Clash of the Titans

Sometimes, especially when they were younger, people would mistake my boys for twins. One with long legs, one with a shorter body meant that when they were sitting they seemed the same size. Like most twins or siblings, any similarities between them are of little significance. It is their differences in personality, character and disposition that singles each one of them out. If you then cover that child with a layer of autism, a patchwork quilt, [translation = homemade and of a unique variety] the result is too complex for the average nitwit, [translation = parent] to fathom.

Unfortunately for them, I am the designated nitwit of the household.

All human beings have little triggers, things that set us off, irritations and foibles. Sometimes we can identify the cause, something from the past that makes us react in a certain manner. Other times and other things we just accept, it’s part of our own singular make up. We find methods of coping with these triggers such as avoidance. If you find sirens annoying, then you don’t rent an apartment above the Fire Station. [translation = house] Although maybe, that is the very location to help you acclimatize and de-sensitize yourself.

My boys have lots of triggers. Each one has his own set, that differs from the other. They also collect more triggers as they get older. Old triggers seem to fade but are always lurking in the wings ready to pounce. Junior has a ‘thing’ about "death," dying and all other related aspects of ‘terminal,’ a word that he can read, write and spell accurately. [translation = an offshoot of hyperlexia]

His brother also has a ‘thing’ about "death" but different triggers. For reasons too humbling to go into, his current understanding, is that death occurs after the age of 90. Although his auditory processing is good, when it comes to numbers he is often confused, mistaking 19 for 90. Any word that sounds like either of those words can also be a trigger. Initially you might not think that there are too many words that sound remotely like either. If you break down those words into their phonetic sounds and jumble them up a bit, you may be surprised at how often their variants turn up in ordinary everyday conversations. [nye tea high teen nigh T]

Both have supersonic hearing, which means that they can tune out the sound of the motors that power the freezers in the supermarket and tune into the conversation between strangers on the other side of the store. [translation = or vice versa, or from one to the other, all without warning] Because they both have poor social skills, as well as a higher social concience than most, this means that he will hone in on the distance conversation that contains ’19 or 90,’ seek that person out and ask “you are going to die?” If the child that asks you that question has an expression of genuine concern, this may cause unknown and undue distress to the unwitting victim.

Where does this leave us? Well it can mean that sometimes something very small can cause a fireworks display. We need to appreciate that what might be an irritating trigger when we are adults, may have a much more explosive effect on someone smaller. [translation = with more nerve endings and less self control]

My son dashes out into the garden to rescue a cat. Both he and the cat are naked because my son was just about to start dressing. [translation = had completed undressing] He’s not quick enough to nab the cat who skitters back indoors. The sudden U-turn by the cat, sends my ungainly son off balance and into a heap. He hobbles back indoors distressed by his poor cat catching skills. He is unperturbed by the flap of skin on the top of his toe and the river of blood that follows him. I park him on the nearest available chair to commiserate with him about the foolishness of the feline population. I hope to distract him from the river of blood but he seems oblivious. We discuss herding cats, a subject near to my heart, whilst my hands investigate damage. His sister appears downstairs, sleepy eyed and tousled. “The school bus for the field trip is leaving at 9:10 sharp!” she advises and yawns. The ‘9:10’ of her message, penetrates my son’s psyche and sparks a negative reaction because he thinks she has said ‘ninety,’ “ninety? I am dying?” he screams, still obvious to his wound. The growing pile of blood stained rags and towels make her gasp. “Oh no! Are you o.k? Can I see? No!” It is her reaction that make both boys react. The real victim notices that he is leaking, “I am blood?” he enquires curiously, but bedeviled by thoughts of death. He looks in the general direction of his leg but fails to notice that he has a foot on the end of it.

At the same time I hear a "piercing 50 decibel" echo somewhere far, far away, [translation = the upstairs bathroom] followed by rapid fire footsteps. Junior appears within seconds to witness the scene, “he is blood, he is ugly, he is dead, hospital, emergency room, only 4 toes, 911…..” he talks at 90 mph, a never ending stream of words. His vast vocabulary is strung together. They all spell out the same general message of doom. When he reaches the end of his current word bank he squalks, a sound half way between a rooster and a drowning man.


Spouse appears, drowsy after three and a half hours sleep. My daughter is scared of the blood herself but recognizes that her little brother is spiraling. She soothes him with reassurance but he is impervious. When he starts to rip his hair and beat his body with his arms, spouse steps in and whisks him away from the scene.

