Unparalleled logic

Being of a scientific frame of mine [translation = boffin] I determine to use my ‘down time’ constructively. The choices available are limited. A glance in the mirror reflects a face the size of a dinner plate. This means that where I once had one square centimeter of flesh, I currently enjoy 3 square centimeters of skin, stretched to a level that I did not believe possible. I accept the seriousness of the situation because I am able to see my face in the mirror without wearing my glasses.

I am unable to wear my glasses because I have a very fat head, which in turn, in part explains the limited choices available for amusement. Clearly this is not an opportunity to be missed. Instead of hunting for facial features hidden beneath wrinkles, I now have a face like an overblown balloon. Logic tells me that now is the time for ‘skin treament’ as I will be able to clean each individual pore now that it is the size of a crater. When the swelling goes down I will have the cleanest skin in Christendom, or failing that, at least in a small radius on San Jose.

I hunt for a bar of soap without any spectacles and fail. I’d like to return to my book but I forgot to take ‘large print’ choices from the library. I feel boredom settle just as junior appears. He doesn’t address me directly, more calls into the interior of the room, “Where is she? Where is my mum? Scuse me, do you know where dah mum is plez Mr. Pumpkin Head?”

Undiagnosed

I make reassuring noises when she tells me this, that someone asked her if she was? What? ‘Is she hermaphrodite?’ Senior daughter is a long way away and my protective abilities are waning. ‘Pity the poor schmuck and put them right,’ I advise. What kind of idiot uses hermaphrodite when they mean androgynous anyway? The fact that someone lacks the social skills to know that such a question is inappropriate, says more about the speaker than the person addressed. I quell my ire, knowing that such a question comes from the ignorant, the narrow minded and sexually insecure. This was not some esoteric query where the questioner believes that your male side is dominating your female side. This is someone who doesn’t know that snails can produce off-spring regardless of which sex they are designated. I want to jump on a plane, march up to her accuser and give them a good smack around the head, but I cannot justify the defence of a 25 year old child with such behaviour, and I would be a poor role model resorting to such tactics. The fact that the questioner was also an American, where pink denotes ‘female’ devoid of any other clues, makes me rile. But I’m too distracted to give her a proper reply because I have a zillion things to do and junior is standing on my feet, rocking from one to another, so that my metatarsals make crunching noises against the floorboards.

I have sudden recall of a similar query that I experienced myself. I used to walk home every day, [translation = regularly] in my navy blue sweater, navy blue jeans, discrete black boots, with my hair tied up in a knot: “are you a boy or a girl?” he asked one day. I was taken aback, I wanted to correct him: “do you mean androgynous?” or, since I was in my feminist phase at the time, “do you mean ‘am I a woman or a man?’” But of course that’s not what I said at all, as I was young, aggressive and hypersensitive, so I simply shouted “female” at the top of my lungs as I stomped past in a state of high dugeon, clutching my macramé sack to my side, even though it had been fashionable the decade before I was born.

Reflection with adult eyes, makes me wonder why a young man in his early twenties would say such a thing to a teenager, as I must have been about 15 at the time. We were in the street in broad day light with no-one else around. There were so many other socially acceptable ways for him to have discovered that nugget of information. I had seen him every day for a few weeks as I walked home. I wouldn’t describe him as lurking, he was merely walking in the opposite direction at the same approximate time as me every day, which meant that at some time during the 7 minutes that it took to walk from the entrance of my road to my house, I would meet him coming in the other way. Perhaps I encouraged him by greeting him with “good afternoon” every time we passed, although he never returned the greeting. He looked very ordinary, he did not look ‘hip’ or ‘with it’ for the times, he looked safe because he was dressed like my father on a casual day, slub coloured clothes, the garb of a respectable middle aged man, although I didn’t see the mis-match at the time. The short back and sides hair cut made his head and face open, no lizard eyes peeping out under a shag of hair. He was not a lout. [translation = thug] It was not a taunt or a tease, or a come on. [translation = sexual invitation] I cannot remember before or since, ever being asked such a forthright question? Although people may have had the same query, they never voiced it in such a direct manner to my face.


I can see him now, me on the path [translation = sidewalk], him in the road [translation = pavement] but that, in and of itself, was not odd, 30 years ago in a single track cul-de-sac road. No, it was something more intangible, the way he stopped so abruptly, spoke so simply and directly, not an accusation or a threat, but a question which he wanted to know the answer to, quite a simple question really, but a rare question in the tight lipped Island known as England. Such buffed toes on his tan leather shoes, neat lace-ups rather than trainers. The shirt and tie should have alerted me, to say nothing of the crease in the trousers, the empty hands without baggage, the person with no physical adornment.

