Condolences?

Many autistic children have difficulty interpreting someone’s mood from the way their facial features arrange themselves, my boys are no exception to this general rule. Now that they can speak and use their words occasionally they will ask a pertinent question such ‘are you mad?’ [translation = angry] Curiously this isn’t generally because I am wearing an angry face. [translation = perish the thought that my cheerleader face might slip]

No, it’s much more important than that. I think it’s because they either recognize that they have transgressed [translation = made a less than perfect choice] and or that they have concerns as to how I, their mother, might feel about that behaviour. [translation = rats to the theory of mind] [ref – see previous post]


I know that there are a great many children who have similar difficulties without the label that my children have. You’ll see them on the playground at recess. Some poor benighted child takes a tumble and another child laughs. The child who laughs isn’t necessarily playing with the one that falls down. He may be entirely unconnected with the other group at play, he just notices the fall. He has a visceral reaction what he observes but his synapses direction him to the wrong response because his ‘pity/concern’ category is either misfiled or under developed. The reaction most readily retrievable is the ‘laugh’ response.

You doubt me? I do too. But if you examine your own behaviour, very occasionally someone will tell you something and all you can come up with is ‘the nervous laugh.’ [translation = except Brits who are never nervous and always have the stiff upper lips firmly in place] It’s the same underlying principal for us all. We know we ought to react, not quite sure how, and we leak a giggle instead. [translation = with the exception of Brits who refuse to react to anything without prior permission in triplicate]

He practices his facial expressions in front of the mirror. It’s o.k. if I observe this child, the littlest one, as he doesn’t have strong feelings about me watching him occasionally. It’s the other one that explodes with outrage if he catches me watching him. [translation = it must feel like spying whilst you’re experimenting with something new, in private, until you are comfortable enough to permit a public audience] For a long time senior son refused to look at photographs of people’s faces, it was one of the many triggers for a major meltdown, along with teddy bears amongst other things. If you are a child then it is quite remarkable for an adult to realize just how many teddy bears there are in a child’s life, but you learn this very rapidly as your child identifies every single one of them, wherever you happen to come across them, and demonstrates that he has correctly managed to find even the most obscure ones, by melting down in a catastrophic tantrum.



This kind of behaviour makes even the simplest of task outside your own teddy bear free zone house, a game of chance. [translation = a crap shoot / shute?]
It might seem a little grim, but it was a vast improvement on the period just prior to that, when the word ‘teddy’ wasn’t in his non-verbal filing system. Curiously, Pachycephalosaurs and all his relatives, were neatly catalogued for easy and frequent use. I can tell you with confidence that in everyday life, you are likely to come across at least 100 teddies for every one non specific dinosaur, it’s a statistical fact. [translation = do not challenge me, I know I am right from evidence I the field]

I attempt reinforcement with junior and his mirror, “that’s a very happy face you have there!”
“It’s not a happy face, it’s a straight line, see!” I look. His mouth is straight, a tight line but his eyes are cartoons of surprise. “Perhaps you are surprised?”
“No, I try surprise. That’s too difficult for me.”
“So what face do you have now?”
“I don know. A happy face with a straight line mouth.” I watch him part his lips, reveal his teeth as if to check for lipstick, then purse them closed again. He snaps them open and shut again, watching the effect.
Another curious aspect of this discomfort with images of the human face, is that mirrors, [translation = not that we have many of them] were avoided. Senior son would try and cover them up, obscure them, so that he wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of himself. The shock of seeing himself unexpectedly always produced a meltdown. Translation = an assault of surprise] In the summer when panes of glass shifted their aspect in the sun, they too became substitute mirrors, but it took me a long time to work out his sudden aversion to doors and windows.


Junior lets his chin drop to his chest, despondent, “I never get it right!” he sighs. If I knew what he was attempting to mimic, I might be able to help him. Hopefully whatever emotion he is trying to convey, won’t require me to role play ‘smiling,’ because if I smile and reveal my braces, this might be detrimental to his comprehension. [translation = negative reinforcement]

His older brother has made a lot of progress in the last three and a half years. The innocuous smiley faces that he encounters daily are no longer abhorrent. He advanced to cartoon faces over a year ago, but only if they were line drawings, black and white. We pushed him forward to accept colour versions, and gradually, minutely, stepped into the world of photographic faces. It’s not something that he enjoys but the main purpose would to prevent the heart failure he experienced, whenever such an image jumped out and accosted him. Mirrors are no longer an object of fear, he can tolerate their existence, can choose not to look into them rather than expressing his displeasure in a sociably unacceptable manner.

