Let them eat brioche!

I am faced with a moral dilemma of gargantuan proportions. [translation = as well as a minor etiquette issue] Tis the season of school wind down when invitations proliferate. Kindly folk at the school wish to offer thanks to their volunteers and show their appreciation for inadequate services rendered.



I find this a particularly delightful element of the American psyche. British people generally believe that they have a complete monopoly in the polite department, in both quality and quantity. Yet I do not ever remember experiencing such an outpouring of well wishes for minor services. [translation = although things may have changed in that last couple of decades]



One of my favourite authors, "Mr.Bill Bryson" has also remarked, much more eloquently upon these perceived differences.




I now find that in addition to the above, I, as well as all the other mother’s, have been invited to attend a ‘Mother’s Day Celebration’ in Junior’s class. I am led to believe that the sub-plot to this deal, is cake eating. I have two difficulties here. Firstly, following jaw surgery and an extravagant amount of elastic bands, I am unable to eat solid food. Secondly, even if I were able to eat solid food, ‘cake’ would not be high on my ‘preferred’ list of gastronomic delights. [translation = it would come directly after chocolate covered cockroaches] Whilst I am more than happy to bake cakes, decorate cakes and give cakes away, I cannot even recall when I last had occasion to force myself to consume the dratted stuff.











Cake by it’s very nature suffers from several fatal flaws. Now don't get all distracted here, as I know that the ghost of 'fruit cake' has descended upon my erstwhile little American pals. Perish the thought! [translation = for reasons that are still not entirely clear to me, just the words 'fruit cake' are a cause for gurgles of hilarity on this continent.] Ban the vision of fruit cake and replace with American cake e.g. 'white cake,' or pound cake, especially as the latter is available on both continents and is the same. For those who are not bakers, pound cake is not dollar cake here, as the 'pound' refers to weight, not the rate of exchange.



The first flaw, is that cake is sweet. This puts it in one of the highest categories of ‘loathsome.’ Additionally, cake is often smothered in a wide variety of sweet slime. [translation = frosting or icing, or sometimes both if you a truly unlucky] Slime of course takes the prime place on the ‘loathsome’ scale. [translation = slime and sweet combined, would trump the latter, so truly aversive as to be vomit inducing]



So what is a mother supposed to do in such situations? Refuse the invitation and avoid the whole issue? Attend, but refuse to eat the cake?


Tempted as I am by either or both solutions, I have to swallow my misgivings and attend anyway.


I sit on a chair the size of a Toadstool. To complicate matters still further, all my children are aware that I dislike cake. This particular son, favours chocolate cake with ganache, but never ventures from this preference.

We examine his cake offering. [translation = a muffin the size of Manhattan]
“It is dah big!”
“Indeed it is.”
“It is dah vanilla which is being dah white.” [translation = unnecessary, he is clearly bilingual]
“Too true.”
“Dah frostin is dah pink.”
“Quite so, the very worst colour in the entire universe.”
We continue to gaze at the confectionery piece. [translation = joint attention, a rare and truly under valued quality]
“I am finking.”
“You are? Thank you so much for telling me that! Can you tell me what you are thinking?”
“Dat maybe you are not liking to be eating dis.”
“You are such a thoughtful little chap. Thank you.”
Who would have guessed at the depth of his magnanimous nature? [translation = "Sally- Anne" can keep her dratted marbles]
“What we be doing about dis problem den?”
Self generated problem solving techniques! Be still my beating heart.
“Not a clue. A real toughy! Do you think we should throw ourselves on the floor and scream a bit?”
"No! Dat will not be dah helping. I fink we be needin dah compromise."
It's official, 'compromize' is now my favourite word, enough to allow a 'z' to take preference! What has happened to my child? Who has zapped him? What did they zap him with? [translation = undoubtedly self initiated]
“Maybe……maybe I am eating it for you?”
“Really! You’d do that for me?”
“It will be being dah new food for me I am finking.”
“I cannot believe your bravery, and all for me! Thank you.”



I watch him attempt tentative 'eating.' I resist the urge to nibble part of him and content myself with one hand entwined around his middle. He snuggled back onto my lap, his fingers tremble with the paper muffin case. [translation = tactile defensiveness people often hate the texture of paper, especially on highly sensitive little digits] I pull it off for him as he made his attempt and I don't want to tempt fate. The muffin rests on my palm, a plate.


The tip of his tongue edges out to brush the frosting. He remains like that for some moments before he slowly retracts his tongue. As he does so a little electric current courses through his body and mine, but for different reasons. I break off a piece of the crumb, tiny and hold it for him. We repeat the exercise.


He turns sideways to tuck himself under my chin and wipe his mucky mouth and face on my pristine white T-shirt.


That's it! I'm finished. [translation = done] Now I can die happy. [translation = all will be well]

Greater love hath no neophobic child, than to eat cake for his mum for Mother’s Day. [Or any other day come to think of it]

Hirsute pursuit

I spray her entire head with detangling matter and set about the task of turning a bird’s nest into a respectable head of hair.

This activity is far too close to the category of undoing knots, which is spouse’s department. Life is too short to undo knots. I refuse to undo "knots" I just snip them out. I am allergic to knots. Tangles are a subdivision of knots. I have long since delegated this category of tasks to spouse due to his superior skills, both fine motor and patience.

She has decided to let her hair grown long. I have not decided whether to permit this course of action, or not? I am still dithering on my proverbial fence, weighing up the pros and cons. My daughter is under the impression that she has a choice.

I wish to avoid the situation that I found myself in a decade ago with senior daughter. Yards of thick hair, a veritable rope to challenge Rapunzel. Too much for a teenager to manage. I didn’t have the time to teach her how to manage her ever burgeoning follicles, nor the patience. I recall evenings spent with organic free range brown shelled eggs, whisked into a poultice. A natural hair conditioner. Nothing out of a bottle for that one. Holistic and organic, before it was fashionable.

The result was scrambled eggs in a metre of hair, because the rinsing water was just a tad too warm. The hysteria, the tears, the cleaning the bath. The status of being the only person granted permission to snip fragments off the ends, a mere shaving, so as not to lose the ‘length.’ Never again.

“Tell you what, at the weekend I’ll teach you how to wash it, so that you don’t have any tangles. [translation = snarls]
“O.k. Daddy did it all wrong!” she moans. [translation = multitasking parents delegate different jobs]
“No, not really, it’s just that Daddy’s hair is very short, so he doesn’t know much about tangles.”
“Only ripping them out!” she snarls.