If I examine myself with a critical eye, it is easy to see the confusion. In that summer when I was fifteen, I was shaped like a plank, straight up and down, no in and outs. Tallish and lanky, without make-up or other visual clues, I didn’t assist a casual observer, I could easily have passed for male teenage youth, which perhaps was what I was aiming at?

When I think of the harshness of my response, feathers flying, although I didn’t stop to watch the effect, I know that the following day, whilst I was braced for a rematch, he never re-appeared. I hope I didn’t do him permanent psychological damage?

Pondering

I am definitely feeling far to well to submit myself to being ill again quite so soon. I am very busy contemplating my impending fate with the surgeon when spouse voluntarily asks me a question;

“What?”
“What what?”
“What are you deliberating about?”
“How bored I’m going to be.”
“When are you ever bored!”
“I will be bored when I am ill.”
“Are you planning to be ill? How can you plan to be ill? You’ve only just got well again!”
“The surgery, nit wit!”
“Oh, of course. Yes. Well that’s not really ill, not that kind of ill anyway. What’s that got to do with being bored?”
“I’m bored when I’m ill. It’s very boring being ill, you can’t do anything. I’ve had ten days of being ill and now that I’m well again it’s too soon to be bored again.”
“You want to postpone the surgery because you’ll be bored, is that what you’re saying?”
“Er, yes, I suppose it is.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be bored you’ll be unconscious.”
“Not afterwards I won’t.”
“As near as damn it. You’ll be so whacked out on drugs you won’t know if it’s Christmas or Easter!”

“You think?”
“Definitely. Don’t think ‘bored,’ think ‘semi conscious.’”
“Are you trying to make me feel better?”
“Of course. I know how you’re allergic to ‘bored.’”

A Fallen Woman

On the whole, my campaigns start with great enthusiasm. I think this stems from my goldfish mentality, in that I always forget that most campaigns are pointless, fruitless and ultimately, a failure. Does this do anything to dampen my resolve? Not initially, but that’s because of the goldfish memory. I always think that this time it will be better, we will succeed and surprise ourselves.

I await such surprises with caution. Nevertheless, despite my impending surgery, I collar spouse to share my latest brilliant idea. I need his input to confirm that this time we are surely onto a winner. I wait until all small people are asleep, whip out the carrier bag and insert the batteries. I have to wait many hour until he returns from work in the wee hours of the morning. I try and remember that he is awake and alert and I am……..neither particularly.

“What do you think?” I beam, waggling the device before him.
“What do I think about what?”
“This! Look! Let me show you. You pass your hand under the magic eye and voila!” An annoying little tune accompanies the dispensation of a large dollop of soap into the palm of my hand. “Here, smell! It’s ‘Tangerine’ scented! Can you tell?”
“Pooh, what a niff! It certainly honks something cronic. What’s it for?”
“It’s a natty little automatic soap dispenser to encourage them to wash their hands. I think they’ll like the tune.”
“Exactly how much did you spend on this natty little device, or the putrid soap for that matter? What a colour! It looks like baby barf!” I pout, a gesture that is difficult with the new all super powerful braces wires. “You’re not impressed then?”

I ask rhetorically and unnecessarily.
“Well. It’s a bit of a gimmick, isn’t it?”
"It will pay for itself is saved soap!"
"In about 349 year and 25 days!"
"Did you do that in your head?"
"Ignoring the battery isssue!" [translation = number one household crime against the environment]
"It's therapeutic."
"How?"
"Acclimatize them to different smells?"
"Just means that they'll never go near and never wash their hands again."
“You don’t think they’ll like it?”
“Depends how you define ‘like?’”
“A five minute wonder?”
“Five second! If you’re lucky.”
“I’m an advertisers dream aren’t I?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself old girl, you’re just collateral damage to a diagnoses or possibly just normal or frivolous, take your pick?”
“Financially challenged.”
“Well in the red!”

60 minutes

I am so full of zip and zing, I am ready to conquer the world. [translation = black coffee and antibiotics] It’s a lot to ask but with less than 2 days before surgery, I need to make up for lost time. [translation = stop being a sickly wimp] It used to be one minute and that was a struggle. We progressed to minutes, a plural, but it took us the longest time to get into double digits. Three years ago I honestly thought that something like 10 was impossible, but now, here I am asking them to play with me for a whole hour. I gird my loins. I wonder where they are, ‘loins’ that is to say. I repeat my mantra, ‘new, fun, exciting, different.’



