Autocue - spoonfeeding

Sometimes it seems as if we have been going to occupational therapy forever, certainly more than five years. Together, the boys had 13 hours of different therapies a week up until the time that I had jaw surgery.

At that time we dropped everything except for the two double therapy sessions on a Wednesday afternoon, double occupational therapy and double speech therapy because Wednesdays are a half day at school. Their "father" took them during my period of recouperation. It gave him a far deeper "understanding" and greater "involvement" such that when I had recovered and was ready to take up the reins again, he decided that he’d prefer to keep taking them himself.

These days I take them occasionally when his schedule doesn’t allow him to go, like when he is abroad on business. Hence when Wednesday looms, I am secretly dying to see how their session will pan out with their father away. I’m uncertain what kind of routine they have developed, independent of my input.

In the past it was a great struggle because it was a transition and because therapy was hard work for them. On arrival, they used to enter the waiting room and then I would prompt them to tell their therapists that they’d arrived using the intercom. This meant pressing the button and speaking clearly into the audio box simultaneously. They used to have to use the step to reach the box on the wall, but they are considerably taller now. Each step took a great deal of prompting. On completion I would prompt them to remove their shoes and socks and stack them on the shelf. This also took a great deal of prompting, times two.

These days, they have had many years of practice, many years of prompting. I am keen to see how they will fare.

On arrival at the waiting room, one runs to the window to take a peek into the studio and the other flops onto the sofa. I wait. I observe. There is no further movement from either of them, nor any words. I wait. I observe. I sit on my hands and then put my elbows on my knees with my hands over my mouth. I wait. I observe. It soon occurs to me that I will wait for ever and that there is nothing to see. No action is likely to be forthcoming. I feel suddenly quite saddened for no apparent reason. There are lots of reasons that could cause sadness, but none of them are present, but still, the inertia drags me down. Just like other children they dawdle and are easily distracted. Just like some other children we have the ever present hurdles of inertia, ideation, sequencing and a serious lack of executive function regardless of the label.

I feel a tiny tickle at the back of my brain, deep in the depths from my years of speed reading to track down useful clues and tips. I became a butterfly reader immediately following their diagnoses, hopping from topic to topic, the brief overview and the summaries, gleaning the finer points but missing the big picture in crisis management. There are many tomes just on this one topic:- introduce the new behaviour, positively reinforce the new behaviour and then ever so gradually fade the supportive reward system. It is the fading of both the reward and the prompt that engenders independence. Without that final step they become reliant upon the prompt.

There again, there’s always the possibility that it’s nothing to do with autism, merely tired kids.

Autism – tip of the day [Head, shoulders, knees and toes]

Here is a quick tip that we still use with the children to help sequence them through those early morning steps in readiness for school.

Quite often, there are not many words available first thing in the morning but there are also a great many tasks that need to be performed in a timely manner. My boys are visual learners but also respond very well to kinesthetic cues, it’s almost as if that first movement kick starts their executive function into action. It’s another layer of scaffolding or support to help them achieve and experience success.

We have four hurdles to overcome:- brush hair, clean teeth, put on shoes and socks.

1. Gain your child’s attention, preferably with body orientation rather than eye contact.
2. Ask that they join in and copy your body movements.
3. Ask them to confirm that they’re going to play along, this need only be a nod or gesture to indicate willingness to participate
4. Exaggerate each gesture but keep the movements simple.
5. Say, ‘look at your body’:- self awareness is often a challenge. It is as if their bodies are separate entities from the self. Sometimes by actually looking at themselves, they will also notice something else amiss, such as back to front T-shirts or trousers. If not, this is an ideal time to draw their attention to the glitch.
6. Place both your hands on your head and say the word hair or head depending upon which word they are familiar with.
7. Then point to your mouth, smile and bare your teeth to say ‘teeth.’
8. Bend down and touch your feet to say ‘shoes’ or ‘shoes and socks.’
9. Repeat all the gestures but this time link the word to a number, 1,2,3 and 4.
10. Ask your child which one he wants to do first, 1,2,3 or 4, or hair/teeth/ shoes or socks. [or a,b,c and d for those alpha fans]
11. The element of choice to these ‘chores,’ gives control back to your child and may help encourage co-operation or at the very least, a willingness to have a go.
12. As they move off to start the first chore, be sure to praise verbally, or with a gesture such as a high five, or whatever physical confirmation they prefer. In our case, one cannot be touched and the other cannot be praised, but we all adapt to our own individual requirements.

Obviously this could be adapted to your particular morning hic-cups, the bits where they get stuck. Although we still use the PECs boards to help sequence, somehow the physical movements are yet another shortcut to smooth those transitions. This is a further step forward than a couple of years ago when they needed individual sequencing charts for each separate chore / task which were broken down into their own sequential steps. These can prove helpful with task completion. E.g. once they have brushed their teeth they move a tooth brush icon from one side of the chart [to do side] to the other side of the chart, [done side] These can be individually tailored to your child’s area of interest such as Pokemon, Thomas or dinosaur icons. Icons are particularly handy for those children who do not like to hold pencils to mark completion or have other fine motor issues.

I'm all for encouraging independence but some children need the scaffolding to remain in place for those difficult moments.

Lastly, a note to anyone struggling with the basics.

If you believe that such simple prompts are well out of your league, I can assure you that I would have felt similarly a few years ago. Back then, we too were struggling with the basics of dressing, toileting and feeding. If I had read a post similar to this, I would have thrown up my hands in horror. However, I wanted to share this to encourage and reassure, that all our children keep growing and changing in tiny huge ways.

We will all get there in the end.

This site “Do2Learn” may help, I hope.

Now that's not normal but what is these days?

We all begin to adjust to our "new arrival" in our own individual ways. In the aftermath of the festive season there is a more than usual amount of messiness around. I warn everyone that things left about are likely to be chewed, or if they’re very unlucky, eaten. As usual, no-one pays any heed. I list a lengthy record of similar occurrences that they have each directly experienced with other people’s dogs in the recent and not so recent past. My list and the repeats of my list, sound like my own silent solo. A scratched record.

I prepare mentally for the first casualty. Which child victim? Which precious toy? I don’t need to wait long.

I gallop at the first scream of agony.

In the family room I find my son knelt on the floor before the dog with his hands under his muzzle, “dwop it "Fatcher!”
“Use a firm voice dear,” I encourage.
“Dwop it Fatcher!”
"Maybe he doesn't recognise his name? You could try the 'th' sound?"
"Dwop it f f th thatcher!"

Thatcher reluctantly drops the package of sharp plastic corners, part of a prized Christmas present. He slips the packet into the back of his pyjama bottoms, out of sight, so that both hands are free to pet and praise the dog for his amazing feat of obedience. Perfectly sequenced steps. Seamless ideation. We chorus good dog. My son chortles deliciously as Thatcher licks his ears and neck. He expresses no concern or anger at the ruined toy.

Lesson learned.

“He dun bin choke on dat bad fing!”

His sole concern is the welfare of the dog.

Several lessons learned.