At first glance this picture may seem a little grim, but that is only one perspective. A different view is a far more optimistic one. A few years ago we would have endured meltdowns and guessed at their cause; blood and fear, but clearly this is a much more complex matter. We are better able to understand the complexity because they are better able to express themselves verbally. As we get a better handle on the causes, we are better equipped to help them find other strategies to cope, help them practice them and help them learn.


The minutes tick by to bring us closer to 7 in the morning, an arbitrary time designated as appropriate to start the day. Another, very ordinary day.

It is at such moments that I am so grateful, that the two and a half years of the ‘plaster campaign,’ [translation = Band-aid] will finally pay dividends.

Scheduling the autistic child

When your child is diagnosed with autism, there may be a tendency to panic. [translation = probably only me] It is quite possible that panic will prompt a parent into frenzied activity. [translation = research ‘fix it’ yesterday, but faster] After this phase when the fog lifts a little, it may be that the parent sets some goals, tiny ones. It is a good idea to identify some trivial matter that makes life exceptionally difficult and work on that little bit only. [translation = baby steps] In our family circumstances, I decided that henceforward, we would collect the mail from the mailbox every day.

Let me explain. The mail comes daily and is placed in the mail box on the fence in the garden. I found that I was unable to leave the house and the mail would accumulate day after day, much to the annoyance of the mail carrier. The problem, was that if I left the house with my children inside, they would panic during the minute and a half that I was absent, even though I was clearly visible through the huge windows. [translation = out of immediate "visual" contact equated to abandonment or worse] When I returned to the house, I would have two small children in a state of serious distress who would take some time to calm down.

Neither child would venture outside of the house to accompany me, because ‘outside’ was hated. I could overcome this difficulty by carrying them both outside with me, as the tight grip was calming to them. [translation = deep proprioceptive input] However, if I had a child on each hip, I had no spare hand with which to retrieve the mail. Often I overcame this, by collecting the mail at night when they were in bed. Often, I was so tired, that I would forget to collect the mail at night.

So that is why I chose this one [of hundreds] issue to tackle. We worked on this daily. [translation = even on Sunday when there is no delivery] Day after day, week after week, month after month] It never become ‘preferred,’ it always remained a chore. [translation = surrogate therapy] but gradually the screaming became less so, small feet were exposed to ‘outside’ and the mail didn’t get soggy or fried, depending upon the season.

I learned so many things from this tiny ritual – aversion to the texture of paper, his ability to read upside down, that opening and closing the box was a feat of sequencing, gross motor skills and ideation, that we could take turns, that sharing was not an impossible goal, ………..I could go on, but you get the general picture.

These days, because they are all at school, I can collect the mail myself, at leisure, read it all and take appropriate action for each piece in peace. Today, one of my sons is off colour, ‘PH,’ which means a sick day at home. [translation = potentially hazardous] Nothing dire, just one of those fleeting temperatures first thing in the morning,[translation = fever] that disappears on the cue of the school bell. [translation = but likely to rise at some random and inconvenient time of the day]

Since staying home is everyone’s preferred option, I must take care not to reinforce the fun of being at home. There are a couple of other factors as well. Not only is being at home preferred, but being at home ‘with mum’ is even more preferable. [translation = I am truly the most popular person within a 25 yard radius of my own house] If that isn’t enough joy to dispel on it’s own, then we must also factor in the ecstasy of ‘being at home,’ ‘with mum,’ AND no competition. [translation = no siblings or father] Now you have an autistic child in heaven. How could one possibly hope to make this experience a negative one, short of sticking pins in the poor child?

It is a sobering responsibility to know that you are the most popular person on the planet due to an accident of birth. [translation = your status is undeserved] I could sit on the sofa with this one all day just cuddling, [translation = cuddling and proprioceptive input] and he would be happy and content. A day spent in this manner would guarantee that he would never again visit school. [translation = or anywhere else for that matter] Such behaviour would reinforce all his ‘prejudices.’ [translation = lock the door and throw away the key, grow roots and remain inside forever]

As the garage door closes, I watch his body contort with barely suppressed glee. I can see every one of his pearly whites. [translation = teeth] His eyes are cartoon moon slits. He shivers and trembles with delight. I visualize pin cushions, small ones. What to do? We do the full body hug, a jitterbug affair. My brain groans with the effort of summoning up little positive pricks. He bounds away from me to pounce on a cat. Cat and boy gambol on the carpet whilst I make a list of activities to take us through the day, not too taxing but just enough to take the edge off bliss. I look around at the interior of my house, buried in piles of jobs. [translation = chores that have no hope of completion today]

How to get the balance between rest and activity, when his asthma is active? I know that we must avoid the spelling test part of his homework. [translation = physical exertion and aerobic, see note below]

“What you do?”
“I’m making a list of all the jobs I have to do today?” He continues to roll back and forth on the carpet. All of a sudden he is by my side, my companion, my bosom buddy, my number one fan.
"You are write dah list?"
"Yes."
"Of dah jobs?"
"Yes."
"What you have one?"
"Nothing yet, I'm still thinking."
"I have dah idea for the one!"
"Oh really! And what might that be pray?"
“We can get be getting dah mail, like we did in dah olden days.....together...jus you and me..... er….....pleasssssssse?”

