Unraveled - code cracker

I attempt chat of the ‘how was your day?’ variety, as I herd them towards the car.

Traffic is everywhere and Mr.Skippy is in ‘dart’ mode. I grab the back of his back pack in a gesture uncannily similar to a dog’s choke collar. Once initial contact is made, I’m able to secure his hand securely. Our palms are clamped together. It is as if I wear one of those joke buzzers in my hand and an electric current jerks through his system as jumping jacks, leaps and spins charge his body. His mouth empties a continuous commentary on the subject of tyres and Pokemon powers. I remind myself that I should be trying harder to park the car in the same spot, to make this exercise smoother. I should park the car in an empty space at about 1 p.m., an hour and 40 minutes before school is out, the new school stalker.

The electric doors close without dismembering anyone and I glance at their daily reports for a quick update.

Oh no!

He did what?

I speed read… ’he’ .. ’hit’ ….. ’baseball bat’ …… ’lost recess’ ……I flip round to look at the small thug struggling with his seat belt. He’ll be expelled! What on earth could have happened to make him behave like that? I dither. Perhaps I should go back and seek out his teacher? Perhaps I should go back and prostrate myself in front of the Principal and beg for mercy? Perhaps I should try and find out the secret identity of his victim to pour balm on mother and child?

There are few things that provoke such an immediate response in foreigners, but the magic words of ‘baseball bat’ are always automatically translated into ‘lethal weapon,’ probably due to excessive American telly watching. It is surely the first true sign that you’ve produced a serial killer, that and pulling the wings of flies.
“Who did you hit dear?”
“I dun hit.” Typical! An endless stream of drivel about Pokemon and tyres and now suddenly he doesn’t have anything to say for himself.
“See here?" I flap the report card, "your teacher tells me that you hit someone. Who did you hit dear?”
“Accident.”
“Who?” I try to keep the panic out of my tone, but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding?
“Michael.” Poor little Michael, he’s but a mere scrap of a little thing. Poor little Michael is supposed to be his new, best and only friend. At least I know his mum well and her telephone number.
“Why did you hit him dear?” I command myself to remain calm until I have all the facts at my disposal, so that I can panic in a more dignified manner.
“No hit.”
“See here? Your teacher tells me that you hit him. Why did you hit him dear?” I hope I sound persuasive but I think I sound like an interrogator.
“No hit. Bump.”
“Bump?”
“Bump.” How on earth do you bump someone with a baseball bat? Talk about colourful explanations!
“Where did you bump him dear?”
“Recess.”
“Not when, where dear?” Be patient, just be patient, we’ll get there in the end, eventually, hopefully before they put me in my coffin.
“On dah recess time.”
“Oh right. On the playground at recess, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yard.” Of course, silly me.
“Where…..er....where on his body did you bump him?”
“Not body.”
“Not body? Where then?” I am losing the thread.
“Face.” FACE! He hit him in the face with a baseball bat! And since when is your face not part of your body?
“Did he cry? Was he very badly hurt? Did the nurse come?” I know that this is too many questions, but I think I am now officially off my head.
“Er he don bin cry.”
“Mom, can we go home now? Why are we just sittin here?” I look at my daughter who does not seem in the least bit phased by the conversation that I am extracting from her little brother.
“Did you hear what he said?” I squalk at her in a very good imitation of a headless chicken.
“Sure,” she adds nonchalantly. I can feel myself begin to sputter, when she continues, “yeah, Mike’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Coz I was there.”
“You were there! What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Er coz,.... I don know?” I wait. I give up and prompt, “could you tell me what you saw dear?”
“Er. He already told you.”
“Yes, you’re right, he did tell me but I’d like you to tell me too. Is that o.k.?”
“Sure. Um…. anyway, he was buzzin around, ….you know how he does…..he and Mikey were playin…….real crazy wild…..super excito kiddo kinda thing…..he had the ball on his shoulder runnin around in circles and they bashed into each other……that’s all.”
“That’s all? What about the bat?”
“What bat?”
“The baseball bat?”
“Er there weren’t no bat.”
“’Wasn’t any’” I snap. “I mean….” What do I mean? “Did he hit Mikey with a baseball bat?”
“No. He bumped his face with the ball. He missed recess coz he was crazy, wild, fizzin and wouldn’t calm down.”