I prepare myself for the transition, namely ‘stop doing that and start doing this,’ because that’s the main flaw in attempting anything, the transition. I ensure that the new toy is free of tape, ties and any other extraneous matter that will cause delay which in turn will cause more meltdowns. I arrange my face and rally the troops.



“Ta dah! This is going to be great!” I tell myself, ………I tell them.
“It is boring and stoopid!”
“It is dumb!”
“Isn’t it for little kids?”
she asks,
the only one managing eye contact.
“Actually it’s none of those things, it is a toy that we can all enjoy together, now lets see what we can make?” I think fine motor skills and sequencing. I dither over task completion and frustration levels. I fumble with pieces to try and make something that looks like something. I notice that everyone’s fingers are fiddling with something too and that the vocal protest has become silent. I cast a beady eye on each of them, and catch a flicker of eye contact here and there. I do not attempt conversation as I don’t want to break the spell. I watch the timer tick down.

“You are better?”
“Better? Better than what dear?”
“Better than ill?”
“Yes! I’m much better. Thank you for asking………..why are you asking? I mean, er……how did you know?”
“Because your cough is going silent.”
“Gosh, how very observant of you dear!” The other one chimes in.
“I was knowing that you were betterer because you are coloured again.”
“Coloured? You mean not so pale and wane?”
“’Wane?’ What is ‘wane’? No, I am meaning that your body is coloured.” I look down at my red T-shirt, purple socks and brown jeans. I recall that I have been in a white, now slightly grubby, toweling dressing gown for days. Now my energy reserves are revived I am actually dressed.

“I like you in dah cloves bestest.” It is not until much later, at night, when I am hunting for my dressing gown, to wash it before my hospital visit, that I eventually find it, in the rubbish bin. [translation = trash]

Slice and Dice

Some autistic children have problems with co-ordination. This brief post is my idiots guide to ‘mid-lines.’ There are many scholarly articles available and an OT can give you a much better explanation. For the rest of us, where speed reading the relevant chapter is the only way to survive, this is my synopsis.
Take one child. Place in a standing position under a guillotine and slice him down the middle so that you have a front slice and a back slice. The front slice doesn’t talk to the back slice, there is a communication problem, most likely bad wiring. Duct tape the child back together, return to the spot under the guillotine and turn him [it’s probably a him] 90 degrees and slice again. Now you have a right side and a left side with the same faulty wiring problem. Last time. Lie child on the ground, on something soft and slice him in half so that you have a top and a bottom. Same problem.

All these sectional pieces of child fail to communicate effectively with the other bits. Some or all of the pieces may be effected, because autism is a spectrum disorder. Is this your child, or you, come to think of it? Test the theory.
Take child’s favourite food. Place child in front of table with the favourite food in sight. If your child is right handed, place the food on the left. If the child reaches for the food with the left hand, [remember he’s right handed] this MAY mean that he doesn’t want to cross his mid-line, the right / left one. This in turn MAY mean that you might want to investigate a little further.

If you are female and wear a garment for your female appendages, does it do up at the back? If you buy one’s that do up at the front, maybe you have a front/back mid-line issue? Maybe you have short arms or fine motor troubles or arthritis? If you always put your shoes on without the use of your hands, prefer slip ons and avoid shoe laces and the like, maybe you have a top/bottom midline hic-cup, or lack flexibility, or have some deplorable foot fettish that we really don’t want to know about?

With a bit of luck, this mid-line business is completely irrelevant to you and yours. If on the other hand, you’re starting to get a bit worried, furrowed brow, brain working overtime trawling through your child’s life for ‘evidence,’ cease forthwith! Firstly, you need to check it out with a professional and save valuable worrying time for other things. Secondly, if there is an issue, like most things with autism, it isn’t fatal. You may not be able to ‘cure’ it, perish the thought, but there are lots of things that you can do to help reduce it. Being aware of the condition means that you are in a position to help. If your child remains in a diced condition up to and including adulthood, it isn’t the end of the world.

Lastly, I have one crumb of additional useless advice to offer. When you try and think of a visual or verbal prompt to assist your child, try and avoid 'left hand helps right hand!' uttered in a cheery tone, as I can tell you that after three and a half years of saying it, I wish I'd come up with something better. Any offers?

Another fruitless conversation?

[from a few weeks back]

I decide that although senior son has no temperature, [translation = has recovered] he would benefit from a little recouperation time. [translation = recharge the batteries to full capacity rather than sending him back to school with low energy reserves]

I notice that he seems to take [un]natural delight in taunting his siblings, “I am ill, [translation = sick] I stay home, you go school. Bye!” he says with glee.

