Pick your poison with care

There are many disadvantages to being partnered with a man of Italian descent.

Two of the more obvious disadvantages are pasta and pizza.

Without the wish to become too highbrow, in genetic parlance, this is a bit of a double whammie, as these loathsome menu choices also find favour with 3 of my four children: a dominant gene no doubt.

In my limited experience , if a restaurant commonly provides pasta and pizza, they rarely serve fries. Currently, the only food on any menu, that my youngest son eats, would be fries. Hence my current research project to find the restaurant that served all three items. My studies are hampered due to the three persistent phrases that my son perseverates upon: 'responsible, responsibull, responsiball,' 'shake your booty' and 'Egg nog, epilogue.' I hope that at least one of them is merely seasonal. These phrases whirl around me in a continuous stream as I hunt the internet for the perfect restaurant.

As we are in the heart of Silicon Valley, this should not be too much of a trial. I should point out that there are a wide choice of cuisines available to suit nearly every palate. There are any number of curious combinations such as steak and shrimp, served on the very same plate. I kid you not. This is the land where an entre is the main course, rather than an appetizer, but maybe that's just to punish the French? It is also the land where individual salads are served in dishes the size of a washing up bowl. If you would like a pound of cheese on your pizza, no-one will give you grief. If applesauce can be a starter, there is no cheese board available to finish up a meal. Anything is possible out here, but I defy you to find a pizza with an anchovy on it in the whole of this land. How can a whole nation hate anchovies and yet have also invented Caesar salad? Thus it was, that before too long, I found the perfect place.

Once we were installed in the perfect place and placed our orders, I took my youngest, fries eating son, to the stalls. He is still at the tender age where it is not safe for him to visit the bathroom alone. His privacy or other people’s, is of no concern to him. Whilst I have never had cause to climb the walls in a stall, I expect that it would be possible. Mind you, if I were only 6 years old, that might be a bit more of a feat as there is the height to wall ratio. To make the feat of climbing the walls of a stall even more challenging, it might be an idea to attempt to reach the top of the stall wall in under a second. Do you think that might be possible?

Well I am here to tell you that I witnessed just such a feat, with my very own little eyes. If I had blinked I would have missed it of course, but I didn’t miss it because the scream that he uttered was enough to puncture an ear drum. But I suppose that’s only to be expected if you’re not expecting a random event, such as a toilet that flushes automatically.

If by any chance, you happen to be the woman in the next stall from us, let me take this opportunity to apologise to you, without reserve. I assure you with my hand on my heart that there was nothing personal in his remark. I can barely imagine how I would feel myself, were I in your unfortunate position. You had already left by the time I had managed to persuade him to come down from his perch. I too would have been surprised to find a small boy's head hanging over the top of the wall. He really isn't a peeping Tom. He had no interest in your business, really. Would it help if I explained that he has no volume control, he always bellows? Would it have been any better if he has whispered "shake your booty!"

Probably not.

If you had trouble loading this blog or commenting, then please try my duplicate "loads like a dream" blog over "here."

Potty talk and words per minute

Because I am elderly and foreign, I have very high standards when it comes to the correct use of language. Because I am elderly and foreign, I appear to have given birth to youthful foreigners with very little regard for language at all.

For many a long year my boys have appeared to be oblivious of one another’s presence. The combination of their different abilities and disabilities have maybe masked a relationship that I was too obvious to see. I think possibly the speech delays deceived me?

One brother lies on the floor on his back gazing at particles of dust that whirl around in the only air conditioned room. He emits weary sighs at intervals interspersed with the unusual mouth click that visits him for periods of time, but this stim, or self stimulatory behaviour, is the happy version.

The other one whirs around the room on his imaginary snow board, complete with very realistic sound effects. The ambient temperature is 80 degrees. He covers every surface of the room, including the sofa and wall space above. Because he is fleet of foot, he must have footprinted every inch of the room many times in the space of twenty minutes, yet never once has he trodden on the sprawled body of his brother.

Eventually the little one collapses in a messy heap to announce, “I am dah sweat!” A few seconds later, because there's always a delay for the speech delayed, his brother responds, “you are not dah sweat, you are dah sweaty!”
“Nooo……I am……..dah sweety!” Both boys explode into laughter, but manage to continue between guffaws, “not sweety, dat is dah English! We are say 'candy.'”
"Candy is for dah girls. Boys are dah chocolate."
“It not for girls…dumbass!”
“I not a dumbass……..I clever dick!” The revelry goes up a notch.
“No potty words yah big baby!” as he smears snot across his face with a jelly arm.
"I not baby! I'm dah babe." I watch him strut and strike a pose, a provocative pose. He brother watches too. He takes a minute or two, or three, "yeah, you right. You are Babe dah sheep pig!"

It must be at least three years since we watched that movie, but the crumbs that they've stored away are now coming out on display. Definitely worth the wait.

The day of Rest - Imagine it's Sunday

When I was a young and youthful person, I was an efficient decision maker. I would analyse the relevant facts in a logical manner and make an executive decision. On the whole it was usually the right decision. Any errors that I made, didn’t generally have dire consequences.

I am given to understand that it is a very common problem. Which problem? The inability to choose. Whilst it may be a problem for the person trying to make a choice, it is a far more annoying problem, for the person observing the person who is unable to choose. Self, self, self. Theories abound as to why this should be so, and I’m always open to additional theories. Subtle hint! Many people are unaware of how many choices they make, but it only takes a few moments thought to have some inkling of how frequently this occurs. Some clever people might make allusions to 'executive function,' but that far too high brow for me. I prefer more simple examples that are easier to grasp.

For instance, when you awaken in your bed, hopefully in the morning, although not too early, you open your eyes. Already you have made two choices, the first being to wake up, the second being to open your eyes. Now you have to decide if, or when, to leave your bed, and you’ve only been awake less than a nano second? Are you going to be happy or sad? Have you managed to remember or blot out, a reason that might influence either decision? Already you have made a whole slew of decisions and the day has hardly begun.

Whilst this is the curse that my eldest son endures, I wonder how closely we might really be related?

I have already run through all my early morning decisions and hover, on the cusp of the next one. I dither between my choice of available reading matter, which book should I choose? The one to induce brain expansion, or escapism, or humour or the new whodunnit? Too difficult to choose. I move on to paperwork? Which of these tedious chores should I tackle first? Update lists, write shopping list, tackle medical insurance claims, compose letter to school? Too difficult to decide. I debate which household task to manhandle first: sanitize toilet, take out the recycling, cook breakfast or start the laundry? Too tricky to trump. I stand in the middle of the kitchen in a daze awaiting enlightenment.

A thunder of tiny hooves crashes from on high, as all my children descend at 5:30 in the morning.
“I am……..my tummy is…….where….?”
“It is dah Sunday day?”
“Come on Mom, where’s the pancakes, we’re starving?”

That solves that one then. At least I can rely on at least three people to kick my own executive function into gear.

Wordless Wednesday #5

Ms. Wordless Wednesday is on my case, again.

“Geez Madeline, we talked about this last week. I thought I made myself clear?”

“Absolutely transparent.”

“Well?”

“Yes?”

