Autistic children seldom lie

It's one of those "Theory of Mind" hic-cups. Some prefer to call is guileless or innocence. They don't dissemble or sugar coat the truth. What you see is what you get, quite refreshing in some respects. It's one of those developmental milestones that some children never reach.

I grit my teeth and book the Respite worker for the three hour minimum. Every thing has been planned with careful precision. The parent teacher conference is only half an hour. Superior being that I am, I cannot be in two places at one time. The babysitter will come 45 minutes early, 30 minutes to become familiar [ish] and 15 minutes to allow me to drive to school. 30 minutes conference, 15 minutes home. One and a half hours work for three hours pay. This is the kind of job I want.

I brief her. My only requirement is that homework is completed whilst I’m away. I resolve that I shall prompt them through the other complex chores myself on return, or if really desperate, do them myself.

I spend a blissfully peaceful time in the conference room, quietly discussing the why’s and wherefores of my daughter’s education. It is a civilized meeting between grown up people with no distractions or interruptions, which roughly translates to a day at a Health Spa, or so I would imagine.

I emerge from the classroom refreshed and energized. I begin to think evil thoughts. Maybe I could use the additional hour and a half in a productive manner, child free? I remember that there are only a few short weeks until the Holidays and as yet we are without Holiday gifts of any kind. This is the price you pay for bad genes. I know it’s hereditary because my own mother was born in December. The DNA is undeniable, February is a bad month for us McEwen’s. Hence, 40 weeks later, another December birth day. Once might be accidental, but twice has to be the gene pool. It is only now after all three December birthday celebrations that I can turn my attention to the Holidays.

I dither. Is Holiday shopping a pleasure or merely additional persecution? Am I the only person on the planet who is allergic to shopping?

I calculate using my super brain. Twenty minutes to drive to Target and park or abandon car. Allow twenty minutes for the return journey. Maybe 30 minutes to allow for the commuting traffic and red lights. Thirty minutes to bimble around the shop with ten minutes to queue, pay and pack. Perfect!

I telephone the baby sitter to check that I am not inconveniencing her? All is well. I am granted permission to shop. I jump in the car ready to complete my quest. As I drive I contemplate how calm the baby sitter sounded, how peaceful and quiet my household was without me. I determine that I just might have found a gem, a super human being capable of child management without the aid of earplugs? I bite my lip. Is this woman the answer to my prayers? I hum, because I am alone, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth or one good Respite worker.”

I trundle around the shop with my trusty trolly. For some unaccountable reason there appears to be crowd of people with similar plans to me. I wade through the treacle of bodies who block my view of all my potential purchases. Today’s shoppers have left their GPS devices at home, which means that they mill about willy nilly and far too slowly. I am certain that they hide all the really good things that I ought to be buying.

I head for home with only a few gifts under my belt but at least I have made a start.

I hide my meager purchases in the boot of the car for later retrieval and trundle into the house with empty hands. The baby sitter greets me amiably in the kitchen. It is very quiet. It is very quiet because all three of my children are plugged into their electronic devices at an exceedingly early hour of the afternoon. There is no evidence that their chores, to assemble their packed lunches and choose their clothes for tomorrow, have been completed.

I decide to complete the paper work with the Respite worker first and then attend to my children’s needs, as I don’t wish to delay her departure. At the dining room table I clear a space between the homework binders to complete forms and sign on the dotted line. I flip open a binder to see several untouched worksheets. “Oh dear! Haven’t they done their homework!” I squeak as I check the other folders. “No. No homework,” she beams.
“How come they haven’t done their homework?” I clarify, just in case I have inadvertently switched to Swahili.
“I ask him.”
“What did you ask him?”
“I ask him if he has homework?”
“You asked him, a seven year old?”
“Yes.”
“Really. And what did he say?” Go on! Surprise me why dontcha!
“He said no.”

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You make me smile awards

Well the weekend is here and "Casdok" over at "Mother of Shrek," as kind enough to send me this lovely little award for lying to my children on my blog. Because of that, I intend to find other bloggers who lie to their children and then give them this award too to assuage my own guilt.




Change of plan - it appears that I can't find anyone else who is guilty of my crime, so instead I'll be handing this out to people who made me smile this weekend.

Firstly to this little "gem" I love it! Everyone must go and look at the best award in the world ever. O.k. maybe not must but it's still lovely and worth a peek, even though I am a little biased, but with a title like "inthebowl," it has to be a keeper.

Then to "Diary of a goldfish" as awesome cooking and creative cakes should always be celebrated, and of course there's that fishy thing going on too. Dalek's indeed - my giddy aunt!

Lastly, because who can resist the "title bar!" and the "photos" make me realise that some people really are living life.

Cheers dearies

Is it all a big lie?

One of the many failings of autistic people, from society’s perspective, is their apparent lack of interest in people. They appear to lack many of the attributes of sociable behaviour. [translation = check out DSM IV] Part of the matter lies in some people’s human nature, mine, for instance. For instance, when my children were evaluated for autism, I was not particularly surprised that they didn’t know their own last names, address or telephone number. [translation = they only knew this information if they were prompted to sing it, and I don’t think the ‘experts’ knew the right tune.] What did surprise me, was that they did not know MY first name, MY favourite colour, or MY favourite food. [translation = how outrageous!]

At the time, which seems several centuries ago, I assumed that they just couldn’t find the right words, [translation = speech delay] or it was one of those touchy subjects that invoked a meltdown. [translation = triggers] The implication was, that I was off their radar, as were my personal preferences. [translation = of no interest] To have someone, an expert, explain that you do not exist in your child or children’s world, is sobering.

