Modern Love

Being a parent in the modern world is far more difficult than in the days when children were seen and not heard, where nannies took on the majority of responsibility and parents were left free from such troubles. "Many" feel that children take advantage of their home life and are "unappreciative" of the many years that their poor benighted parents have lavished upon them.

A long time ago, in England, when we barely had two chick peas to rub together, I also felt overwhelmed. Later when we came to the States and still hardly had more than a couple of garbanzo beans to rub together, parenting became even more difficult. It became more difficult because we did not have the financial resources to fulfil our daughter's every whim and the temptations were tenfold.

The gap between them and us, widened. Dissatisfaction grew all around. Thus it was, that when she announced her need for independence and escape, we were happy to scrape together the air fare to China, where my brother lived. He willing took on the responsibility of being the watchful, rather than the 'evil' eye.

A few months in China, was an eye opener. Education was a privilege. Plumbing was desirable. Hygiene followed different standards. Everyone worked and worked hard.

The months of her absence were long, for me at least, but when she returned to us, she had returned to the idealistic individual she had been prior to the hormones. Whilst I'd like to confirm that we sent her off to "darkest Africa," that was in fact, her own volitional choice.

Now I have a chance to instill choices in the current generation of children that I am responsible for. Consideration, co-operation and teamwork are not values that are easy to install in any child, least of all those with dodgy wiring systems.

I remember a school trip to the local Humane Society. The idea was to foster a sense of community in the children. There were a wide variety of donations that the children could provide, from home made chew toys and snacks, to old blankets and cast off socks. My reluctance to co-operate with the plan was entirely personal. I would happily donate the goods, make the toys, give of my time and effort, even money, but there was there was no way I was going to subject the boys to such an ordeal. I might just have managed one of them, but two and my daughter as well meant we would have all be eaten alive.


The car transition would be monumental. The noise, smell and crowd would be overwhelming. My list of 'completely impossible' was encompassed and magnified by such a trip. It would not be possible to design a social story to dim the pain. No amount of modeling would get us even close to appropriate behaviour. I think it was about at that same time that I fully realized the enormity of what autism can mean to some individuals. They loved dogs, adored cats, but this pleasant day's outing was the equivalent of throwing them into the lions den with real lions. I remember a great feeling of sadness that they were unable to do what they would love to do.

But that's part of the great joke, a trick that some parents fall for hook, line and sinker. A bottom feeder parent like me, with a little luck, can learn to lure and bait, tease and tempt, coax and corral. In essence, over the past 26 years I have learned that the original parenting skills, still work today. The times and decades change. The techniques have different labels and are more politically correct.

What is the best and most effective method of parenting? It's the oldest one, adopted by cavemen and cavewomen and used on their cavechildren - 'go catch a lion and we'll all have dinner.' The best method, tried, trusted and true is 'bribery and corruption.' There is no doubt in my mind, as I have the evidence before me. The Humane Society is no longer in the category of 'torture,' it is in the category of 'treat.'

Bodacious Blog Award

"Crystal" from "Crystal Jigsaw" was kind enough to bestow the 'Bodacious Blog Award' to me.









I am ashamed to admit that my two volume Oxford English dictionary has no entry for this word. Fortunately in the modern world we can rely on "Wikipedia" which tells us that
Bodacious can mean:

* A full-figured female body shape, also known as a voluptuous or Rubenesque figure
* Bodacious the Bull
* In CB radio jargon, a general-purpose word of praise
* A variety of iris (plant)
* Extremely cool, most excellent, "that is bodacious!"

I will leave you each to decide which definition is most appropriate for you and your blog.



The Unsuspecting Soul of the Bodacious Blog Award Goes To...

"Randy" from "Puddle of Nothing."

"Cami" over at "CamiKaos," and "Mommified Me."

And "Riseoutofme" over "here."

I'll be interested to see who you pass it on to and which definition you choose!

Cheers dearies.

Baby Steps

We decide to debate the topic.

Are they ready?

Is this doable?

If not, how can we wangle the odds in our favour?

It’s time for the school fund raiser, the Walkathon, where the children walk around the field for as many laps as they can manage. Each year we have attended. The first year we just attended and did not participate. The following year we attended and participated, in a manner of speaking. This year, it may be time to step up to the plate and tackle the sponsorship form.

We are already practicing our ‘trick or treat’ skills through modeling, social stories and kinesthetic learning. This would tie in quite well. Go to someone’s house. Avoid being squished by traffic. Use path. Do not walk on grass or flowerbeds. Avoid hedges, think of them as walls not hurdles. Find and ring bell, once. Wait for homeowner. Greet homeowner. Do not run into homeowner’s house. Verbalize request. Do not whisper or bellow. Stay on topic no matter how fascinating the door mat or light switches. Remember, frantic movement and speech confuses your listener. Do not talk to the wall, talk to the person. Listen to their answer.

“Maybe we should take them one at a time, that would help?”
“Yes, but there’s also safety in numbers and it would muddle the 'trick or treat' practice. They’re working much better as a team, one fills in the blanks for the other, as it were.”
“So we think we’re ready?”
“Definitely.”
“So who will we visit?”
“Just the two houses." Two tries. Two attempts. "Opposite and to the right only.”
“Deal. You’ll phone them first to warn them that we’re coming?”
“On the list.”
“How long is this evolution going to take?”
“Ooo 30 minutes?” 50 paces to each house.
“30 minutes for each house?”
“Approximately, we have to allow for the unknown.”
“The unknowable.”
“I don’t need to remind you about clipboards and pens do I?”
“Huh! Far too easy, I can take that in my stride.”


New post up on "Alien."

fri - Smooze Awards

"Dgibbs" from "Myfavouriteautistic" has bestowed upon me the Schmooze Award. Thank you Dgibbs, I am quite honored, if a little unworthy lately, due to a series of laundry crises.














“Good schmoozers effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly trails and smiles, happily making new friends along the way. They don’t limit their visits to only the rich and successful, but spend some time to say hello to new blogs as well. They are the ones who engage others in meaningful conversations, refusing to let it end at a mere hello - all the while fostering a sense of closeness and friendship.”

So now it's my turn to pass this little one along.

This one's for "Jeni" at "Down River Drivel" because she shares many of the same intergenerational problems.....er .....issues, that I encounter.

Also for "Kristina" at "autismvox." I am always stunned by her productivity, the clarity of her posts and how she helps keep sloatheful people like myself, up to date. The number of blogs that she keeps up with, her positive attitude and genuine kindness is quite breathtaking.

"Chelle" over at "Soodz" as it would appear that Brits have much more in common with Canadians that I could have ever imagined.

I have to hand it to "Leanne" at "Mumkeepingsane" because unfortunately no-one else truly understands the true nature of laundry crises.