“Why have you done it again?”
“What?”
“Words! You said you’d try and skip the words this time.”
“I did.”
“Did what?”
“Try. I tried very hard, but I failed.”
“Too right Missy. You would try the patience of a saint.”
“What other purpose do I exist for?”
“Alright then. This is worse that last week's.”
“I know.”
“Well?”
“You need a few words?”
“Well….....maybe just a hint? I know! You’re trying to be patriotic even though you’re really a fake.”
“Dual, not fake. I’m a citizen in America, whilst simultaneously managing to hold onto my serfdom in England.”
“Whatever. It’s a rusty old basketball hoop.”
“Do you know I never noticed the rust?”
“What?”
“Well I noticed it was a basket ball hoop but I didn’t notice the rust.”
“Geez. So what are you saying? You’re rich enough to install an expensive professional basket ball hoop? Big deal!”
“Ooo I like that one. Please push the rich myth. I like that one a lot!”
“What?”
“Nothing. No, it came with the house when we bought it. I thought it was hideous at the time, wanted to rip it out, unsightly lump.”
“Lump? You need to study your grammar.”
“Don’t give me that! The only collective noun that American’s know is ‘bunch.’”
“Excuse me! Are you denigrating the American way of life?”
“Never. Perish the thought!”
“Well it sounded pretty darned close to an insult to me.”
“I tease, gently, I hope?”
“Hmm.”
“It’s blatantly unfair to be beastly to Americans.”
“Well, I don know, everybody else in the world gives us a bad press.”
“Did I touch a nerve?”
“Hmm. Well. Where were we, you foreigner?”
“Basket ball hoops, or netball, as we prefer to refer to them.”
“Oh come on! Not that again! Can you just drop it?”
“Consider it dropped, I know defeat when continents collide.”
“Right. So, they’re not afraid of rust maybe they……..are too short? You want to rip it out and put a kiddy sized one in there, because you just have money to burn?”
“Close. I wonder if I should have done a before and after?”
“A before and after what?”
“Before, it was disguised by 40 feet of Morning Glory or after, like it is now.”
“You grew Morning Glory over your basket ball hoop? You are foreign Missy.”
“A foot on each shore. I tore off all the vine later, to reveal it in all it’s rustiness.”
“Growing a plant on a basket ball hoop is gonna make it rust.”
“It was entirely glorious whilst it lasted though. 20 foot of leafiness and so many blooms. It was magnificent considering the clay soil.”
“You are so off topic.”
“Sorry I have a tendency to digress. It wasn't popular with the neighbours.”
“Did they throw you out of the housing association?”
“No we’re unincorporated, you know, no sidewalks and policed by the Sheriff.”
“I know what unincorporated means! I’m an American!”
“Oh yes, sorry I forgot for a moment. Americans make up 5% of the world’s population, so 95% of people think of businesses rather than planning committees.”
“Ok. So what are you trying to tell me? Your kids are afraid of rust?”
“No, at least not so far as I’m aware. Maybe I ought to check? Maybe not. Actually, my point was that they have no interest in any sports, ergo no fear.”
“Ergo? Please, spare me the pain.”
“Alright then. Are you ready?”
“I am never ready, you’re a real head case.”
“Well it’s just that they noticed it.”
“Noticed it? Noticed what?”
“The big pole with the basket ball hoop on top. After…..what…….8 years in this house, they noticed it was there.”
“O.k. so they’re vision impaired? What?”
“Kind of. In a way. It just sort of ……..came into focus I suppose.”
“What?”
“Well we came home, I parked in the garage, they all ran from the car as if their feet were in flames, and before I had the chance to shut the garage door they all ran out into the driveway screaming ‘ball.’
“Ball?”
“Well there are significant speech delays you know?”
“ I remember. So what?”
“Well, they found a ball, or two.”
“Yes?”
“ They started hurling balls at the pole, or rather the basket.”
“Yes?”
“Well, they’ve never done that before.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“A new first then?”
“Spot on!”
"Outside too!"
"Exactly."
“So you’re feeling a bit weird?”
“Spacey.”
“Where did that one come from then?”
“Not a clue.”
“Did they play for a whole minute?”
“At least 7.”
“Awesome!”
“Indeed.”
“So it’s kind of like the shock of giving birth?”
“Almost every day.”
“Worth the wait?”
“Totally.”
“So this is part of their new skill set?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“The generalization thingyummy?”
“Right.”
“Snapshot.”
“Yep.”
“Soooo .............you”ll try harder next week?”
“You bet ya!”
“No words?”
“I’ll try.”

A Delve into motivation

When I was small we lived in several houses where many of the doors had handles at shoulder height of an adult. We children quickly devised methods of overcoming this shortage in stature. Piggy backs and handy chairs, anything to gain access. Similarly, when my mother called us for a meal, we would scrabble to get to the table first. When we were admonished for our dirty hands, we would race to overcome the oversight. Experience taught us that often the meal would be a disappointment but we still rushed to find out. If my mother had offered us a candy to do something we disliked, she would have won every time. I don’t know how similar other people’s childhoods’ were, but I suspect that many of them are commonplace variations on a theme. Motivation is most pivotal when it is absent.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say that he has the Gameboy in his hand as he exits the hated car, when we are faced with an obstacle. The obstruction? A mere door. I watch him tussle with the door, first with his shoulder, then with his foot followed by the full body slam. None of the methods employed achieve success. Whilst many people would acknowledge the error of their ways, others are more determined to hold onto their Gameboy with both hands.

“You know it will open if you turn the handle with your hand?”

To anyone else, this would seem like a facetious comment, but it isn’t. It’s a prompt to help him connect the dots. He continues to chuck himself at the closed door, the Gameboy clutched in his vice like grip. The little annoying tune still whirlitzers around, which would certainly be enough to distract me from the task at hand.

So often it is the tiny little steps that are so hard to overcome. It would be simple to say that he just gives up, lies back on the garage floor and continues to play the electronic game, the battle with the door forgotten. The battle he’s really fighting is the captivation of the electronic game, which is so much more exciting that a door. If I were him, I would enjoy playing the game far more in the comfortable confines of my own home, rather than the garage, but we differ in so many respects.

Whilst there were many things that I enjoyed doing as a small child, I cannot recall anything that was sufficiently interesting to persuade me to lie on the floor in the garage by the door and play there?

I could bribe him from this spot with chocolate, or maybe Goldfish, but only if death by malnutrition was imminent. He would lie there for as many hours if I permitted. Until it was dark, until the battery was flat. He might need to use the bathroom, but that urge wouldn’t prompt him to move. It is especially odd for him, because he is usually so hypersensitive to textures and temperature, but not now, not when he is fixated on something else.

Of course there are lots of techniques available to parents to help their children with these simple self care skills, to challenge inertia and kick off the sequential steps towards task completion. That is not really the point here. For me, the point is to recognize that the preferred activity is all encompassing, totally captivating and excludes the entire universe. Hopefully, such single minded concentration will serve him in good stead in the future. Now if I could just iron out a few of his lumps and bumps, he'd make a very attractive and unusual welcome mat.

A fool and his leg are soon parted

From back in the middle of the summer.

As a broad rule of thumb, I believe it wisest to remain cynical and pessimistic about the future. Every so often, I forget my thumb, and a sparkle of optimism penetrates my crust.

Sunny days in California are deceptive, mood transforming, especially after 20 days of English rain.

As the evening draws in, I decide to be spontaneous. But such rashness comes at a price. I think briefly if this is wise but brush little skeptical irritations aside.

