The truth of the matter

When it comes to family life few people are able to imagine the mental torture of my existence.

It’s not just the obvious things like Hermit crab maintenance but other matters such as a well balanced nutritional diet for my off-spring.

Like all parents I am keen that mine should have a good start in life, as encompassed by balanced nutrition. The rules of the food pyramid are carved on the other side of my endless grocery shopping list. I have the advantage of speed reading labels, so that I am instantly able to recognize junk food. In case you have trouble in this area, if you pick up a packet of food and the ingredients list is longer that 10, chuck it back on the shelf and save the strain on your bifocals.

I am happy to accommodate reasonable food preferences, fads and fancies within the usual budgetary restraints, but I have the added burden of different calculations, not mere financial ones. This burden becomes all the more obvious to me after my spouse returns home after a quick emergency yummies trip to Trader Joes. Clearly the man is clueless, witless and in need of a sugar fix.
“Look at these!” he beams as he shakes the ‘bake to crisp up’ rolls that were going cheap at the end of the day.
“He doesn’t eat that kind of bread and he certainly won’t eat it if it’s hot!” My mind calculates the trajectory of just how far crispy crumbs could ping over a ten foot area of dining room?
“What about this!”
“Hmm, it should probably be chilled.” Half an hour in the fridge will engender the Blackberry Crush undrinkable by one and may just save us from the staining of hands, clothes and anything else within transit duty. Gross motor skills aside they could do without the empty calories and sugar rush.
“I thought this might tickle your fancy?” I smile appreciatively at the Naan bread. “Soft!” he coos as he pats my cheek that hides my malfunctioning fake teeth, although now I’ll have to make a curry to go with it, that only two people, adult people, will eat. He has bought enough exotic frozen food to feed a class of hungry foreign Kindergardeners, even though the freezer is already over flowing.
“And finally,” he announces with a flourish, “my all time favourite, Panettone!” I disguise my grimace. “It’s o.k. I know they’ve had dinner, this can be a dessert!” I pull a face. “It’s o.k., it’s really only sweet bread, very few crumbs and enough dried fruit it in to make it a nutritional feast.” He beams.

Those genes, the Italian ones, will out!

I know he's almost right. I give up.

What is wrong with you!

Parents throughout the world are careful to advise their children of the dangers of our modern existence. Stranger Danger refers to an earlier era, but the message remains the same. Discernment and discrimination are high functioning skills for small people to acquire, which is not helped by the confusing message that parents attempt to convey but all too frequently bungle. It’s someone you don’t know but also someone that you might. The stranger is a scary person but may be someone that you know. If your child already has some additional difficulties, a parents attempts at communication may flounder all the sooner.

The message from school, following a stranger awareness lesson is probably delivered in a far more efficient manner than we have managed at home, but this was a couple of years ago now, when their powers of speech were more limited. He must have been about six years old when I realized that he had two teeth where he should have had only one. I remember feeling slightly light headed at the sight of the new adult tooth standing boldly behind the wibbly wobbly baby tooth, thoroughly disconcerting. Even though he was my third child I had never come across the double teeth phenomenon, which is apparently all to common and normal.

This was the first tooth that he was about to lose, a cause of a great deal of angst for him. My attempts at explaining what was about to take place only made the situation worse. He advised me in far fewer words, that he wished to hold on to all of his current bodily parts and was unwilling to donate any of them, not matter how worthy the cause.

Like many anxious moments in childhood, the lead up to the event, was far more traumatic that the result. The tooth fell, accompanied by a microdot of blood and all was well. His countenance was a study of surprise but otherwise the drama was over.

The drama was over until nightfall when tucking in time arrived. I admit it was sheer folly on my part, but sometimes parents just follow a familiar groove without the benefit of any brain waves. I would say on his behalf that I fully indorse his view that it is unhygienic to put a tooth of any size under one’s pillow, with hindsight.

In those days, an exchange of information could take a very long time. In those days, if the topic was also stressful, the exchange was accompanied with frequent meltdowns which meant that a simple exchange could take several hours.
“It is a boy or a girl?”
“Um?”
“Dah toof fairy?”
“Oh yes, she’s a girl.”
“She is fly?”
“Yes, she flies.”
“She is read?”
“She changes colour. Whatever colour you like best.”
“No! Read!”
“Oh right. Yes, she can read and often enjoys a mystery novel in her spare time.”

Thus it was, that after a considerable period of time, my son accompanied me around the house, late in the night. We plastered A4 sized pieces of paper on many of the relevant doors. Even then, his logic was impeccable. To me, this isn't autism this is merely the application of common sense. We covered all probable entry points, including the fireplace, to leave the message ‘no fairies allowed.’

A question of degree

He’s not really hungry an hour after lunch but it’s a quiet moment. Often, during quiet moments their father will stand in front of the open cupboard searching for inspiration. The inspiration he seeks most usually comes in the form of biscuits and other treats. I notice that diabetics also seek the same inspiration during noisy moments, but maybe it’s only solace?
“Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich if you’re hungry?” I mention rhetorically. He ambles reluctantly away from his mental crutch to begin sandwich assembly. I am busy in the kitchen, the very small galley kitchen. It is not possible to be furtive in a very small kitchen with two people, but that doesn’t prevent him from trying.

Life partners are able to communicate without words. I look at his half made sandwich. The inch thick layer of butter is not beneficial to a person with high cholesterol and dodgy blood pressure. I look at him, so that the message will pass one to another. He sighs because I am a kill joy as he scraps of the surplus and deposits it back into the butter dish, crumbs, debris and all. I raise an eyebrow towards the contamination. His shoulders shrug as he removes the detritus with his knife. The knife, detritus and extra butter lie on the edge of the plate. I turn to hang up the saucepans. His body movements are entirely predictable as I see out of the back of my head. I flip around to see the knife whip out of his mouth. He is able to read my eyebrows; ‘you’ll cut off your tongue!’ His first born son blunders into the kitchen, no doubt lured by the smells. He staggers about with the uncertainty of a drunk heat seeking missile. Synapses fire as he spots the butter dish and glides past with a co-ordinated scoop, duck and dive for cover sequence. Purposeful but wordless. I frown with disapproval, his father grins.

Now would seem as good a time as any to make an afternoon snack for all the hungry tummies that are about to enquire when the next nose bag will be available? A pre-emptive strike on my part. I assemble calories in a simple trough formation, chips and dip in the middle of the table and call in the farrow. I scatter Goldfish crackers into a bowl for the youngest, whilst I tutor his older sister in the art of table manners. It is a standard list of the ‘elbows off the table’ variety but lengthy none the less. With her as their role model, the boys, all of them, attempt to copy. Three pairs of additional elbows of varying sizes, slip off the table.
“It’s not fair, why dontcha tell them to do it too?”
“Well you’re doing such a great job of showing them how yourself!”
“You’d never let me do that!”
“Do what dear?”
“Like him!” she nods as her little brother.
“He’s doing great too dear.”
“Huh?”
“Well, he’s at the table, he’s eating, there’s no motor mouth……he’s doing a great job!”
“Yes right!” I may not be all that quick but even I can detect the note of sarcasm of pre-teen attitude.
“Don’t you think he’s doing well? We’ll be able to have another try at eating at a restaurant again?” The eye roll response is a little disheartening if not irritating. “Come on dear, you could try and be a little more positive when he tries so hard?”
“Fat chance!”
Well really! I turn to the little one stuffing in the last couple of Goldfish.
“You can use your good manners again in a restaurant can’t you dear?”
“Yeph!” he sputters crumbs.
“There you go!” I beam at her.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“We can’t go to a restaurant with him like that!”
“Like what?”
“Look!” she demands. I look. I see a nearly, seven year old, approximately sitting on his hunkers on a chair, fairly near to the table. Not static but not stimming.
“What? He looks great to me?”
“He ain’t got no pants er trousers on!”