I brush gently with the occasional tweak and immediate apology. It’s time consuming, especially at this fraught time of the morning. I leave spouse to cope with the boys and guide her to another room, out of earshot from their screaming. [translation = put on your socks campaign] We sit quietly, brush, tweak and chat. Minutes pass. Quiet minutes, apart from the tweaking and squeaking. I’ll be short of time this weekend. Short of time then, short of time now. It helps me to remember that a decade ago, maybe I chose not to teach her big sister how to cope with her own hair, hard to say now, it was so long ago. [translation = one continent and several lifetimes]

It's so important to teach all of them 'life skills,' I really shouldn't show favouritism. Maybe I will be very busy this weekend. Maybe I won’t teach this one either. Surely that would still be fair, to someone?

Forgiveness and acceptance

We interupt our scheduled programming for a brief interlude of sentiment. Apologies in advance for squishiness, but in the spirit of "foreigners," all of us need translators sometimes, and a "open hand."

When we visited Italy just after the boys had been diagnosed as autistic, I remember being intensely annoyed by people saying that I was ‘bellisima,’ which roughly translates to ‘beautiful.’

You should know, that physically I resemble an elderly stick insect, bi-focaled, with more than a touch of the grays. I assumed that they were being both polite, kindly and patronizing, but I was at a loss to know which I found more annoying or why? My dear Italian mother in law, detected my irritation and gave me a different version. It has taken me a long time to translate her meaning………..


We meet a woman in the park. [translation – the most loathsome place on the planet] My boys amble around in a wayward spirit. The woman, probably an office worker, is minding her own business with a sandwich during the ridiculous lunch time hour of 11.30 in the morning!

My oldest son, he who is blind to all "people," finds, for some unaccountable reason, that she has entered his radar. She has been singled out. He skips over her, and cavorts before her, one leg entwined around the other, his whole body twisted into a twine, a huge, but shy grin, is spread across his face as he extracts words. “You are my friend?” says the nearly 8 year old. She smiles sweetly at him in response.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your indulgence. She wears a wedding ring, [translation = perhaps she is married with children?]


“I can touch you?” he asks demurely. Her face opens slightly, as I hover behind him. “Sure.”
His hands flutter to her face, fingers brush her features, the actions of the blind, as his eyes are downcast to her shoes. “Your nose is so…..beautiful,” he whispers in a breathy tone. As noses go, this is an above average nose, in size. I wince. She blanches. He squeals with delight, and I recall the Saturday night movie of Pinnochio, which is no solace.

“Can you use your words to describe her inside?” I prompt, after endless debates about people’s exterior visage and interior territory. He snaps his face towards me, annoyed, “I know dat!” I take a step back and another step forward.

“I can touch you?” She nods acquiescence. He rests his skull against her sternum, his hands flutter around her upper arms, as he dances a static jig. His whole body vibrates. We are in a capsule. Inviolate.

“She is soft. You are so warm. You are dah beautiful,” he finishes. He stands erect. Flicks off the charge.

She blinks. So do I. He scampers off to leave the two of us looking at each other.

“You are so lucky!” she wheezes, as she gathers her half eaten sandwich and scurries away.

“So are you, dear lady,” I whisper to her disappearing shadow. Belissima. So you are.

Regardless of the language, spoken or non-verbal, kindness does not need any translation.

Drones – message received and understood

A chum of mine, [translation = British] refers to her daily life with her autistic child as ‘Groundhog days.’ This refers to the film where the actor repeats the same day of his life, again and again without apparent end. Parents of young children often repeat the same life lessons until they are acquired, but for autistic children the process may take longer.

Last summer one of my boys had a chance encounter with a bee. The bee and my son were outside the house, in the garden at the time. [ translation = a rare event, now sadly, all the more rare as a consequence] The bee did not attack him. As my son floated in the pool so did the bee. The bee was in it’s last death throes when they happened to come in contact and it stung him. My usually silent son, made known his condition. Fortunately he removed himself from the pool prior to his quite reasonable meltdown. [translation = otherwise he and the bee might have come to the same untimely end]

He survived, the bee did not.

Thereafter, again quite reasonably, all insect life became untrustworthy. [translation = a source of fear] Although he has endured many hours of vision therapy, his ability to accurately determine what something ‘is’ varies. [translation = if in doubt, stay well away] Our daily meltdown count was still quite high a year ago. This additional trigger, began to make life unbearable. [translation = Summer produces a higher incidence of fast and slow moving creepy crawlies and flying insects]

Something had to be done.

Sometimes, logic doesn’t work. Fortunately for me, one of my sons is keen on rules. [translation = reflects the need to place order and form on chaos] In such situations, the best thing to do is lie. I highly recommend it, especially if you have already used up ALL the usual arguments in your favour.

........... ...... .... .. .

“BEE!!! BEE!!!BEE!!!”
“Yes, it is. Tiny bee, big you. Who is most scared?”
“ME! Bee! Bee! Bee!”
“Do you know that there is a rule about bees?”
“Rule?” Aha! The magic word. Now what is the rule? Think of a rule! A helpful rule. The right rule. A rule that will work and not backfire and make the situation worse!
“Yes. The rule is……..you know how a bee dies after it’s stung you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s one rule. But the other rule is….. that……every person in the world is only allowed to be stung once per lifetime.”
“That is rule?”
“Indeed it is. Everyone knows that rule. I have been stung, Daddy has been stung and now you have been stung, so you will never be stung again. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair. Would it?”
"Stung is dah same as sting?"
"Correct! Good thinking!"
He looks at his sister and brother, “they are sting, er stung...er...stunged?”
“No.”
“It their turn sting?”
Oh dear! I dither, hoping that other small people are out of earshot.

Overall, he is dubious, but placated. Bee phobia diminishes considerably. [translation = over time and with the changing seasons]

We move forward a year to a day when a wholesome looking young lad and his crew come to deliver my replacement sofa. Spring has sprung and the Spearmint bush in the front garden is a glorious mound of white spiked blooms. If you look more closely or open your ears, it is easy to note that there may be as many as a hundred bees labouring away. Mr. Wholesome is engaged with the removal of several miles of plastic wrap from the furniture.

My son observes him from the front door, half in and half out. [translation = keen to make a new friend, fearful of an old enemy] Mr. Wholesome’s attention is drawn to the buzzing noise. His eyes are of additional assistance and track across to pin point the location of the sound. At the moment that his brain registers the bees, his body ignites as he stumbles back to pin himself to the white picket fence. [translation = the effect of a burning bush] My son reacts also and flees, for a second. [translation = a perfect reflex to perceived danger] This is the same child who walked into walls that he didn’t notice, would not reconise me if I took my glasses off or wore anything other than blue jeans and a white t-shirt, and has a high pain threshold.