“Come along you lot! Lets pop our shoes on and go to the Farmers Market.”
“Why?”
“What pop? We are pop? What we are?”
“Great! Can we go on our scooters?”
“Eh? What’s that?” asks Nonna, turning up her hearing aid in response to the children’s flurry of movement. Now that the screaming has been replaced by words, she feels she is on safer ground, brave enough to turn on her hearing aid.

I am uncertain who to answer first? I an anticipated a general protestation because of the 'outside' nature of the plan. I am not mentally prepared for this deviancy. I waggle sandals in what I hope is a tantalizing manner, whilst I think about small poorly co-ordinated people on self propelled vehicles on a road. Since we are in an unincorporated area, this means that there are no sidewalks or paths, which makes it far more difficult for them to work out where their bodies are in relation to the traffic.

I herd my cats, er children, out of the door.

The door, or rather the door frame, moves three inches to the right unexpectedly, or that is what I conclude as my son walks straight into it and bounces off. He sits on the ground slightly dazed, scratches his head in the general area of the bump and focuses on the door frame. He staggers up, in a magnanimous frame of mind, “oh well, better luck next time!” he mutters, tapping the door frame in a gesture of forgiveness. I try not to sigh. If he bears the door frame no ill will, surely I should do the same?

I will leave the debacle of the Farmer’s market for another day. Suffice to say, that the disastrous expedition comes to an expeditious end, when my youngest son and his scooter become entangled. This is the price he pays for believing that without any prior experience or experiment, that he is a skateboarding expert, even though he is on a scooter not a skateboard.

“Help my leg! I am die! I am blood!” he wails in a continuous mantra. I see Nonna discretely remove her hearing aids and slip them into her bag, with the slight of hand of an expert pick pocket. Junior continues to trail, his leg dragging behind him. With his hand in mine, we plod steadily home. His leg drags in the gravel, whipping up puffs of dirt. He makes a impressive impression of a truly dead leg as he trawls along. I can almost see him exsanguinating, although try as I might, I cannot detect a microdot of blood anywhere on his person.

I am heartily thankful that a casual onlooker would see that we are a group, albeit a loose group. Otherwise, I would be the woman, probably a child abducter, dragging a crippled child through the street to the cries of protest: “Help my leg! I am die! I am blood!” I focus on the two children ahead of me, to check that a local Hummer isn’t about to mow them down in their tracks, as well as shout to Nonna, who struggles with the abandoned scooter. Without her physical presence and mental wherewithal, I would be truly stranded. I know that I should carry him, but I am weighed down with organic purchases from the Farmers Market. “Make me home! Make it quickerer! My walk die!” he wails as we turn the final bend and home is in sight.

Nonna pauses, to rest on the scooter, “he will be in the dramatics I think!” she yells, not because she is without her hearing aids but because her grandson is so loud. Maybe Nonna is right? A career a thespian career. At least his voice will carry without the need for a microphone. No need for a voice coach, he's a natural.

Can't swim? Chuck em in the deep end.

I chat to my "chum" via e-mail, about our families and how their reactions are so pivotal to our own well being. The issue of the extended family, as opposed to the tiny autism unit has great repercussions. Unless families are geographically and perhaps psychologically close, it can be difficult to translate the message, to explain how autism impacts the day-to-day minutiae of life. What hits home for me, is her reference to the fact that we, as parents, give the impression that "we’re coping."

It puts me in mind of a visit home to England, over a year ago now.

Because we were in England there was the inevitable dose of rain. My youngest son does not ‘do’ rain. Rain is a curse from on high to torture the tactile and sensory challenged child. For many an autistic child, their emotions are either off or on, there is no degree of grey.

Thus is was, that we made a trip to the aquarium. I was armed with enough umbrellas and rain gear to fit out a small army unit but as the miles clocked up on the car, the anxiety rose exponentially. He watched the rain from within the safe confines of the car, agitated and quaking in anticipation of the possibility that at some stage in the near future he might have to venture forth and exit the car.

If you say to someone, anyone, ‘he just doesn’t do rain,’ it is hardly surprising that this fails to translate. There is nothing like witnessing ‘he doesn’t do rain,’ to get the message across more poignantly than mere words can describe.


We arrive at the crowded car park, a pay and display type. Their father leaves to fight with change and a queue at the payment machine. I am left with three small children and my elderly parents. They slowly adjust buttons and tweak umbrellas, as I attempt to gather the children. My daughter knows what’s in store, jumps out of the car and hares over to her dad to avoid the fall out. Her traffic sense abandons her in the rush, but luck is on our side, as an unsupervised 8 year old dashes across the traffic to the safety of her father’s side. My eldest son tumbles out of the car a little like how you fall out of bed first thing in the morning, drowsy, befuddled and uncoordinated. My parents wait patiently for our group to reassemble so that we can move as one party.

My son continues to bumble about between the cars oblivious to traffic and the rain. All he needs to do is stand still but instead he lurches around like a badly strung marionette with a novice puppeteer. I have never been certain whether car journey’s disorientate him or whether his gyroscope takes time to calm down, but the net effect visually, is a drunken sailor. I speak to my father in a tone that I have never used before, “hold him!” My father blinks, uncertain whether I am talking to him or a stranger. He steps to one side to block his escape, but it’s not enough, “hold onto him! Hold his hand or his arm!” My father is even more startled but tries hard to clutch the moving target.

Everyone waits in the rain. Minutes tick by. I submit to peer pressure because I am spineless to the core. My mother stands nearby as I begin the last hurdle. I open the car door where my youngest son is curled into a small ball in the foot well of the car. I slip my hands under his arms and around his chest to lift and extract him. He immediately starts to scream and flail struggling to find a purchase. I can feel my mother flinch as she takes another step backwards to make way. He clings to the door frame as my grip slips to his waist. His legs kick violently and try to push me away but I am stronger than he is. I uncurl his fingers with one hand whilst holding the spoon position with the other arm. As the last finger tip is unfastened we catapult out of the car. Now the whole world is witness to a full level ten meltdown, a roiling ball of flames in the pitter patter of raindrops. He is puce in the face, slick with snot and furious tears of the fearful. Passersby cannot help but look. The tantrum of a toddler in the body of a six year old in beyond comprehension. His desperation is palpable.

All of this was completely predictable. For some reason, cushioned in my extended family unit, I had failed to acknowledge or prepare for the inevitable, as if some magic wand would whisk it all away so that we could pretend to be an ordinary family on an ordinary day trip. I cannot fathom the depths of my own guilt, that I could hoodwink autism, that I could delude my parents, that I could subject my whole family to another public display of humiliation, that I could torture my son in this excruciating manner.

He flips into a tip toed rain dance before scrabbling up my body like a monkey. His arms are around my neck, his legs encircle my waist as his head buries itself in my sternum. My mother leans the umbrella over us both but he is so frenzied the absence or presence of rain is completely off his radar. His screams lower to growls as he chews the neck of my T-shirt, a coping and self calming gesture. I can see my father’s grip on my other sons arm, tighten as he twirls like a limp, damp, spiraling tissue, the dog entangled in the lead.

