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Part of the reason for choosing the Labradoodle breed of dog was because the boys have eczema and asthma. We were advised that this breed amongst a few others may lessen the adverse impact of a new pet upon our already very complicated family life. To date, this evidence has proved to be true.
Our pet, Thatcher, has won us all over. No-one could ask for a more laid back puppy, huge yet gentle. He sheds like many other dogs but my toils with the vacuum are well worth it. Unlike the rest of the youthful household, he is not in the least bit phased by the whirring of the vacuum. He has already added so much to our family that I cannot imagine life without him any more.
We have adjusted to his little doggy ways and the occasional deep baritone bark of warning;- woof, it’s a squirrel, woof, it’s a human pedestrian, woof, it’s someone at the door. There’s quite a variety but we know them all. It is because we know them all, including the puppy whimpers of bad dreams and chasing deamons full speed whilst lying sideways on the floor, that I am surprised by an entirely new kerfuffle of a noise. I run to investigate the fearing the worst. I find the worst, my son wrapped around the neck of the hound that sneezes.
Most peculiar.
Half gag half whimper.
“Iz o.k. mom! I fink Fatcher has allergies.”
“!”
British people are often, quite wrongly, said to be scatological, obsessed with bodily functions and toilets. Sadly, this mis-apprehension is further advanced by Gillian McKeith, whose programme has recently arrived in the USA. I feel duty bound to dispel this myth, as quite frankly anyone who spends more than a few minutes in a bathroom is need of some serious professional help. As for people who have reading materials in their bathroom, they too need their head’s examined. No-one should have enough time in the bathroom to read anything more than ‘please wash your hands.’ Some people argue that they are so busy that they have no choice but to complete other tasks whilst closeted in the bathroom, or at least that was the executive’s excuse, he who insisted upon continuing dictation back in the days when people employed secretaries.
It’s not that I’m against multitasking. In principle, I’m all for it and do it frequently. I suspect we all do to a greater or lesser extent, indeed if we didn’t, we’d reduce our efficiency quotient by some quite horrible margin.
Cooks do it all the time, just in the cooking and preparation department. Sometimes they load themselves up and chat on the phone, listen to the radio, read the recipe book, do a few rows of knitting while the water comes up to boil, plan next weeks menu, fold the washing……well maybe not, but you get the picture.
However, instinctively I some how know that there are limits, although I’m not terribly sure where the boundaries lie. That said, I know with a degree of certitude that some things should not be combined, such as knife throwing and swimming. Who wants rusty knives? Then a few other things spring to mind such as using a chainsaw and doing anything else at all. It’s just not on. Some tasks just require the usage of too many brain cells to permit distraction or the consequences are dire.
In my son’s case it is a different order or magnitude. Broadly speaking, I think it is safe to say that neither are into multitasking. Both prefer mono tasking, preferably without end if it is a preferred ‘task,’ more especially so, when the task is an electronic game.
Hence it is with a certain amount of awe when I find him in the bathroom. I see something that I have never seen before. I see something that I cannot imagine anyone ever doing. I find him sitting in the bathroom doing what most of us choose to do alone, together with his Gameboy and a carton of Goldfish crackers, eating, playing Mario games and…..well……doing. Forget the Gameboy! Eating and doing are not tasks I could ever imagine occurring at the same time. I realize that I have had a much more sheltered existence than I ever thought possible because no matter how hard I try, I just cannot envisage doing likewise. I am tempted to squeak something irrelevant like ‘Hygiene!’ but I realize I am silent when he blinks up at me, “wot?”
“I er….you shouldn’t…….can’t……don’t want to……”
“Go away. I am needing my privacy.”
“But…..eating and toilets aren’t a good match dear.”
“But I’m saving time.”
Somehow I don’t really like to make further enquiries, in part because I already know that in his mind eating is always either a chore or in the alternative, a complete waste of time. I can feel a social story coming on.
Maybe it’s just a male thing? 
Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."
Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."
Don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."
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My daughter bounces out of Middle School orientation to greet us, beaming. She walks a few steps ahead with her little brother whilst I guide the spinner. I am extremely grateful for the extra wide path as he circles and lurches between bushes filled with bugs and cement pavers full of cracks. He has another year to familiarize himself with the new territory, vicariously, before he joins his sister at the very same school. He is silent and busy and not making much progress as the other two dawdle, waiting for me to get a grip. “Hey look at that!” she points.