Clearly my bifocals and campaign trails are in need of a few more minor adjustments.

Puppy dogs tails indeed

“Let me out, let me out, let me out!” he yells as we beetle along the freeway at 65 mph.

“Don’t be so stoopid, Mom’s drivin yur nit wit, you’ll be smooshed like a peach, road rash.”

He continues to flail, buck and kick much as he did in the old days.

“What is yur problem?” she asks in the vernacular.
“It be dirt,” he mutters , in a secret tone.
“What’s dirty?”
“Dah window,” he whispers. I can see them in the rear view mirror. I can’t work out why he should this share this information in such a furtive manner.
“Ooo that’s not dirt, that’s bird poop.”
“Bird poop?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s not dirt it’s just a lil ole drop a bird poop.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why dere is bird poop on dah car?”
“Er geez I don know. Bird flies. Bird poops. Happens to hit the car I guess.”
A brief silence follows.
“Birds are do poop and be fly too?” I do not like the way this conversation develops. It is already very difficult for his bottom to make contact with the toilet seat. I do not wish to provide him with further ammunition.
“Don’t worry dear, we’ll clean it up when we get home. It is on the outside of the window afterall.”
“Of course!” he snorts.
“Of course what dear?”
“Stoopid.”
“Pardon!”
“Stoopid!” he yells a little louder this time, just in case I didn’t catch it the first time. Can someone save me from myself!
“I meant, ‘what’ is stoopid?”
“You coz dah birds are not fly in dah car, dey are fly in dah sky.” I ignore the mental gymnastics of my tiny bird brain and concentrate on driving.
“Stop dah car! You need be clean it now!”
“We’ll be home in a jiffy! I’ll clean it then.” We pull into the driveway and crawl into the garage. He’s out in a trice with his usual fight or flight response. The others tumble after him. We immediately experience a traffic jam in the garage, two try to get in to the house and one tries to get back out. “I need it. I need it. I need it!” he squalks at them as he wades his way past them, battling upstream. Each hand holds a little white flag. Closer inspection shows that the flags are Wet Wipes as he attacks the car window with a flourish of fury. So much for tactile defensiveness or is there merely OCD gone mad?
“Oh thank you dear, that is so helpful. What a great job you’re doing! I was going to do that in just a moment.”
“Das o.k. Your brain is old and mold. You are forget.” It's the kind of back handed compliment you'd expect from a Brit.
“Oh….I...er...”
“And……..you be er... old and mold turtle.”
"Turtle? I didn't know tortoises were forgetful? Do you mean elephant?"
"Nooo. Elephants do good remember. Turtles are be slow." Oh dear, in more ways than one I fear.

In my defense, I should like to point out that there is a fine line between truth and accuracy.

Unravelling the Devil's work

I am neither a soothsayer nor a sales person, but I would hazard a guess about the trajectory of many a child. They commence dabbling with dinosaurs, trundle into Thomas and his rabble, plunge into Pokemon and then yield to Yugio. After that, I seek input.

Each of these phases results in considerable financial investment by the parent, no matter how reluctant. To be fair I was quite happy with the first two, but seriously troubled by the third. To me, Pokemon were the lowest of the low, nasty, cheap little figurines. Although I knew nothing about them at all, I disliked the cartoons which to my untutored eye had an air of violence and brashness.

With all their obsessions to date, eventually, I have reluctantly capitulated. If you can no longer tempt a child to put a foot through their trouser legs with a smiley Thomas face, you have few options but to put a Pokemon scowl there instead, if you ever how to achieved 'dressed' status.

After two years in the Pokemon phase of development, they have infiltrated every nook and cranny of our daily existence. Their purposes as so many and varied, that life would come to a half without their motivational force. Now that I have watched the cartoons, I would acknowledge that they are largely innocuous, no worse and no better than others of their ilk. The predominant theme is 'good triumphs over bad,' which overall could be a darned sight worse. But I digress.

Firstly, I should point out that no-one is to blame for dropping little triggers into my children's life. I'm all for free speech, but sometimes a casual comment can worm it's way in to someone's psyche with unforeseen consequences.

I tuck them all in at night. Whilst I chat to his brother, I can hear the occupant in the next bed 'self talking': 'weavil, deevil, evil, meevil,' interspersed with giggles and mouth breathing gusts. I come to him, last one, the little one, his turn. Nearly seven already but with a speech delay. The 'delay' is catching up, the gap narrows. He may sound like a four year old with a mouth full of marbles but that should not deceive us.


"What it is?"
"What is what dear?"
"Dah 'evil'?"
"Evil? Well it's the worst of the worst, the baddest of the bad." He gasps wide eyed and claps his hands over his mouth, a sealant. I wait for further and better particulars.
"But dey are not dah badest of dah bad, day are da good guys!"
"Who are the good guys?"
"Da Pokemons!"
"Er yes, I think you're right. They are the good guys," I agree, wondering what the real issue is here?
"But, but, but.......she is telling dah lie?"
"Who is lying?"
"Da teacher!"
"Which teacher?"
"Da teacher who is being at my school."
"Which teacher?"
"Da one who is saying dat the Pokemons dey are evil."
Whilst I am tempted to ask again, I doubt if I will gain any further relevant nuggets of information. For them, like many children, most situations are black and white, the grey areas are few and far between. Now we have reached an impasse. Teachers are a given 'good,' therefore they do not lie. It's an area of cognitive dissonance, both facts cannot be true at the same time. He starts to bleat as his brain whirs to try and resolve the dilemma.
"You know how you like Goldfish?"
"Um...er.......yes." He pauses whilst my brain whirs too.
"You think they're the greatest, right?"
"Er.....yes." After each utterance he clamps his hands back over his mouth to stop additional words escaping in or out.
"You know that I don't like Goldfish right?"
"You don't like em?" He sounds genuinely.
"Have you ever seen me eat them?"

"Er no.."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Er.....coz I am a bad sharer?" Brilliant!
"Good answer, but no, it's because I don't like them, they're yucky for me." His eyes are on stalks of disbelief.
"But everybody......!"
"Not everybody. You remember people like different things?"
"Hmmmm......"
"And dislike different things."
"Er.....and fink different things?"
"Spot on! That's right. It's o.k. for people to think different things."
"She are not lie?"
"It's not a lie if that's what she thinks is it?"
"Er....no.....da o.k., ......I fink."
Horray! Now that's an outcome that I would never have predicted a few years ago, but I did mention that I'm a bit remiss in the fortune telling department. That's all we really want, just a little tolerance. It can go such a long way.

The yolk’s on me

The are a few basic principles to adhere to when it comes to speech delays. First and foremost, language should be simple. Few words to aid comprehension and communication. Initially, this may be just learning one word. Ideally the first word for an autistic child to learn would be ‘yes.’ As often as not, the first word they learn, just like other children, is ‘no,’ or maybe that’s just mine.

As the years pass, more advanced skills should be acquired by the parent. One of these, a hesitant one for some, is to try and correct errors. It’s a hesitant step because when words begin to flow a parent may not want to risk drying up the creek.

One technique that I thoroughly endorse but rarely put into practice, is to repeat whatever the child says back to them, in the corrected format. Hence, when a child says ‘give duck me,’ the parent repeats ‘give the duck to me,’ perhaps with a please thrown in for good measure. Only a couple more words. Perhaps a different timbre and emphasis. I could also add some volume control, if I really wanted to ice the cake.

Strangely, I find that rather than adopting this technique, their speech corrupts my own brainwaves, so instead of correcting them, I copy their mode of speech, by accident. Oddly, I find that other people, intelligent people, fall into the same trap, but I have no idea why?

Actually, that’s not quite true in this particular instance. In this situation my brain is confused because my son is voluntarily having a conversation with someone. He has not been prompted and forced to use his social skills. He has initiated a conversation himself. He is interested in talking to her. He asks pertinent questions with the correct preposition. He doesn’t assault her with a monologue about Pokemon. He remains relatively static.

