The Master plan – ‘social engineering’

I’m not much of a monarchist but I quite fancy the concept of ‘Queen for a Day.’ I think it’s the being ‘waited on hand and foot’ bit, that’s most attractive. There appear to be no suitable candidates for ‘lacky.’ Now that I live in a Republic I’m probably better off being proactive.



I arrange my facial features to attack each one in turn. I start with the easy one and telephone Senior daughter to leave a message on her telephone. She is out of range because she is on a mountain, in the snow, in an igloo, [translation = snow cave] which she made with her pals, but the message should await her, I hope. I keep my choice cheery as I try an recall remedies for frost bite and hypothermia.

I grab the last jar of Marmite and snap on the machine to make toast. I turn to bounce in front of spouse, much to his alarm. I flap a few sheets of paper in front of his nose in a non threatening and tempting manner, “there you go dear! You know all about HTML codes, don't you. Could you please convert my blog archive to ‘titles’ instead of ‘dates’?” I give him a quick flash of the braces and scamper off before he has time to reply. I flick the on switch for the electric kettle as the gas version has died. Preparations progress.

It's time for the next one in the sitting room. I grab the end of the cable and follow it until I find him ‘hidden’ under the trampolene. I yank the plug from the wall, “come along dear, let me see you do 100 bounces!” I make sure it’s a statement not a question. I wonder if it will wear him out or wind him up?


I slip my toes into my Christmas fluff muffs because it is Winter, even in California. I shake out cat food into bowls to entertain the felines and minimize meowing. I track down senior son secreted in the corner behind the sofa covered in twenty or more cushions. I debate whether to extract him or not? Brain waves recall 'never disturb a sleeping baby,' but it seems inappropriate for someone who is 60 lbs, more than seven years of age and awake. I decide that if he is ‘self medicating’ I shouldn’t be the one to disrupt him. I skid back through the kitchen to put the tea pot on one side to brew. I’m still missing one. I hunt.


I find her absorbed in a book. I peek over her shoulder, but my hair tickles her. She brushes me away, engrossed. I dither. Should I snuggle down with her so that we can read together? Can I neglect her needs for additional minutes? I leg it back to the kitchen assured that everyone is safely engaged with something. I take up position to lounge. Queen for 3 minutes will do.

Perseverating

Number one on the ‘to do’ list is still untouched ;
1. Find special needs nanny

I ignore number one and add 177, namely, visit library and pay fines. Soon I will have jaw surgery. This will finalise my transformation into a true American. It took the dentist 7 years to persuade me that this was a ‘must,’ not an optional extra. Three visits ‘home’ convinced me.
It’s a genetic thing. Teeth that don’t join anywhere. This means that you swallow your food whole.
This means that you get a lot of tummy aches.

People think that I am an exceptionally polite person, because I eat everything with a knife and fork. People do not see useless teeth that do not join, because I also have a genetic stiff upper lip.

I determine that whatever it is that I’m going to ‘achieve’ today, it will not involve use of the telephone. It is at that moment, that it rings,
“Hello?”
“Hi Maddy! How’s the nanny search going?” says the Muse. Her cheery tone is not appreciated but as it is 9:05 a.m. she knows that I won’t bark at her.
[translation = not a morning person]
“Er, well, it’s top of the list!”
“You’re procrastinating huh?”
The reason one has a ‘muse’ in one’s life is to ensure that one keeps on the straight and narrow. Everyone needs a muse. Ideally they should be local, not just physically, but someone who you can call upon to translate foreign phenomena. Mine, my muse, fullfils the first requirement, but is worse than useless on the second. [translation = deviant American]

“So another year of not being able to eat sandwiches, French bread and corn on the cob?”
“It’s no great loss, that’s why they invented knives and forks.”
“So you’ve basically done nothing. What about those leads I gave you?”
“They’re on the list too.”
“What number?”
“Er, 178 and 179.”
“Great! When is the surgery again?”
“23rd.”
“This month?”
“Yup.”
“So you basically have less that two weeks to find one.”
“In a nutshell.”

“So this is just an excuse so’s you can cancel it again.”
“Rubbish, of course not! Merely ‘postpone!’”
“At this rate they’ll put you in your coffin still wearing those darned braces!”
“I’ll make sure that they change the elastic bands when they embalm me.”
“Exactly how many times have you canceled the surgery over the last 3 years?”
“I forget.” She’s a kindly soul and doesn’t point out that we both know that I am lying.

I should have had a longer list of criteria for a muse. Now admittedly her psychobabble has been invaluable over the years, but I could do with someone a little more lax. Someone with a little less insight would be handy. Less persistence and attention would be a bonus. She is the sort of person that denies a body ‘wriggle room.’


