OCD

Some of us will occasionally admit to a grain or two of OCD, but for some people, sometimes, it can be paralyzing.







On a lighter note, I noticed that parents such as myself, long for their non-verbal children to speak - when or if they eventually do, I still don't understand them.

***

I find wads of sticky tape balled up and stuck to the wooden jam of the pocket door - nasty lethal finger choppers.

I seek out the culprit.

"Why is their sticky tape all over the door dear?"
"S'not sticky tape. It's Scotch tape."
"Right. So why is there Scotch tape all over the door?"
"S'not all over the door, s'jus a small ball."
"Right...So...why is it there? Were you trying to lock the door?"
"Er...no."
"It's very important to tell the truth you know. The reason I don't allow locked doors is...because of...er...um...earthquakes, right?"
"Right."
"So why?"
"To stop my ears."
"Stop your ears from what?"
"From the door jam bang."

***

Although sometimes, I think he's teasing me.

"Mom!"
"Yes dear?"
"All the peoples in dis program are ....calm.....mediums."
"Are they? What is a calm medium?"
"Itsa...itsa...Ker...media."
"Um...try again?"
"I know...they're all Canadians!"
"Canadians? Are you sure?"
"Er...no... they're all...?"
"Yes?"
"Comedians!"

Back to the Future – the weight of the world

We chat on the way to the supermarket in the car. It is a proper chat because it is not about Pokemon. Who ever thought that we would ever enjoy a casual chat! The casual chat has been instigated by me, because I wish to distract from the imminent torture of the supermarket. It’s a thoroughly delightful new tactic. The chat is also prompted by the Brain Quest Third Grade (3rd Edition). As they are about to enter 4th and 5th grades in the Fall it is obvious that they are both well below grade level academically. When they were little, the answers were easy but the words were difficult. Now the answers are elusive but the words flow much more freely. All too often I find that as one thing advances another recedes, it’s a trade off. I believe it’s quite common. You can see it in "John Elder Robison’s" book called “Look me in the Eye.” When John was little he had extraordinary talents but as an adult those skills were unavailable to him. The chat comes to an abrupt halt.
“Lets not talk about it any more.”
“Why dear?”
“Coz I don wanna talk about dah future.”
“How come?”
“Coz I worry about dah future.”
“What is there to worry about?”
“My babies.”
“What babies?”
“My children.”
“But you don’t have any children yet.”
“I know and I’m worried I’m not gonna have any.”
“Why won’t you have any?”
“Coz of dah married bit.”
“The married bit?”
“No-one’s gonna wanna marry me.”
“Oh no, you’re quite wrong there. I’m absolutely sure that there’s someone out there for you, just the right one.”
“But I can’t do it.”
“Er…..do what dear?”
“Dah slow dancing.”
“Slow dancing! I don’t think that’s very important. Not everyone likes to dance. Anyway, you’re so good at fast dancing and robot dancing. Lots of people like that too.”
“Dya think?”
“Indeed I do!”
“No…..dya think dat…….one day when I am all grown up dat I will be being……a…da, .a… da, …..a…da…...”
“Be what dear? A dad?”
“Adorable?”

Give us this day, our daily baby

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Just call me snap happy.

As the mother of two autistic children I have far more to moan about than many. One of the many things that I most enjoy moaning about is the wide variety of unco-operative domestic appliances skulling around the house. The top moaning slot is usually allotted to the cooker. The cooker is a huge great ugly thing that came with the house. It’s a commercial, if not industrial lump of steel, capable of catering to the needs of the average restaurant. However, during the summer months I am forced to ignore it even more than usual. This is due to the existence of constant cognitive dissonance on my part which roughly translates as follows:-

Mother nature already hates me for using the air conditioning during a heat wave but she’ll throw me off the planet if I turn the oven on at the same time.

The trouble with the oven, apart from it’s hugeness, is that once lit, it is happy to warm the entire house to 425 degrees centigrade as it belches out heat for several hours post switch off. It is truly the creation of the devil.

That said, my family’s need for sustenance, especially bread, averaging 3 loaves a day, is quite insatiable.

Hence I discuss my latest cunning plan with "Nonna," cook extraordinaire back in the day, as I trip over multifarious swift moving children.

“So……..what about dis den?”
“I’m going to make bread, pasties and muffins all day long and then cook them all in one go late in the afternoon.”
“It is good to fill dah ting sometimes.”
“Yes……in theory……but easier said than done.”
“You’re doing pretty well so far I tink,” she adds as she prods the latest batch of rolls on the rise.
“It’s all in the timing……I hope.”
“You know I tink you could roast a "whole baby" in dat ting!”

Everything is Bigger and Better in America

Our daily route in our huge hire car on the tiny little roads in England on holiday.






Ooo the excitement!







If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

To hell and back

I collect the children from school. As usual my eldest son is disheveled. I sometimes wonder what he believes the purpose of a backpack is in his life? Something extra to carry along with his jacket, homework, lunch pack and other assorted paraphanalia, armfuls of it, together with the backpack. We pause, as we always do, to stuff the backpack with his belongings, zip it up and persuade the backpack to attach itself to his spine. It’s a time consuming little exercise, made all the longer by the excitement of the end of the day, when there is sometimes important information to share, if we could but shrug off all the distractions.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“My friend.”
“Yes dear.”
“He…….says I’m gonna go to hell.”
“Hell? Who said you were going to hell? Was he swearing…….was he…….saying bad words?”
“No hell is a place …….where there is no Jesus.”
“Is it by golly! Is that what he told you?”
“Yes……and it’s real small…..with no power……and Jesus always wins.”
“Wins…….sounds a bit like the superhero version of Christian belief.”
“Wot?”
“Nothing…….why did he say you were going to hell?”
“I don know. Am I gonna go to hell? Am I gonna die? When am I gonna die? Is hell bad? Is it gonna hurt? I don wanna die, I wanna stay here wiv you.”
“Well different people believe different things.” I watch his body contract, stiffen and diminish into a small hard lump.
I don’t know about him, but I’m ready to die right now. I’m sure there was no evil intent behind what appears to be an innocent exchange between him and his pal. How was his pal supposed to know that certain nuggets of information trigger all kinds of unexpected bombs. It’s an all pervasive virus without a salve. I refuse to allow another bout of OCD to explode on our lives, infest every cranny and bespoil a perfectly dandy holiday season. He watches bemused as I stuff everything into the backpack, with far too much vigour. Punch it into submission. This one will not escape, “well, you’re in luck my fine fellow!”
“I am?”
“Yes, because I know everything there is to know about hell.”
“You’re an……expert….a trainer expert?” His eyes are wide in genuine mid startle mode. I’m sure it is the most delightful facial expression in his ever growing repetoire.
“I am. And when we get home I’ll tell you all about it and you can ask me anything you want.”