Below is a picture of yet more advanced social skills. My son and Thatcher curl up for a cat nap, which may not be of any great significance. Only the real baby sleeps. However, if I also consider the fact that this is 15 minutes into the sacred ‘electronics’ time, half way through his precious half an hour, then this would seem infinitely preferable and maybe a teeny tiny bit admirable, but there, I’m letting my bias show.






As his little brother said:-

“Finally! Someone who likes fire hydrants as much as me.”

It's probably a Garfield quote.



Don't forget to nip along and say 'hi de ho' to "Michelle's" family over at "Full Soul Ahead," and see if you might be able to "help out" with her post called "A Service Dog For Riley."

Tackle it Tuesday - Organize

PLEASE SCROLL DOWN FOR RUBY TUESDAY / CATS ON TUESDAY

One of the chores that I hate most in the world, is one that I have been doing for approximately 20 years. It's making packed lunches for the children. There is such an air of hopelessness associated with the whole exercise. Nutritious, home-made organic food is either thrown in the bin at school or returned back home untouched and inedible after a day in the heat. Not eating between 7:30 in the morning and 3:00 in the afternoon, is not considered a hardship. Eating what I had provided, fell into the category of torture. Better and easier to starve.






I often thought it would be simpler to admit defeat and allow them to indulge in whatever the school provided. However the cost for three children as well as the choices available, have prevented me from taking this tempting step.



Instead I decided to alter my expectations.

I decided to compromise.




The first step was to come to terms with my children's limitations. At the current state of play I could pour chocolate sauce on everything and they still would refuse to eat. Better to choose food where there is at least the possibility of consumption.




Since we are also trying to teach independence and kick start their executive function, a PEC board of choices provided the visual stimulation to enable choice. The PECs corresponded to the three baskets of foodstuffs at their eye sight level.

The long term goal is to reduce stress, smooth over the bumpy bits and achieve task completion. Since it is only the beginning of the year, we have quite a bit of practicing to do. Every time they complete the exercise, it becomes easier. I fully anticipate that by the end of this school year, this is one less chore than I will have successfully delegated to my offspring, if not sooner.

If we continue to follow our current trajectory, I expect that I shall be choreless before I am very much older.

Then I shall spend my time in the 'help wanted' classified ads looking for gainful employment.




Cheers dears

Freeze Frame - tackle it Tuesday

Scroll down for Ruby Tuesday

Ooo er......also scroll down for Perfect Post

I seem to be getting ahead of myself or possibly a big behind!



We have an appointment at the specialist. At $6 a minute we cannot afford to be late. Every second counts. I make careful advance preparations to ensure that everyone will be on time. Since my children do not do well when hurried, I start well in advance.

We have a number of fairly standard obstacles to overcome; using the bathroom, a certain degree of cleanliness, fully clothed bodies, hand entertainment and or talismen, shoes, enter car, use seat belt.

"Nonna" will remain at home, alone. As a result I deem it fit to add a couple of additional safety precautions. Just prior to departure I shall leave enough spare time to ensure that she has all the things that she might just possibly "need" or that she may require assistance with, plus a few additional minutes to ensure that my message is clearly "understood," as hearing aide usage is a crap shoot.

I think hard to check whether there is any possibility that I have skipped a step. I am confident that we are on track and aiming at the target.

I am calm.

I am in control.

Everything will be fine.

We commence our sequencing in an orderly fashion, step by step by step we slowly gain formation. All variables are taken into account. We move into range with a little shimmy here and there, but still within the proscribed parameters. We track gently along the projected path until task completion is within our grasp.

I manovre with care, overcoming obstacles, detouring around cul-de-sacs and bypassing blind alleys. Gentle encouragement here, pressing on the brakes over there as we steadily tip toe towards the goal. We teeter towards the target, gaining momentum, limbering up, synapses snapping and muscles moving.

I hold the door handle to open the flood gates and hit the automatic garage opener just as Nonna appears in the framework:- “Maddy can you just turn on the BBC for me please?” ..........before she's finished her sentence my son escapes from the bathroom, stitchless and roars into the darker recesses of the house, his brother trips over the step and tumbles onto the concrete floor, bowling his sister over in the process.

There is a very loud weeping, wailing and gnashing of retainers in all directions.

Bullseye.

Different Strokes for different folks

We survive the first 45 minutes of her being ill, but then she follows me around like a rash.

She reminds me that she is bored at 3 minute intervals. This is my ‘play with me, play with me, watch me, watch me,’ child, not that I’m assigning a role of predestination for any of my children.

Perish the thought!

Although brothers generally fall into the category of ‘pest,’ when they are at school, somehow their company is so much more appealing.

“But I’m real bored Mom.”
“I know dear, but I’m very busy. Why don’t you go and rest in your room.”
“But it’s not like you’re doin nothin.”
“Anything, dear, anything! As I said before, I have a great deal to do and the sooner I get it all done, the sooner I may have some free time. Why don’t you go and rest in your room and think of three things that you’d like to do when I’m finished.”
She sighs and deflates against the wall, “whatya doin then that’s more important than me an bein sick?” The tone of sarcasm isn’t lost on me, but I decide to ignore it. It would appear to be an abuse of power to out sarcasm a sarcastic 10 year old.
“Well right now I’m putting all the boys’ clothes back into the cupboard. I do it every day. It take about 20 minutes depending upon whether they accidentally tipped out the pyjamas too.”
“It sure is a big mess.”
“Hmmm.”

I fold, refold, stack shelves and re-hang T-shirts under her watchful eyes.

“If I did that you’d be real mad at me, right?”
“Well it would depend upon why you’d messed up your closet?”
“It’s not fair, they get to trash their closet every day and you just clean it all up!”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s always the same, you treat em different.”
“You’re right, I do. Partly because you’re older and partly because there are some things that they find a lot more difficult than you do. Sometimes they need more help.”
“It stinks.”
“Now I have a question for you!”
“Really! What?”
“When you were really little, we had a closet just like this one. Half of it was toys and half of it was clothes. Every day I would try and put you to bed for your nap. Instead of taking a nap like every other toddler in the entire universe, you’d climb the closet shelves and chuck everything out. Then you’d strip your bed. Every day. Now why do you suppose you did that?”
“Geez, I have no idea! What did you do?”
“Every day after your non existent nap, I’d come up here and you’d be sitting in your devastated room with a mischevious grin on your face. I would be so cross with you. Daddy and I decided that we’d just leave mess and put you to bed at night without the bed clothes.”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“Well you wouldn’t, because some time during the evening, once Daddy was home, I’d zip up here and straighten it all out. It took ages but I just couldn’t put you to bed like that, it seemed too unkind.”
“Wow. How long did I do that for then?”
“Eternity.”
“What happened to stop it?”
“I gave up trying to get you to nap.”
“Why did I do that? It seems kinda weird.”
“Well, I think it’s because you didn’t have enough words to explain that you didn’t want to nap and probably more importantly, that you didn’t need a nap. You always were an energizer bunny.”

