Petite observations

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“How comes you don wear onenna them cool jogging suits like Mrs. Whatsherface?”
“Um…...probably because I don’t jog.”
“Mrs. Whatsherface doesn’t jog either, but she always looks so nice. She wore a pink one today wiv little jewels on the butt. You always look so……….”
“Black and white?”
“Old…in a nice cuddly kinda way.”


***


“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I……er…..you……..um……..”

I wait for percolation.

“I am a cute?”
“Definitely.”
“No er…..I am a cute pug puppy?”
“A pug puppy?”
“Yeah. I am dah puppy you are dah bitch.”
“Oh….you are learning a lot at the dog park aren’t you.”
“I am dah cutest one?”
Depends upon your definition of ‘cute.’


***


“MOM!”
“Yes dear?”
“I am be.”
“Oh good. What are you b… I mean……what?”
“I am beed XS. What it is XS?”
“Extra small.” He gasps in shock.
“I am not beed small! Er……I am beed the small……est in dah family, but I am beed huge at school.”
“You certainly are tall for your age.”
“YOU!”
“Yes?”
“Why you are a pet it?”
“I’m not a pet, I’m a ………”
What exactly am I these days, apart from buried?
“No! Yur clothes!”
“My clothes?”
“Yur label.”
“Oh, that’s ‘petite’ it means small in French.”
“Yur cloves are be French?”
“Er…..no they’re from Target, probably from China.”
“Dat is stoopid. Yur cloves are not small dey are whale size.”

Worry Wort

I kneel at his feet to tie shoe laces as he drips toothpaste froth on the top of my head. I should be taking this moment to teach him how to tie his own shoe laces. Maybe I’m teaching him to multi-task but I have my doubts. It can’t be multitasking if I’m the slave doing all the multis. I’m against slavery and child exploitation but a helping hand wouldn’t go amiss, several extra hands to be precise. Maybe I’m teaching him the art of delegation?





















Behind me, my daughter lists her numerous concerns before my brain is able to process the information. It dawns on, all of a sudden, as these things so often do. Due to some parental oversight, she has reached the giddying age of 10 and get is ignorant of the rule. I waste no time in explaining it to her.
“It’s simple. Worry about the things that you can change or have influence over, ignore everything else.”
I glance up from the knotted laces to see whether or not she understands. She in turn glares back at me as if I have just crash landed from Mars. We are both distracted by the snorter, who slip streams minty from wrist to elbow. “Eeeow you are so gross!”
“I am not be gross! I am be clean!” He beams a toothy grin and lears towards her. “Hey haven’t you heard of personal space,” she pouts, “Mom tell him to stop teasing me!”
“Come along dear, can’t you see she’s upset, don’t be a pest.” As soon as I have said this, I realize several things simultaneously; that he does know that she’s upset, that he is aware that he is purposefully annoying her further, and that he is therefore a fully qualified member of the ‘annoying little brothers club.’

Hallelujah!

“Pest, pest, pest! Pesty, Pesty, Pesty! Pst, pst, pst!” he persists with glee. I grab her wrist to stop her swatting him, as I would prefer his fragile good humour to remain unchallenged.

Now all I have to do is figure out a way to curb his teasing tendencies, not that I’m worried of course.

It is better to arrive than to travel

We bimble back in the car with full tummies. My son conducts a conversation with someone who is invisible. He takes both roles, an impressive achievement for someone who can remain silent for 5 hours solid:- “which you prefer? Decepticon or autobot? I don’t know? Neither to do I?” This question and answer circuit, circles and fills every molecule of the car, when we happen to pass a particular sign. The visual cue pokes my youngest into action, “Jack in dah Box! Jack in dah Box! Jack in dah Box!” I glower and keep an eye on the speedometer. “Mom?
“Yes dear?”
“How many minutes until we get home?”
“I’m not sure. Here, lets turn on the GPS, we can bet on how inaccurate it is.”
“Ooo 9.6 miles. Darn it. That’s gonna take forever!”
“Apparently not! It will only take us 12 minutes, see, just next to the mileage there’s the time slot.”
“Oh yeah.”

As we crack along the motorway she chimes a countdown, copies the female robotic voice of the GPS:- “9.5 miles, 9.4 miles, 9.3 miles.” How many excruciating moments do I have to endure in this moving cage, preferably without crashing? I check the time slot, who would have thought that 9 minutes could be so painful. All three of my children continue to talk on their own circuit but of course there are four voices in total. I purse my lips, concentrate on the traffic and pray for safe deliverance.

As we reach the 3 mile point, the magic number for one child, he decides to switch over from “Jack in the Box” and join his sister in the count down, but his mimicry is far more accurate. He and the GPS woman could be twins. My older son notices that the mileage and time slot match, 3 miles and 3 minutes, a magical mystery that triggers his attention and kick starts his voice box into the same groove as his siblings. The triplets are in perfect harmony, two boys and the GPS woman. My daughter’s voice is very close but ever so slightly off. The effect is quadraphonic with one set of dodgy wiring. They are so loud I can hardly hear the GPS woman. We travel at a steady speed with the rhythmical chant of plain song. I am quite certain that my head will explode in the next 60 seconds amid the jungle drums. I can feel my foot pressure on the accelerator as we pull off the exit and reel around to the traffic lights.

We wait at the traffic lights, idling quietly, with static figures on the GPS. We pull off, without robotic verbal guidance at 25 mph in a residential area, different speed, different pace but the boys are able to chime in at the exact moment when 0.9 miles is announced. My brain is completely floored by this feat. If I was not already silent I would be struck dumb. As I hit the button for the garage door my daughter asks, “how do they do that Mom?”

Pop!


Not so much savant, but some kind of uncannily savvy.