Who needs a light saber to defend? I knew 13 years in a Catholic Convent would come in handy sometime.

Best shot Monday / Manic Monday Pride

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Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

Darts! Experience success!

Although I take a great many snaps, I can use very few of them, because my children are rarely dressed appropriately.

The skill of dressing, is an art form.

When a toddler first manages to dress themselve’s independently, parents rejoice in their success. Pride in achievement doesn’t seem a sin but something to celebrate. It is a huge step to master snap fasteners, zips and laces. All of those tasks are too difficult, textures are aversive, fine motor skills are poor, weak and unpracticed, and anyway you’d prefer to avoid the whole clothing issue entirely. Despite all this, there comes a time of realization to that child:- the things that other children, littler children achieve without effort, are way beyond their own reach. When this notion takes hold of a youthful mind, many begin to lose their sense of self worth. A child as young as 5 or even 3, may suffer depression. Unlikely as it may seem, sadly, it is true.

This is where tiny huge incidents of success may help address the imbalance. Small experiences of positive feedback can help re-build their fractured self esteem. A sense of pride in a task completed, becomes a tantalizing goal. It can’t be faked. It must be real to be of worth.

A dart board is fun for many a child, and adults! But the needle end would be dangerous for many and truly scary for others. Hence these magnetic darts fit the bill. Despite shortcomings in some realms of fine motor, co-ordination and eye tracking, other skills may be unusually enhanced. They may help compensate.

It is important for me to note that at the time of that photograph my son was in the 'Thomas the Tank Engine' developmental stage. He has already passed through the 'dinosaur' stage. Many people describe autistics as having obsessional interests and sometimes compulsive too. This may be a fair shorthand. It is often true that the interest pervades their lives to the exclusion of everything else. They do not stop to eat or to meet any other of their basic needs. I can see why it's described as obsessional.

However, I sometimes think that an alternative view would be 'single interest.' They have a current single interest but it can change to something else without warning. In our case it was on Christmas day. No more Thomas, so no motivation to open any presents at all, even if we ignore the tactile issue.

If you take a child with an obsessional interest to a toy shop, they will seek out their preferred toys. If you take a child with a single interest to a toy shop, when the single interest has gone, there is nothing at all to entertain them. I know that this is very difficult for people to understand. It is the very opposite of the 'kid in the candy store.' Name any 'thing' or 'toy' you can think of, but to entice a child to engage, is often an insurmountable hurdle. It's like a secret club where no-one will share the password.

This is not to say that you couldn't have more than one 'single' interest:- dinosaurs, Thomas and insects simultaneously. I could be interested in reading, knitting and gardening or motor cycle maintenance, art and stamp collecting, but anything else? Well it's just off the radar, perhaps?

However, it may well be possible, with a dollop of luck on your side, to find just the right password, and hit the bulls eye. It isn't really a secret, it's just patient, persistence or obstinacy in my case. And yes, that glint is a twinkle of pride in his eye.

Brought to you via "It's a Blog Eat Blog World."

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p.s. I amended 'Peanut Butter Bumpkins to include the recipe.'

Snippet – death threats

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“Why you ard be bring dat fing of danger to my life in here?”
“Which thing?”
“Dat blue plastic danger wiv dah white handle.”
“Oh. It’s a bucket. A big bucket......... with wheels to make life easier.”
“Wheels! Ooo yes dat is be make my life easier…..and…….funnerer.”

Magic Marker Monday

Apologies for the blurry picture, the camera was on the wrong setting. [I wonder who fiddled with that?]

Anyway, I just wanted to mention that both my sons are logical thinkers. Numbers and sequences of numbers help in just about every situation:- first we do this and then we do that. It is by no means fool proof but a concrete message is far more effective than a lot of surplus words. There is something about expectations in black and white, or rather blue and white in this case, that helps smooth over many of their worries and concerns.




Of course a visual timer as an accompaniment also helps them understand that the end is near in sight, which in turn reduces their anxiety, which in turn makes them more capable of concentrating on the task at hand.

Well I never!

Sometimes we should just take a step back and listen to ourselves, as other people hear us:-

He holds one each hand, when I catch him near the washing up bowl.

“Don’t put your balls in the water dear they’ll rust!”
“But dey are be dirty.”
“We can wipe them clean, just don’t dunk them in the sink.”
“Rust! Rust? What is it be ‘rust’?”
“Oxidization…..um…..rusty….orangey red coloured, because they’re made with metal, er steel.”
“No……my balls are be made of plastic.”
“They have a steel hinge. That’s what allows you to open them and snap them shut again.”
“Dis fing here?”
“That’s right. One side has the button, the other side has a hinge.”
“Oh dat is bad for balls.”
“It is indeed. If you get them wet they’ll seize shut and you’ll never be able to open them again. Then where would we be?”

Now wouldn’t that be a tragedy. Save us from ourselves!

This is why children need emancipation.

Dairy free products

As always, it is just after I have announced my intention to teach "sex education" as and when needed, that the need arises.

They are in the midst of a debate.

“Don’t be stoopid! No-one has four penise.s!”
“Cows do! They do so!”
“That’s an udder. Anyways, cows are girls.”
“Milk is cow urine?”
“No.”
“What is chocolate milk being den?”
“It doesn’t come out of the cow with chocolate. They put that in after.”
“Cow milk is make you ill?”
“Sure some people,” she says in an off hand manner. I hover. Has the need passed? The laundry crisis needs my attention. I decide to pay no heed, as he hasn’t drunk milk for approximately 4 years.

