark still.”
“Hmm, maybe go back to bed for a while. Do you want to take a coffee with you, some tea?”
“Thanks so much! You’ve been a great audience tonight.”
“No. Thank you. I tink I shall just read. Ave you seen my book?”
“Elusive acid spitting Mongolian death worm.”
I pause in my book search and turn my attention back to my son.
“I beg your pardon? What did you just say?”
“Which bit is it that I am just say?”
“The last bit.”
“Elusive acid spitting Mongolian death worm?”
“Yes. That bit. What is that……exactly?”
“It is exactly…….in my imagination.”
“!”

First Birthday

2009-08-18T23:15:00.000-07:00

Puppies one year birthday.

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."

An equalization programme

2009-08-17T23:06:00.000-07:00

I have no time to tackle anything right now, or rather to post about it.

Suffice to say that I am busy reorganizing my kitchen cupboards to take account of a couple of changes.

One change is that we have my "Mother in Law" living with us, a person of diminished stature.

The other change is that the boys’ stature appears to have grown exponentially the last few weeks. Not only have they grown in height but they have more than mastered self help by clambouring up onto the counters to retrieve something out of reach. I wish to avoid another new exchange. All exchanges are conducted at 50 decibels because Nonna frequently forgets her hearing aid. The new exchange is where Nonna yells at my son to get down and he yells back that he is actually helping.

“Get down from dere you little monkey!”
“I be help you big monkey!”

p.s. Please note, as my son pointed out, "Nonna" does not really look like a curly frog. What can I say, I was in a hurry!

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway," and spare a moment for "Nonna."

Confused.....you will be

2009-08-16T23:20:00.000-07:00

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

He's coming along very nicely indeed!

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway," and spare a moment for "Nonna."

Pet Play date

2009-08-15T23:04:00.000-07:00

This is a sketch of the area in the garden that we cordoned off for the dogs.

A photograph would have been quicker but then you'd also see the mess, so this is the cleaned up version.

This week we have Bella, Thatcher's sister visiting us.

She's littler but the same age, and clipped. In the first sketch above, I see a neat square that will give her time to acclimatize, but I don't see with a dog's eyes.

This is what a dog sees:-

What a twit I am. Come and visit "Nonna" to view more ways in which I demonstrate "twitishness." That really should be a word.

Dress Code

2009-08-14T23:33:00.000-07:00

Get the code:-
Cut and paste
from this little
boxy thing below

The old yardstick

The new metre

Well it is summer and hot, so this will do very nicely thank you.

[by his own fair hand to boot!]

Back to the Future – the weight of the world

2009-08-13T23:49:00.000-07:00

We chat on the way to the supermarket in the car. It is a proper chat because it is not about Pokemon. Who ever thought that we would ever enjoy a casual chat! The casual chat has been instigated by me, because I wish to distract from the imminent torture of the supermarket. It’s a thoroughly delightful new tactic. The chat is also prompted by the Brain Quest Third Grade (3rd Edition). As they are about to enter 4th and 5th grades in the Fall it is obvious that they are both well below grade level academically. When they were little, the answers were easy but the words were difficult. Now the answers are elusive but the words flow much more freely. All too often I find that as one thing advances another recedes, it’s a trade off. I believe it’s quite common. You can see it in "John Elder Robison’s" book called “Look me in the Eye.” When John was little he had extraordinary talents but as an adult those skills were unavailable to him. The chat comes to an abrupt halt.
“Lets not talk about it any more.”
“Why dear?”
“Coz I don wanna talk about dah future.”
“How come?”
“Coz I worry about dah future.”
“What is there to worry about?”
“My babies.”
“What babies?”
“My children.”
“But you don’t have any children yet.”
“I know and I’m worried I’m not gonna have any.”
“Why won’t you have any?”
“Coz of dah married bit.”
“The married bit?”
“No-one’s gonna wanna marry me.”
“Oh no, you’re quite wrong there. I’m absolutely sure that there’s someone out there for you, just the right one.”
“But I can’t do it.”
“Er…..do what dear?”
“Dah slow dancing.”
“Slow dancing! I don’t think that’s very important. Not everyone likes to dance. Anyway, you’re so good at fast dancing and robot dancing. Lots of people like that too.”
“Dya think?”
“Indeed I do!”
“No…..dya think dat…….one day when I am all grown up dat I will be being……a…da, .a… da, …..a…da…...”
“Be what dear? A dad?”
“Adorable?”