His better nature catches up with him. He gallops over to Mr. Six Foot Two, cowering but not impaled near the fence. “It’s o.k., it’s o.k., it’s o.k., don’t be worrying, they are not be harming you!” As he says these words he approaches Mr. Wholesome on soft feet. [translation = the same way come close to an injured animal] “It’s alright now, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” says Master Four Foot One. Mr. Wholesome’s gaze flicks between the bush and the boy as he wraps his arms around himself. His biceps pump and flinch, whilst his knees quake. “You can be dah brave one now. Look at you. Tiny bee, big you!” [translation = with appropriate hand gestures to assist a potential visual learner]

Art for arts sake

“What are you doing?” he says in a tone that appears to be genuine interest.
“I’m planting the old teapot.”
“You are planting?”
“Yes.”
“The old teapot?”
“Yes.”
“Why you are doing that for?”
“Because I can’t use the teapot for tea because the lid is broken, so I thought I’d use it as a flower pot instead.”
“The lid is broken? What is ‘lid’?” Often ordinary words lose their meaning or cannot be retrieved.
“A lid is a top.”
“Oh.”
“Why it broke, I mean, why it broked, I mean why it is broken?”
“Old.”
“Old and mould?”
“Yes. Don’t you think it looks nice?” He gives his standard response;
“I don know.” I dither whether to pursue him and risk a meltdown? I risk it.
“This isn’t an ‘I don’t know’ kind of a question. This is a 'yes,' 'no' or 'a little bit,' kind of a question.”
He flinches. He teeters on the brink of a meltdown and then sighs. His body rearranges itself. He seems to take the matter seriously and gives it his due and careful attention, muttering under his breath, ‘now then, let me see.’ [translation = self talk] He examines the teapot with the ivy cuttings in it minutely, from every angle, both spout and handle. His body is contorted on the step in case he misses a bit. ‘Hmm, I think may if I turn it, oh no, oh no, oh no,’ he murmurs.

Many people would describe this son as 'clumsy.' [translation = a klutz] It's not so much that he has invisible butter on his fingers, more that his whole being is an oil slick. As he grows, he has become more aware of the fact that his body cannot be trusted, that it lets him down and deceives him. He mutters, sotto voce, [translation = whispers] so I can hear some of his thought processes and awareness. When he is in this whispering mode, his language can be quite fluid. His 'real' voice comes back “you can maybe be turn it for me,.... please? I don wanna be break it” he grins. I oblige by 180 degrees. He peers at the yellow china, his nose skims the surface. He stands up straight on the step ready to give me his considered opinion; hands on hips, tummy stuck out, shoulders back, looks me straight in the eye with a jaunty expression to announce, “You know, maybe, I think it looks like a teapot with green bits stickin outta it.”

Can’t fault him for accuracy.

A convention of potential buyers with light refreshments

[From pre-blog days when I 'tidied' their language]

I find that I am roped in [translation = persuaded against my better judgment] to throw a bit of a do [translation = host a party] for my mate. [translation = Brit friend.] Mrs. C is branching out and launched herself into the perilous waters of selling jewelry. In a feeble attempt at support I attempt hosting. My version is that of a mere amateur. Others, such as my "pal" [translation = American friend] manage matters in a such a professional manner, that I am brought to my knees in awe. [translation = very impressed] When the woman describes herself as "Queen," who am I to suggest otherwise? [translation = the "mayhem" tempers the monarchy]

My "non verbal" speech delayed five year old reads from the computer screen at 5:45 in the morning. I am approximately awake and decide to check whether anyone has responded. It is my experience thus far, that RSVP roughly translates to 'rarely send verification positive.' [translation = silence regardless of whether you're coming or not]
“What it is a ‘e-vite’?” A good question, but this is my first try at the non paper version.
“It’s an invitation to a party that comes on the computer instead of the postman.” [translation = mail carrier]
“A party!” he says with incredulous glee, ‘whoop de do, I am so happy. The party it is for me?”
“No it’s just for girls.”
“Girls?” he is instantly deflated but doesn’t understand why he sister isn’t invited either.
“But she is a girl too, why she is not go?”
“It’s for grown up girls, er I mean it’s for women.”
“It is for wommins? Not girls?”
“That’s right.”
“You are a wommins? You are going to the party?”
“Yes," last time I checked, "the party is going to be here, at our house.”
“Ooh, we have balloons?”
“No, no balloons, it’s not that kind of a party.”
“Oh. We have cake?”
“No, I expect everyone will be on a diet at this time of year. Anyway, I’m making the party food.”
“What food you are making?” I am safe here, as the majority of food, party fare or otherwise is loathsome to my little "neophobic" one.
“Anchovy sandwiches,” I beam with confidence. I can hardly wait to see my guests delighted little American faces.
"Anchovy? What is it?"
"Its.....oh right, um it's a little salty fish."
I should have found a better alternative description. 'Salty,' 'little' and 'fish' will add up to 'Goldfish' for him, his all time favourite food.
"Ooo lovely. I am liking little salty fish very much."
"These aren't Goldfish, they're....." [what can I say to deter him?] "wet."
“Wet? I am thinking that I am not liking that new food. I am thinking that maybe I am hating those things. I am thinking those things are boring for me maybe? They are ‘boring’ they are ‘hating’ which they is?”
“In your case, probably both.”
“It is a birthday?”
“No, not a birthday, just a party to buy jewelry, or look at some at least.”
“You buy jewelry. I buy jewelry too?”
“That’s an idea, but I don’t think you have any money do you?”
“I am needing the monies for the buying?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Oh darned it! Why I have no monies?”
“Because you don’t go out to work. You don’t have a job to earn money.”
“I am liking jewelry too. You are buying jewelry for us? You have your monies for us?”
“Probably not, but nice job to think of your brother and sister too. No, it’s not really suitable for boys.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s for big people, not little people.”
“Only big people can be wearing jewelry?”
“Sort of. Some of those necklaces are very long, you might trip over them and fall down.”
“I can have a short one?”
“They’re all long I’m afraid, no little kid jewelry.” He hangs his head in thought and disappointment. He glances back to the screen.
“The party is after breakfast?”
“After breakfast?”
“It is saying 7:30?”
“Oh right! No that’s 7:30 p.m., not a.m.. P.m. is evening, a.m. is morning. This party is in the evening.
“a.m., p.m., what is these letters? What are they meaning?”
“Oh! Hmm. Let me see, I’m not sure. I think it’s ante meridiem and post meridiem. Ante is before and post is after. Meridiem means noon. Is that right?”
“I don know. I am asking you the question. It is my question. It is you answer. You are doing the answering.”
“Yes, sorry, I was a little confused for a moment there.”
“You are confusing? I am confusing too? Both of us, we are the confusing.”
“Oh dear, yes, it’s just that I failed Latin amongst other things.”
“Latin. What it is Latin?”
“Oh gosh. Well Latin is a different language, like Italian or Spanish. It’s just that it’s an old language that we don’t use any more.”
“It is old and mold? Why you are saying Latin then? Old peoples are saying Latins? Old wommins are saying Latins?”
I try and recover ground before we disappear down a cul-de-sac.
“You know, it’s not really a party at all, not the sort of party you go to, it’s more of a meeting, or a convention.”
“’Meeting?’ What it is ‘meeting’?”
“It’s where people get together. They meet each other in one place.”
“So ‘meeting’ is different from ‘party’?”
“Yes.”
“Where am I?”
“You? Oh. You lot will be in Nonna’s room watching a film. A movie.”
“We have movie night? It not Saturday? Why it is movie night again?”
“Because that way you children can have fun, whilst we grown-ups have fun at the same time.”
“We have pop corn? We not have anchovy?”
“Yes.”
“I can wear jewelry for movie night?”
“Umm. Yes, I’ll lend you some jewelry to wear. You can borrow some, it will be free.”
“No monies, it is free?”
“Yes.”
“So we have movie convention with pop corn and jewelry, you have meeting and monies and anchovies?”
“That’s right.”
“I like popcorn jewelry movie convention best.” Now there's a guy that knows a neat deal when he sees one! [translation = chap]

