Christmas meme

"Elissa" from "Managing Autism" has tagged me this Christmas meme - tis the season to be tagged, it would appear.



“When people say ‘Christmas’ you immediately think…”

Quick! Remember to say 'Holiday!' Remember which land mass you're on!

“Favourite Christmas memory…”

Forgotten.

“Favourite Christmas song/carol…”

'God rest ye Merry Gentlemen' but only if choral [to save us all from Satan's power!] Strangely I know every word and yet I don't remember learning them.

“Favourite Christmas movie…”

The Snowman by Raymond Briggs

“Favourite Christmas character…”

Are there any? Father Christmas?

“Favourite Christmas ornament/object…”

See picture above, made by my eldest daughter's fair hands 20 years ago.

“Plans for this Christmas…”

Home with the family in-between packing for England and the "Wedding."

“Is Christmas your favourite holiday?”

Yes.



So I shall tag:-

"Art in the Garage"

"Patois" at "Whee All The Way Home."

"Terry" at "Planet3RRY"


"Angela" at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy"


"Tena" at "Inherwritemind1"


"Leanne" at "It's All Okay"

"Susan" at "West of Mars"

"The Ironic Catholic" that has to be a winner!

And "elasticwaistbandlady" at "The Smiling Infidel," what a combination.

Sorry it's so short but I'm preparing for the "sleepover" and I have a head-cold.

p.s. if you are one of the many kindly souls that sent me an 'e-card' and wonder why I have been so rude in not responding, have already crossed me off your Christmas card list for next year and are thoroughly miffed by my cold hearted rebuff, this is due to one of the following:-

a] the card is virtually real or
b] really virtual
and I am unable to distinguish one from the other. One or the other threatens to virtually wipe out my computer and really send me reeling, so I don't open either.

Cheers dearies

Myspace Graphics

Navigating the Social world

I have reason to believe that I am the sole arbiter of social norms.

Because I am a superior being in these matters, I have no problem advising my daughter when it comes to her birthday celebration. Our last December birthday, and then I may turn my attention to the other big holiday celebration, if I have an ounce of energy left.

“So how many are comin Mom?”
“Well I don’t really know. Definitely 5 maybe 7?” Presumably because I failed to translate R.S.V.P on the invitation? “Perhaps you could ask them to telephone me dear?”
“Sure.”
“Very good. So I’ll collect the cake after I’ve made room for it in the freezer.”
“Oh. About that.”
“About what?”
“We need a different cake.”
“A different cake from the special, made to order one, that you specifically choose as being your favourite, you mean?” Rather than the home made, artistically created with love version, from your mother? How many more 'sacrifices' do I have to make, deny my own pleasure, just so that she can be happy?
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Joanne don’t like ice-cream cake.”
“But YOU like ice-cream cake and it’s YOUR birthday.”
“Yeah but I want my friends to be happy too.” This is taking accommodation too far!
“Fair enough. How about I make another cake, a little one, that way every one will be happy?”
“Yeah and get some ice cream too.”
“What for?”
“To go with the cake that you’re gonna make.”
“But what about the ice-cream cake, made with ice-cream?”
“That’s right! Remember, you have the cake which yah have with ice-cream, unless yah don’t like ice-cream, or yah have the ice-cream coz you don't like the cake, then yah have the ice-cream cake if yah like ice-cream cake.” It’s the American way, what can I say. Take a perfectly delightful piece of cake and then make a hideously soggy disgusting mess of it with a dollop of ice-cream. Vile.
“O.k. So,..... I shall buy the pizzas today whilst you are at school.”
“Oh no. Not pizza!”
“I thought you said you wanted pizza? A special treat?”
“No coz Sara doesn’t like pizza.”
“But all Amer….um…..children like pizza!” Except my boys of course, although technically, they’re not invited to the sleepover.
“Oh. Well how about spaghetti then?”
“No. She dun like that either.”
“But all Ameri……what does she like?”
“Calamari.”
“?”
“She does, really! I like it too. Can we have Calamari? Please?”
“Leave that one with me. Do the rest of your friends like Calamari?”
“No but that’s o.k. coz Petra isn’t staying the night.”
“It’s a sleepover! Why isn’t she staying the night?”
“Coz of the boys.”
“?”
Let me die now.
I need an emergency pack of patience right this second.
"Um... why dear?"
"You know!” she says knowingly. I take a deep breath as it would be inconvenient to explode at this stage of the conversation. I need an emergency pack of tolerance right this second.
“What about the boys dear?” Pass me the ‘peace and love to all mankind’ emergency pack. What is wrong with these people! Must a little genetic variation always have such a dire impact?
“Well they’re, you know.....boys."
"So?"
"An she’s a girl and she ain’t got no brothers, soooo….”
“So what?”
“Well she ain’t gonna stay the night in a house that’s got boys sleepin there too, duh!”

It’s official, I’m 119 years old and incapable of thinking outside the coffin shaped box of my own making. Just dig a six foot hole and bury me under the weight of my prejudices.

Is she really only about to be 10?

Staying power - Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen Things about Maddy's Mayhem I have wanted to try the Thursday Thirteen for quite a while, but I was never able to think of thirteen anythings, as 3 is usually about my limit. Then, as if by chance, a foolish therapist suggested that we should adopt a new campaign to improve our quality of life. I baulked at the suggestion and she queried my resistance, "but we already have a zillion campaigns on the go as it is, I couldn't possibly squeeze in another, something might go pop!" I could see that she was doubtful and so I began a lengthy list of the current ongoing campaigns. I expect they are very similar to most parents' campaigns. 1. Sharing and taking turns. All children are subject to this arbitrary peace making attempt by parents. 2. Use your words! Preferable to screams and or meltdowns. 3. The speech therapy practice of the 'th' sound, very common for small lispy people. 4. When you bump into someone you should apologize. 'Sorry' will do. Purpose? To help with self awareness, or awareness of where your body is in space, as well as a greater awareness that other people also exist on the same rather crowded planet. 5. Change the question 'what it is' into 'what is it?' Plus the sub campaign of referencing back, where the questioner should give a small clue or hint about what the question refers to. 6. Keep clothing on body, this is not a seasonal rule. 7. Eat a new food, preferably within the next 12 months. 8. Tolerate texture and it's sub campaign regarding temperature fluctuations. 9. Volume control. We need some. 10. Before you enter the house put your shoes on the shelf. Enter the house and put your socks in the bucket. Currently this campaign has been ongoing for 4 years with limited if any success despite frequent daily practice. This campaign came into existence out of necessity. I took me too much time to remove six shoes, socks, assorted clothes and backpacks from the doorway and leave the children unsupervised INSIDE the house. It seemed simpler to teach them this life skill instead. It isn't simpler. My body bars entry into the house as they each attempt these few small steps, verbal prompts, visual prompts all delivered promptly to no avail but at least we are all within the same 6 foot area, and there's safety in supervision. Four years of the wrong campaign. Instead of adding a campaign I should spend my time thinking through what's going wrong with this one campaign. I could probably claw back an additional twenty to twenty five minutes of time per trip. 11. Do not twiddle and fiddle with your fingers. I am determined to beat this genetic fluke before our household is devoid of buttons, door knobs, tags, labels etc.. 12. Modulation and regulation in everything. This roughly translates to 'all things in moderation.' 13. Speech and social skills campaign to continue to use compliments and kind, positive words, whenever possible. "I am lovin yur red eyes" doesn't strictly count. In reality, there are many more, but those were the few that I could think of as I hopped from one spot to another in the waiting room at therapy, whilst herding the troops to remain within the confined space. So that would be try, try, try again......I suppose? Myspace Graphics