Lastly, but not leastly [is that a word?] for "April" at "Zoning out again," because it's always good to end on a giggle.

The Current Exchange Rate

She pleads as only she can.

I squirm in response and fob her off with some nonsense or other.

“But I’ll help, really I will, I promise.”

I do not like to see my youngest daughter beg, especially for something that is easily within my power to grant.

“Maybe soon.”
“When?”
“We’ll have to see.” May my soul burn in hell forever.
“But why can’t we have one this weekend?”

I do no sigh or stamp my foot or run away. I think she knows the truth of the matter but I do not want to give her cause to resent her brothers.
“Tell you what. We will have a yard sale, but not this weekend. Now I need some time to think about this but I promise you we’ll have one.” She looks at my eyes, checks my mouth and then gives me an excited hug.

Now all I have to do is work out how to follow through?

It’s not the usual planning that concerns me. We’ve lived in the States for 12 years. A Yard sale is just like a car boot sale, except you don’t sell things out of the boot of your car and you don’t have to drive the car to the car boot sale. Instead you put all the items you wish to sell in your front garden for passersby to see. Generally the ‘sale’ is on the driveway rather than in the garden itself, which is why it’s not called a garden sale, which might confuse people into thinking that you were selling plants. It’s quite easy to convert the British version to the American version.

In addition, you need a few signs on poles to direct traffic to where you are.

Sometimes Americans have a ‘block’ sale, where all the home owners in the ‘block’ have a huge sale together. It’s all very easy. Sometimes there can be quite a party atmosphere. Often the neighbours will wander over to say hello, even if they have no intention of buying anything, all very pleasant. Or it could be.

So why have I put off this venture for so long, when my house is stuffed to the gunnels? It is full of things that I would happily donate to charity, just to be rid of it all? Why do I regularly go to the Salvation Army or the Thrift store to off load this surplus, rather than have a yard sale and maybe make a little money? Obviously, we are as rich as Croesus and have no need for money to offset the therapy bills, or we’re lazy, or perhaps our socialist tendencies have run amock?

Or perhaps there’s something else going on?


The first problem, er…issue, is containment. Our house is the only one on the street that has a fence around the garden and two gates with locks. But we would have the sale on the driveway. Driveways are huge in America and we are no different. You could easily fit two rows of three cars on the driveway, and heaven knows how many diddy little European cars.

The drive is house brick coloured, with a white picket fence down one side leading up to the house. On the other side, our neighbour has the typical open plan arrangement. Tree lined at 3 foot intervals, on the side that borders our drive. The drive inevitably leads to the road. The road is Tarmaced or ‘black topped’ as we say out here. There is no sidewalk or path because we are in an unincorporated area of San Jose. Black road, reddish drive. The difference is obvious to everyone, well nearly everyone.

The emptiness of the drive is contrasted by the fast moving traffic on the road but for some reason, this difference is not noticeable to my sons. The thought of having them loose on the driveway, in a crowd of strangers, weighs heavily on my mind. This kind of mathematical problem is easy to solve: $25.83 from the yard sale proceeds balanced against the cost of loss or injury, to two little boys.

I am confident that this matter will fade given time and maturity, but of course there is another major hurdle to overcome.

A yard sale, so commonplace and ordinary, screams social skills. All those little huge things require pre-planning, modeling and practice. I don’t know how many hours it would take to plan a good yard sale with labels and the correct positioning of items, but I do know that the social skills required to pull of such a feat, requires several lifetimes.

The boys do well with visitors that they know, although ‘doing well’ often means ‘ignore,’ to all intents and purposes. Fortunately, familiar visitors are fine with this. They know that this means that the boys are at ease in their presence.

Strangers do not fare so well. Strangers get ‘the treatment.’ It’s like a faulty engine on a chilly morning. My social son runs to the door, flings it open to bang back on the wall and then breathily asks many questions, “who you are? You are my friend? You are play? Er......you wanna come in for a playdate?” or some variation on a theme. The young man trying to sell magazine subscriptions, is a little taken aback as my son skips around his body with agitated hand gestures and invades his personal space.

My other son is more cautious, nibbles his fingers and spins on tip toes. His apparent shyness, is offset by his voice that bellows statements at fifty decibels, “I am 6. My name is Leo. I am home. My mum is call me dah lovely. Dah lovely has two ‘l’s’ which is good, which makes 3 ‘L’s which is gooder still which is like dah rhyme but not really.” The guys who want to save our souls, have lost their cherubic smiles and clutch leaflets closer to their snowy, crisp shirts. I pray that words relating to salvation or everlasting hell and damnation do not pass their lips.

And yet, not so long back, when the doorbell rang it had the same effect as a fire alarm. I was unable to leave them. My only option was to carry two screaming children to the door. They behaved as if I planned to dangle them over an open well. Overall, that was a far less welcoming welcome for a visitor.

This is why some siblings of some special needs children, get a rough deal. The ordinary becomes mountainous. As she follows in their wake to the front door, she’s at ease and unflustered, “don’t mind them,” she’ll smile. She’ll hug one brother and muss the hair of the other, “they can be a bit Cuckcoo sometimes when they get excited.”

The fact that we have one laundry basket full of trains and another two, full of dinosaurs, is concrete evidence of a potential, sale of the century. Their ability to barter, bargain and banter may be weak, but their willingness weigh in, means we’ve won a little wriggle room. Does this tip the scales in our favour?

A promise is a promise, so I’ll keep you posted.

Surprise, surprise

All too often I am amazed by the boys. Considering that they have negligible social skills, it is surprising how they instinctively get some things perfectly right, all by themselves with absolutely no assistance from me or anyone else.

I have already mentioned, that on the whole, they don’t do too well with unique visitors. The more often someone visits, the more quickly they’ll adjust, but someone who just calls the once, usually comes off the worse for the experience. That said, there are always the exceptions. Not so long back some friends of ours came to visit. Usually we see them in the evening, all of us being child free having mortgaged our souls to a babysitter. Today they come with their youngest child, a sweet toddler of the female persuasion, whilst their older children are occupied with older children occupations elsewhere.

When the door bell rings, my children mob the front door to welcome guests in their own unique ways. The toddler hides behind the safe knees of her mother as by comparison, my children are fast moving and extremely loud. Both the boys spot the little girl. I clamp a discrete palm over my own youngest, whose current phrase is ‘girlz are stoopid! Girlz are stoopid! Girlz are stoopid!” which he repeats all to frequently regardless of company and generally without any reference to anything specific. He could just as easily say “nuts are round,” with the same tone of derision. His more socially adept, but oblivious older brother, notices my hand and connects the dots without assistance. He steps forward and crouches down to be on eye level with the toddler. How does he know that his bulk might be intimidating for a little one? “Hi, you are a girl?” he says it quietly, with a friendly soft tone and a gentle smile. The toddler grins, in silence. His head flicks back to his little brother, just to check, “oh no! You must not be saying that!” he hisses at him, a warning. I reassure.