“I am need!” he bellows at his usual 50 decibels. I pay heed at the sudden urgency and loudness of his demand.
“What do you need dear?”
“I am need a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a” I don’t let him finish but whisk him away as only an astute mother can. After his experience in the "vomiting" department, I am swift and pre-emptive. There’s no time to mess about, so I whip off his pants and trousers to park him on the loo in the blink of an eye. I lean against the door jam self satisfied that once again I have saved the day and possibly a heap of laundry.
“Wot?”
“Pardon dear?”
“WOT?” he bellows since clearly I didn’t hear him properly the first time. Why do I keep making that same mistake I wonder?
“What to you mean “what’ dear?”
“Wot I am do here?”
“What you normally do there dear. Do you need your privacy or something?”
“No I am need a…. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Yes I know that’s why I’ve brought you here, quickly, before it’s too late.”
“It is too late?”
“Is what too late dear?” Or do I mean ‘too late for what?’
“It is too late for a….a….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“I hope not. I hope we’re just in time.”
“Dey are in dah bathroom?”
“Er….. are what in the bathroom?”
“Dah….er….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“Any minute now I expect.” We pause. We wait. We wait some more. I have the distinct impression that I am waiting for something different to whatever he might be waiting for.
“What are you waiting for dear?” How can he wait at all?
“I am wait for dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Well maybe you’re alright after all?”
“No. Dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a is not here.” I look at his expectant face although I am now uncertain what he is expecting?
“Is your tummy o.k.? Do you have an ache?”
“No.” I’m not sure which he means but he looks perfectly fine.
“Is it safe to get you dressed again do you think?”
“I dun know? Um… dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a be come if I am dressed?”
“No we want the diarrhea to come whilst you’re sitting there.”
“I don’t want diarrhea!” he shrieks.
“No, I know it’s not nice is it?” He looks at me blankly even though strictly speaking is was more of a rhetorical question. I watch him blink, open mouthed, deep in thought.
“NO! Not diarrhea! I did not be say dat. I said…..er….dah book dat you be write fings in.” A book? A book that you write in? What is he on about now for goodness sake?
“I need dah book…….write every day…..you are start wiv ‘dear.’”
“Dear Diary?”
“Yes.”
“You want a diary to write in?”
“Yes.”

Clearly I have a potential ‘man of letters’ on my hands, or maybe just on my mind?

I wonder what possible insight I might glean from sneaking a peek in a seven year old’s personal diary, but of course only bad mothers do that?

A Delve into motivation

When I was small we lived in several houses where many of the doors had handles at shoulder height of an adult. We children quickly devised methods of overcoming this shortage in stature. Piggy backs and handy chairs, anything to gain access. Similarly, when my mother called us for a meal, we would scrabble to get to the table first. When we were admonished for our dirty hands, we would race to overcome the oversight. Experience taught us that often the meal would be a disappointment but we still rushed to find out. If my mother had offered us a candy to do something we disliked, she would have won every time. I don’t know how similar other people’s childhoods’ were, but I suspect that many of them are commonplace variations on a theme. Motivation is most pivotal when it is absent.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say that he has the Gameboy in his hand as he exits the hated car, when we are faced with an obstacle. The obstruction? A mere door. I watch him tussle with the door, first with his shoulder, then with his foot followed by the full body slam. None of the methods employed achieve success. Whilst many people would acknowledge the error of their ways, others are more determined to hold onto their Gameboy with both hands.

“You know it will open if you turn the handle with your hand?”

To anyone else, this would seem like a facetious comment, but it isn’t. It’s a prompt to help him connect the dots. He continues to chuck himself at the closed door, the Gameboy clutched in his vice like grip. The little annoying tune still whirlitzers around, which would certainly be enough to distract me from the task at hand.

So often it is the tiny little steps that are so hard to overcome. It would be simple to say that he just gives up, lies back on the garage floor and continues to play the electronic game, the battle with the door forgotten. The battle he’s really fighting is the captivation of the electronic game, which is so much more exciting that a door. If I were him, I would enjoy playing the game far more in the comfortable confines of my own home, rather than the garage, but we differ in so many respects.

Whilst there were many things that I enjoyed doing as a small child, I cannot recall anything that was sufficiently interesting to persuade me to lie on the floor in the garage by the door and play there?

I could bribe him from this spot with chocolate, or maybe Goldfish, but only if death by malnutrition was imminent. He would lie there for as many hours if I permitted. Until it was dark, until the battery was flat. He might need to use the bathroom, but that urge wouldn’t prompt him to move. It is especially odd for him, because he is usually so hypersensitive to textures and temperature, but not now, not when he is fixated on something else.

Of course there are lots of techniques available to parents to help their children with these simple self care skills, to challenge inertia and kick off the sequential steps towards task completion. That is not really the point here. For me, the point is to recognize that the preferred activity is all encompassing, totally captivating and excludes the entire universe. Hopefully, such single minded concentration will serve him in good stead in the future. Now if I could just iron out a few of his lumps and bumps, he'd make a very attractive and unusual welcome mat.

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.

Whimsical investment

Parents of autistic children are vulnerable both to the hype of those who promote snake oil as a cure, as well as the demands of the children themselves. Some parents of autistic children have more money than sense, or certainly little sense, when it comes to money. In their favour, parents of autistic children readily admit their shortcomings – encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs, [C +] time table details of Thomas and his rabble, [D-] plot graph of the powers of Pokemon, [E for effort] Yukio qualities, [F--] just let me die now! This is how parental bias sneaks into the equation.

I grind the sleepy sand out of my eyes as I shuffle around the kitchen in my black fluff muffs, willing the life blood to flow back to my toes that I can avoid gangrene and digit removal. A small, bouncy fast moving person comes into focus. “What it is?’
“What is what dear?”
“What is what be rhyme?”
“Er what word do you want to rhyme?”
“Chocolate.” I knew that! I really knew that, or I could have guessed it. I think. What rhymes with chocolate? Anything that ends with ‘ate’ with two syllables before it.
“Perambulate!”
“Dat is not a word!” he bellows. Suddenly I am back in school and still failing.
“Dat is four! I am need two!”
“Well it's not four syllables, that's because your enunciation is ……..” I eliminate ‘crap’ and substitute ‘in need of assistance.’ “Chocolate has three syllables. Choc o late, just like Nonna says. It’s not ‘choc’ ‘late,’ two syllables as Americans say, nor ‘choc’ ‘lit’ as Brits say. Both of them are wrong. Nonnna is write, I mean right. Nonna knows best.”

He pouts, doubtful but drawn by the inevitable truth of a superlative and peerless grandmother.

“Nonna say it be three?’
“She does.” I lie without thought, as Nonna and I have never discussed syllables in detail.
“What it is?”
“What is what?” Are we really still here?
“Perambulate?”
“Ah well, 'ambulate' comes from the Latin, which means walk or movement forward and ‘per’ means before……. so you, push the ‘thing’ before you as you walk and the ‘thing’ is the pram which is…….like a pushchair….um...a stroller.” Beam me up now. I know not what I do or say and Latin is old and mold and I am being dumbfounded by a six year old!
“You are being dah dumbass!” I know! Don’t you think I already know that? How come your tiny brain is so huge? Why do you care? Do not taunt me with your speech delay! What I wouldn’t do with a mere fraction of your brain capacity!
“Where it is?” Please, please, please!
“Where is what dear?”
“Fing?”
“Fing? Er thing? What thing?”
“Dah fing dat you said in dah perambulate?”
“Um?” He summarizes for me, so I can get back on track, pick up the thread and hang myself with it.
“You have dah ‘per,’ you have dah ‘ambulate’ but you have lost dah ‘fing’” I have lost more than a thing dear. I decide that surrender is my best option, that or deflection, “hang on a minute, I have something to show you!”