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Tactile What? Wordy Wednesday

“Geez Wednesday again already! Has life speeded up?”
”And a jolly good morning to you too. No smarmy comments now?
“Smarmy? When will you ever learn to speak American?’
“I’m working on it. I just expect a hard time from you.”
“Hard time? That sounds vaguely rude.”
“Quash the rude antennae, I just slipped into foreign for a moment.”
“O.k. so down to business then. What do we have here? Don’t say I have to guess or I may just have to smack you.”
“Perish the thought! So you don’t think it’s self explanatory?”
“Your Wordless Wednesday posts are never that!”
“Well he’s playing with those winkum dinkum magnet thingummy do dahs.”
“Yup see those and your point is?”
“Well he’s playing. Or rather he was at the time. He was about four. It was a great breakthrough.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Well ‘play’ can be a tricky thing. Especially if your fine motor skills are poor.”
“I’m not convinced that you know what ‘fine motor skills’ really are?”
“I do, sort of. The ability to make your fingers do what you want them to do, or toes for that matter.”
“Geez. Do I really wanna know what your toes can do?’
“No, you probably don’t but it’s the principal. Control over those extraneous bits and pieces.”
“My fingers aren’t extraneous.”
“Yours maybe not, but for lots of people, especially those with tactile defensiveness, fingers are difficult to control.”
“O.k. so you’re saying two things really, non functioning fingers and tacile…..?”
“Just think texture, how things feel, although it can also be affected by temperature.”
“Temperature too? This is getting awfully complicated. I didn’t come here for a lecture you know?”
“True. Try it this way. Say that being the experienced woman of the world that you are, you reach out to touch an ice cube and the sensation you feel is heat.”
“Er o.k. so you’re saying that……he doesn’t feel what we all feel?”
“In part, it’s more that whatever it is that he does feel, he feels in ten times more intensely than we do, either too many nerve ending or maybe more sensitive. Haven't you ever touched something so hot or so cold you weren't sure exactly what you were feeling?”
“Actually I have! That would be confusing, quite scary in some ways.”
“There you go! You’ve hit the nail on the head again. You get so that you don’t trust your fingers, you want to protect them.”
“So that’s like the kids that wrap themselves up in a coat all day.”
“Could be for some of them but there could be a lot of other sensory reasons too. Don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“So his fingers are being brave touching those magnet things?’
“Yes, and they’re great because they snap into position. You don’t have to be able to manipulate them that accurately.”
“So all good stuff then?’
“Indeed.”
“You have high expectations?”
“Well you know, years ago I used to say that I hoped that my children would be healthy, happy and normal.”
“Pretty low expectation then. Well I kinda knew you were a pessimist.”
“True but in todays world, I thought that those goals were pretty high expectations.”
“You’ve changed your view?”
“A little bit.”
“How so?”
‘Just one bit. ‘Normal’ is very overrated.”
"Oh and one last thing?"
"Hmm?"
"Why does the photo have 'left hand helps right hand' on it?"
"Ah well I didn't want to complicate the matter with midlines."
"Midlines? What on earth are midlines. I don't have any of those."
"You do! Everyone does. I'll leave that for another time or you can check out "Slice and Dice" if you're feeling brave?"
"Til next week then?"
"Cheers dearies."

Parental Expectations

Given the gene pool around here, I anticipated that my children would also be allergic to exercise. We don’t watch sport nor to we engage in anything that hazardous to health and mental well being.

That aside it would appear that my children, like most children have excessive amount of energy, the trampolene only gets us so far. Sometimes I just have to work with what I have and exploit it to the full.

“Ooo I am love!” he coos.
“What do you love dear?”
“Dem golden balls!” He clutches a yellow tennis ball in each hand, enraptured.
“Those are tennis balls actually.”
“Tennis balls? What is it be ‘tennis’?”
“It’s a game that two or four people play with rackets.”
“What is it be dah ‘racket’?”
“Hang on a minute, I’ll show you.” I dash off into the garage and present him with a rather dusty tennis racket.
“Ooo dis is dah good stick fing. I am liking it very much. I can be keeped it?”
“Be my guest.” I had temporarily forgotten his current liking for long handled things. Dragging a tennis racket around with us everywhere would be a considerable improvement on the toilet plunger, so much easier to explain, or rather not explain at all.

A general group interest develops between the children, the balls and the tennis racket. My daughter fetches two more from the garage. After a few minutes of wild instruction I decide that we will decamp to the park, if I hope to retain my windows in tact.

I decide that the best approach is to ambush them. Since ‘outside’ and ‘not in the house’ is a recipe for disaster, I decide to be sneaky.
“Let’s all get in the car then, as we need to nip out and buy some milk.” I gather tennis rackets and sundry bribes whilst the salmon weep, wail and slap around on the floor in protest. This is only to be expected, firstly because it is a transition, and they hate those, and secondly because they hate the car.

Before too long, about 25 minutes, we zip along to the milk shop. I warn them of the detour, now that they are all safely strapped in, “we’ll just drop in at the park for a while to enjoy the sunshine and a breath of fresh air.” It’s a statement, not a question, but verbal protests make my ears bleed.