They are all the kind of questions that anyone might ask when they meet someone new, anyone except my boys, until recently. Many young children ask inappropriate questions, often related to their own interests or perspectives, but if those viewpoints are more obscure, the questions can be disconcerting: ‘do you like Oddish or Turtwig?’ ‘do you have a chair made of Platinum?’ ‘Is Pirelli your favourite?’ Such questions come out of the blue without preamble or context. They are a great advance.

Prior to the question stage, you have the ‘random statement’ phase. The child wants to connect but doesn’t know how? When language is difficult, the result can be startling: ‘I am a Triceratops,’ ‘Charmeleon is a fire type,’ ‘ Goldfish are the bestest.’ At first, as a parent, your heart stops beating when they make their first attempts at contact. The realization that they’re trying to communicate is frozen by the oddity of their delivery.


Fortunately, it is my experience, that the majority of people are open hearted and patient. There is some hidden clue in the human psyche that allows people to take a breath, tune in and give a moment of their attention to the messenger, if not the actual message.

My chum chats to my child.
“Who you are be?”
“I be…..um, I am Mary.”
“What you are be?”
“I be….er I mean….I am a lawyer.”
“What it is being, dah lawyer?”
“A lawyer is being…..a lawyer is someone who…..helps people with the law.”
“What it is be, dah ‘law’?”
“The ‘law’ be…….is a set of rules. Everyone has to follow the same rules or it wouldn’t’ be fair.”
“We be good rules in dis house.”
“Oh good.”
“Are you be good or are you be bad?”
“I be…..we try to be good in our house too.”
“Is it be jail?”
“Is what be….is what jail?”
“Your house?”
“No, I don’t live in a jail. We have an ordinary house just like you.”
“Our house dun bin ordinary.” I have an uneasy feeling.
“No?” Perhaps I should terminate this conversation or change the subject?
“Our house dun bin extraordinary.” Oh dear! What on earth is he going to come up with now?
“Really. In what way?” Her lawyerly cross examination techniques begin to scare me.
“Our house……....it is dah secret?” Secret! I should try and shut him up? Perhaps he’ll just revert to some pleasant irrelevant Pokemon facts?
“I don’t know, is it a secret?” she entices. Please don’t let it be a secret? Where’s the pause button? Can’t we talk about dinosaurs or Thomas and his rabble? I am homesick for the old days.
“Er……no, I don fink it is dah secret……our house dun bin extraordinary because dis is dah Cape Cod house and……..we are not live in Cape Cod……..we are be live in San Jose! Get it?” He roars with laughter and collapses on the floor to roll around in a galaxy of guffaws. This is probably the very nearest he has ever been, to a joke.

Some things are best left without translation

cairn definition

noun = A mound of stones erected as a memorial or marker.
cairn etymology

[Middle English carne, from Scottish Gaelic carn, from Old Irish.]

Most people would imagine that when children have speech delays that language use should be a carefully orchestrated affair. I expect that's correct in many households. Parents can learn a great deal from observing a speech pathologist and adopt their techniques, or an amateurish version in our case. Good parents, if they try hard, may be able to adapt their approach for a significant percentage of the day. Lesser parents have lower standards and slip into sloppy habits as the percentage of words increases over time. Some parents are so careless that they fail to keep a list of dangerous trigger words at the forefront of their brains. Words like 'death,' or 'pretend,' or 'outside.' Or they forget which child has which trigger words and all their derivative words. Some muddle which one cannot be touched and which one needs deep tissue massages, frequently. A small percentage of parents do not acknowledge that their home is really bilingual. As the parents get older, not only do they forget what they're supposed to be doing right now, they also forget the very recent past.

In the recent past, we moved into our current home with two girls, a big one and a little one. It was a pregnant pause before a brother arrived. The little one's goldfish did not survive the shock and committed suicide by hurling himself into the garbage disposal unit. The death leap was witnessed by the owner, a very short owner, who was therefore unable to count the slice and dice carnage. A small ceremonial was devised and the disguised goldfish chips were buried in the garden. We marked with the place with a pile of stones for time immemorial. But memories fade fast around here.

......

I drag everyone out into the garden on a blissful sunny afternoon. As usual, I bribe with the lowest common denominator, in this case, an afternoon snack. I hope that if they are exposed to the dappled fading light, they will be tempted to remain outside and play. I am equipped with last year's bubble making machine, batteries charged, which I place strategically in front of the door as both a distracter and a barrier, to prevent them from regaining entry.

They munch in a desultory manner, scowling at my deviousness.
"What's that mom?" she asks nodding towards the newly cleared flower bed.
"Well it looks sort like a cairn isn't it."
"What 'cairn' is?" When will I learn to think before I speak?
"Well, it's er, it's a memorial to mark a spot."
"What it is 'memorial.'?" Oh dear.
"Don't think 'memorial,' think 'marker' instead. It marks a special spot."
"Marker, marker! marker?"
"That's right."
"What colour it is?"
"Colour?"
"Yes, dah marker, what colour it is being?"
"Oh not that kind of marker, um.....'X' marks the spot kind of mark."
"Why it special?"
"Don't you see the stick of bells? Can you hear them tinkling?"
"I do not like the crashing noises."
"Er why why why we have bells in dah garden?"
"They were a gift when we first moved in here, they're older than you are!"
"Bells in dah garden is stoopid." I look around my garden which is covered in painted shapes, numbers and letters of the alphabet, all evidence of the lures and entrapments to entice them into the yard by fair means or foul. Since they are never in the garden, how could they possibly know what is 'supposed' to be in one?

I bury my negative thoughts, and inter my ire, if not my urn. Any semblance of conducting a logical conversation has turned to ash. I consider myself lucky to have avoided the 'death' issue. My nerves may jangle but the jingle of bells is now tolerable.

All the same

I prepare supper during the 30 minute television session, a reward for job chores, or task completion as my professional pals tell me. I clatter in the kitchen half listening to the radio news and half listening to the television.

My son appears by my side, pogoing with unsuppressed excitement. Each hand grasps the other. His even teeth are exposed in a happy grin. He continues to bounce waiting for words to formulate and percolate. I stir the sauce in the pan and count each stroke as he brews up to 15. I turn myself towards him with my ‘expectant’ face on. He is on the side of slender, enjoys a wide ranging diet, can be tempted into trying ‘new food,’ and is the slowest eater on the planet. Like most children he loves ice-cream. Dessert is usually the reward for that which comes before. He is often hungry but not really a foodie, more of a re-fueller. I believe that there are children who relish their food. I distinctly recall from my own childhood that meals were merely a hurdle to overcome before you could go back to doing what ever you were doing. Whatever you were doing, was always far more interesting than meal times and my mum was a very good cook.

He gives up the word search, stops pogoing and grabs my wrist to pull me in the direction of the family room. This is hand leading, a skill more often associated with very young children, a recent development that I am thoroughly enjoying. After two or three steps in the right direction, some words catch up with him, “come on! Come see this!” This is an added bonus for me because shared or joint attention to some trivial matter, is also a common feature of early childhood that has been absent here.

He pogos in front of the television screen, his right arm crooked and poised. His timing is off, but nevertheless, his arm shoots out a second or two later to point at the advertisement, “look!” I oblige. I witness an advertisement for a junk food snack, a savoury one, chicken dunks. It looks utterly repulsive. I imagine that the list of additives will be far longer than any real ingredients. The ‘food’ comes with free toys. The free toys are not Pokemon, and not related to any other current interest of his.

He has never shown any interest in food of this kind. There again I have recently discovered that he swaps food at lunch time with his pal at school. My son gives his preferred snack to his pal and in return, his pal gives my son something that he doesn’t like, some kind of chips. My son knows that most children like these chips. His Aides tell me that he does a jolly good job of expressing genuine glee on receipt of something that he is indifferent to, at best. I am uncertain if he does this to please his friend, to fit in with his peers or both? Quite frankly, I couldn’t care less, as either or both are such a huge leap in "social awareness" that it’s enough to send a mother to the junk food aisle post haste. Having just read how other parents cope with their "adult autistic offspring," I find that I cannot help but treasure every tiny indicator that things might turn out otherwise. Not better, just "happier."