Note – spelling tests in our home are a busy business. [translation = preferred] Each spelling word is written on a card. The cards are scattered on the carpet around the trampoline. Whichever child is having the ‘test’ bounces on the trampoline. I call out one of the words after about 20 bounces. The child scans the carpet whilst bouncing and then leaps off to pounce on the right card, reads it aloud and then hands it to me. Yes, I am aware that this doesn’t teach them to spell. Yes, I know that it is cheating. Indeed they will not be able to bounce through their spelling tests at school. What exactly is the purpose of this exercise? [translation = it’s "FUN"]

If I die before I wake………

I stand bleary eyed by the kitchen counter sipping black tepid coffee. [translation = my punishment for being distracted] I contemplate life, the universe and everything, as I watch small people at 5:15 in the morning. Wills, living wills, trusts, trustees and guardians, power of attorney – enough to make your head spin and your brain turn to mush.

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!” he repeats as he runs backwards. This phrase is on his ‘now playing’ list. [translation = an endless loop] I hope that this current phase, will be short lived, but you never can tell with these things, the walking backwards that is to say, not the "motor mouth." Oddly enough he rarely bumps into anything. To date we are on our fifth week of’ backwards’ and of course he improves daily. [translation = becomes ever more agile and speedy] It seems grossly unfair to criticize him for such an innocent pastime, since my main objection, danger, has been unsubstantiated by reality.

So saying, he did take a tumble this morning, but that was due to foul play. [translation = in the feline sense of foul] I intend to give those cats a severe talking to! Fancy having the nerve to nip through someone’s legs when the walker is in motion! [translation = not everyone has yet learned to walk ‘a la John Wayne,’ as I have done.]

I put down my cold coffee for later and interject in the hope of turning my naked backwards walker into a dressed backwards walker. He makes his objections known, in no uncertain terms. His criticisms are not those of his peers, such as colour, design or fashion. He curses his clothing like none other -
“These pants are insane! Why aren’t they Latin?” [translation = they are uncomfortable because they are not sufficiently old and worn to softness]

If I die before I wake……… please find someone else to translate.

Peer Pressure

Once upon a time a very long time ago I sat by a swimming pool with my mum. I was a teenager. [translation = late developer] I pulled blades of grass out of the ground whilst my body dried in the sun. My mother asked me whether I thought it was appropriate for women of her age to wear bikinis? I had no idea what she was asking me. Was it a question of immodesty? At that time the issues of weight, dress code with reference to age, feminist matters and sex where not on my radar.

When my daughter was about to enter third grader, her male teacher at the time commented upon the fact that the majority of her friends were boys and that sadly, this would change during the following year. As an experienced teacher, I was keen to quiz him as to the whys and wherefores? I should point out that both my girls are considered to be Tom Boys on this continent. [translation = standard fare in Europe] Both girls gravitate to boys because of their active natures and inability or unwillingness, to navigate the social waters often associated with juvenile, yet sophisticated, girls' cliques. [translation = clicks]

The teacher explained that girls and boys divided into tribes at the age of seven and above, that by third grade, cement walls would grow around these two groups. I hoped that he was mistaken.

I listen to my son and his chum chat. Both boys are 7. There has been a mysterious electric charge between them since they were three. Chum is a real live wire. An hour of swimming and an hour and a half of football a day, is not enough to discharge his battery. Yet for some reason he is loyal to my son, the one who trundles along at 5 mph. The gap between them widens with age, but the connection remains strong.

I pay close attention to their exchange because chatty Chum has spent a considerable amount of time telling me of how he is bullied at school. [translation = a different school] He has given me chapter and verse on the subject. I am now in possession of an extensive list of young people at his school who fall into this category. I know they names, ages, classrooms, preferred method of torture and inside leg measurements.

Dear sweet natured Chum, who is ‘small for his age,’ is not enjoying the ‘best years of his life.’ Chum has approximately 1000 more words available to him per lungful of oxygen, than my son has. Little Chum chats to my ‘above average in height.’