I park in a safe spot, lock the road side door and release them into the safety of the park the other side. The boys roll on the grass. A casual passer by might think they were having run rolling in the leaves, although the screams might give another message, “I am die in dah sun!”
“I am be melting!”
I drag the sack of play things from the back of the car, together with a cartoon of Goldfish Crackers to bribe them into movement.


The tennis court is some distance from the rest of the park. This is good because it means that no-one is particularly bothered by the screamers. I delight in the surrounding wire mesh fence. Escape is impossible as the latch on the door is too complicated and cold for them to consider touching.

I play with my daughter so that the boys can observe as that is how they learn best. I am confident that when they see how much fun we are having they are bound to want to join in too. My youngest son decides that he will join in. He hold the red plastic baseball bat in a fierce grip as he charges around trying to hit the tennis ball. I am so glad that no-one is watching. I am so glad that there are no American’s around to bear witness to this travesty. I watch my son race around like a hare at the Greyhound track.

I saunter over to my other son. Kinesthetic learning is the way forward. He is already willing to have a go after his virtual experience with the Wii. I need him to be successful. We stand together like spoons as I guide his body through the motions. I remember that I have always been a lousy tennis player but I have the basics. Together we are poised. We teeter on the edge of positive reinforcement as the racket head makes contact with the ball and it flies over the net. He whips around to face me, wordless but beaming.

Of course it was a one hit wonder!

Autistic children seldom lie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Myspace Graphics

Awards - Roar for Powerful words

"Linda" over at "are we there yet" has graciously awarded me with the "Roar for Powerful Words" award. [Also the little twinkling star that urged me to play with a blog reader!]



The originator of this award is "Seamus" of "The Shameless Lions Writing Circle" and this what Seamus had to say about this award:

"When I set upThe Shameless Lions Writing Circle, one of things I had in mind was that we as a group could encourage and celebrate good, powerful writing on the Internet/blogosphere. This is why I've come up with a new project to try to do exactly that, while of course at the same time increase exposure for the 48 members and their individual blogs. A Roar For Powerful Words is the chance to scream from the mountains the good news about the powerful posts that are produced every day in the blogosphere, despite what some mainstream columnists and journalists claim. This is also a good chance to examine exactly what it is that makes writing good and powerful."

According to Seamus, this award can be distributed "to those people who have blogs we love, can't live without, where we think the writing is good and powerful."

Needless to say, I am in some most excellent company but now it's my turn to pass this award on to several others. This has been a difficult choice because I love all of the blogs that I read. However, I can't just blanket-award it to everyone so after a lot of painful wracking of the teeny tiny brain cells, I award "A Roar for Powerful Words!" to the following powerful bloggers.

These five people are just the tip of the iceberg of wonderful writers that I read on a daily basis but in keeping with the theme of the award, I am limiting the number of recipients to just five and am hoping that they, too, will pass this award on to five of their must-reads. I'm afraid that I've left my bias hanging out on show.

First to "Kristina" over at "Autism Vox" An intellectual woman from the world of academe, but also a mummy, just like the rest of us parents.

Then "ABFH" over at "Whose Planet Is Is Anyway" especially this post about the "Theory of Mind" to which I often refer.

Also "Casdok" who posts at "Mother of Shrek"
We share a love of optical illusions and our kiddy winkies both big and small.

Then there is "Bev" over at "Aspergersquare8" This is a woman who can focus minutely on the details but never forgets the world at large.

Lastly there is "The Goldfish" over at "Diary of a Goldfish" [how could I resist?]

These people keep me on the straight and narrow, help keep me focused on the big picture, rather than my own narrow little corner of the world.

Kristina, ABFH, Casdok, Bev and Diary of a Goldfish "Seamus's" post to choose the color of your award (they're available in three colors) and let's see if we can keep this wonderful award going, shall we? Oh, and keep up the wonderful writing!

Myspace Graphics

I wanted to find a 'you are all jolly good eggs' banner, but sadly I appear to be in the minority again.


Cheers dearies

Nice Matters Award

"Jen P" over at "What Jen Finds" has giving sent me a "Nice Matters" award. Thank you so much. Do I really mean that? Well yes and no. Yes because awards are lovely to receive but a bit of a hint of 'no' because technically challenged persons, such as myself, have to scrap to bottom of the barrel, or brain, to sort out all the linky do dahs.

Fortunately, I am improving. Improvements mean that I still have a smidge of guilt passing them along because I could be giving some other technically challenged person a headache by mistake.

So here are some little headaches for you and I sincerely hope they don't turn into migraines.

Is it supposed to be seven? No idea, but since 7 is my favourite number that works for me.

I have an online chum [American, as opposed to 'pal' who would be British] who has a handy way of turning a tale. Please don't tell me you're really a Canadian and show me up as a complete dipstick. "Buffalodickdy" over at "Opinions" combines cookery and a comprehensive education programme for foreigners. I think I Buffalos are more American than Canadian but I'd be the first to admit that I'm on dodgy territory.

Then there's "Flutter" at "Dark and Divine." If you've not visited because take a deep breath. Although the URL reads "Fluttercrafts" you are not about to visit a craft site. This is doubtless some devious campaign to confuse foreigners, and do you know what, it works completely.

Now we have to be a little careful gentle readers, as "Franky" over at "Frankily-yours" may seem a tad scary and certainly not worthy of the prestigious 'Nice Matters' awards, but that would probably be due to the fact that 'sarcasm' is not always a very efficient method of communication, especially if you live in the States. "Franky's" 'about me' is extremely unhelpful, as one would expect, or at least I would. I was going to describe Franky as a new chum because clearly she's British, but oh my, what do I find! She 'writes 'mom' instead of 'mum.' So it must be true, I have insulted the poor woman and now she will never be my pal.

Another good place to visit is "Kywoman" over at "KYWoman." If you are foreign, do not be alarmed. The 'KY' has nothing to do with that famous lubricant, instead the KY refers to a State, one of the States in the United States. In case you're still having a hard time guessing which one, I, the all American gal, am here to inform you that KY means Kentucky, which is a State and nothing to do with chickens.

I include "Dan" from "Dan's Blah Blah Blog" because he's one of the good guys as opposed to a 'nice guy.' I make that distinction because I am given to understand that the male of the species gets all hot and bothered if they are called 'nice,' which is insulting. Dan stopped blogging for a wee while, so this is my way of letting people know that hes up and running again now. Not only does he run, but he also blogs. He does not blog and run at the same time.