“Look! I know what you’re afraid of.”
“ME! AFRAID! Have you gone quite mad? [translation = insane not angry] I’ll have you know that I have a very high pain threshold.”

“Depends what kind of ‘pain’ you’re talking about? I know it’s not the surgery itself. ……..you know they’ll be fine, just fine. I don’t like to say it, but you’re not indispensable. The kids’ll be fine, the nanny will do great.”

Damn the woman. She’s fired.

Thicky, thicky, dumb, dumb

During the holiday season, I find I am reflective. At that time of year there's a tendency to think of 'home' and absent family. It can be a generational thing because you remember yourself as a child, the people around you at that time, when you look at your own children. Relatives long past, cluster in your mind. How times have changed? But the shadows of their underlying character would have adapted. What sounds pompous and stuffy, only disguises the message. The crisp exterior shell of people who lived in a different era merely hides the hardships, wars and heart ache the experienced.

[An ‘old school perspective’ – to be read with a perfect BBC male accent of someone of advancing years] A monocle, pocket watch and cane may help visual learners.

Now as we all know, people who claim to have low ‘self esteem’ are really just attention seeking whiners. However, there is modern school of thought that suggests that ‘self image’ may influence significant factors such as ultimate educational status and income bracket, or ‘how they turn out in the end.’ I know it’s a bit racy, but there is a possibility that such psychobabble may have a kernel of common sense at the bottom of it.

Whilst I wouldn’t describe myself as right wing, I certainly think that if a pat on the back and a ‘jolly good show!’ would make a difference to the little blighters, then I’m all for it. Anything that would prevent them being a burden on the State would have my endosement. I’m not saying that I hold with ‘empty praise,’ mind you. I think even those autistic types would see through that. You would have to tailor your ‘praise’ better than that if you want it to stick, if you want it to make a difference, a positive difference.



I know it’s quite rash, this kind of ‘positive thinking’ kind of malarkey, but I don’t think it would be too onerous or time consuming. I mean you wouldn’t have to go all mad and gaga like the colonials do, no, no, no, don’t overdo it, but the timely appropriate word, might make all the difference. You don’t have to be all sloppy and sentimental about it. Perish the thought!........

…..I come back to the here and now as a piece of puzzle hits me in the forehead accompanied but a scream of frustration; “you are not doing dah good listening when I am doing dah good talking wiv my words!”
How true, how true. I just tuned out for a
moment there.
It is a very big puzzle afterall.


“I’m sorry dear, what were you saying?”
“I was being dah good one. I was telling him dat he was being dah good one too. I was doing my nice complimenting.”
“Really! I’m very impressed.”
Did I manage reciprocal? Does that qualify? It was almost appropriate!
“Could you do it again dear, because I missed it?”
Well that was nearly timely, only a hint of hesitation on my part.

“Hmm. O.k. I will. But dis time you must be dah good listening.”
“O.k. Deal! Ready?” Come on, speed up, pay attention woman!

He marches over to his brother, hunkers down, places his nose three inches away from his sibling’s face to tell him, “you are done a great job! I like it when you are dah helping bruvver.” Great specificity. Couldn't have done it better myself.
“Yur welcum!” Great reciprocity. Spot on my son!

At least someone’s ‘getting it.’

Very nice manners but thick as a brick

Do you know what yours is? Did you know that such a thing, ‘a learning style,’ existed? You probably do. You probably do because you’re an American, or alternatively, someone from the ‘younger generation,’ which would probably be around ‘under middle aged.’

For anyone else, a learning style[s] is something that you should know a little bit about if you have autistic children. Also handy if you have the ordinary kind of a child too, because there are a variety of different styles available. If you manage to engineer a good match. Then your child’s experience at school could be considerably more positive than it might be at the moment.

When I was youngster myself, born to a man with Edwardian parents, my father would help me learn my times tables. I would march up and down the kitchen to the irritation of my mother, chanting out the lines until I was word perfect. He would test me with spot questions. I’d snap that answer out like a bullet as I exploded in a jumping jack. I was star shaped and I would be the star of the class!
It was a dead cert.

The following day, I would skip along to school, the tables mantra was so easy. The test was administered in silence in those dark days of yore. Pupils [translation = students] sat at individual desks. When I say ‘sat,’ I really mean ‘sat.’ No wriggling please! Britain way back when. ‘Sat’ meant static too, although small movements of the writing hand, wrist and fingers was permissible.

I would sit and stare at my ‘vocab’ book, a dinky little affair the size of an envelope, with my lead pencil sharpened and at the ready, but could I write anything? My toes would tap the wooden floor, my fingers would twiddle rhythmically on the underside of the desk, but no, nothing.

“McEwen! Stop that right now!” What a choice? Remain and fail, or depart to be disciplined by the Reverend Mother?
I would probably manage a few figures,
but not the answers to the questions being barked
at us at 30 second intervals.

