One of the many advantages of two generations of children is that family stories are re-hashed and regurgitated. There are obstacles to be overcome with such story telling. If one generation of children grew up in England and the newer generation grow up in the States then there are a great many discrepancies between the two factions. Their experiences differ greatly.
This becomes all too apparent one night at the dinner table when rowdiness rules the roost. She turns to me and rolls her eyes over the din. She slumps back in her chair to observe her younger siblings raucous, unbridled and ever so ever so loud shenanigans. “Hey!” she bellows with large accompanying arm movements.
“Wot?”
“I want to tell you something.”
“Wot?”
“When I was little……about your age,” she adds as she glares at each one of them in turn, “I used to be loud too.” None of them says a word, either because they find it hard to imagine that their big sister was ever their age or because they are all different ages or because they cannot imagine her being loud or all three.
“One day mum went to meet her friend at a pub for lunch and I went too.”
“Pub! Pub? Wot is it being ‘a pub’?”
“A pub is where you go to drink.”
They look at her in confusion so I nudge and whisper “that probably wasn’t terribly helpful.”
“Right. A pub is where you go to eat, and drink alcohol, a bit like a restaurant or a diner.” Three pairs of eyes widen at the trigger word ‘alcohol.’
“You are drink alcohol when you was being a kid?”
“No I drank orange juice but that’s not the point. The point….” Her tale is cut short as the conversation is now stuck firmly in the mire of ‘just say no.’ They would only be slightly more shocked to hear that she drank rat poison. The din grows louder as they perseverate over the evils of drink but she reins them in to pursue her tale.
“ANYWAY!”
They pause and return their attention to their big sister. “Anyway, as I was saying……we were in the pub……eating…….and I was being very naughty.”
“Naughty?” they chorus.
“Yes…..so mum’s friend told me a secret.”
“A secret?”
“Yes…….mum’s friend told me that she used to have noisy naughty children too, just like me…….” She pauses to brilliant effect.
“So what do you think happened to her children, those noisy naughty children?” I am suddenly more than a little worried where this is going as I am the one who will have to deal with the fall out, probably for some considerable period of time, but she’s on a roll and there’s no stopping her now.
“Well……mum’s friend told me that her children were so naughty and noisy that she left them in the pub, went home and she never saw them again.”
“She losted her children?”
“Yes she did.”
“Yur kidding right?”
“Dat is way bad.”
“England" is evil!”
They scatter to the four winds before she has the chance to finish.
“Great! Did you have to tell them that?”
“They didn’t give me a chance to finish.”
“You know we’re going to "England" in less than two months?”
“So?”
“Well I was looking forward to the odd pub lunch here and there, maybe.”
“Do you think that’s going to be a problem? Just from what I said?”
“Believe you me, that little nugget of information is boring a hole into their brains to lodge there quite firmly until hell freezes over.”
“Better get some take out menus "then.”
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Special education teachers often get a bad rap although that’s not my personal experience. There are some real gems out there, underpaid and undervalued but nonetheless still giving of their best.
Here in California when over 22,000 pink slips have been issued, I think it’s important to pay tribute to those who work in special education, the professionals we trust with the care of our children, both teachers and aides because it’s all about teamwork. Not only do they need to teach the curriculum and cater to each of the differing special needs of their charges, they also need to deal with the unexpected. I can think of no better way to illustrate the unexpected than to demonstrate the unexpected with an example.
This is of course hearsay as I wasn’t there myself at the time.
My son and his pals enjoy the addition of a new play fellow in their classroom The new chap has a lot of catching up to do because he is in a new environment. Like most ‘new kids,’ he has lots of questions that need lots of answers, ordinary questions, such as the rules. Most children want to know the rules but many children are of a very literal frame of mind, which means that the rules are taken quite literally. Hence the other children half listen to the conversation between the teacher and the new boy as they complete their worksheets.
New boy: “are pets allowed in school?”
Teacher:- “no I’m sorry to tell you that no pets are allowed in school.”
New boy: “are dogs allowed on the school grounds?”
Teacher: “no I’m afraid there’s a strict rule about allowing dogs on the premises, we have to be careful.”
New boy: “are cats allowed on the premises?”
Teacher: “sadly, cats aren’t allowed on school grounds either.” The last sentence is my son’s cue to stand up, walk to the wall to collect his backpack and head towards the exit but his teacher intervenes, “what’s up my friend?”
“Meow!”
“Oh dear. I was forgetting. Of course! You are part cat!” 
Did you remember to thank your teachers and aides today?
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They lie on the floor of the waiting room whilst their sister has her second batch of x-rays. A middle aged woman like me, peers at a magazine through her bifocals with the cord dangling. Each of my boys has a Pokemon toy in each hand. The receptionist and her assistant exchange files behind their desk. The Pokemons chatter together quietly in their own language, assisted by my sons. An elderly gentleman rests his hands on his stick as he waits for his wife to return. It’s a long wait. Two high school girls wait for their father. A couple of youngsters saunter in with rucksacks straight from school with their Dad. They sit close by as their father completes paperwork, concentrates on filling the boxes. My boys continue to play, quietly. This is the first occasion that I have ever been able to manage them all without incident in a waiting room, but of course I’m not really managing them at all, they’re managing themselves. If they were between 3 and maybe six years old, no-one would turn a hair, but of course they’re so much bigger. I could actually do what other people do, things like read a book whilst they play, but I don’t as for once, ironically, even though I could, I’d rather watch instead.