I turn my attention back to junior as his manipulates his bottom jaw with the assistance of his hands, as he doesn’t have a great deal of muscle strength in that area.
“What are you trying to do dear?”
“I happy? I sad? I mad? I surprised? What I am?” Seems more like curiousity than anything else to me.
“I think you’re happy. Are you practicing a happy face?”
“No. I practice my face. It is the lips or the chin that makes the smile?” A reasonable enquiry under the circumstances, but I hope that he doesn’t delve too much further, as I haven’t passed human anatomy 101.
“It’s the lips dear?” He pouts, purses and preens, testing out the hypothesis.
“You know?..... it not dah lips, it’s dah muscles that are moving the lips underneaf dah skin.”

Ah! I stand corrected, as usual.

Bio-feedback

Many moons ago my child, when I was just a wee young thing….I would sign my name in the book as I arrived at work at the bank, where I was am employee, every working day. On one strange day, I was called into the under manager’s office. [translation = always a bad sign] He displayed the ‘sign in book’ because this was in the days before the ‘clock in’ machine. [translation = or possibly something more to do with snobbery, the ‘trade’ v. ‘profession’ debate.]



“Well McEwen!” he said in a fatherly tone. “What do you have to say about this?” He riffled the pages and pointed to my signatures. Week upon week, there is was, my own personal scribble. I sought clues. None were forthcoming.

He prompted, “don’t you see?”
“Er, I’m not on time every day?’ I squeaked.
He snapped the volume closed and sighed,
“what is it about Wednesdays?”
“I don’t know? What is it about Wednesdays?”
“Every Wednesday you have a squiggle.”
“A squiggle?”
“This is not your signature, just a squiggle.
Every Wednesday for nearly a year. What is it about Wednesdays?” [translation = what exactly preceded the observed event? N.B. See how much I have advanced since those days of youth?]
I didn’t know then, I don’t know now. I suspect it’s something to do with circadian rhythms or some other phsychobabbledom.



Today nearly thirty years later I am struck by a curious thought. That bank manager was a Brit, three decades ago? What kind of a bank manager was he? A rare breed. Someone sufficiently in tune with his employees, to even notice such a detail in the first place.





I notice traffic on the web.
Alerts are quiet.
What do you do on a Wednesday?
Mid week.
Not the ‘get into gear Monday’ nor the ‘wind down Friday.’
Think about it? What is it about Wednesday? I can see the evidence of my own eyes. What did you do today? How did you feel? What makes Wednesday different from Tuesday or Thursday? Is Wednesday the forgotten day? Is your battery flat?
Is it in limbo?
Why?
Don’t ask me.
I have no answers. Only questions.

Early onset

[translation = here sooner than anticipated {sub translation = senility, that is to say}]

Oooo enough of this ‘hidden disease’ malarkey. Far too tiresome, and certainly anything but hidden. It’s all to obvious around here I’m afraid. There might be many reasonable and logical explanations for what you might observe in the confines of this, our home, but the most obvious cause is autism.

How do I mean? Well, lets start with a small example and we can compare notes. Sounds like a plan? Good.

Here are the basic ingredients. [translation = add or subtract as you deem fit. {sub translation = minus}] Take one child or the smallish variety, ideally male. [translation = lower incidence ‘female.’] Sprinkle the following substances over the said child and observe reaction. [translation = for some subjects it is best to avoid the ‘head and shoulders’ area with there is a higher incidence of receptors]


Take and eye dropper. [translation = haven’t the foggiest, please supply at your earliest convenience] Fill with blood temperature water. Drop one droplet on subject. [translation = insert earplugs prior to commencement]





Take talculm powder and drift one siftlet over the child at a height of approximately 5 feet above head. [translation = a step ladder may prove useful for this portion of the programme.]



Thirdly, expose child to the sound of the fire alarm sensor. [translation = the soft beeping noise that the contraption emits when the batteries are low] Ensure that the device is the greatest distance possible from the said child. Do not be alarmed that you are unable to really hear the same noise yourself, until you are standing 3 feet beneath the dratted machine.


Fourthly, take your favourite foodstuff. [translation = any one will do, just as long as it is universally agreed by mankind, that it is delicious] Ask subject to a] look at food. B] smell food. C] touch food [translation = not necessarily with finger, due to tactile defensiveness] D] lick food. E] taste or eat food. Let me know if you get past A].



Lastly, try and cuddle subject when he’s not expecting it. [translation = bandages are in the bathroom]

Advanced programme. [translation = program {N.B. not for the faint hearted.}] Repeat as above, but this time use yourself as the subject. Observe the enhanced agony of your child, as you expose yourself to the same elements. [translation = cannot put oneself in another’s shoes {sub translation - rats to the theory of mind}] [See Ref 1] If the observer of the subject reacts as follows:

“No, no, no. Doe not do dat! Agh! Agh! Agh! You will be hurted! No! No! No! I will hep you!” then you may gain some small reassurance that the theory [as set out below] is not always the case. [translation = in all situations] It is sad, as always, to observe the callous attitude of the mother. [translation = prima gravida]

Have I convinced you?