Fear but not loathing, in San Jose

Many people are fearful of autism. As a parent of two autistic boys it’s not ‘autism’ that I fear, it is the ‘unexpected’ that comes with autism that gives me cause for concern. Although I understand my boys better than I once did, I still find that supervision and vigilance have to be my greatest priorities in certain situations. Luckily, I know what most of those situations are. Our home is no longer ‘baby proofed’ but it is safe for my children. Outside our house offers varying degrees of danger even though to most other people this might be hard to appreciate. So very often, it is not the obvious dangers such as roadworks surrounding a gaping hole in the sidewalk, flagged with orange cones, netting, ribbons and flags for the unwary, but much more mundane matters.

We begin to leave the restaurant.

It is commonplace in America to find a complimentary basket of sweets [translation = candy] usually mints or lollipops and tooth picks at the checkout. This is curious for a number of reasons. Firstly, you have just eaten so why would you need more food? If you are unlucky enough to have need of a toothpick, surely they should be housed in the bathroom [translation = restaurant] as surely no-one is going to walk or drive home picking their teeth? That aside, this combination, attractive preferred food place adjacent to a means of torture [translation = pointy, sharp toothpicks] is more or less guaranteed to provoke a meltdown of catastrophic proportions in my youngest son. The main issue here is the dichotomy between the desire to reach out a hand to take the lollipop and at the same time have the primal fear of being speared by a toothpick!

Fortunately we have had a couple of years to adjust to this pitfall. [translation = only one of the many dangers associated with eating ‘out.’] Our current ‘coping’ mechanism is for either his brother or sister to select and then pass him the lollipop. This again, is not without it’s hic-cups and drawbacks, but for now, it will do.


We exit through the first and then the second glass door without incident, or only a couple of minor incidents due to incorrectly calibrated compasses in one child, and poorly co-ordinated motor planning in the other. Outside the second door, I have a collection of children who bear a strong resemblance to drunks being kicked out of a bar at 3 in the morning. No-one appears to be able to find their balance as they are distracted by the lollipops which are encased in a plastic wrapper. This kind of substance is always a challenge for people with poor fine motor skills. [translation = dodgy fingers] The situation is made worse by the fact that the seleophane is transparent. [translation = they can see the prize but can’t access it] The enhanced level of frustration accelerates. One bites off the wrapper and spits it out on the ground. For the other one, with oral defensiveness, [translation = sensitive mouth area] this is not an option. Junior can now see his two siblings enjoying their lollipops, the same lollipop that remains caged and off limits to him, which further fuels his rage. It is my experience that it is not possible to do an Irish dance, [translation = think River Dance] whilst screaming in a motor mouth fashion and expect your limited hand power to function. Recognising that you are in ‘overload,’ is also probably beyond your capabilities by this point.

The sidewalk [translation = path] is as wide as a country lane, but the four lanes of traffic are far too close for my liking. Imagine how your hands would react if I emptied a nest of baby spiders onto your bare skin? Your instinctive reaction exactly matches how my son behaves. Are you still holding the lollipop now that you’ve brushed off the spiders? No? You dropped it? Where is it? There it is, but off course it’s brittle and it has broken. Now he veers off into a vortex, a combination of a fire cracker and a jumping jack. The noise is enough to shatter glass. He could shoot off in any direction. 360 degrees of potential danger. I have no other option than to scoop him up flailing. Six and a half years, and 54lbs of supercharged nerve endings. You can be as vigilant as you can, supervise every second, but unless you intervene at the right time, in the right way, then there is a heavy price to pay.

When I say unexpected dangers, they aren’t really. I do know most of their triggers. We’re so lucky that they older they become, the less frequently this occurs. Not several times an hour but merely a few times a day. When you also consider that now, these meltdowns are so infrequent, it becomes less and less likely that they will both have one at the same time. It is easy to see how they both blossom and grow. But that’s just one of the many reasons that I love to live here, those wasteful, environmentally damning, beautifully wide, safe, sidewalks, that is to say.

Little boxes – translators required

One of the many unacknowledged joys of having an autistic child, is that family secrets remain secrets. As teachers gather in the coffee lounge for a break and giggle over a child’s comments about home life, there are no similar stories about the autistic child’s domestic life. If the beds remain unmade, someone slipped in the dog vomit or the postman left in the morning, the school’s personnel will never know.

This is not an issue of verbal skills. It might be an issue of social skills. [translation = the need to commune with fellow human beings] It could also be a matter of narrow fields of interest. [translation = something, anything other than Pokemon, does not register] Children are apt to give the game away unknowingly, due to their innocence and openness, but a special education teacher needs unique ‘extractor’ skills to uncover and expose such gems. But I digress.

I pop pills after visiting the dentist. Three months after jaw surgery I am still bound by braces and elastic bands. Junior hears the snap of the child proof top and pop’s himself into my line of vision. He pogos in place, on tippy toes on the hard wood floor. He retrieves words at the same time and formulates them into sentences. After about 40 seconds of pounding the same wood grains in a 6 inch spot, he is ready.
“You are dah dentist today?”
“I was. I went to the dentist and saw him for three and a half minutes after a wait of 65 minutes and a drive of 40 minutes, both there and back.”
“You are dah elastic now or not?”
“Less. Instead of 13, now I just have 5.”
“Five is dah good?”
“Five is great!”
“I can be seeing dem?” I oblige parting lips to my 6 year old visual learner.
“Ooo you are dah squares now too! I am liking dah squares dey are so cool!”
Of all the many things that my children might compliment me upon, the configuration of elastic bands in my mouth, would not be one of them. He continues, “you are dah pattern! Look! Square, triangle, square, triangle, square! You have dah coolest pattern mowf in dah whole universe. I can be saying it to all my friends!”
Would it be wrong to mention that he doesn’t have any, friends that is to say? Probably better to concentrate on the theory, the underlying theory of sharing and community. Practice will come later, in the fullness of time, no need to rush on that one, depending upon the message.