I run off to the spare room to retrieve the Rhyming Dictionary that I bought as a present for a pal. I kept it because I discovered that she already had several vastly superior volumes. My paltry offering was an embarrassment. I dash back.

“Do you know what this is lovey?” He reads the title. He knows the first word but not the second. Is it a good idea for a child such as him, to become familiar with the second word? I hesitate. I am already out of my depth, maybe I am giving him the opportunity to drown me? Do I give him the Keys to the Kingdom or open Pandora’s Box?



I glance at the clock, 6:03 a.m. It is far too early in the morning for me to be able to calculate the odds. I quickly run cons through my mind. He will be frustrated and overwhelmed. There will be a slew of negatives associated with failure. He’ll kick it, rip it, chuck it or bite it. There will be snot and tears and meltdowns. We will start a new day under a big black thundercloud that will haunt us all day.

This perspective has to be balanced against the potential for……fun? It will not be fun, it will be a disaster, a disaster that I will have engineered myself. Take any 100 opportunities for fun and 99% of them are sure to induce misery due to faulty miscalculation by the parent.

I must acknowledge that I am habituated to the negative. No matter how many times I push the enveloppe it always results in a stamp. I need to get up at 5 so I can be awake at 6 and stop these knee jerk reactions. I need to function as an adult and make better calculated positive decisions. Spontaneity has died as I am too scared to deal with the fall out, I merely respond. I am the B actor. I wait for the star to initiate and follow my best guess. Even my best guess is usually several miles off from the true target.

He is nearly 7. How would the average 7 year old react? Is there an average 7 year old on the planet?

I err on the side of self help, keep the faith and begin to explain. His eyes widen. Hyperlexia is often the heightened ability to read words. It does not always carry the ability to understand them.


The print is tiny, but that could be the dusty bifocals. The average book that he’s familiar with, is printed in font size 24, this on the other hand, is minute. I watch his sliver of filthy fingernail guide his eyes along the list, his feeble lip closure sounds out the syllables. “What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“What be dah rhyme wiv ‘gold’?” All my children shout out the usual offerings. Collectively we cover most of the bases.

“Let’s check. Let’s see what the dictionary says?” I cross reference and leaf through the delicate pages. I read them all out to him. He is especially taken with ‘twofold, threefold, fourfold,’ and their ilk, but I’m inclined to favour the release of the stranglehold and relinquish my toehold of control.


New post up on "alien."

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The Twits! You nit wit!

I think very hard.

I need to work out what country in the world will be enjoying Wednesday whilst it is only Monday night here?

I give up. I need to find a way of expanding time so that I won’t look like an idiot for posting Wordless Wednesday on a Monday night. Fortunately, I have a very scientific brain, so this should be easy to solve.

I decide to insert a scalpel in the world, pole to pole and add another semi circle of extra globe. The result is a ripple ball, with extra mountains and valleys and a few tectonic plates bumping into each other. I am not entirely happy with the result and I’ve only bought myself 12 hours. What else? Aha. Double the size of the globe and magically I have gained 24 hours. Brilliant! I may also have saved the world from global warming with one executive stroke. Now the world is under-populated. I suspect some people are frying because they are nearer the sun. Other people have frostbite and no idea why. I decide I am a big meany. World chaos just to save face with my three readers. I think. I decide that as usual, lying is the best policy. I’ll say that I hit the wrong button, by mistake. Three people are late for work or discombobulated all day because of me. They will sue me and then we shall be poor and homeless in a huge, empty, unfamiliar, bumpy landscape.

I am renowned for the efficient manner in which I run my household. Now that they are all at school full time, I finally have a chance to catch up on four and a half years of household neglect. I am ruthless. I discard some twenty, old, moth eaten towels which have always been stacked within easy reach. The spills, floods and misfortunes of life are always dealt with swiftly, but enough is enough. As they have grown older, the pile has been whittled down slowly from about 35 to a mere 20. None of those little wimpy scraps of wiping cloths around here, oh no! We have gallons of mishaps and mountains of mop up facilities. This is an easy equation to calculate because I am also exceptionally good at arithmetic. 3 children absent from home for 6 hours of the day means 360 minutes of less spills.

I pick them all up from school just after lunch, whisk them away the to shops and then return home in under an hour, a new world record. I clean my bifocals and then carefully read the instructions, as I don’t want to burn their heads. I do myself first, so that I can assess how much agony will be involved in this exercise. I supervise homework with my hair sprouting out all over my head. The volume of screaming is considerably lower than usual but that might just be the soap in my ears. I try not to drip of them or their homework, as I scoot around the table to help each one.

Once satisfied that no pain is involved, I start on the first one. They’ve only been in school three weeks and now they’re contaminated. Once again, I am jealous of homes choolers with their freedoms and their germ free existence.



“Are your "headlights" gonned mum?”
“Yes, dead as door nails.”
“Is mine gonna be deaded too?”
“Sure as eggs is eggs.”
“Are dah eggs gonna be gonned too?”
“Absolutely, we’re gonna kick them from here to kingdom come.” I release the first froth head and start on the next one after setting the timer for ten minutes.
“Gosh Mom, we only washed our hair last night!”
“I know dear, but we need to nip this in the bud.”
“How long is it gonna take?”
“I have no idea, not one iota.” I send her on her way for her ten minute down time and brace myself for the little one.

There is absolutely no pain involved. No pain, no pain, no pain. I seek him out. I find him hiding in a corner under three adult sized bean bags, quivering and clutching the toilet brush. I wipe the sweat from his brow and lead him to the kitchen sink, the only one with an extendable spray attachment. I wonder for the first time ever, how far it might actually extend? At best, I think I have about three feet until I will be at the end of my tether, or rather, faucet.

He baulks at the last minute, rears up and off, to disappear in a flurry of rooster noises. I track him down. It’s easy. I find him under the bed. The duvet has been dragged off the bed and is stuffed all around him, a barrier of protection that fails to muffle his barking. I remind him again. One good session now, means that we may avoid repeating the exercise in 10 or 14 days time.


I suffer a severe sense of humour failure when the kitchen sink decides that it no longer wishes to drain. Why on earth did I throw all of those old towels away? I pause in my deliberations and let him escape whilst I go on the hunt for the toilet plunger and more towels to stem the flood. Since this handy household appliance is my son’s favourite talisman at the moment, I anticipate a long search as to it’s whereabouts. He has acquired the habit of hiding treasures such as the toilet plunger, as he fears my arbitrary decisions re contraband. I am a staid individual at heart and it’s difficult for me to adjust to his collection of long handled items. I am uncertain of their current purpose in his life. Whilst many a child might wield a toilet brush as a substitute gun or sword, in this household it is more of a crutch.