She slithers down the wall onto her hunkers, stares at the self portrait picture of her big sister. "Did she do weird stuff when she was little too?"
"Oh yes indeed. There's not a child on the planet that doesn't do "weird stuff" sometimes. The trick is to figure out the why? Once you know the 'why' it won't be weird any more."





















Post script:-

Take one Lilo and Stitch video

Extract Elvis

Add birthday present CD and "Mix"

Alternative "Junior production."

Cheers Debra!

Neither a Lender nor a Borrower be*

When he appears at nearly 10 o’clock on a Saturday morning, when we have already achieved steady state. They are all fed, clean and most importantly of all, dressed. Their father is not dressed, even though the long hand is seconds away from 10:00. A robe does not qualify for ‘dressed.’ Nor is he clean. He is already brewing his weekend headache due to caffeine withdrawal, but I am without mercy. I push a mug of black coffee in his bleary eyed direction, with verbal prompt, “there you go dear, that should help.”

I recall the chap in the restaurant the previous night. He sat at the counter with his pal enjoying a beer, when we arrived to collect our take away, which is called a ‘take out,’ in America. A Friday evening chill out, where chaps chat. My spouse was still at work.

It was an exceptionally brave move on my part, not spontaneous of course, but the bribery component was in place. A treat for her, had to be balanced against the pain threshold that her brother’s could endure. One parent, three children. Even a year ago this would not have been a remote possibility. A tiny little step, 'go to a restaurant to collect a take out,' something that most people wouldn't so much as blink at. I am no longer blinkered, I have cast them aside and I'm ready with my whip, lasso and sugar lumps, or rather, Goldfish crackers.

The men sat, drank beer and awaited their food. I was in sheepdog mode whilst the checker made out the receipt, by hand, slowly. There were only a few people in the restaurant but the candles were lit on every table. The boys, because they are small boys, needed to blow out all the candles. I needed them to refrain from fulfilling this quite reasonable desire. Most especially, I needed them not to lean over the diners’ table and spit in the vague direction of the candle, since lip closure and spit production are ongoing campaigns.

They wear a combination of mischief and hyper-vigilance on their faces. The checker takes my very patient credit card from the counter and runs it through her machine. It looks like slow motion to me, but I think that perhaps I am permanently stuck in fast forward.

I hear one of the guys recount his day and plans for the weekend, “then the kids have got their Walkathon at school tomorrow, should be kinda fun…..” The word ‘Walkathon’ brings one of my sons to heel. He parks himself on a stool next to one of the dads at the counter. He hunts his lexicon for social chit chat friendly words, as his feet pound the kick board under the counter. The top of his body is elbowed casually on the counter, an easy stance, the nonchalant man about town, for half of him. The two halves of his body fight each other, frenzied activity versus calm and friendly.

The checker hands me the slip of paper to sign. I need to escape as fast as possible as my ‘holding pattern’ is beginning to crumble. So far it is a success. Out of the car, into the restaurant, wait, patiently, whilst being entertained if rather inadequately, positive feedback and praise for control, loose lead not a choke hold collar, permit constant movement at the cost of refraining from doing other things that would be more noticeably odd, keep pleasant sane smile on face at all times. Seconds pass.

I watch the boys move swiftly around the square tables in the pattern of a maze, but they’re not running. They both obey the 'one finger rule.' A finger from each hand can touch things, but only inanimate things. This is our compromise over the compelling need to touch anything and everything, usually at a high often dangerous speed. We apply the rule as sparingly as possible, because it is an added burden on top of all the other things that they try so hard to do and not do.

We have been within these four walls for approximately 4 minutes, we’re up against the clock as the candles still flicker.

The whole exercise is one huge bribe for food. The French fries wait in the car for Junior. They cool. We have advanced beyond M&M’s, it’s like graduation but greater. This is so much better than a few years ago. A few years ago this would be the equivalent of emptying a cage of chickens into the room to flap and squalk and run around to cause mayhem and consternation, where every trip, voyage or visit was a venture into the unknown.

There are still lots of unknowns and hidden triggers that lurk to trip them up, but as the checker passes me the bag of food over the counter, it is the white flag of surrender, a visual cue that they notice and voluntarily flit towards the door, together, in unison, like the well trained troops that they are.

Only ten paces to the car, but it’s dark and damp. The doors open on command as two dive in to escape the chill. I lean inside to turn on the ignition and warm up the car as the third one collapses on the sidewalk to scream like a banshee. So close, so foolish.

I chuck the bag onto the passenger seat and step back to the soggy one, the incoherent one caught in our very own headlights. It looks like an apoplectic fit because now he is wet from the contact with the ground. Whatever it was, it is now ten times worse, a clash of tactile defensiveness and whatever it is, that I don’t know, for the moment. I won’t know ‘it’ for a few moments more, because he cannot tell me, because he has no words.

When the flailing dies down it is safe for me to intervene and scoop him up. He sits on my lap in the driver’s seat sobbing and soggy. We all wait. They wait patiently and silently in the back, as their legs kick the seats to two separate rhythms.

“Can you tell me what it is dear?” We wait a bit more, before he is able to tell us, faulteringly, “I fink you are go without me.”

But that was last night. A late night. A difficult and long night, the sort of night that tires you out.

Now, this morning, I have been in my usual holding pattern for just over four hours. We will all go to the Walkathon.

I will join them in an hour. I will stay at home for sixty minutes, in the peace and quiet with a book. If you enjoy the friendship of your other half, it is worth maintenance for a union to survive. Neither a marathon nor a sprinter be, accept enjoy the solitary.

*
"neither a borrower, nor a lender be"

"Neither a borrower, nor a lender be" says that it is best to not lend [money] to other people and to not borrow from other people. When we lend something we risk losing both the thing we lend and the friendship with that other person. {from Hamlet by William Shakespeare; Polonius speaking: "Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend"} Example question: "Could you lend me twenty dollars?" Answer: "Sorry, neither a borrower nor a lender be." This says that you value the friendship and you don't want to risk hurting the friendship with a loan.

Make GoEnglish.com your home page

Stress induced shortage

I eventually sequence everyone into their car seats and safety belts. I have the distinct feeling that I am in marathon mode and remind myself to breathe. Some twit has fiddled with the rear view mirror, so I adjust it and then glare at my children, as I try to assess guilt. They sit in a line behind the driver seat, a picture of innocence, but I know the truth. I resolve to be miffed later and turn the key in the ignition. We ignite and erupt in screams, me from surprise, they from some unknown cause. There are words amongst the screams but I am unable to decipher them. Arms appear to flail but on closer inspection appear to be pointing. I check the direction.

That darned cat! I’ve a good mind to run him over, but I suspect that kind of negative reinforcement might be permanent. I hop out of the car to chase the cat. I fail to catch him, as I knew I would, because everything in my life is completely predictable. I already know that I am not a cat catcher.

I plop back into the car and start again. I try not to think how many ‘starts’ and ‘agains’ remain lurking. I reverse gently out of the garage and notice immediately that some nitwit has been twiddling with the rear view mirror. I correct it and stab a mosquito on the windscreen with my finger. The tip of my finger now has a dismembered insect and a spot of blood on it. I suspect that the blood was originally mine. I feel considerably better in view of my one woman campaign to defy West Nile Fever. I hold the steering wheel, but keep one contaminated finger rigid, as I have nothing to wipe it on. I pull into the road. I decide to be grumpy later.

