Be careful what you wish for

My best physical feature, are my ears. [translation = only, as everything else seems to be subject to gravity] They are small and neat, [translation = do not resemble cauliflowers] and luckily, I also have a matching pair, one ear on each side of my head. [translation = it’s a shame that they’re mis- aligned, as it makes the bifocals wonky]


Lately, I have become dissatisfied with their performance. I need a new more modern type of ear, the type of ear that can close itself. [translation = like a flower furling it’s petals at night] Except that they need to close more quickly and efficiently. [translation = emergency trap door] This is due to the development of new developments around here. Now that the non-verbal around here are less so, I find that all too frequently I am trapped in a vortex of noise. [translation = volume control of children needs tweaking]



I am seriously considering having my name changed. The chorus of mom/mum/mummee, where each requires instant administration, is frustrating my ability to be efficient. I think it’s only fair that I should now be able to exploit the speech delays, turn the tables on them. [translation = refuse to submit to speech delays. [translation = make life even more difficult for them.]

Hence, the new campaign plan will be to pick a name that is long and difficult to pronounce, which might mean that I am called on less often. [translation = they’ll give up sooner due to negative reinforcement] Since they’ve already read the book “Chrysanthemum,” I know that I need something more challenging. All dinosaur names are out, as they’d mastered them when they were under three. This means that I have a much smaller pool of potential names than one might initially envisage. [translation = guess]

I’m best off picking a name that is in their area of boredom. For instance, last time they were tested for whatever it was they were tested for, I discovered a wide variety of items with which they were unfamiliar, [translation = were unable to name] such as telephone, microscope and bag. This would redeem my endeavour, [translation = new campaign] providing a beneficial motive. [translation = forcing them to acquire a basic vocabulary, as opposed to the current 'advanced' but 'spotty' vocabulary.]

Indeed, now I come to think of it, I should probably change my name every week to ensure that a whole slew of new words could be acquired. Such a scheme would also have the added benefit of easy review, “no I’m not envelope this week, that was last week, this week I’m chair leg.” Additionally, it feeds into the need to teach them about time, the 'yesterday, tomorrow and today' kind of time, which they find very confusing. [translation = I do too, but for different reasons]

I could start with the word ‘lounge,’ that would make a great temporary name, then we could do hall. [translation = corridor] The possibilities are endless.
There again, ‘lounge,’ may not be the best one to start with.
[Translation = Main Entry: 1 lounge
Pronunciation: 'launj
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): lounged; loung·ing
Etymology: origin unknown
intransitive verb : to act or move idly or lazily : LOAF
synonym see IDLE
transitive verb : to pass (time) idly

Intolerance

Personally, I do not suffer from this affliction. I have the patience of Job. [translation = coming as I do, from a country renowned for their love of their fellow man, as evidenced by their tendency to seek out new lands and colonize them.] British people are well known for their non-judgmental attitude towards all matters of high import. Whilst they also have a tendency to nit pick about matters too petty to mention, overall ‘British’ is synonymous with tolerance. [translation = a consensus of opinion]
“But I hate dah sweet potatoes!” he bleats. [translation = an improvement of 50 decibel yelling, indicating a capacity to wheedle. {sub translation = much higher functioning level of communication}]


“But they’re so good for you, full of vitamin C and a true American food.”
“I am an American?”
“Of course you are.”
“But I fort I wuz dah Californian?” [Translation = how come he can pronounce the ‘State’ perfectly, but there’s not a dipthong within ear-shot = the ‘th’ sound]?
“You’re both, Californian and an American, aren’t you the lucky one!”
“I fink I am a worldian. A universian. A galaxian.” [translation = I wish I hadn’t taken this route.]
“Anyway, the point is, that you need to eat them for all their Vitimin C.” [translation = pronounced ‘vit- i- min –SEE’ = UK, as opposed to VITE eR mn SEE = US {sub translation = say them out loud and you’ll hear the difference, give it a try, think ‘monarchy,’ visualize a glittering crown on your head and then speak, and again, but louder this time] Digression over.