“But she can’t be your friend, she’s a girl!” Choose your colours. Choose your stripes.
“What?”
“You’re a boy, a guy. We’re guys!” The winning team.
“What?”
“You know. Guys stick together.” Loyal to the end.
“Yes.”
“You’re my man! So you can’t like girls. Guys don’t like girls. Get it?” Them and us.
“What?”
“Look. We hate girls. Boys hate girls! Girls are stupid. Right?” Divide and conquer.
“Stupid?”
“Well, not stupid…..you can’t be friends with girls! You don’t like her really. She’s mean.” Tarzans and Amazons.
“Mean?”
“Yes. She’s mean. She’s a girl.” Pink, flowers, dolls.
‘Mean?”
“Yes. Tell me you don’t like her cos she’s mean. She’s a mean girl. She’s mean to you.” Puppy dogs tails.
“She not mean to me.”
”Well, maybe she’s isn’t mean, but she’s still a girl.” He coaxes camaraderie. I can see his swash and buckle.
“You no have sister.” An 'all boys' family.
“Oh well. It’s o.k. to love……er like your mom and your aunts and stuff but they’re not really girls, they’re like er….relatives and that’s different.” Girls cousins too.
“Different.”
“Yes. Moms are o.k. but everyone else is a girl and boys don’t like girls, that’s the rule!” Declare yourself!

The trigger word ‘rule,’ is the spark to activate his compass.
“But I like her and she is a girl and that’s fine wiv me. I like you. You are my friend but dat is a stoopid rule.”

This is why we try not to typecast and avoid

"little boxes"

like the plague. [translation = maybe I should go easy on the 'we do not say stoopid' campaign?]

Let them eat brioche!

I am faced with a moral dilemma of gargantuan proportions. [translation = as well as a minor etiquette issue] Tis the season of school wind down when invitations proliferate. Kindly folk at the school wish to offer thanks to their volunteers and show their appreciation for inadequate services rendered.



I find this a particularly delightful element of the American psyche. British people generally believe that they have a complete monopoly in the polite department, in both quality and quantity. Yet I do not ever remember experiencing such an outpouring of well wishes for minor services. [translation = although things may have changed in that last couple of decades]



One of my favourite authors, "Mr.Bill Bryson" has also remarked, much more eloquently upon these perceived differences.




I now find that in addition to the above, I, as well as all the other mother’s, have been invited to attend a ‘Mother’s Day Celebration’ in Junior’s class. I am led to believe that the sub-plot to this deal, is cake eating. I have two difficulties here. Firstly, following jaw surgery and an extravagant amount of elastic bands, I am unable to eat solid food. Secondly, even if I were able to eat solid food, ‘cake’ would not be high on my ‘preferred’ list of gastronomic delights. [translation = it would come directly after chocolate covered cockroaches] Whilst I am more than happy to bake cakes, decorate cakes and give cakes away, I cannot even recall when I last had occasion to force myself to consume the dratted stuff.











Cake by it’s very nature suffers from several fatal flaws. Now don't get all distracted here, as I know that the ghost of 'fruit cake' has descended upon my erstwhile little American pals. Perish the thought! [translation = for reasons that are still not entirely clear to me, just the words 'fruit cake' are a cause for gurgles of hilarity on this continent.] Ban the vision of fruit cake and replace with American cake e.g. 'white cake,' or pound cake, especially as the latter is available on both continents and is the same. For those who are not bakers, pound cake is not dollar cake here, as the 'pound' refers to weight, not the rate of exchange.



The first flaw, is that cake is sweet. This puts it in one of the highest categories of ‘loathsome.’ Additionally, cake is often smothered in a wide variety of sweet slime. [translation = frosting or icing, or sometimes both if you a truly unlucky] Slime of course takes the prime place on the ‘loathsome’ scale. [translation = slime and sweet combined, would trump the latter, so truly aversive as to be vomit inducing]



So what is a mother supposed to do in such situations? Refuse the invitation and avoid the whole issue? Attend, but refuse to eat the cake?


Tempted as I am by either or both solutions, I have to swallow my misgivings and attend anyway.


I sit on a chair the size of a Toadstool. To complicate matters still further, all my children are aware that I dislike cake. This particular son, favours chocolate cake with ganache, but never ventures from this preference.