I would trudge home at the end of the day, with my vocab book hidden at the bottom of my satchel, [translation = school bag] written evidence of my ‘thicky, thicky, dumb, dumb’ status. My father would always manage to ferret it out and gasp as the illegible scribblings in red ink all over the page. The exasperation he experienced was close to my own.

“But you were perfect last night!” he would gasp. I could only respond as a goldfish does, mouthing words that I couldn’t formulate as an adequate explanation.
“What are all these ‘submission notes’? Were you being naughty? Again?”
[Ref 1] But I digress. Where were we? Ah yes, learning styles.

Visual, auditory, tactile, kinesthetic for starters. Does that help? Not particularly?
I’ll give you an example. Junior learned about the life cycle of insects [translation = bugs] a few years back. They started with Bees on Monday, moved onto Butterflies on Tuesday and finished up with Mosquitoes on Wednesday. I 'knew' that he had no interest in this topic. On the first two days, he was encouraged to sit during ‘circle time’ for these lessons. He spent each of those 20 minute periods rolling around on the floor,
bumping into his pals and laughing hysterically,
much to the annoyance of everyone. One teacher sat with him,
not so much restraining him as trying to contain him, calm him,
quieten him down. Boredom was one thing, disruption was quiet another.

When he returned home on each day, he had learned nothing about these tiny little friendly creatures. On the third day, the poor teachers had run out of energy and chose to ignore him as he danced around the walls of the room, touching items rhythmically and giggling. He paid no heed to the lesson and appeared for all intents and purposes to be in his own little world. They didn't know what else to do, so they concentrated on the rest of the class and let him go his own sweet but oblivious way. Since that was just prior to his permanent departure from that school, one can only sympathise with the poor people attempting to teach a class of 20 little ones.


That evening, after the free fall dancing episode, he lectured me in great detail, voluntarily without prompting. I knew more about Mosquitoes than is healthy for a person of my advanced years.

{Ref 1} ‘Submission notes,’sent home to the parents advised them of omissions and commissions by the child during the school day.
http://www.nwlink.com/~donclark/hrd/learning/styles.html
This may not be the 'best' site, but the material is well presented, clear, with useful tips that aren't all about flashcards.

Action Mum’s New Year’s Resolutions

Better late than never!











1. Kill anything living in the refridgerator before it goes forth and multiplies.

2. Endeavour to regularly rotate the piles of clean laundry stacked on the sofa.

3. Fully evaluate cost/benefit analysis of moving to Canada.

4. Train cats to appreciate that children are their friends, not the enemy.

5. Train children to appreciate that confining cats in small places means that they’ll visit the Humane Society [the cats, that is to say.]

• Curb enthusiasm for tumble drier
• No! The tumble drier is not ‘big.’

6. Read paper daily to improve brain capacity

7. Seriously consider advice re
‘you deserve it.’
Find some useless, expensive pastime to indulge in. Short list possibilities;

a. Book club [remember that you’re teetering on maximum brain capacity!]
b. Tennis [you’re clothing would never be white enough and you would also increase pile of laundry on the sofa]
c. Become a ‘lady who lunches.’ Reconsider post jaw surgery and braces.

8. Commence new beauty routine to ward off advancing decrepitude;
• Cleanse, tone and moisturize twice a day OR
• Wash face with Dial [translation Fairy Liquid!] if you manage to remember.

9. Research self improvement courses;
check availability for 11:30 p.m. to 2 a.m.

10. Invent labour saving device to continuously suck all dirt from house. [Consider consequences for self prior to commencement e.g. unemployment]

11. Avoid lawsuit from neighbours; train children to wear at least one garment of clothing [preferably around the nether regions] by Summer. [2007 not 2008] Nakedness is no longer acceptable now that we are all Americans. N.B. hats don't count for the purpose of clothing categorization.


12. Keep large hall cupboard permanently empty so that all ‘mess’ can be hurled inside at short notice to achieve instant ‘Homes and Gardens’ effect.

13. Count on fingers [and toes] blessings.
[Limit this exercise to once only, in any 24 hour period to avoid becoming too much of a fluffy bunny {translation = American}]

Perish the thought!

Damned lies and Statistics

In American, or more particularly in California, we are encouraged to nurture our inner child, to hold onto that innocence, especially if we wish to maintain our mental health. And who doesn’t want to do that?

As adults, we try and remember that even the most wizened and cynical of us, can
learn from children. But does that still hold true if those children are autistic? Probably not. Not going to glean a lot of insight from those little chappies, and they are mainly chaps, depending upon which set of statistics you care to favour.