Wednesdays have always been tough for us. It’s a short day at school but that provides us with the opportunity for a double dose of therapy, double time. Both boys have an hour of occupational therapy, followed by an hour of speech therapy. It’s hard work for them, but the transitions that accompany these sessions, in and out of the car, drive everyone to distraction.

I drive along the freeway at 73 mph in the commuter lane, at the same exact speed as everyone else. My nose starts to itch, and pins and needles prick at the memory of jaw surgery. I have the distinct impression that I have a runny nose. I check. As usual, this is a figment of the bad wiring of nerves. As punishment for believing the nerves, I now have mangled mosquito parts and foreign blood on my nose. I refuse to check the vanity mirror for fear of causing a fatal car accident. I plead for improvement of nerves, nerve endings and nervousness.

I settle back into the drivers seat, physically if not mentally. Some vandal has averted my view by tilting the rear view mirror, again! How did that happen? Did I bash it myself during the mosquito debacle? I feel a little weary, but decide to be cross later.



Even though everyone used the bathroom before we left home, on arrival at therapy, there is a mass demand for toilet privileges. We sequence. Whilst in the bathroom I remember to remove the dead body and blood from my nose before we meet any adult people.

The boys enter the denizens of the deep, leaving me and my daughter to struggle with the first leg of her homework, in the waiting room. We lay out several tonnes of supplies and begin the first of 6 worksheets. The first one is on the subject of revising time and distance, which I find vaguely disconcerting for some unfathomable reason.


All too soon the boys are jettisoned from therapy back into the waiting room. After a brief discussion, conducted over and above the noise of the boys, we leave. They run around the parking lot like demented chickens as I failed to grab the appropriate number of hands upon departure. I round up the herd and their loud protests regarding the outrageous schedule. I am inclined to agree with them, but pay no heed.

Soon we are all back in the car and heading off to our next destination. Once again, I find that some hooligan has hit the rear view mirror. I feel a little tired, but decide take my anger out on something benign, later.

At speech therapy, a place that we have visited for the last four consecutive years, everyone needs the bathroom but is unable to locate it’s whereabouts, even though we have visited the bathroom at least twice a week for those same last four consecutive years. I try and recall if I have replaced the emergency set of clothing in the car in case of accidents. I suspect that I have accidentally forgotten to replace them after the accident yesterday.

I whisk them all into the women’s bathroom and hope that there is no-one else in there that might cause a distraction. I am unconcerned about other women’s privacy issues as my sons peek under the stall wall to chat. I am concerned that every minute we waste in the bathroom, remains a billable minute as far as the waiting therapists are concerned.

I deliver the boys, breathlessly to their respective speech therapist and start the second worksheet of homework with my daughter. The first question is ‘define the following words – inference.’ I gulp as she pulls a face. She may not know the definition, aged 9, but she knows and recognizes them without effort. We plod onwards and upwards.

The pathologists brief us briefly, over the din of my wailing children. “Time to go home now,” I sing at a pitch and tone guaranteed to penetrate. The wailing increases in volume. The inference is clear – get in the car and home, your most desired objective, will be achieved. One collapses on the floor and the other one hares off into the distant yonder. Once again, I have forgotten to take a firm grip on two hands before making an announcement, with guaranteed results.

Eventually we drive home, arrive home and finish up our day.

Dawn breaks.

In the morning, after everyone has gone to school, I skip out into the garage to begin my daily errands. I take my position behind the steering wheel. Some moron has moved the mirror, again!

I am so full of energy that I cannot imagine who in their right mind would be so disposed to keep torturing me like this? Some blithering idiot? It must have been spouse, probably yesterday. Did he borrow the car? I think hard. Blank. No, he definitely didn’t. It is closely aligned for the sight line of a very small driver. That driver must be about three foot tall. I can think of lots of three foot people who might be responsible. I sit up straight, a ram rod in my own car and move the rear view mirror slowly up and down. I let my body slither down in the seat.

I have no other choice than to accept the truth, that it is me! I am the grumpy tired moron that gradually sinks, withers and shrinks during the average 24 hour day. I decide not to blither idiotically any longer than is strictly necessary.


There's a new post up on my "Other Life."

A rose by any other name

On Sunday morning I debate whether it is feasible to clean the fridge or not? [translation = well overdue]

I glance at my spouse with his nose glued to a computer screen. I interrupt his concentration to ask his opinion. [translation = feasibility study mate] I translate for him why I need his opinion. [translation = will you look after the children so that my time is free to attend to the rot in your refridgerator]

“Sure!” he says with enthusiasm as his face turns back to the monitor. I spend far too long fighting the fridge, interspersed with chasing my children, until I am able to pronounce that the fridge is clean and the children are correspondingly dirty.

I examine the interior of my clean and empty fridge and dither. Shall I toss everything back in there and risk food poisoning, or should I sort and dispose of the more dubious items? I glance across at my spouse deep in the mire of designing a GPS system for the children. I dither. Should I disturb his endeavours and risk losing my children, or should I attend to my own mould, [translation = shower] or should I spend far too long determining the life span of limp spinach and other sundry items? I pull over the compost bin and set to it.

It occurs to me that I appear to have temporarily mislaid the raging feminist facet of my personality.

Later, I slam the fridge door with it’s nearly empty contents and skip to the big compost heap for a transfer. On my return, I dither. Should I shower or therapize someone or water the garden before it gets too hot? Maybe I could combine the first and last and skip a step completely? I wonder if my neighbours would appreciate this combination? I glance at my spouse deep in design. I interrupt his creativity to request assistance. “Is it o.k. if I nip upstairs and have a shower?” He blinks at me blankly, “sure, knock yourself out!” I translate. [translation = adult supervision of children is required] “Sure, take as long as you like.” I pout. I decide that I will not translate his missive and instead I shall take him literally. [translation = be a big fat meany and dilly dally]

I nip upstairs, three at a time and dive into the shower for my usual pit stop. Afterwards I attempt ‘drying’ with a damp towel, give up and dress with care. [translation = pull on an old sundress] I decide that if the feminist facet has eloped, then I shall expose the womanly wiles instead. [translation = serious personality disorder] I dither. Which one? Moisturizer, acne cream or wrinkle killer? I slap on a bit of each and hope for the best. I ram the bifocals back on and bounce down the stairs having completed my ablutions to the best of my ability in approximately four and a half minutes. [translation = getting very lax]

I present myself to my family. I decide to be helpful and give them a hint, “tad ah!” I spin, in my sundress, a swirl and a twirl.
“You are er…….dizzy?” asks one with a certain degree of uncertainty.
“You are dah princess?” is another tentative offer. [female attire always has this affect on them] They try again.
“You are dah flower?”
“You are dah colour…..ful?” We spiral down into a guessing game of twenty questions. [translation = or is that really ‘up’]
“Er…dah dress up?”
“No, no, no……I got it…..dah Power Ranger!”
“No, no, no…….dah hero guy!”
“Dat dog ……dah one wiv dah spots!”
“Ooo yeah, das right…….er……Lab……Lab…….Lab…..um…..Dalmation!”
I pout. [translation = I sometimes wonder why I bother!] My hands settle on my hips even though I try very hard not to adopt an attitude, as my daughter glances up at me from the sofa, “you’ve got white goopy blobs on yur face Mom!”