"Drama mama" over at "LikeAShark" A "Meme" is always a good way to introduce someone, and anyone who has the motto 'what goes around comes around' is guaranteed to get my vote.

Then we have "mamampj" who always makes me think of pyjamas over at "A Room of Mama's Own." I award "mamampj" because I am guilty of "covertousness" afterall. Just imagine having a room of one's own, regardless of what you actually do in that room? Ooo the bliss. I therefore stand before you, also guilty of fibbing. Technically 'fibbing' isn't a deadly sin which is good because an 'F' would muck up my mnemonic.

Cheers dearies

Creativity versus technology

I think it would be fair to say that all a child needs is a box of crayons and a pad of paper to express their creativity. I must have been about 11 myself when I would spend many a happy hour drawing and colouring. Whilst I’m all for the advancement of technology, there is a growing trend that allows our children’s brains to rot in front of a computer screen. Soon we shall have a whole generation of children with zero imaginative powers, trapped in a virtual world devoid of artistry. It is time for parents to take a stand and save our children from the encroaching darkness of a twelve inch black screen. This is more especially true for autistic children, or some of them. Those children who shun the opportunity to enhance their fine motor skills by holding a pencil, as well as those who shy away from the texture of paper.

I pause in my composition of “Luddites Unite” for publication in “The New Scientist Magazine” to revive my brain with additional caffeine. I notice how quiet the house is and tip toe off to track them down. “Animal Planet” entertains one on the telly. Another one plays with his father, making circuit boards. I look for the little one.

The little one is hunched in front of the computer, a little tangled pretzel of a boy, tightly wrapped but for one arm, extended to hold a mouse. I sit down next to him and peer at the screen too. He is half way through designing a monster. A roulette wheel icon on the side allows him to choose any number of different options, colour, size, limbs, body attributes and any number of variations on a theme. At 47 I could probably navigate my way through this site myself, assuming I was sufficiently interested but I doubt if my skills match his. I expect most 7 year olds and even younger children would be similarly equipped both mentally and digitally. At the end of the exercise, a box appears for the designer to enter a name for their creation, but he skips that bit.
“Aren’t you going to give him a name dear?”
“No.” I still can’t quite fathom why the boys are so resistant to naming things?
“Oh come. What would be a good name for your creature? Fred? George? Colin?”

He turns his slowly towards me, ripping his eye balls away from the screen. He looks at me as if I am a complete imbecile, puzzled and ever so slightly patronizing.

“Go on…......give him a name.”

He looks back at his creature. I hope his brain is percolating, choosing a favourite, perhaps his best friend’s name?

“I am be call him…………..no.” Oh dear, he's stalled.
“What’s wrong? What did you think of?”
“I am not be say?” Go on! Share with your old mum why don’t you?
“Why?”
“Coz I am not be spell it proper.” Bless his little cotton socks! He’s such a perfectionist. You know the type? Can’t do it perfectly then he won’t do it at all. Doesn't everyone know someone like this?

“Oh well I can help you with the spelling. You say it and I’ll spell it for you.”
“Atomic Robotic Aquatic Heat Blaster.”

Hmm, not Fluffy then?

Such is the curious nature of a speech delay, or maybe the arrested development of a parent?

Heads or Tails?

Echolalia is a strange little beastie. It’s the ability to repeat, exactly what you hear without, apparently, even thinking about it. It’s almost reflexive. Some people do it all the time. Sometimes my boys are aware that they’re doing it, other times they’re not. Everyone around them, is very much aware that they’re doing it. It’s one sure fired way to have everyone’s attention, especially those people who are not familiar with this ability.

As often as not, it’s mistaken for cheekiness, or ‘having an attitude’ as we say out here.

I can see how this misunderstanding comes about.

I chat with my pal. I am a grown up person and so is my pal. My pal is American, which means that she has a distinctive accent. My children have some kind of mild Mid-Atlantic accent and significant speech delays. My pal knows about the speech delays. She knows the boys are autistic. Unusually, the boys are relatively quiet as they enjoy 30 minutes of electronics time, a bribe for peace and tranquility.

“Ya know I’m jus drownin in errands, so I cun only stay a while.”
“Drownin in errands. Drownin in errands. Drownin in errands.”

Pal glances across at the two boys whose eyes are glued to tiny little electronic screens. They both repeated the same part of her sentence, the bit that was most interesting or possibly most melodic. The both matched the timbre of her words exactly. Two sotto voce little echoes.

“Oh I know, but I’m so glad you came anyway.”
She drags her attention back to me.
“So I gotchya gift and I’m sure yur just gonna love it!”
“Gonna love it! Gonna love it! Gonna love it!”

She blinks wide eyed and looks back them again. Neither of them pay her any heed. They’ve knocked her off her stroke. This is hardly surprising. Few of us are that familiar with the sound of our own voices from the outside, or rather a listener’s perspective. Maybe you have trouble recording your own voice mail message, for just this reason. Our own voices never sound quite right when we hear them recorded.

“I’m sure it will be lovely as always.”
“Now dontcha go peeking before Christmas Day!”
“Dontcha go peeking! Dontcha go peeking! Dontcha go peeking!”
Her lips tighten, wary of uttering another syllable.
“It’s o.k. they don’t do it anything like as much as they used to.”
“Yeah? How cum they repeat mine but not yurs?”
“But not yurs! But not yurs! But not yurs!”
“Probably because they hear me all the time, too boring, whereas yours is so much more interesting.”

She pauses uncertain whether she’s brave enough to proceed. Her finger tip taps the tablecloth before she adds, “love ya guys!”

Silence follows. We exchange glances that mean ‘go figure?’ The boys move off to the bathroom in concert, still gripping their Gameboys. Pal stands to leave as we hear flushing noises and lots of general disagreement.



We step away towards the front door together, arms linked as I may not see her again for quite a while. Usually I prompt the boys through their goodbyes, but I leave it today.

The boys skate after us in their socks, unstable and skittish.
“You are goed now?”
My pal stands by the now open door, which obscures the visual cue on the other side. For the first time ever they are voluntarily here to say goodbye. I dither. Should I hide them behind me? Should I hide them behind the door? Should I thwart this first enthusiastic attempt? Should I slam the door in my pal's face? I need to keep an emergency blanket by the door. She faces the boys still skating in their socks, only their socks, as they attempt appropriate social skills of the fond farewell.

