Tactile defensiveness every day

It’s a battle. He will eat the banana but I can rarely persuade him to peel back the skin himself. Even if we leap that hurdle, then I need to cut the banana into slices so that he can eat it with a fork. This is not a boy who will permit his fingers to be contaminated by direct digital contact. He needs a tool to protect his fingers from the texture of the banana.

It has been just like this for a very long time. Failure to co-operate on my part means that either he won't eat bananas at all, one of his thirteen precious foods, or he'll attempt to eat it whole with catastrophic results.

I dither and debate, but ultimately decide to go on strike and withdraw my services at least temporarily, until I’ve finished the washing up. Either he can wait a few minutes or do it himself. I know that patience is not one of his strengths but I doubt if he is sufficiently hungry to be motivated to tackle the task solo.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He yelps, just like a puppy when you step on their tail. His sister takes pity on him and snaps off the stalk for the first strip of peel. She looks me. My eyes widen, “come on! You can do it now. I’ve started it fur yah!” He tries, with the precision of a surgeon, thumb nail tip to index finger nail. There is no possibility that the skin on his finger tips will touch it. Each movement is accompanied by another yip. Some minutes later, two thirds of the skin has been removed. The banana is revealed,lying on it’s last layer of skin.


























“Knife!” he bellows, but we slaves ignore his cries. Thwarted once again, he decides to be ingenious and brave at the same time.

The third Karate chop has barely made a dent in the fairly ripe banana but I am none the less impressed. I suspect that the sides of our hands, are not that sensitive, but it’s still a major step for him.

“Fork!” he commands. I shake my head sadly in reply, “sorry my hands are still wet.” This is sufficient explanation and excuse, as he is aware of the full horror of a fork or any other utensil, when it has been contaminated with a drop or two of water.

“Barnacles! Barnacles! Barnacles!” he swears, shamelessly. Many a child would leave the table and collect a fork. Many other children do not. I could prompt him to do this and he probably would, but without a verbal or visual cue he falls back on his own resources, but that’s what inertia looks like around here.

“I know!” he squeaks. He leans forward tentatively, wide mouthed so that there is no possibility that his lips will touch the banana. His teeth grip the lump and in it goes.

A full 45 minutes later he has Karate chopped and nipped his way through the whole banana. Appetite satisfied, because we all get there in the end, one way or another, resourceful little devils.

Not a misdemeanour offence

I stand at the kitchen sink washing up.


A small person inserts himself between my body and the sink, face to face, or rather his face to my tummy.

His head tilts back to reveal a huge cheesy grin. I smile back and wait. I wait a bit longer, wondering what it will be this time and whether I shall ever finish the washing up?

“Are ya done?” he asks in a voice that is several octaves too low for a six year old.
“Nearly, just a few bits and bobs to go now.” He flits away, apparently satisfied. I stack the last of plates and dither as to whether I should fold laundry or wash the dining room following breakfast?

“Are ya done yet?”
“Yes! Do you need help with something?”
“Nope.” He stands still watching me.
“Are you sure, you’ve been asking me again and again, when I’ll be finished?”
“I need ya to be done.”
“I am done, er finished.”
“No! I mean……I need you to be goned.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Away,” he says breathily, a B actor in a horror movie.
“O.k. I’ll go away.” I walk slowly out of the kitchen in the sure and certain knowledge that he is up to no good.

I hide next door and listen intently. I imagine the many forms of mischief that he has planned. I hope none of them involve mess or danger? Maybe he wants to steal some food. Now that would be great. Perhaps some new food, or is that beyond the realms of imagination? I tip toe back towards the kitchen in case I can catch him in the act.

I catch him in the act. A shiver passes through his body as he slips into freeze frame, the cariciature of a thief, hand poised, thumb and finger pinched together to hold the egg slicer. The tableau crumbles, “don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!”
“Why?”
“Coz it might be blood,” he says in an ominous tone, a baritone for a boy.
“What might be blood?”
“Dah egg slice! It is a cutting fing. It is danger!”
“Oh I see!” I think? “Do you need help?”
“Um, no I am being dah danger, er…I am being dah brave.”
I consider bestowing bravery awards but decide that empowerment might be a better alternative. I dither. Maybe this is too much?
“Would you like to help me?” I suggest tentatively.
“What?”
“Help me?”
“What help are you?” How very disconcerting.
“I was thinking you could slice an egg for my sandwich with the egg slicer?”

He gasps, open mouthed and probably aghast, before blasting me with “dat is dah greatest idea!” I whip a hard boiled egg out of the fridge before he has a chance to change his mind, pop it in the cradle and guide his hands into the correct position.