Personal Learning Curves

When we first arrived in California everything was fun, new and exciting. We knew that our new homeland was just like the one we left, apart from the accents. The main difference between England and America, apart from the accents, was that so many things were so hilarious. Everything was so funny. We were delighted with the stereotypes, confirmation of our prejudices. We saw them everywhere and oh how we laughed. The huge chap with the knee high white socks in open toed sandals, the plaid shorts down to his knees no less, the bigness of everything, oh what fun.

I wrote regularly to my family once a week, as the international telephone calls were too expensive. I told of our adventures in oh such a foreign land, the sprinklers that erupted to soak you unexpectedly, the six lane traffic in residential areas, the salads that were the size to feed a whole neighbourhood. My lightweight airmail letter contained a flimsy example of those mad cap Americans, a carefully folded paper toilet seat cover. What could be more hysterical? Oh what joy, but of course Brits always gravitate to scatological humour. The most joyous thing of all was that Americans didn’t realize how amusing they all were with all their funny little ways. They all thought they were perfectly normal!

We of course, knew differently.

Oh what a long time ago it all seems. As we’d wipe away the tears of mirth, it was difficult to fathom which was more funny, that Americans were funny or that they didn’t know how funny they were?

***

As we move out of Winter into Spring my son has difficulty transitioning to the changing seasons, or more specifically, the lighter clothing required when the temperature reaches the 90s. Although it’s already May, he is still clad in fleece trousers and several long sleeved T-shirts. These days I let him be. In previous years I dictated clothing. I stopped dictating short trousers when I found I was unable to prevent him from moving the shorts down to cover his ankles regardless of whatever else was exposed as a by-product.

I rush after him first thing in the morning as he squeals towards the toilet. I remember those funny toilet seat covers. I watch him sit gingerly, with caution and a grimace on his face, even though the seat has been sanitized and dried to meet his exacting standards of hygiene. As I watch and wait, I notice something else.
“Ooo you’re wearing shorts today!”
“Yes I am be brave!” Shortly thereafter, the waistband is up and so are his snowy white socks. “Are those your shorts dear? They look a bit big.”
“Dey are not big, dey are long!” I beam at the two inch gap between the hemline of his shorts and the cuff of his socks.

To end, I might remind myself of learning curves. I can tell you that the first time the police came to call at our house I was delighted. Imagine! At last I would have the chance to tell everyone at home that the Sheriff had visited. I was tempted to exaggerate, to mention a non existence horse, but I relented and instead I regaled them with graphic descriptions of the very shiny Sheriff’s badge. What a jolly jape! Could it really to be true, a real Sheriff just like in all the Westerns. What a hoot! How hysterically funny, the guy was such a wag. The second time he came to call it somehow wasn’t quite so amusing, although it was hard to take the chap seriously with his funny hat and handlebar moustache. The third time he came to call on the same day, I could tell that he was less than amused, although I couldn’t see his eyes behind the flashy sunglasses. I wondered if the gun in his holster might not be made of plastic?

In case you are a foreigner, I should warn you that if you call the emergency services willy nilly, such behaviour is considered to be:-
1. a nuisance
2. the offence of wasting police time
3. A financial fine will follow

I am no longer laughing.























Here are my last 3 moans on Trusera:-

"Chickens and Eggs"


"The Cost of Autism"


"Bad Teeth"

6 words meme

"Angela" over at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy" has tagged me for this 'Your life in 6 words" meme. Hers is much more pleasant than mine.

However, as if that wasn't enough, she also added an extremely helpful note about derivation and pronunciation, as follows:-


'What is a meme?!

A meme has been explained to me in two ways:


1. Meme--pronounced 'mem', a memory
2. Meme--rhymes with 'theme', a theme where I am tagged to answer questions about 'me' or myself...'

Now isn't that illuminating? If that has been a test I'd have scored zero, or naught as I would prefer to refer to it.

So my life in six words would be this:-

'Rambunctious, rowdy, revelry raising unruly renegades.'

So now I need to tag six people?

Six it is. Watch out next six commenters, you'll be in the hot seat.

So first up is "Joker" from "Musings of a Lurcher." I imagine that this might prove to be a more interesting perspective than some, and you're allowed to let the peeps do the writing for you.

Then to "Niksmom" at "Maternal Instincts." Since her instincts, maternal or otherwise, are infinitely more sound than mine, I'm sure she'll whip this one out before we can all shout 'lovies!'

Also to "Furiousball" over at "In my diatribe," where no doubt his fiendish brain will startle us all once again. Maybe it might merit some lyrics or a musical accompaniment?

Sadly we'll have to skip over Bad Mommy as without blog, we are without public contact, but private works fine for me.


Then to "Kristina".......oh no, my Latin is rusty, I never progressed much further than amo, amas, amat! I'll never understand her six words. Mind you, she might use six Greek words instead which would be even worse. No wonder it's impossible to spell paediatrician out here. There again the average qwerty keyboard should foil her!

Then we have "Karen" over at "Art in the Garage." Now that might work well for us visual learners as she might treat us to a collage of her six words, but with the forthcoming exhibition she may be a little pressed for time.

Ooo dear, can't do Farmwifetwo as she has abandoned blogging in favour of more cerebral pastimes with a dollop or two or hard graft in the real world.

Aha! Then we have "Your Vegan Mom" This is a very handy spot indeed for those who have special diets. The recipes are easy to follow and she's very patient with idiots who require the odd translation here and there.


Come on people! It's only six words. In summary, please refrain from using foreign terms, namely the Queen's English, so that there be universal comprehension.

My bad!






























Well wouldn't you just know it! Just as I'm mid 'catch up' "Angela" comes pootling around to give me this "Gratitude with Attitude Award," what a nerve! It's all a plot to demonstrate my ever growing inefficiency and ineptitude.