The eye of the storm passed as we stood in the drizzle in the car park. Of the many people who observed us, the cloud of disapproval was pierced by a few pairs of eyes. Those eyes belonged to people who could not identify what they were looking at. I imagine that they had a visceral response to seeing a child is such obvious distress but were unable to to see any evidence or cause of the harm. I could see their hesitation, the need to step in an offer help and yet the innate knowledge that everyone was out of their depth.

I wait for either of my parents to speak, as I catch my breath. I see spouse and my daughter gallop back on their return journey. I find it ironic that I spent the majority of the car trip lecturing, in far too much detail, why the ‘no carrying under any circumstances campaign’ was so important. Fortunately, no-one mentions my monologue. “Is it…is he……are they……always like this?” she asks softly. I look at my mother, her face is a study of concern and compassion. “Well, you know……” I smile, as I cannot bear her vicarious pain, “there ain’t no rain in California.”

p.s. In case you are worried that some autistic children can never adjust to 'weather,' I can assure you that with a carefully orchestrated desensitization plan, over time and frequent exposure, I am confident that this is another hurdle he can overcome, just as we are enmeshed and make progress with the 'outside' campaign.

Ms. Nightingale’s services are not required

“Agh! Agh! AGH!”

I fly to his side as he has surely impaled himself on a dagger.

I see vast quantities of tears, snot and drool, but it’s definitely a blood free zone. Fooled again! I wait. I wait until the screams can turn into some words.

“It….is……badddd!” Great, and we’re off to a swimming start.
“What’s bad dear?”

He doesn’t speak but raises a quivering finger tip to my nose without making contact. I feel my eyes cross.

“Oh dear, that is bad,” I lie.
“Bad! BaD! BAD!” he bellows.


I am still none the wiser. Sensitive, intuitive parents are so in tune with their children that they can get away without words. Other lesser mortals need every clue I can get. I notice that he holds a pair of nail clippers in his other hand. Aha! I reach for his hand and examine the offending finger again. His overly long, crud filled nails, have one little sliver adrift.

“Shall I nip that off for you?”



“NO! Don touch it!”

It was a silly offer. I know he has to do these things for himself, without assistance. He will master the skill or die in the process of learning.

“I am bad. I am bad. I am bad.”
“No you’re not lovey, this is a tricky thing to do. It’s so…….tiny.”

How frustrating it must be, to have such an eye for detail but the fine motor skills of a Sherman tank?



“It not tiny, it……….gigantic!” His fingers, or rather his finger tips, are only slightly less sensitive than the area above his shoulders, another 'off limits' space.

Nail and hair cutting can be a difficult arena for many a child, but once you dip into the murky waters of tactile defensiveness, the barrier is cordoned off with barbed wire.

The days when I would sneak into his room at night to try and snip a bit of this or trim a bit of that are long gone. That campaign was a failure, like so many others.

The only true solution is self help. I am relegated to the background, to the role of coach and cheerleader.

Maybe we're both graduating?

The truth of the matter

When it comes to family life few people are able to imagine the mental torture of my existence.

It’s not just the obvious things like Hermit crab maintenance but other matters such as a well balanced nutritional diet for my off-spring.

Like all parents I am keen that mine should have a good start in life, as encompassed by balanced nutrition. The rules of the food pyramid are carved on the other side of my endless grocery shopping list. I have the advantage of speed reading labels, so that I am instantly able to recognize junk food. In case you have trouble in this area, if you pick up a packet of food and the ingredients list is longer that 10, chuck it back on the shelf and save the strain on your bifocals.

I am happy to accommodate reasonable food preferences, fads and fancies within the usual budgetary restraints, but I have the added burden of different calculations, not mere financial ones. This burden becomes all the more obvious to me after my spouse returns home after a quick emergency yummies trip to Trader Joes. Clearly the man is clueless, witless and in need of a sugar fix.
“Look at these!” he beams as he shakes the ‘bake to crisp up’ rolls that were going cheap at the end of the day.
“He doesn’t eat that kind of bread and he certainly won’t eat it if it’s hot!” My mind calculates the trajectory of just how far crispy crumbs could ping over a ten foot area of dining room?
“What about this!”
“Hmm, it should probably be chilled.” Half an hour in the fridge will engender the Blackberry Crush undrinkable by one and may just save us from the staining of hands, clothes and anything else within transit duty. Gross motor skills aside they could do without the empty calories and sugar rush.
“I thought this might tickle your fancy?” I smile appreciatively at the Naan bread. “Soft!” he coos as he pats my cheek that hides my malfunctioning fake teeth, although now I’ll have to make a curry to go with it, that only two people, adult people, will eat. He has bought enough exotic frozen food to feed a class of hungry foreign Kindergardeners, even though the freezer is already over flowing.
“And finally,” he announces with a flourish, “my all time favourite, Panettone!” I disguise my grimace. “It’s o.k. I know they’ve had dinner, this can be a dessert!” I pull a face. “It’s o.k., it’s really only sweet bread, very few crumbs and enough dried fruit it in to make it a nutritional feast.” He beams.

Those genes, the Italian ones, will out!

I know he's almost right. I give up.

What is wrong with you!

Parents throughout the world are careful to advise their children of the dangers of our modern existence. Stranger Danger refers to an earlier era, but the message remains the same. Discernment and discrimination are high functioning skills for small people to acquire, which is not helped by the confusing message that parents attempt to convey but all too frequently bungle. It’s someone you don’t know but also someone that you might. The stranger is a scary person but may be someone that you know. If your child already has some additional difficulties, a parents attempts at communication may flounder all the sooner.

The message from school, following a stranger awareness lesson is probably delivered in a far more efficient manner than we have managed at home, but this was a couple of years ago now, when their powers of speech were more limited. He must have been about six years old when I realized that he had two teeth where he should have had only one. I remember feeling slightly light headed at the sight of the new adult tooth standing boldly behind the wibbly wobbly baby tooth, thoroughly disconcerting. Even though he was my third child I had never come across the double teeth phenomenon, which is apparently all to common and normal.

This was the first tooth that he was about to lose, a cause of a great deal of angst for him. My attempts at explaining what was about to take place only made the situation worse. He advised me in far fewer words, that he wished to hold on to all of his current bodily parts and was unwilling to donate any of them, not matter how worthy the cause.

Like many anxious moments in childhood, the lead up to the event, was far more traumatic that the result. The tooth fell, accompanied by a microdot of blood and all was well. His countenance was a study of surprise but otherwise the drama was over.

The drama was over until nightfall when tucking in time arrived. I admit it was sheer folly on my part, but sometimes parents just follow a familiar groove without the benefit of any brain waves. I would say on his behalf that I fully indorse his view that it is unhygienic to put a tooth of any size under one’s pillow, with hindsight.

In those days, an exchange of information could take a very long time. In those days, if the topic was also stressful, the exchange was accompanied with frequent meltdowns which meant that a simple exchange could take several hours.
“It is a boy or a girl?”
“Um?”
“Dah toof fairy?”
“Oh yes, she’s a girl.”
“She is fly?”
“Yes, she flies.”
“She is read?”
“She changes colour. Whatever colour you like best.”
“No! Read!”
“Oh right. Yes, she can read and often enjoys a mystery novel in her spare time.”

Thus it was, that after a considerable period of time, my son accompanied me around the house, late in the night. We plastered A4 sized pieces of paper on many of the relevant doors. Even then, his logic was impeccable. To me, this isn't autism this is merely the application of common sense. We covered all probable entry points, including the fireplace, to leave the message ‘no fairies allowed.’