This is not the kind of food I want any of my children to be eating because I am a pretentious food snob with the income and free time to back it up.
"Please! We be having dah fun food?" he whispers breathily. His sister looks over with equal longing. To have two of my children enjoy the same dinner would be quite a coup for someone like me, the short order chef. I look from one to the other, teetering on my pedestal, or is that food pyrimid, when the little one crashes in to dash their hopes, "dah food is not fun! Dat is sooooo stoopid! Food is never dah fun!" he spurts in a tone of outrage and bewilderment.

Now although both boys have speech delays, my older son has greater difficulty, which causes no end of complications. However, lately it he has been more proactive about this obvious discrepancy. Rather than fight back with words, his weak suit, he avoids arguments by simply launching himself on his little brother, knocks him flat and lies on him. Initially this appears to be very aggressive behaviour, but neither seems to object particularly. The little one gives a little 'poof' of surprise, as they topple over. They both lie there for a little while wordless and calm. After a few moments, the big one rolls off the little one and all seems to be well. It's a coping mechanism that seems to work for both of them. Hey! They're brothers afterall.

Full of potential

It’s not an interview. It’s more of an on site evaluation. The new potential baby sitter is of course foreign. This means she is far superior to the local version, where children are parked in front of the telly as soon as you leave the house.

I watch her reactions carefully, and completely ignore the antics of my children. Her arrival is timed perfectly. My youngest son is in full level 10 meltdown because his chores are incomplete and electronics time is therefore delayed. I am tempted to capitulate and create a good impression. He flails on the floor at full volume at the outrageousness and unfairness of my rules. “I am dah hate you, bad, bad, bad!” he shrieks. I sequence the other two young people through their ‘greeting new people’ steps, although it is difficult to hear anything at all with the screamer in tow.

I explain a few basics as we step over the riling body of my youngest. Her eyes are wide but she not on retreat. “He’s a bit of a drama queen,” I mention in passing. I explain pertinent facts to assist her and the simple evening routine, tidy toys, clean teeth, wash face and hands, put on your pyjamas, which I expect exactly matches the routine in 99% of American households.

I am in mid sentence as junior bolts for the door, or rather bolts for the chair that elevates his diminished stature, that permits him to remove the deadbolt and bolt into the garden to the street.

We retrieve him. “I hate you! You are bad bad bad. I am go!” He marches through the house in the opposite direction with the determination appropriate to a monarch.
“Does he say that a lot?” asks the baby sitter.
“Every day,” I reply.
“Wow, I thought it was just me?” she wavers. "I mean, my 9 year old says that all the time!"

I look at the new potential baby sitter with more warmth. We are all parents and sometimes it’s hard to work out what is autism and what is typical?
I race after him and the baby sitter follows my steps just in time to witness his contact with the button that opens the garage door to facilitate his escape. An alternative route to adoption.
“Sorry there’s so many doors,” I whimper, “he’ll be just fine if he get to ‘electronics.’ I just need to guide him to that point.”
I have already explained the significance of electronics. I know that she gets it. I can see it in her eyes, in her body language.

Every so often, some kindly parent takes pity on me. I thought I knew about girls but boys were a different species, a species I knew nothing about. Generous people throw me balm and help recalibrate my brain. Just yesterday I was in mid moan to a pal:
“Geez Madz! Get over yourself why don’t yah! My boys piss on the walls and floor all the time! That’s not autism!” I resist the urge to kiss her manicured toe nails for the unwarranted gift of a seductive dose of sanity.

Justifiable Homicide

Lets not get bogged down in legalese here.

We’ve all watched enough crime programmes on the telly, to know what we’re talking about. If you do something really, really bad, I can do away with you. I would have justification. So very simple.

Once I have cleaned my bifocals, I in command of the true nature of the crime. Only yesterday we discussed the meaning of ‘signature’ and the legal implications thereto. I was careful to explain the mystifying difference between signing your name and your signature. I remembered that I had been baffled by this distinction as a child myself. Now I find that her signature is everywhere and not just on paper. It’s on a wide variety of furniture and domestic appliances. I find it on clothing, clothing that isn’t even necessarily hers. I am incensed. I am fully justified.

I hunt her down. There shall be no mercy, although the possibility of Mr. Muscle to the rescue hasn’t been ruled out.
“And what exactly do you have to say for yourself?” I demand with my breast puffed up like a rooster, or possibly a recently plucked chicken.
“Huh?” Don’t you give me that picture of innocence face, I am in no mood.
“Why have you scribbled your name over everything?”
“My what?”
“You name, your signature! Look it’s everywhere.” She follows my finger.
“Oh that’s not me.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s not me’? It’s your name!”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Why did you do it?”
“But I didn’t.”
“There’s no point in denying it. It’s going to take ages to clean up and you are going to help me.”
“But it wasn’t me! It was him!” She points at the smallest member of the family, him with the grin. I march over to address him, if not mail him without a 'return to sender' sticker. He plays with the pen, twiddles it like a majorette.
“I be write,” he giggles.
“I can see that! Did you write her name?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because she was beed dah annoying.”
I’ll give him annoying!

"Did you see what he wrote on the underside of the table?"
"The what?"
"Look! Under here." I step over towards her and peer.


Still, at least it wasn't the top side of the table I suppose!


Moral - when you carefully explain a distinction and definition to one child, be aware that other people may have a different and distinctive predisposition.

The master plan unravels

My daughter was born in December.

By the time Halloween came around she was ten months old and running. I accepted that I had given birth to a speedy American and that it was entirely my own fault because I had submitted my pregnant bod to an aerobics instructor course.

I knew that I was allergic to exercise but so many of my new pals were American. All Americans without exception are exercise mad. ‘Just try it! You’ll love it Madz!’ I decided that I would prove everybody wrong, so that they would all leave me and my ever growing bump in peace. The net result was a bouncing baby who still bounces to this day.

I also accepted that we must jump on the consumer band wagon and take part in the ridiculous charade of Halloween. I made her a Ladybird costume in a sleeping bag format, so that I could carry her around safely. As it transpired, she escaped, put her round little feet in each corner and pinged around the neighbourhood like a yoyo.

The following year she had a brother. I put him in the ladybird costume at 4 months. I made a new one for her, a bee costume complete with wings. Fortunately she remained on the ground.

Then I made a new one for her, a dragon costume and moved her younger siblings into the smaller alternatives. I planned to make a new one for the biggest one every year, unisex, attractive and non-commercial. It was the perfect plan.


The perfect plan failed due to a wide variety of variables that I had failed to foresee. I failed to predict that children do not grow in a uniform trajectory. Their little bodies did not remain two to three inches apart in height. All too frequently the boys were more or less the same height. If they were sitting they were often mistaken for twins. Growth spurts and plateaus sometimes left me with triplets. It was exasperating. It was all an evil plot to derail the costume campaign.

I’ll gloss over the sensory issues for now, as it would never do to explain how I had to duct tape my child into his head dress. Suffice to say, that here and now, we enjoy a different reality than we once did.

“Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice!” he chants in his robot voice, quoting Ben 10, the latest children’s programme produced specifically to torture parents.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?” I wait for his older brother to gain the power of speech. It is very hard to gain the power of speech if there is a noisy mosquito circling you chanting “Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice! Accelerate on ice!” in a very annoying motor mouth voice. He stands still as he hunts for the words whilst he little brother continues to dart and chant.
“You are buy it for me?”
“Buy what dear?”
His eyes are distracted by the cavorting brother, but he manages to get back on track without swatting the mosquito.
“You are buy dah costume for me?”
“Which costume dear?”
“Dah Ben 10 Alien costume.” Hallelujah! He got there. I’m ready.
“Well I already looked online for you and this is the only one I can find.” I guide him to the computer screen to examine the view, a disappointing one, frightfully dull.
“Ahhh oooooo!” he squirms with glee. I look over his shoulder to check that he hasn’t accidentally nudged a button and changed the screen. He hasn’t.
“You are buy for me?” he squeaks his eyes about to burst from his skull.
“Er…..are you sure? Is that really what you want?”
“Yes yes, yes!” he responds immediately with no delay, no stutter and no wriggle room. I look at the screen. “But it’s just a boring old T-shirt with some baggy pants. We could buy something like that from Target. In fact you’ve probably already have a pair of baggy grey pants like that.”
“No, no, no. I need it.”
“It doesn’t come with the shoes you know. Look. See there? ‘Not included.’” He does press ups on the kitchen counter to lock and unlock his arms, lift and drop his feet whilst the words percolate up from somewhere or other.

Whilst I wait for the percolation process to proceed, I think of my pal and her not so little girl. Three years ago her white frock made her into a Princess. The following year that same dress made her into an Angel. This year, that very same dress brushes her mid calf as she is dressed like Princess Lea, now that her hair is long enough to be coiled in two lumps either side of her head. One dress, three years worth of dress up on Halloween. Things are quite different around here, whimsical and extravagant.

I look at my whimsical and extravagant child, even though my own reflection peeks back at me from the computer screen. He doesn’t want to wear something home made and unique. He wants to wear something mass produced, selected to impress his peer group, now that he has one, a peer group that is to say.



N.B. the photographs are by way of a public service announcement = the road ahead for a certain percentage of the population. If you doubt my veracity, you will find that other "mums"
are of the same opinion, but got there "first."

If you have trouble loading this site or commenting, you can visit me on my duplicate "loads like a dream" site.

p.s. [to some] yes we did 'feel' the 5.6 quake. The 'locals' hardly batted an eyelid, but you've never seen two old crumbly aliens move so fast up a flight of stairs! One small female person was seriously rattled but everyone seemed to benefit from the tectonic plates 101 lecture, in between the Nebulizer treatments.

Drug Barons and corporal punishment

We continue along the medication super highway with one of our sons. The matter is a huge issue for many families autistic and otherwise, but we reach a fork in the road, an unexpected hic-cup. As always in such situations we are caught out and ill equipped to deal with the rapid fire fall out. The best policy at such times is to deal with each child individually, each according to their own unique needs. The carefully tailored answer by an adult can prove that the road can only lead onwards and upwards.
“You are not hug me?”
“Sure I’ll hug you.”
“No, no, no you can not be hug now.”
“I thought….you want a hug later?”
“No. No hugs not more.”
“Oh are you too old for hugs all of a sudden?”
“No.”
“?” He helps me out as it’s only 5:25 in the morning.
“It’s dah rule?”
“It is? Whose rule?”
“Dah school’s rule.”
“No hugging allowed in school?”
“No.”
“?” We have already had two false starts and I don’t want to push my luck by asking a stupid question, or alternatively another cumulative silly question. His little brother steps forward to offer his assistance. “No be hug him!”
“Why?”
“School rule.” Oh dear, we don’t appear to be making any progress.
“They have a new rule in school?”
“Yes dis week it is being ‘SAY NO TO DRUGS!’” he bellows at a force ten gale.
“Ah yes, and rightly so. You wore red shirts yesterday, today is crazy sock day…….what has that got to do with hugs?”
“It be dah sign.”
“There’s a sign at school that says no hugging?”
“No! Dah sign it be say ‘HUGS NOT DRUGS.’” I’m not one to criticize a catchy phrase but I’m still no further forward. They look at each other, as if determining who shall be the bearer of bad news. There is a mental coin toss between them, before the little one speaks on behalf of the elder. “Well he be dah drug kid……dah pill....he is eat drugs…….so we cant be hug him no more.”
“Oh no, that’s not drugs…..a drug……..it’s…….medicine, of course, yes, that’s what it is, the pill isn’t a drug it’s a medication. Medication is great, just like the asthma inhaler.”
“Dey are be two drugs in him!”
“Medication!” I hear spouse bumble down the stairs.
“Two?”
“Yes two, but they’re medications not drugs.” They look at me, liar that I am. I can feel myself crack under the pressure of their disapproving silence. Their Dad ruffles their hair and picks up the dregs of the conversation, or rather, interrogation.
“Are you be lie?”
“Are you be dah porky pie?” Deny, deny, deny! He looks on, bemused, the other responsible adult in the household, unshaven with only 4 hours sleep under his belt.
“No, I am telling almost the exact truth.” What is an acceptable definition of ‘drug’ in this context for 6 and 8 year olds? I glare at their father willing him to bail me out, but there is only a sleepy vacant smile on his bristly face. I clutch at straws, “you know, if you buy it at the Chemist…er…the Drugstore even, then it’s medication and that’s good. Right?” I should have kept that rhetorical.
“If you not buy it at dah drugstore it is bad?”
“Yes.”
“Who what……..where else you are buy dah drugs?”
The sleeping adult wakes up to add his contribution, “just don’t buy them on a street corner off some dodgy….ouch!”

The Leith Police Dismisseth us*

I fold laundry and consider the pros and cons of the school’s policy towards treats. I am already a card carrying member of the food police. Healthy eating could be my second name. However, approved treats such as carrots, grapes, watermelon and their ilk, do not fit into my own son’s current repetoire. Until this year I have always ensured that my contribution was a plate of tiny bite sized chocolate buns, each topped off with a flourish of ganache. They are far too rich, decadent and sophisticated for the average 6 year old. He will be fobbed off with nothing less than Belgium, or if really pushed, Swiss chocolate.

Each class has what is known as a ‘room mom,’ a person who co-ordinates the volunteers and their offerings. The current room mom has ignored the food policy, rebel that she is. My contribution, as specified, is a tray of muffins, shop bought, sugary and vile. I shall have no choice but to smuggle in contraband in the form of baggyful of Goldfish crackers.

..........

I move swiftly past him, weighed down with several tones of clean linen, because I am a woman on a mission and I will not be deflected from task completion by minor irrelevancies. I pause and look back at him, the trivial irrelevance. He is still. He is more than still! He is static and has no electronic device in his hands. His hands are limp. All of him is limp and listless, a pillow with half it’s stuffing adrift, chin dropped to chest, eyes hidden under of mop of mousy hair. His bottom is on the chair seat. He sits! Good grief! That is the finest ‘sit’ I have ever seen. He is also quiet. Nay! Silent.

I drop the laundry and jump over to him. My palm glues itself to his brow. I forget to warn him that I am about to touch him, touch him in the ‘off limits’ area, that is everything above his shoulders. It is the invisible bubble of the more extreme tactile defensiveness. He doesn’t even flinch. Not a squalk nor a squeak. My expert medical knowledge alerts me to the fact that death must be imminent. I scoop him up as I am excused from the ‘no carrying’ campaign due to exigent circumstances. With his head back I can see orange mucus all over his face. A clear case of Rabies if ever I saw one. What does one do for Rabies? My only knowledge of Rabies is limited to dogs, usually from a very safe distance, and mainly in my vivid imagination at 3 in the morning whilst I pretend to be asleep. He is enveloped in a sweet and sickly odour as his body erupts with an earthquake of a burp. This proves to be the relief that he needed and releases the words, “ooo I am dah bad.”
“No, no, no, you’ll soon be better now. Perhaps you just have a tummy ache?” which would be a great improvement on internment.
“No, it not be dah ache.”
“Not ache?”
"No."
“No? What then? Can you help me understand? Can you use your good describing words for me?”
“Er…..” he flicks his eyeballs at me briefly before continuing, “I fink dat maybe…….I am allergic to sugar.”
“What?” All those perfect words and I have absolutely no clue.
“Or maybe I am allergic to dah orange?”
“Orange? You don’t eat oranges or orange juice or….orange anything come to think of it? ” Are Goldfish crackers orange? My dear little neophobe currently eats the sum total of 17 foods, as we have had no success in moving him on to number 18.
“I be eat dah Halloween.”
“You do?” I glance across at the shop bought tray of Halloween neon frosted cup cakes for the school party. Somebody’s tactile defensive fingertips have fought with the seleotape that seals the tray. Somebody’s uncoordinated, sequenced challenged arms have removed the lid. At nearly seven, after four years of intensive therapy, it has finally paid off. We have a return on our investment. Now we have a thief. Hallelujah.