She's kind enough to point us in the direction of the originator:

Gratitude With Attitude: Changing My World, One Attitude at a Time

And the post that started it all:

"I have finally done it…..gotten on board with all the wonderful awards out here in the blogasphere. Yep thats right I have created one of my own. The all powerful… Gratitude With Attitude award. Oh, come on, you know you want it! (LOL) I am so Thankful for all of you who visit regularly, even when I am irregular. :::laughing now::: I appreciate you all so much! I love hearing about your Gratitude and I love that some of you have carried a Grateful theme to your own blogs! I love that you understand being Thankful is not about a passive attitude. It’s about learning. It’s about seeing things different, having new eyes! Gratitude is about keeping that happy positive outlook on life…even when things don’t go the way we want them to. It is not about giving in, lying down or accepting everybody else’s rules it’s about making your own rules! Doing what you do with a happy grateful attitude keeping the “sour” to yourself. Gratitude IS Attitude!"

I'm delighted if a little bemused that I should be a recipient. I thought I'd already made my position abundantly clear on the issue of autism, that when it comes to moaning I am supreme on the topic. That said, I'm more than happy to pass it along to those who share differing perspectives with lots of attitude.

I would pop along and visit "Susan Senator" or maybe dip into her "book" again as there's a woman that's in it for the long haul.

The first time I came across "Mom and her 26 children" I nearly died of heart failure. Fortunately for me, matters have improved since then. As far as I'm concerned and around here, dyslexia rules K.O.

Maybe I'd go along and visit "Estee" or poke about in the "Autism Acceptance Project."

I know that these are all our 'old' favourites, but if you need a dose of 'attitude' then I know that I'd be happy to pootle along to "MOM- Not Otherwise Specified," especially now that the "meltdowns" are almost gone as I'd hate a "frosty" reception.

I could always go along and tease "Kim" over at "Kim Stagliano" as it's always fun to interrupt her creative muse and manuscript writing, or is that re-writing by now?

Lastly, I would have to recommend "Mother of Shrek." For the time being "Casdok" has abandoned her blog and her role as mother as I believe she's swanned off to the Seychelles to enjoy a cocktail and a pedicure of the neon green variety.

No?

I am mis-informed?

You're right, she's actually working away to sort out the next tremendous transition for her son, but her blog is still there for your entertainment, but don't look at the rude bits as I certainly would never endorse such a "thing."

Perish the thought! I'll stop now as the NPR pledge break is rattling my brain so I need to escape from the kitchen.

Ooo dear, now that's bad! I've just noticed that they're all mummies and I've ignored all the daddies. I promise to make amends next time.

Cheers dearies

Give me a clue!

Without wishing to blow my own strumpet, I would admit that I have 47 years of experience with men.

Since 49% of the world’s population are male, I have found them difficult to avoid. After many a long year locked up in a convent, for now all to obvious reasons, I found that I was a little short in the feminine wiles department. As everyone knows, all of life’s important life skills may be gleaned from a good book. Thusly I modeled my behaviour upon the more simpering characters found in Jane Austen’s novels. Although I practiced dutifully, dropping freshly ironed lace handerchieves and the like, on the whole, I found the whole exercise less than successful. Indeed as I look back, I see these early steps as a foreshadowing of my future life as a laundry victim.

During the intervening years I enjoyed a variety of interesting but fatally flawed relationships. It took me longer than most to realize, that I was the fatal flaw. I adopted a new modus operandum, plain speaking. Things improved almost immediately.

These days I ensure that all interested parties are aware of forthcoming events prior to their arrival. I am more than happy to facilitate communication by coping off A4 sheets of paper, announcing that my birthday is arriving on such a such date and plastering it all over the house. Such wanton self promotion is an irritation to my personal psyche but is preferable to the third party misery caused by an oversight.

And it is always an oversight.

***


I do a little victory dance in the kitchen as visual accompaniment to my question, “what day is it tomorrow?”
“Pancake day!”
“Yes. What else?”

I adopt a more enthusiastic dance, more of an Irish Jig.

“Jumpy day?”
“I’m not jumping I’m dancing! Good guess. It’s Saturday today. Try again.”

I wiggle and wriggle, my version of Hip Hop wearing my best happy face.

“Er Sunday!”
“Yes! What else?”

I shimmy along the floor boards, a cross between punk rocker and demented chicken.

“Er….......21 days til dah praying mantis is borned!”



















I glare at the tick down chart and block their view to that particular visual cue. I gyrate a little more whilst avoiding dizziness as I’m running out of dances, “yes, but what else?”
“Er it is my birthday soon?”
“Good one, but not for another 24 days. What else?”

I’m down to waltz and ballroom dancing.
“Er 32 days until summer holidays!”


























I slither over to the other side of the room to block their view to the other tick down chart, and attempt belly dance, “true, but what else!”

I invert my arms from the elbow, to point at me.

“Er…..it is ……..red day?” they offer with a certain degree of uncertainty.

I pout. Here I am doing my very best to help them out, give them 24 hours warning and I am met with a brick wall. Perhaps there are too many visual cues or just the wrong ones? Maybe I should write ‘MOTHER’ on my forehead? Where is my black sharpie pen anyway? “Mothers day! It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow! Right?”
“No.”
“No? Oh, is it next week?” I nip over to the calendar to check if I’m being a bit previous, “hmm, yes, I think it is, see, look here?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Er……….maybe it is being a surprise day………tomorrow.”

Pretty much of a surprise day today!

Bad Teeth

Some bloggers have sitemeters. Some bloggers check their sitemeters to see who is searching what subject, if they are brave. Occasionally I am brave and check. What follows are three pieces upon subjects that three people researched via google.

This is the fourth topic:-

Now there’s a curious search. I can see why people would visit me to find evidence that "British people have bad teeth." I would be eminently qualified in that department. But why search about bad teeth AND autism? Still, I suppose it makes a welcome change from searching any subject with the addition of "not autism," so I’ll stop moaning.

Bad teeth might be an area of concern, if a little vague. Some scientific types are concerned about mercury and the incidence of autism. Some parents and scientists suggest that there is a connection between "mercury tooth fillings and autism." These are weighty matters for many.



Other people worry about more mundane matters,

to read on click "here."