{sub translation = sick equals vomit, so Americans go around telling everyone ‘I am vomit today.’ If only they knew!}] His siblings depart disgruntled, no doubt concocting plans to contract some contagious disease rather than learn anything whilst at school.

He is definitely better, not energetic, but vertical. I try to think how we can use our day, so that whilst it remains ‘enjoyable’ it doesn’t end up causing me pain. [translation = he has so much fun at home that he then refuses to return to school] I consider reading to him. It's a compulsory menu item anyway, but maybe I could increase the frequency?

The cats gambol around the newly erected Holiday tree. [translation = in the house for almost a week now and only decorated with lights] A light bulb moment!

“I know! How about we start decorating the tree?”
“You are talking to me?” Good referencing even though we are alone. Everyone else is at school or at work.
“Yes, I’m talking to you dear.”
“Oh. What you say again?” Perfect! If in doubt ask for help. [translation = reiteration or translation ]
“How about we start decorating the tree?” [Translation = don’t change the original question as it causes unnecessary confusion] Pause. Wait. Count to fifteen with ‘ands,’ as this is an averagely good day with little interference. [translation = sibling demands]
“Tree? What tree?” I refuse to sigh, I keep my face neutral.
“This tree dear.” I stand aside to reveal the 12 foot tree, three inches behind me, bedecked in multi-coloured lights that are blazing.
“Oh! That tree!” What other tree could he possibly have been thinking of? [translation = such negative considerations are not helpful]
“Shall we start putting decorations on it?”
“Why?” Oh dear, here we go. [translation = become tied up in semantics. {sub translation = tree remains naked}]
“Because it will be fun.”
“Fun for who?” A pertinent question as always.
“For both of us. We can do it together, just you and me.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
“You and me?”
“Yes.”
“Fun?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure it is fun?”
“I am.” He pauses to digest this information. Patience, patience, it’s coming, it’s coming, keep counting. [translation = don’t forget the ‘ands’ as he’s processing multiple factors] His hands slowly move to his hips, he adopts a jaunty stance, flips back a hank of hair with a jut of his chin to advise me, “Well….I can see that maybe it is fun for you…….but not for me……but I will hep you anyways.”
I resist the urge to squeeze him tight for his magnanimity. Although, no doubt, he would enjoy the proprioceptive input, on the whole, positive praise and reinforcement has unfortunate consequences. That's my fix for the day!

Not 'autism,' just funny

Last night I sat on the sofa. Being static was very boring, but I was supposed to be 'resting' prior to surgery on Monday. Senior son had decided to communicate with me voluntarily. Instead of really paying attention to him, as I should have been, I played with my new camera that Father Christmas brought for me. I tried to take his photograph because he was so happy and he was chatting to me just before bed. I noticed the 'video' sign on the camera, but as I didn't have the camera manual handy I gave it a try anyway.

So this 8 second video is not 'this is what autism looks like every day,' doom, gloom, despondency, deep and meaningful footage. It is merely 8 seconds of the domestic chaos that we enjoy. It's my first and probably last attempt, as it's too technically challenging to upload / stick it in the right place.

It's just a click away, up there on the right, just under the 'shout' icon, labeled pneumonia. Blink and you'll miss it.

Hands are the enemy

A bit extreme perhaps. Maybe we should rephrase to something a bit more positive ‘hands are not are friends.’ Not really an improvement. Tell you what, I explain the problem and you come up with a new title? Up for a challenge?

So, what is so bad about hands? First things first. It’s not exactly the hands, more like the receptors on the hands, especially the finger tips and especially especially the normally favoured finger tips, namely the index finger. [translation = pointer] Either he has 100 receptors in the spot where you and I have just a few, or alternatively, he has the same number or receptors but they are wrongly calibrated. Thus, where we have enough nerve endings to determine whether a surface is rough or smooth, he doesn’t want to put his receptors to the test, because he already knows that one feels like broken glass. So if you, as the parent, say ‘come along Fred, run your hand along this barbed wire fence,’ you, Fred, not unreasonably, run a mile and report your mother to the Child Protection league on route.

Alternatively, mother passes you your pyjamas, right out of the tumble drier, ‘ come along Fred, pop them on whilst they’re still warm.’ Warm? Warm! What are you trying to do to me? Book me a spot in the Burns Unit and make it pronto! This woman is determined to finish me off.