“But I hate intimacy!” he blurts. [translation = I didn’t even know that he knew that word?]
“Not ‘intimacy,’ ‘vitamin C!’”

So it’s not just autism, not just the speech delay, merely an accent that makes
communication so bumpy.

Note to self

[Translation = and to you too] Before we gets bogged down with politically correct terminology, I apologise in advance for using the wrong words. Words like ‘oddity’ and ‘quirks’ are interpreted as derogatory, but I find it hard to describe them otherwise. [translation = perhaps that’s because I’m supposed to be neurotypical {perhaps?}]

I need to write them down before I forget them, [translation = rapid advance of senility] or begin to wonder if they really happened.
I expect that you have advanced skills, as evidenced by your superb ability to find your own car in the car park. [translation = parking lot {sub translation = why ‘lot’ rather than humungeous or medium sized or small?}] Other people [translation = foreigners and other inferior beings [sub translation = aliens and non Americans}] stand in the middle of the tarmac [translation = black top] and gaze at the rows of identical vehicles and wait for divine inspiration. [translation = help from any source]
In this instance, the source of help, is my own personal assistant. [translation = American born citizen]
“Don worry mom, I will be finding it for you!” [translation = a rare incidence of voluntary assistance having recognized external stress source emanated from mother{sub translation = ‘rats’ to the theory of mind}] He sparks up and down the rows of cars like a thing possessed. [translation = too fast for me to keep up] As he runs along the central division of concrete he checks the side of each car, double checks a couple, ‘no it not dat one,’ and sqiffs on by. [translation = runs on tippy toes which adds to the illusion of flight] He identifies what he believes to be the right one, dives off the path, scoots to the rear in a flash, stops. I stand beside him as he runs a tentative finger tip along the edge of the circle, the petrol cap flap. [translation = little door that you open to put the gas in]
“Der you go mom! Dis is our car!” he announces in triumph. I glance inside. [translation = trash contents on wheels]

Of course he’s right.

A better visual cue for me [translation = clue]

Note - think of this as your 'optional' homework assignment = the compilation of a parental data base

Foul language begets reciprocal exchange

[translation = swearing promotes connectivity in a common goal] Yes, my boys are autistic and the speech delays are a little taxing, [translation = tough on aged brain cells] but as they grow and change they make me catch my breath. [translation = steam up the bifocals.]

I take my chest infection downstairs in the small wee hours of the morning so that at least one of us can attempt to sleep so as to have the chance to cope better later in the day. I sleep fitfully until soft footfalls wake me in the darkness. The light flicks on to a chorus of gasped surprises. Somebody snaps it back off again and approaches in the gloom. I am uncertain if I've failed to fall asleep or whether I am just waking up? A conversation ensues that I am not party too. [translation = I play dead]


“I fink she is asleep.”
“No! Don poke her eyes!”
“Oops sorry. Sorry mum.”
“She cant hear you. She is asleep dumbass.”
“Don call me dumbass. Dumbass is a bad word, we don use bad words in dis famly.”
“Oops sorry!”
“It is morning?”
“Yes.”
“Why it dark den?”
“I don know.”
“Why is mummy in the sleeping then, if it is da morning?”
“Because she is ill, dumbass.”
“Don call me dumbass or I will tell mummy on you.”
“Don tell mummy, she is asleep, she cant hear you anyways dumbass.”

Silence falls but I feel the sofa ease as two small figures snuggle up.
“What was dat?”
“I don know. It’s a pokey thing.”
“Oh no, you have squished the glasses. Are they broked?”
“No, I don fink so. It was a accident.”
“You dumbass, now mummy will be not be able to see anyfink.”
“Oops sorry.”
“Shall we have a sleep over?” [translation = voluntary initiation of positive social interaction?]
“Das a great idea.” [translation = acknowledgment of common goal, complimentary, appropriate and perhaps acceptance that he actually has a brother!]
“We can have a sleep over if it is morning? Is it morning?”
“I don know. It’s dark. I think maybe it is nighttime afterall.”
“Yes, you’re right. It is nighttime and we can be having a sleepover.” [translation = a desirable social event - perhaps?]
“Shall we have a sleep over wiv mummy too?”
“Yes.”
“We shall ask her?”
“No dumbass, she’s asleep. Oops sorry.”