“I can show you my room?” he offers. The toddler squirms, but still grins. “Maybe we can find some toys for you?” His brother chimes in, “you wanna play Pokemon wiv us?” His generous offer is quashed by his brother, “no dumbass, she just a little. We need to find er……small toys…….no……toys fur little kids.” Both boys hare off in unison, in a race to find the perfect toy for a small visitor.



Their exchanges are so swift that it’s hard to keep track of them as they’re on a roll, motivated. Each suggestion by the little one, is ridiculed by the older, “no, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings.”
“Das o.k. Wot about dis one?”
“No, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings. She could swallow dat, it’s too small for a little kid.”
“Das o.k. Wot about dis one?”
“No, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings. Dat’s a scarry fing for a little kid.”
“Das o.k. Wot about dis one?”
“No, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings. Dat’s a boy fing …..er…well…..I dunno maybe.” They continue this exchange whilst the toddler behind them wades through the growing pool of discarded substandard offerings. He sees her out of the corner of his eye and launches himself at her, “no, no, no” he cooes, “dat is too dangerous for you.” He whips the wooden toy hammer away like a pick pocket and slips back a flower with the slight of hand of a conjurer. His categories may be a bit off, but his intentions are pure.

I’m sure that there are a lot of boys around who have little brothers and sisters. They’re kind and gentle with them. There are other children without the benefits of modeling, who behave similarly. They’re comfortable being goofy and soppy with youngsters. My son has always been tender hearted when it comes to babies and toddlers, it could almost be part of the diagnoses. Such behaviour is so easily explained – he has a speech delay and poor social skills, it is easier for him to communicate with someone who is not a threat. It is not an explanation that I warm to.

When people connect autism with a lack of emotion and empathy, I am saddened. My children now have words, which they use and share with us. As often as not, even if these autistic children share the same humanity, they may not be able to express it in a way that we’re capable of understanding. Just because we can’t see it or hear it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Wordy Wednesday - Security Blankets

She finds me in my closet dragging out old clothes, a couple of decades late.

A shoe box of old perfume bottles stands by the bin.

So many gifts. So many generous people. These generous people don’t know. They don’t know that there are only one or two perfumes that I can wear. There are several bottles of my mother’s favourite. Her choice of fragrance pervades everything about her.
On me, well, lets say the result deviates from the true scent. It’s a little graveyard of mismatches, a tribute to chemical imbalance.

“Whatcha doin Mom?”
“Oh just trying to slim things down a bit in here.”
“Huh?”


“Er… you know, get rid of some of these old things that I don’t wear any more.”
Her fingers stroke the velvet and water shot silk, flick the taffeta, and brush the lace and net. I fight with boxes of high heeled shoes with ridiculous pointy toes that a different woman has secluded in my cloister. “I love those sparkly bits,” says my Magpie. I look at my Green Eyed Goddess, “would you like them for dressing up?”


“It’s ‘dress up’ Mum.” My American daughter is quick to correct my English phraseology.
“Oh right.” She pulls at tassels and fringes, twists their little coils round soft plump fingers.
“Don’t you want them?”
“I just don’t have enough room to hang on to all these things.” Did I ever wear them? All those balls, cocktail parties and the whole glitterati of youth.
“How can you…….bear to lose them?” she asks with an air of incredulity usually reserved for discussions about chocolate.


“Well, we don’t live that kind of life…” I peter out and leave ‘any more’ unspoken. She looks at me with a blank expression because adult blanks don’t register.
“These are clothes I wore when I was young and went to lots of parties.”
“You still go to parties now!”
“Yes, but I’d look a bit funny going to Gymboree in this get up.” I don’t think the phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ would help her comprehension, merely add to the disguise of facts that are sometimes hard to fathom.
“Why don’t you go to Princess parties any more?” Is there such a thing as Dowager Duchess shin digs?
“Well, things are more casual out here. People don’t wear formal clothes like we did…in the olden days.” Across the continent of time, culture and class.
“You could keep em?”
“Why?”


“So when I’m grown up, I could wear em? When I’m bigger?”
I look at her. I remember playing dress up in my mother’s wedding dress. I remember wondering why she didn’t keep it for my own wedding day? Why had it been rejected for inclusion in the Camphor wood chest, where all the treasures were protected? I also remember another garment, my Granny’s. Outmoded, opulent and irrelevant. Something made and worn, before the turn of the century, the last century.


I did wear it after she gave it to me. I haven’t worn it for probably twenty years. I am unlikely to ever wear it again. It’s still hiding at the back of the closet, undisturbed, because it’s one thing that operates below the radar. If your sense of smell is keen, you can just detect a waft of Camphor wood, hiding a hint of rose petals. It is disqualified from the contest. It doesn’t have to vie with competitors. It is safe and secure, lodged in a separate category. It has ceased to be an item of clothing, merely a talisman, my link to that Edwardian woman. Madam to most, Ethel Mary to many, Mary to less and Granny to only a few. Then, there were real ladies with pure skin draped in hand made lace. Old ladies with secrets, secrets that were shared with small children with incredulous expressions.


“Which one do you like best?” Her eyes widen as her hands retouch every item, a recount, a double check, a last chance. She slithers herself into a shawl and drapes the fringe over her face. She curls up like a prawn, enveloped and blanketed. “This one. I want this one.” She breathes deeply. She sighs. A smile creeps over “it smells of you.”

Learning under pressure.

As they leave the house to get into the car for school, my youngest son makes a U-turn and skids back into the house. He is nak.ed in a nano second and parked on the throne for a last minute pit stop. He is a moment or two, too late. I pick up his sodden clothing and toss it onto the washing machine. I dither. I’m confident that it will take him a goodly while to put his shoes and socks back on without me to prompt him. I know that he would never dare risk permitting his bare little toes to touch the ground outside the house.

I dash upstairs for replacements whilst the rest of the team waits on the driveway, engine idling. I return with the clothes to find him struggling with the Velcro on his shoes. I have no option but to give him a swift sponge down rather than a shower. If you could hear his screams you would assume I’d turned a pressure hosepipe of icy water on him.


I turn my back after toweling him down but he’s off, wearing socks, shoes and a T-shirt, powering out to the car shouting, “be wait now, now wait now, wait, wait, wait!” I scramble after his partially clad form clutching his clothing as I skuttle down the path. I wave the clothes in my hand to attract the chauffeur’s attention. The car occupants watch his arrival, so does my neighbour. I call aloud, “wait he can’t go without his knickers!” My son does a little rain dance on the driveway concrete as his body shrivels and quivers in the early morning chill. Free of social cues, it is only his thermostat that will save him.

