Career Opportunities for the ever so slightly deranged

Today I am also over "here" at "5 Minutes for Special Needs Mums."






I sometimes think that I missed my calling as an air traffic controller. So many of the campaigns around here are premised on the scaffolding of visual aids. They used to be mainly PEC’s, writ large but these days anything goes.

Not so long back I would send my little darlings to school with a whole collection of aide memoires, dangling from their back backs. From the Incredible 5 Point scale, to talismen, many and various, as well as other clues to help them cope. I do believe that they looked like Christmas trees out of season, all the year round. They needed them to be physically available, as visual and tactile work well together for some children, especially mine.

It’s all about helping them to express themselves, sometimes in a socially acceptable manner but now they all talk, they have trouble taking turns with their announcements and questions. Currently, they believe that the best way to get results is to shout. They have naturally adopted the ‘squeaky wheel’ policy, figured it out for themselves, with ear splitting results. It seems to be a case of ‘he who yells loudest’ will ping mum into action. Thus far, it’s working rather well as I dart around fulfilling the latest request.

However, I plan to retire from my post as ‘short order commando cook’ and implement yet another new campaign, roughly along the lines of ‘how to take turns.' I have yet to polish off the details.

I either need to print all the rules on a serviceable T-shirt and adopt it as my new uniform or alternatively make up a sandwich board to include the never ending list of ‘how to’s’, reminders and cues.







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Laundry Try Tackling it Tuesday

In a household of "7" filthy people, there tends to be a lot of laundry, my sole responsibility. Each step of the laundry process, and we all know that it is a many step process, is just fine with me, except the last step, the ‘putting away’ step. It is not uncommon to find all seven of my laundry hampers full to busting at the top of the stairs. For some unknown reason, probably mere inefficiency on my part, this is my perennial stumbling block. The very best thing to do with stumbling blocks is to blast them into outer space.

Personally, I’m sorely tempted to convert the garage into a holding pen, fill it full of racks and shelves, and house everyone’s clothing in one spot, right next to the washer and drier. This would streamline matters considerably. Since the average American already uses the garage for storage purposes, with cars parked out on the hard drive, we would just be that little bit ahead of the curve and start a whole new trend.

I think it would also foil burglars who would break and enter through the weakest safety point in the average house, the garage, and would then be distracted from the task at hand by a tempting display of clothing. It’s a trick used by most store keepers, put the most attractive items near the entrance to lure in the punters. By the time the burglars have picked out just the right size, style and colour, the police will have arrived and the game will be up.

But I digress.

Here is where the art of delegation comes into play. What is the point of having children that create work if you can’t tap into their ability to contribute towards the smooth running of the family unit? Call it child labour if you will, but if we ever hope to develop independence in our children, it’s a step that’s hard to resist.





Here I must confess my main objection to teaching my children independence, namely, that they do not meet my exacting standards when it comes to putting away the laundry. This is why a few little visual pointers can help them navigate the way and keep them on the right washing line. Labels my friends, labels. If your children can read, then all well and good. If not, then little icons or PEC’s help smooth out the bumps and indirectly save on ironing. Folding is well beyond our current skill set but hangers work well.

I’d like to don my environmental hat and cut down the laundry, wear clothes more than once or dab off stains like my mother used to do whilst the occupant is still inside. I’d like to curb the three or four changes of clothes whilst they attempt to approximate the costume of their favourite characters, but at the same time, I am also dumbstruck by this extension of pretend play. Suddenly they’re happy to attempt dressing. They’re motivated enough to overcome some of those fine and gross motor challenges. Do I really want to choke off and stifle such tender new growth?

Sadly, although we started this new campaign over 18 months ago, what with one thing and another, I have let matters slide. However, that’s no good reason why we shouldn’t start again, renew the campaign and continue to tackle our own particular mountain, or failing that, "regroup" and take "cover."

A question of degree

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

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

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

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