Tackle it Tuesday – Seasonal Décor, make your own scarecrow

My American children’s development is severely hampered by my own foreigness. There are still so many things that I do not understand about America such as why it is not possible to buy a single fitted twin sheet in Target as they are always sold in sets with pillowcases and flat sheets, why a six ounce packet of Goldfish costs $3.99 but 33 ounces costs $5.99, and why in November, when the skies are devoid of birds, and seeds won’t be planted for another four months, suburban gardens are decorated with a surfeit of scarecrows.

For the most part, I put these conundrums to the back of my mind, and set about blending in instead.

Part of blending in requires one to own a broom, similar in design but with a complete set of bristles. In an attempt to maintain my green principles, this bedraggled broom is this week’s tackle victim.

You will need the following:

A bedraggled broom
Bale of straw [keep the wires]
Wire cutters
Duct tape
3 foot of bamboo cane or other stick for the arms
Old children’s clothes
Old gloves
Four large elastic bands
Three pipe cleaners
White and black foamy sheets for eyes
Glue

Tape the bamboo cane across the broom handle crosswise to form arms



Tape the raw ends with duct tape to prevent possible eye damage




Dress the scarecrow and stuff with straw






Use the wire to form a loop under the clothing from neck through the crotch to stop the scarecrow slithering down






Tie off the wrists and ankles with elastic bands to keep the straw in place
Stuff the gloves with straw and attach to the wrists with bands or duct tape
Cut circles of foamies to form eyes
Tuck curves of pipe-cleaners for mouth and eyebrows into the straw







Obviously one must be mentally prepared for the inevitable questions from enquiring young minds, such as the underlying purpose of scaring crows? All birds or just crows? The psychological susceptibility of crows versus other bird life and wild life?

On completion ensure that you do not use a mallet or hammer to poound the scarecrow into the ground, or alternatively, wait until there are no witnesses to note the vicious assault and battery upon the poor defenseless creature.

Ensure that you have solid arguments in rebuttal to the dual accusations of bird abuse and scarecrow sabotage. Be wise to the aggravated charge of 'hate crime.'

Best shot Magic marker Monday - You are what you write?

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

A few years ago I discovered that I have trouble remembering things, this was the post-it era. It coincided with a rash of small children with copious demands. Like many parents with three children under the age of three, it was a challenge to my working memory. There were so many additional things to remember, things like ‘did he nurse last on the left or the right?’ There were also lots of quick tricks to memorize too, to make remembering easier, such as moving my wedding band to the left hand or right hand after nursing. This handy trick failed due to puffy fingers and an inability to remember whether to start on the side to correspond with the wedding band on the left hand or whether left meant finished and I needed to move the baby and the ring to the right. As I say, it was largely a working memory capacity issue, that along with a large dollop of fatigue, agedness and far too much grumpiness at my own shortcomings.

It was slightly later that the aforementioned perfect post-it note system also failed. I planted my post-it notes on the fridge, the largest space available in my kitchen, where I spent the majority of my time. Some fiend objected to the apparent randomness of the post-its. I would stagger into the kitchen to take note of my next ‘to do’ and find that they had all been colour co-ordinated, lined up horizontally and vertically. Certain coloured post-its would have disappeared completely. I would find them in scrumples in corners of the kitchen, hurled in abandonment. It took me a long time to figure out why such wanton vandalism had taken over. Often the notes that were singled our for destruction were written in cursive. They caused the most angst. Abbreviations were also considered cheating. Shopping lists with food items would disappear without trace. Did he eat them? I somehow doubt it. It was quite infuriating at the time. Not only did have a dodgy memory bank but someone was making regular raids, surreptitious heists on the sanity vault.

But of course that was a long time ago.








Our lives enter a new phase of precision.

As dull as ditch water

I terminate my scientifically conducted discrete trial early, due to a distinct lack of co-operation by the subject. It’s one of those prompt and response experiments. No matter what I try, it makes no difference. My daughter spins her wheels and hovers, observant but without interference. For now he is syllable free, silent. I, on the other hand, am exhausted, worn down and defeated. I’ve had just about enough of these glass half full, nauseatingly optimistic, count your blessings types……I should know better of course.

I remember sitting in on a speech therapy session, when silence descended. When silence descended I was like a squirrel on the edge of my branch, twitching, waiting to witness the magic trick, to learn what the magic trick was, ready to implement the magic trick myself. After 45 minutes of prompting, jokes, cuing, distracting, silliness and encouragement, we left, still in silence, without the knowledge of the magic trick. The magic trick did not exist. It was a salutary lesson, but only for me.

I let him drift off on his own so that I complete my notes on yet another failed campaign and 32 minutes of mute. 32 minutes of mime and mimic. Sequencing and prepositions are a trial for us all. I add my notes to the A4 arch lever Ring binder where I house many similar aborted or failed experiments spanning copious years of defeat. I return the binder to the cupboard with it’s fellows, all equally as shoddy. As I shut the door I hear odd noises from the spare bedroom. I step closer to ear wig as I need to know who is talking, and who is talking about what.