Get with the programme

2009-08-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

After losing "11,000 words" into the ether I am more than severely miffed. So I’ll just share a quicky whilst I play catch up.

I’m not sure if it’s an American thing or a Californian thing but I think the whole world recognizes it. You have to imagine a teenage girl, an American of course. She is probably dressed in whatever is the current fashion for teenage girls and wears a whole heap of attitude. It’s an attitude full of confidence and entitlement. It’s encapsulated in a Bratz doll but I believe it’s universal. These young women have a few stock phrases which they exchange with other young women of their ilk. They all understand each other although these few phrases may seem like an overly brief shorthand to an older generation. Can you see it? Can you hear it? Are we on the same page?

So, I come bounding down the stairs and bowl into the kitchen where I see my son standing on the counter in bare feet, legs astride with both hands clutching a cereal bowl. I am just about to launch into my well worn and slightly tedious script when he cuts me off. I hear it, a little voice with a big attitude, “hello! Need a lil help here!”

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway."

Back up

2009-08-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had a bit of a flip out when I found I'd lost 11,000 words from my file.

But no longer.......new external hard drive!

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway."

Take a walk on the wild side

2009-08-10T23:06:00.000-07:00

I don’t know about you but at this time of year I like to kick back a try a little escapism in my summer reading. So I’d like to challenge you to step into someone else’s shoes, just for a couple of hundred and sixty three pages. Generally speaking my first choice would be a whodunit, preferably one I can solve myself well before the end but not too soon after the first few chapters. That’s my kind of escapism from what I am apt to call ‘my miserable existence.’ Although I call it that, it’s because I love a good moan and I am so exceptionally good at it too. I could take up grumbling professionally, a second career and then rub my mucky hands on the glass ceiling when I bump my head on it. That said, every once in a while you come across a life changing story, like Vicki Forman’s ‘A Lovely Life, a memoir of premature motherhood.’ If you should happen to come across such a story it can be sobering to realize that it’s not a story, it’s true. If you read a true account of someone else’s life, even if you are an expert moaner, it may just be that you might gain a different perspective on your plight. I did. Will you?

If you would like the chance to win a free copy of Vicki’s book, signed by the author herself, all you have to do is read the “review” over “here” and leave a comment there, or here as the linky thing is bust. I’ll send them all along to her together with the winner’s name to be announced on Tuesday 1st September. You could invite your chum to join in too, you know the one, the misery guts who never has a good word to say about anything.

Wouldn’t that be subtle?

This might be a good one to stumble or tweet to help spread the word, should anyone feel so inclined?

Monday again

2009-08-09T23:56:00.000-07:00

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

A bit of a book recommendation for any budding artists that you might happen to have skulling around your home:-

Here's where we are now.

It has a whole section on facial expressions which I highly recommend for obvious reasons.

If you have any advice or experience of "elder care," "Nonna" and "I" would be most grateful for your input.

Kelly Harland, A will of his Own

2009-08-08T23:30:00.000-07:00

‘Reflections on parenting a child with autism.’