Personally, I like the one that suggests that as many as 1 in 166 children are diagnosed with autism. I love statistics because you can prove anything with them by careful manipulation. I thought that I was the only person locally, or even nationally with two autistic boys, but now that they’re both at the same school, I find that other families with two. [Ref 1]


What does that mean? Well, it means that together, we three families, have six children, autistic ones, of a similar age, in one school. If there are thirty children in a class, that means that each class will have an autistic child. And why would that matter? It means that your child will be in close proximity with mine. In fact, because my boys are only 17 months apart, they could be in the same class together.

They separate twins, but the same doesn’t apply to siblings, I’ve checked. That means that your child might sit next to mine, perhaps one either side. In fact those other autistic children, the two that are the right age, might end up in the same class too. My two and four more, because it’s largely a matter of chance. Wouldn’t that be super! Your child with four or six little autistic kids, all pals together in the same class. It would be even better if the class had only 20 children, although it would mess up my statistics a bit.

Your child would be a great role model for my children. Mine could copy yours, then they’d learn how to behave properly, just like yours do. Children learn more from their peers than their parents by the time they’re in school, a sort of transfer of allegiance if you will. But that’s fabulous for me, because you’ve taught your children a great set of moral values, things that mine might not understand, like non-discrimination and inclusion. You know, like the Barney song: 'we include everyone!' I bet your kids can sing every word perfectly. Doesn't that warm your heart?

Don’t worry, I lied when I said that our children would meet. My children are in the special ed class, separate, protected and nurtured, because it would be ghastly if they were all in together. They might be bullied. Wouldn't that be dreadful? Mine of course, not yours.

Fancy a play date? Pick up the phone and give me a tinkle.

[Ref 1] and don't forget 'George and Sam,' by Charlotte Moore, but they're on a different continent so we won't count them. Then there's Luke Jackson and his siblings {Freaks, Geeks and Asperger Syndrome} but they're on the same tiny little island, so we'll ignore them too.

Curb shopoholic tendencies

I dither for longer than is strictly necessary. I opt for the scrubbing brush rather than the carpet cleaner because it is quieter. I take one last look at them all before I leg it upstairs to the bedroom to eliminate, or at least diminish the paint, pooh, chocolate stains. These are not the kind of stains that improve or evaporate over time. Without the noisy carpet cleaner, I can hear whatever it is, that is happening downstairs whilst I am up because the walls and floor are made of paper. The friction of the brush bristles elicts beads of sweat. Inefficiency, housemaids knee and tennis elbow delay me. I return breathless seven minutes later.

They have broken the lock on the television and are occupied watching an advertisement. I lean against the door jam making an inventory of potential breakages and damage, during their unsupervised time.

I hear a nasal demand to ‘buy whilst stocks last,’ that two small people echo with perfection. My eyes drift to the screen; a handy dandy cleaning machine, that does not require parental or adult supervision during it’s working cycle. I wait for a price but I’m distracted by the mantra circling the room, ‘buy now while stocks last, buy now while stocks last, buy now while stocks last.’ Each echo has a corresponding giggle. I am uncertain which bit is the funny bit?

It’s enough to make me seriously consider nipping out to the shops to buy it there and then. Am I an advertisers dream or a challenged cleaner? I debate whether the shoe and sock nightmare is worth the effort, when the voice of doom cuts through my calculations, “you can’t buy it, it will be too noisy, they’ll never stand for it, you’ll never be able to actually use it!” I look at my 9 year old daughter, the voice of sanity.

I grab a screwdriver and start poking the lock on the television door as junior starts up, "we go buy dah machine for dah cleaning?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Er, it costs too many dollars," I lie. He disappears and I hear a crash with an accompanying 'oopsie.' He reappears with something behind his back, a surprise no doubt. "Here you go!" he announces brandishing the dust-buster in my direction with a cheesy grin, "you can be using dis little noo noo instead." Great problem solving, such consideration! "Der you go, now you can go and be playing upstairs wiv it where it won't be hurting my ears."

Air freshener fails to alleviate the stench

Strangely I have always considered senior daughter to be our family environmentalist. As we live in the States, she is there to remind us where we are going wrong. Her views are pretty mainstream as far as Europeans are concerned but extreme for our American cousins. For example, rather than use the car to go and collect the turkey for the holiday festivities, she cycled. She returned on her bike with the fowl in her back pack after a two and a half hour round trip.

I will avoid mention of her views on toilets, since I need to avoid scatological references as I am a Brit. I had not considered that there was a possibility that somebody else might climb on the band wagon, to ceremoniously beat our conscious and sub-conscious selves. It is therefore with some surprise that I engage my youngest son in conversation. I enquire why he is pinching his nostrils shut?