We examine his cake offering. [translation = a muffin the size of Manhattan]
“It is dah big!”
“Indeed it is.”
“It is dah vanilla which is being dah white.” [translation = unnecessary, he is clearly bilingual]
“Too true.”
“Dah frostin is dah pink.”
“Quite so, the very worst colour in the entire universe.”
We continue to gaze at the confectionery piece. [translation = joint attention, a rare and truly under valued quality]
“I am finking.”
“You are? Thank you so much for telling me that! Can you tell me what you are thinking?”
“Dat maybe you are not liking to be eating dis.”
“You are such a thoughtful little chap. Thank you.”
Who would have guessed at the depth of his magnanimous nature? [translation = "Sally- Anne" can keep her dratted marbles]
“What we be doing about dis problem den?”
Self generated problem solving techniques! Be still my beating heart.
“Not a clue. A real toughy! Do you think we should throw ourselves on the floor and scream a bit?”
"No! Dat will not be dah helping. I fink we be needin dah compromise."
It's official, 'compromize' is now my favourite word, enough to allow a 'z' to take preference! What has happened to my child? Who has zapped him? What did they zap him with? [translation = undoubtedly self initiated]
“Maybe……maybe I am eating it for you?”
“Really! You’d do that for me?”
“It will be being dah new food for me I am finking.”
“I cannot believe your bravery, and all for me! Thank you.”



I watch him attempt tentative 'eating.' I resist the urge to nibble part of him and content myself with one hand entwined around his middle. He snuggled back onto my lap, his fingers tremble with the paper muffin case. [translation = tactile defensiveness people often hate the texture of paper, especially on highly sensitive little digits] I pull it off for him as he made his attempt and I don't want to tempt fate. The muffin rests on my palm, a plate.


The tip of his tongue edges out to brush the frosting. He remains like that for some moments before he slowly retracts his tongue. As he does so a little electric current courses through his body and mine, but for different reasons. I break off a piece of the crumb, tiny and hold it for him. We repeat the exercise.


He turns sideways to tuck himself under my chin and wipe his mucky mouth and face on my pristine white T-shirt.


That's it! I'm finished. [translation = done] Now I can die happy. [translation = all will be well]

Greater love hath no neophobic child, than to eat cake for his mum for Mother’s Day. [Or any other day come to think of it]

Hirsute pursuit

I spray her entire head with detangling matter and set about the task of turning a bird’s nest into a respectable head of hair.

This activity is far too close to the category of undoing knots, which is spouse’s department. Life is too short to undo knots. I refuse to undo "knots" I just snip them out. I am allergic to knots. Tangles are a subdivision of knots. I have long since delegated this category of tasks to spouse due to his superior skills, both fine motor and patience.

She has decided to let her hair grown long. I have not decided whether to permit this course of action, or not? I am still dithering on my proverbial fence, weighing up the pros and cons. My daughter is under the impression that she has a choice.

I wish to avoid the situation that I found myself in a decade ago with senior daughter. Yards of thick hair, a veritable rope to challenge Rapunzel. Too much for a teenager to manage. I didn’t have the time to teach her how to manage her ever burgeoning follicles, nor the patience. I recall evenings spent with organic free range brown shelled eggs, whisked into a poultice. A natural hair conditioner. Nothing out of a bottle for that one. Holistic and organic, before it was fashionable.

The result was scrambled eggs in a metre of hair, because the rinsing water was just a tad too warm. The hysteria, the tears, the cleaning the bath. The status of being the only person granted permission to snip fragments off the ends, a mere shaving, so as not to lose the ‘length.’ Never again.

“Tell you what, at the weekend I’ll teach you how to wash it, so that you don’t have any tangles. [translation = snarls]
“O.k. Daddy did it all wrong!” she moans. [translation = multitasking parents delegate different jobs]
“No, not really, it’s just that Daddy’s hair is very short, so he doesn’t know much about tangles.”
“Only ripping them out!” she snarls.

I brush gently with the occasional tweak and immediate apology. It’s time consuming, especially at this fraught time of the morning. I leave spouse to cope with the boys and guide her to another room, out of earshot from their screaming. [translation = put on your socks campaign] We sit quietly, brush, tweak and chat. Minutes pass. Quiet minutes, apart from the tweaking and squeaking. I’ll be short of time this weekend. Short of time then, short of time now. It helps me to remember that a decade ago, maybe I chose not to teach her big sister how to cope with her own hair, hard to say now, it was so long ago. [translation = one continent and several lifetimes]

It's so important to teach all of them 'life skills,' I really shouldn't show favouritism. Maybe I will be very busy this weekend. Maybe I won’t teach this one either. Surely that would still be fair, to someone?

Forgiveness and acceptance

We interupt our scheduled programming for a brief interlude of sentiment. Apologies in advance for squishiness, but in the spirit of "foreigners," all of us need translators sometimes, and a "open hand."

When we visited Italy just after the boys had been diagnosed as autistic, I remember being intensely annoyed by people saying that I was ‘bellisima,’ which roughly translates to ‘beautiful.’