“Off you go then, push it down.”
“Ooo, it is dah bouncy.” Why do they love eggs, even though no-one eats them?
“Push a little harder.” After all these years of occupational therapy, he still doesn't have the strength of force to resist an egg.
“Ooo dah egg is dah strong!” What is the magical property of an egg?
“You’re doing great, just a little bit harder.”
“Ooo he such a lovely cutesy wootsy eggy poos. I am loving being dah good helper.”

He uses his most persuasive tone as he woos the egg into submission. As the wires break through and reveal their slices, his tone changes to a nasal protest, “but you sure are dah stinkiest too!”















So much progress is such a short passage of "time."

It is because of these kinds of experiences that I worry about the effects of early "childhood" as you can see from my tiny "book review."

ABA

[From a couple of years back]
My incoherent speech delayed youngest son howls at me. His words, if they are words, are so distorted that I can’t make out their meaning? He’s at full volume, [translation = level 10, where level 1 would constitute a whisper] due to inferior milk temperatures. I make a mental note to summarily dismiss the cook. ABA save me! [translation = not the American Bar Association, Bankers, Basketball, Booksellers nor Birding.]

I hear the dulcet Irish tones of ABA guru [translation = Applied Behavioral Analysis chappie ] float over me; “and what is the functionality of the particular behavior exhibited?” Haven’t the foggiest notion [translation = clue] right now, unless it’s to drive me completely batty, in which case, he is exceeding expectations. “We need to figure out the function of the behavior. Is it for attention or a tangible outcome, is he avoiding or escaping something, has this become a ritual (self stim behavior)?” This kind of language to the parent of the newly diagnosed!

Probably, all of the above at this stage, but who knows? Certainly not me, especially when the noise level is high enough to make the few brain cells I have left fuse together. What is the cure for autism? All I can think of is ear plugs or protectors, but I think his need is as great as mine. When he was born in the hospital, the nurse said he was the loudest she’d ever heard. I thought she was joking. They should never have let me leave the maternity ward without ear muffs at the very least. Expelled and ejected from the hospital in a wheel chair, swaddled baby, ear muffs and 96 degree heat.



“I am having a bad day!” he manages to bellow. Horray! Coherent speech. You and me both, matey. [translation = guy] It is at moments like this i.e. frequently, that I want a time machine to whiz me back a couple of decades so that I can change careers to something more useful. There again, I’ve already been fired from my post as cook.
I reach over for his 5 point scale, [see Ref 1] and rub his back with my other hand until I can persuade him to glance at me. He obliges me with a quick flit of the pupils to see it in my hand. I point to the five, the red square which indicates to him that I know that he’s in the middle of an explosion. This is to help him recognize that what he is currently experiencing, is a five, that this is what it feels like to be exploding. [translation = bio feedback something or other – see Ref 1 Psychobabble]

I use no words, and neither does he. This is more effective. Speech can be a dreadful impediment to effective communication. After a few more minutes, the noise dissipates as I rub his back. I point to the four, orange, as he gradually comes down the scale. As he sits up from the floor the noise actually stops. He points to the three, yellow. I encourage him to take deep tummy breaths which he co-operates with. [translation = stomach breathing for alternative types] I flip my finger between two and three, as I’m not sure where he is? He helps me by pointing to the 2, blue. I tell him that we’re going to clean him up now, and fetch a tepid wet flannel, [translation = wash cloth] to wipe his face. We avoid the tricky areas of nose blowing, as well as eye dabbing, to ensure that we don’t inadvertently provoke an additional meltdown. I have learned that anything that might loosely be described as a ‘cavity’ on this child, is a ‘no go’ area. But that’s because Brits are ‘medically challenged.’

We spend an additional seven minutes tinkering with the milk temperature, if not calmly, at least without the screams. Eventually, I get it right. He sucks his hot [translation = 1 minute and 7 seconds in the microwave] chocolate milk through a straw. His delicate little mouth shuns the texture of the lip of a cup. It also has the fringe benefit of free therapy, by practicing his lip closure. His fingers avoid contact with the cup and the straw. Hands free beverage consumption. Now there’s a skill I didn’t know existed? One tentative and brave digit, reaches out to brush the 1, green. Hallelujah!



Ref 1 I am unsure if it’s acceptable to mention the ‘Incredible Five Point Scale’ or whether that constitutes ‘flagrant advertising’ resulting in carnage to the blogging system? [translation = please advise?]
Ref 2 Psychobabble – phrases and terminology used effortlessly and accurately by all American persons from birth onwards, but the rest of the world finds
A] incomprehensible
B] laughable
C] tunes out
D] any / all / none of the above

I apologise for any stray 'u's that I may have missed. Ignore the zeds.