“Because of the badest smell!” he screams, keeping his distance. I struggle to gain a purchase on his person and park him on my lap to extract further details. He writhes and wriggles making retching noises. Loud ones.
“What is the badest smell dear?”
“It is you! You are the badest smell. You are worster than peanuts!”
My! That bad!
“You don’t think I smell very nice?”
“NO!” I didn’t really need clarification there, more a moment to gather my wits.
“What can we do about that problem?” He pauses to gaze at the ceiling awaiting inspiration.
“I know! You can be living somewhere else?”
“Where would you suggest?”
“In dah garden. You can be living in dah garden in a tent.”
“But I hate camping!”
“You won’t be ‘dah camping,’ you will be dah living dere.”
So much logic! I need to re-configure my brain.
“But I don’t want to live in a tent in the garden. I will be lonely. Won’t you be lonely without me?”
What a stupid question. Any first year lawyer knows that you should never ask a question that you cannot predict the answer to.
“You will be lonely but I will be stinky free.”
I am somewhat flummoxed, not for the first time. Spouse sticks his head around the door to clarify:
“it’s the Marmite! You didn’t clean your teeth and gargle with mouthwash before you breathed on him.”



It would appear that the health and well being of a fellow human being, is less important than a pollutant free environment. [Ref 1]

[Ref 1] ecocentrism

after ECOCENTRIC adj.
The view or belief that environmental concerns should take precedence over the needs and rights of human beings considered in isolation.

How do I love thee?

Junior is going through a negative phase. It runs along the lines of ‘Nobody loves me /I have no friends/ everybody hates me.’ Our current campaign is to turn this around, accentuate the positive and eliminate this kind of spiral thought process. The tendency of many autistic children to drift towards depression is marked in statistical analysis.

I leave spouse in charge and dash to the shower. I’m not able to hear much because of the water, but as I stand on the toweling mat to dry myself off, I can hear voices outside in the hall: ‘d’ya luf me?’ Is that what he asked? Bless his little fragile ego! His speech delay makes him sound as if he has a mouth full of marbles. He is difficult to understand unless you’re familiar with his tone and phraseology, which I am.

I can also make out his sister's voice, mumbling something or other. His phrase is repeated at ten second intervals as I pull on socks and a cardi. I don’t bother to brush my hair, just run my fingers through as I’m in a hurry. If I speed up I might just be in time to prompt her to make an appropriate verbal response, something to help repel his inner voice of doubt.

She is of such a kindly disposition towards her brothers, that I’m confident that she’ll manage it on her own. Nonetheless I’d like to witness it. I poke the corner of the towel in my ear to dislodge the water and clarify my auditory channels.
I step towards the door and swing it open. I see her sitting astride his back make making small growling noises. Her little brother’s words are suddenly clearer, easier to distinguish = ‘geroff me!’ he squalks.

The Owl and the Pussycat

At a quarter to seven on a Sunday morning I am woken by a yeowling cat. I am forced to acknowledge that a day of rest is not applicable to this household. Cats! Why don't people chain up their spoilt felines at the weekend? I realize that they are my spoilt felines howling outside my door. I go to investigate and am immediately deafened by purrs. Have they no consideration for the nearly awake? I stomp downstairs tripping over eight other legs and a couple of tails thrown in for good measure. In the family room they are all awake and play with the Gamecube, oblivious to me and to starving cats. I call loudly “anyone want to earn some money for an extra chore, feeding the cats?” All three of them continue to pogo in front of the screen. I am fairly confident that I wasn’t even heard, which is important because it means I can do the deed myself without later being accused of cheating, or denying them the opportunity to earn extra cash. I have discovered that bigger children create ever more complicated negotiations for the parent to navigate when it comes to finances.


Only one of them has taken readily to the motivational force of pocket money. [translation = an allowance] It’s probably just an age thing. she’s the right age and they’re too young. The boys have to be prompted through every reluctant step but their sister has become the allowance Queen, or should that be plague? She pounces on me at inconvenient moment demanding money with menaces, “what can I do? Can I get 50 cents for picking up that piece of paper?” She has acquired previously undetected haggling skills by osmosis. She has an endless list of 'things to buy.' Her brother already has every Pokemon that exists on the planet, and I have yet to find a suitable source of eggs for junior. I need fake eggs, but plastic ones. We don't want to expand his horizons too far in case he gets hooked on the Faberge variety.