Every weekend, for as long as I can remember, we have visited a restaurant at the weekend to practice social skills and endure public humiliation. For three months this has been canceled, due to my inability to eat in public, as well as spouse’s horror of managing three children alone, without the moral support and my verbal prompts.

Later.

Spouse returns home during daylight hours.
“How did you get on?”
I part my lips, “oh no! Why have you still got the bands on?”
“Only five now.”
“How much longer?”
“Only…..well at least 3 weeks.”
“What about after that?”
“I think I’ll still be wearing them when we go to England, if that’s what you mean?”
“Lummy! That’s going to be tough to explain.”
“Tell me about it.”
He leans on the kitchen counter to consider how our relatives will view the view of my ravaged mouth.
“One strange thing!”
“What?”
“I was just leaving and he said that I could take off the big one in the front if I was going out.”
“Going out?”
“Hmm yes.”
“Is that all? Does he think you’re some kind of hermit or something?” [translation = not the crab variety, the recluse type]
“What did he actually say, exactly?”
“I don’t really remember, I was in a hurry.”
“Think!”
“Er... he said I could take it off if………I was going out to see people.”
“See people? It’s not as if it affects your vision. What kind of sadist is this chap? Are you sure that’s all?”
“Er.... that it would be less noticeable.”
“Noticeable. He’s off his rocker. [translation = unbalanced] What about food? Did he say you could take them off to eat?”
“Eating wasn’t mentioned.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“I’d already been there nearly two hours, I just wanted to get away.”
“What happens if you take the big one off?”
“I don’t know I haven’t tried. I’m not out, I’m still in.”

Junior flashes past us on a mission. After a little prompting, [translation = say hello to Daddy] he acknowledges his presence.
“Hello Mummy is dah big square wiv dah big hole for dah food now we can go restaurant and she is beautiful pattern too all people will be looking.”
A greeting of welcome, voluntary factual information, a compliment and conclusion in one breath, smooshed into one sentence. We both look at him. He really is an American! It occurs to me that with his obsession with pattern recognition, this would be just the kind of thing he would repeat at school. [translation = probably many times] I shall be exposed as an idiot.

Could it be that visiting a restaurant has morphed into a preferred activity whilst we were not paying attention? Or is it merely that autistic children are so fixated on routine and ‘the same?’

Dentist Sadist ………it does have a certain ring to it, but there again, so does thicky, thicky, dumb, dumb.

I will not be a defeatist, I must become a pugilist, or maybe just a realist, certainly an escapist, so I need not remain a ventriloquist but not an apologist.

Past me the scissors.

P.S. For any foreigners who may still be confused. It would seem that my physical appearance, how I look, is of ultimate importance, hence I am permitted to remove the bands for this purpose, public appearances. Fortunately, for my pals, they couldn't care less how I look. They just look for any reason to make me ‘shut up already!’

Maybe a dentist’s frame of reference puts them in the visual learners box.

Cheers!

Rush to judgment

There are few compensations when a spouse works long hours. One of them, compensations that is to say, is that regardless of how late my spouse returns home, he religiously takes the children to school in the morning.

Many individuals are dedicated to their work. Many work long hours. [translation = especially the self employed] The American work ethic is "legendary" but in Silicon Valley there is a different order of magnitude that is nearly impossible to translate. This is a land where geekspeak is the first language. Within this land there is a sub division, those who work for start-ups. [translation – new baby companies] This "class" of people, do not know the difference between night and "day" and sleep "under" their desks, "if at all." They live and breathe their work. This is my spouse, [translation = one facet] which means that I need to curb my own "Luddite" tendencies.

That is, until today. Today he had a "dental" appointment at 7:30 a.m. He had to be at the dentist’s office at that time. [translation = commuter traffic] Ergo, not only did I have to get all three children ready for school alone during the allotted time span, but I also had to get myself ready and find the ability drive.

This would have been fine if I had had advance warning. [translation = the night before] When this information reaches me, at 6:40 a.m. “oh dear! Did you know that I have a dental appointment this morning?” I am less than happy. I may be "vertical" but I am sure that I lack all vital signs, both clinical and otherwise. I attempt to purse my lips. I give up and pout instead. I leave "him" in the middle of the kitchen raking his hair.

Upstairs, I resist the urge to clamber back into bed and "hide." or "hide" under it. I dress my dirty body in clean clothes. I glug disinfectant [translation = anti bacterial mouthwash] as I have mislaid the 47 minutes I need to dismantle my mouth, clean each crevice and then reassemble the whole teeth, braces, elastic bands nightmare in my mouth following jaw surgery. [translation = steam clean and crochet] I wouldn't say that I am "panicking" yet, but the pressure is on and the minutes tick. I pray that no-one talks to me at school.

Senior son is at his most verbal and coherent, first thing in the morning. As we drive to school in the rain I am attentive. [translation = Californians generally lose the ability to drive, when a raindrop hits the windscreen] There are new roadworks, [translation = construction] cones and orange coated men for me to avoid. My daughter fingers the holes on her recorder. Junior’s feet tap away on the back of my seat. His brother chats to me –
“Do you know……what?”
“What dear?” We pass droves of children as they walk to school with parents and siblings.
“At school…….yesterday………….there is….was…a boy…an he, he, he…..was at recess with me……an he said ‘poo poo head’ to me and he said dah other thing was……er……’dumb’ …..he said those two fings to me.”
“Really! Do you think he was playing? Was he joking, trying to be funny perhaps?”
“No…..he was saying it to be mean.” I pause. There is no doubt in my mind. This is no longer one of those occasions where he has mis-read, or mis-understood someone else’s motives or intentions.
“Is he a big boy?”
“Yup, he is a fird grader.”
“Do you know his name or whose class he is in?”
“No…….but he is in room 8.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like?” I keep myself calm and hope for ‘good describing words.’
“Er no,………but……..he is over dere in the yellow cap.” I narrowly avoid slamming on the brakes. I pull into the curb swiftly and discover that I have somehow managed to remember how to parallel pass this bus with ease. I herd everyone onto the path, load myself with three backpacks and hold on to two hands to speed up the proceedings. We attempt trotting, starting off gently, a jumble of arms, legs, bodies and bags. We advance to cantering and then gallop down the road in pursuit of ‘yellow cap.’ We turn the corner. Gone. We crumple into a messy tumbled heap. Spittle has formed at the corner of my mouth. My glasses hide my "slitty" eyes.
“We missed him. Oh well,” says the magnanimous one. We continue on our way, with more composure. [translation = falling about in slow motion rather than in a high speed chase] I am down hearted. I needed to catch that child so that I could dis-member him. Suddenly I find myself more closely associated with mother "bears." I deliver each child to their appropriate room, first, second. Children are lined up in front of their mainstream classes. I SEE YELLOW CAP. I lean down to my son’s shoulder at the door to his classroom, held open by one of his lovely aides, “is that the guy?” I whisper. He glances over his shoulder, “sure that’s the guy." I look across at the children and turmoil.