“What is it being?”
“Litter!”
“Dere is being litter out of dah Middle School. Dey are not nature lovers?”
“Gross. Dya know that’s called a cigarette butt?”
“Butt!”
“Yeah!”
“You mean……Middle School is dah litter and dah Nature hater and dah rude!”
“It’s not really rude when it’s a cigarette butt……is it Mom?”
“Hmm I suppose not. I’m not sure really, we’d need to ask an American.”
Surely better than dog end or fag end?
“But we is being dah Americans Mom!”
“He’s right ya know.”
“Hmm indeed.” I hold one by the shoulders as I watch the other one ping, just as if he’s been touched by a cattle prod as he sparks into action, “I know!” he bellows in robot mode, “Ban dah butt! Ban dah butt! Ban dah butt!” We watch him, arms up, full bounce as he chants his new cheer. His sister looks at him, from him, to me, from me to him, rolls her eyes as a drift of Middle Schoolers pass by and giggle. It’s a knowing look, wise beyond her years, half resignation half beam.
And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway" and spare a thought for "Nonna."
I make breakfast for the masses and listen to my son chat to his sister. He’s at the age where baby teeth fall like confetti. The tooth fairy has been banned from our house as no-one enjoys night time un-invited prowlers.
Currently we enjoy a two-fold extravaganza during all conversations, a backdrop of singing Axel F, the theme song from Beverly Hills Cops, as well as the added bonus of a new form of oral punctuation. Everywhere there is a period, a full stop, my son adds ‘bing, bing, bing.’ As with most new bursts of development, it can be a little disconcerting at first. The theme tune is sung in tune whilst the other person talks, to sort of fill up the empty air space. I don’t really understand how his voice can sing and yet he can also hear what is being said to him at the same time. I suspect it’s just another of those self calming techniques to aid concentration.
“Does my teef look cute, bing, bing, bing?” he asks with his very best wheeling voice.
“A bloody tooth is not cute. Why would I wanna look at that thing?”
“I’m gonna call him Max, bing, bing, bing.”
“You’re gonna name your lost tooth?”
“Yeah and I am give my self a new name too, bing, bing, bing.”
“Alright….tell me already?”
“I am being called Bucky…….Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, bing, bing, bing.”
“Sure is some kinda awesome title.”
“S’not a title. It’s…….a way of being, bing, bing, bing.”
“Maybe….but that’s not something yur gonna be able to repeat in a hurry.”
“Er… Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, Bucky dah bucked toothed part cat, bing, bing, bing!”
“Geez! What was I thinkin!”
“You wer nt fink in, bing, bing, bing,” he adds in robot mode, ‘nev er un der est I mate dah cat part, bing, bing, bing.”
“!”
I swear I shall never again complain about the Pokemon and Mario Brothers tunes.
The back drop to my life is a constant stream of little ditties, scripts on the whole. It’s like wallpaper, always there but not particularly noticeable once you’ve grown accustomed to the pattern. Because they’re collected from such varied sources, the ‘voice’ changes. It’s a bit like flicking through radio or television channels, variety. Here we have TIVO for many different reasons, mainly parental censorship and a need to avoid all advertisements. But now we have "Nonna" in residence so we also have adverts.
I try my best to hold a coherent conversation with "Nonna," very early in the morning:-
“Wot you do den?” she asks, bleary eyed in the kitchen.
“Just getting a jump on breakfast,” I bellow since it is unlikely that she wears her hearing aid at 5:10 in the morning.
“Bananas…….an excellent source of Potassium.” echoes from the family room.
“It is dark. Is it night time or already is it dah morning? Where iz dah clock?”
“Over there, above your head, it’s just gone five in the morning.”
“Price line! Knee Go Tee AyTor.”
“Why you ave dah television on?”
“I don’t……..well…….the radio is on. That’s probably what you can hear.”
“Make a U-turn if possible.”
“I tink I watch dah BBC. You can turn it on for me…..please?”
“Are you sure, it’s still very early. Would you like to wait a bit, maybe later?”