The cost of autism

People have many differing perspectives when it comes to the matter of autism. Some people celebrate their differences. Others take a different view. Many adopt a "neurodiverse" approach, whilst some others have genuine "complaints." I would sadly have to show my true colours and align my allegiances with latter.

To read more, click "here."

A Labyrinth of Liars

I wash up and chat to their father in the kitchen at twilight when a small person appears, just before we take them all up to bed.
“Why?”
“Why what dear?”
“Why you are not?”
“Why are we not what?”
“Why you are not be wear dah pyjamas at night.”

I gulp to aid oxygen flow to my brain but spouse sniggers “because we’re British. British people don’t wear pyjamas. Pyjamas are for wimps. People from an island race never wear pyjamas.”

I am tempted to stamp on his foot or duct tape his mouth permanently closed. Where does he get this stuff from?
“Why?”
“Which bit dear?”
“Racing Island? It is be a game?”
“No, England is an island and race means……a type of people, English people, Italian people, American people……people who belong to a particular land mass.” Why did I say 'land mass' to a child with a speech delay?
“Island people are not wear pyjamas?”
“Er well…..”
“Exactly so,” spouts the terminator.
“Why?”
“Because island people swim a lot. You swim better if you don’t wear pyjamas.”
“Island people are be swim at night?”
“Frequently.”
“Why?”
“Just in case of fire. It there’s a fire, the best place to be is in the sea, in water.”

Not the OCD feed!

Why is he so trigger happy?

Both menfolk pause, reflective. “I am be not be wear dah pyjamas either.”
“Why?”
“Coz of dah label.”
Label? We're completely label free around here.
“What label?”
“It be say ‘flame able!’ I am not wanna burn my butt in bed.”



I am also broadcasting on "Trusera" today with "Chickens and Eggs."

Lupus in Fabulo ...... but true

I abandon the little one, his homework and his meltdown. I’m there in a nano second in response to the universal wail of “it was an accident!” Her face is shiny with tears and snot as she clutches her foot to her chest and blows on it. There is no sign of other more alarming bodily fluids. She is of course incomprehensible. I stroke her hair and wait for calm.

“I think I’ve got a tooth in my toe!”
“Are you sure? How did you manage that? Let me see.”
“No you’re gonna dig it out with tweezers or a needle or take me to the Emergency Room.”
“Maybe, but lets take a look first. No touching, promise!”

She relinquishes custody of the foot. I peer through bifocals. “It looks like a blood blister to me.”
“What’s a blood blister?”
“It’s a blister under the dermis. The skin isn’t broken.”
“Does it hurt?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
“Er…..no actually it doesn’t hurt.” I have a sudden urge to quote the little boy who cried wolf too frequently for other people’s sanity.
“Shall we go to the ER then Mom?”
I give her chapter and verse on blood blisters, with my best peeved tone, when I hear a “darn it! S’all sticky!” from behind the sofa. Her brother’s voice sparks something in my tiny brain, “why did you think it was a tooth, by the way?”
“Coz I accidentally kicked him in the face.” I dive over the back of the sofa where my son holds handfuls of Legos drenched in blood. He turns his face towards me to speak, “see dey’re all sticky!” he complains as blood bubbles with saliva over his red smeared cheeks, arms and nake.d torso. I scoop him up and dash to the bathroom amid howls of complaint, “hey! Put me up, I am drop my Legos!” I hose him down to check the source. “Ooo I think you lost your baby tooth. Do you feel o.k.? Does it hurt?”

“Er…..?”
“Sorry. Have you lost a tooth?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not lost, it’s on dah floor.”
“Do you feel o.k.?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Coz my Legos is be ruined!”
“Does it hurt?”
“Does what "hurt?”

I give him a hug as today has been filthy all round.

"Tell you what, leave the Legos with me. I'll wash them. Go and play with something safe."
"Legos are safe."
"True. I know, go and play with Slinky." He smiles a warm, gap toothed grin at the thought of his pet Skink and ambles off. I retrieve the baby tooth for posterity and clean the floor.


I take a moment to check on line to see whether my medical knowledge regarding blood blisters was my usual pile of gobbledegook. Wikepedia quotes me word for word. I conclude that the "Wikipedia" author and I, are either soul mates or fakes! Or maybe just blood brothers?

I scrub Legos and remember that blood is closely related to cement, chemically speaking. A small person arrives at my side. "What?"
"Pardon? What is what dear?"
"What about me?"
"What about you dear?"
"Er.......my homework."
"Golly! I'm sorry, I forgot all about you and your homework. Let me just dry my hands a minute, wouldn't like to torture you with dampness would we?" I am mid towel when another shriek of agony demands immediate attention, level 10 alert. I take the tea towel with me, a makeshift first aid kit cum talisman to ward off further evils. I skid to my son who continues to scream without words, spattered in blood, jumping up and down with an extra finger spurting red fountain arcs in the air. I grab his wrist as the rest of his body whip lashes and writhes.
"Bloody hell you pulled his tail off!"
"It was an accident! I love him sooo much!"

Rats to the "theory of mind!"

Social skills for typical kids

"Ohmygod" comes to visit for a play date.

It is some while since she has graced our family with her presence. Prior to the drive home from school I take the girls aside to remind them of the frequent aural agony of traveling with the boys. I stress the short nature of the journey, both in time and miles.


During the 7 minute drive to the accompaniment of Hanna Montana, sung with great gusto the boys cover their ears in the back of the car.