Why couldn’t this have happened to a family with an only child instead?



We reach a consensus of opinion. The active ingredient in "Rid" is Piperonyl butoxide. It is the stinkiest thing in the whole wide world ever, unless it’s the other one, the Pyrethum extract, since we have no yardstick of familiarity. Her assessment that it smells bad enough to make her puke, is born out by her little brother. The sofa and carpet suffer, but he suffers far more so. I remember that Jamba Juice is now off limits, as the stench of the fruit is beyond his capacity to endure. It is hardly surprising, that this formula has made him vomit. His screams of “I cannot breathe! I cannot breathe! I cannot breath!” isn’t strictly truthful as he gasps, gags, coughs and splutters.

I have abandoned my rule about the filthiness of chewing gum. We have managed to get through a whole box of gum, which only partially succeeded in distracting two of them, as it’s not an option for the little one. I watch his toes massage a piece of discarded gum with his toes. I am uncertain whether to laugh of cry, so I concentrate on combing whilst I think of the best method of removing it from his digits? The sticky strands effectively glue his foot to the floor. I am beyond caring.



I release him like a cannon ball and start on the next one.

I comb.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Um I was wondering?”
“Yes dear?”
“Do you ever leave the…….boundaries of the house……er the garden…..I mean the property boundaries?” Gosh, spoken like a true lawyer!
“? Er..yes I do.” She must have spotted me watering the garden late at night.
“No. I mean, while we’re here?”
“Yes, you know I do. Then Daddy looks after you, like when I nip to the supermarket.”
“No I mean…..alone?” You would have thought that with all the OCD that I have been recently plagued with, it would be easy enough to spot? I think I should award myself this week’s ‘thick as a brick’ prize.
“No. Never. I never leave you alone, ever.”



I think of the new Jazzercise class that I have so carefully orchestrated for them at school. Oiled wheels, social stories and a goodly deal of hard cash, times three. No school means no Jazzercise. I consider myself lucky to have missed my own hair appointment and the undoubted additional humiliation.


The wet beds are stripped, the laundry mounts up. Sleeping bags are the only option. Catering has come to a halt and we are reduced to hot dogs, Goldfish crackers and probably the last bottle of Ensure. Everyone is delighted that their nutritional needs have been abandoned. The boys have taken it in turn to have numerous accidents on consecutive days. I foresee that all too soon there will be no clean clothes available in the entire house. The carnage that follows a weekend and two more days at home, due to the head lice, means that we look like a war zone. For some unaccountable reason I feel a little teary, quite possibly due to the foolishness of blitzing my daughter’s room. Three hours straight of tidying, resulted in the entire contents being strewn in orderly piles all over the carpet. Then, the call from school commanded a premature and untimely halt to the process. I know that some half finished projects are doomed.

I remember to spray the car seats and all of the upholstered furniture in the house. I dither about carpets because they spend so much time rolling around there, one way and another.



My youngest son is mentally prepared for the torture. His head and shoulders have been off limits following his first lungful of air at birth. Whilst his brain fully understands that he has to have lice free hair, his body is completely unable to co-operate. Since his head of hair is inextricably attached to the rest of him, we are in a severe quandary. I limit his combings to ten minute periods, as that is all he is able to withstand. I worry greatly, as he is a writhing target and I have a metal comb with sharp teeth as a lethal weapon. This is probably the most terrible thing I could do to this particular child. He screams at level ten throughout. The others cower in other room, praying that it will be their turn soon, so that the sound barrier will truly be broken, if briefly. For the first time in living memory I wonder if a number 1 buzz cut, would be a kindness in the long run?

I am so glad that the instruction leaflet was accurate. It does indeed take between one and two hours to remove lice from a head. My recall of a similar incident with my daughter over twenty years ago is somewhat hazy. By the time spouse comes home, early, at just gone seven in the evening, I have the wrinkled hands of an octogenarian after six hours of combing wet hair. During the last few days I have only seen adults during a brief visit to the supermarket and on the abortive school run. I have become an unwilling hermit and very crabby.

I know that this is a cunning plan to rob me of the last few shreds of sanity that remain.


I hear the garage door and my cheery spouse appears.

“Ooo have you been swimming?” he asks innocently stepping over soggy towels, clothes and cloths. I pause, poised with the nit comb in mid air, a visual clue.
“New hair style?” I point at all the empty bottles of Rid on the kitchen counter. He steps over towards the counter and picks one up to read it, since fortunately, it is an unfamiliar product. He loses his grip as well as his hold on the bottle, “Ooer, off to the nit nurse for you lot then!”
“No! Nurse is nice. Mummy is dah bad evil wimmins!” Ever my lot in life.
“You have to move with the times dear,” I warn, as I know that he’s about to buried in facts.
“Nits are not nice. I am not liking dem in my hairs.”
“Dey are be dah great swimmers too!”
“Swimmers?”
“Dey are be hold der breafs for ten minutes, so dey are not be drown.”
“Nits are be living in dah clean hair ONLY. We are being too clean.” A likely story.
“Dey are be deaded at 100 degrees!”
“Mom is kind she are not boil our headses.” He points at the pan of boiling water, full of hair brushes, combs and hair accessories. I am sorely tempted to go and boil my own head in the hope of inducing clarity.
“Mom been done killed my headlights. Mom been done killed the wee little beasties. We are victorious!” Somehow I feel somewhat less than a vanquished hero, more of an over zealous Nero. Their father picks up one of the inferior purple combs and takes his daughter next door to continue the work in progress. We have turned into a troop of grooming monkeys. I can hear them chat because I am an earwig at heart rather than a louse.
“Mom says it’s a good thing for the boys.”
“Really! Has she lost her marbles, again?”
“No Daddee, don’t be so daft. She said it was good, well kinda good.”
“How could this possibly be good?”
“Well only sorta good, coz it must mean that the boys are getting close to their friends, you know, making contact and all.”
“There’s only so much socialism I can cope with. ”
“Social what?”
“Never mind, I just think your mother needs her head examined sometimes.”
“I already did.”
“Did what?”
“Examine her head, for the nits. She’s gonna check your head later.”
“Hmm your mother the nit nurse! Now there’s an……intriguing thought.”
I yell at him from the other room, “stop thinking aloud! This is a uniform free household!” He appears in the family room and leans on the door jam, “maybe there’s some other sort of service I could provide?” I glance up at him and his suggestive Grocho Marx eyebrows. There are few things further from my thoughts. “I’m sure I could dig out a white coat!” he grins. I try and find my sense of humour but it is buried under a funeral pyre of wet laundry. “I can’t think about that right now,” I sigh weakly, more than ready to fall asleep on the spot.
“No, I was thinking…first, er…maybe I could…..later…..give you a massage?” I examine the nit picker through my fusty bifocals, “well ….that would certainly be a very welcome ….start.”
“How about….after the children are asleep…..you could bathe?”
“Ooo yes a bath would be lovely.”
“How about a quick shower instead, speed things up a bit.”
“?”
“It would be quicker.”
“Well it would save time if you ran the bath.”
“But I thought you were tired. You don’t want to waste time having a bath.”
“I thought a bath might be part of it?”
“Part of what?”
“The relax, unwind, be comfortable, a lovely massage and then…..who knows?”
“Oh no. I just want you to be clean. It looks like a dandruff factory in here.”