“O.k. 40 cents for picking it up? 25? Alright, say 5 cents?” I agree, because it’s still early enough to be dark, but does she give up claiming victory? Of course not. She’s relentless, energetic and young.
“O.k. how about another 50 cents for putting it in the bin?”
“What? You want 25 cents for picking it up and another 50 cents for putting in the bin?”
“Yup.”
“Forget it.”
“o.k. just 25 cents for picking it up then?”
“What are you going to do with it when you’ve picked it up? Just carry it around all day?”
“What’s it to you? You only said ‘pick it up.’ That’s what I’ll do if that’s what it takes.” Let me die now, it’s the other two that are supposed to be literal.
Once she’s in the groove she’s all over me like a rash as I bumble around in slippers and a dressing gown trying to restore order.
“Can I fix the table for breakfast for 50 cents?” I look at the table piled with papers, books, food scraps, left over homework and a wide assortment of writing materials. I dither momentarily, weighing up the benefit of her being able to earn the extra money she needs for a preferred toy, versus the benefit of consistency of routine for her brothers in being able to sequence laying their own place setting at the table?
“What! What! What’s taking you so long?”
“Er, O.k.” I continue to splosh around at the sink in the kitchen. She’s by my side within 30 seconds, “50 cents please.”
“You’ve finished already?”
“Yup, I’m done. 50 cents please?” I look over. The table is empty. Piles of debris line the edge of the wall.
“I thought you were going to lay the table for breakfast?”
“Nope, you didn’t say that, you said ‘clear if for breakfast.’ It’s clear, I need my 50 cents.” I determine to use my words more carefully, to be less cavalier. Her feet tap in the puddle on the floor as I count out five dimes for her, “don’t make that mess any worse dear,” I plead.
“Hey I can clear that up for you for 50 cents?” I press the coins into her palm and pass her her piggy bank, slip in a high five.
"No thank you.”
“Hey why not? You just want me to stay poor! You won’t let me earn what I need.” I look at the emotional blackmailer with awe. How does she know how to do that already? This is one aspect of her upbringing that has been missing, due entirely to the existence of her brothers. I would never appeal to anyone’s conscience, the ‘do it for me,’ ‘do it to make me proud / please me,’ as that has always been a waste of breath. So where has she found this talent? Is it innate?

A recall a million failed attempts of appealling to her brothers when we first started RDI [translation = Relationship Development Intervention] which I wasn’t very good at;
“Please, just for me, just once?”
“”Once’, what it is?”
“One time.”
“Oh, I not do it one time, I do it zero times.”
Or:
“Please, just to make me happy?”
“No, your face is happy now, that is stupid.”

Or, changing face to demonstrate unhappiness:
“Please, just to make me happy?”
“No, your face is a liar.” It’s enough to turn a mother prematurely grey. No, all such appeals were set aside together with the RDI book.

I look at my daughter, the expert at personal relationships aged 8.
"You should put it towards your college fund."
"I have a college fund?" she asks with eyes like saucers. I don't like to mention that any potential college fund has already been squanders threefold on her brothers' therapy. I grab a cloth and slip to the floor “because I know that you’ll want to charge me more for obtaining a cloth first, another ten cents for disposing of the dirty cloth and object very strongly to wiping the splashes that are outside a three foot radius without additional payment.”



I stand and lob the cloth into the wash, “and besides I can do it myself is far less time than it takes to negotiate with you.” But I suspect that says more about my own shortcomings than hers.

Pre-emption

Of course my father has a quip for such occasions which runs ‘if you can’t take a joke, then you shouldn’t have joined.’ This roughly translates to ‘if you have no sense of humour, then you should have taken this pertinent fact into account prior to the arrival of the sperm.’

Grandparents take particular delight in seeing their children struggle with the next generation. This is fair enough, as it is only right and proper that their should be a few compensations becoming a senior, now that status of 'wise being' has been eroded.

I expect it's more amusing for them, the grandparents, if their their children breed later in life. The generation who choose to have everything, career, security then children later.......

Grandparents worry that it will never happen, or if it does, that they'll already be in their graves. Their style of parenting has been thrown out along with the arc, disparaged and undermined. How they must chuckle.

Parents deal with their different children and their different characters as best they may. But more often than not, before you know it, you find that a peculiar turn of phrase has become the norm. It happens without you even noticing. It doesn't so much 'creep up on you,' rather, it wasn't there one moment, and suddenly it is, like a slight of hand.

When she asks “please can I watch some TV now?” my automatic response is, “wow that is such a great idea, wouldn’t that be fun, but first we need to………”
This is using a child's self generated motivation and subverting it for the parent's own selfish needs. I think that’s called switch and bait at home and American’s call ‘distraction.’

I suspect, although I have no corroborating evidence, that this method of child development will lead to a generation of permanently confused children. They never have the opportunity to follow through. They are always one step behind.



Alternatively, which is probably worse, you’ll end up with a more advanced and canny child. Perhaps a generation who will be one step ahead. With senility advancing apace, I can foresee that such a scenario isn’t so far fetched.

She won’t even bother to ask if she can watch television, instead she’ll leap frog over the whole issue with “hey Mom, I have a really great idea, after I’ve finished watching my television programme, I’ll be only to happy to…..” You’ll be left in the kitchen in a state of bewilderment, knowing that you’ve missed something but unable to determine exactly what it was or how it happened?