I think this is the first time in living memory that he has willingly submitted to going to school. His enthusiasm, eagerness and anxiety to join his siblings is quite breathtaking. I am uncertain whether his sudden keenness to conform has over-ridden his need for clothes, or whether it’s just that clothes are still an after thought of no consequence? Either way, my son has capitulated and demonstrated a willingness to participate.

My neighbour, the man with the voice that could best be described as a fog horn, bellows from the other side of the road, “Git yur shorts on boy!” My son’s ears receive the assault and his head flicks around to see our substitute grandfather modeling the desired behaviour from the other side of the street, legs akimbo, knees bent, curled arms hauling up the invisible underwear. What a trooper he is! My son is covered up and whipped off in a puff of exhaust fumes, safely on his way to school.

My neighbour steps over the road toward me. He tips his baseball cap up, the tired, faded red one, so that white tufts of thinning hair are visible. He blinks, with his crooked smile before he reminds me, “over here, we call em underpants.”

Unraveled - code cracker

I attempt chat of the ‘how was your day?’ variety, as I herd them towards the car.

Traffic is everywhere and Mr.Skippy is in ‘dart’ mode. I grab the back of his back pack in a gesture uncannily similar to a dog’s choke collar. Once initial contact is made, I’m able to secure his hand securely. Our palms are clamped together. It is as if I wear one of those joke buzzers in my hand and an electric current jerks through his system as jumping jacks, leaps and spins charge his body. His mouth empties a continuous commentary on the subject of tyres and Pokemon powers. I remind myself that I should be trying harder to park the car in the same spot, to make this exercise smoother. I should park the car in an empty space at about 1 p.m., an hour and 40 minutes before school is out, the new school stalker.

The electric doors close without dismembering anyone and I glance at their daily reports for a quick update.

Oh no!

He did what?

I speed read… ’he’ .. ’hit’ ….. ’baseball bat’ …… ’lost recess’ ……I flip round to look at the small thug struggling with his seat belt. He’ll be expelled! What on earth could have happened to make him behave like that? I dither. Perhaps I should go back and seek out his teacher? Perhaps I should go back and prostrate myself in front of the Principal and beg for mercy? Perhaps I should try and find out the secret identity of his victim to pour balm on mother and child?

There are few things that provoke such an immediate response in foreigners, but the magic words of ‘baseball bat’ are always automatically translated into ‘lethal weapon,’ probably due to excessive American telly watching. It is surely the first true sign that you’ve produced a serial killer, that and pulling the wings of flies.
“Who did you hit dear?”
“I dun hit.” Typical! An endless stream of drivel about Pokemon and tyres and now suddenly he doesn’t have anything to say for himself.
“See here?" I flap the report card, "your teacher tells me that you hit someone. Who did you hit dear?”
“Accident.”
“Who?” I try to keep the panic out of my tone, but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding?
“Michael.” Poor little Michael, he’s but a mere scrap of a little thing. Poor little Michael is supposed to be his new, best and only friend. At least I know his mum well and her telephone number.
“Why did you hit him dear?” I command myself to remain calm until I have all the facts at my disposal, so that I can panic in a more dignified manner.
“No hit.”
“See here? Your teacher tells me that you hit him. Why did you hit him dear?” I hope I sound persuasive but I think I sound like an interrogator.
“No hit. Bump.”
“Bump?”
“Bump.” How on earth do you bump someone with a baseball bat? Talk about colourful explanations!
“Where did you bump him dear?”
“Recess.”
“Not when, where dear?” Be patient, just be patient, we’ll get there in the end, eventually, hopefully before they put me in my coffin.
“On dah recess time.”
“Oh right. On the playground at recess, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yard.” Of course, silly me.
“Where…..er....where on his body did you bump him?”
“Not body.”
“Not body? Where then?” I am losing the thread.
“Face.” FACE! He hit him in the face with a baseball bat! And since when is your face not part of your body?
“Did he cry? Was he very badly hurt? Did the nurse come?” I know that this is too many questions, but I think I am now officially off my head.
“Er he don bin cry.”
“Mom, can we go home now? Why are we just sittin here?” I look at my daughter who does not seem in the least bit phased by the conversation that I am extracting from her little brother.
“Did you hear what he said?” I squalk at her in a very good imitation of a headless chicken.
“Sure,” she adds nonchalantly. I can feel myself begin to sputter, when she continues, “yeah, Mike’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Coz I was there.”
“You were there! What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Er coz,.... I don know?” I wait. I give up and prompt, “could you tell me what you saw dear?”
“Er. He already told you.”
“Yes, you’re right, he did tell me but I’d like you to tell me too. Is that o.k.?”
“Sure. Um…. anyway, he was buzzin around, ….you know how he does…..he and Mikey were playin…….real crazy wild…..super excito kiddo kinda thing…..he had the ball on his shoulder runnin around in circles and they bashed into each other……that’s all.”
“That’s all? What about the bat?”
“What bat?”
“The baseball bat?”
“Er there weren’t no bat.”
“’Wasn’t any’” I snap. “I mean….” What do I mean? “Did he hit Mikey with a baseball bat?”
“No. He bumped his face with the ball. He missed recess coz he was crazy, wild, fizzin and wouldn’t calm down.”

Hmm. I pick up the daily school report and read it, slowly. It would appear that they are all completely right and I am all completely wrong, and possibly dyslexic!


New post up on the "alien."

No free lunch and certainly not dinner

Of course we knew immediately.

At 11:45 and we were pleasantly weary after far too much good company and more than a drop of wine.

The baby sitter left, almost scurried and there is was, right next to the three toothbrushes, right next to the coffee maker, obvious and white and large and unused and still folded. He legged it upstairs and I pouted at the pull-up. Another baby sitter crossed off the list, another load of laundry coming my way.

When he reappears I can hardly see my knight in his non-work attire, as he is a mobile laundry pile, covered in six feet of soggy duvet, sheet, mattress cover, pillow, pillow cover and duvet cover, a royal flush.
“Is he alright?”
“Ooo yes. Happy as a Lark, soggy as a………very soggy person.” It is late.
“I’ll put the first load on and go and wash him then.”
“Already done.”
“Really?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
“Sleeping bag?”
“Done.”
“Last visit to squeeze out the last drop?”
“Absolutely. ‘Two wets beds for one child in any one nightly period, not to exceed 12 hours is no longer permissible’ campaign! Done and dusted.”
“Oh well. In that case ……”
“Sleep,” we chorus.