Now where exactly did I put that metal comb with the sharp pointy little teeth?

Feed the Beast

‘When in doubt,... panic!’

This idiom is a local one, coined by my Dad.

The words are well lodged in my brain, down deep and entrenched. The White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland is my twin. When you see a woman running around in circles, flapping her hands and repeating ‘oh dear me,’ that in fact would be me, or rather it would be, if I had allowed the idiom to rule my response. Instead I ignore it, stomp on it and resolve to vanquish it forever.

I haven't always been a nervous type, despite this early introduction to the concept. Nor would I describe myself with that delightful term 'laid back.' I'm somewhere in the middle, or at least I used to be, until I found I was surrounded by children and outnumbered.

I tell you this, because it becomes clear to me, that whilst I may or may not be the source of my son’s OCD tendencies, I should nonetheless, have the power to help him.


I receive sage advice from other people in the trenches regarding OCD. I remind myself that this is familiar territory. The difference is just that this is a different version from the one I’m used to. I'm used to a three or four year old's version. That version was his little brother. I need to dig up and brush off those strategies to apply them to his older brother.

In the meantime, I resolve that whilst I may not be able to help him immediately, I can work on my own attitude.

During the course of the average day I am 25% annoyed, 25% irritated, 10% cross, 10% frustrated, 10% dithering, 9% grumpy, 5% confused, 5% switched off, and 1% falling about with hysterical laughter. This little glimmer, lights up the whole day and makes the other percentages dissolve. I believe this to be a fairly typical, moaning Minnie, British type.



That said, I have also noticed that as we simmer, bubble and boil during the average day, it’s like existing in a high octane tank. Any stray spark is enough to ignite the whole caboodle. They are so volatile. What triggers a meltdown this minute may be of no consequence on a different day or a different time. As a result I am hypervigilant too, waiting for the shoe to drop, or rather be hurled across the room. Lets face it, shoes are torture for some people.

I spend my waking hours chanting ‘om’ in my brain. I string together a whole slew of lies, ‘you can do this, I know you can,’ ‘remember to breath, this is easy,’ ‘concentrate, don’t lose it now,’ 'try, try, try again.'



The words I say to myself are generally the same words that I say to my children, which is convenient but a little patronizing.

When that moment comes, as it so often does, instead of spontaneous combustion, I find I drift and rise into a state of balmy calm. The petty irritations and annoyances bleed away. I am almost weightless. I am left clear headed and untroubled. I can suddenly see that everything really is fine and that all is well. I becomes easy to make the right decision, to prioritize and cope with whatever it is this time.

It is a very reassuring ability to have acquired. The first time I felt this response viscerally, was when I lost one of them in a park. The family we were with, were in a state of panic, bless them. Not me, not externally. Rushing around like a headless chicken wouldn't help. There was an emergency broadcast system, why not use it and lock the place down? It sounds so cold blooded and maybe it is? Same as when the house caught fire. What to save? Why the children of course and then start the hosepipe once I heard the fire brigade were on their way. I could list any number of ordinary domestic and family disasters over the years. What do you do if an acquaintance sits on your chest and tries to strangle you? Well yelling isn't possible and she's almost double your body weight. Tickle her of course.

A clear head, that's what you need, and when you need it, there it is.

I've had my fair share of days of being a blubbering heap on my own kitchen floor, incapable and incompetent but when that next feather floats down, the little chip or straw tips the balance, we have no option but to cope. I don't care if it's adrenalin or laughter, it's always enough to part the foggy clouds.

Now, what I need to do, is to artificially import that attitude to the other 99% of my day.

I wonder if there is a ‘step by step’ guide on-line? I’m sure I can find something to download.

Maybe I’ll upload instead?

Easy peasy!

For a glimpse of "not coping with OCD" and "general grumpiness" you can visit "here."

If you've struggled this far to load this page, then you may wish to try my new duplicate blog next time, over "here."

The Humane Society

We stumble into the building tripping over ourselves in our haste, a rambling, rabble of ragamuffins. They disperse in three different directions but I remain calm because no-one can actually escape. One single entrance, that is also the sole exit, is balm to a woman such as myself.

I allow them to let off puffs of steam. their excitement whirs a while. After about twenty minutes, they have expended enough energy to risk entering one of the smaller enclosures. We battle with unco-operative doors. I remind them all about the need to sanitize their hands between each cat stroking session. They are perfectly happy to submit to the hand washing in order to maintain the health of the cats and kittens. The greater good. A man enters the same enclosure. My children are still louder than many, as they lack volume control. “Geez! Aren’t the kids back at school yet?” I’m uncertain if this is rhetorical, a joke or both? I smile towards him.

Another woman enters the small enclosure. A member of staff. “Wow we have a lot of kids here today. Are you on a field trip?” she asks my daughter. She answers, a little non-plussed, “er…..no. We’re just visiting.”
“You know, you guys might like an older kitty, like that big one over there, the brown one,” their eyes follow her finger to the cage where the man crouches before his favoured choice. His head flips towards us and then snaps back to the bars.
“Kids should be in school,” mutters the man, as he talks to the cage and strokes the paw that pokes through the wires.
“Schoolie, Schoolie, Schoolie,” chants my youngest in his high pitched, baby voice tone, a mode he adopts specifically for communication with cats. He skips around the small room reading all the names pinned to the cages. The woman watches him buzz and read. I know that she’s trying to figure him out. Is he really reading all those names? Why does he sound so weird? She says nothing, just watches. My older son is in ecstasy surrounded by cats. He whole body roils a la Mr. Bean and his mouth tic is so loud and frequent, that everyone thinks that he has a serious attack of hic-cups.

“In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!” The man glances across at my son. His words are out of context with everything. His little perseveration phrase is indicative of his state of happiness. There is no such thing as a peer group for him. His lack of social skills may have inadvertently given him an opener with the man.
“Are you a fan? What’s your team?” My son continues to spin, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his own personal bear hug. He starts to meow but I consider this to be an improvement on the barking, mainly because it is quieter. Also, because we are surrounded by cats. They might be unduly alarmed if they were given the false impression that a stray dog had gained entry.