So it’s a question of degree. Sometimes I wonder why he has hands at all since they are patently of so little use to him. My hands are a pretty ordinary, if large, pair. On the whole they obey me. Most of the time I don’t even have to think about actively using them, they just do my bidding. If, like my son, I would prefer not to use my hands, life would be a lot trickier to navigate. He appears disenchanted with his hands and finds many ways to avoid using them. For instance, unless you have slip on shoes, you will probably need to use your hands to assist your feet. If you merely prod your velcroed closed shoes with your foot, it’s likely that you’re not going to get anywhere far, or at least not with your shoes on.

Try this experiment. You will need a banana, a hair brush and a receptacle of drinking water.





Have you ever tried to eat without using your hands? No, not without cutlery [translation = flatware] just without your hands at all? Believe me, I’ve tried it and it’s not easy. Even if your food is something simple, like a banana [a peeled




one] it’s really difficult to eat it off the table top without those little pinkies jumping in to help. It’s so instinctive that it’s difficult to suppress.
O.k, now throw the banana away, or nudge it with your forehead, make sure that you are sitting on your hands, and put the hair brush in it’s place. Line up your head and start brushing your locks. Any luck?





Easier still – take a bottle, glass or cup of water to the table and try to drink it. No straws, that’s cheating. My bet is that you’ll end up trying to drink like a cat, sort of lap it up? Otherwise you’ll end up tipping it over into your lap. Not very efficient and you’re not likely to get much more than a couple of inches down.


What is the point of this? Good question. The point, in part, is that the parent needs to identify ‘deficiencies’ in the child. Ignore the negative connotations for the moment. Once this is done, the parent can devise ways of making ‘hand use’ less aversive. If you use your hands often, whilst it may never become ‘instinctual’ as we would generally mean, at least we can move towards being friends with our hands, because without them, life can be unnecessarily difficult. It’s not a cure but it probably is ‘therapy.’ Whilst ‘therapy’ and ‘cure’ are often considered ‘bad’ words with respect to autism, addressing issues that your child has difficulty with would not seem, to my biased mind, entirely fruitless.

An E Type?

They come in many different models, and it is only now in middle age, that I begin to think that all this psychobabble rubbish, may have something to it. I feel that perhaps I have been unnecessarily narrow minded in this respect, that I should have given the psychobabble option a little more house room. If I had paid more heed to my American pal, the Muse, and her inane ramblings on this topic, then I might be in a better position to understand the nature of the species. For instance, I was under the impression that spouse was a C type, but he may in fact be an entirely different model. They come in many more different forms than I had initially appreciated. There may actually be some A types, but if there are, I have yet to meet one, or if I have met one, they were probably gay. I doubt if it’s possible to be an A type and be heterosexual, it’s one of those mutually exclusive groups.

So here I am with possibly a C type, or maybe a D type. This wouldn’t be that important if it wasn’t for the fact that I also have a couple of sons in tow, especially as they are both autistic, and it would be very useful, not to say expedient, to pin them down into a specific category early on in their lives, so that I am better able to ease them towards an A type.

I think of it as my bounden duty to carry out this quest to the best of my ability, my cross to bear, as it were.

But I’m not going to get very far if I can’t even identify what I already have. Let me give you a simple example, test the waters and see if I’m on the right track? A woman and her significant other, are in the same room, when she accidentally drops a book on her foot. Books are generally an unrecognized danger in the average family home, and have a higher propensity to act independently that most people appreciate. The book makes contact with the foot causing pain, which induces the woman to exclaim, “oh!” A clear E type.

Assuming that the spouse is otherwise engaged, say with something fascinating on the television screen, the woman automatically expands the initial instinctive exclamation, such that the ‘oh,’ is followed by ‘good grief! That book has come into contact with my foot and I am experiencing pain!” because that is how British people still speak. This expansion zips you straight into the A type. The male of the species, is of course unlikely to respond, mostly because he hasn’t heard
anything at all, as his attention is rapt in the programme. So far so good?

O.k. second example. This time male occupies a different room, out of visual contact, when a loud exclamation, “*&!@#!” is emitted. The average woman, upon hearing this, might say “are you o.k.?” reconfirming A type status. The woman studying human psychology on the other hand, waits. Seconds later, the male appears. He is limping but no words emanate from his being. Now that I am at the advanced stage of study, I appreciate that there might be many other variables contributing to his inability to communicate. For instance, had he dropped a hammer on his foot ,this might compromise his masculinity, his status, such that he would be admitting failure, causing shame. We all want to avoid that!