The following morning I wake late and skitter down the stairs at 6:20. My youngest son sits on a cold plastic stool with a chrome stand. He shivers, nak.ed. I suspect that the metal conducts no heat in either direction. I grab a soft, fleecy dressing gown to wrap him up. “I am dah goosebump!” he announces.
“Yes, you do have goosebumps dear.” I rub hug him.
“At night I am bin dah ghostbump.”
“Really? Was it scary last night?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you scared lovey?”
“Dah ghostbumps are like dah dark.”
“Why was it dark?” This is the child that sleeps with the main light on all night because we are determined to ruin the planet and warm the globe single handedly.
“No light.” I think. I am certain that I shared this fact with the baby sitter. We are all familiar with the cliché, ‘I was so scared I wet myself.’ It is not a comfortable thought. In this case is it probably too much of a leap. He might well have had an accident anyway. Why else would he wear a pull-up? My psyche is more comfortable with the latter. To think of my son, in the dark, in his familiar home, whilst we are out galevanting, makes me too uncomfortable. The cliché has to be balanced and weighed against the other cliché, ‘I laughed so hard I wet myself,’ but of course that one doesn’t apply. If bladder control is a known issue, it would be wrong to read too much into such an incident.

“Dat woz dah worst pull-up in dah world ever!”
“How do you mean? You weren’t wearing one anyway.”
“I am knowing dat! But dah pull-up can not be holding dah flood.”
“Flood?”
“Yes I am bin wet all over. I am dah drown.”
“Were you drinking water from the bathroom?”
“Yes! She din say ‘no drinkin,’ she sayed ‘no light.’ So I bin drink dah water to make me brave…..in dah dark.”
“The water makes you brave?”
“Yes. I bin fill my body wiv dah brave water…....in dah dark.” Until now I was unaware of the magical powers of water. I remember that 4 years ago we had to turn off the stop cock under the sink, to stop people drinking water all night long. We also fitted a timer to the main light. 45 minutes to fall asleep and adjust. Every 45 minutes throughout the night, one of other of them would ‘awaken’ and reset it for another 45 minutes. The beds were always wet. Then the timer broke due to consumer misuse. I remember that we turned the water back on again over a year ago, when that ‘behaviour’ was extinguished.

It was probably the longest period of parental insanity that we endured. They didn’t have so many words then. We didn’t recognize the difference between the two competing sources of meltdowns. This was merely another cause of our bewilderment. It would appear that the laundry and light nightmare was entirely of our own making. Wet beds, wet boys, wet weary tears, mainly mine, the self pity variety. A long dark age. We became hermits, living a cloistered life.

Kindly friends would make suggestions – ‘take a break, go away for a week.’ Sure! Could you sleep in one room with your family with the lights on all night? What holiday establishment doesn’t charge for ruined mattresses? Could we buy fourteen pairs of pyjamas to get us through the week? Is it part of hotel policy to change the entire bedding on two beds daily? Camping would be cheaper and solve the light problem, but the laundry! Does any family have 14 sleeping bags? It’s an exaggeration of course, but only approximately.

No. No-one understood, least of all the parents.

Did they drink the water as a chance cure? They certainly weren't thirsty. When did it flip into on OCD kink? How did drinking water protect them from the dangers of the dark? Did one copy the other or did they both feel the same way? How does being full of water help? If you're hyper-vigilant about attack during your sleep, it is easier to remain awake if your tummy is sloshing around with gallons of liquid?

“I am dah big, I am dah round, I am dah brave…..in dah dark.” A little water balloon, fit to bust. Maybe I should write the baby sitter a 'thank you' note afterall. She helped us see the new light and maybe lighten the laundry.

Black Sheep bleats with forked tongue

I blame the Celtic blood that courses through my veins, but I believe that budgetary concerns plague everyone. Most people have the monthly cycle of rent, food and utility bills, robbing Peter to pay Paul, as well as the need to conserve energy and save the planet. So often, it is the tiny things, the small extravagances that snap the spine of the bank balance. It is because of these tiny things that I determine to eradicate all extraneous and frivolous expenditure.

I think these thoughts as I wrangle with the child safety cap on the jar. One of the best ways to save pennies, which of course will expand into many thousands of spare dollars, is by controlling the kitchen. Most of us have freezers and the careful homemaker makes full use of it’s magical powers. Why make one, when two are cheaper in the long run? Ban convenience foods and make everything from scratch. Chain yourself to the cooker to liberate your finances long term. If you want to have a healthy family, then a healthy diet is an essential first step. My grip on the jar is as tight as a vice, but it refuses to yield to my will.

Although I lack a pantry, because I am an American, I have a garage full of ‘whole’ things that are simultaneously ‘free’ of all sorts of nasty substances, because I am a nutritional queen. One of the many things that can be eliminated from the diet of the average child, is all those expensive multivitamins. Who needs multivitamins if they follow a sound nutritional formula? I do not believe in indulging children and giving them those sugary, fruity vitamin pills, which is merely the equivalent of candy. It brings about bad habits. Skip the well balanced meal and sink a pint of Ensure. It’s the slippery slope my friend.

The food rules keep changing but the message remains the same, each your greens, Goldfish should be banned, pile up your sugar free mini wheats into a pyramid and drown them in a flood of fat free milk or a soy or rice substitute. Beat your way back to health through diet and reach the island of financial security at the same time. No more of these feeble excuses. The spineless need spinach, the greener the better. Organic and homegrown. Don’t whinge about living in a high rise apartment, there are window boxes and potted versions freely available for the free thinkers. Harvest your own harvest and watch the greenbacks grow.

The jar catapults from grasp. My hand holds the lid. The jar circles on the floor, as the spin slowly dies. The primary coloured gummy bears are scattered over a wide radius of floorboards, as my smallish children squat on all fours to lick the windfall. I watch the flock graze, before I whip out my crook, but a dust buster might be a better choice.

Typical kids

I love them. They are so easy. You can upgrade yourself from the wicked witch of the west to superhero, with just a few words.

I make a blunder. One of many. I promise the typical kids a play date without consulting the calendar in advance. I am distracted because I have an IEP coming up. Because I have a very important IEP coming up, everything else pales into insignificance. A promise to a child is never insignificant. Play date and IEP clash. I also reach the conclusion that I have mis-read Jane’s mother’s intent. I am emboldened. I shall be an American, a straight talking, take charge, kind of a guy.

I remind myself that I am the worst judge of character in existence. I remind myself that I have a small circle of friends who know me well. I also have acres of acquaintances who accept the social mask I project, just like everyone else. I know that when I first met each of my close friends, I was terrified of them. Scary, successful, powerful women, not my type at all. I much prefer people who are small and mousy in spirit, so that we can squeak the same language in a non threatening manner. The Brindle or English mouse breed is my favourite. To some, he looks like a mouse tiger but their yellow stripy backs are my kind of attire, a warning of genetic cowardice. They're a good reminder, a visual clue, because a year, or a decade or a life time later, I know I was wrong in my assessment of someone's character. I was distracted by the black shiny lacquer, the exterior. I failed to even look inside the "Chinese box," as I was never much of a treasure hunter.