Note to self – check mirror before making next presentation

A few steps forwards, ....and back

I race to the loo in the middle of the night in a drug induced stupor. [translation = Vicadin after dentist] I make it just in time and sit groggily. I stand up immediately, snap on the light and turn to check. Someone has put the lid down. Hallelujah! My nose takes my eyes very close to the lid for further examination. [translation = no bifocals] For some reason, the lid is covered with green luminous slime? Ah! Toothpaste! [translation = the Shrek the movie merchandised version of children's Colgate] I stand up again to contemplate.

Teeth cleaning, for my children and many others, is a very large hurdle.

The amount of slime is directly correlated to the number of attempts that someone has made to try and squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush. [translation = fine motor skills, sequencing, pincher control, hand strength and co-ordination] Someone gets full marks for effort. [translation = as well as a great deal of staying power for a less preferred, if not aversive, activity!]

I flip up the lid, turn and resume the position. I stand abruptly and skip round to examine further evidence, evidence of a not so successful nature. I scowl and rearrange the ice-pack on my chin. I cannot work out why I am so unduly miffed? When I think of the years that I have spent changing dirty diapers with my hands, as well as cleaning up dirty bottoms, you would think I should be immune? There again, I have never actually sat in someone else’s dirty diaper. I decide to be logical, resist scatological. I am uncertain if I am irrational or irritable or both? I dither between the sin of pride or purity or possibly prudity?

I am paralysed by indecision: sterlize my body or the loo, which to do first? I try and remember what I did last time such a dilemma befell me? Like when I used to bathe them altogether, aged 4, two and a half, and a year old. One stood up in the bath and vomited over the other two? I pull a face and then notice some grouchy old woman, just next to me. I peer a little closer until my breath steams up the mirror.

I take my grouchy self to the shower to cool off, clean up and refresh my battery. Who cares if it’s three in the morning! No doubt in a few years, if not sooner, if senility continues on it's current trajectory, I’ll be wearing incontinence pants myself. [translation = full circle]

Old wives tales taken from 'other obscure sayings' =
[London, England circa 1558 attrib. Anon*]

"There be some, for whom cleanliness, is always in favour,
But there's others, who allow their duties to waiver,
So......
Bathe in the moonlight and ere after dawn,
Yea'll be scrubbin the toilet for the rest of the morn'."

* Some old barmy bat in Jolly Old San Jose.

Validation – thank you Nonna

I begin to think that I may be an American afterall. [translation = able to use and understand the psychobabble language without effort] It came to me earlier today.

At the moment we are lucky to have Nonna, the children’s Italian grandmother staying with us for a few weeks. One of the advantages of having another adult at home all day, every day, is that teeny tiny things are confirmed, such as my own sanity.

For instance, I have been known to complain that they boys are my shadows. If I leave the room, or am otherwise out of visual contact, a hue and cry ensues. I appreciate, that when I explain this, that most people, not unreasonably, believe that I am exaggerating.

A simple task such as taking the recycling from the kitchen to the outside bin, a distance of some 25 paces, involves careful planning. Over the years, I have tried any number of different approaches to this tiny task. I can run outside and back again, having deposited the recycling in the bin of course, in approximately 44 seconds. Yes, I have timed it, and that’s my all time record to date. However, this option has a number of disadvantages. The main disadvantage is that when I return, breathless with empty bin in hand, there are two small boys flapping around on the floor like landed salmon. [translation = but much louder] Apart from the distress and trauma caused to my boys’ by my fleeting absence, in addition, I will then spend upwards of 30 minutes trying to calm them down again. [translation = thus reducing my efficiency quotient for the day]

Now, I know what you’re thinking! ‘My, my Madeline, you are missing the perfect opportunity to therapize those little chaps!’ As always dear pal, you are completely correct. Sometimes, we do take the therapy option, afterall, any chance to lure them outside would always get my vote. [translation = both are ‘allergic’ to outside] There again, if someone hates to go outside, it might be better to make the ‘outside’ experience, a little more positive and enjoyable, and sadly, recycling doesn’t fall into that category, outside or otherwise.

Sometimes when I’m feeling brave, we will attempt this feat; negotiation of the step, carry ‘horrible’ thing in your hand at the same time, [translation = tactile defensiveness at the very least] pass through the door jam without making contact,[translation = motor planning] or at least avoiding painful contact, [translation = insufficient sensory input for one, as well as the challenge to depth perception ] step into the sunshine, where are the sunglasses[!], walk the seven steps to the big bin, avoid looking at the plants and or bees, wait, [always a tricky one] whilst the bin lid is opened for you, attempt to hurl horrible thing in your hand into the open bin, cover your ears to protect you from the noise of the horrible thing falling into the bin, then sequence your way back into the house to wash your hands. [translation = times two] And of course those are only the edited highlights.

Personally, I cheat and go for the easy option, due to my cowardly nature. [translation = do everything at night whilst they are asleep]

So now, with Nonna here, I believe that I might just have a chance of nipping out to dump the recycling, whilst the children are present and awake, without the usual fall out.

I make my 50 yard dash, with bin, U-turn and return in 33 seconds flat, [translation = a new world record!] to the kitchen, where Nonna stands on the middle of the floorboards with two small boys flailing at her feet. Her hands flap at me to help make herself understood over the din, “but you were only gone for a moment! It’s like dey think you are dead or something!” Her eyes widen in disbelief as the word ‘dead’ penetrates her grandson’s ears. [translation = increase in volume of at least twenty decibels] Nonna’s hands fly to her head to rip out the hearing aides, whilst I grovel on the ground with my grief stricken guys.

And that my good pal, is the story of how I lost my efficiency but regained my sanity. [translation = a sprinter not a marathon runner]

Executive function! Where is it when you need it?

So it's first thing in the morning and you need to get the children ready for school. Why should this be so incredibly difficult? Short of getting everyone up at four in the morning, how are you ever going to get them ready on time? Dress them in their school uniform when they go to bed the night before perhaps?

How often do you need to issue a simple verbal instruction? Dare we count? How often do we count? Do you count? Do you count and curse under your breath? How many children do you have, as that might affect the outcome? Do any of them have any kind of disability that might affect the result? What kind of disability? Is the disability relevant to their ability to follow through?

Lets take a couple of small examples, such as ‘put your socks and shoes on,’ or in the alternative, ‘clean your teeth and brush your hair.’ Pretty simple language, you’d have to be a complete idiot not to understand either or those right? There again, maybe you just have a bad child, a disobedient / no respect for elders and betters kind of a child? Let's ignore the fact that both are two step instructions and the complications they induce.