You should know, that physically I resemble an elderly stick insect, bi-focaled, with more than a touch of the grays. I assumed that they were being both polite, kindly and patronizing, but I was at a loss to know which I found more annoying or why? My dear Italian mother in law, detected my irritation and gave me a different version. It has taken me a long time to translate her meaning………..


We meet a woman in the park. [translation – the most loathsome place on the planet] My boys amble around in a wayward spirit. The woman, probably an office worker, is minding her own business with a sandwich during the ridiculous lunch time hour of 11.30 in the morning!

My oldest son, he who is blind to all "people," finds, for some unaccountable reason, that she has entered his radar. She has been singled out. He skips over her, and cavorts before her, one leg entwined around the other, his whole body twisted into a twine, a huge, but shy grin, is spread across his face as he extracts words. “You are my friend?” says the nearly 8 year old. She smiles sweetly at him in response.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your indulgence. She wears a wedding ring, [translation = perhaps she is married with children?]


“I can touch you?” he asks demurely. Her face opens slightly, as I hover behind him. “Sure.”
His hands flutter to her face, fingers brush her features, the actions of the blind, as his eyes are downcast to her shoes. “Your nose is so…..beautiful,” he whispers in a breathy tone. As noses go, this is an above average nose, in size. I wince. She blanches. He squeals with delight, and I recall the Saturday night movie of Pinnochio, which is no solace.

“Can you use your words to describe her inside?” I prompt, after endless debates about people’s exterior visage and interior territory. He snaps his face towards me, annoyed, “I know dat!” I take a step back and another step forward.

“I can touch you?” She nods acquiescence. He rests his skull against her sternum, his hands flutter around her upper arms, as he dances a static jig. His whole body vibrates. We are in a capsule. Inviolate.

“She is soft. You are so warm. You are dah beautiful,” he finishes. He stands erect. Flicks off the charge.

She blinks. So do I. He scampers off to leave the two of us looking at each other.

“You are so lucky!” she wheezes, as she gathers her half eaten sandwich and scurries away.

“So are you, dear lady,” I whisper to her disappearing shadow. Belissima. So you are.

Regardless of the language, spoken or non-verbal, kindness does not need any translation.

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]

Art for arts sake

“What are you doing?” he says in a tone that appears to be genuine interest.
“I’m planting the old teapot.”
“You are planting?”
“Yes.”
“The old teapot?”
“Yes.”
“Why you are doing that for?”
“Because I can’t use the teapot for tea because the lid is broken, so I thought I’d use it as a flower pot instead.”
“The lid is broken? What is ‘lid’?” Often ordinary words lose their meaning or cannot be retrieved.
“A lid is a top.”
“Oh.”
“Why it broke, I mean, why it broked, I mean why it is broken?”
“Old.”
“Old and mould?”
“Yes. Don’t you think it looks nice?” He gives his standard response;
“I don know.” I dither whether to pursue him and risk a meltdown? I risk it.
“This isn’t an ‘I don’t know’ kind of a question. This is a 'yes,' 'no' or 'a little bit,' kind of a question.”
He flinches. He teeters on the brink of a meltdown and then sighs. His body rearranges itself. He seems to take the matter seriously and gives it his due and careful attention, muttering under his breath, ‘now then, let me see.’ [translation = self talk] He examines the teapot with the ivy cuttings in it minutely, from every angle, both spout and handle. His body is contorted on the step in case he misses a bit. ‘Hmm, I think may if I turn it, oh no, oh no, oh no,’ he murmurs.

Many people would describe this son as 'clumsy.' [translation = a klutz] It's not so much that he has invisible butter on his fingers, more that his whole being is an oil slick. As he grows, he has become more aware of the fact that his body cannot be trusted, that it lets him down and deceives him. He mutters, sotto voce, [translation = whispers] so I can hear some of his thought processes and awareness. When he is in this whispering mode, his language can be quite fluid. His 'real' voice comes back “you can maybe be turn it for me,.... please? I don wanna be break it” he grins. I oblige by 180 degrees. He peers at the yellow china, his nose skims the surface. He stands up straight on the step ready to give me his considered opinion; hands on hips, tummy stuck out, shoulders back, looks me straight in the eye with a jaunty expression to announce, “You know, maybe, I think it looks like a teapot with green bits stickin outta it.”

Can’t fault him for accuracy.