I have latched onto one tiny little fact and interpreted it to my own advantage. Jane’s mum explained that the play date must be short because she has numerous other commitments. "Jane" must come home early to change, ready for soccer practice. I look at Jane’s mother. She is a kindly soul and talks straight which is helpful. I have just been too thick to understand her, indeed defamed her. I hope she isn't of a litigious frame of mind?

When her daughter tells her that she wants a play date at our house, she is unable to deny her. She loves her daughter. She wants her to be happy. How many times have I ached to be able to fulfill the wish of a child of mine? Social norms have prevented me from following through. I have stuck to the principal of politeness: you wait for the invitation. Jane’s mum has been unable to do this. She has told me this to my face, she is not a dissembler, ‘but Jane wants to come to your house.’ It’s the ‘leave early’ that clues me in. I make the suggestion. “How about Jane takes her soccer kit to school, that way she can change at our house and stay longer?” For some reason, this patently obvious step, is viewed as a miraculous solution. So now I know. Busy people skip steps. Busy people sometimes miss the obvious. I am very busy so I missed the step and the cue. Jane is very lucky to have a mum who holds her happiness status in such high regard.

I can almost see it. Jane pesters her mother day after day, plaguing her with demands for a play date. Every few months, Jane’s mum gives in. She phones me and asks if Jane can have a play date. The play date takes place and Jane’s mum has bought herself a few weeks of pester free time. I wonder if that’s right? Or is my imagination running away with me?

I confront it head on after school and tackle the matter in a straightforward manner.
“Hello Jane. I’m afraid I have some really bad news.” I see the crestfallen face, she knows without another word. No shortage of inference abilities around here.
“You know about the Wednesday play date?” She nods, close to tears. I regroup.
“I’m really sorry, but I forgot something very important.” The child withers before my eyes.
“Her brother has a really important school meeting that I can’t miss.” If she gets any smaller she will be invisible. My daughter clutches her in support, a little wisp of a little girl, propped up by my own little prop forward.
“So, I know I made you a promise.” I see the glint, it is so easy.
“So I was thinking.” The vibrations start, transparent and fizzy.
“Maybe, we could think of something to make it up to you, but you may not like it?” The vibrations wilt a little.
“I was thinking….” I touch Jane’s Mum’s forearm, so that she will know that if this Saturday is inconvenient then next Saturday will be fine, or the Saturday after that, or after that. “Perhaps instead of a play date on Wednesday, maybe you’d like to come on over to our house for a really boring sleepover on Saturday instead.” The convulsions are completely predictable. It is so easy that for a nano second or two, I can pretend that we are normal. Jane’s mother looks at me as if I am a conjuror, and I glow.


The boys skid around the corner and land in a heap of legs, arms and back packs. A combination of slapstick, jail break and Marcelle Marceau. For some unaccountable reason , their social skills kick in.
“Hi Ohmygod” he says sotto voce. His little brother chimes in too, “hello OhmyGod, how are you being today?” he bellows at 50 decibels. I see her mother blanche, as she is of a strongly Christian persuasion. I am more of a failed Roman Catholic, so I know the rules. I have adopted spouse’s creed, "Mrs. Do As You Would be Done By."
“Did they say……did they……oh……my goodness….well……kids! Just typical!” she smiles with a downward, dismissive arm motion.


Maybe I should stop referring to such people as the ‘god squad?’ I resolve to stop putting people in boxes. Instead I'm tempted take myself off to the confessional box for being an old square. However, I would prefer to avoid the wrath of god or hell freezing over or being struck down by a thunder bolt, as my current 'in box' is full.

The neurodiverse truly keep me in check.

Unnatural Practices

Now that I have lived in the United States for more than 12 years, I am an expert on all of their funny little ways, or at least most of them. Others of them, still leave me flummoxed, but I am a willing student.

On the whole, Americans are great, because they speak clearly on any given subject. There is little artifice. What you see is what you get, which is so much simpler for simple minded foreigners to interpret. If you, the foreigner, make a faux pas, the handy American will put you right, unlike other countries where errors are noted, recorded, stored away for future reference and the offender shunned thereafter.

Occasionally, I am still brought up short. Maybe it's a Brit thing.

I expect most parents experience a variation on theme. Your youngish child approaches you to ask thusly, "Mater dearest, I would dearly love to visit Charlie Witherspoon's Estate. He has a simply smashing croquet lawn and the polo ponies are first class!" You, the parent, advise your child that he cannot invite himself to someone else's house, he must wait for an invitation. In our household we teach the same lesson. "But i gonna go HER house!" It's a statement of intent, even though the friend is a boy. He bellows at 50 decibels, but the answer is still more or less the same. I thought it was the same everywhere.

.......

I finish a conversation with the school nurse. I try very hard not to laugh, as even I know that this would be inappropriate. There is something about the phrase

"he accidentally ran into a Hoola Hoop,” that tickles my funny bone. No sooner have I replaced the receiver, when it rings again.
“Hello?”
“Hi, how was your summer?”
“Great thanks and yours?”
“Really great.”
…………..
“Hello?”
“Yes.”
“So how can I help?”
“Well I was talking to Jane and she said she’d love to have a play date.”
“Lovely. When were you thinking of?”
“Wednesday or Thursday would suit me best.”
“Right. Super.”
“So you’ll pick Jane up and take her back to your house after school?”
“Er, right, o.k. that would be just fine. Shall I bring her back home to you afterwards?”
“Yes. Could you bring her back at about 5 as she has soccer practice.” Somehow it sounds more like a statement than a request.
“Righty oh.”
“D’you know our address?”
“Um yes. I’ll check it in the school directory.”
“Great. See ya.”

My daughter and "Ohmygod," that is to say Jane, have enjoyed two or three play dates each year. On each occasion, Jane’s mother telephones me to tell me that her daughter wants a play date with my child, in our house and that I am responsible for the accompanying taxi service. No other mother or parent has ever adopted this approach. I am non-plussed but intrigued each time. I keep examining the details to see if I’ve missed a step or a cue, as my telephone skills are poor?

The following day, Jane’s mother calls again.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m sorry but I’m gonna have to cancel the play date.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry. Shall we make it another day that’s more convenient?”
“No, Jane is grounded, no privileges for a month.”
“A month! Well we could make it for a month's time?”
“Thanks no, I’d just like to hold off a while.”
“O.k. Well let me know how things go?”
“Bye.”

I replace the receiver. A month? The child is 9. What could a 9 year old possibly have done to have all privileges withdrawn? I know it’s a common enough term but ‘withdrawal of privileges’ echoes from a bygone era, my bygone era. I wanted to ask, but that would be rude. If she wanted me to know she would have told me. It must be serious, not the kind of information to be shared with a casual acquaintance such as myself.