“Dya wanna have music in your soul?”
“Wot time you say it iz?”
“Early, very early in the morning. You don’t usually get up this early.”
“You are making breakfast or dinner?”
“Breakfast.”
“Love! Show me the love.”
“I tink I am confused a bit because it is dark still.”
“Hmm, maybe go back to bed for a while. Do you want to take a coffee with you, some tea?”
“Thanks so much! You’ve been a great audience tonight.”
“No. Thank you. I tink I shall just read. Ave you seen my book?”
“Elusive acid spitting Mongolian death worm.”
I pause in my book search and turn my attention back to my son.
“I beg your pardon? What did you just say?”
“Which bit is it that I am just say?”
“The last bit.”
“Elusive acid spitting Mongolian death worm?”
“Yes. That bit. What is that……exactly?”
“It is exactly…….in my imagination.”
“!”
This is a sketch of the area in the garden that we cordoned off for the dogs. 
A photograph would have been quicker but then you'd also see the mess, so this is the cleaned up version.
This week we have Bella, Thatcher's sister visiting us. 
She's littler but the same age, and clipped. In the first sketch above, I see a neat square that will give her time to acclimatize, but I don't see with a dog's eyes.
This is what a dog sees:-
What a twit I am. Come and visit "Nonna" to view more ways in which I demonstrate "twitishness." That really should be a word.
We chat on the way to the supermarket in the car. It is a proper chat because it is not about Pokemon. Who ever thought that we would ever enjoy a casual chat! The casual chat has been instigated by me, because I wish to distract from the imminent torture of the supermarket. It’s a thoroughly delightful new tactic. The chat is also prompted by the Brain Quest Third Grade (3rd Edition). As they are about to enter 4th and 5th grades in the Fall it is obvious that they are both well below grade level academically. When they were little, the answers were easy but the words were difficult. Now the answers are elusive but the words flow much more freely. All too often I find that as one thing advances another recedes, it’s a trade off. I believe it’s quite common. You can see it in "John Elder Robison’s" book called “Look me in the Eye.” When John was little he had extraordinary talents but as an adult those skills were unavailable to him. The chat comes to an abrupt halt.
“Lets not talk about it any more.”
“Why dear?”
“Coz I don wanna talk about dah future.”
“How come?”
“Coz I worry about dah future.”
“What is there to worry about?”
“My babies.”
“What babies?”
“My children.”
“But you don’t have any children yet.”
“I know and I’m worried I’m not gonna have any.”
“Why won’t you have any?”
“Coz of dah married bit.”
“The married bit?”
“No-one’s gonna wanna marry me.”
“Oh no, you’re quite wrong there. I’m absolutely sure that there’s someone out there for you, just the right one.”
“But I can’t do it.”
“Er…..do what dear?”
“Dah slow dancing.”
“Slow dancing! I don’t think that’s very important. Not everyone likes to dance. Anyway, you’re so good at fast dancing and robot dancing. Lots of people like that too.”
“Dya think?”
“Indeed I do!”
“No…..dya think dat…….one day when I am all grown up dat I will be being……a…da, .a… da, …..a…da…...”
“Be what dear? A dad?”
“Adorable?”
After losing "11,000 words" into the ether I am more than severely miffed. So I’ll just share a quicky whilst I play catch up.
I’m not sure if it’s an American thing or a Californian thing but I think the whole world recognizes it. You have to imagine a teenage girl, an American of course. She is probably dressed in whatever is the current fashion for teenage girls and wears a whole heap of attitude. It’s an attitude full of confidence and entitlement. It’s encapsulated in a Bratz doll but I believe it’s universal. These young women have a few stock phrases which they exchange with other young women of their ilk. They all understand each other although these few phrases may seem like an overly brief shorthand to an older generation. Can you see it? Can you hear it? Are we on the same page?
So, I come bounding down the stairs and bowl into the kitchen where I see my son standing on the counter in bare feet, legs astride with both hands clutching a cereal bowl. I am just about to launch into my well worn and slightly tedious script when he cuts me off. I hear it, a little voice with a big attitude, “hello! Need a lil help here!”
And don't forget to add your name to the "book giveaway."