A question of degree

He’s not really hungry an hour after lunch but it’s a quiet moment. Often, during quiet moments their father will stand in front of the open cupboard searching for inspiration. The inspiration he seeks most usually comes in the form of biscuits and other treats. I notice that diabetics also seek the same inspiration during noisy moments, but maybe it’s only solace?
“Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich if you’re hungry?” I mention rhetorically. He ambles reluctantly away from his mental crutch to begin sandwich assembly. I am busy in the kitchen, the very small galley kitchen. It is not possible to be furtive in a very small kitchen with two people, but that doesn’t prevent him from trying.

Life partners are able to communicate without words. I look at his half made sandwich. The inch thick layer of butter is not beneficial to a person with high cholesterol and dodgy blood pressure. I look at him, so that the message will pass one to another. He sighs because I am a kill joy as he scraps of the surplus and deposits it back into the butter dish, crumbs, debris and all. I raise an eyebrow towards the contamination. His shoulders shrug as he removes the detritus with his knife. The knife, detritus and extra butter lie on the edge of the plate. I turn to hang up the saucepans. His body movements are entirely predictable as I see out of the back of my head. I flip around to see the knife whip out of his mouth. He is able to read my eyebrows; ‘you’ll cut off your tongue!’ His first born son blunders into the kitchen, no doubt lured by the smells. He staggers about with the uncertainty of a drunk heat seeking missile. Synapses fire as he spots the butter dish and glides past with a co-ordinated scoop, duck and dive for cover sequence. Purposeful but wordless. I frown with disapproval, his father grins.

Now would seem as good a time as any to make an afternoon snack for all the hungry tummies that are about to enquire when the next nose bag will be available? A pre-emptive strike on my part. I assemble calories in a simple trough formation, chips and dip in the middle of the table and call in the farrow. I scatter Goldfish crackers into a bowl for the youngest, whilst I tutor his older sister in the art of table manners. It is a standard list of the ‘elbows off the table’ variety but lengthy none the less. With her as their role model, the boys, all of them, attempt to copy. Three pairs of additional elbows of varying sizes, slip off the table.
“It’s not fair, why dontcha tell them to do it too?”
“Well you’re doing such a great job of showing them how yourself!”
“You’d never let me do that!”
“Do what dear?”
“Like him!” she nods as her little brother.
“He’s doing great too dear.”
“Huh?”
“Well, he’s at the table, he’s eating, there’s no motor mouth……he’s doing a great job!”
“Yes right!” I may not be all that quick but even I can detect the note of sarcasm of pre-teen attitude.
“Don’t you think he’s doing well? We’ll be able to have another try at eating at a restaurant again?” The eye roll response is a little disheartening if not irritating. “Come on dear, you could try and be a little more positive when he tries so hard?”
“Fat chance!”
Well really! I turn to the little one stuffing in the last couple of Goldfish.
“You can use your good manners again in a restaurant can’t you dear?”
“Yeph!” he sputters crumbs.
“There you go!” I beam at her.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“We can’t go to a restaurant with him like that!”
“Like what?”
“Look!” she demands. I look. I see a nearly, seven year old, approximately sitting on his hunkers on a chair, fairly near to the table. Not static but not stimming.
“What? He looks great to me?”
“He ain’t got no pants er trousers on!”

Clearly my bifocals and campaign trails are in need of a few more minor adjustments.

Puppy dogs tails indeed

“Let me out, let me out, let me out!” he yells as we beetle along the freeway at 65 mph.

“Don’t be so stoopid, Mom’s drivin yur nit wit, you’ll be smooshed like a peach, road rash.”

He continues to flail, buck and kick much as he did in the old days.

“What is yur problem?” she asks in the vernacular.
“It be dirt,” he mutters , in a secret tone.
“What’s dirty?”
“Dah window,” he whispers. I can see them in the rear view mirror. I can’t work out why he should this share this information in such a furtive manner.
“Ooo that’s not dirt, that’s bird poop.”
“Bird poop?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s not dirt it’s just a lil ole drop a bird poop.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why dere is bird poop on dah car?”
“Er geez I don know. Bird flies. Bird poops. Happens to hit the car I guess.”
A brief silence follows.
“Birds are do poop and be fly too?” I do not like the way this conversation develops. It is already very difficult for his bottom to make contact with the toilet seat. I do not wish to provide him with further ammunition.
“Don’t worry dear, we’ll clean it up when we get home. It is on the outside of the window afterall.”
“Of course!” he snorts.
“Of course what dear?”
“Stoopid.”
“Pardon!”
“Stoopid!” he yells a little louder this time, just in case I didn’t catch it the first time. Can someone save me from myself!
“I meant, ‘what’ is stoopid?”
“You coz dah birds are not fly in dah car, dey are fly in dah sky.” I ignore the mental gymnastics of my tiny bird brain and concentrate on driving.
“Stop dah car! You need be clean it now!”
“We’ll be home in a jiffy! I’ll clean it then.” We pull into the driveway and crawl into the garage. He’s out in a trice with his usual fight or flight response. The others tumble after him. We immediately experience a traffic jam in the garage, two try to get in to the house and one tries to get back out. “I need it. I need it. I need it!” he squalks at them as he wades his way past them, battling upstream. Each hand holds a little white flag. Closer inspection shows that the flags are Wet Wipes as he attacks the car window with a flourish of fury. So much for tactile defensiveness or is there merely OCD gone mad?
“Oh thank you dear, that is so helpful. What a great job you’re doing! I was going to do that in just a moment.”
“Das o.k. Your brain is old and mold. You are forget.” It's the kind of back handed compliment you'd expect from a Brit.
“Oh….I...er...”
“And……..you be er... old and mold turtle.”
"Turtle? I didn't know tortoises were forgetful? Do you mean elephant?"
"Nooo. Elephants do good remember. Turtles are be slow." Oh dear, in more ways than one I fear.

In my defense, I should like to point out that there is a fine line between truth and accuracy.

Unravelling the Devil's work

I am neither a soothsayer nor a sales person, but I would hazard a guess about the trajectory of many a child. They commence dabbling with dinosaurs, trundle into Thomas and his rabble, plunge into Pokemon and then yield to Yugio. After that, I seek input.

Each of these phases results in considerable financial investment by the parent, no matter how reluctant. To be fair I was quite happy with the first two, but seriously troubled by the third. To me, Pokemon were the lowest of the low, nasty, cheap little figurines. Although I knew nothing about them at all, I disliked the cartoons which to my untutored eye had an air of violence and brashness.

With all their obsessions to date, eventually, I have reluctantly capitulated. If you can no longer tempt a child to put a foot through their trouser legs with a smiley Thomas face, you have few options but to put a Pokemon scowl there instead, if you ever how to achieved 'dressed' status.

After two years in the Pokemon phase of development, they have infiltrated every nook and cranny of our daily existence. Their purposes as so many and varied, that life would come to a half without their motivational force. Now that I have watched the cartoons, I would acknowledge that they are largely innocuous, no worse and no better than others of their ilk. The predominant theme is 'good triumphs over bad,' which overall could be a darned sight worse. But I digress.

Firstly, I should point out that no-one is to blame for dropping little triggers into my children's life. I'm all for free speech, but sometimes a casual comment can worm it's way in to someone's psyche with unforeseen consequences.