It’s the fact that ‘all’ privileges have been banned. I wonder how many privileges the average 9 year old has? This is such a useful yardstick for me. I know that our family life is not well aligned to the average. We are habituated. It’s only when you get a glimpse into someone else’s life that this prompts a reality check.

I try and think what privileges, if any, we have? Only electronics, and play dates for my daughter. The boys do have play dates but they only consider them to be a privilege in theory. Desirable in theory, often turns into something far more haphazard in reality. I wonder why they don’t have more privileges? But of course with their somewhat narrow field of interest, there could only ever be one privilege for the time being.

I try and think of anything that my daughter might do that would warrant a month’s withdrawal?

Blank.

This must surely mean that my child is an angel or that I lack an appropriate disciplinary approach? Neither option seems quite right.

I try the same thought with the boys, but that is more difficult, because a month without electronics would bring life as we know it, to and end. It would be impossible to send nake.d boys to school. Without the promise of electronics, we would literally cease to function. This sobering fact brings an end to my thought processes.

Families differ and that’s a fact.

The Twits! You nit wit!

I think very hard.

I need to work out what country in the world will be enjoying Wednesday whilst it is only Monday night here?

I give up. I need to find a way of expanding time so that I won’t look like an idiot for posting Wordless Wednesday on a Monday night. Fortunately, I have a very scientific brain, so this should be easy to solve.

I decide to insert a scalpel in the world, pole to pole and add another semi circle of extra globe. The result is a ripple ball, with extra mountains and valleys and a few tectonic plates bumping into each other. I am not entirely happy with the result and I’ve only bought myself 12 hours. What else? Aha. Double the size of the globe and magically I have gained 24 hours. Brilliant! I may also have saved the world from global warming with one executive stroke. Now the world is under-populated. I suspect some people are frying because they are nearer the sun. Other people have frostbite and no idea why. I decide I am a big meany. World chaos just to save face with my three readers. I think. I decide that as usual, lying is the best policy. I’ll say that I hit the wrong button, by mistake. Three people are late for work or discombobulated all day because of me. They will sue me and then we shall be poor and homeless in a huge, empty, unfamiliar, bumpy landscape.

I am renowned for the efficient manner in which I run my household. Now that they are all at school full time, I finally have a chance to catch up on four and a half years of household neglect. I am ruthless. I discard some twenty, old, moth eaten towels which have always been stacked within easy reach. The spills, floods and misfortunes of life are always dealt with swiftly, but enough is enough. As they have grown older, the pile has been whittled down slowly from about 35 to a mere 20. None of those little wimpy scraps of wiping cloths around here, oh no! We have gallons of mishaps and mountains of mop up facilities. This is an easy equation to calculate because I am also exceptionally good at arithmetic. 3 children absent from home for 6 hours of the day means 360 minutes of less spills.

I pick them all up from school just after lunch, whisk them away the to shops and then return home in under an hour, a new world record. I clean my bifocals and then carefully read the instructions, as I don’t want to burn their heads. I do myself first, so that I can assess how much agony will be involved in this exercise. I supervise homework with my hair sprouting out all over my head. The volume of screaming is considerably lower than usual but that might just be the soap in my ears. I try not to drip of them or their homework, as I scoot around the table to help each one.

Once satisfied that no pain is involved, I start on the first one. They’ve only been in school three weeks and now they’re contaminated. Once again, I am jealous of homes choolers with their freedoms and their germ free existence.



“Are your "headlights" gonned mum?”
“Yes, dead as door nails.”
“Is mine gonna be deaded too?”
“Sure as eggs is eggs.”
“Are dah eggs gonna be gonned too?”
“Absolutely, we’re gonna kick them from here to kingdom come.” I release the first froth head and start on the next one after setting the timer for ten minutes.
“Gosh Mom, we only washed our hair last night!”
“I know dear, but we need to nip this in the bud.”
“How long is it gonna take?”
“I have no idea, not one iota.” I send her on her way for her ten minute down time and brace myself for the little one.

There is absolutely no pain involved. No pain, no pain, no pain. I seek him out. I find him hiding in a corner under three adult sized bean bags, quivering and clutching the toilet brush. I wipe the sweat from his brow and lead him to the kitchen sink, the only one with an extendable spray attachment. I wonder for the first time ever, how far it might actually extend? At best, I think I have about three feet until I will be at the end of my tether, or rather, faucet.

He baulks at the last minute, rears up and off, to disappear in a flurry of rooster noises. I track him down. It’s easy. I find him under the bed. The duvet has been dragged off the bed and is stuffed all around him, a barrier of protection that fails to muffle his barking. I remind him again. One good session now, means that we may avoid repeating the exercise in 10 or 14 days time.


I suffer a severe sense of humour failure when the kitchen sink decides that it no longer wishes to drain. Why on earth did I throw all of those old towels away? I pause in my deliberations and let him escape whilst I go on the hunt for the toilet plunger and more towels to stem the flood. Since this handy household appliance is my son’s favourite talisman at the moment, I anticipate a long search as to it’s whereabouts. He has acquired the habit of hiding treasures such as the toilet plunger, as he fears my arbitrary decisions re contraband. I am a staid individual at heart and it’s difficult for me to adjust to his collection of long handled items. I am uncertain of their current purpose in his life. Whilst many a child might wield a toilet brush as a substitute gun or sword, in this household it is more of a crutch.

Why couldn’t this have happened to a family with an only child instead?



We reach a consensus of opinion. The active ingredient in "Rid" is Piperonyl butoxide. It is the stinkiest thing in the whole wide world ever, unless it’s the other one, the Pyrethum extract, since we have no yardstick of familiarity. Her assessment that it smells bad enough to make her puke, is born out by her little brother. The sofa and carpet suffer, but he suffers far more so. I remember that Jamba Juice is now off limits, as the stench of the fruit is beyond his capacity to endure. It is hardly surprising, that this formula has made him vomit. His screams of “I cannot breathe! I cannot breathe! I cannot breath!” isn’t strictly truthful as he gasps, gags, coughs and splutters.

I have abandoned my rule about the filthiness of chewing gum. We have managed to get through a whole box of gum, which only partially succeeded in distracting two of them, as it’s not an option for the little one. I watch his toes massage a piece of discarded gum with his toes. I am uncertain whether to laugh of cry, so I concentrate on combing whilst I think of the best method of removing it from his digits? The sticky strands effectively glue his foot to the floor. I am beyond caring.



I release him like a cannon ball and start on the next one.