We enjoy a 'sleep over' together for the next forty five minutes until 6:50.

Ear wigging

[translation = listening to other people's conversations]

Senior son, now seven and a half, is considered to have a speech delay of approximately two and a half years. Because he is also autistic, he has many of the classic impairments that distinguish autistic children from the rest of the population. His ability to tune in to the subtleties of sophisticated communication would appear to be limited to a casual observer. [translation = not so the crazed mother trawling for evidence to the contrary]

He tries to show her his report card from school. [translation = impart the pertinent details, the winning of a prize for 'adequate' behaviour]
“Do I get a prize too?” she whines to her brother.
“Yes, but first you gotta do yer chores.” [translation = magnanimous,pragmatic]
“What chores?” Clear evidence of reciprocal exchange where two people communicate with each other.
“Er, um, lemme see now. You gotta tidy yer toys and er, um, what is it, oh yeah, right, clean yer teef and er, um, oh yes, oh yes, put yer perjamas on.” I am stunned to further silence, the right tasks in the right order, and he’s telling her! The same little phrase that I repeat daily, that I have repeated on a daily basis for nearly four months to deaf ears! [translation = wrong again, it does eventually penetrate, lodge and take root] I await further news. He continues in his deep baritone, “when yuv chosen yer prize then we can play together.” Her eyebrows knit, “you’re askin me to play with you?” The superior tone of a California girl, is fully developed. [translation = no I didn't think it would ever happen either dear]
“Sure! You gotta problem wiv dat?” he snaps back, with no delay, the appropriate tone and volume, and yes he was looking at her eyes when he spoke. I check that I’m in the right household.

I am.

“No. I’ve not got a problem, you’re the one with…..” she peters out just in time, whilst I bite my nails down to the quicks.
“Good, so…..get on wiv it den, yer wastin time! Don cha know it’s nearly time fer bed?”

I think I had better go and lie down myself! [translation = before I fall down]

Ref 1] At ages three, four, and five a child's vocabulary rapidly increases, and he or she begins to master the rules of language. These rules include the rules of phonology (speech sounds), morphology (word formation), syntax (sentence formation), semantics (word and sentence meaning), prosody (intonation and rhythm of speech), and pragmatics (effective use of language).

Figure it out [translation = work it out together]

I dash back inside with armfuls of post [translation = mail] and dump it on the kitchen counter for later. My eye catches a postcard. Closer inspection reveals that it is an invitation to a party for the boys, but there are no details of when or where? Luckily I know who it is from, so I can phone later, obviously they were too busy to fill it out properly. [translation = spotty task completion by an adult]

I try something novel. “I’m going to wash the floor, you two can play together for 10 minutes in the family room.” [translation = thus far, 5 minutes 'unsupervised or unstructured play' is their absolute limit] They look at me with slumpy bodies but alert faces.

“Play? Wiv him?” They look at each other as if they’ve been asked to marry a stranger. [translation = no keeping of brothers around this neck of the woods] They marshal their combined forces;

“What play?” [translation = they agreed to the principal of playing with one another, but lack the impetus to start or the skill to choose a starting point] I shuffle them into the family room, which was strewn knee deep with toys just prior to their sisters departure. [translation = too 'busy' a scene for them to be able to distinguish items, which causes confusion] They take in the carpet, observe that there is not enough room to place one foot in front of the other. [translation = especially if motor planning isn't one of your strengths]

“What we do?” he asks his little brother. [translation = acknowledges that they are related to one another]
“I don know. What we do?” [translation = horray! On the precipice of a joint enterprise.] They both turn to look at me as if I have the answer, but I’m not going to help them, “you figure it out,” I say turning on my heel mop in hand.

“Figure it out?” they both echo.

I mop the floor and listen carefully for any signs of progress in the family room. It’s a slow start but they gradually warm to the concept of ‘play.’ After seven or eight minutes, I can tell that their ability to play has run out. I call “all finished! Come and choose your snacks.”