Perhaps you just have a day dreamer, the kind that just can’t stay on task and are easily distracted? Could be that they’re just sleepy, got out of the wrong side of the bed or they’re not early birds but night owls?

How do you get this kind of rabble to pay heed? I should ‘wake up and smell the…..tea!’ but they’re American and still small. Very well, we’re in America so perhaps I should crack the whip and yell “ya hoo!’ and well I might, but first I’ll have to become competent with my lasso to round them up in the first place. Lets face it, I’m failing fast around here.


Now I would be the first to admit that I hate jargon, as well as all that psychobabble, but sometimes, if one can grasp the meaning, it can work as a kind of short-hand, that helps focus a parent’s addled brain. In this particular instance, for current purposes only, we can think of executive function as the ability to
A] formulate plans
B] take action on those plans
C] delay action when need be
D] operate on multiple levels
E] integrate all of the above and move between them


So that’s why short hand can be a good idea. [Ref 1] The concept of "ideation" may be more palatable.


So why exactly am I torturing you with all this guff? Well, if you’re like me, you don’t have the time to research complex subjects written in technical language. Additionally, whilst originally I did research everything I could find on the subject of autism, my knowledge has always been a bit spotty. Also, what was of crisis level relevance a while back, can sometimes wane, before it rears up again to bite you when you least expect it. Lastly, I need to remind myself of the basics that are so all encompassing.

There is nothing like watching your child put a second set of clothes on over the first set, his brother's set, that he's already put on like a corset, to remind you of quite what you're dealing with. Or there is the child that puts his underwear on over the trousers, when he's not pretending to be a superhero.


I should add that a claim of "executive dysfunction," should not be used as an excuse for being grumpy, as "abfh"
so elegantly describes.

To finish, let me give you another tiny example. After listening to the instruction ‘put on your socks and shoes,’ a few seconds later, he remarked “my hole! It has a sock!” He said this to his father, not the ether. He held up the offending sock at the same time that he spoke, to help reference his audience. He recognized that it was a sub standard sock and chose to communicate this information verbally, rather than having a meltdown, or alternatively, cared sufficiently to mention it at all. When he used the words that he did, he had them the wrong way around, but he used words like ‘my’ and ‘it,’ which he usually skips completely. He didn’t yell, nor mutter sotto voce, attempt to repeat it louder and or give up and have a meltdown.

Yes, I know it’s really tiny in the great scheme of things, but there are so many teeny tiny little bits and bobs for him to keep together at the same time, it's not surprising if the odd chunk remains out of his grasp! But with a smidge of understanding from a parent, minuscule miracles can drown you every day.

It would appear that a "significant" percentage of parents of autistic children, have similar difficulties! So maybe we need to therapize ourselves first?

[Ref 1] Helping a Child with Nonverbal Learning Disorder or Aspergers Syndrome by Kathryn Stewart, Ph.D.

I read this book a few years back because of the ‘non-verbal’ tag because no-one was chatting very much around here.

The Basic principles of parenting

You only need to know one. The one principle that all parents need to know and apply is ‘consistency.’ It’s better for the parent, it’s perfect for the child. If the child happens to be autistic, then woe betide the parent that quibbles with the undoubted soundness of this GOLDEN rule. The parent of the autistic child must apply the same consistent rules to that child several thousands of times, preferably in the same manner to avoid confusion. [most probably of the parent] Should you, the parent, be tempted to deviate from this course, then you only have yourself to blame when the whole house of cards comes crashing down upon your head. I know more than a few parents have difficulty with this first and most basic of steps, but it behoves us all to heed these words well. There can be no back sliding, no namby pamby, weak willed spineless parenting styles.

I return home with renewed fortitude to conquer rather than tread water. I have envelops to push, campaigns to promote and the determination to follow through even if it kills me. Oh yes, there is nothing like a 7 minute emergency trip for milk at 7/11 [translation = almost the corner shop] to recharge a parent’s batteries.

I step inside just in time to catch the youngest speech delayed one as he scampers out of the bathroom, naked. Yes, naked again due in part to "tactile defensiveness," which in turn, is part of the "sensory integration" issue, because few things are simple or straight forward any more. This is a task, that we seem to have been working on forever. Apart from the speech delay, and the use of language, for current purposes it is a three part 'problem': "sequencing," [going through the same steps in the right order] "ideation," [being able to visualise the end result] and of course, my friend and yours, "task completion," [getting to the end.]

I hold him gently by the forearms, turn his body towards mine, find my cheerleader voice, pause, to ensure that I have his attention and say the same words that I have already said too many times to mention today, “clothes on dear!” He sighs as his body slumps, chin to chest, so that he is better able to gird his bare loins and growl. Suddenly his body snaps to attention, the soles of his feet stomp on the floor as he says, with rigid arms and spiked fingers, “ya know, you need to use dah different words! Dowz words are soooooo boring.” His chest pops out towards my chin, just enough to tip me over backwards onto my bottom. In this position I am better able to watch him depart, squealing, “run, run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread man!”

It's a shame that we can't use the American equivalent, but of course it doesn't rhyme. Nevermind either version is probably a good quote for a neophobic.

Handy Hint number 3

A few years ago my boys did not 'play.' To the untutored eye, my own, it was easy to think that they were playing, but repetitive movements of toys in mechanical or unusual manners, didn't really make the mark.

They were also incapable of doing anything without prompting. An example of this would be when my older son was being tested, as part of his initial evaluation for autism. He was given a school worksheet to complete that was well within his capabilities, but no pencil with which to write. He sat in front of the table looking at the worksheet but did not ask for a pencil. I don't know if he could have asked specifically for a pencil back then. He experienced many a long hour with very few words, an element of the non-verbal. He might have asked for help or intimated his need by gesture, by neither occured. At that time, if anything, a missing pencil would have most likely have manifested itself in a meltdown.

Similarly, if he ever finished a task, he would not initiate the next step, what is sometimes referred to as inertia. He would not 'tell' me that he was finished, merely remain static, roll off his chair or wander off. There was no joint attention.

Had I been at home I would have prompted him, but the 'tester' had given me strict orders not to interfere. It made me realize, reluctantly, how I constantly intercepted, coached and tried to anticipate or forestall stumbling blocks. Instead of using those opportunities to seduce them into speech, I was making the situation worse. I had chosen the 'meltdown free' easy road. I stole their motivation to speak. Why should they bother when they could get what they wanted faster by other means?

In addition, choices, regardless of whether they were preferred or loathed, were a long standing obstacle.

Lastly, independence, even for a few minutes was well out of reach.

This combination of what the experts call 'deficits' left me in a dilemma, what to do and how?

So many of the recommended therapies, be that RDI,[Relationship Development Intervention] Floortime or ABA, [Applied Behaviour Analysis] had an built in flaw, namely, the one-on-one pre-requisit. One of me, two of them. I did try, but it was unsatisfactory because somebody was always left to 'float.' The nub of the difficulty was my inability to find anything constructive to occupy the other child whilst focusing one on one with a single child. Their abilities and disabilities were so different that I could see the sense in concentrating on the one-on-one principle.