A mother stands nearby. She turns her body and I recognise her, the woman who no longer makes eye contact with me. We first met in the waiting room at speech therapy, an occasion where I was placed in the hot seat and interrogated for signs, symptoms, causes and speculation during the 50 minutes with their respective speech pathologists, hers and mine. I was surprised when much later I met her at school again. I dithered. I could choose to be friendly but feared another cross examination. I chose the former. She advised me, in no uncertain terms, that they no longer bothered with speech therapy, too busy a schedule. Her body language advised me that she feared infection, "contagion" by association.

Do I see fear or loathing, now that her son is mainstreamed? Am I any good at "accurately" interpreting what I think I see? I remember that I have always been the worst judge of "character" on the planet, and that I am just as likely as the next body, to flare up given the right circumstances.

My son chooses full body contact departure and adds, "he’s the one that teased us last year too.” We kiss goodbye. Last year, when there were fewer words and more meltdowns. I love speech pathologists and therapists, all of them.

I wait until my son has disappeared from sight and the door is closed, before talking to the aid. As I leave I see the woman and her eight year old son kiss good-bye too. To each their "own." [translation = exclusive club membership is optional]
p.s. Please let me know, here in comments, or privately via e-mail [in my profile view] if
a] the linky dinkies 'work for you' or whether they are just a really annoying distraction?

and

b] Whether you also usually see 'through' optical illusions?

BUT

c] ignore the contradition between [a] and [b] above!
Maybe I am getting ideas above my "station" or over estimating my "capabilities"? I should probably stick with spouse's value system, those culled from "Mrs. Do" As You Would Be Done By, rather than let them "battle" it out.

Sleep

All too often one hears adults bemoaning their experiences as children, how they were scarred and psychologically traumatized by their parents’ behaviour or words. Now that I am both a parent and an adult, I find that my ears prick up in the hope of acquiring handy hints, things to avoid. The list of my own parental errors grows as each day passes. If you were of a kindly disposition you might categorize these incidents as mere “eccentricities” but it’s hard to dismiss the weight of evidence to the ”contrary.”
It was a simple enough question afterall, but at 4:20 in the morning, in the dark, I am not in full command of my faculties.
“It is a reptile?”
“What is a reptile dear?”
“A turtle?”
“Do you mean a ‘turtle’ as in American, or a ‘tortoise’ as in English? Oh, actually never mind that, they’re both reptiles anyway, let’s start again. What do you want to know?”
He says nothing just looks at me, with his eyes. I’m not sure if it’s exasperation, bewilderment or despair? Possibly all three?

It’s been one of those nights when we had visitors, unexpected ones. The first one didn’t creep in on us, more of an electric explosion of wild nerve endings. Since no words were forthcoming we concentrated on calming. Now he is calm and asleep but his older brother has also joined us. We are rapidly running short of available "lying down" space. Like all siblings they appear to be connected by invisible lines that conduct energy, one to another.

He has been crouching at the end of the bed, in silence, in the gloom, hovering. [translation = must be genetic] I’m not sure if he’s pretending he’s not here or whether we’re pretending he’s not there. Neither side seems willing to clarify. No-one has the cognitive abilities to communicate effectively.

Spouse and I try to determine why the little one is asleep in his current particular position, the one where your knees are drawn up beneath you, face in the pillow. Mine too, would often be found in this "position." It seems protective, enclosed to repel all boarders. It also looks like THE most uncomfortable position, from the viewpoint of a side sleeper. [translation = someone with a strong aversion to secret suffocation during the night] Sleeping "face down."



“It’s only to be expected when you’re like him I suppose,” spouse sighs in a non-committal burbling kind of fashion of the truly sleep deprived. I agree, “yes, hyper-vigilance does mean that you need to be on your guard at all times.”
“Not very Fung shui though.”
“I thought that was for furniture alignment, not bodies?”
“Er, everything I think.”
“He should be on his back, watching the door, claws at the ready.”
“You think?”
“Not really.” [translation = don’t care, too sleepy]

It is at this point, that he asked his question, the original one, the “it is a reptile,” just following the parental exchange, and doesn’t seem to fit at all, which is a sign that he hasn’t been listening, maybe? Which means that something else has provoked this question, but what?
“What is a reptile? Is that what you want to know? Cold blooded, lays eggs that kind of a thing?” I yawn dredging up brain fluff.
“No. Is he a reptile?”
“Who? Who is a reptile? The lizards for starters, all three of them. Gecky, Stumpy and DJ are all lizards and all reptiles.”
“No. I mean is HE a reptile coz I was thinking he was a mammal.” He shoots a finger at his brother in the gloom.

“Why do you think he’s reptile? You know he’s human, a mammal, just like you, and me too for that matter, now I come to think of it.”
“But, but, but…….you said, you said, you said that he was lying like a turtle.”

This would be a prime example of why, after more than a decade's hard work of trying to learn the lingo, acquire appropriate American language and use words like ‘turtle’ instead of tortoise, I wish I hadn’t bothered!

Feed the birds - tuppence be damned

My Mother-in-Law is Italian, but lives in England for her sins. She came to visit one Summer for a few weeks. Of course all grandmothers are biased, but her delight in 'my' children, was balm upon my worried soul. [translation = pre-diagnoses] I'm sure that Italians have their own set of cultural norms and expectations, but they differ greatly from the British version. My children could be swinging from the chandeliers and Nonna would be there cheering them on.

Few people had the patience to try and engage my son but Nonna was relentless. The bond between them shone. I could explain this phenomenon with reference to her animated face, arresting hand gestures, non-American accent, or her demonstrative nature, but such a clinical approach fails to capture the magic.

One day, we went to the beach at Santa Cruz. I had carefully assembled a large pic-nic in advance, to cater to everyone's foibles. At that time my son had a reasonable vocabulary but rarely spoke. When he did speak his only topic was Thomas the Tank Engine. He was also hyperlexic, but was in the process of losing that skill.