So many clues had been available to me, such as when they had to draw their mother at school, but wouldn’t. [translation = major meltdowns] I chose to see this as ‘couldn’t,’ because I knew that holding a pencil and touching paper was abhorrent. [translation = tactile defensiveness and poor fine motor skills]

I am aware now, of the many excuses I made for my self, but at the same time, the clues had to be balanced against the other evidence, such as their ability to name every dinosaur that ever set foot on the planet. [translation = and pronounce it correctly] Their enthusiasm for their admittedly narrow interests, was all encompassing, and misleading to a dim witted parent. [translation = none required] How could I be off their radar when their constantly required me to carry them? [translation = both at the same time until the last two years] They couldn’t be undemonstrative when the hugs were so often and demanded with such desperation?



The whole subject of autism was a locked box to me. [translation = steep learning curve]

I am prompted out of my reminiscing daze by my youngest autistic, speech delayed son.
“Do wimmins have wallets?” from the child who loves the letter ‘w’.
“Some women do.”
“Do you have a wallet?” A personal question, directed at me, a social question.
“I do!”

Now he opens the box for me. I hereby declare that it is safe for me to drop off the planet and join the dinosaurs.

And on the subject of "lying."

Drones – message received and understood

A chum of mine, [translation = British] refers to her daily life with her autistic child as ‘Groundhog days.’ This refers to the film where the actor repeats the same day of his life, again and again without apparent end. Parents of young children often repeat the same life lessons until they are acquired, but for autistic children the process may take longer.

Last summer one of my boys had a chance encounter with a bee. The bee and my son were outside the house, in the garden at the time. [ translation = a rare event, now sadly, all the more rare as a consequence] The bee did not attack him. As my son floated in the pool so did the bee. The bee was in it’s last death throes when they happened to come in contact and it stung him. My usually silent son, made known his condition. Fortunately he removed himself from the pool prior to his quite reasonable meltdown. [translation = otherwise he and the bee might have come to the same untimely end]

He survived, the bee did not.

Thereafter, again quite reasonably, all insect life became untrustworthy. [translation = a source of fear] Although he has endured many hours of vision therapy, his ability to accurately determine what something ‘is’ varies. [translation = if in doubt, stay well away] Our daily meltdown count was still quite high a year ago. This additional trigger, began to make life unbearable. [translation = Summer produces a higher incidence of fast and slow moving creepy crawlies and flying insects]

Something had to be done.

Sometimes, logic doesn’t work. Fortunately for me, one of my sons is keen on rules. [translation = reflects the need to place order and form on chaos] In such situations, the best thing to do is lie. I highly recommend it, especially if you have already used up ALL the usual arguments in your favour.

........... ...... .... .. .

“BEE!!! BEE!!!BEE!!!”
“Yes, it is. Tiny bee, big you. Who is most scared?”
“ME! Bee! Bee! Bee!”
“Do you know that there is a rule about bees?”
“Rule?” Aha! The magic word. Now what is the rule? Think of a rule! A helpful rule. The right rule. A rule that will work and not backfire and make the situation worse!
“Yes. The rule is……..you know how a bee dies after it’s stung you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s one rule. But the other rule is….. that……every person in the world is only allowed to be stung once per lifetime.”
“That is rule?”
“Indeed it is. Everyone knows that rule. I have been stung, Daddy has been stung and now you have been stung, so you will never be stung again. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair. Would it?”
"Stung is dah same as sting?"
"Correct! Good thinking!"
He looks at his sister and brother, “they are sting, er stung...er...stunged?”
“No.”
“It their turn sting?”
Oh dear! I dither, hoping that other small people are out of earshot.

Overall, he is dubious, but placated. Bee phobia diminishes considerably. [translation = over time and with the changing seasons]

We move forward a year to a day when a wholesome looking young lad and his crew come to deliver my replacement sofa. Spring has sprung and the Spearmint bush in the front garden is a glorious mound of white spiked blooms. If you look more closely or open your ears, it is easy to note that there may be as many as a hundred bees labouring away. Mr. Wholesome is engaged with the removal of several miles of plastic wrap from the furniture.

My son observes him from the front door, half in and half out. [translation = keen to make a new friend, fearful of an old enemy] Mr. Wholesome’s attention is drawn to the buzzing noise. His eyes are of additional assistance and track across to pin point the location of the sound. At the moment that his brain registers the bees, his body ignites as he stumbles back to pin himself to the white picket fence. [translation = the effect of a burning bush] My son reacts also and flees, for a second. [translation = a perfect reflex to perceived danger] This is the same child who walked into walls that he didn’t notice, would not reconise me if I took my glasses off or wore anything other than blue jeans and a white t-shirt, and has a high pain threshold.

His better nature catches up with him. He gallops over to Mr. Six Foot Two, cowering but not impaled near the fence. “It’s o.k., it’s o.k., it’s o.k., don’t be worrying, they are not be harming you!” As he says these words he approaches Mr. Wholesome on soft feet. [translation = the same way come close to an injured animal] “It’s alright now, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” says Master Four Foot One. Mr. Wholesome’s gaze flicks between the bush and the boy as he wraps his arms around himself. His biceps pump and flinch, whilst his knees quake. “You can be dah brave one now. Look at you. Tiny bee, big you!” [translation = with appropriate hand gestures to assist a potential visual learner]