I tuck them all in at night. Whilst I chat to his brother, I can hear the occupant in the next bed 'self talking': 'weavil, deevil, evil, meevil,' interspersed with giggles and mouth breathing gusts. I come to him, last one, the little one, his turn. Nearly seven already but with a speech delay. The 'delay' is catching up, the gap narrows. He may sound like a four year old with a mouth full of marbles but that should not deceive us.


"What it is?"
"What is what dear?"
"Dah 'evil'?"
"Evil? Well it's the worst of the worst, the baddest of the bad." He gasps wide eyed and claps his hands over his mouth, a sealant. I wait for further and better particulars.
"But dey are not dah badest of dah bad, day are da good guys!"
"Who are the good guys?"
"Da Pokemons!"
"Er yes, I think you're right. They are the good guys," I agree, wondering what the real issue is here?
"But, but, but.......she is telling dah lie?"
"Who is lying?"
"Da teacher!"
"Which teacher?"
"Da teacher who is being at my school."
"Which teacher?"
"Da one who is saying dat the Pokemons dey are evil."
Whilst I am tempted to ask again, I doubt if I will gain any further relevant nuggets of information. For them, like many children, most situations are black and white, the grey areas are few and far between. Now we have reached an impasse. Teachers are a given 'good,' therefore they do not lie. It's an area of cognitive dissonance, both facts cannot be true at the same time. He starts to bleat as his brain whirs to try and resolve the dilemma.
"You know how you like Goldfish?"
"Um...er.......yes." He pauses whilst my brain whirs too.
"You think they're the greatest, right?"
"Er.....yes." After each utterance he clamps his hands back over his mouth to stop additional words escaping in or out.
"You know that I don't like Goldfish right?"
"You don't like em?" He sounds genuinely.
"Have you ever seen me eat them?"

"Er no.."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Er.....coz I am a bad sharer?" Brilliant!
"Good answer, but no, it's because I don't like them, they're yucky for me." His eyes are on stalks of disbelief.
"But everybody......!"
"Not everybody. You remember people like different things?"
"Hmmmm......"
"And dislike different things."
"Er.....and fink different things?"
"Spot on! That's right. It's o.k. for people to think different things."
"She are not lie?"
"It's not a lie if that's what she thinks is it?"
"Er....no.....da o.k., ......I fink."
Horray! Now that's an outcome that I would never have predicted a few years ago, but I did mention that I'm a bit remiss in the fortune telling department. That's all we really want, just a little tolerance. It can go such a long way.

The yolk’s on me

The are a few basic principles to adhere to when it comes to speech delays. First and foremost, language should be simple. Few words to aid comprehension and communication. Initially, this may be just learning one word. Ideally the first word for an autistic child to learn would be ‘yes.’ As often as not, the first word they learn, just like other children, is ‘no,’ or maybe that’s just mine.

As the years pass, more advanced skills should be acquired by the parent. One of these, a hesitant one for some, is to try and correct errors. It’s a hesitant step because when words begin to flow a parent may not want to risk drying up the creek.

One technique that I thoroughly endorse but rarely put into practice, is to repeat whatever the child says back to them, in the corrected format. Hence, when a child says ‘give duck me,’ the parent repeats ‘give the duck to me,’ perhaps with a please thrown in for good measure. Only a couple more words. Perhaps a different timbre and emphasis. I could also add some volume control, if I really wanted to ice the cake.

Strangely, I find that rather than adopting this technique, their speech corrupts my own brainwaves, so instead of correcting them, I copy their mode of speech, by accident. Oddly, I find that other people, intelligent people, fall into the same trap, but I have no idea why?

Actually, that’s not quite true in this particular instance. In this situation my brain is confused because my son is voluntarily having a conversation with someone. He has not been prompted and forced to use his social skills. He has initiated a conversation himself. He is interested in talking to her. He asks pertinent questions with the correct preposition. He doesn’t assault her with a monologue about Pokemon. He remains relatively static.

They are all the kind of questions that anyone might ask when they meet someone new, anyone except my boys, until recently. Many young children ask inappropriate questions, often related to their own interests or perspectives, but if those viewpoints are more obscure, the questions can be disconcerting: ‘do you like Oddish or Turtwig?’ ‘do you have a chair made of Platinum?’ ‘Is Pirelli your favourite?’ Such questions come out of the blue without preamble or context. They are a great advance.

Prior to the question stage, you have the ‘random statement’ phase. The child wants to connect but doesn’t know how? When language is difficult, the result can be startling: ‘I am a Triceratops,’ ‘Charmeleon is a fire type,’ ‘ Goldfish are the bestest.’ At first, as a parent, your heart stops beating when they make their first attempts at contact. The realization that they’re trying to communicate is frozen by the oddity of their delivery.


Fortunately, it is my experience, that the majority of people are open hearted and patient. There is some hidden clue in the human psyche that allows people to take a breath, tune in and give a moment of their attention to the messenger, if not the actual message.

My chum chats to my child.
“Who you are be?”
“I be…..um, I am Mary.”
“What you are be?”
“I be….er I mean….I am a lawyer.”
“What it is being, dah lawyer?”
“A lawyer is being…..a lawyer is someone who…..helps people with the law.”
“What it is be, dah ‘law’?”
“The ‘law’ be…….is a set of rules. Everyone has to follow the same rules or it wouldn’t’ be fair.”
“We be good rules in dis house.”
“Oh good.”
“Are you be good or are you be bad?”
“I be…..we try to be good in our house too.”
“Is it be jail?”
“Is what be….is what jail?”
“Your house?”
“No, I don’t live in a jail. We have an ordinary house just like you.”
“Our house dun bin ordinary.” I have an uneasy feeling.
“No?” Perhaps I should terminate this conversation or change the subject?
“Our house dun bin extraordinary.” Oh dear! What on earth is he going to come up with now?
“Really. In what way?” Her lawyerly cross examination techniques begin to scare me.
“Our house……....it is dah secret?” Secret! I should try and shut him up? Perhaps he’ll just revert to some pleasant irrelevant Pokemon facts?
“I don’t know, is it a secret?” she entices. Please don’t let it be a secret? Where’s the pause button? Can’t we talk about dinosaurs or Thomas and his rabble? I am homesick for the old days.
“Er……no, I don fink it is dah secret……our house dun bin extraordinary because dis is dah Cape Cod house and……..we are not live in Cape Cod……..we are be live in San Jose! Get it?” He roars with laughter and collapses on the floor to roll around in a galaxy of guffaws. This is probably the very nearest he has ever been, to a joke.

Some things are best left without translation

cairn definition

noun = A mound of stones erected as a memorial or marker.
cairn etymology

[Middle English carne, from Scottish Gaelic carn, from Old Irish.]

Most people would imagine that when children have speech delays that language use should be a carefully orchestrated affair. I expect that's correct in many households. Parents can learn a great deal from observing a speech pathologist and adopt their techniques, or an amateurish version in our case. Good parents, if they try hard, may be able to adapt their approach for a significant percentage of the day. Lesser parents have lower standards and slip into sloppy habits as the percentage of words increases over time. Some parents are so careless that they fail to keep a list of dangerous trigger words at the forefront of their brains. Words like 'death,' or 'pretend,' or 'outside.' Or they forget which child has which trigger words and all their derivative words. Some muddle which one cannot be touched and which one needs deep tissue massages, frequently. A small percentage of parents do not acknowledge that their home is really bilingual. As the parents get older, not only do they forget what they're supposed to be doing right now, they also forget the very recent past.