A convention of potential buyers with light refreshments

[From pre-blog days when I 'tidied' their language]

I find that I am roped in [translation = persuaded against my better judgment] to throw a bit of a do [translation = host a party] for my mate. [translation = Brit friend.] Mrs. C is branching out and launched herself into the perilous waters of selling jewelry. In a feeble attempt at support I attempt hosting. My version is that of a mere amateur. Others, such as my "pal" [translation = American friend] manage matters in a such a professional manner, that I am brought to my knees in awe. [translation = very impressed] When the woman describes herself as "Queen," who am I to suggest otherwise? [translation = the "mayhem" tempers the monarchy]

My "non verbal" speech delayed five year old reads from the computer screen at 5:45 in the morning. I am approximately awake and decide to check whether anyone has responded. It is my experience thus far, that RSVP roughly translates to 'rarely send verification positive.' [translation = silence regardless of whether you're coming or not]
“What it is a ‘e-vite’?” A good question, but this is my first try at the non paper version.
“It’s an invitation to a party that comes on the computer instead of the postman.” [translation = mail carrier]
“A party!” he says with incredulous glee, ‘whoop de do, I am so happy. The party it is for me?”
“No it’s just for girls.”
“Girls?” he is instantly deflated but doesn’t understand why he sister isn’t invited either.
“But she is a girl too, why she is not go?”
“It’s for grown up girls, er I mean it’s for women.”
“It is for wommins? Not girls?”
“That’s right.”
“You are a wommins? You are going to the party?”
“Yes," last time I checked, "the party is going to be here, at our house.”
“Ooh, we have balloons?”
“No, no balloons, it’s not that kind of a party.”
“Oh. We have cake?”
“No, I expect everyone will be on a diet at this time of year. Anyway, I’m making the party food.”
“What food you are making?” I am safe here, as the majority of food, party fare or otherwise is loathsome to my little "neophobic" one.
“Anchovy sandwiches,” I beam with confidence. I can hardly wait to see my guests delighted little American faces.
"Anchovy? What is it?"
"Its.....oh right, um it's a little salty fish."
I should have found a better alternative description. 'Salty,' 'little' and 'fish' will add up to 'Goldfish' for him, his all time favourite food.
"Ooo lovely. I am liking little salty fish very much."
"These aren't Goldfish, they're....." [what can I say to deter him?] "wet."
“Wet? I am thinking that I am not liking that new food. I am thinking that maybe I am hating those things. I am thinking those things are boring for me maybe? They are ‘boring’ they are ‘hating’ which they is?”
“In your case, probably both.”
“It is a birthday?”
“No, not a birthday, just a party to buy jewelry, or look at some at least.”
“You buy jewelry. I buy jewelry too?”
“That’s an idea, but I don’t think you have any money do you?”
“I am needing the monies for the buying?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Oh darned it! Why I have no monies?”
“Because you don’t go out to work. You don’t have a job to earn money.”
“I am liking jewelry too. You are buying jewelry for us? You have your monies for us?”
“Probably not, but nice job to think of your brother and sister too. No, it’s not really suitable for boys.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s for big people, not little people.”
“Only big people can be wearing jewelry?”
“Sort of. Some of those necklaces are very long, you might trip over them and fall down.”
“I can have a short one?”
“They’re all long I’m afraid, no little kid jewelry.” He hangs his head in thought and disappointment. He glances back to the screen.
“The party is after breakfast?”
“After breakfast?”
“It is saying 7:30?”
“Oh right! No that’s 7:30 p.m., not a.m.. P.m. is evening, a.m. is morning. This party is in the evening.
“a.m., p.m., what is these letters? What are they meaning?”
“Oh! Hmm. Let me see, I’m not sure. I think it’s ante meridiem and post meridiem. Ante is before and post is after. Meridiem means noon. Is that right?”
“I don know. I am asking you the question. It is my question. It is you answer. You are doing the answering.”
“Yes, sorry, I was a little confused for a moment there.”
“You are confusing? I am confusing too? Both of us, we are the confusing.”
“Oh dear, yes, it’s just that I failed Latin amongst other things.”
“Latin. What it is Latin?”
“Oh gosh. Well Latin is a different language, like Italian or Spanish. It’s just that it’s an old language that we don’t use any more.”
“It is old and mold? Why you are saying Latin then? Old peoples are saying Latins? Old wommins are saying Latins?”
I try and recover ground before we disappear down a cul-de-sac.
“You know, it’s not really a party at all, not the sort of party you go to, it’s more of a meeting, or a convention.”
“’Meeting?’ What it is ‘meeting’?”
“It’s where people get together. They meet each other in one place.”
“So ‘meeting’ is different from ‘party’?”
“Yes.”
“Where am I?”
“You? Oh. You lot will be in Nonna’s room watching a film. A movie.”
“We have movie night? It not Saturday? Why it is movie night again?”
“Because that way you children can have fun, whilst we grown-ups have fun at the same time.”
“We have pop corn? We not have anchovy?”
“Yes.”
“I can wear jewelry for movie night?”
“Umm. Yes, I’ll lend you some jewelry to wear. You can borrow some, it will be free.”
“No monies, it is free?”
“Yes.”
“So we have movie convention with pop corn and jewelry, you have meeting and monies and anchovies?”
“That’s right.”
“I like popcorn jewelry movie convention best.” Now there's a guy that knows a neat deal when he sees one! [translation = chap]