* a rhyme and a tongue twister
The Leith police dismisseth us,
They thought we sought to stay;
The Leith police dismisseth us,
They thought we'd stay all day.
The Leith police dismisseth us,
We both sighed sighs apiece;
And the sighs that we sighed as we said goodbye
Were the size of the Leith police.

A routine hic-cup

They have been in bed for barely ten minutes when I hear a soft tapping on the front door because I have better hearing than a bat, as is so often the case when a person has a weakness, other senses compensate. I fly to the door and welcome him in, “Hi, come on through.” The visitor’s soft footfalls alert the herd on high. They bound down the stairs to meet and greet, because anything is better than going to bed. Perchance to dream and rats to sleep.

Spouse’s visitor has arrived to discuss very important matters. The menfolk require solitude and silence to accomplish their goal. Their goal does not accommodate three minors who should be fast asleep already. They hang on the staircase dithering between two opposing forces, the Mother of all Titans and an unknown stranger. I lose of course. “What you are?”
“Hi I’m Hans.” He knows about our children.
“You are work?”
“No I’m a friend of yur Dad’s.” He’s a natural.
“You are night?”
“Yes, I think you guys are supposed to be in bed huh?” For a non-parent I am well impressed.
“We are say hello.”
“Hello.” Perfect!
“Come along you lot, say goodnight, not hello.” I am so cross that they’re all out of bed and we’ll have to repeat the whole ‘good night’ routine to get back into the well worn groove. The bed time routine encompasses specific words in precise order for two of them. It is time consuming and ritualized. Any deviation from form requires repetition, back to square one. Nothing less than perfection is acceptable.

There again, I am so happy that all of my children are interested in a visitor. It reflects the change in my multiple choice life of a few years ago. Then I had two choices, the stranger would be unnoticed, the stranger would be noticed and categorized as a ‘thing of terror.’ That was a considerable improvement on previous years, when only the second category existed. When the ‘thing of terror’ arrived I transformed myself into a Koala bear, where two cubs clung to me frozen with fear. The fear has gone because all children develop and grow.
“Why Hans he is here?” I debate. I decide that truth in advertising would be a good policy? I shall appeal to their innate sense of fairness which is deep seated and firmly entrenched.

“Hans is here for a play date with Daddy.”
“A play date?”
“Yes.”
“Where he be play?”
“In the garage.”
“In dah garage?”
“Yes.”
“We can be play in dah garage too?”
“Well sometimes it’s hard to share a play date, isn’t it?” They look from one to another and internal calculation of pros and cons, privacy and sharing or so I surmise because I am an expert. I know their internal workings and can anticipate all possibilities, instantaneously.
“Dis is yur first play date Daddy?” The men folk exchange cautious glances, wide eyed, “well….er…..yes!”

The children's bodies are already turned around in the process of scrabbling back up the stairs, as their spokesperson bellows, “play nice guys.”

I suspect that my own "social skills" could do with a brush up, over "here."

Be careful what you wish for

He always protests at first, that’s just what he does. When in doubt stall at the first hurdle. He fends me off with an arrow head in a neat pincher grip as I swoop in on my prey. As soon as we make bodily contact he starts wailing as I lift him off his feet, flailing, “I am be kill you wiv my fing!” he announces. “What thing?” I ask casually, knowing that he refers to the half inch plastic squidgey arrow head. I carry him fireman style over one shoulder floppy and co-operative despite the noise. Once he is in the bath he will be as happy as a clam, it's just the same old transition resistance. Mr. Clean, or squeaky to his friends has an in-built resistance to everything. “Dis fing dat I am having in my hand.” He stabs me gently in the back to demonstrate it’s magical powers of persuasion.
“Ah, and what is it called? Do you know what it is?” He sounds more adenoidal with every advancing step up the stair case to the bath, but that’s probably because it’s hard to breathe when you’re bobbing along upside down and trying to hold a conversation at the same time. “Yes!” he hisses breathily whilst slurping back the accumulated drool, because lip closure is another ongoing campaign.
“Well, what is it then?”
“It is not dah arrowhead.”
“Oh. Really? What is it then?”
“It is dah magic fing dat makes dah bath water beed disappear.” I step into the bathroom and deposit him upright on his feet in the room of devastation. Piles of soggy towels and clothes are everywhere, along with a few trails of bubbles and a more than waterlogged spouse. “Oh!” he says, standing up from his kneeling position on the bathmat. A cloth dangles from his hand as he wipes the grime of the tide, “I thought I’d already done him! Did I miss him somehow?”
His son steps gingerly towards the bath as the last drops of water gurgle down the hole. “Agh! It is be worked!” he stares at the arrowhead and then back to the empty bath. “Oh no, now I be dah dirty little mucky puppy. I need be dah clean and shiny one. Stoopid arrow.” He hurls it aside in disgust.

Spoil the child

A long time ago I was young mother and divorced.

I worked full time and farmed my daughter out to the only, and most expensive child care centre in the city. Whilst she slept at night, I burned the midnight oil to gain further qualifications, to brighten our future prospects. With hindsight I should have burned the paper qualifications on the flame, but the young are fortunately short sighted. We would run through a check list in the morning of all the many things that we had to remember. Sometimes an important item failed to achieve ‘list status’ and was over looked. Later in the day when I received a phone call from the school or a note home, I would have to admit my error. It was a harsh lesson for both of us. If my employer had been more understanding, if public transport had been a little more efficient, I might have managed to deliver whatever it was that I had forgotten, but all to often she just had to do without. I would comfort myself with the knowledge that those mistakes would help both of us be less forgetful.

Even then, I find it hard to imagine an employer permitting an employee to take the afternoon off to go and deliver a forgotten tennis racket or hockey stick. Maybe it was a different era or a different culture or a different attitude towards children and their needs? Whatever it was, or is, such behaviour by a parent would be frowned upon. Ultimately there would be a price to pay, whether that be in the form of a lack of promotion or a dock in pay. When it comes to cost benefit analysis, a different era brings a different price tag.


Twenty years later, I appear to be even more forgetful, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that I now have four times as many things to remember. My son has a wide variety of preferred talismen, without which, he becomes immobile. These preferred things change from day to day and from week to week. A few weeks ago these things could broadly be categorized as sticks, long handled things such as toilet brushes, toilet plungers and walking canes. I consider it a considerable coup that he now accepts smaller versions, that still adhere to the general principle of ‘stick.’ The four inch plastic lance, is always clasped in his tight little sweaty palm. It keeps him safe at all times, except whilst he is in school, where different and more socially acceptable talismen are permitted. The fact that he accepts that different things are permitted in school as opposed to home, is also a tremendous coup because many autistic children have difficulty generalizing ‘rules’ from one situation to another.



Thus it is, because of the ‘generalizing’ issue, that we stumble. My son is to go to another child’s house for a play date. Horray! On delivery, he finds that he is without his talisman. Friend’s house is not home, nor is it school, it is a different place. Since friend’s house is more closely categorized as ‘home’ rather than ‘school,’ he is unable to enter the premises without the talisman. I dither at the impasse. We sit in the car, by the curb outside friend’s house. He refuses to exchange the comparative safety of the car for friend’s now familiar house. He boils are fever pitch at the unfairness of it all, wild and riled. His exchange system categories are mis-filed. I think. I need a strategy. When his screams change to whimpers, friend’s mum toils to come up with acceptable alternatives, but none of the bribes work. I dither. If he needs the lance to be safe when he’s in his very own home, surely his need is all the greater, in someone else’s home? I decide to negotiate with my 6 year old. I make a tentative suggestion. I almost whisper because I don’t want to rekindle the embers of his meltdown.