It’s a diary moment, a milestone, just a little bit later than some other people. The familiar tune of a Nintendo DS game twinkles and sparks attention. My boys prop themselves up on their elbows to look across at the back of the open game console, in somebody else’s hands, “d’ya wanna play wiv us?” he offers in a thoroughly unprecedented socially appropriate manner. The gamer and his brother flash glimpse over the console, sneer and resume gaming. “Oh well,” he sighs as they continue to Pokemon, no meltdown, no reaction, no bitterness, a competent acceptance of a casual, commonplace rebuff. I think to myself, because I am biased, ‘go on, have a go, how can you resist, they’re so adorable!’ It’s just another one of those occasions that I never imagined we would ever experience, when I know that everything will be just fine.
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It’s a pretty ordinary kind of a day once they’ve all headed off for school. I strip two beds and start the laundry, nip out into the garden to plants a couple of packets of sunflower seeds, throw a couple of pots, bake a pair of loaves, take the dog for his customary two hour’s walk, fix two sprinkler heads, trim a couple of pots, carve one, attempt un-blurry photographs of said pots, return to supper preparations. As I peel potatoes at the sink I have the chance to listen to the radio on NPR where Michael Krasny interviews Germaine Greer about her latest fascinating book called Shakespear’s Wife, Anne Hathaway. My hands peel but by brain is back in Merry olde England, the trials of serfs, the division of labour, women’s rights and a whole slew of ancient memories of when I had a fully functioning brain when the phone rings.
The school requests collection of one ever so slightly, physically dented child.
I suspend all productivity and hare off to the school, then to the doctor, the radiologist and finally the Chemist for a sling. No permanent damage except to our finances and to her pride for apparently playing soccer with her hands!
This is why I shall never be an intellectual. Maybe I should buy the book?
My older son is a boy of few words. He rarely fills the world with idle chatter but it takes all sorts when it comes to the autism spectrum.
He has been known to wax lyrical on occasions, usually on the subject of Pokemon and more recently Spore, but other than that his silence is particular and dogged. That said, there is a particular dog, his own, who has an undue influence upon him. The influence of Thatcher the dog is all too apparent as we walk the ten minute trip to his first puppy training lesson. As we trot down the road I prepare my son for the hour of tuition, what to expect. I know what to expect because I have already spent six weeks attending the very same class with Thatcher and my daughter. Now it is his turn, my sons.
I worry that the trainer uses more words in the average lungful of breath than many an average Californian. The trainer has a warm and attractive personality. She says the same thing many times and in many different ways which is fabulous for the average learner, but for the differently abled her words are a sea of jumble, verbiage to be tuned out. My only hope is one of her even more advantageous skills. She models the desired behaviour that she teaches with a dog. Forget the words, concentrate on the body movements because my son’s mimicry skills are second to none.
I think these thoughts as I trot next to my son who hangs on to the end of the lead with Thatcher’s long strides on the other end, just enough rope to hang himself. I exude calm over silent panic but of course he’s far more astute than I give him credit for as he hauls the lead into a heel. He pauses, breathless next to Thatcher, poised in a perfect sit. All of a sudden his word bank bursts open with a torrential flood of "reassurance," “iz okay Thatcher, you’d gonna do great, you’re gonna make lots of friends, I’m gonna be there to help you, you’re gonna love the teacher, I’ve got lotsa treats for you, Kindergarten ain’t so bad…….” He continues in this vein for a full 7 minutes of uninterrupted, stutter free syllables until we reach the entrance door. Never say never my friends, we have a pal for life.
I drop the cleaver in favour of the whisk and the rapidly deflating soufflé whilst my children squabble, full of hot air and pent up emotion.
“Jus leave it alone why dontcha! Yah lil ol dipstick.”
“Don’t call him a dipstick dear.”
“Why?”
“It’s not kind to insult people without reason or rather….”
“But I do have a reason.”
“Oh…..well don’t do it anyway. He’ll think you’re being mean.”
“But I wanna be mean.”
“Oh dear. Why….?”
“What it is?” interjects the insultee.
“What is what dear?”
“What is a dipstick being?”
“Ah….well a dipstick is a stick that you poke or rather dip, into the oil in your car to see if there’s enough juice.”
“What kinda juice?”
“Oh not juice, I meant oil.”
“Dere is being oil in dah car?”
“Yes.”
“Is dat being dah English car?”
“Er……no all cars run on oil or rather have oil in them and petrol of course.”
“Aha! It is being dah English cars.”
“How so?”
“English cars are being dah petrol but American cars are being dah gas.”
I’ve always wondered about gas fired cars? Just as well some people are fueled by logic.