On arrival home, the children stampede into the house.
“Geez what is that godamawful stink!”
“Chicken Jalfrezi…..a very, very mild curry.”
“How come you eat Asian food?”
“Well "Chicken Tikka Marsala" is said to be our National dish these days. I expect you can probably smell the garlic though.”
“Yuk! Garlic is for Nazis.”
I have no terms of reference with which to comment, so I say nothing.
“Are we gonna eat that?”
“We shall, for supper, but I think you’ll be back with your own family by then.”
“Aw can’t I stay for supper?”
“I don’t think that’s in the plan.”
“What plan?”
“Er….your parents’ plan.”
“How do you know what their plan is?”
“Um……I don’t…….I’m just……..thinking ahead.” I’m not entirely who I’m trying to convince.
“Can I have a snack?”
“Yes, would you like Satsumas, pretzels or carrots and dip.”
“Can I have a cookie?”
I smile, “I don’t think your mum would allow cookies before dinner.”
“She would.”
I’m not convinced but opt for the truth, “sorry, we’re a cookie free zone at the moment.”
“No cookies!”
“I’m afraid not. I need to pop out to the shops.”
“How can you not have cookies?”
I assume this to be rhetorical and move on.
“Would you like a drink with it? Milk or water?”
“Water? Milk? Geez dontcha have any soda?” She steps towards the fridge to swing open the door, “what is all that stuff?” I look over her shoulder at ‘stuff,’ to try and determine what, if anything, might be odd?
“Which stuff?”
“The green stuff. Is that English food?”
I look at the bok choy, leeks and spinach.
“Er not particularly I don’t think.”
“Is that why he passes wind all the godamned time?”
Such a euphemism catches me off guard, especially from this particular quarter, “quite possibly, I suppose.”
“You oughta give em American food, that’ll fix him.”
“Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.”
“How come you talk so funny?”
“I expect it’s the accent.”

I hope!

Post Script:-

This piece is fictitious, or rather a compendium of Friday afternoon play dates.

I think the trick is to avoid cooking whilst we have visitors as few Americans appreciate British Cuisine, let alone the residents!

Always and forever

I believe it may be time to take a poll of stay at home parents.

The trouble with polls, is that I need to frame the question in a manner to leave no margin of error, to avoid false positives and true negatives, as I have always been of a scientific frame of mind.

It would probably go something like this:-

‘How do you rate your ability to pin point the location of the screamer within the confines of your own home, where 1 equals poorly or infrequently and 10 equals 100% accuracy, always?’

Truly scientific persons will tell me that it is always wrong to predict an outcome, that I should remain impartial, unbiased and objective.

The fact that I can even ask such a question is a measure of how far we have all come. This question presupposes that our children are not within sight. What does that mean? It means that for my boys at least, that they are not being carried, they are physically detatched from my personage. Yes, unlikely as it may seem, my body belongs to me once again. Less than a year ago, to be out of sight would be to provoke a massive meltdown. Out of visual contact equated to departed, or possibly worse, but I digress.

Up until yesterday, I would have subjectively granted myself a 10 because ‘always’ can be such a delightful word. 6 months ago, my accuracy took a great nose dive when the children discovered that it was possible to go upstairs alone, without me and survive the experience. Suddenly I have a whole new slew of locations to categorize. I have been up and down those stairs these six months, more times than in the previous 10 years. I am certain that I have beaten the land speed record on a daily basis whilst my children challenge the sound barrier.

Like most parents I am usually able to categorize the true nature of the scream; mild irritation, cross, pain, imminent death, which in turn controls my response, frequently automatic. It’s like the hot line to the fire department, no thought required, merely action.

Hence, I am now once again confident in announcing that my 100% accuracy rate has been recaptured, or so I thought.

***

I nip outside during electronics time when each child is happily engaged in their own personal obsession. Supper is well on the way but I need a few herbs to jazz up the taste buds. I hover with the kitchen shears in hand as I dither over Basil or Majoram. At first it is merely a squeak, a cross between a nose blow and a squeal of excitement, a common precuser to word production. The sound is familiar, the location is not. I twist round to peer back inside the gloom of house from the dazzling sunshine outside. Who is missing and why? What could possibly drag them away from electronics time, the highlight of the day? A voice drifts down from on high, “Hi……Mom!” I shade my eyes and look up to see my son hanging over the top of the guard rail with a huge wonky grin. “What it is?”
“It’s……the…..balcony.”
To be fair it's never been 'off limits,' merely 'off radar,' myself included.
“What?”
“Balcony, it’s called a balcony.”
“Why?”
“Um……..its for…….standing and looking.”
“I am stand.”
“Good. Stay put!”
“I am look.”
“Fantastic. Stay there, don’t move a muscle.” I leg it upstairs into my bedroom and out through the doors onto the balcony to stand behind my son. “I am like here.”
I link my hands under his arms, rest my chin on his head and take a few breaths, listen, to see if my heart has started beating again, “I like it too.”

I stand on the balcony with my son, a part of the house that I had forgotten existed. I have stood here before, maybe twice for approximately 30 seconds, during how many years?

Time to scrub up the balcony and maybe dust off my radar.

Just in case you have been busy with your real life, I have three new posts up on Trusera that you may have time to cast an eye over. I'll name them so that you don't have to click over there unnecessarily:-

"Pica, more common than you think"

"Autistic Caress"

"Not Autism"

Not Autism

Some bloggers have sitemeters. Some bloggers check their sitemeters to see who is searching what subject, if they are brave. Occasionally I am brave and check. What follows are three pieces upon subjects that three people researched via google.

This is the third topic:-

Not Autism

Apart from the people who search rude subjects and words, by far the most common searches that I see on my blog, are lists of what might be called ‘symptoms’ followed by the two words ‘not autism.’

When I see them, I get a lump in my throat, but it’s all foolish conjecture on my part. I feel sorry for the people who have unwittingly ended up on my site, as there are so "many sites" with accurate laundry lists of "what signs to watch for." Those poor benighted searchers, looking for answers, I feel such a cheat.

To read more click "here."

Autistic Caress

Some bloggers have sitemeters.

Some bloggers check their sitemeters to see who is searching what subject, if they are brave.

Occasionally I am brave and check. What follows are three pieces upon subjects that three people researched via google. This is the second topic.

Caressing

I wonder what the searcher wanted to know? For current purposes I shall assume that we are in the realm of touch.

I have two different perspectives to offer.

My older son often appears impervious to pain.