Nonna has many skills. One of her more annoying ones, is her affinity with wild life. From insects [translation = bugs] to elephants and everything in-between, Nonna is their champion. They are drawn to her by some invisible thread. Dr. Doolittle is as nought beside this woman.

Hence, when everyone had abandoned the pic-nic fare, since it is impossible to nail children down in sand, Nonna began to throw the left overs into the sky for the seagulls benefit. Within seconds we were a scene from Hitchcock. Spouse sighed and clucked, as he tried to chase the birds away. I turned my attentions to the criminal modeling inappropriate behaviour to my children, "now listen! Nonna is very naughty to feed the birds." [translation = "flying vermin"] Nonna pulled a face, as well she might, in league with her grandchildren in a common conspiracy. She pulled him close for a snuggle, but he wriggled free to protest..........

"No! Nonna is not naughty. Nonna is good and kind!"
We all turned to look at him. It was the longest voluntary sentence he had ever uttered.

This son - defender of the gene pool and super hero to all other 'lesser' "beings."

Not just any child - play is children's work

Maybe you are new to the concept of autism? We're pretty new too. A couple of decades ago, my knowledge was limited to the film "Rainman," which I enjoyed at the time as a piece of light entertainment on a Thursday evening. I had the odd deep thought at the time, mainly limited to the exploitation of people less fortunate than myself, but that was about it. It wasn't that I had any more or less prejudice than the rest of the audience, it was merely that it was a subject off my radar as it had no direct impact on my life.

Things are different now. Two average girls and two autistic boys and a weekend. We are a couple of old crocks incapable of taking care of ourselves, let alone three active small children in need of entertainment, supervision and guidance. It is a helpful reminder that old people like us shouldn’t breed, at least not unless each child comes with an emergency battery pack for the parent.

Perhaps you still have your inner child? I’m hunting mine down as we speak, but it’s hard work. When I was a child, I just played, nobody taught me how to do it; I was a child therefore I played, that was the reason I was there, to play and grow up, not much else.

If you take the play part away from the equation, you are left with just the growing up bit. Whilst they do grow and get bigger they are merely getting larger not expanding their skill set and not getting any closer to being in the category of ‘normal’ or what might pass for ‘normal’ if you’re not looking too closely. Afterall my expectations are realistic, we’re aiming at blending in, that’s all with a hefty dollop or two more of the happy quotient.

However, you can’t blend in, if you can’t play and have no sense or humour, or alternatively, a sense of humour that is unique and not enjoyed by anyone else. Your own jokes may make you happy, but if they don’t match with anyone else on the planet, then there is not going to enjoy a resounding echo of laughter, and we’d like that reciprocation part of the puzzle, if we have the choice.

So lets take an everyday holiday kind of an example, a Labour Day kind of example. We will go out and play, not labour. A picnic in the wilds should be a doddle. [translation = easy] It would be easier on the beach, or by a river, any kind of water, but we’re taking a more challenging example here.

So you arrive in the great out of doors. [translation = we skip over the hideous "transition" in the car] The boot of the car [translation = trunk] is over flowing with entertain as well as a whole slew of oddities to accommodation several small people's special needs. The nail clippers are no dead weight, as long as I don't forget to pack them, but the assorted tasilmen and plethora of clothing gives the appearance of a camping expedition.

What are you going to do? Well I’m going to sit back and read my book, whilst my children play before they come gamboling back for a picnic lunch. Or at least this would be my plan in my own personal ideal world. That's what my mum did, that's what all mums did in those days. Their job was to provide the treat, the opportunity to drive out into the countryside on a jaunt. Our job was to play. Unfortunately I am in a different world, a predominantly autistic one, so reading, either for myself or for them, isn’t an option.

So what can we do? Well we could play tag. We could, but no-one wants to.
‘Why?” is the universal response. The answer, because it is ‘fun’ doesn’t translate either. O.k. so we dig for the inner child, put on our best happy face and start to play tag, but nobody runs anywhere, which makes it too easy to catch everybody, which doesn’t model the reinforcing positive outcome of ‘fun.’

Never mind, how about we climb a tree instead, sort of naughty but nice, and to hell with the environment. Again we reach the question ‘why?” Indeed, why would one climb a tree? Because it’s ‘fun,’ has the same doomed conclusion as before. We model tree climbing but no-one even observes our efforts. Making monkey noises from half way up the tree, merely draws the attention of strangers, who wonder why we are damaging a perfectly harmless tree and neglecting our children. Never mind, more fun to be had.

How about we roll down the hill and see who gets there first? “Why?” I’m so glad you asked me that, because it is ‘fun.’ We don’t even have to race and avoid that whole nightmare of winning and losing, we'll just do it for the proprioceptive input, go mad, why not? Apart from the obvious problem of having your body in close and personal contact with something as scratchy as the grass, there is a definite lack of enthusiasm from all quarters, apart from the adult population.


Never mind, there’s a nice breeze, howabout we fly that kite, one of spouse’s favourite occupations. “Why?” well yes we’ve done that bit and we’ve come to expect failure but we carry on regardless, even though jaws are beginning to ache from all the effort of this ‘having fun’ malarkey. Nevermind! Lets take the sedate option, afterall I’m beginning to flag a bit.

Lets throw caution to the wind, ignore Mother Nature and make daisy chains, no you don’t have to make them yourself with your fine motor challenges, instead you can just pick the daisies and bring them to me. No? O.k. you can just sit and watch, whilst I make one before your eyes, it's almost like magic. Yes I know that they’re not daisies, I know that they're California poppies, which is a bonus because orange is your favourite colour. Yes I already know that despite the speech delay you are able to pronounce ‘protected species’ but you’re banned from saying it. You’re bored to tears? This isn’t doing it for you?

O.k. tell you what howabout we take reeds and blow through them to make whistling noises? No? O.k how about farting noises, you can make some great farting noises. All children think that farting noises are hilarious. Not you? Why? No? O.k. what else can we do?

Lets hunt for ants in the grass. Not ants? O.k howabout we look for any small insect life, any kind? How about you pretend to be interested just to make me happy? Sorry that one just slipped out. So, where are we?

Lets lie back, kick off our shoes, watch the clouds and see if there are any pictures in them? Of course, yes I was forgetting that you need your shoes to stay on. Can’t see anything in the clouds? What about the train? Not into trains any more, sorry I was forgetting.

It begins to get to you after a while, you begin to doubt your sanity. Why do we do these particularly pointless things? Where exactly is the pleasure in doing them?

A huge chunk of them, is the enjoyment of sharing with someone else, the joint attention, not the actual activity itself, and that is why it is so futile and painful.

