Notable Quotes and a quickie

My daughter to her little brothers:

‘You guys are just impossible!’
‘No! We’re not guys! He’s a cat and I’m an "Uglyworm."’

My son - after a long, tortuous and circular argument:

‘I am Mister Understood.’

At breakfast, before I am truly awake:

‘You may wish to get some more cereal from the garage, the choice is a bit lean.’ He doesn’t move but continues to stare at the cupboard. I watch him and try again, with far too many words, ‘I’m sure there’s some new packets out there, pretty thin pickings in here.’ He remains rooted to the spot as he slopes into a 65 degree angle with his cheeks sucked in, although its unlikely to make him any skinnier.

Perspective taking – Nice but dim

I remember the festive season when I was small; my family confined together in cozy home with condensation on the window panes. My mother’s expression was one of displeasure with large blotches of annoyance – a message without any other clues. Being clueless, she added words – “why don’t you play in your room!”
“O.k.”
Lots more toys up there.
“What do you think your bedroom is for?”
Sleep?
“Do you think you might do something to help?” Helping seemed like a good idea; I considered myself to be a helpful sort of a child. Given the choice between unhelpful and helpful, I’d definitely opt for helpful; who’d choose the negative? I thought, quite wrongly, that my beaming smile was an indication of willingness and readiness. I should have probably added words to match my demeanor, something like, ‘yes, here I am, awaiting orders.’
“Open your eyes!”
They were already, so I blinked, just to make sure.
“Look at this place! Look at the mess!”

I looked.

There were my toys, quite a lot of them. My little brother’s toys were scattered without any noticeable order – very messy. There was my teenage sister’s paraphernalia; boring stuff with very little entertainment value. My Dad’s papers, books, stamps, albums and equipment were neatly arranged on a small collapsible table, poised in front of his winged backed chair. Next to it was my mother’s winged backed chair, because they were a pair. On and around her chair were masses of bags and boxes, with a side table at arm’s reach. Every surface was piled high with knitting, embroidery, darning, mending, many books on a wide variety of topics, all open, not even stacked – a veritable mountain of mess.
“Shall I tidy it?”
“Yes you will!”
I stood alone in the room for a moment, pondering my mother’s lair. What, if anything, could be squished into something else? It was just as I was jamming the knitting into the basket that my mother returned and squeaked, “mind!” but I was ahead of her, I had no intention of impaling myself on the needles. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Tidying.”
She shooed me away as you would a chicken, flighty creatures renowned for their small brains. “For the last time!”
Last time?
“Will you pick up your toys?”
My toys?
Well why didn’t you just say so in the first place and I might have acquiesced to your unreasonable demand, I’m nothing if not helpful.

It’s my turn now because I’m the mum. I often misjudge - forget. Sometimes it takes me a couple of attempts. It’s usually just when I’m about to blow my stack with exasperation that I remember.

There’s a lot to be said for specificity and logic.

Give us this day, our daily baby

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.

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!”

Percolation time

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

We’re late, me and my shadow, but I drop it off in any case, together with a quick apology, “I’m sorry it’s a bit late but I was a bit tied up at home.” I hear he little gasp, the sharp intake of breath but I’m in a hurry so I pay him no heed. So many things intervene, overlap and pass over. It is only later, much later, when I am buried in yet more things that the questions trip out in quick succession for me to thread them back to the source.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who it did?”
“Who did what?”
“Dah bad fing?”
“Which bad thing?”
“Tied you to home?”



p.s. if anyone knows how to switch off the Hindi trans-iliteration function on blogger, I should be most grateful, another accident. It is disabled but oddly, it is still works. I'm on a Mac so I couldn't use this function in any case.

Pop over "here" at "5 Minutes for Special Needs Moms" as I shall be on my holidays for the foreseeable future.

Cheers dears

Literal minded

My elder daughter struggles with the smoke billowed barbeque on Mother’s Day. Hot dogs for the wee ones, spicy ones for the adults along with a marinaded Tri Tip Steak, a foreign cut that we have yet to truly fathom.

She is a tour de force. Everything has been planned down to the finest detail to take account of each and everyone’s very personal accommodations. I’m ready to retire I am so impressed.

“There you go!” she beams, “the kiddie sausages are ready so tuck in guys!”
“Agh! Don touch em! Don touch em! Don touch em!”
“Why we are not be touch em! Dey are too hot?”
“No eat dah safe chips. Don eat dah sausages made outta kiddies.”

It’s always so heart warming to see the children looking out for one another! Not so long back siblings weren’t even on the radar. Such a long short time ago.

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

Her Royal Highness and Pi dish Two

He flits about the house following orders from his older brother, “yes your Highness,” he quips in mid flight, which seems odd for a die in the wood republican.

Only a year ago we had to endure the neverending tirade about the "evils of England" and now all of a sudden he has turned into a serf.

I decide to check his political allegiance.


“Hey sonny jim!”
“I am not dah Jim.”
“True……..so when you called him Highness, did you mean this kind of highness?”