I comb.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Um I was wondering?”
“Yes dear?”
“Do you ever leave the…….boundaries of the house……er the garden…..I mean the property boundaries?” Gosh, spoken like a true lawyer!
“? Er..yes I do.” She must have spotted me watering the garden late at night.
“No. I mean, while we’re here?”
“Yes, you know I do. Then Daddy looks after you, like when I nip to the supermarket.”
“No I mean…..alone?” You would have thought that with all the OCD that I have been recently plagued with, it would be easy enough to spot? I think I should award myself this week’s ‘thick as a brick’ prize.
“No. Never. I never leave you alone, ever.”



I think of the new Jazzercise class that I have so carefully orchestrated for them at school. Oiled wheels, social stories and a goodly deal of hard cash, times three. No school means no Jazzercise. I consider myself lucky to have missed my own hair appointment and the undoubted additional humiliation.


The wet beds are stripped, the laundry mounts up. Sleeping bags are the only option. Catering has come to a halt and we are reduced to hot dogs, Goldfish crackers and probably the last bottle of Ensure. Everyone is delighted that their nutritional needs have been abandoned. The boys have taken it in turn to have numerous accidents on consecutive days. I foresee that all too soon there will be no clean clothes available in the entire house. The carnage that follows a weekend and two more days at home, due to the head lice, means that we look like a war zone. For some unaccountable reason I feel a little teary, quite possibly due to the foolishness of blitzing my daughter’s room. Three hours straight of tidying, resulted in the entire contents being strewn in orderly piles all over the carpet. Then, the call from school commanded a premature and untimely halt to the process. I know that some half finished projects are doomed.

I remember to spray the car seats and all of the upholstered furniture in the house. I dither about carpets because they spend so much time rolling around there, one way and another.



My youngest son is mentally prepared for the torture. His head and shoulders have been off limits following his first lungful of air at birth. Whilst his brain fully understands that he has to have lice free hair, his body is completely unable to co-operate. Since his head of hair is inextricably attached to the rest of him, we are in a severe quandary. I limit his combings to ten minute periods, as that is all he is able to withstand. I worry greatly, as he is a writhing target and I have a metal comb with sharp teeth as a lethal weapon. This is probably the most terrible thing I could do to this particular child. He screams at level ten throughout. The others cower in other room, praying that it will be their turn soon, so that the sound barrier will truly be broken, if briefly. For the first time in living memory I wonder if a number 1 buzz cut, would be a kindness in the long run?

I am so glad that the instruction leaflet was accurate. It does indeed take between one and two hours to remove lice from a head. My recall of a similar incident with my daughter over twenty years ago is somewhat hazy. By the time spouse comes home, early, at just gone seven in the evening, I have the wrinkled hands of an octogenarian after six hours of combing wet hair. During the last few days I have only seen adults during a brief visit to the supermarket and on the abortive school run. I have become an unwilling hermit and very crabby.

I know that this is a cunning plan to rob me of the last few shreds of sanity that remain.


I hear the garage door and my cheery spouse appears.

“Ooo have you been swimming?” he asks innocently stepping over soggy towels, clothes and cloths. I pause, poised with the nit comb in mid air, a visual clue.
“New hair style?” I point at all the empty bottles of Rid on the kitchen counter. He steps over towards the counter and picks one up to read it, since fortunately, it is an unfamiliar product. He loses his grip as well as his hold on the bottle, “Ooer, off to the nit nurse for you lot then!”
“No! Nurse is nice. Mummy is dah bad evil wimmins!” Ever my lot in life.
“You have to move with the times dear,” I warn, as I know that he’s about to buried in facts.
“Nits are not nice. I am not liking dem in my hairs.”
“Dey are be dah great swimmers too!”
“Swimmers?”
“Dey are be hold der breafs for ten minutes, so dey are not be drown.”
“Nits are be living in dah clean hair ONLY. We are being too clean.” A likely story.
“Dey are be deaded at 100 degrees!”
“Mom is kind she are not boil our headses.” He points at the pan of boiling water, full of hair brushes, combs and hair accessories. I am sorely tempted to go and boil my own head in the hope of inducing clarity.
“Mom been done killed my headlights. Mom been done killed the wee little beasties. We are victorious!” Somehow I feel somewhat less than a vanquished hero, more of an over zealous Nero. Their father picks up one of the inferior purple combs and takes his daughter next door to continue the work in progress. We have turned into a troop of grooming monkeys. I can hear them chat because I am an earwig at heart rather than a louse.
“Mom says it’s a good thing for the boys.”
“Really! Has she lost her marbles, again?”
“No Daddee, don’t be so daft. She said it was good, well kinda good.”
“How could this possibly be good?”
“Well only sorta good, coz it must mean that the boys are getting close to their friends, you know, making contact and all.”
“There’s only so much socialism I can cope with. ”
“Social what?”
“Never mind, I just think your mother needs her head examined sometimes.”
“I already did.”
“Did what?”
“Examine her head, for the nits. She’s gonna check your head later.”
“Hmm your mother the nit nurse! Now there’s an……intriguing thought.”
I yell at him from the other room, “stop thinking aloud! This is a uniform free household!” He appears in the family room and leans on the door jam, “maybe there’s some other sort of service I could provide?” I glance up at him and his suggestive Grocho Marx eyebrows. There are few things further from my thoughts. “I’m sure I could dig out a white coat!” he grins. I try and find my sense of humour but it is buried under a funeral pyre of wet laundry. “I can’t think about that right now,” I sigh weakly, more than ready to fall asleep on the spot.
“No, I was thinking…first, er…maybe I could…..later…..give you a massage?” I examine the nit picker through my fusty bifocals, “well ….that would certainly be a very welcome ….start.”
“How about….after the children are asleep…..you could bathe?”
“Ooo yes a bath would be lovely.”
“How about a quick shower instead, speed things up a bit.”
“?”
“It would be quicker.”
“Well it would save time if you ran the bath.”
“But I thought you were tired. You don’t want to waste time having a bath.”
“I thought a bath might be part of it?”
“Part of what?”
“The relax, unwind, be comfortable, a lovely massage and then…..who knows?”
“Oh no. I just want you to be clean. It looks like a dandruff factory in here.”

Now where exactly did I put that metal comb with the sharp pointy little teeth?

Wordless Wednesday # 5 - Ta dah!

“Are you my muvver? Are you my muvver? Are you my muvver?” he grins as he spins. It's not echolalia this time, where he repeats what he's heard elsewhere. Each phrase is accompanied by a 360 degree spin. He often perseverates on phrases, where he repeats the same words three times in a row, repeatedly. Each spin is stopped with an artfully placed stomp with arms thrown open wide, chicken chest up. The grin is timed with the show stopper. It is exceedingly disconcerting. It is a performance but an audience is unnecessary. Adorable to a few, irresistible to fewer, in a brain teaserish kind of way. Mr. Eastman is in league with Dr. Seuss. They both have a lot to answer for around here. But this time, I think the joke is on me.