My younger son is on a different spot on the spectrum. Any touch by anything is ‘felt’ almost before contact, especially the area above his shoulders. It is as if he has a force field around him,

To read on click "here"

Pica, more common that you think

Some bloggers have sitemeters. Some bloggers check their sitemeters to see who is searching what subject, if they are brave.

Occasionally I am brave and check. What follows are three pieces upon subjects that three people researched via google. This is the first topic.

Pica

A common definition of ‘pica’ is where someone eats non foodstuffs. The most common familiar example of this phenomenon was of pregnant women eating coal.

To read more click "here."

5 things meme

"Delilah" over at "Floating in Space" tagged me for the five things meme. People with better memories that "Delilah" will know that I only did this last week, but fortunately I have a very capacious handbag and I can pick a different room just like "she" did, little rule breaker!

I'm still disappointed that no chaps stepped up on their stilettos and claimed to be bag owners, but I can live in hope and give them all a second chance. Surely there are other people out their with aspirations to match Eddie Izzard?

5 [more] things in my bag

1. Palm pilot with flat battery that refuses to sync.
2. Camera. Never leave home without it, battery always charged.
3. Digital voice recorder. Never leave home without it, battery always charged.
4. Teeny tiny perfume vial. I only wear one kind due to my unique skin chemistry, every else smells like gnat's....
5. Emergency book with broken spine. Currently this is "Send in the Idiots, Stories from the other side of autism," by Kamram Nazeer.

5 favourite things in my room, current room is the family room.

1. a huge sea trunk that belonged to my paternal grandfather. It's covered in labels from some of the destinations he visited. It weighs a tonne when empty. It is full of toys and has a little label on it.

2. The piano that my mother bought for me when I was 11, second hand, an old pub piano complete with ring marks from beer tankards. Five pounds for the piano, ten pounds for delivery.

3. Two huge sugar pine cones that my daughter collected on one of her forays. They are now a permanent fixture as the sugar sap has glued them in place. [Just as well I like them really!]

4. Sliding glass doors on two sides that give me a clear view of my favourite place to play.

5. Two furry creatures who pretend to like our family.

One way or another there appears to be something missing from this meme apart from the 5 people to tag. Shouldn't there be five sections? Never mind I'll make up my own.

5 things that you don't do any more.

1. Quilling
2. Calligraphy
3. Embroidery
4. Cake decoration [sugar craft]
5. Painting

5 Favourite flowers

1. Pelargoniums
2. Freesias
3. Rosemary [ o.k. so it's not really a flower but it must be the most usefully delightful plant in the garden]
4. Grape hyacinths, snow drops, lilies of the valley .....
5. Arum lilies, particularly fortunate as they're associated with funerals at home, but not out here and they grow in abundance.

There we go, now just to tag five people! I'll cheat and take the last five commenters!

"Last Crazy Horn" at "Odd one out," not "that" should make an interesting read!

Also to "Jams O Donnell" at ""the poor mouth," it's not a fix honest, although I admit I seem to have muddled up the order of the comments.

"Daedalus" from "Stranger than you can imagine," What can I say? Three guys on the run. I suggest you tell us the contents of your grocery bags instead, just a suggestion. That might be far more interesting so that we can type cast you into 'pop tart' guys or organic celery stick chaps.

Can't do "Delilah" as she tagged me in the first place!

Nor "Lime" as I tagged her last week.

Then to "Niks mom" at "Maternal Instincts, Flying by the Seat of my pants."

as if you don't have enough to do already right?

Ah I've figured out what's happening, the comments come by email and don't necessarily match the order on the blog - see I wasn't cheating honest! Then we have to skip those who don't have blogs [yet, is the operative word here I hope!]

Then to "Furiousball" so kick of the training shoes, jogging is so bad for you and grab those four inch heels!

Cheers dears

The eye is the door of the soul

I type swiftly for a few moments, as blogging is such cheap therapy:-

'Whatever your game, it is best to start with a straight cricket bat or baseball stick, so in the interests of full disclosure, I should explain that we do live in a lovely home.

That said, there are many things that are wrong with it, all of which are extremely irritating.

If I still lived in England I would ensure that I had a glass roof for maximum light but I live in California where there is already lots of light. In England people live in cottages with four foot thick brick walls and windows the size of dinner plates to keep the heat in and sacrifice light. Who needs light when you are frozen solid? In California, we enjoy the light through huge windows. What we do not enjoy is the heat. Why? Because there is simply far too much of it, heat that is to say. This is where we come to the nub of the issue. There are several weeks around this time of year when it is far too extravagant to turn on air conditioning. Instead, we should open the windows and let the air flow freely.

This would be my first choice, my environmental choice, but I am thwarted by ludicrous architectural design. What is the point of having a window if you can’t open it! It’s like being in an office block where the windows are sealed to prevent people leaping out of them. What a country!


I’m almost tempted to seek out an architect and confront them. There again, they always have an answer for everything. I’d bet you a farthing it would be something to do with sight lines. Everything is always to do with sight lines. As if this isn’t enough to contend with, it actually gets worse. We’ve been in this house for nearly nine years. From day one I have been mystified. What could possibly be worse than a window that doesn’t open? A window that does open but is unreachable. I’d need a fifteen foot ladder to reach that stupid window. It’s enough to test the sanity of any blow in. Somebody explain the logic!'

“Mom!” A small person appears at my side to crack the creative muse.
“Yes dear.”
“Why it is?”
“Why is what dear?”
“Dah door.”
“What about the door?”
“It is be shutted.”
“Which door?”
“Dah door in dah………..?”
The only room that they unfailing cannot recall……..
“Hall?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.” We trot over there together, hand in hand, so I have the chance to bask in hand leading, a toddler skill that we have been practicing this year. He points at the door. I open it for him, the hall closet that hides the vacuum and junk.
“No. The other one.”
“Oh I can’t open that one.”
“Why you not open?”
“Because it’s locked.”
“Why it be locked?”
“Because the boiler is in there.”
“Who is the Boiler?”