Firstly I must declare my bias. In recent years I have come to love the genre of the short story. "Kelly’s" delightful book is a series of vinettes. Perfect bite sized pieces of autism. Easily digestible in small doses for those of us who are short on time. My copy is the "revised" edition. I imagine that many of them could be read independently and out of sequence as each one stands in it’s own right. I’m guessing of course but I can see how these pieces could easily be read aloud. In ‘A will of his own’ the author’s melodic tones capture snapshots of her son from his early days and onwards as he grows and develops into a young man. It’s no accident that Kelly is a "musician" as her voice as a writer comes over as a warm and affectionate melody. To be frank I find it difficult to be dispassionate and impartial about the subject of autism because of my own personal experiences. However, I believe Kelly’s writing style clearly exposes a picture of her son that is accessible to everyone. I have a keen eye for jargon and technical language as it can be off-putting to those not in the know, but her words and use of language merely flowed to tell a story in context. It is a slim volume full of delicate, poignant insights but with the strength of powerfully honed reality.

It is available from "Jessica Kingsley Publishers" and "Amazon" just to name just a couple.

A Regular Guy by Laura Shumaker, a book review

2009-08-08T23:15:00.000-07:00

Spoiler:

This is not a book where everyone lives happily ever after.

If you write and publish a book about your personal life you automatically expose yourself to criticism. If you write an accurate and honest account of your personal life, warts and all, you expose yourself to even greater criticism. So I shall be the first to launch the attack.

But let’s back up a bit. Let’s be frank here. There are so many books on the subject of autism, a deluge, that it’s sometimes hard to spot the good ones. These days I positively avoid reading anything about autism as I am heartily sick to death of all the tales of woe and misery. I also dislike warped distortions of autism where everything is fun and games. I’m looking for balance and realism.

But I digress. Back to Laura and her book “A Regular Guy,” growing up with autism, a family’s story of love and acceptance.

It’s a promising start.

The book starts at the beginning and the story gradually develops chronologically but before too long, it becomes all too obvious:-

Laura is a big ol’ cry baby!

There!

It seems that every few pages she bursts into tears. She doesn’t know the meaning of ‘emotionally repressed,’ or if she does, she certainly doesn’t put it into practice. But that’s because Laura is a good sharer and a truth teller, a fairly heady combination. Bear in mind that every few pages represents a skip in time which considerably reduces her ‘year per weeping ratio,’ especially if you compare it to her ‘laughter per day ratio.’ She has cartloads of that too. More importantly, her ready wit, private asides and singular voice must surely touch even the most callous of readers, such as myself.

I suspect I know the reason why Laura is apt to blub so often. I’d posit an idea that doesn’t receive much air time. It goes like this:- you become a parent of a child and have great expectations. Sometime after that you become a parent with different expectations. Sometimes that transition merely warrants a one liner for some parents.

Good luck to them.

Others share their journey of a life time, in many chapters. As often as not, this is captured in the term ‘emotional rollercoaster.’ Thus far all is well and good, within our range of comprehension. The bit that’s left out, is the everything else. Everything else isn’t just family, friends and community, it is just that, the everything else. The autism experience does not exist in a vacuum, the roller coaster is in full swing, but the world keeps turning. There are jobs and careers, commitments, finance, paperwork, all the daily detritus of life either piling up or dealt with. Either way the pressure is on and doesn’t let up. The cliché of the human existence is that at the end of the day we dwell upon the things we did not do, or the things we could have done better or that we did badly, before it all begins again the next day. These days go on forever because we cannot escape life to focus on autism exclusively. Autism has to fit in with everything else and often it doesn’t.

It is the ability to live in these two worlds at the same time, to help them fit together better that takes determination, strength and stamina. This is what parental responsibility is all about, we have to be grown ups. As grown ups we juggle all these different things, we manage, and some people excel. In the midst of the permanent juggling act, something additional falls into the mix, something tiny, something huge, something unexpected and you have a choice, burst into tears or laugh your head off. The ability to do either or sometimes both, is the path to survival and Laura demonstrates this with perfection. It’s hard to encapsulate life with autism, but this may be as close a picture as possible.

Spoiler :-
This is a book were everyone continues to live their lives to the fullest.

Available from "Amazon" with more details "here." Here's a less biased "review."