They bound into the kitchen, junior fiddles with the stack of mail whilst senior examines the contents of the cupboard. I supervise. It takes a while for him to decide what his body needs, so I take down a couple of bowls whilst he dithers. I hear a little voice behind me; ‘please come to my party on Sunday da fird of September, time 1:30 to 3:30 love Elliott. What does ‘RSVP’ meaning?” I turn to see that junior has managed to open what I thought was a postcard.

It would appear that we all have our skills sets and deficiencies.

I am not princess [translation = but I may have a pea]

I await the day that the boys bodies adjust to Daylight saving. The day that they will wake up at 6 again rather than 5. That day finally arrives. Unfortunately, it is also the same day that the thermostat detects coldness.

I propel myself downstairs to greet the boys at 4:30 in the morning. I detect sound and movement. I am on automatic pilot. I negotiate stairs and propel myself into the kitchen, persuade my eye lids to open, force my pupils to focus through my dirty bifocals. I stand motionless, thus better able to detect the presence of a couple of small people, only to find that they are not there.

Instead I am met by wafts of warm air, tickling my ankles. The heating system has started to work. Cold in California. I must be a barometer! A motion detector? Senile.

Contextual referencing

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Er,…it is saying ‘nun a dee abuv?”
“Say it again?”
“Nun a dee abuv.”

They both have a tendency to do this, blurt out a question that is connected to something that happened yesterday, last week or last year. They don’t reference their questions, that is to say, put them in contex, so it can be the devil’s own job, trying to detect where, when or what the question stemmed from? [translation = very difficult]

Why don’t I just ask for the context? You're right I could, perhaps I should, but at this stage of their verbal development we want to encourage them to talk, reinforce their efforts in a positive manner. [translation = frightfully American] If you respond to each question with a barrage of additional questions, you’ll just put them off, they’ll stop trying and we’ll go back to our world of silence. [translation = the old parenting style]

I stand in the middle of the kitchen with my x-ray eyes, willing inspiration to zap me. I lean on the kitchen counter to take a deep breath, so that he’ll think it is a natural pause in our [potential] conversation. My finger tips touch the edge of the fifty page questionnaire. [translation = exaggeration, but still yards to long {sub translation = yards}]

I glance at the open pages:
'no. 56. Does the child
a] always resist physical contact
b] never resist physical contact
c] not applicable
d] none of the above.'

Shouldn’t have left it out! Should have tidied it away. How could I have forgotten that he can read anything if he is so disposed. [translation = hyperlexic] He lifts a delicate finger tip to his lip, tentative, cautious.

“ ‘d’ is not da good one?”
“’d’ is a great one. I love ‘d’. You are absolutely right!”

His medicine ball head clunks into my hip bone. How can you contain a ‘spectrum’ disorder in a questionnaire that doesn’t wrap round the world 3 times?

Little Jack Horner wasn’t neophobic

In America if you do something twice it automatically qualifies for ‘tradition’ status. In other countries 100 years, would be a more common measure. [translation = and don’t skip a year or you have to start again from one] For current purposes, I suspect that we may have formed a teeny tiny American tradition of our own. Every year on Thanksgiving, we troll around to my American pals’ house. We go at the end of our day, [translation = early evening, supper time as opposed to dinner time] to join them for pudding. [translation = dessert]

This is a household of pies. [translation = a regular old American kind of a home] They have pies of every kind, each one more foul than it’s fellow; pecan [gets stuck in the braces] apple [too sweet] and horror of horrors, the truly revolting pumpkin pie. [translation = take violently orange coloured root vegetable and hide it in pastry {sub translation = which is where it should remain in my opinion, hidden, that is to say}] I should point out that I am in the minority of one in my own household.

Yes, my pal is very bright. [translation = smart {sub translation = NB ‘smart’ = well dressed}] She deliberately sought out to corrupt my children at the earliest opportunity. [translation = convert them to the American way] Now I have five pie eaters to contend with. There again, one day in every 365 devoted to pie shouldn’t be too much to ask?