If I spent 45 minutes with one, rolling a ball back and forth on the floor between us, engaged, with giggles, some words and prompts, I knew that somebody else was busy examining air particles in the family room.

I needed to find a way to keep one child occupied.

At that time we used PECS, [Picture Exchange Communication System,] small cards with icons. I made a lot of them myself because the standard ones often provoked meltdowns because they had some 'fault.' Faults included line drawings of faces and teddy bears. Both were certain triggers to cause meltdowns.

I decided that if I could teach each boy to spend some period of time working independently, this would allow me to concentrate on the other one.

I bought a binder for each of them and put half a dozen stiff pages in each. They found it difficult to turn 'thin' pages. I Velcroed two PECS to each page. They could choose between two toys or activities, such as lacing cards [tough on the fine motor skills and so less preferred] or magnet play. I made sure that they were on different 'tasks' from each other to avoid meltdowns, triggered by competition or uncomplimentary comparisons. Each page presented two choices, so I could engineer who was doing what, stagger the difficulty level and engineer that the less preferred tasks had a small chance to grab someone's attention.

Each page had a pocket at the bottom. When the task was completed or attempted they could remove it from the page and drop it in the pocket. Frequently this simple act helps reinforce the positive.

All the activities were arranged on the floor for easy access in the right sequence to help build independence. The PEC icon matched each toy to help them make the link between the page and the real thing.

The last page showed that it was snack time. Initially progress was very slow and we stumbled at each and every stage. The goal was to lead them to a point where they only needed spend a few minutes on each page, but in theory, they would be 'done' after 20 minutes to half an hour. A visual timer helped with this so they could see that it wouldn't be forever.

I can't remember now how many months it took before we were headed in the right direction, but gradually they managed to at least attempt the tasks. As they progressed, I added little 'conversation' bubbles to help prompt them to make comments, both to me - 'I'm done' and to each other, 'great job.' I know how artificial it sounds, but imposing a period structure on their chaotic world helped calm them considerably. It also gave them a sense of achievement, accomplishment and helped boost their fragile self esteem.

They knew that once they had done their 'work' they would be given time to revert to their preferred perseverances, a fair trade off.

It was a plan that eventually paid off, although I would add one word of warning for anyone as clueless as myself. If someone learns a new activity in the company his brother, it may well take any number of additional months to break the association, where the activity itself become intertwined with the link of your brother's presence.

I would mention in passing, that whilst I complain and moan about the frequent, explosive tantrums that they both have, it is only in the last couple of years that I've realized that I was the one who taught them to do this. My reaction to the meltdowns was to placate, offer solutions, fix it and fast. Every time I did this, many times an hour, I reinforced the behaviour that I was trying to eradicate. I didn't give them options to solve the problem for themselves, such as speaking. But back to where we were.

I would try to do this every day whilst my daughter was at school. She would sometimes join us if I drifted behind schedule later in the day. I imagine that if you have a typically developing child too, that this technique could be adapted to include them.

I know this won't be a good fit for many people, but for me and mine, it was great, especially for me, because I had peace of mind. I knew that we were all together doing something constructive at the same time, rather than paying the heavy, psychological price, of someone spinning their wheels elsewhere.

Vegetables win, even though tomatoes are a fruit

I’ve never been a very good cook, something to do with beating sauces anti clockwise, I believe, but it never made much sense to me. To this day I can’t understand how you can hold a wooden spoon backwards, but apparently I am guilty of this crime also. I’ve never been one for labels, so if my soup turned into a solid, then I’ll call it a stew. If my dessert turned itself into a liquid, I’d just give a different name. It’s remarkable how often you can call something ‘Surprise Fricasse’ and no-one is any the wiser. Never mind if it was overcooked, just chop off the burnt bits. Underdone, never mind, nuke it in the microwave, who cares if it’s a bit rubbery, you can bluff it out: “Yes, that’s right, I said ‘Goodbody Flan,’ it’s an ancient recipe to line the stomach of miners when they were down the pits, very nutritious.”
It’s very handy for desserts that refuse to set, as modern appliances such as the cuisinart [translation = magimix] mean that you can just whiz it to a liquid and you have pudding soup, it still tastes o.k. It’s all about expectations.


These days, cooking and catering is so much easier. All I have to do is shake out a cup full of Goldfish crackers for the children and a bowl of fishy bites for the cats and I’m all finished. [translation = done] I figure that this just makes them all vegetarians by default. Whilst we are making great progress in the food department, fruit and vegetables are not ‘preferred foods.’ The ‘make your own packed lunch’ campaign has been a moderate success and senior son will volunteer to make his own sandwich at other times to ensure that he can use at least 2 ounces of butter on each slice of bread. At this stage, compliance and task completion are paramount. Coronary heart disease is low on the agenda.
Thus when I hear a squeak of surprise from him, I walk over to determine the cause. “My sandwich!?” he bleats.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a sandwich. Well done for making it on your own. You must be very hungry to have made one now?” [Translation = less than an hour before supper]
“But it is tasting, er, not quite right.” I look at the sandwich with one perfect semi circle missing because he didn’t get the wonky teeth gene.
“What’s not quite right dear.” He pulls a face and bares his teeth, arching his back as he hunts for words. “It, it, it……I dun know, but it is tasting funny.” I peak under the top slice which reveals chunks of too hard butter, dollops of peanut butter and a bright red smearing of something that isn’t jam. [translation = jelly]

I glance back to the kitchen counter, the scene of devastation following his ‘cooking’ session. I step closer as the bifocals aren’t up to the task. I trickle of oil seeps from the up turned lid; Tomato pesto sauce. I rearrange my face and return to the table where he is on his second mouthful.

Seasonal problems

He sniffs and sniffs and sniffs and sniffs. It is all to no avail as his nose trickles. I watch him, my face set. He is seven years old. I don’t know which is worse, a nose that runs continuously with it’s accompanying sniff with no further ameliorative action, or the occasional ameliorative action, which consists of wiping the offending appendage off on his sleeve, from elbow to cuff, or worse still, on whatever else is near to hand, be that carpet, the sofa or my thigh.

I am well aware that my face reads disdain and disapproval but I am unable to prevent those muscles settling into that well worn groove, as I steel myself for the inevitable, dithering between intervention to prevent the crime or watching the fulfillment of the offence, dishcloth at the ready. Last time he had a cold, a few months back, we wrote out a sequence of steps to deal with runny noses. Since he is a visual learner, we used the equivalent [translation = dumbed down, of "Carol Gray's Social stories"] Most children need a little guidance in this department, but autistic child need very specific help.

If this was a preferred activity such as playing with a computer game, not much help or assistance would be required, but basic hygeine, bodily functions and self care don't really make it to their radar screen. It is important to avoid the 'but why?' scenario when dealing with these basic functions, because any rational explanation you can come up with, is also ineffective. e.g. 'because you need to be clean' -'but why?' "Isn't it uncomfortable having your face all messy like that?"
"Messy? No, it not messy, it fine!' Take it from me, you're just not going to be able to come up with a satisfactory reason as to why they should comply, at least not for my lot. We won't even touch on the 'do it for me, do it to make me happy/ proud/ pleased' as that line of reasoning is doomed before the words have even been formed.