This Lovely Life by Vicki Forman

2009-08-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

A memoir of premature motherhood

I have done my very best since day one to consistently complain and grumble about autism. Indeed I would go so far as to suggest that I have reached a certain degree of expertise on the subject, on moaning that is, rather than autism.

I remember quite clearly the moment that my world fell apart. It happened on quite an ordinarily autistic day in the park, when all of a sudden my son fell out of the play structure onto his head. As he vomited in the Emergency Room and they wheeled him away for an MRI the nurse told me to ‘brace myself.’ Instead of having an autistic child I was threatened with a replacement, a seriously physically and mentally ill child. Without question it was the most sobering moment of my life.

When the nurse returned, much, much later, she told me she had never seen anything like it, outstanding, remarkable. In all her twenty years as a nurse. He was back from the brink. I had aged a hundred years in those blank, bleak moments. I should never wish to experience anything remotely like it again, ever. After that shocking episode we went on to enjoy robust health and live happily ever after. I cannot conceive of enduring that amount of mental energy for years as Vicki Forman and her family did, when their twins Ellie and Evan were born prematurely. Not only did she experience this pain but she also wrote about it in her book “This Lovely Life.”

I found this a harrowing account of tumultuous chaos but thoroughly absorbing as a reader. It is a tribute to her outstanding and formidable writing style that her book, however ironically, is a true page turner. As a reader, we are safe in the knowledge that the experience of pain is vicarious, not real for us, surreal for her and yet we are drawn further and further in to catch a glimpse of suffering that no-one should ever have to live through. It would be tempting to describe this book as an unrelenting tale of misery but that would be both untrue and a distortion. Every time you think that things cannot get any worse, they do but that is very far from the whole picture. Somehow, by some mercurial quality, Vickie relates their triumphs with pin pricks of startling light that keep us ever hopeful.

My one criticism is a personal one. The book is sprinkled with extracts from the journal she kept during this period of her life. I do not understand why journal entries should be any more poignant than any other writings that create a book but to read those entries was somehow even more excruciating. Maybe it is because reading someone’s memoir appears to grant the reader the permission, provides justification however spurious, to be a fly on the wall, but to read lines from a diary confirms that the reader is an interloper, peeking at someone else’s privacy, a true voyeur.

That said, I should like everyone to read this book, everyone like me and everyone who is different from me, but how to make that happen?

I decided to canvas opinion, male opinion. I asked my husband, a non reader if ever there was one, what drew him to read his annual book? The last book he read was ‘Kon-Tiki: Across the Pacific in a Raft’ by Thor Heyerdahl. Six men on a small raft sail four thousand miles across the Pacific Ocean, from Peru to the Polynesian Islands. I’m inclined to ask ‘why?’ Why set sail in a raft, a small one at that? Why write a book about it? Why would anyone want to read about it? So I ask him my ‘why’s?’
“Because it was a real life and true challenge, because the story was enthralling, absorbing, thought provoking.”
“What if they hadn’t been successful? What if they’d failed? What if the raft had sunk or someone was lost at sea? If tragedy had befallen them, would you still have read and enjoyed the book?”
“Yes?”
“And I know why, because it’s the journey my friend, the journey and that journey will haunt me for a very long time.”

You may wish to read some more about this "book" which you may do so here at "Fully Caffeinated" where "Carrie" asks "Vicki" a few interesting, previously unasked "questions. There is also another independent interview on "Hopeful Parents" by "Christina Shaver."

p.s. There is also a brief interview of Vicki on "ABC."

Figure it out?

2009-08-07T23:51:00.000-07:00

Get the code:-
Cut and paste
from this little
boxy thing below

Now this made me very happy after I'd stubbed my bare feet on heaps of abandoned bricks. But I couldn't work out just why they were underneath the table in front of his seat.

Then I shifted gears:- Brake, clutch, accelerator.

"Nonna" and I are gaining "ground."