The staff member keeps an eye on him as she opens each cage to administer food to her charges. The man asks permission to remove the cat of his choice for a cuddle. The staff member obliges. The large man sits in the small chair and strokes the chocolate coloured fur with a tender touch. “He’s one hellava guy,” he murmours to the furry face with the slit eyes of adoration. He doesn’t appear to notice as “hellava guy,” echoes through the air several times. He continues to stroke his preferred cat but lets a proprietary eye rove over my children. He speaks to the employee, “we came to see Molly yesterday.” He nods towards the cat. “This is the second day we’ve come to visit her,” he adds but this time he tells all of us, everyone in the room, even though there are few listeners in his audience.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, stayin alive, stayin alive,” sings my little one.

I catch the woman employee looking at me. I smile. She looks at the boys and then back at me. “Big family!”
“Yes. It’s an in service day at school,” I explain unnecessarily.
“No school today. No school today. No school today.” Her eye catches mine, again. She’s cautious, “are they…….” her eyes flick to the man and back to me, “they like cats,” she smiles.
“Indeed they do,” I smile back. Both our smiles broaden as she watches my boys with warmth.

“I’m probably gonna adopt her today,” adds the man with a hint of desperation. “I didn’t have time to do all the paper work last night.”
“He certainly is a lovely cat,” I say to his bowed head on the top of a body that appears to diminish before my eyes, curling around the cat, shrinking.
“We just came to get some flea medicine,” offers my daughter with a little flicker of concern. “We already have two cats, our own cats.”
“You came all the way here just for that?” he snaps , perplexed, relieved and too loudly.
“Well….. and to see the kitties of course. It’s a treat!” she adds by way of explanation. I watch the man unwind, arms soften, grip loosen and face open. Molly runs her front paws up his chest and her head nudges his chin.

A match.

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There is also my other "life" that is driving me completely batty "too."

The anxious child

I read that book a couple of years ago to help mine for clues to assist my youngest son during a bout of OCD.

Now I need to find the book and re-read it, with a greater degree of care and a good deal more insight. I need new or different strategies.

Both my boys hate to leave the house. It has always been so. It's not that they're some type of exotic hot house orchids, they're merely rooted to the spot.

When they were very small, I ran duplicate campaigns, as it was too complicated to do different things for different children. One size fits all was merely a survival mechanism. Every day, I would take them out to the driveway where the traditional American mailbox sits on the white picket fence. We would gather the mail as they tried to escape into the road, run into other gardens and generally create more ruckus and angst than any casual observer might guess.

Once inside again, we would read the recipients names and ‘deliver’ the letters to the office, the kitchen and any other person fortunate enough to receive mail.

Communication of any kind, has always been a struggle. PECS helped us when words were few and far between. Since they could both read, we used PECS that also had the written word beneath. Written instructions were usually more successful than oral verbal prompts. This is part explains why neither of them use the telephone, abhor the telephone. Once they went to school, this ‘chore’ fizzled out, as so many of my campaigns have. But they keep growing bigger, both the campaigns and the children.

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


My eldest son catapaults into the room in a state a great agitation. I lay down the book, “The Anxious Child,” open at page three.
“We made a deal so it’s all gonna be o.k,” he announces breathlessly. I notice spouse reversing out of the driveway and speeding away.
“Great. I’m glad you sorted it out with Dad.”
“Oh no! I forgot the deal already!”
“Never mind. Dad will remember the deal. When he comes back we can ask him about it.”
“No, no, no. I need to know the deal now!” I give it my best shot, “well, when he comes home after his hair cut, he’s going to take you to Target where you can choose a new prize.”
“Oh yes, that’s right, I remember now. That’s the deal.” He was unable to choose his prize. A reward from the teacher for a job well done, at the end of the first week of school on Friday. Now it is Saturday. We, his feeble minded parents, are unable to deal with the constant barrage of questions; ‘how many days until next Friday? The next 'prize' day. How many minutes until next Friday, how many seconds until next Friday?’

“How long is he gonna be?”
“I don’t know dear. Er, perhaps an hour. Let’s play with the marbles until he gets home.”
“I don’t like marbles, they’re no fun. When’s he gonna be home? I need to go and choose my prize?” I pick a number.
“He’ll be here in 60 minutes, 360 seconds. Let’s set the timer together.”
“That’s gonna take forever!” he wails.

We try pokemon, trading cards, magnets and stories. Nothing distracts and engages him. We will not have ‘electronics time’ for another 8 and a half hours. His anxiety about the passage of time, supercedes all other concerns or interests. He stares at the timer, which I do not consider to be of any assistance. “It’s not moving!” he wails. I look at the mountain of laundry that also seeks my attention, if anyone is able to go to bed tonight in clean linen.

The desperate clutch at straws, “I know, I’ll telephone him as ask how long he’s going to be!” The coward passes the buck. I check the number and start to dial. As my fingers stab the buttons, I formulate a cunning plan. “ I’ll talk to Dad for a moment and then I’ll tell him you want to ask him a question.” His eyes widen like saucers, “but I can’t!”
“Yes you can, you’re 8 now. Daddy would love to hear you talk to him on the phone.” So would a lot of other people, myself included. He has never spoken on the phone to anyway, not even a toy one.
“But it might be the wrong number!”
“If it’s the wrong number, you can just say ‘sorry, wrong number,’ and put the receiver down. It’s not a problem lovey.”
“But I would make a mistake.”
“We all makes mistakes. Little mistakes like that aren’t important, nothing to worry about.”
“But it might be a bad man, a burgular, a thief. Someone might wanna steal me.”

I am so out of my depth. With a speech delay there was automatically a little time built into an exchange. This gave me the chance to think and strategize. For years I have been counting to fifteen, including ‘ands’, waiting for him to respond. Now, he’s so far ahead of me that I’m trailing behind, if not drowning. The rings stop and reroute to our home answering machine! Typical. I replace the receiver. “What he say? When’s he gonna be home?”
“I don’t know dear he didn’t pick up.” I rake my fingers through my hair and rack my brain. “Let’s see, what shall we do until he comes home dear?”
“Hey! Look mum.” He points to the window and continues, “the mail man’s here. How about we go and get the mail and sort it.”

5 years too late, is soon enough.

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Chat, chat, chat – breaking News

From a few days ago.........

Good parents don’t typecast their children.

Good parents avoid labels such as ‘Henry, our little athlete, Mary our little mother, Poppy our little jokester.’