“Er yes…um…Happy Christmas you guys!” she offers trying to focus on their happy faces.

“Happy Holidays!” they bellow back, because political correctness only gets you so far.


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Ms. WW and the Neophobic

Ms. Wordless Wednesday visits to pass judgment upon my offering. I should just like to point out first, to a few "person[s]" who may be in doubt, that I have a perfect "BBC English accent." If that's too tricky imagine that you are talking to the Queen of England.

“Well, that’s not too bad this week, maybe even a little cute?”
“You sound doubtful?”
“Well it would help if his eyes were open of course, but no, I just have this uneasy feeling that there may be some hidden agenda?”
“I never hide my agenda, I broadcast them.”
“Sad but true. Am I gonna have to guess?”
“You guessed right!”
“Dang! O.k. so this little guy is the one that doesn’t eat anything?”
“Right. Well sort of right."
"You always qualify your 'rights' with 'buts'!"
"'Buts' or 'butts'?"
"Stop teasing or I won't play."
"O.k. He does eat, fine strapping little chap that he is, just not the variety that a parent would wish for.”
“Which gives him that label, the neophobic label?”
“Right, someone who eats less than 20 foods. We have high hopes that he will graduate to ‘picky eater’ some time in the not too distant future.”
“When he gets to 21 foods?”
“Exactly. What a star you are!”
“That reminds me, I just have to ask. You said he eats seventeen things. What are those things?”
“Is this a ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ kind of a deal?”
“Less of the kinky foreigner stuff please!”
“Fair enough. So he eats squeezy yoghourt, bananas, fries, cereal, cookies, raisins, applesauce, Belgium chocolate pudding, chocolate cake, pretzels, pancakes, Nutella sandwiches and Goldfish.”
“Geez I knew that the Brits were Math challenged, but I’d have thought that even you could count to 13!”
“Ah yes. You’re right it is only 13.”
“So what’s with 17 crapolla!”
“Well we sort of mislaid a few recently.”
“Mislaid! How can you mislay 4 foods when you only eat 17!”
“Indeed, I can see there’s no chance of pulling the wool over your eyes.”
“So, where did they go? How come ya lost em? Getting careless in yur old age?”
“Well you see if you don’t ‘practice’ your foods …..”
“Use it or lose it?”
“Right.”
“So can I ask which ones you lost?”
“Jello, wieners, pasta and rice.”
“Oh couple of primary carbs there!”
“Verily. We’ve been toying with potatoes too. But we have conquered bread.”
“Conquered?”
“Yup, only one kind though.”
“’WE’ ? Sounds as if this lil guy’s the one doin all the work to me?”
“How alarmingly astute you are, as always.”
“Sure, I just feel that he should get the credit he deserves.”
“How true and observant.”
“You know my little brother only ever ate cereal, chips and pizza. Today he’s six foot.”
“Golly! Just those three?”
“Well beer now he's grown.”
“I wonder if mine will graduate to beer?”
“Tell you what, when he’s 21 we’ll split a keg.”
“Your generosity and support take my breath away. Such a weight off my mind.”
“Well ya know we all need a little love and understanding.”
“Sounds a little 60’s to me! Underneath it all, are you really a bit of a granola head?”
“Don’t use American terminology without warning me first! Geez I can almost hear your fake American accent!”
“Peace man! I love you guys.”






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ESL - English as a Foriegn Language

Speech delays are curious things but speech pathologists are there to help. Progress can be speedy when an enthusiastic parent gets on board with the programme. Other parents, lesser mortals, can sometimes be the harbingers of doom.

………..

He sits on the throne. I lean on the door jam, awaiting the director of services to direct. I pull at the handful of wadded toilet paper, waiting. This of course is the perfect time, to have a chat, whilst he is immobile and without distractions.

“So…..isn’t that so much more comfortable now that Daddy’s replaced those tatty old loo seats?”
“Tatty? Tatty? Tatty? What it is be dah ‘tatty’?”
“Oh, well sort of old, discoloured, a bit manky.”
“Manky? Manky? Manky? Man? Key?”
“Oh dear, um well just not it very good nick.”
“Nick? Nick? Nick? What it is be dah ‘nick’?”
“Condition, not in very good condition sort of moth eaten.”

He springs up from the toilet as if burnt, “I am not want dah moths ta eat my butt,” he screeches as he disappears from view around the corner.

His future career as an entomologist dashed.

Sun - Do not pass go

We chat in the car on the way home from school. The boys chant their respective repetitive phrases, one sotto voce, one at 50 decibels, but we’re used to that kind of competitive perseveration.

“So tell me the best bit about today then, so far of course?”
“We had a visitor come and read us this book thing.”
“Innernet! Innernet! Innernet!”
“Batteries not included. Batteries not included. Batteries not included.”
“Oh really. Which book?”
“I dunno.”
“Innernet! Innernet! Innernet!”
“Batteries not included. Batteries not included. Batteries not included.”
“But you liked it?”
“Not really.”
“Then why was that the best bit of the day if you didn’t like the story?”
“Innernet! Innernet! Innernet!”
“Batteries not included. Batteries not included. Batteries not included.”
“Coz it made math short.” Typical
“Do you have much in the way of homework tonight?”
“Yeah. Tonnes and I don’t know how I’m gonna get it all done with these two.”
“Oh they’ll quieten down a bit once we’re home.”
“Innernet! Innernet! Innernet!”
“Batteries not included. Batteries not included. Batteries not included.”
“They’re better!” she warns with a hint of menace. I watch her in the rear view mirror as she glares at each of them in turn, a loaded and meaningful stare, the eye ball to eye ball kind that only big sisters can do effectively.
“You’re both gonna have to shut up right. D’you remember? Got it!” I notice that they both cover their mouths with their hands at the same time, as if some secret message has passed between them that I am not party to.
“Got it!” she repeats, just to be on the safe side. Muffled mutterings of ‘no, no, no,’ spittle out between their fingers.
“What’s that dear?” I prompt, hoping that someone might just give me a little clue as to what is really going on.
“It’s a new rule.”
“A new rule? What new rule?” Who is making up rules without my permission? I am the only rule maker and campaign manager around here.
“If you’re too loud you go to jail.”
“Jail? That seems a bit draconian?” I’m amazed that the trigger word ‘jail’ hasn’t set them both off into meltdown land.
“Well it works,” she pouts. I check in the mirror again. I’m not sure if fear is a good method of behaviour modification? Their eyes are like saucers.
“Even so, we need to ere on the side of truth.”
“It is true.”
“Who says it is true?”
“The new baby sitter.” Hmm. I did think that it was much quieter than usual when I returned from the dentist yesterday. My mouth was in no condition to have the usual de-brief session with an adult, as to the goings on during my hour and a half’s absence. The peace does not appear to be quite so mysterious afterall.