Holiday Survival

OED Online Word of the Day
survival SECOND EDITION 1989
1. a. The continuing to live after some event (spec. of the soul after death); remaining alive, living on.

I am told that goldfish, the golden orange pet kind, have short memories. One circuit of the bowl and the ‘seascape’ is all new again.
One thing about holidays if you have autistic children, is that it is no holiday for the parents. If the parents permit the days to become holidays, either for their own benefit or that of their children, you can pretty quickly find that they regress a few months.

It is during dinner of spaghetti, meat balls, Marina sauce with a sprinkling of Parmesan that I remember, that in theory Junior ‘eats’ pasta. I look at him troughing down a bowlful of Goldfish. How could I have forgotten that he mastered grains of rice and blobs of pasta some months back? How can they have already slipped out of his repetoire when they were only there a few weeks ago? Seven months to acquire two new foods and a blink of an eye to lose them again.

The following day I determine to reintroduce pasta. At lunch I present him with three pasta shapes, tiny goldfish shapes at room temperature. Spouse follows the screamer as he hurtles upstairs at full volume, “no, no, no, no new food, it is dah holidays, no new food.” I can hear spouse trying to mollify him, remind him that ‘pasta’ is not a new food but an old one, but he’ll have none of it.
We go back to first principals. [Ref 1] Firstly, he has to look at the item of food. This means that his eyes have to be open, not screwed up. The ceiling doesn’t count, nor two inches to the left of the bowl that holds the food. Once your eyes at least glance at the food, you have to describe it in detail. ‘Yucky’ is not sufficiently descriptive, even if you have a speech delay.

The new food, is presented five times a day, at three meal times and two snacks. It doesn’t have to be eaten, it just has to stay on the plate. [translation = exposure] Hurling it, with or without the plate, across the room, doesn’t count.
We move swiftly on to stage two – sniff the food. Blowing your nose in the food’s general direction doesn’t count.


Next we touch the food, with a less preferred [translation = less sensitive finger tip] finger. Elbows are banned as they generally have insufficient nerve endings to have any impact on the sensory system. It is o.k. to wipe the contaminated finger tip on as many paper napkins and serviettes as may prove necessary. Washing your entire body, is off limits. As a precautionary measure, clothes are compulsory.
Next we attempt licking. This is usually a louder stage of the treatment. Ear plugs may be worn. Wash cloths for the cleansing of the tongue, should have been prepared in advance. So far, so good. We move into the final phase. The new food must go into the mouth whilst an adult counts to five. [slowly] In an ideal world the ‘eater’ should attempt to move the food item around in the mouth, although masticating is optional. An open mouth with a protruding tongue doesn’t count. On the count of five, the spit bowl is ready for expulsion.

Fortunately this 27 minute operation only need be repeated two further times. Luckily, junior prefers his food at room temperature.
Moral – use your foods or you’ll lose them.
[ref 1] Just Take a Bite – apologies to Lori Emsberger Ph.D the writer

Standards of behaviour

One of the many rules about polite society, is not eating in public. After all, only the working classes behave in such a manner, either because they don’t know any better or because of inadequate labour laws, whereby they are not permitted lunch breaks. Everyone else, no matter how busy, should stop what they are doing and be seated to eat. It’s a simple rule but one that seems to have disappeared from modern living. Eat and be static, how difficult is that? I am given to understand that in America, there is no such thing as class, and whilst I’m inclined to agree with such an assertion, class is immaterial when it comes to good manners.
















It is a particularly disgusting and vile habit, to walk around the streets stuffing food into your mouth. How can people do such a thing? Eating and drinking are one of the rare ‘activities’ that require the participant to be seated. It is any wonder that America has the highest sales of antacids and digestive relief’s. They could save themselves a stash if they’d only sit down to eat for half an hour. A half an hour to eat, half an hour to walk it off. Everyone would be cured and fitter. There again, since the average American lunch hour is more usually 20 minutes, I detect an insoluble discrepancy.

Whilst I’m on the subject, what about those reprobates who permit their children to eat food off the shelves in grocery stores before they’ve paid for it! It’s a public disgrace. Who do they think they are? Unhygienic and put quite simply, theft. Can’t they wait five minutes until they’ve paid? How about waiting a few more minutes until they get home? Are they so malnourished that they will expire during the delay? This kind of instant gratification will be the downfall of the youth of today. If my mother had ever found that I had behaved in such a manner, she’d have washed my mouth out with soap and sent to me to bed, even earlier than usual, and a good thing too. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without such guidance. But what of this lost generation?