“O.k.! Yah listin?” she bellows in earnest. “So when I poke here, then you fart. Got it! Yah ready!” I crack open the door, just a sliver so that see what my ears are reluctant to comprehend. I catch him nodding his head with great enthusiasm. She prods the centre of his forehead, ringing doorbell style. He responds immediately with raspberry noises from his mouth. They both fall about on the carpet cackling, “agin, agin, agin!” he pleads as he wipes away the tears.

Now why didn’t I think of that?

SOOC - Picts, scots, angles and Britons

[From a few weeks back]

I drip around the house nursing my cold and a handful of tissues, a nose like Rudolph and skin like red sandpaper. My children are well, all of them, with far too much energy.

I print out ten pages of Polygons so that we can address a homework problem in a calm and value free manner, both regular and irregular. I restrict my other duties to sterilizing anything that they might touch. Purell soap and Clorox wipes vie for supremacy. I refuse to permit my eldest daughter to take Britons’ germs to Australia or contaminate the other passengers on the 23 hour flight.

My son, the filthy one, is the source of great irritation as he dresses and undresses, many, many times. Gradually, he tries on every clothing combination available in his wardrobe. My other son is less irritating but far noisier as he chants “picta dey, picta dey, picta dey,” in a ceaseless mantra.

Fortunately my ears are as clogged as my nose and brain. Everything is irritating as I grump my way through the day, grouchy and crotchety, unlike other [LINK TO JACK RILEY] more sanguine mothers. Through the fug of my fog it occurs to me that his behaviour is unusual. He has never shown any interest in clothes, clothing or fashion, whilst his little brother has an entirely different set of motivations that perseverate upon texture.

I decide to investigate further.

“What are you doing dear?” I watch him pose before the mirror as he flips between nonchalant, cool and strut. He has each of them down to a tee. His sister steps across to adjust his collar and cuffs.
“What are you doing dear?”
“Oh I’m just tidying him up some. There you go! Perfect!” Three small people look at me expectantly.

Joint attention rules! But I am still clueless.
“Um…..very nice dear. You do look smart, er…..sharp……er…..hansom?”
“He looks awesome Mom.”
“Indeed, awesomely awesome I’m sure.”
“Perfect for Picture Day!”
“Ah!”


This is what happens to foolish parents who persist in typecasting their children despite the mountainous evidence to the contrary.

Get the code:-
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Picky eaters, and then some!

Many parents share a common goal, something along the lines of, 'please let my child reach the age of majority and live a happy healthy life.'

Others, more ambitious parents, a few of them, focus on the "details."


"Food and fun"

If ever there were two words that don’t go together, then these two would be my first choice. I should have the picky eater logo tattooed on my forehead. I swear I have read every book ever published on the subject, or if not ‘swear’ as I have a tendency to exaggerate, then certainly a great many.

You see I am the mother of a neophobe, a person who eats less than 20 foods.

What does this mean?

Well……when did you last see a child [or adult?] who had a meltdown at the prospect of eating an ice-cream, or a chocolate chip cookie, or chocolate or candy……? Do those children exist? Yes, they surely do.

The first step towards helping your child expand their diet is to relinquish control. Control must be passed to the child without reservations, although hesitation and doubt is permitted.

The second step in any successful de-sensitization plan is to extinguish the connection between ‘food’ and ‘eating.’ This is where ‘food is fun’ comes into it’s own.

For many people ‘food’ is fearful because it has to be eaten. Therefore, if you do not have to eat it, there is the possibility of extracting fun. Once fun has been extracted, by fair means or foul, food is no longer the enemy. When food is no longer the enemy there is the hopeful possibility that additional consumption might become a reality.

I can see ‘doubt’ writ large, but I can promise you that this approach will help make meal times less traumatic. There may not be very much more eating, but less trauma is definitely worth fighting for.

So where to start?

This will depend upon your child and you are the one that knows them best.

I can catalogue an endless campaign of ways to play with your food, some that will be familiar and others that are a little more obscure, but the ability to touch the food with hands should never be under-estimated. The inability to hold a utensil can be put on the back burner.

Bear in mind that the food, whichever you choose, may look horrible, smell disgusting, feel abhorrent and sound revolting when it is cut or squished. This is because food involves ALL of our senses.

I could write more, several volumes in fact, but I shall leave you with a selection of photographs that suggest a few of the endless possibilities available to us and our children, on their journey to accepting that food is our friend and starvation must be staved.

First we learn to tolerate touching the food.

Although some are easier than others.

We have a jello theme here = dino rescue!

No it's not a disgusting vegetable it's a toothbrush.