I picture him in my minds eye, the new baby sitter, roped in at short notice. A jovial young man, quick to laugh with an effusive smile. I wonder if he realized that his sense of humour might be different from theirs? A literal mind can be a tantalizingly tortuous thing.



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The Seven Deadly sins

I have always known them off by heart. I even made up my own mnemonic at far too early age to keep me on the straight and narrow. GAPWELS should be our watchword.

This could also be called 7 things about me as "Suzy" over at "identity crisis" prefers to call it. She tagged me with a meme, but I only ever manage to seem to be able to get around to these things at the weekend as I am bloggy challenged and all the linky do dahs steam up my bifocals.



Sloth or being lazy, is probably the only one that doesn't apply to me. I am probably allergic to lazy. I am simply not capable of remaining still for long enough. I am a constantly moving target so the arrows of sloth can't tag me. There again 'busy' and 'productive' are not necessarily the same thing.

Lust or lechery. I shall have to skip this one as I can't get my spouse to sign the waiver.

Covetousness or avarice, the insatiable desire for wealth or gain, isn't really my thing. Envy is another one that I mislaid when I changed from a youngster into an old fogy, or possibly just foggy, but the wrinkles are only thinly disguised under a thick layer of Ponds facial cream.

I have oodles of wrath or anger, which is quite disproportionate to the cause. Wrath manifests itself in the form of irritation and annoyance, which covers just about every waking moment. Even as the flames of hell tickle my toes, I shall be cross that I left my flameproof socks at home.

I debating with having Pride declassified as a deadly sin, since it appears that we womenfolk are in dire need of a healthy dollop of self esteem, but I don't want to split hairs about definitions.

Gluttony is probably the best deadly sin around. Under normal circumstances [fully functioning gnashers] I would have a chance at a fairly reasonable score at this one, as everyone knows that salted peanuts are made with the sole purpose of tempting the dentally challenged.







Ideally I should like to tagged 7 similarly lapsed Roman Catholics but they're a bit thin on the ground, so instead I'll tag "Suzy" right back just to see if she has a holy chance of getting into the Convent.

"Lori" over at "Spinningyellow" seems to have her own unique way of wading through the religious options, so I'll be interested to see her take.

"Melody" over at "slurping life" is another one that has her hands full to over flowing, so she's bound to have something helpful to aid lesser mortals such as myself.


"Stompergirl" over at "Stompergirl" always get my vote as she admits to the vice of grumpiness, which always makes me feel so much better.

"Liv" over at "madnessmadnessisay" because she's good at huge memes, uses strange unfamiliar words and also wants to change the world. I'd also be jolly glad to see her sitting in the lotus position on a nice hard wooden pew.

"Furiousball" is bound to bounce back with something to rattle my cage.

Number seven would have to be "I am Bossy" because I know that I'm going to love the pictures and have a "giggle," hopefully at her expense.


So off you toddle now and see if you can offer me some insight into the world of sin from around the globe, sort of antidote to "nice matters."

Maybe you could just pick one, the one that's really bad for you and post 7 items just on that? Wouldn't it be fun to find out what wickedness lurks beneath the outer shell of the blogs that you love?

You don't have to be tagged to join in, but if you post let me know so I can pop along and hand out penance. Do I have a touch of the "God Complex" or maybe just a little devilment?

Cheers dearies




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Awards - Nice Matters

"Milehimama" over at "Mamasays" has very generously granted me an award, the 'Nice Matters" one. I feel a bit of a cheat really as I am more deserving of the "grumpy award" or the "Mildly Irritated Award" or the "Thoroughly Cheesed Off Award" but I have yet to see those making the rounds.



Now I have to find seven people to pass the award onto, but as is the way with these things, we all seem to gravitate to the same blogs!

Perhaps I should design a "Thoroughly Cheesed Off Award" and pass that around instead, but I fear that is well beyond my bloggy skills to date.

So I'll kick off with "Anne" who hangs out at "Anneshouse" strangely enough, as it's always good to keep an eye on the future and the terrible teens as opposed to the terrible twos. [No he's a cutie really, but not orange]

Another good place to visit is "Michelle" at "The house of Lime" especially this post about how our own "childhood influences" our behaviour towards our own children. [called the 'Jacket' on the 30th November]

Do I have a colour thing going on here or a house thing going on here?

No, not really as next there is "Crystal" at "Crystal Jigsaw" who once again proves that her powers of self control are "unchallenged."

"Veronica" over at "somedaywewillsleep" enjoys a similarly nocturnal existence to me, but one day soon she will graduate to sleeping and then I shall be all alone.

"Elissa" over at "Managingautism" is always full of good ideas, hints and tips, enough to put the rest of us to shame. Luckily she is technically challenged too as we struggle up the same learning curve with other tech savvy bodies.

"Chelle" over at "Crazy Thoughts" is physically attached to her computer, but that mainly because she's in the middle of moving and we all know how stressful that can be.

Number seven goes to "Top Cat" at "Open Window" because I love cartoons and a giggle. Hope he doesn't put up a rude one just in time for this.

Cheers Dearies

Update Your Insurance Policy

Some people take a very deterministic approach to autism, sometimes fatalistic, but there's one thing that we're sure of, the diagnoses isn't static, more like quicksilver.

I ensure that they are all occupied and engaged with their snacks before I try to unload the shopping, but one of them is persistent.

I ignore him as I don’t want to be distracted. There are few guarantees in life, but I know that frozen food will thaw if it is left any longer in the boot of the car. I’m fairly confident that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about anyway. When it comes to the subject of ‘England’ I’m sure that I know more about it than he does, because he is American. There is something about his insistent tone that needles my nerve endings.
“No. It is English. I sure!”
“Yes, dear.” I placate him, anything for peace as I haul in bagfuls of groceries. He is so close to me, just like a cat that entwines your legs determined to be fed. I need an insurance policy to ensure a secure future, or at the very least, that we can make it alive until bed time.