Alternatively, a small person, who shall remain nameless, accidentally injured him, which means that we cut out the shame / embarrassment factor. Why then, does he not feel the need to volunteer information about the episode? If there is no further response, you’re stuck with an E type.

Possibly, I am someone that he wouldn’t choose to share with, knowing that he would not receive a sympathetic hearing, that I might scoff or belittle him in some manner, add to his humiliation quotient perhaps? Perish the thought! Would the outcome be any different if there were a different individual present to communicate with, be that an adult or child, friend or acquaintance, human or feline? A response to any of the above would zap you into C type status, or possibly B type, if your response was expansive, appropriate, invited additional questions or in any other manner was indicative of reciprocal exchange. It is all very mysterious.

As a broad rule of thumb any ‘oh’ that spouse utters, is rarely followed by any further explanation, with the exception of something related to work or computers. This only applies, if when he turns around to see me waiting there, I make it visually obvious that I am waiting. This means that my body and demeanour oozes ‘waiting.’ It helps if I have an excited and expectant face, as if I am really interested in what he might be willing to share.

Beware. If you find yourself oozing to extract a response, then you are dealing with a C type. If you are ooze free, then you may find yourself in the fortunate position of sharing your life with a B type. When the words finally splutter out in a faulting manner, it is also very important to reinforce this positive step in the right direction. Make sure that you laugh, if appropriate, heartily too, enjoy the joke, whatever it was. [?]

You could practice right now, screw up your eyes, open your mouth ‘ha, ha, ha, oh yes, very funny indeed!’ I hope your body is chuckling too, although I’ve found that a general shoulder shake is sufficient to get the message across to B and C types. To ensure that this exchange will be repeated, it must be immediately and positively reinforced. These first tentative steps at reciprocal communication, are the gateway to all kinds of future communications of great value. If you are truly fortunate, it may be possible, given the passage of time, to generalize this skill to other similar situations, such as the physical damage caused by low flying books. Know that your efforts will not go unrewarded and that after many years of careful schooling, you might be well on the way from changing your C type to maybe a B type. If you’re lucky, consistent and persistent. This kind of task is not for the faint hearted, you are the mistress of your own destiny.

Meanwhile, I watch his [my] son’s progress, from my vantage point in the kitchen. Since he’s autistic and has a speech delay, he’s probably a Z type, right at the bottom of the heap, the extreme form of the male of the species. I hear a heavy thud as he changes his gait from ‘walking down the stairs’ mode [translation = vertical descent] to ‘walking on flat’ mode. [translation = forward horizontal movement] He bumps into the trampolene but recovers, veers into the sideboard but bounces off with merely a glancing blow. He continues in a forward motion but is progressing at an unfortunate tangent, which brings him into contact with the door jam, as usual. The clunk of his forehead covers the quieter impact of his foot and knee. He teeters over backwards onto his bottom, hard. He shakes his head, just like in a cartoon before standing and continuing his journey to the kitchen, or wherever it is that he was going, that he’s probably forgotten about by now. Through the virtual mist, my body materializes within his field of vision and he startles. I don’t know if he was seeking me out, or any other human being for that matter. It may be mere happenstance, but now that I’ve appeared, he’s willing to communicate with me.
“Hey Mom!”
“Hello dear.”
“You know what?” This is looking hopeful, “what?”
“I um, er, I……” Oh dear, off to such a promising start but he’s stumbled at the first fence. This might take a while.
“Well, I was coming down stairs, down, down, er,… I was walking….er,….. and then this wall hit me and I am hurted, hurt, yes hurt, but not too bad, it was an accident, I think? I am o.k. now, it din hurt that much really.” He positions himself in a half crouch beneath me, as I lean over him in a question mark to get a better look at his forehead damage. I lift the hank of hair but his hand reaches up to my forearm, locking my eyes into his, “don worry mom, I o.k., I fine, really!” He pauses momentarily, to check that I comprehend [?] before stumbling off on his own personal business.

Blimey! Where did that all come from? Thousands of dollars spent on therapy and now look, my son has metamorphosed into an A type. In years to come, I’m sure his partner, whoever he or she, may turn out to be, will consider it a sound investment.

The Joy of Autism

The Joy of Autism

The Bribery and Corruption method of bringing up a child

Now I know what you’re thinking, so don’t just start in on me, as to be honest, I really don’t have a leg to stand on. The thing is, you have to work with what you’ve got, and at the moment, all I have to work with is chocolate.