We sit around their American table [translation = large enough to slaughter a bull on] and chat. I spoon mouthfuls of pie into the one that can’t / won’t hold a spoon, encourage spoon holding in the one that can hold a spoon but won’t, and squirt cream on the other two slices for the mainstream participants.[translation = senior daughter has abandoned us. {translation = visits a real American family in Maine]

“What can we get you?” enquires my host.
“Oh I’m fine, I’m still full of turkey thanks.”
“You have to have something?”
“You’re right. I need to have something to absorb the wine. I don’t suppose you have any left over sprouts?”
“Sprouts?” asks my hostess. Her eye brows rise so that I am better able to observe her blink.
“Yes, any Brussels left over from lunch?” [translation = food eaten at 4 in the afternoon?]
“You want Brussel sprouts?”
“Just a thought! Or have you already composted them?”
“You want left over Brussel sprouts?”
“Yes. You don’t have to warm them up or anything, they’ll be just fine cold.”
“You’d be wanting salt with that wouldn’t you?” Do I detect a hint of sarcasm? How grossly unfair, Americans aren't supposed to be able to do that, genetic I think.
“Only if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Cold brussel sprouts and a salt cellar, huh!”
“Just a thought.”
My hostess leans across the table to establish eye contact “the day a Brussel sprout enters this house, is the day I jump in the compost heap, if we had one!” The engineer, student, professional, lawyer and spouse lean back in their chairs and stare at me with their arms folder. [translation = consensus of opinion {sub translation = none of them are doctors}]
Is it too late to assert that I adopted them? [translation = gene pool]
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you have any mint sauce? No? No matter [translation = worries] I’ll bring my own supply next year. There will be a next year won’t there?”

“They’re always welcome here. You can drive em.” [translation = chauffeur with picnic]

A little chat

She exhales and runs her fingers through her hair with exasperation as my son scampers off after another brief exchange. The current campaign is to reinforce every attempt at verbalizing. [translation = amongst other campaigns] At this stage, I do not correct as often as I will in the future. [translation = if all goes according to plan] For the moment we want those words to keep coming and the main method to ensure this is to ‘engage and exchange’ on each and every occasion that they make an attempt. [translation = interruptions are permitted regardless of what conversation you might be interrupting] I apologise to my pal who has yet to complete a sentence of her own. [translation = boys are winning the race of ‘how many words per half hour,’ although they have the advantage, because there are two of them and only one of her] I apologise for administering to them and ignoring her. [translation = she won’t come again]

“Oh I just don’t know how you do it?” she sighs. I double check? Synapses snap and I connect.
“I have no choice at the moment. I don’t do it to help them, I do it to save money!” [translation = Scottish genes]
“Oh don’t joke!”
“No seriously. What’s the point in paying a professional once a week if you don’t practice the rest of the week? [Translation = the other 112 waking hours] I am merely protecting my investment of hard cash, making sure that it grows. [translation = preferably compound interest]

“You’re such a dumbass sometimes!” [translation = twit] In the family room I hear the echo, ‘yur such a dumbass, ‘yur such a dumbass, ‘yur such a dumbass.”
“@#$&*! Did they just hear me?”
“Yes.” [translation = sort of. In this case it’s echolalia, when they repeat {like a tape recorder} what they have heard even though they were not listening and are often completely engaged in something else, like setting off a sound sensor or motion detector]
“Geez I’m sorry! How long is gonna take you to undo that one?” [translation = remove less desirable phrases from their repetoire]
“Don’t know, it may have just passed through, they don’t always stick.” [translation = some favourite phrases become stuck because they like them so much. They become little mantras that won’t be dislodged. Often then disappear for no apparent reason and are replaced by a newer more preferred phrase]

We both turn towards the family room to hear “@#$&*!,@#$&*!,@#$&*!” [translation = bloody hell!]