He steps out of the car and into the warm and waiting home of his pal. I fasten my safety belt to drive home. As I drive my mind fills with wicked little American words like 'enabler' and 'co-dependency' and 'nit wit.' I collect the lance and return within 20 minutes. He has waited 1200 seconds for his lance. 1200 of delayed gratification must be an all time record. May Mother Nature turn a blind eye to the fact that the planet is defiled for yet another unnecessary car trip.


Moral – if you plan to beat yourself up over your failures, spare the toilet brush and accept beguiled.

New post up on "alien," dedicated to my chum.

Neither a Lender nor a Borrower be*

When he appears at nearly 10 o’clock on a Saturday morning, when we have already achieved steady state. They are all fed, clean and most importantly of all, dressed. Their father is not dressed, even though the long hand is seconds away from 10:00. A robe does not qualify for ‘dressed.’ Nor is he clean. He is already brewing his weekend headache due to caffeine withdrawal, but I am without mercy. I push a mug of black coffee in his bleary eyed direction, with verbal prompt, “there you go dear, that should help.”

I recall the chap in the restaurant the previous night. He sat at the counter with his pal enjoying a beer, when we arrived to collect our take away, which is called a ‘take out,’ in America. A Friday evening chill out, where chaps chat. My spouse was still at work.

It was an exceptionally brave move on my part, not spontaneous of course, but the bribery component was in place. A treat for her, had to be balanced against the pain threshold that her brother’s could endure. One parent, three children. Even a year ago this would not have been a remote possibility. A tiny little step, 'go to a restaurant to collect a take out,' something that most people wouldn't so much as blink at. I am no longer blinkered, I have cast them aside and I'm ready with my whip, lasso and sugar lumps, or rather, Goldfish crackers.

The men sat, drank beer and awaited their food. I was in sheepdog mode whilst the checker made out the receipt, by hand, slowly. There were only a few people in the restaurant but the candles were lit on every table. The boys, because they are small boys, needed to blow out all the candles. I needed them to refrain from fulfilling this quite reasonable desire. Most especially, I needed them not to lean over the diners’ table and spit in the vague direction of the candle, since lip closure and spit production are ongoing campaigns.

They wear a combination of mischief and hyper-vigilance on their faces. The checker takes my very patient credit card from the counter and runs it through her machine. It looks like slow motion to me, but I think that perhaps I am permanently stuck in fast forward.

I hear one of the guys recount his day and plans for the weekend, “then the kids have got their Walkathon at school tomorrow, should be kinda fun…..” The word ‘Walkathon’ brings one of my sons to heel. He parks himself on a stool next to one of the dads at the counter. He hunts his lexicon for social chit chat friendly words, as his feet pound the kick board under the counter. The top of his body is elbowed casually on the counter, an easy stance, the nonchalant man about town, for half of him. The two halves of his body fight each other, frenzied activity versus calm and friendly.

The checker hands me the slip of paper to sign. I need to escape as fast as possible as my ‘holding pattern’ is beginning to crumble. So far it is a success. Out of the car, into the restaurant, wait, patiently, whilst being entertained if rather inadequately, positive feedback and praise for control, loose lead not a choke hold collar, permit constant movement at the cost of refraining from doing other things that would be more noticeably odd, keep pleasant sane smile on face at all times. Seconds pass.

I watch the boys move swiftly around the square tables in the pattern of a maze, but they’re not running. They both obey the 'one finger rule.' A finger from each hand can touch things, but only inanimate things. This is our compromise over the compelling need to touch anything and everything, usually at a high often dangerous speed. We apply the rule as sparingly as possible, because it is an added burden on top of all the other things that they try so hard to do and not do.

We have been within these four walls for approximately 4 minutes, we’re up against the clock as the candles still flicker.

The whole exercise is one huge bribe for food. The French fries wait in the car for Junior. They cool. We have advanced beyond M&M’s, it’s like graduation but greater. This is so much better than a few years ago. A few years ago this would be the equivalent of emptying a cage of chickens into the room to flap and squalk and run around to cause mayhem and consternation, where every trip, voyage or visit was a venture into the unknown.

There are still lots of unknowns and hidden triggers that lurk to trip them up, but as the checker passes me the bag of food over the counter, it is the white flag of surrender, a visual cue that they notice and voluntarily flit towards the door, together, in unison, like the well trained troops that they are.

Only ten paces to the car, but it’s dark and damp. The doors open on command as two dive in to escape the chill. I lean inside to turn on the ignition and warm up the car as the third one collapses on the sidewalk to scream like a banshee. So close, so foolish.

I chuck the bag onto the passenger seat and step back to the soggy one, the incoherent one caught in our very own headlights. It looks like an apoplectic fit because now he is wet from the contact with the ground. Whatever it was, it is now ten times worse, a clash of tactile defensiveness and whatever it is, that I don’t know, for the moment. I won’t know ‘it’ for a few moments more, because he cannot tell me, because he has no words.

When the flailing dies down it is safe for me to intervene and scoop him up. He sits on my lap in the driver’s seat sobbing and soggy. We all wait. They wait patiently and silently in the back, as their legs kick the seats to two separate rhythms.

“Can you tell me what it is dear?” We wait a bit more, before he is able to tell us, faulteringly, “I fink you are go without me.”

But that was last night. A late night. A difficult and long night, the sort of night that tires you out.

Now, this morning, I have been in my usual holding pattern for just over four hours. We will all go to the Walkathon.

I will join them in an hour. I will stay at home for sixty minutes, in the peace and quiet with a book. If you enjoy the friendship of your other half, it is worth maintenance for a union to survive. Neither a marathon nor a sprinter be, accept enjoy the solitary.

*
"neither a borrower, nor a lender be"

"Neither a borrower, nor a lender be" says that it is best to not lend [money] to other people and to not borrow from other people. When we lend something we risk losing both the thing we lend and the friendship with that other person. {from Hamlet by William Shakespeare; Polonius speaking: "Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend"} Example question: "Could you lend me twenty dollars?" Answer: "Sorry, neither a borrower nor a lender be." This says that you value the friendship and you don't want to risk hurting the friendship with a loan.

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7 layer dip

I am on weak ground and failed to research the matter in depth, so I will prevail upon your indulgence. Others, real Americans, are more adaptable. Their "blog titles" are deceptive because really they have it down to a fine "art." We are each of us, far more "complex," than we let on.

Some of us are of a culinary disposition be that chef, cook or can opener. In America, and I believe elsewhere, since we are now of a global persuasion, I notice a surfeit of these concoctions on the supermarket delicatessen shelves. They come in a wide variety of forms.

The principal is simple enough, take three or more slops and pour one on top of another. A common combination would be some bean smoosh, guacamole, salsaish slime and sour cream, which is then sprinkled with a substance pretending to be cheese. The cheese may be approximately cheese coloured, but other than that, it fails completely in all other qualities such as flavour or texture. It’s more of a grated coronary than anything else, unless you are really unlucky and have the low fat, no fat, super healthy alternative.

I often believe that they are designed like a colour wheel. There must be contrast otherwise you might be unaware that the layers differ. Green Pesto next to guacamole would be a mistake, because I would suspect I had been short changed and dipped out. Sour cream and cream cheese, without a layer of alternative coloured muck, would also be an error. Red Pesto on salsa would be suspicious.

In an ideal world the eater should be able to take a tortilla chip or crudite and swipe a slick of all the layers onto the instrument prior to eating. Here, the consistency is crucial. Too thick and the chip snaps, too sloppy and all the layers mix together into one big primordial ooze.