Fear but not loathing, in San Jose

Many people are fearful of autism. As a parent of two autistic boys it’s not ‘autism’ that I fear, it is the ‘unexpected’ that comes with autism that gives me cause for concern. Although I understand my boys better than I once did, I still find that supervision and vigilance have to be my greatest priorities in certain situations. Luckily, I know what most of those situations are. Our home is no longer ‘baby proofed’ but it is safe for my children. Outside our house offers varying degrees of danger even though to most other people this might be hard to appreciate. So very often, it is not the obvious dangers such as roadworks surrounding a gaping hole in the sidewalk, flagged with orange cones, netting, ribbons and flags for the unwary, but much more mundane matters.

We begin to leave the restaurant.

It is commonplace in America to find a complimentary basket of sweets [translation = candy] usually mints or lollipops and tooth picks at the checkout. This is curious for a number of reasons. Firstly, you have just eaten so why would you need more food? If you are unlucky enough to have need of a toothpick, surely they should be housed in the bathroom [translation = restaurant] as surely no-one is going to walk or drive home picking their teeth? That aside, this combination, attractive preferred food place adjacent to a means of torture [translation = pointy, sharp toothpicks] is more or less guaranteed to provoke a meltdown of catastrophic proportions in my youngest son. The main issue here is the dichotomy between the desire to reach out a hand to take the lollipop and at the same time have the primal fear of being speared by a toothpick!

Fortunately we have had a couple of years to adjust to this pitfall. [translation = only one of the many dangers associated with eating ‘out.’] Our current ‘coping’ mechanism is for either his brother or sister to select and then pass him the lollipop. This again, is not without it’s hic-cups and drawbacks, but for now, it will do.


We exit through the first and then the second glass door without incident, or only a couple of minor incidents due to incorrectly calibrated compasses in one child, and poorly co-ordinated motor planning in the other. Outside the second door, I have a collection of children who bear a strong resemblance to drunks being kicked out of a bar at 3 in the morning. No-one appears to be able to find their balance as they are distracted by the lollipops which are encased in a plastic wrapper. This kind of substance is always a challenge for people with poor fine motor skills. [translation = dodgy fingers] The situation is made worse by the fact that the seleophane is transparent. [translation = they can see the prize but can’t access it] The enhanced level of frustration accelerates. One bites off the wrapper and spits it out on the ground. For the other one, with oral defensiveness, [translation = sensitive mouth area] this is not an option. Junior can now see his two siblings enjoying their lollipops, the same lollipop that remains caged and off limits to him, which further fuels his rage. It is my experience that it is not possible to do an Irish dance, [translation = think River Dance] whilst screaming in a motor mouth fashion and expect your limited hand power to function. Recognising that you are in ‘overload,’ is also probably beyond your capabilities by this point.

The sidewalk [translation = path] is as wide as a country lane, but the four lanes of traffic are far too close for my liking. Imagine how your hands would react if I emptied a nest of baby spiders onto your bare skin? Your instinctive reaction exactly matches how my son behaves. Are you still holding the lollipop now that you’ve brushed off the spiders? No? You dropped it? Where is it? There it is, but off course it’s brittle and it has broken. Now he veers off into a vortex, a combination of a fire cracker and a jumping jack. The noise is enough to shatter glass. He could shoot off in any direction. 360 degrees of potential danger. I have no other option than to scoop him up flailing. Six and a half years, and 54lbs of supercharged nerve endings. You can be as vigilant as you can, supervise every second, but unless you intervene at the right time, in the right way, then there is a heavy price to pay.

When I say unexpected dangers, they aren’t really. I do know most of their triggers. We’re so lucky that they older they become, the less frequently this occurs. Not several times an hour but merely a few times a day. When you also consider that now, these meltdowns are so infrequent, it becomes less and less likely that they will both have one at the same time. It is easy to see how they both blossom and grow. But that’s just one of the many reasons that I love to live here, those wasteful, environmentally damning, beautifully wide, safe, sidewalks, that is to say.