I mean, when did you last go down on bended knee to your child, beg, plead and implore to them, to just take a little nibble of chocolate ……..and then they can get down from the table? Not recently I would venture to suggest.
Rather you had whip your hand back quickly before they bit your fingers off. Me? I have to restrain mine in his chair to prevent escape. Actually, three of my other ones would be the latter category too. We only have one true deviant about these parts. Well maybe two, but leave me out of the equation.


The fact that he eats chocolate at all, is something that I relish, because in theory it opens the door to a myriad of possibilities. Did you know that they make such a thing as chocolate covered pretzels? Unlikely I know, but it’s perfectly true. There are other more obvious choices, such as chocolate covered peanuts and raisins. Then there are lots of different varieties of chocolate itself. I have a big pool to draw upon here. Thus far, our success rate is a big fat zero. As noted in previous posts, the issue of texture is always our downfall. There again, appearances can be deceptive. Merely changing the shape of the 'food' in question is enough to upset the applecart.

He eats pretzels, ergo he should be able to eat chocolate covered pretzels, ditto chocolate covered raisins, but unfortunately these happy combinations have evaded him. We’ll gloss of the chocolate covered poison packs for obvious reasons. [translation = peanuts are in their own sub category of poisonous foodstuffs, even though I’m fairly confident that technically speaking, he is not allergic to them]


The idea in principal, is to pick a desirable food, such as broccoli, where the ratio of chocolate covering to vegetable matter would be beneficial and then get him to eat it. That is what we’re aiming at. I know that goal is a long way off, but it is better to travel hopefully than to……….. something or other, I forget.


I think, realistically, that since he eats chips [translation = fries] that a chocolate covered potato might be a good starting point. However, that might be a biased Irish gene providing undue weight in the decision making process. Spouse, another non vegetable eater, pointed out that we might be better fixing our sites a little lower. He was wise to avoid mentioning chocolate infused pasta and expose his own gene pool bias. Hence, as always, heeding to his superior grasp of the situation, I managed to hunt down a variety of different shaped chocolates as a stage one. Remember if a food changes shape from cube to stick, or quarters to halves, it effectively changes category too. It becomes 'new food' as a result. Stage two would be to try different types of chocolate such as Ghiradelli’s or Hershey’s.





Thus far the prospects are not propitious, but we’ll keep you posted. I will be the one in the kitchen trying to make chocolate trapezoids as a dodecahedron is way beyond my skill set.

Definitions

I cut off bite sized chunks of my anchovy and tomato sandwich as I contemplate. Junior contents himself with a book, “Alphabet Mystery.” Part of the trouble with the label ‘non-verbal’ is that in many instances, it isn’t what it seems to be. By non-verbal, one assumes that the person in question, does not communicate with words, or alternatively, communicating with words is not their first choice. The latter definition, vague though it may be, would be a better description of the kind of speech delay that my boys have. Senior’s speech is more halting or sporadic, interspersed with long periods of silence. Fortunately those periods of silence are much shorter that a few years back.

Back then, a day or two might pass without a word being uttered.





He’d communicate by gesture or mime. It did worry me, [very much] because when he did ‘chose’ to speak, he used long words, way beyond what might expect from a child so young. You doubt me? I do too to be frank, and obviously I can’t recall his lines verbatim, but this would be a rough quote;
‘I like Tyrannosaurus Rexes but I prefer [yes, ‘prefer’ not ‘like better’] Lambiosaurus because they are herbivores, but you can call them plant eaters if you like.’

The echolalia was a different issue. [translation = simply put, an ability to repeat long sentences exactly like an echo]

This is why I take such an unnatural amount of pleasure when they do choose to speak. [translation = in between the times that I’m begging for them all to be quiet, of course.] It’s also part of the reason that I have become so sneaky and underhand, as I tip toe about trying to ear wig. Generally speaking, if you hear some unusual speech pattern emerging, or rather ’being voiced’ it’s handy to have a quick check list available so that you don’t get your hopes up too high too fast. Firstly you should run a scan over all media input that they have been exposed to in the last six months, as it is highly likely that they’re just repeating some fascinating line that they’ve picked up and are now perseverating upon. [translation = probably the most annoying of annoying new phrases] So when you hear your child ‘talking’ get as close as you can without being visible and then run through the following options.
The rules of the ‘non’ verbal
- talk to an imaginary friend or person but not in a pretend manner [highly unlikely]
- talk to somebody, a real person [possible and probable in some instances]
- talk to a ‘thing’ / ‘something,’ that is technically inadequate, but not in a pretend manner [ more likely]
- don’t talk at all [ most likely]