Sometimes is just simpler in the long run.

I reach up to the trim and feel about for the key, unlock and open. “There. That big thing is the boiler. It makes the water hot.”
“Why lock?”
“Because it’s dangerous. It’s hot.”
“Open dah door and it be cooleder.”
“Fair point. But anyway it’s ugly.”
“Ugly?”
“Unsightly, not pleasing to the eye……so if we shut the door then we can’t see it.”
“I am like see it. Why it be lock?”
“Well, when we moved in here you were all babies, in fact you weren’t even born.”
“Born?”
“Er….arrived. Babies might touch it and hurt themselves.”
“Dat is stoopid to be touch dah hot thing.”
“Yes, but you can’t be too careful.”
“No stoopid babies round here.”

Ain’t that the truth.

The Explosive Child

I read and scribble in the margin of the “The Explosive Child.” Ordinarily written dialogue is helpful, but I find it hard to believe that any parent would speak to their child in such a manner. They all seem to get far too cross too soon. Either the average parent has very high expectations of their children, or maybe I have very low expectations of mine? Since I am generally in the minority, I conclude that the latter must be correct.

I am very much aware of the dual plank that parents need to tread: expect the most from your child and they will try and live up to your expectations, versus do not set unrealistic goals for your children or set the bar to high so that they do not experience continued failure. This particular plank beats me from both ends all too frequently.

What are often dual standards quickly become quadruple standards if you have a typical child in the mix, even if I ignore other family dynamics.


One simple example is as follows:- a parent calls from the kitchen to their child ‘turn off your game, wash your hands and come to the table for dinner.’ It’s an approximation not a quote. The child, for whatever reason[s], does not comply, an argument ensues and all is lost. It’s a very ordinary every day example of a situation that many parents experience often, but not me.

First of all this is a three step sequence, the parent asks the child to do three different things in succession, and we’re still working on two step sequences. The request is made verbally, their are no visual cues such as a schedule board, PECS or cards, to support the requests. Secondly, the parent speaks to the child from another room. Although I do this too, I know it doesn’t work. Thirdly, anything to do with the termination of electronics time, has a whole set of extra rules that must be applied sympathetically by the parent, or rather by me. Fourthly, washing hands is a 13 step sequence in and of itself! Fifthly, as with many families, the offer of food is not a positive incentive but an aggressive aversive and must be handled with due sensitivity.

A sensible person will ask ‘well why are you reading it then dimwit!’ or ‘have you changed their diagnosis without telling me?’ Well I’m reading it because it was recommended by someone I trust, and although their labels remain the same, there is such a huge overlap with other labels that it never hurts to widen the net and pick up a few tips from elsewhere. Does this mean that the book is useless? On the contrary I know I still have a great deal to learn. I am sure that this recommendation to me will prove useful in many respects. However, it does make me realize how far we are off the beaten track.

Maybe we need to take up hiking?

Perish the thought!

If I had a hammer

I skip out into the garage to find a nail. I have lots of nails. Some of them are hidden in the garage. Some are hidden at strategic points around the house, although nails suffer from the same problem as chocolate. Unlike the average squirrel, I frequently forget where I have hidden the nails or the chocolate. Spouse may be in England but his presence haunts me still. He is a man of very strong principles, especially when it comes to nails, hence my subterfuge.

When we lived in England he let me have my head when it came to nails, but in America things are very different. I am no longer permitted to stick nails in things ‘willy nilly,’ as he is apt to say. I accept that I was in part to blame for us losing our deposit on our rental house but I’m sure that the landlords miscounted. Even I know that 116 nail holes in a bathroom the size of a cupboard is a little excessive. As a snide aside, I should like to take this opportunity to point out to those said landlords, that anyone who fails to appreciate the joy of a three inch increase in height and volume of their one puny flower bed, with free organic matter, is no pal of mine! Cacti to them! But I digress.

Maybe I should explain further. In America, or rather in California, we are subject to earthquakes. This means that houses are generally not made of brick. Better to imagine the Japanese style of architecture, bamboo rods with rice paper, delicate and divine. Here however, instead of bamboo, they just use sticks. They hide the sticks under plaster, which they insist on calling ‘dry wall’ or ‘sheet rock’ for no particular reason that I can fathom. In order to hang anything on a wall, you first need to find the hidden sticks. In order to find the hidden sticks, you have to find the hidden tool in the garage which detects the whereabouts of the sticks. I kid you not!

Failure to attend to these important matters means that the hanging thing will fall down and smash, and you may well ‘tear’ your wall. What a country!

Spouse objects strongly to torn walls, it’s just one of his little foibles. In order to limit the number of torn walls, he fills the garage with wood screws and other useless electrical things that hide my store of nails. He really is that petty minded.

Sadly, it gets worse. Not only is my nail consumption rationed, he also bans random use of hammers. Personally I couldn’t care which hammer I use, they’re all the same to me, namely out of reach, practically on the ceiling. However, spouse insists that different hammers do different jobs, although it’s all a bit vague. Do I insist that one wooden spoon should be favoured over another in the kitchen? Of course not. Everyone is welcome to use my spoons be that as oars, "dibbers," drumsticks or cooking. Some people are just so picky.

As I tip toe against the wall arms extended overhead, a little voice accosts me, “what for are you be do?” I roll back onto my heels to address the small person and explain the obvious. I pause and look at him. He is so rarely static and vertical at the same time. He stands with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. It is a curious stance for a child, patient, attentive and absorbent. It exactly matches that of my father.

I resist the temptation of sarcasm and remind myself that 'all opportunities are learning opportunities,' which is not one of my own nauseating phrases, but someone else's nauseating phrases.