Translation and interpretation of available Data

[translation = guessing {sub translation = an uneducated guess to boot}]

I fight with the Brussel sprouts as my younger autistic son drapes himself on me.
“But why?” No speech delay today then!
“Why what dear?” I am not ready for any further discussions about vegetables.
“Why naked?” Please, just let me get these finished!
“They’re not naked dear, I’m just taking the outer leaves off so that they’ll be all perky underneath.”
“What perk?” Help!
“Um, fresher, greener, more appetizing.” He sidles around and melts over the kitchen counter, rests his head on his forearm and honours me with a glimpse of his huge eyes.


“What you talk? What you say? What are you talking about?” I don’t know, now that you mention it? Perhaps I’m on the wrong tack entirely.
“What are you talking about? Are you asking me about the Brussel sprouts?”
“No I ask about da naked?”
“Who or what is naked dear?”
“Daddy.”
“No he’s not, he’s just got dressed.”
“I know dat! But before. When he is in da bed he is naked.” Ah. I glance around for support. [translation = physical presence of additional parent {sub translation = the culprit}]

“Oh here he is! Look Daddy’s here now, why don’t you ask him yourself about being naked in bed?” Spouse stops dead in the kitchen and blinks. [translation = several times, whilst his word retrieval system kicks in.]
He exhales and rubs the stubble on his chin to aid word production.
“Well, I don’t like pyjamas, never have, never will.”
“Why you don like em?”
“I don’t know really, you just get all tied up and tangled in them.”
“Me too! Why I have to be wearing da pyjamas den if you are not wearing da pyjamas also?” [translation = get out of that one matey? {sub translation = check mate}]
“Um?.....well when you are a man then you can decide for yourself.” Good counter!
“What if I grown up to be da woman?”
“You won’t.”
“No, no, no. I am meaning……er…….Mummy is not wearing da pyjamas either?” [translation = sunk]
“Women don’t wear pyjamas they wear, er……they wear nighties don’t they? What do women wear in bed love?”
“Don’t ask me, I want nothing to do with this conversation. But don’t indoctrinate the child with such sexist propaganda!” [translation = why don’t you both just run along and play somewhere else?]

“Y’know. I am finking dat dis is…..er……well…….jus a minit………is it dat da English people are naked in bed and not da American people?” Horray! A let out clause.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right! English people are naked in bed at night, not American people, they were pyjamas and nighties at night.” Now there’s a stroke of luck! Spouse and I grin at each other, another triumph of logic.
"You know?" he says, "you need to remind me about that tactile whatever it is, or is that sensory whatever it was?"
"You think that's what it might be?" Our son disrobes in the kitchen between us. Spouse is first, “what are you doing? Don’t take your clothes off!”
“But I am an American and it is day time.” [translation = a double dose from the gene pool]

Giving Thanks [translation = Indeed we do]

Is it autism or dyslexia that causes that? 'Thanksgiving' indeed! They have it the wrong way around of course. After a decade here, no-one can give me a satisfactory explanation as to why it’s ‘Thanks Giving’ rather than the other way around? It makes no sense? Over the years I have managed to acquire a few genuine American pals. [translation = citizens who permit supervised visitation rights] These are persons who tolerate my inane interrogations. [translation = ‘but why is it called bleachers?’] They dismiss my rational queries and tell me to get a new hobby. [translation = go away]
I stab at another chestnut with my inadequate tools.
“What it is?” he asks, concerned at my violent technique. [translation = Horray that he noticed, horray that he honoured me with a few words]
“It’s a chestnut.”
“It is a nut?”
“Er, sort of, yes, it’s a nut.”
“Why it hot?”
“So I can get the skin off.”
“Nuts have shells, not skin, why it skin? What is skin? It not nut?” I take out the unused grapefruit knife with the serrated curved tip in the hopes of removing more chestnut flesh.
“It’s a ‘chest’ nut, it’s a different kind of a nut.”
“I have a chest. It has skin too. My chest no have a shell but I am not a nut.” You may not be, but I will be soon! I delve into the kitchen drawer and find the melon baler and start digging.
“Why we have the nuts of the chest today?”
“Because it’s Thanks Giving.”
“We have the nuts of the chest at Thanksgiving?” Stab! Stab! Save me someone!
“Well, we actually have them at Christmas.” [translation = the holidays]
“It is Christmas!? It is not Thanks Giving afterall? I have missed it?” Help.
“No, it’s Thanksgiving today and Christmas in a month, ish.”
“Why for we are having the Christmas nuts now at Thanksgiving?” I’ve lost the thread, and accidentally mix the flesh of the chestnuts with the shells and skin. I sigh and turn to look at him, searching for words, words that will make sense.