I herd my own children around the supermarket, each holding their respective list in their hot little hands. In transit, following in their wake, I hurl in anything that I can lay my hands on, that looks vaguely edible, as I don’t want to break the flow. They toss in each of their three items as we progress through the aisles. I allow them to choose a ‘treat’ each. They all scarper in different directions, leaving me alone with my over burdened trolly. [translation = cart]

Whilst I await their return, and my stamp of approval on their choices, I examine the contents of the trolly. I try to visualize potential meals that I can prepare from the ingredients. Bananas and ?…… never mind. Pastry and ?……something will come to me soon. Tomatoes and ….yes I have lettuce to go with it. Perhaps a quiche and salad?

They gather together breathlessly in an excited heap. She had chosen ice-cream, no great surprise there. He has chosen string cheese, no doubt inspired by one of his fellow pupils at class. Junior proffers a box of squeezy yoghourts. I baulk and bark, “no squeezy yoghourts, disgusting, foul American invention.” He pulls a face, “but I need them!” he pleads.
“Why, what’s wrong with yoghourt in an ordinary little pot at half the price?”
“Because I am the fast one.”
“Who said you were the fast one?”
“I do! I did! I am.”
“O.k. So what has ‘being the fast one,’ have to do with buying very expensive squeezy yoghourts?”
“Because day are ‘portable,’ which is meaning dat you can eat dem and run at the same time.” I look at his earnest face. Duped! An advertisers dream. I contemplate. How to give him something desirable, in his case a
narrow range of edibles yet avoid
compliance myself?


I pick up a banana, and peel down the skin,
“here, try running and eating that.
Give it a test drive.
Tell me if it’s portable too?”

Request in a letter, needs expert translator

At various opportune intervals during the day, I nab him to park him at the table. Once in position, I mention that it might be a good idea to add to his list for Father Christmas. [translation = Santa Claus]. He sighs with a mixture of weary patience and defeat, “O.k. what we are putting now!” he queries with exasperation. Autism’s rigidity seems impenetrable. [Ref 1]
I detail the five items that I have managed to extract from him thus far: [translation = auto suggestion] chocolate, Belgium only, a book, non-specific, a game, general but probably of the ‘board’ variety, something to cuddle and ‘a present.’ It is a woefully short list for any 6 year old to have produced. Generally children of this age either have a list several yards in length, or a shorter version with very specific items, make serial number and price, just so that there can be no mix ups.
“Can’t you think of anything else you’d like him to bring you for being such a good boy all year?” I weedle.



“Ah mummy, I is not a good boy anyways and I don want nuffink any roads up.” I seek out the blue eyes to see if I have timed this badly? I point to my beautifully configured numbers in the hope of encouraging him to add another. I don’t want to induce cardiac arrest in Santa when he finds a list with only five items on it.
“Can’t you think of anything that would make you feel very happy, that would make you feel a happy green?”
“Well, maybe I am wanting something.”
“Really? What?”
“I am having to want three eggs actually.”
“Great! Number 6, three eggs, that’s a great one! Can you think of another one?”
“Er, well, maybe I fink I am wanting a great gold star.” Saints preserve us, we’re on a roll! “Wonderful! That would make a superb gift. Anything else?” Is there a chance we might reach double digits?
“Hmm, let me see now, I think my last fing would be some green toofpaste so that my teef can be happy too.” Why didn’t I anticipate this? Does anyone manufacture green toothpaste? Do I have enough time to go to Walgreens? Will they let me open half a dozen tubes so that I can squeeze out a squirt and check colours? “Superb, happy teeth must be the best thing in the world, anything else?”
“ Umm, may be I need some bendy pens, I mean soft pens that won’t be hurting my hands and fingers.”
I know that his 'list' looks strange to a casual observer. I could explain each items significance but that's not really the point. The point is that he has no compunction to explain what these things are. The theory of mind, or lack thereof, tells us that he assumes that I understand, that I think as he does, therefore there is no need for him to expound. Even if I were a complete stranger he would still not explain, even if prompted, there would be no point. His perspective is that everyone knows their significance. It is easy to see why this tendency is seen as pivotal, in an autism diagnoses if not merely narcissistic.

“Fantabulous, those are the best pens on the planet! I hope he has some?” I wonder where they can be bought? “Any other offers? Anything else? You’re up to 8 now!”
“My last thing will be a sharing thingy.”
“What kind of a sharing thingy?”
“A game that my bruvver is liking very much, so that we can be taking turns together. I like the game cube game because is it yellow, er because is it nearly golden colour, which is my favourite colour, but he is liking it because it is a Pokemon game and it will be making him happy, it is called a “Topaz Pokemon Version.”

So much for the Theory of Mind.

Ref 1 = 
adamantine \ad-uh-MAN-teen\ adjective
1 : made of or having the quality of adamant 
*2 : rigidly firm : unyielding 
3 : resembling the diamond in hardness or luster

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.