“No dummy. Dat is a wimmins.”
“Of course. You mean this kind of highness, right?”




“Right.”

Did I mention that his big brother grew an inch and a half in less than a month over on "Twitter?"




Lastly, on a final note in response to the "criticism" that the bowls were too 'empty' meaning 'too much blank space,'

I have my final offerings:-




And yes, if I ever get them fired, glazed and fired again, they will be available on Etsy.

Cheers dears

Genealogy – a brief history

Please scroll down for Magic Marker Monday





A nation is a society united by delusions about its ancestry and by common hatred of its neighbors.
- William Ralph Inge

From a few weeks ago [ish]

I sit knitting a "poncho" for Nonna as a surprise birthday present, the perfect gift for someone enduring an 85 degree heat wave.

My son lies at my feet examining carpet fibres.

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dat fing on yur finger?”
“My wedding ring, this one?”
“No…..dah lil one which is being……bented.”
“Ah well that’s the McEwen seal, for a Scottish clan.”

I shut my mouth, drop a stitch and hear the pot boiling over in the kitchen.

I know that I have made several serious errors but I blunder on to pick up all the little hic-cups that I can manage.

“A seal is not a swimming mammal kind of a seal, it’s the kind of seal that you put on letters……er……..letters that come in the mail not the ABC kind of letters.”

I pause to draw breath, permit percolation and processing, mainly my own. I count to ten and then continue.

“Do you see the little tree on the ring? That is an oak tree that has been struck by lightening, so the top came off.”

Too many "triggers!" Conversations with this child are a minefield of "unexploded fears."




“But look, see that teeny tiny little leaf? That means that the tree has survived, it’s going to be o.k. It’s growing again. It goes along with the motto, Re res......actually it's Latin for 'I grow green again,' but we won't bother with that bit now.”

I take a few gulps.

He looks at me with a dubious air.
"We are skip dah Latins today?"
"Verily, let us not muddy the waters any further!"
"Mud?"
"Confuse....I mean..."
"Scottishs say Latins?"
"Ooo er well, not really.....but Latin was the common language amongst all those dialects.....any way I.."
"Dey have Daleks in Scottishs?"
"No....well not then in any case......"

I scrabble to regain ground. “Back in the olden, olden days there was a castle at the Firth of Fourth, or possibly the Fourth of Fifth, near Fife or possibly Fishgard, which was the McEwen Castle. 'Mc' means 'son of'...er......Ewen.....which is Scottish for John, sort of. Anyway, all around the castle, there were oak trees, so it’s sym…..bol……ic……….which means it is a symbol, not the clashing musical instrument kind of cymbal but……a sign that means something.”

Why on earth did I ever even begin this!

“It is be like a ……..sandcastle?”
“Well it certainly collapsed like one…..er…….I mean, it’s a ruined castle, like Corf Castle. Do you remember "Corf Castle?”
“Yeah.” Horray, something from England has permeated.
“It’s like a "coat of arms," it shows significant things about a family……”

What on earth am I talking about?

“What you are do?”
“With the ring? I thought you might ask that.”

But clearly not early enough.

“Well in the olden days people wrote letters on scrolls or parchment…….I mean……...envelopes hadn’t been invented yet, so people rolled up their pieces of parch....paper, with the writing on the inside……so it wouldn’t get wet……..because then the ink would run……..because they didn’t have biros back then…..”

Why is this so difficult!


“Dah ink is………..run?”
“Yes I’m sorry about that I meant……leak, spread…….make a nasty mess that you wouldn’t be able to read any more.”
“Like ……..dah magic ink!”
“Exactly so! Anyway, the other thing they didn’t have was glue, …….nor elastic bands come to think of it......……so hey invented sealing wax…....…which was wax that would seal or stick the paper together so that it wouldn’t unravel.”

I am unraveling much faster!

“What?”
“What what?”
“Wax?”
“Ah, well wax is…..just like candles, like on your birthday cake.”
“I am hate dah flames!”

I slip my arm around his shoulders so that he doesn’t escape, as I have let off more fire crackers than usual, and we need closure. I watch the stitches slip off the needle one by one, “so you’ve seen the drip on the candle as it melts? Well if you collect those drips they work like glue and stick the paper closed. Whilst it’s still a warm blob, you take the ring, the seal, and stick it in the wax and it leaves the mark of the tree. Then when……the delivery man..er....person…….brings the letter……..they already know who it’s from …….and they know that nobody else has taken a peek.”
“It is be private?”
“Exactly so.” He ponders.

“I am want?”
“What do you want dear, a ring? I'm afraid you'll have to wait until you're 18.”
“No …..dat would be an owie finger…….....I am want a "coat wiv no arms" too.”




Please stop by for an "anecdote from an alien" or a "Note from Nonna."


If anyone knows of a handy mechanic who is able to fix blog bugs, please give me a tinkle. I wonder if that should be 'bloganic'?