In the recent past, we moved into our current home with two girls, a big one and a little one. It was a pregnant pause before a brother arrived. The little one's goldfish did not survive the shock and committed suicide by hurling himself into the garbage disposal unit. The death leap was witnessed by the owner, a very short owner, who was therefore unable to count the slice and dice carnage. A small ceremonial was devised and the disguised goldfish chips were buried in the garden. We marked with the place with a pile of stones for time immemorial. But memories fade fast around here.

......

I drag everyone out into the garden on a blissful sunny afternoon. As usual, I bribe with the lowest common denominator, in this case, an afternoon snack. I hope that if they are exposed to the dappled fading light, they will be tempted to remain outside and play. I am equipped with last year's bubble making machine, batteries charged, which I place strategically in front of the door as both a distracter and a barrier, to prevent them from regaining entry.

They munch in a desultory manner, scowling at my deviousness.
"What's that mom?" she asks nodding towards the newly cleared flower bed.
"Well it looks sort like a cairn isn't it."
"What 'cairn' is?" When will I learn to think before I speak?
"Well, it's er, it's a memorial to mark a spot."
"What it is 'memorial.'?" Oh dear.
"Don't think 'memorial,' think 'marker' instead. It marks a special spot."
"Marker, marker! marker?"
"That's right."
"What colour it is?"
"Colour?"
"Yes, dah marker, what colour it is being?"
"Oh not that kind of marker, um.....'X' marks the spot kind of mark."
"Why it special?"
"Don't you see the stick of bells? Can you hear them tinkling?"
"I do not like the crashing noises."
"Er why why why we have bells in dah garden?"
"They were a gift when we first moved in here, they're older than you are!"
"Bells in dah garden is stoopid." I look around my garden which is covered in painted shapes, numbers and letters of the alphabet, all evidence of the lures and entrapments to entice them into the yard by fair means or foul. Since they are never in the garden, how could they possibly know what is 'supposed' to be in one?

I bury my negative thoughts, and inter my ire, if not my urn. Any semblance of conducting a logical conversation has turned to ash. I consider myself lucky to have avoided the 'death' issue. My nerves may jangle but the jingle of bells is now tolerable.

All the same

I prepare supper during the 30 minute television session, a reward for job chores, or task completion as my professional pals tell me. I clatter in the kitchen half listening to the radio news and half listening to the television.

My son appears by my side, pogoing with unsuppressed excitement. Each hand grasps the other. His even teeth are exposed in a happy grin. He continues to bounce waiting for words to formulate and percolate. I stir the sauce in the pan and count each stroke as he brews up to 15. I turn myself towards him with my ‘expectant’ face on. He is on the side of slender, enjoys a wide ranging diet, can be tempted into trying ‘new food,’ and is the slowest eater on the planet. Like most children he loves ice-cream. Dessert is usually the reward for that which comes before. He is often hungry but not really a foodie, more of a re-fueller. I believe that there are children who relish their food. I distinctly recall from my own childhood that meals were merely a hurdle to overcome before you could go back to doing what ever you were doing. Whatever you were doing, was always far more interesting than meal times and my mum was a very good cook.

He gives up the word search, stops pogoing and grabs my wrist to pull me in the direction of the family room. This is hand leading, a skill more often associated with very young children, a recent development that I am thoroughly enjoying. After two or three steps in the right direction, some words catch up with him, “come on! Come see this!” This is an added bonus for me because shared or joint attention to some trivial matter, is also a common feature of early childhood that has been absent here.

He pogos in front of the television screen, his right arm crooked and poised. His timing is off, but nevertheless, his arm shoots out a second or two later to point at the advertisement, “look!” I oblige. I witness an advertisement for a junk food snack, a savoury one, chicken dunks. It looks utterly repulsive. I imagine that the list of additives will be far longer than any real ingredients. The ‘food’ comes with free toys. The free toys are not Pokemon, and not related to any other current interest of his.

He has never shown any interest in food of this kind. There again I have recently discovered that he swaps food at lunch time with his pal at school. My son gives his preferred snack to his pal and in return, his pal gives my son something that he doesn’t like, some kind of chips. My son knows that most children like these chips. His Aides tell me that he does a jolly good job of expressing genuine glee on receipt of something that he is indifferent to, at best. I am uncertain if he does this to please his friend, to fit in with his peers or both? Quite frankly, I couldn’t care less, as either or both are such a huge leap in "social awareness" that it’s enough to send a mother to the junk food aisle post haste. Having just read how other parents cope with their "adult autistic offspring," I find that I cannot help but treasure every tiny indicator that things might turn out otherwise. Not better, just "happier."

This is not the kind of food I want any of my children to be eating because I am a pretentious food snob with the income and free time to back it up.
"Please! We be having dah fun food?" he whispers breathily. His sister looks over with equal longing. To have two of my children enjoy the same dinner would be quite a coup for someone like me, the short order chef. I look from one to the other, teetering on my pedestal, or is that food pyrimid, when the little one crashes in to dash their hopes, "dah food is not fun! Dat is sooooo stoopid! Food is never dah fun!" he spurts in a tone of outrage and bewilderment.

Now although both boys have speech delays, my older son has greater difficulty, which causes no end of complications. However, lately it he has been more proactive about this obvious discrepancy. Rather than fight back with words, his weak suit, he avoids arguments by simply launching himself on his little brother, knocks him flat and lies on him. Initially this appears to be very aggressive behaviour, but neither seems to object particularly. The little one gives a little 'poof' of surprise, as they topple over. They both lie there for a little while wordless and calm. After a few moments, the big one rolls off the little one and all seems to be well. It's a coping mechanism that seems to work for both of them. Hey! They're brothers afterall.

Full of potential

It’s not an interview. It’s more of an on site evaluation. The new potential baby sitter is of course foreign. This means she is far superior to the local version, where children are parked in front of the telly as soon as you leave the house.

I watch her reactions carefully, and completely ignore the antics of my children. Her arrival is timed perfectly. My youngest son is in full level 10 meltdown because his chores are incomplete and electronics time is therefore delayed. I am tempted to capitulate and create a good impression. He flails on the floor at full volume at the outrageousness and unfairness of my rules. “I am dah hate you, bad, bad, bad!” he shrieks. I sequence the other two young people through their ‘greeting new people’ steps, although it is difficult to hear anything at all with the screamer in tow.

I explain a few basics as we step over the riling body of my youngest. Her eyes are wide but she not on retreat. “He’s a bit of a drama queen,” I mention in passing. I explain pertinent facts to assist her and the simple evening routine, tidy toys, clean teeth, wash face and hands, put on your pyjamas, which I expect exactly matches the routine in 99% of American households.

I am in mid sentence as junior bolts for the door, or rather bolts for the chair that elevates his diminished stature, that permits him to remove the deadbolt and bolt into the garden to the street.

We retrieve him. “I hate you! You are bad bad bad. I am go!” He marches through the house in the opposite direction with the determination appropriate to a monarch.
“Does he say that a lot?” asks the baby sitter.
“Every day,” I reply.
“Wow, I thought it was just me?” she wavers. "I mean, my 9 year old says that all the time!"