It's one thing to touch it with a finger, quite another to hold it..... count to three before you chuck it!

It's the basic principle that counts.

It's one thing to hold jello, quite another to hold a genuine vegetable but we will generalize or bust.

Practice with something safe.

Is this real? No there's Nutella smeared on the other side, but we still make contact!

Apple bobbing in Lemonade, might just take the edge off.

Ultimate control, every neophobe should have at least one. This was probably the hardest step for me and the most important one for him because it gave him real control. A designated 'spit' bowl means that once the food is in his mouth, he is able to reject it. No-one will force him to swallow. The inside of our mouths, surely the most sensitive area, where a mouth ulcer the size of a pin head feels like an unexploded bomb. That first assault on those thousands of receptors is a challenge of taste, texture and temperature with every new food. With continued exposure, repetition, the new food loses it status as new, becomes more familiar and may eventually be eaten.

From 3 to 17 foods in four years.............

.........desensitization is a work in progress, the trick is to make the 'work' fun!

Addendum:-

My good pal "Kristina" from "Autism Vox" suggested we pass this on to any interested parties...........


Hi "Kristina,"

This is Josh Levy, Managing Editor of "Change.org," a social action blog network that just launched more than 12 blogs last month covering issues such as global warming, homelessness, and genocide. (You can see the full list here: "www.change.org"/causes).

I wanted to get in touch because we're preparing to launch an autism blog next month and I was hoping you might know of someone that would be good for the position.

We're looking for someone who is knowledgeable, passionate about the issue, and who can blog like a pro. The position is part-time and paid ($1000/mo).

I've pasted a job description below. I'd really appreciate it if you would consider forwarding it to anyone you think might be interested. We'd also love it if you would consider posting a short announcement on your blog; we're trying to reach out to as many people in the autism activism community as possible and I'm hoping this is something your readers might be interested in.

Thanks so much for the help!

Josh Levy
Managing Editor

Thursday 13 – easy green Thanksgiving décor

Thirteen Things about recycled Thanksgiving decor

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You will need:
One pumpkin
One empty, clean orange juice jug
Template
One overhead projector film
Washable pen
Sharpie
Scissors
Large piece of waster paper or newspaper
An exacto knife
A cleaver
Chopping board
Sandpaper
Feathers, glue and glitter of your choice
A captivating activity
A thankful of patience

Whilst it might be fun to do this craft with your children, due to the prevalence of lethal weapons, it may be better to prepare all the parts in advance for them to decorate and assemble.

1. Take a large piece of paper and outline a tail feather shape.


[this is last years with the feathers already attached which makes it easier to see]

Alternatively, make outlines of your children’s hands in advance to add the personal touch. You can use more than one tail/ hand print if your children and their hands are very small, as stumpy tailed turkeys are not popular.

2. Cut the ‘film’ to match, set aside to decorate with children.

3. Split the juice carton in two, vertically, with an exacto knife. Take care to keep the handle part separate to form the neck and head.



4. Cut the two side panels into wing shapes

5. Fashion a neck and head out of the handle hook.





6. Mark the ‘face’ with a sharpie or leave this step to a child that likes to draw faces.

7. Take the sandpaper and remove all sharp snags from the pieces.

8. Take the washable pen and mark four cuts on the pumpkin, neck and tail at the ‘front/back/ top.



9. Mark two wing cuts at a semi vertical angle.







10. Take the cleaver and cut into the markings.



11. Insert each piece to check whether you have a good fit so that smaller hands than yours can easily push the pieces into the holes. If not, take time to enlarge the holes now before their pieces are decorated. Remove all lethal weapons from the visual scene.

12. On completion, gather children into a large open area with all decorating supplies available in duplicate. Forewarn children that glue takes time to dry, that they are at stage one and that stage two, assembly, will be later. It is now essential to minimize the use of glue. Glue use is exponentially related to drying time. Put visual timer in prominent position out of the line of fire of escaping glue, to illustrate that the passage of time is indeed despicably slow.

13. After the decorating stage, dig out the captivating activity, otherwise known as the ‘kill time whilst glue dries’ activity. Do not attempt clean up at this time. This time must be devoted to the captivating activity in another room during the glue drying. Now you will discover whether your captivating activity time is closely matched to your glue drying time. Do not attempt to speed up the process by use of the microwave or a hairdryer, as both these options are deemed cruel and unusual punishment to turkeys.

After approximately 30 minutes, assuming that you gained control of glue usage earlier, the turkey parts should be dry enough to handle. You will now learn if your choice of ‘captivating alternative activity’ was sufficiently captivating or too captivating. You will already know if it was insufficiently captivating, as you will be doing your captivating activity alone. If your activity was too captivating your children will continue the new activity. On no account will they now leave that activity to return to the previous activity to complete the turkeys. On the 57th occasion that someone asks ‘why?’ resist the fowl urge to shout ‘because it’s fun!’