We are in a very narrow spot, the spot between the car and the junk in the garage, a little pathway that leads from the car door to the kitchen door, perilous. Why does he do it? I want to stop everything and explain, ‘look at me! I’m buried in groceries! I’m not asking you to help but could you just either shut up for a nano second or move your body out of the way, I’m happy with either?’ Part of the reason I don’t do this, is because flowing speech still has novelty value, for me at least. Also it would definitely be mean and would certainly hurt his feelings, as well as the risk of meltdown factor in a confined space. Another reason that I don’t take remedial action, is that just for once I’d love to complete one simple task rather than leaving every single little thing half done.

I try not to think of all the papers laid out in the office, the medical insurance claim that is so overdue, or the presents to be wrapped, the endless list of things undone. I don’t really want to have a little chat with my non-verbal son about something trivial, off beat and of no importance to anyone else on the planet, except him.

All I want is to get the groceries unpacked whilst my brain works out what on earth to make for supper. I need two minutes to think of something for supper. Why didn’t I think of something for supper whilst we were actually in the supermarket? Because they were all there with me, which meant that I was incapable of any kind of thought. Why didn’t I think of what to make for supper before I went to the supermarket? Because they were still all there at home with me too. No nano seconds of free brain time have been available to me for four consecutive days.

How can I ensure that their nutritional needs are met if I am unsure of just about everything. For two pins I’d drop the lot and run screaming from the house just to find those two minutes of peace, but my path is blocked in both directions, boy in front, door behind. I was never good at hurdles as a youngster and I see no reason why this lack of athletic ability should have improved, now that I am in my dotage. A sure sign that I am well and truly trapped.

Two years ago I would have given a pint of blood for eye contact like this. Another pint for just a scrap of that attention. I'd have drained myself dry to be on any subject other than trains and dinosaurs, but now I am feckless, fickle and feeble.

I fear I am suffering from a severe case of cabin fever and very low on reserves. We may yet be reduced to eating twigs, especially if the chef doesn’t wake up and smell some caffeine. But there’s no stopping him.

“I sure! It is English,” he persists.

We bumble and tumble our way back inside the house. I sit on the floorboards in the kitchen, weary and defeated, surrounded by overflowing, split and ragged grocery bags. I give up and give in.

“What is English dear?” I submit to doing what I should have been doing in the first place. When will I ever just do the right thing at the right time?
“Dah packaging.”
“What packaging dear?”
“Dah packaging on dah bottles.”
“What bottles dear?”
“Dah bottles dat are yurs, er, dah Ensure bottles.”

I look at the six packs, my insurance of continued health if not growth.

“They look pretty ordinary to me.”
“Dey come from England?”
“No we just bought them at Lucky’s.”
“Lucky’s buyed them from England?”
“No they weren’t imported…..I mean no, they’re American.”
"I am beed certain!"
"Certain? That's a new word!"
"Sure! I am beed sure and certain too!"
"What are you certain...er....sure of?"
“Dat dey are have dah English name?” My brain is numb. I have no idea what he is on about. He can now recognize ‘blank’ when he sees it. He takes pity on my slow brain.
“In England dey say ‘ENsure.’ In America we say ‘INsure.’”

Yup, that’s right, there are no guarantees with anything these days.





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If at first you don’t succeed

If there is one thing we have in common as parents, it’s the repetitive nature of the job. The phase ‘I’ve said it a thousand times’ could be our collective motto, but does anyone ever take any notice? There are so many little phrases that we repeat on a daily or sometimes hourly basis. Since mine can read I’m tempted to tattoo them on my forehead, but since there are so many. Maybe I should write a long, numbered list and fold it up concertina style, tape it to the same spot so I can just let it unfold and shout ‘three!’

Wednesdays are always the worst days. Although the children finish school early, this provides the opportunity for double therapy, one session of speech therapy and one session of occupational therapy for both of them, with the accompanying transitions. Hence, a couple of years ago, I adopted the line of least resistance and designated that Wednesdays would be pizza night. A shop bought pizza makes for an easy, quick and popular supper to be squeezed into the busy day after homework.

Whilst I pretend to ‘cook’ the children enjoy their thirty minutes of electronics time, but it only takes a few minutes to shove a pizza in the oven and throw cutlery on the table for no-one to use. Why is everything finger food? Instead, I spend a few minutes deliberating.

I have several completed bowls, thrown on the pottery wheel by my own, not so fair hands. One will be a wedding gift to my brother and his soon to be wife. I have whittled down the choice of pottery bowls to five. I’m out of options and choice time has arrived. I slip the five bowls onto the table, each with their different faults. One has a tiny crack but is otherwise perfect. This would be my first choice, but the crack glares at me like a cravass. The next one is also perfect. It has no crack. Instead it is the wrong colour. That shade of green is ever so slightly offensive, slightly bilious. The third one is perfect. It is the right colour and the fish decoration is even, but the bowl is not circular, it has warped in the kiln such that it is elliptical. The fourth one is perfect, but the base or foot is rough. The roughness cannot be eliminated at this stage. This means that their gift will scratch the surface of anything that they place it on, assuming that they don’t hide it at the back of some obscure cupboard. The fifth one is perfect. The fish swim, sweep left in a swirl of a school but they are a little larger than I would wish. The colour is thin and a little bald on the rim. I dither about a marking system, but it would be too complex to design. Which is worse a wonky bald rim or a round bowl that isn’t?