Spouse appears and looks over my shoulder. A glimmer of a frown. “What is it?” he asks. I pick bits of shell out from under my fingernails poised to answer, but Senior son intervenes on my behalf;
“It is nuts of the chest!” he says gleefully, nearly managing to clap his hands.
“I just thought we were going to have them whole, with brussel sprouts, that’s all.”
“Whole?” I query.
“Where is hole?” pipes up senior son. “We are having holes too?”
“Marrons, those French things in a tin,” proffers spouse. My mother would have heart failure if she thought I would purchase such an item, let alone permit it to enter the household. I correct his pronunciation. Senior pipes up again, “they are not maroon, they are brown, why you say maroon?”
“I didn’t, I said marron, it’s French for Chestnut.”
“French nuts of the chest are maroon?” he gasps.

I pass the bag of rogue chestnuts to spouse. “Here, you two can do the rest and see how many holes you can find whilst you’re at it.” [translation = miffed]

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?}

Animal, vegetable or mineral? From way back when.....

“What is dat?” he asks breathlessly.

“It is a sweet potato,” I explain, worryied whether it is indeed a sweet potato or whether I am unwittingly providing him with false ammunition to beat me with later.
There seems to be a great deal of confusion between what is a yam and what is a sweet potato? I have never sought to clarify this deficit, despite having been a resident for more than a decade and a citizen for a few years, because they are both loathsome. As a vegetable they are vile because they are sweet, but to put them in a pie is equally as reprehensible. Who ever heard of carrot pie? [Translate = a transvestite of a flan]

“No, it is a humungeous lemon!” he announces. That probably means that it is a yam and not a sweet potato? What on earth have I purchased, and why did I listen to the advice of the checker. [translation = probity of checker dubious due to the fact that she was unfamiliar with Swedes. {sub translation = rutabagas]

“It is a potato lemon?” he blurts, raising his eye brow, hoping for a hit.
I prod it, to see if the skin will come off yet.
“May be,” I add dubiously.
“It is disgusting anyways, any road up!” [Aside = gosh he automatically translated himself!] Soon junior son will be five.

For the first three and a half years of his little life he ate almost an exclusive diet of sweet potatoes, as only orange food was acceptable by that time. As he reached his fourth birthday, pureed carrots were out and he had an orange aura about his person. [translation = carrotine poisoning?] He would surely have perished without the intake of the humble sweet potato in such vast and exclusive quantities. I can’t say that I view little orange gold fish crackers as a nutritional advance, orange or not.

Library

I stand at the computer with my stack of books searching for a book on ‘transitions’ for ‘autistic children.’ There isn’t one. Why isn’t there one? Why is there no book to tell me what I am doing wrong? What I should be doing and how? [translation = help!]

I’ve left the boys with spouse. I gave up bringing them here six months ago, there’s only so much humiliation and stress I can endure in one day. Junior daughter lies on one of the sofas reading. Ten minutes drive there, 20 minutes hunting for books, ten minutes drive back; I promised. [translation = I'm trying]

Near me, a woman checks out a huge pile of books, fingers fumble a bit with bags, baggage and paperwork. Five feet from her, is a boy, maybe 12 years old, sludge green parka, mop of shaggy hair, pale complexion. He flaps his hands, jumps on the spot and talks to himself too loudly. I glance at him. I glance at her. She talks to him in a firm authoritative tone, as she concentrates on the task at hand.