Hmm. I pick up the daily school report and read it, slowly. It would appear that they are all completely right and I am all completely wrong, and possibly dyslexic!


New post up on the "alien."

What do you mean you’re bored?

I don’t know who told him to say this, but I just wish he would stop saying it. I suspect that some well meaning speech therapist put the idea in his mind. I can almost hear her now, “are you feelin bored honey?” in that oh so soft American accent. Which of his three speech therapists would be the most likely culprit? Debatable. They’re all of that particular mindset. [translation = kindly and concerned] It's so hard to keep a track of the little mind bombs that other people set in your children's heads, once you permit them access to the outside world.

He stands before me, legs astride, clutching a cereal box to his chest, “I am bored honey!”

Well really!

I am able to understand him of course, because I am his mother, but many people would not be able to understand this sentence. The words and syllables of the sentence run together and sound more like ‘Iyamboardhunny.’ There is no inflection. The tone is completely flat. He sounds like a robot, a very loud robot with the volume control button stuck in the on position. He repeats it three times, takes a breath and then repeats it three times again. “IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” I have an overwhelming urge to separate the syllables and words with a clever, chop them all up, diced. He shakes the Cheerio’s box at me for emphasis.

At 6:05 in the morning, I am not really in entertainment mode, merely breakfast mode.

“Tell you what, howabout we have breakfast first and then we’ll do something together?”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.”
“Yes I know you’re bored dear, but we’ll fill up our tummy’s first. Give us some energy to play!”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He jumps up and down a bit.
“What would you like to do after breakfast? Shall we do some colouring? Painting? Playdough?” Always best to get the messy play out of the way first thing in the morning, as it gives you the opportunity of the rest of the day to attempt to clean it up. [translation = possibility a handy hint for someone]
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He squeezes the cereal packet to his chest. The pressure is collapsing the centre of the box.
“Do you want to choose your bowl? Which spoon would you like? I think the yellow one is clean.” Why can't I distract this child to the matter at hand?
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He has a will of iron.

He thrusts the cereal box in my face on taut extended arms. I cannot think how to get over this hump at 6:07 as his sister saunters by. She links her arms round my waist and rests her face on my back.
“Good morning sleepy head.” I swivel round for a hug. She grins, revealing not properly cleansed teeth. “He woke me up,” she yawns.
“I’m sorry dear, I can’t get him to start breakfast, he wants to play.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s so bored, but if he doesn’t eat now we’ll end up being an all day breakfast diner.”
“No, he’s not bored.”
“Yes, he is. He’s been screaming about how bored he is for the last three minutes, that’s what woke you up remember?” By now, every neighbour in a three mile radius is aware that I have a bored six and a half year old.
“Oh. Oh I see. No. He saw that advertisement on the telly yesterday.”
“What advertisement?”
“The one about Honey Nut Cheerios. He wants to try them instead of the plain ones.” I release the grip on my daughter and swing the small one up into my arms so that we are face to face over a box of crushed cereal. “Is that it? You want Honey Nut ones? You want to try a new food?” [translation = this is my "neophobic" one who only eats 13 things] He grins to reveal not properly cleansed teeth, and nods his head three times. I squeeze him until I notice that I’m probably poking him with the corner of the cereal box. Poor benighted child! He verbalized his request, kept verbalizing his request and didn't have a meltdown, even though his deaf old mother was too stupid to understand him. Where did he cull this patience gene from? I stroke his sister's hair as she has rescued me, again.

I remind myself that honey has all sorts of wonderful things in it. I refuse to think about sugary snacky food. I remind myself that this is probably the first self initialized attempt at selecting a food for consumption. I will adopt a new mantra, 'honey is good, honey is good, honey is good.'

I refuse to debate the power of commercialism or advertising. I refuse to chastise myself for my lack of supervision such that he was able to see the advertisement in the first place. How did that happen with TIVO? I am unable to size up the harm that television has done to rot his brain versus the benefit of adding an additional 'food' to his paultry diet. I concentrate on all the health giving properties of organic honey, all the additional occupational and oral therapy possibilities that this opens up.


Does that count as a new food?
Tell me that counts as a new food!