Oh! You think it’s more ‘sensory integration issues and a bit of speech delay’ huh! Or maybe you adhere to the theory that he's a wimpy little nerd who needs to 'shape up?' A valid observation as always on your part. Luckily we’re all entitled to our biased opinion. [translation = especially me]



A child with too many nerve endings? [translation = maybe just a bad wiring job]

{sub translation = whoop de doo!
/jolly good show Mr. Eye Contact}







[Ref 1] The Theory of mind from Wikepedia [thank you] According to Simon Baron-Cohen et al,[7] [ translation = I love him and all his pals really] many autistic children appear to lack a "theory of mind," which is the ability to see things from another person's perspective. This is a behavior cited as being exclusive to human beings above the age of five and possibly, to a lesser degree, to other higher primates such as adult gorillas, chimpanzees and bonobos.[citation needed] Typical 5-year-olds can usually develop insights into other people's knowledge, feelings, and intentions based on social cues (e.g., gestures and facial expressions). An autistic individual may lack these interpretation skills, leaving them unable to predict or understand other people's actions or intentions. [translation = a load of old codswallop {Sub translation = rhubarb}]

Sleepless in San Jose

The trouble with sleeping pills, amongst many other things, is they are not dispensed in hourly doses. [translation = one pill induces 8 hours of sleep] If the standard eight hours of sleep are not available to you this means that you will spend between 3 and 4 hours, vertical but in a fog.




One solution to this problem [sorry – challenge] is to ensure that the parent sleeps when the child [ren] do. If the child [ren] sleep for 8 to 9 hours, then this would be the ideal time for the parent to do likewise. I acknowledge the sense in this approach, but fail to observe it. [translation = ignore it] Instead I choose to spend approximately 4 hours from 8ish to midnight ish, awake and child free.


The net result of such a choice is that after my head has been horizontal for about 4 or five hours, I am suddenly forced to be vertical again, as they all wake up at that hour in the morning. [translation = rats to Daylight Saving] ‘Well more fool you’ I hear you cry. ‘You should pay more attention to your bio-rhythms dearie!’ and as usual you’d be completely right, although I’d prefer the message without the psychobabble. [translation = if you provide me with that option]


No, as I see it, the solution is twofold;
1. Ban Daylight Saving [translation = far too radical and likely to cause lots of car accidents]
2. Manufacturers should produce sleeping pills in hourly doses. [translation = cheaper and would reduce the suicide rate by 99% overnight {sub translation = or in the daytime depending upon when the crisis of conscience occurs}]
Studies have shown that……oh we won’t bother with them. I just need more REM sleep. [translation = red is my favourite colour afterall]


Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to nip off and clean the bifocals, as I believe that may be a contributing factor to the fog. [NB it would be a good idea to remove the ear plugs too]

The next one

He demands paper and crayons at 6:30 in the morning. I remind him that my parental duties do not commence until 7 a.m. that he is on ‘self service’ time. He pouts, stamps his foot and then scuttles off to retrieve necessary supplies. I am impressed, a sterling start to the day, I should do this more often, even when I’m awake, as it’s important to instigate independence. I can justify my own laziness with this ulterior and superior motive.

I pour coffee and observe him working away at the table where he is making a very convincing attempt at sitting. I keep my other eye on the second hand, as ‘sitting’ is another skill that I’m supposed to be encouraging. [translation = monitoring] I can’t count this particular session because he’s more kneeling/ slouching/ draped/ one foot on the floor. I don’t know how to define it, but it does involve the use of a chair, which is good enough for me. If I was a good mother I would step in and guide him, help his body move into an approximate copy of a seated person, which would help his body learn by going through the motions, so he could practice improving his posture which would increase his body strength. [translation = kinesthetic learning, if your body does it often enough, it gets a ‘feel’ for it] If I want him to learn how to sit then I have to teach him, prompt him. This is because of how we learn.



Say you want to be a ballet dancer or a long distance runner? You read every book available on the subject, research the web for tips, talk to people about their experiences. However, until you actually try and move your body in the manner you have theoretically learned about, and then practiced, often, you with not be a ballet dancer or a long distance runner.


It’s the same with sitting. This is a skill he needs to learn, but if I try and teach him right now, it would be a trade off. He’d scamper away, abandon the picture attempt. Attempt a picture or attempt to learn to sit? and I opt for a picture. He’s in his planet phase of pictures, always the same picture, drawn in order, with no deviations, more of a diagramme really, with labels. Prior to the planets he drew frames from his Gameboy screen, the same frame, the same characters, colour and order. I liked the rainbow one’s best, where the labels were the same colour as the lines. The rainbows seemed hopeful, cheerful and full of artistic potental, but I think I’ve come to terms with the technical drawer instead.

The furniture is better suited to him too!

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]