I try to copy his speech pathologist to fire those synapses and connect those neural pathways. “What is this called dear?” Categories and word retrieval can be such hard work.
“Um it be nail.”
“Excellent! And what is this tool?”
“It be hammer.”
“Superb. What do you think I’m going to do with them?”
“I dun know.”
“Well I’m going to hang this up on the wall.”
“No……”
“No? Why not?”
“Coz you are be use dah wrong hammer?”
“What’s wrong with the hammer?”
“It is not be yours.”
“Your dad and me share dear.”
“No…..you are be use dah wimmins hammer.”
“What woman’s hammer?”
“Dah special one dat Dad is being buying for you.”

I’d forgotten all about that one.

Clearly my own neural pathways could do with a tune up.

Chicken Little

After careful consideration I decide that their behaviour has been exceptional and that a treat is in order. I research our options before I collect them from school. What new culinary experience might best fit the bill? Where is noisy enough?

Aha!

I have another brilliant idea. Now would be the perfect time to try Kentucky Fried Chicken. Two of them eat chicken and I am fairly confident that chips will be available.

I make time to explain the plan. I ensure that I have everyone’s attention prior. I plant the word ‘fries’ in the second statement to pre-empt a meltdown. I emphasis the reward nature of the experience, as a certain amount of doubt is immediately apparent. My daughter is delighted. The boys check her out to see whether or not they should be delighted too. I remind them of our nauseating catch phrase, ‘new, different, exciting.’ They reluctantly decide that weak positive enthusiasm, is possibly the best option.

We spend copious amounts of time with shoes and toilets because I am distracted by finding the nearest restaurant location with the aid of the computer. I give up and attend to feet and bodily functions because I have the luxury of a GPS system in the car.

My children sit in the car for seven minutes fighting their car seat belts whilst I fight with the logic of the GPS, always a mystery. After my 27th attempt at typing in ‘Kentucky Fried Chicken’ I am just about ready to cut my fingertips off with a pair of secateurs.
“What is wrong with this stupid thing!” I squeak at no-one in particular.
“I’m sure it’s real near. I remember seeing it near somewhere.”
“Near yet ever so far at the same time!” I bleat. “I suppose we could just drive around and hope that we bump into it?”
“No bumping in car!”
“She din mean real bumping.”

I need a plan B and quite possibly a plan C. I long for spouse to return, the man with a compass in his head. “I thought you said we were going to the chicken place?”
“We are! Or rather we would be if I could find it.”
“Type it in again. Let me see.”
“There’s no point. I’ve already tried every possible feasible combination of location, city, keyword, place name and street. It doesn’t exist.”
“It does. I saw it say Main Street or something.”
“Main Street in Arizona, about 1679 miles away.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“Days!”
“But I’m hungry, I don’t think I can wait that long. Try again, let me help.”
“O.k. just to show you, here K-E-N-T-U-C-“
“Wait!”
“Wait what?”
“What are you typing?”
“Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
“Try KFC.”
“It’ll never pick up on that, it needs everything spelled out for it.”
“Jus try it mom.”
“Ah…..1.6 miles, that’s a bit more like it.”

We park on the curb side of the lot to narrow the chance of anyone being mown down before we manage to enter the establishment. As it turns out, we are unable to enter the establishment in any case. My youngest son is prostrate on the concrete by the entrance, quite a feat for the tactile defensive amongst us. I try and drag him away from the doors to avoid pedestrian traffic trampeling. Strangely he is compliant. We wait for words to return, but my daughter is ahead of the hunt, “he ain’t gonna go in there!”
“Why not?”
“Veggie tales.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a poster of Veggietales on the door.” The vomit sounds from my son confirm her accuracy.
“Vegetables are be poison!”
“Chips are made of potatoes, remember that potatoes are a vegetable?”
He sits bolt upright, reviews the poster whilst he sucks his fingers. He bobs to his toes and is in the double doors in a flash.

Inside I suppress a groan. Menu choices abound. Too much darned choice! There are enough different combinations to satisfy every family. The boys swing on the bars to help them assimilate the information. My daughter and I gaze at the board like goons.
“What do you think you would like dear?”
“I’m gonna have a burger an fries.”
“No, which chicken dish are you going to have?”
“I’m not gonna have chicken.”
“But that’s why we came here!” I squeak in exasperation. My sons falls off the bars in a heap, an ooof and a “I be have dah burger also.”
“What about the chicken!”

I give up and place our order. I read the options again and peer into the back to see if I can spot a knife and fork, or something else that might work like a knife or a fork. After another 10 days of liquid diet following dental carnage, I am doubtful of my ability to eat anything quite as solid as chicken. I dither whether or not to ask. I decide to pretend that I am an American and do what Americans do, I just need to watch them to see what how they manage this culinary feat. All three of my children play ‘rock, paper, scissors’ loudly, in the centre of the room, elevated on tall stools for maximum broadcasting.

“Hey Mom, they called yur name.”
“Did they? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, they called Maddison right?” I remember that I’m on the wrong continent and stomp over to the counter to collect numerous Styrofoam packages without a recycle label.

The children concur that the plastic free toy is inferior to the MacDonald’s equivalent. They agree that the burgers are not up to par with competitors. Chips are granted a paultry 7 out of ten, but consumption of calories continues in between the light banter. We are meltdown free and collectively as noisy as the other 26 people in the restaurant. Balance personified. I examine my food and wonder how best to tackle it? Biting is banned for 6 months. No tools are forthcoming. All around me people chew on drumsticks, gnaw on chicken wings, gulp down lumps of chicken breast and general show off.
“Why aren’t you eatin Mom? Don’t like the chicken after all?”
“I love the chicken, or rather I hope to love the chicken. I’m just not quite sure how to eat it.”
“Just pull a bit off, a bit sized piece.”
“Hmm.”
“You can do it. If you make it small enough you won’t need to chew, just swallow.”
“Hmm.”
“Go on. Give it a go.”
“But it’s all greasy, I’ll get my hands all slimy.” The boys look at me, dead in the eye, open mouthed with food falling, “sa finger lickin good.”

I think the sky is falling in!