Since I am a grown up person, I prefer my food to bite back, although not literally. Anything that resembles baby food should be avoided. Anything that changes form before your eyes is untrustworthy. I think that’s part of the reason why ice-cream is dangerous, in a shape shifter kind of way. If I’m presented with a cold rock of flavoured cream, it sits there for a while innocently enough. Then before you know it, you glance back and it has started to melt and spread. Leaky food should have it’s own FDA label – danger, substance changes form without warning. Although I have inadvertently revealed my skills in chemistry and physics, there is no doubt that if an egg has the quality of bounce, it simultaneously loses the category of edible.



Overall, I can conclude that there are many things that benefit from being layered, such as hair, clothing or window dressings, but food? Food should not be layered. Food should be neatly ordered on a plate with a one inch mote around each item, as it would never do for them to touch and become contaminated, or is that just my children?

I think these thoughts early in the morning, before my brain is fully functioning. I am prompted by the visual clues of the detritus under the dining room table. Several cloths and a bottle of 409 help me remove the evidence of my slovenly existence, but that’s the trouble with play dates. 6 children for 3 hours brings it’s own fall out.

The cookie crumbs are crunchy because they have been there the longest. It is admirable to note that the neophobe can now stomach the chocolate chip variety that ever other child on the planet adores. Three o’clock in the afternoon. I had no time to clean up the chocolate milk spills which mixed in with the dot to dot paints. Who would think he would ever drink chocolate milk that hadn't been heated for one minute and 10 seconds precisely. If you stamp on a dot to dot bottle hard enough, they explode. An enviable display of foot eye co-ordination and strength. I am delighted that they picked them up voluntarily and otherwise used them appropriately. I didn't have to bribe anyone. I was considered fun.

The red paint has coloured some of the slivers of paper because our cutting skills are improving at an ever greater pace. I’m glad to report that although few people ate the rice, 12 hours later it has returned to it’s original form, white, bent and crispy. I don’t think many people know that it is far easier to clean up dehydrated rice grains than freshly cooked sticky ones. The Parmesan shavings are scattered far and wide, carried on the whirlwind of activity that invaded my household. Although he didn't eat any, he conducted himself admirably in view of the stench.

Shredded mini wheats may be a bonus for the digestive system, but they are a curse to the housewife as they shed themselves like knitted straw. That anyone, only two, considered them to be a snack was an unexpected bonus. I retrieve a banana skin from the corner, still moist and slick like a snail trail. My son, the neophobic thief. Who would have thought that a banana could become a preferred food?

I did not appreciate the pip spitting contest,but when Mandarins are in season and lip closure is an issue, maybe it helps if she can demonstrate by modeling?


They are all such tiny little things of huge significance. All of these things that they now do, occasionally, they do very badly, like someone so much younger might do. You can measure and test and teach these skills. You can monitor progress, plot graphs and pi charts but the thing that is most significant to me, is of no great importance. The pivotal point that overcomes inertia, is a willingness to give it a go, to just try. So few people can understand the utter joy of handing a child a pair of scissors, a weapon of mass destruction, or mere meltdowns, and witnessing them reach out and take them.

The desired behaviour can often be elusive but I think I might, reluctantly and grumpily, be won over by a 9 layer option afterall. It may take a chisel to remove the fall out on the floor, but the evidence is there for all to see.

For additional cleaning tips please visit my pal"Mrs. Bucket" a.k.a. "Kritina Chew."

p.s. I should like to see more of these "99" thingummy do dahs, so if you do one, let me know.

New post up on "alien."

Grumpy is as grumpy does

I drink coffee through as straw as instructed by the Dental Devils and sulk. Another visit to the dentist brings more bad news. Ten months after surgery we are still struggling. I am sorely tempted to clamp a bag of espresso to my hip and drink it intravenously, just to avoid all possible current and future mouth issues. However, I don’t want to tempt fate. It seems only a tiny step until I’ll be old enough to wear a colostomy bag instead, an area of fashion as yet untouched by Calvin Klein.

The word ‘dentist’ and all derivatives have been banned from the household. I refuse to allow my children to pick up negative vibes. They will have American attitudes towards dentistry if it kills me. Spouse and I will not whisper about the subject either, because our offspring have more finely attenuated hearing that the average owl. They absorb our body language and the instinctive shivers that pass between us. Their father’s facial expression needs no interpretation. When he clamps his hands over his mouth and screws up his eyes, all three small people wince in response.

I tried so hard to be jolly with the new pharmacist but we do not appear to enjoy the same sense of humour. This is probably just as well for other patients patronizing this establishment.



I toss back another couple of antibiotics as instructed by the dentist. This is a preamble to another fishing expedition for various assorted hardware, to include but not limited to, loose screws and lumps of cement. I am sadly disappointed with the dental community, not for their lack of dentistry skills but for their complete failure to comprehend Elephant jokes. What manner of medical professional is unfamiliar with such hilarity? Are they all childless or are they just foreign?
“Don’t worry,” he soothed, as I submitted to yet another x-ray to ensure that I am totally radioactive, if not magnetic.
“So you’re just looking for just those two things then?” I ask, an unnecessarily.
“Yes.”
“Just allow ten days for the infection to calm down?”
“That’s right. Everything will be just fine.”

For two pins I would just curl up under the desk and admit defeat. Take up permanent residence. In fact I would, but they don't have an espresso machine.
“I’m sure we’ll find whatever they are, when we open you up. Very tiny.” I should probably ask an intelligent question, or maybe two? I should probably ask an intelligent medically question, but I can't think of any, apart from 'does it hurt?' but I already know the answer. I am heartily sick of being the tiniest percentage of dental patients, I want a different spot on the bell curve.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just bad luck?” I beg.
“Good luck that we found it just in time!” It doesn’t feel lucky to me.
“Right. Let’s hope you just find those two then, and not any elephants?” I offer, as a means of dispersing the tension, although it may only be my own. The radiologist and the surgeon exchange meaningful glances. The radiologist steps closer. She has more qualifications after her name than would fit on the average business class envelope. She smiles to expose her birthright, a perfect line of pearly enamel tombstones. “You know,” she says tapping the x-ray, “an elephant would show up on this.” I examine her face to locate a smirk, spot a wink or some other tiny clue that we are on the same wavelength, as I don’t want to keep making the same mistake over and over again. Blank. I give up. I go home.

What is commonly referred to as ‘dry mouth’ in the States, would more accurately be described as glue mouth. I pout at my son as he demonstrates his vastly superior lip closure, him of the speech delayed camp.
“You are dah suck again?”
“I am.”
“I am dah suck too. See?” he slurps, just to show off. “You can be do dat too?” he taunts. I temper my reply, “well no actually. As it happens I’m having a hard time getting to the bottom of the mug.” I try and remove the sneary tone from my voice.
“Ooo, you are dah dribble.” I dab my chin and demonstrate my perfect mastery of etiquette and table manners.
“Ooo, not dah mouth. Dah mouth is being clean.” I examine the napkin. It is clean, not a coffee stain of dampness. I suppress swear words and dash off to the mirror in the bathroom because my nose is still numb and lies to me frequently. Footfalls follow me at high speed. Oh for a bit of privacy! I peer into the mirror. My son inserts himself between me and the mirror, so that we can both look at my reflection, although not admiringly. Oh the joy of joint attention!
“See! You are dah snot!” I grab a handful of toilet paper and dab gently, as nerve endings are thoroughly unreliable around here.
“Don be sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I respond far to quickly and in the wrong tone.
“Soon you are not dah snot. Soon you are dah big sucker.”
Whilst it sounds like an insult, it's really a rallying cry, a supportive gesture. Yet another demonstration of the heartless, soulless autism that we know and love so well. Rats to the "Theory of Mind."

Ain’t that the truth.