I look at the new potential baby sitter with more warmth. We are all parents and sometimes it’s hard to work out what is autism and what is typical?
I race after him and the baby sitter follows my steps just in time to witness his contact with the button that opens the garage door to facilitate his escape. An alternative route to adoption.
“Sorry there’s so many doors,” I whimper, “he’ll be just fine if he get to ‘electronics.’ I just need to guide him to that point.”
I have already explained the significance of electronics. I know that she gets it. I can see it in her eyes, in her body language.

Every so often, some kindly parent takes pity on me. I thought I knew about girls but boys were a different species, a species I knew nothing about. Generous people throw me balm and help recalibrate my brain. Just yesterday I was in mid moan to a pal:
“Geez Madz! Get over yourself why don’t yah! My boys piss on the walls and floor all the time! That’s not autism!” I resist the urge to kiss her manicured toe nails for the unwarranted gift of a seductive dose of sanity.

Justifiable Homicide

Lets not get bogged down in legalese here.

We’ve all watched enough crime programmes on the telly, to know what we’re talking about. If you do something really, really bad, I can do away with you. I would have justification. So very simple.

Once I have cleaned my bifocals, I in command of the true nature of the crime. Only yesterday we discussed the meaning of ‘signature’ and the legal implications thereto. I was careful to explain the mystifying difference between signing your name and your signature. I remembered that I had been baffled by this distinction as a child myself. Now I find that her signature is everywhere and not just on paper. It’s on a wide variety of furniture and domestic appliances. I find it on clothing, clothing that isn’t even necessarily hers. I am incensed. I am fully justified.

I hunt her down. There shall be no mercy, although the possibility of Mr. Muscle to the rescue hasn’t been ruled out.
“And what exactly do you have to say for yourself?” I demand with my breast puffed up like a rooster, or possibly a recently plucked chicken.
“Huh?” Don’t you give me that picture of innocence face, I am in no mood.
“Why have you scribbled your name over everything?”
“My what?”
“You name, your signature! Look it’s everywhere.” She follows my finger.
“Oh that’s not me.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s not me’? It’s your name!”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Why did you do it?”
“But I didn’t.”
“There’s no point in denying it. It’s going to take ages to clean up and you are going to help me.”
“But it wasn’t me! It was him!” She points at the smallest member of the family, him with the grin. I march over to address him, if not mail him without a 'return to sender' sticker. He plays with the pen, twiddles it like a majorette.
“I be write,” he giggles.
“I can see that! Did you write her name?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because she was beed dah annoying.”
I’ll give him annoying!

"Did you see what he wrote on the underside of the table?"
"The what?"
"Look! Under here." I step over towards her and peer.


Still, at least it wasn't the top side of the table I suppose!


Moral - when you carefully explain a distinction and definition to one child, be aware that other people may have a different and distinctive predisposition.

The master plan unravels

My daughter was born in December.

By the time Halloween came around she was ten months old and running. I accepted that I had given birth to a speedy American and that it was entirely my own fault because I had submitted my pregnant bod to an aerobics instructor course.

I knew that I was allergic to exercise but so many of my new pals were American. All Americans without exception are exercise mad. ‘Just try it! You’ll love it Madz!’ I decided that I would prove everybody wrong, so that they would all leave me and my ever growing bump in peace. The net result was a bouncing baby who still bounces to this day.

I also accepted that we must jump on the consumer band wagon and take part in the ridiculous charade of Halloween. I made her a Ladybird costume in a sleeping bag format, so that I could carry her around safely. As it transpired, she escaped, put her round little feet in each corner and pinged around the neighbourhood like a yoyo.

The following year she had a brother. I put him in the ladybird costume at 4 months. I made a new one for her, a bee costume complete with wings. Fortunately she remained on the ground.

Then I made a new one for her, a dragon costume and moved her younger siblings into the smaller alternatives. I planned to make a new one for the biggest one every year, unisex, attractive and non-commercial. It was the perfect plan.


The perfect plan failed due to a wide variety of variables that I had failed to foresee. I failed to predict that children do not grow in a uniform trajectory. Their little bodies did not remain two to three inches apart in height. All too frequently the boys were more or less the same height. If they were sitting they were often mistaken for twins. Growth spurts and plateaus sometimes left me with triplets. It was exasperating. It was all an evil plot to derail the costume campaign.

I’ll gloss over the sensory issues for now, as it would never do to explain how I had to duct tape my child into his head dress. Suffice to say, that here and now, we enjoy a different reality than we once did.

“Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice!” he chants in his robot voice, quoting Ben 10, the latest children’s programme produced specifically to torture parents.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?” I wait for his older brother to gain the power of speech. It is very hard to gain the power of speech if there is a noisy mosquito circling you chanting “Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice!” in a very annoying motor mouth voice. He stands still as he hunts for the words whilst he little brother continues to dart and chant.
“You are buy it for me?”
“Buy what dear?”
His eyes are distracted by the cavorting brother, but he manages to get back on track without swatting the mosquito.
“You are buy dah costume for me?”
“Which costume dear?”
“Dah Ben 10 Alien costume.” Hallelujah! He got there. I’m ready.
“Well I already looked online for you and this is the only one I can find.” I guide him to the computer screen to examine the view, a disappointing one, frightfully dull.
“Ahhh oooooo!” he squirms with glee. I look over his shoulder to check that he hasn’t accidentally nudged a button and changed the screen. He hasn’t.
“You are buy for me?” he squeaks his eyes about to burst from his skull.
“Er…..are you sure? Is that really what you want?”
“Yes yes, yes!” he responds immediately with no delay, no stutter and no wriggle room. I look at the screen. “But it’s just a boring old T-shirt with some baggy pants. We could buy something like that from Target. In fact you’ve probably already have a pair of baggy grey pants like that.”
“No, no, no. I need it.”
“It doesn’t come with the shoes you know. Look. See there? ‘Not included.’” He does press ups on the kitchen counter to lock and unlock his arms, lift and drop his feet whilst the words percolate up from somewhere or other.

Whilst I wait for the percolation process to proceed, I think of my pal and her not so little girl. Three years ago her white frock made her into a Princess. The following year that same dress made her into an Angel. This year, that very same dress brushes her mid calf as she is dressed like Princess Lea, now that her hair is long enough to be coiled in two lumps either side of her head. One dress, three years worth of dress up on Halloween. Things are quite different around here, whimsical and extravagant.

I look at my whimsical and extravagant child, even though my own reflection peeks back at me from the computer screen. He doesn’t want to wear something home made and unique. He wants to wear something mass produced, selected to impress his peer group, now that he has one, a peer group that is to say.



N.B. the photographs are by way of a public service announcement = the road ahead for a certain percentage of the population. If you doubt my veracity, you will find that other "mums"
are of the same opinion, but got there "first."

If you have trouble loading this site or commenting, you can visit me on my duplicate "loads like a dream" site.

p.s. [to some] yes we did 'feel' the 5.6 quake. The 'locals' hardly batted an eyelid, but you've never seen two old crumbly aliens move so fast up a flight of stairs! One small female person was seriously rattled but everyone seemed to benefit from the tectonic plates 101 lecture, in between the Nebulizer treatments.