What about some of those mind boggling boring finger games, like round and round the garden, that you grew out of, at four perhaps five. Then you’d find that you’d go round to visit your grandparents, when you were much older and sophisticated. Your grandparents start to play finger games with you. You knew you were too old for such childish things, but you’d play along, just to see your grandparents smile and be happy, because you loved them, even if they were completely out touch with the reality of a nine year old. You’d be magnanimous, enjoy the physical contact, pretend to be a kid for a while.


It reminds me of a particularly shameful moment of my life when I was forced against my will and despite my better judgment, to buy a book which would tell me how to amuse children in small confined spaces, which at that time seemed to be largely waiting rooms. I was confident that if I could learn a hundred more games that I would be able to entertain them during the seemingly endless age, between first doubt and a diagnoses. Thereafter I would have no need to entertain copious numbers of children in small places. As it turned out, the book was a complete rip off, as I had already suspected. I already knew the majority of the ‘games.’ It was all a big con designed to pray on the vulnerable, the incompetent parent, oh shame on the publishing industry!


The real trouble was that I had bought the wrong book or the wrong category of book. I didn’t need a book about what to play, what I needed, was a book to give me a key to access my children, something to help me break through. I could have all the games in the world but if I couldn’t connect, they were useless. I needed a connection book. I didn’t find a connection book until much later, but I acquired the principal tools needed, only one of which was perseverance.

I look across at spouse who has flagged, or more accurately, given up. He flies his kite, on his own personal hillock, alone. The Batman kites flutters way up high in the sky on a long, long, long piece of tatty string. Pity I didn't pack the scissors? There again, there's always those nail clippers!

Motor Mouth - who knew a speech delay could be so noisy?

I most certainly am. Or usually I am, quite a chatterbox, but lately I’ve had my "jaws" strung together with elastic. 3 months now, and believe me, it’s no laughing matter, even if I could open my mouth to do so. Dis abled? What a politically charged term. But I have the medical charts to prove it. Has my quality of life been impaired? You bettya! Liquid diet and no bits, is about as boring as you can possibly get.

My condition is a temporary one. Furthermore, I only have myself to blame, as the jaw surgery was a choice, self induced. Maybe I should have had brain surgery first to forestall such foolishness? For others, their circumstances did not involve an element of choice nor is it temporary. I could give you a list of my chums over the years who are categorized into this or that little box in a wide variety of manners, from Thalidomide [that dates us] to hearing impaired, but I’ll stick to the spectrum that is closer to home.

Before surgery, when I chatted to my American pal, we would yabber away as I slipped into what I believe to be, a Mid Atlantic accent. We understood each other completely, apart from the odd word hither and thither. When my Irish chum joined us, after introductions, we chattered away, easing into different accents, faster and faster. We left my American pal on the side lines bewildered, as the accents thickened, to cut her off. Speech is one thing, but to make yourself understood is quite another.

For the moment my speech is virtually incomprehensible, without great efforts in the field of enunciation. Still, it gives the stiff upper lip a good work out and ensures that at least part of my stony facial expression has a little animation. My ego benefits tremendously, as there's nothing like a dose of social embarrassment to whip your pretensions into place. Currently, when I attempt speech I generally only achieve 'spit.' This is made all the better if the person you spit on, is a perfect and innocent stranger. It is more or less guaranteed to make you a social outcast. But in the great scheme of things, it is a mere passing trifle, barely a wrinkle. [translation = doesn't even reach one grey hair status]

The spectrum that I have some experience of, is autism. It’s not direct personal experience, because last time I checked, I was considered perfectly ‘normal.’ [translation = by some] I only have vicarious experience of autism through my two sons. My second hand view is a warped one, with a limited perspective due to my own ignorance. [translation = old dogs, new tricks and lots of grey hairs]

Some autistic people also have language difficulties. Some do not speak in words. Others have a limited vocabulary, or have the words but an inability to find them or speak them. There are also a group with verbal skills that are so enhanced that they deceive the listener. The complexity and variety of this one element of what can be comorbid with autism, defies description. It is often the most key element that the world at large becomes aware of, because communication is considered a fundamental factor of human existence.


My sons' autism is also the non-verbal kind, or at least it was when they were first diagnosed. Now don't get me wrong, it is a truly wonderful development for any child, the development of language that is to say. If you happen to be non-verbal, some people might be forgiven for describing it as miraculous when those first words emerge. Speech, if it happens, comes naturally to many. For others, speech has been carefully developed, encouraged and teased from a child by a speech pathologist, an expert in the field and a dollop of chemistry between the two. Sometimes, this may take many years. Silence is broken by a syllable here and there. Sometimes it fades away and dwindles, for no apparent reason. At other times, it comes in little gushes. The ebb and flow of the verbal tide would best be described by just such an expert.

For right now, the speech that my boys have at their disposal is of an entirely different magnitude than I ever hoped or anticipated. What does it sound like? You probably don't want to know? To begin with, it is very loud. They learn to modulate their volume but for now there is no 'off' switch. A significant percentage of their words are now formed into little sentences. They are repetitive in nature and usually come in sets of three. They usually rhyme or have a definite pattern or rhythm. The majority of verbalizations that fill the intervening periods are sounds,sucking and blowing noises, single syllables in an endless slew of 'noise.' But it's all good practice, exercising the muscles, snapping the synapses. Their sister calls this kind of constant sound 'motor mouth mode.'

Many people find it difficult to listen to them. Their audience tunes them out as the 'noise' is considered jibberish when they're in 'motor mouth mode.' It is difficult to understand what they say. Usually it is only adult who have the patience to listen. There is a smidge of perseveration in there and a tad of OCD on occasions. I could go on but I'm sure that you get the general idea. If I mention that whilst one is in motor mouth mode, the other repeats every word sotto voce [translation = echolalia] you will understand the stereo system that we enjoy.

This very morning, the boys caught me cuddling a cat, Rascal, one of the two. I was admonished for showing favouritism, stroking one but ignoring the other, Unis. I remedied the situation and spat in Unis's direction, "guess what? I can fix that. Come on then, you big fur ball, come over here and have a cuddle!"

Innocent enough? The sort of thing anyone might say at 5:20 in the morning. The boys! They spent the next forty minutes repeating “Yur a big fur ball! Guess what? Yur a big fur ball! Guess What? Yur a big fur ball! Guess what?” interspersed with guffaws of laughter. [translation = that echoed]

It is not speech that's the issue. It is the ability to communicate in whatever manner is available, that makes the difference. The heart of the matter, is the ability to tune in to whatever that manner might happen to be.

If you are in need of further comfort "this," if you missed it may give us pause. What long way "we" have come. Best wishes and cheers!