Now he’s so much bigger, I swear that if it wasn’t for the asthma, I’d stuff a couple of tissues [translation = Kleenex] up his nostrils, like people with frequent nosebleeds do.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. I wait and seethe, but he is blissfully unaware of my presence. He looks up from his work as his back arches and shoulders rise to his ears in one supreme effort at stemming the flow, but failing. He slips of his chair muttering, ‘is not workin.” He blunders off in the direction of the bathroom. He re-emerges with a fistful of tissues [translation = Kleenex] and honks in a fairly efficient fashion, “das better,” he murmours moving back towards the table, letting the soiled wads fall to the ground. Only one stomp towards the table and he back tracks an additional stomp, “oopsie, I forgot that one.” He scoops the paper from the ground on his third attempt, bimbles back to the bathroom, clanks open the pedal bin and approximates a lob, whereby most of it ends up in situ. He saunters back past me, giving me a casual glance, “your face is broken.”




Shattered more like.

Shell game

I reconsider my ban on straws. [translation = drinking straws] They are no longer permitted to drink every drink [translation = beverage] with a straw regardless of temperature or content. No longer will I need to explain that although they are drinking hot chocolate that a straw is compulsory, not bizarre. Enough of this lip closure hogwash. [translation = jaw muscle strengthening technique] I am single handedly responsible for three life times worth of disposable plastic straws. Admittedly as yet, they are short life spans, but threatening to be terminated prematurely. I need gain control of this environmental crime.

But in punishment for such an arbitrary rule change on my part, I now have to endure the sight of them missing their mouths on regular occasions. Additionally, the increase in laundry is another punishment to the rule changer.

I mean! How can you miss your mouth? It’s not as if it relocates itself somewhere else about your person without warning? It’s a permanent fixture. If it were there this morning, it is likely to still be there later in the same day. Possibly, if you’re very lucky, it will still be there the next day, and every other one thereafter.

Toddlers and others with ‘Learner’ plates, are permitted to have a few accidents, but those of us advanced beyond the age of five, should accept that this is a given.

I blame speech therapy myself, all this multitasking isn’t good for children such as mine. They can talk, they can drink, but not both at the same time; it’s too distracting, too confusing. It they continue to try to talk and drink at the same time surely they’ll all drown? There again, if they keep missing their mouths and filling their laps instead, perhaps I am worrying unduly.

There is no hidden agenda, your cake hole [translation = mouth] is in the middle of your face. There is no conspiracy theory here. What is the problem? Why are you making such difficulties for yourselves?

I am exasperated to the point of wrath, driven to an early grave: “here lieth a woman buried beneath a multitude of failed campaigns, and far to many plastic straws that are non biodegradable.’

I stomp away from the table to make a quick cup of coffee to restore my sanity. The coffee gurgles. My body moves on automatic pilot, a smooth, efficient flow of movement. I grab the carton from the fridge, line up the cup, but my brain fails to register as I miss and pour the milk into the sink.

In, Out, Shake it all about

Autism or no autism, some things are beyond the pale. Bear in mind, that for me, musical appreciation would guide me to be more of a ballroom dancer type. A dignified glide, so as not to dislodge the tiara nor muss the corsage. I believe that young people today, do not favour [translation = favor] such pastimes, preferring more aerobic forms of dance. [translation = I am allergic to anything that might make me glow {sub translation = perspire}] But I digress.

Back to the ‘shake it all about.’ Hold that thought. No! Not that one, delete that naughty thought and go back to the children’s perspective. [translation = the innocents] That’s right, the Hokey Cokey thought. [translation = Hokey Pokey] Now we’re on the same page! Think of this, as a ‘not so scholarly critique’ or explanation, of this children’s dance, possibly from the viewpoint of one, or maybe two, autistic children. Acknowledge or deny as many as you deem appropriate.
For current purposes [translation = controlled clinical environment] we will ignore issues such as the volume of the music, be that self generated, by singing [translation = unlikely] or utilizing some form of modern technology e.g. hifi, stereo, radio, tapes, CD’s, records[?] etc. [translation = that’s about as modern as we get around here.]

We’ll also ignore the following; company. [translation = who is with us] Where we are? [translation = home or somewhere public and scary = synonymous] Variables such as simply having a bad day, any current phobias or obsessions. [e.g. the need to have arms clamped tightly to the body and that legs be pinned together at all times. A bit like a soldier standing to attention but in this instance, for the purpose of self protection.] We want to keep this as simple as possible. With me so far?


So, we have the familiar annoying tune, [translation = temporarily mislaid inner child] with words, simple words. [translation = lets not get bogged down in the speech delays] Although the matter of prepositions can be a nightmare, we will dismiss those too. [translation = in, out, up, down, between and we’ll ignore the issue of ‘shaking’ whilst we’re about it] Whilst they know all of these words, then are not considered important enough to use appropriately. On the whole they are surplus to requirements, afterall most of them are pretty small words. Generally speaking they prefer bigger words, multiple syllable words such as ‘voracious’ or ‘commercial.’ They may not be able to pronounce them correctly, but they still prefer them. However, such terms are not much use, if you’re trying to dance and sing at the same time. [translation = unless you know otherwise?]

Right, so now we’ve cleared the pathway of clutter, we can begin.
I lied. There are a couple more issues that we need dismiss. [translation = eliminate for the purposes of this discussion] Independence. An autistic child is often independent. By this, I mean that they are on their own programme with their own agenda, as many children are. However, in two particular cases, the cases of my particular sons, [maybe others] when they are doing whatever it is that they are doing, they object strongly to being asked to do something else. This phenomenon is known as a ‘transitioning problem.’ [Sorry! Challenge] It is an issue for many children, but autistic children are far more tenacious.

This is linked with a secondary [translation = probably far more important] issue of motivation. [translation = I left the best for last] It goes something like this:
Hunker down, gain eye contact, arrange facial features into animated expression, moderate tone of voice to sound excited, use hand gestures assuming that you are not guiding the child’s body to orientate them towards you.
“Come on you lot! We are going to play the Hokey Cokey?” Always a statement, never an invitation, as the answer will always be ‘no.’ [translation = guaranteed.]
“It’s not the Hokey Cokey Mom, it’s the Hokey Pokey! They’re never gonna play if you use the wrong name!” Valid criticism, as always. I put an arm around the shoulder of each boy in the hope of conducting a positive energy force into their little bodies.





“Nah, dat is boring.” Simultaneous hurdles; stop what you are doing [translation = transition] do something more fun [translation = motivation]
“Come on, it will be fun!”
“Nay, dat is not fun.” Child may be reflecting upon the challenge of co-ordinating body parts, following instructions, balance, and such like, all of which have negative connotations because of the perceived difficulty. [translation = which is a reality too] So, just assuming that you have battled your way to this point, you probably have insufficient energy reserves to sing and dance too. [translation = flat battery]



{Sub translation = who needs a tiara anyway?}