I take in the aerial view of the library from the ceiling in a blur: they are two fixed points, static although one jumps, but there is a flow of traffic around them, people flowing past on route to their book quests. Each head flicks across to them both magnetized by the sound and the riffle of static, pauses, registers and then continues on their previous path, with haste. [translation = not long enough to be contaminated]


I return to the computer and the blurred screen. I want to speak to her, to tell how wonderfully she is coping, how great she is, how I admire her. [translation = ‘I think I love you.’?] But I don’t, because they’re all the wrong words. [translation = jolly good show is unlikely to translate]

I think of all the things I want to ask her, because she must know; ‘how do you get him to stay with you?’ ‘how do you stop him from running off,” ‘how do you keep his voice at that level rather than shrieking?’

I beam positive energy towards her. I beam harder and focus on the screen. If I beam hard enough, I might be able to cancel out all the stares of condemnation and embarrassment. I beam more ‘zen’ thoughts at her, but I don’t think she needs them?

Still, it can’t hurt to have an extra boost to the energy reserves. [translation = a few spare as back-up] Calm, in control, knowing. It happens all the time you know? You’re trolling around [translation = in existenc, hopefully vertical] wondering how you’re going to make it through the rest of the day, when for some unaccountable reason, you suddenly get a little lift.


That little lift is when someone beams you positive energy. You have just been zapped. Even if you don’t need it at that precise moment, your body is more intelligent than you give it credit for. It will store it away in a special reserve for emergencies. It has been scientifically proven [Ref 1] that the transfer of energy is beneficial to both parties. [Ref 2] Studies have shown, [Ref 3] longitudinally that the ratio of zapping to energy, increases in the second party exponentially, and proven to reduce anxiety as measured against a control group receiving placebo zaps to a significance where P< 0.05.[Ref 4]

She tucks her books in a bag, lays a hand on the shoulder of her son, the same height as her, maybe a fraction taller, and says ‘time to go now.’ She leaves accompanied by her scarecrow who leaps, her spine erect, her footsteps steady. Can I do that in six years time too?

[Ref 1] Somewhere.
[Ref 2] Somewhere soon.
[Ref 3] Watch this space.
[Ref 4] ditto

Silence in Court

I hold up both hands in a visible 'STOP' sign, which means ‘pray silence as the middle sized chappie is about to make an announcement.' Now that he is beginning to speak, becoming less 'non-verbal' he needs a break. [translation = chance to be heard] It’s hard to keep the other two small people silent for an indefinite period of time, whilst the middle sized one literally, gathers his thoughts in preparation for speech.

I need to get a handle on this now, whilst he’s still only six and a half in the hope that in the future when he becomes a morose teenager, I will still be able to extract information from him.

Junior sons jumps and jiggles in his chair on his hunkers, like a horse in a stall before the race. Junior daughter slumps back in her chair eyes on the ceiling, tedious, bored.

Senior son starts; “well…..do you know what?” Great start, very casual, very contemporary, not too strained, carry on. His eyes rest fleetingly on each of us, he isn’t just addressing me, he is addressing a whole audience, nearly all of his family, he is being inclusive.

“Genie has two children,” he announces with hardly a stammer, the correct tense and a countenance that isn’t distorted. He is initiating conversation, imparting a piece of information to me that is of a social nature, nothing to do with Pokemon, school or someone else’s exciting misbehaviour. There is no perceptible gain to him in telling me this, it is ‘merely’ social exchange.

His enunciation is poor which means that you can’t be sure if he said ‘Gene’ or ‘Genie.’ I decide to be difficult, even though I know exactly who he means. [translation = push the enveloppe]

“Is that Genie from therapy or Gene from over the road?” I pause, count to twenty, maintain eye contact and wait. The other two are bubbling with irritation but I manage a palm up hand in front of each of them.

“Well,’ he begins tentatively and uses a ‘filler phrase’ whilst his brain does catch up “I think maybe………it is Genie.” [translation = many people use 'fillers,' Americans often say 'you know,' British people often say 'actually.']

More interestingly, I know the motivational source. [translation = to what he is referring, the incident that he wants to share] Yesterday, during therapy, he was motivated to check the current marital status of his therapists, whether they were still married, perhaps a divorce might be pending, whether they had managed to off load their current burden of offspring. [Translation = perfectly natural for a young man with social aspirations.