There are so many reasons why it is a mistake to label our children. Once they’ve been cast, they often strive to meet those expectations. Even when they are mis-labeled, the effect can still be profound. Parents can miss a whole slew of information because they’re not looking for it. If the ‘mother’ child makes a joke, the parent fails to notice, because that isn’t the jokey child. If the jokey child runs a four minute mile, no-one notices. We see what we expect to see, we miss anything and everything that doesn’t fit into our preconceived perspective. Or maybe that’s just me?


“I’ll make an appointment as soon as they’re open dear.”
“Now?”
“No at 9:00, they open at nine.”
“What time is it now?”
“Er….7:21,” I scurry after him like a jogging buddy even though I am terminally allergic to any form of exercise.
“How many minutes?”
“Er…….99.”
“How many seconds?”
“Er…………………..five hundred……five hundred and forty, I think?”
“I will have a different pill?” He has lost the ‘non-verbal’ part of his label. I have lost my marbles.
“Maybe, or perhaps a smaller one. Do you remember the doctor showed you the three sizes of pills”
“Yes. It is the pill that gives me the headache?”
“Yes I think so.”

As we chat, he moves. My slow lugubrious, laborious, lethargic 8 year old marches swiftly around the house and I follow in his wake. When I say 'march,' I mean exactly that. Instead of walking on his tippy, tippy toes, digits splayed, he has his heels on the ground, a rare and quite startling alteration, but only one of so many. His hands touch the furniture in time to the band of his feet, but his head flicks towards me at regular intervals.
“As you were saying….” he says, which nearly makes me trip over my own feet.
“I was? What was I saying?”
“You were saying about tummy aches.”
“I was?”
“Yes. You said that they weren’t as bad as headaches.” Where has my recall gone?
“Ah yes. Well I don’t really know, but I think that headaches are so bad that you can’t do anything, just lie down in bed, but with tummy aches you can keep going.” However, I’m not really sure that I can keep going? It is only 7:22 in the morning. The pill has been in his system 40 minutes and I am already completely out of my depth, trotting behind my son, trying to catch every word. I am so muddled and befuddled.

I have been told that most people are already set in their ways by their early 30's rather than their 40's. We become incapable of adopting a major change. At best, we can hope to alter less than 5% of our character, behaviour and opinions. Imagine that! A titchy little 5%. The only caveat to this research is where a person has a life altering catastrophe, such a near death experience. Those individuals cast off the shackles of the past and are reborn. I had accepted this fact as truth. The idiom 'old stick in the mud,' could have been tattooed on my forehead, but now, evidence to the contrary blasts me on a daily basis.

“Wait up! I’ll be right back.” He lifts a hand in a parting farewell gesture as his body shifts into super fast gear and whizzes out of the kitchen. I scramble after him, through the galley, past the utility room, into the garage, out of the door, down the path I scamper after the galloping, sneaker covered, feet of my son.

This isn’t my runner. This isn’t my Houdini, the energizer bunny that spins into the path of oncoming traffic. This is my dormouse, the sleepy, gentle child curled in a teapot.

This is the wrong son doing the wrong thing. I hear the traffic and see my shambolic boy, as he widens the gap between us. I run. I see the traffic. I run faster. I hear the hoot, the blare of a horn. I fly, dressing gown gaping to rugby tackle him to the ground.

It only seems a few seconds ago that I was too scared to correct his speech, fearful that the few words that he spoke voluntarily, would dry up. This is all so new, relatively. I’ve been reluctant to risk correction, short of rephrasing and repeating the right version. Far to scared to extinguish the spark.

“What are you doing mum?” he asks slightly dazed, sprawled on the concrete.
I squeeze him tight and run an eye over him to see how much damage I’ve caused.
“It’s o.k. mum, I’m not hurt, er hurted, I mean hurt, I was right the first time!”
“Oh.”
“What is it, what’s wrong, why are you crying? I only went to get the newspaper for you! Here, it’s got a great picture on the front!”


Post script - please do not rush out to your paediatrician based on this post. There is a huge downside that I've not had a chance to compose, other than the OCD. There is no such thing as a free lunch.

The Ancient Mariner

Where is my compass when I need it?

Or should that rather be a sexton? Or a map?

But I have learned one new thing; anxiety is contagious, or should that be infectious?

My older son’s obsession with the passage of time has grown to gargantuan proportions. I am unable to field his constant question, ‘how long until electronics?’ Nothing distracts him from the passing seconds displayed on the timer. He carries it around with him and glances at the figures with every breath. I’m not sure if I’m anxious or just plain ratty at the harassment, but I do know that it’s not healthy for either of us.

We will both be arithmetical athletes if he keeps up at this rate. There are insufficient seconds between the seconds, for me to give any attention to my other children and responsibilities. It is only possible to read a couple of words or part of a line about “Your Anxious Child,” which means that I am no closer to finding an appropriate coping strategy for any of us. “It’s taking too long” he wails, interspersed with “how many minutes until electronics? No, no, no, I mean how many seconds?” He will wear out his vocal chords if he keeps twanging them in the manner. They’re not used to such exercise.

I am in the midst of circular thought patterns myself, when it dawns on me that another cause of concern is that he has also failed to play with his electronics for the last few days. When the designated time, 5:30 p.m. finally arrives, instead of pounding off to grab one of the coveted toys, he ambles around listlessly. After we’ve started our bedtime routine after supper, it occurs to him that he has missed ‘electronics’ time again. I am uncertain how this turn of events has come about?



If we spend another 24 hours like this, I might as well book my spot in a padded cell. There again, that might give me a few minutes to read, learn, strategize and come up with some kind of new campaign, no matter how inadequate it eventually turns out to be. How can he have so many words and yet I have none, or at least not the right ones?

As the timer starts beeping he dashes to my side to wave it around in a storm of ecstasy, “it’s 5:30, it’s electronics time, at last! I thought it would never come! I’m so glad that’s all over with.” He deflates into the sofa with a sigh. “Now I can relax, that’s so much better.”

His fingers turn the pages of one of the manuals to one of his games, as he studies the pictures and instructions.

"Um.....aren't you going to play with your...Gameboy.....or something?" I offer tentatively now that he appears to be at peace.
"Nah!.....whatever," he adds with all the charm of a teenager. Whatever! Whatever? Don't you 'whatever' me matey! We have endured an entire day, second by second, and now all we have is 'whatever!' I am unfamiliar with 'young people speak,' but even I know that this roughly translates to 'it is a trifle of no consequence.' Where is all this 'young people speak' coming from? 'A trifle of no consequence' does not match today's experience. I am completely mystified, a condition which I believe is rapidly becoming my new status.

Much later, when I tuck him into bed at eight, he realizes that another 24 hours has passed, during which time he has failed to play any electronics.

We have turned into a family of rampant, racing radicals, not the free kind.

Pass me the monkey nuts, I need to re-energize before I fall off my wheel.