Time to wattle off and recharge the patience battery!

Wordless Special Exposure Wednesday

So tell me......how do you 'curl up with a good book?'

I do have some words over at my other site, "Alien in a foreign field" called "Omar can put a sock in it"

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

Sunday - Perfect Post Award for October

Please scroll down for Magic Marker Best Shot Monday

The perfect post award is hosted by Lindsay at "Suburban Turmoil" and Kimberley at "Petroville."





These days most people have at least heard of autism. The subject seems to be in the news media every day and there are always those stories of Autistic Savants with their staggeringly unique talents. Otherwise, the news tends to be of the ‘one off good time touchy feely’ type of story or the ‘gloom, doom and despondency’ woefulness that shoots fear into the hearts of the general public.

The every day kind of autism, doesn’t get quite as much attention as it is not considered ‘newsworthy.’ That said, there are any number of families all over the world who live with the day to day nature of special needs and autism. Most of these tales cover the tiny huge experiences that are of no great consequence to the world at large but are of pivotal significance to those in their orbit.

One such tiny huge tale was written by “NiksMom” over at “Maternal Instincts – Flying by the seat of my pants.” “NiksMom” isn’t whizzing around in her undies, but rather keeping it all together in her trousers, as illustrated by her posting called “Taking Root, Taking Wing,” for which she receives October’s Perfect Post award, in recognition of what most parents of special needs children attempt to achieve, hopeful growth and inspiration to others, I hope.


So don't be shy. Maybe during November you'll also read something that you might nominate for the Perfect Post Award =

The perfect post award is hosted by Lindsay at "Suburban Turmoil" and Kimberley at "Petroville."

Best shot Magic marker Monday -Find that scavenger

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

Once a year, we take our children to the school fund raiser. For those unfamiliar with the American system of public education, the wealthiest Country of the Western civilized nations usually falls short of funds to the tune of many thousands of dollars. The fund raisers, several throughout the year, serve to finance several programmes for the children to enjoy. Some support fringe benefits such as science camps, others add enrichment projects such as arts, music and sports.

Hence our family trots out in support of this event. Each year it becomes easier. This year we go in two shifts to accommodate those who desire to walk from dawn to dusk, and those would prefer to take a step or two in the right direction.

When the boys and I arrive, the public address system is audible two blocks away. The crowds have died down and hundreds of people move around the playing field in laps.

We are able to register and take care of paperwork in the open play ground, well staffed by cheerful, helpful volunteers. The boys are each handed a Walkathon T-shirt for the event, our first hurdle. Since we are the last to arrive, the only shirts left are the small size. Although they are both quite happy to be without clothes for a far higher percentage of time that then average child, they are both suddenly attacked by a blast of unexpected social decorum,

....“but……I cant be take my shirt off!”
“Yes you can. I’ll help you. Then we can put the Walkathon T-shirt on instead, then you’ll be the same as everyone else.”
“But……everyone will be seeing my….my…..my bare…..bareness!”
I beat the word ‘irony’ to the back of my brain and wrestle with shirts as both boys twist themselves about like corkscrews, their arms and legs wrapped around like elastic. It is a feigned and yet uncannily realistic rendition of truly false modesty. The screwed up facial expressions are overkill. On completion neither is particularly bothered by the new skin tight garment with bare midriff.

I edge them up onto the sports field and peer around for their dad and sister. I yell into my cell phone in an attempt to make contact. A pal taps me on the arm to communicate something officious and important. Both boys adopt this as their cue for take off. As they scamper away in opposite directions, my eyes follow them until they’re forced to focus snap back to my chum. Lost in the crowd in seconds.

Even though I can’t decipher any apart from the public address system, it seems like the best way to attempt contact. As I press ‘end call’ on my phone, I remember that he’s networked all the phones into our home phone answering system. Typical.

I seek out the usual hidey holes, those furthest distance from the hub bub, the toilets, the edge of the play ground, the play centre on the far field. Although they wear a distinctive shade of day glow yellow shirts, on this particular occasion, so does every other child in the school. I spot my elder son walking laps backwards to face the current object of his affections, a charming and lively fifth grader. I assume, or rather hope, that her feminine wiles will entertain him for the remainder of the lap and continue my quest for the little one.

Where on earth could he be?

By chance I find my daughter and husband, neither have seen him.

We are running out of options. “I wonder if he’s dashed back to the car to escape?” I mutter over the din of the microphone announcements. My elder son appears after completing his lap, still walking backwards but mercifully vertical. I pounce on him before he veers off, “have you seen your brother?” He points in the vague direction of……….nothing in particular. “Where dear?” We all strain our eyes to decipher, search the sea of bodies, whittle out the rogue when I hear a familiar voice come bellowing out over the public address system, “America rules! England stinks!”