My daughter saunters up to the table, “whatcha doin Mom?”
“Hmm. I’m trying to decide which one to give to JP and Andrew for their wedding?”
“Oh you gotta give them that one!” she announces without a waver.
“Why that one?”
“Coz it’s the biggest and there’s two of em. It’s big enough for them both to eat their cereal outta.” I blink. I had salad in mind rather than cereal. The word ‘cereal’ penetrates someone else’s focus, which pings them into the arena. “You are have cereal in dat?” he asks. We explain the current state of deliberations. “Oooh, I am likey dat one?”
“Why dear?”
“Coz it is shaped like dah egg.” Well, of course I should have seen that one coming. I would prefer not to have the biased opinions of my offspring all of a sudden, as it really isn’t helping. The word ‘egg’ triggers the last one to blunder into the debate. “You are have eggs?” We explain the tortured current status of the bowl debate. He drapes his upper body on the table top, no so much as for a better view, but more from the exhaustion of having to come up with a well argued opinion. We wait. I prompt.
“Well? What do you think then?”
“Um I fink……I fink………I fink…….dat one.”
“Why that one dear?”
“Coz it is dah bestest Vermillion.” Well that’s a different version on ‘bilious green’ I suppose, but ‘green’ is never a word that he can retrieve. Their father appears, not drawn by the bowl debate but lured by the wafts of pizza smell. “What’s up?” he asks distractedly peering into the oven willing it to speed up. My daughter gets him up to speed. He peers at the table top, “well not that one for sure.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the fish going the wrong way.”
“Which one is the one with the fish going the wrong way?”
“There! Anticlockwise indeed, that’ll drive them nuts. It’s not like they live in Australia or anything.” I pout. Of all the unreasonable objections, that’s about the most ludicrous to date.
“Anyway, why are you picking now?”
“Because anything that isn’t glazed now, or rather by the 30th of November, isn’t going to be ready by Christmas. There was a notice from the studio warning everyone to get their stuff finished.”
“So?”
“SO, I’m out of time. It’s this or nothing.”
“But it’s only November 28, you’ve got a couple more days.”
“Yes, but I just wanted to get something finished, done, one less thing to worry about.”
“O.k. If you’re sure, but the more you practice, the more you do, the better they’ll be.”
“You don’t think any of them are good enough?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s up to you. There’s no harm in trying again surely?”
“Mummy is da try, try, try agin?”
“Yeah. Have another go mom.”
“Da try agin is good.” My self satisfied, smug husband grins at me. “What do you have to lose, you don’t eat pizza anyway! Go out to the garage and fling some clay around?” I look at all the expectant faces that taunt and goad. How can I continue the ‘good enough’ campaign in the face of such united front?

Rap me on the knuckles with a ruler

“Have you noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“That he says it all the time?”
“Er….not particularly.”
“I wonder where he got it from?”
“What?”
“That little ditty.”
“Which one?”
“The ‘my bad’ ditty. I’m never sure if it’s a question or a statement or where he got it from in the first place? That and the cap turned backwards, is giving me cause for concern.”
“Really. Supposed to look cool I guess. How come you're worried about his repeats?”
“Well it just sounds so odd. ‘Bad’ isn’t a word that we use around here.”
“All the kids use it.”
“Do they?”
“Oh yes, it’s just ‘hip’ I suppose, you hear it all the time.”
“Do you? I don’t.”
“Come now, don’t be such an old fuddy duddy. Have you been living under a rock?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s just trying to fit in with his peer group. You should be pleased that he’s that socially aware.”
“I should?”
“Well it’s a darned sight better than ‘oopsie’ every time he makes a mistake.”
“But ‘oopsie’ is sort of sweet and endearing. ‘My bad’ is……er…….I’m not sure what it is but it definitely sounds odd.”
“Not odd but age and culturally appropriate I think you’ll find. You could learn a thing or two from him yourself!”
“You think I should wear a base ball cap turned backwards?”
“It would certainly update your image a little. Gotta be better than choosing the ‘purple hat’* option. That can come later.”


*WARNING
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens . . .

The ending of the poem pleases its readers when the woman says . . .

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to "wear purple."

Here they are 'not' rapping, more of a touch of brotherly love and helpful interpretation.








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Dairy free products

As always, it is just after I have announced my intention to teach "sex education" as and when needed, that the need arises.

They are in the midst of a debate.

“Don’t be stoopid! No-one has four penise.s!”
“Cows do! They do so!”
“That’s an udder. Anyways, cows are girls.”
“Milk is cow urine?”
“No.”
“What is chocolate milk being den?”
“It doesn’t come out of the cow with chocolate. They put that in after.”
“Cow milk is make you ill?”
“Sure some people,” she says in an off hand manner. I hover. Has the need passed? The laundry crisis needs my attention. I decide to pay no heed, as he hasn’t drunk milk for approximately 4 years.

“I am need!” he bellows at his usual 50 decibels. I pay heed at the sudden urgency and loudness of his demand.
“What do you need dear?”
“I am need a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a” I don’t let him finish but whisk him away as only an astute mother can. After his experience in the "vomiting" department, I am swift and pre-emptive. There’s no time to mess about, so I whip off his pants and trousers to park him on the loo in the blink of an eye. I lean against the door jam self satisfied that once again I have saved the day and possibly a heap of laundry.
“Wot?”
“Pardon dear?”
“WOT?” he bellows since clearly I didn’t hear him properly the first time. Why do I keep making that same mistake I wonder?
“What to you mean “what’ dear?”
“Wot I am do here?”
“What you normally do there dear. Do you need your privacy or something?”
“No I am need a…. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Yes I know that’s why I’ve brought you here, quickly, before it’s too late.”
“It is too late?”
“Is what too late dear?” Or do I mean ‘too late for what?’
“It is too late for a….a….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“I hope not. I hope we’re just in time.”
“Dey are in dah bathroom?”
“Er….. are what in the bathroom?”
“Dah….er….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“Any minute now I expect.” We pause. We wait. We wait some more. I have the distinct impression that I am waiting for something different to whatever he might be waiting for.
“What are you waiting for dear?” How can he wait at all?
“I am wait for dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Well maybe you’re alright after all?”
“No. Dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a is not here.” I look at his expectant face although I am now uncertain what he is expecting?
“Is your tummy o.k.? Do you have an ache?”
“No.” I’m not sure which he means but he looks perfectly fine.
“Is it safe to get you dressed again do you think?”
“I dun know? Um… dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a be come if I am dressed?”
“No we want the diarrhea to come whilst you’re sitting there.”
“I don’t want diarrhea!” he shrieks.
“No, I know it’s not nice is it?” He looks at me blankly even though strictly speaking is was more of a rhetorical question. I watch him blink, open mouthed, deep in thought.
“NO! Not diarrhea! I did not be say dat. I said…..er….dah book dat you be write fings in.” A book? A book that you write in? What is he on about now for goodness sake?
“I need dah book…….write every day…..you are start wiv ‘dear.’”
“Dear Diary?”
“Yes.”
“You want a diary to write in?”
“Yes.”

Clearly I have a potential ‘man of letters’ on my hands, or maybe just on my mind?

I wonder what possible insight I might glean from sneaking a peek in a seven year old’s personal diary, but of course only bad mothers do that?