I would hope that this tick sheet would save you a lot of disappointment.
Meanwhile, in conclusion we can say that speech delays, when coupled with autism, make a heady mix for the unwary and naïve, such as myself. Speech therapy and professional teachers, make no end of headway with both my boys. It may well be true, that the subtle nuances of the English language will always escape them………......................…excuse me, someone is poking me in the ribs…………….
“Don’t do that dear it hurts!”
“Sorree, but I am needing your hand.” I give him my hand, but he starts scribbling on it with a felt pen. [translation = marker]
“Don’t do that you big mucker.”
“I not ‘mucker’ I ‘writer.’”
“What is it that you’re trying to write and why do you want to write it on my hand?”
“I am wanting to write ‘x’s because you smell too badly to have kisses.”

A new partner every night – in flagrante delicto SATURDAY

It's pitch black when he steps near the bed and snaps on the light to find us.
"Don't say a word!" I command, "it's not my fault," I plead.
“No! I’m not complaining! I was just going to comment, that’s all.”
“Well if you were home a bit sooner it wouldn’t have to be this way!”
“Can I help it if we’re in ‘tape-out’?”
“You know your business dear, but all work and no play can lead to some rather alarming developments!”
"So I work whilst you play."
"Depends upon your definition of 'play?'"
“But when you work for a ‘start-up’ company, you know that the hours are going to be long.”
“There’s ‘long’ and there’s ‘never released for time served!”
“Even so!”
“Well what’s a woman supposed to do? Going to bed alone every night.”
“I know, but it’s not as if you’re lonely. Or are you?”
“Me! Lonely! Perish the thought. I long to be lonely..”
“Yet, every night when I get home, when I get to bed, there they are, another one, another someone in your,….. sorry ‘our’ bed. We need to discuss this?”
“There’s nothing wrong, you’re just not here. When you’re not here, there’s an empty place in the bed. Nature abhors a vacuum!”
“Well, it’s all very disconcerting this business, I never know what to expect. It can affect a man you know. Several nights running now.”
“I know. What can I say in my defense? I am weak willed.” With a touch of pneumonia to boot.
“Is this some kind of Catholic sin of the flesh that I don’t know about? Too many years in a convent?”
“Atheism can protect you from a lot of things!”
“Does he have a pull- up on?”
“He does.”
“I’ll park him back in his own bed then shall I?”
“It’s probably for the best.”
“Right.”
“I’ll check on the others whilst I’m at it, afterall it’s not 2 a.m yet.”
“True. Only 1:15 a.m. Quite early really!’
“Indeed.”

Pneumonia – the end and the beginning

I stagger back from the doctor’s office where spouse is holding the fort. “So do you think we should explain to them why you’re malfunctioning?”
“Malfunctioning! I’m just ill, that’s all. I’ll be as right as rain once the anti-biotics kick in.”
“That wouldn’t be a very helpful explanation to them though, would it? You’d get yourself in no end of trouble explaining it like that, you’ll need to re-phrase it.”
“Yes, you’re right. Keep it simple. Any ideas?”
“You’re always better at explaining than I am.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Spouse gathers the troops so that I can preserve oxygen. I explain with a big smile on my face. I await questions, hoping that there won’t be any......................

“Why it is new? Why it not old?” sparks the literal one.
“Not ‘new’ dear, it’s pneu – here let me write it down for you.”
“Pneu! That is the stoopid one. Silent ‘n’s are in ‘gnat’ and ‘gnaw’ and oh! That’s right! You are not the bad one afterall. ‘Pneu’ is in ‘pneumatic’ too. You are not the big fat lying one! I am forgiving your stoopids.”
In confirmation he darts behind me, lifts my shirt to plant a kiss of compensation in the small of my back.

“You are ill? You are dead?” queries the anxious one.
“No, I’m not dead dear, just ill.”
“Not dead?”
“No. Not dead.”
“When you are dead den?”
His sister intervenes as I become short of breath,
“Remember, nobody dies until they’re at least 90 and that’s ages away.” What can I say? Ninety seemed like a good compromise at the time.
“19! 19? 19! iz not a big number. 19 is a small number. I hate it, it’s bad, I don won you to be deaded.”
“Not 19, 90 you stewpid head, why don’t you ever listen properly,” she bellows because this conversation seems to be upsetting for everyone.
I put one arm around her and pull her in close even though I should probably correct her.

“Now listen! Do you remember the blue tape?” I point the kitchen cabinet where handy reference photographs accumulate. It depicts the conclusion to this same debate six months ago when we experienced difficulties with 'time and death.'
Since it is a recurring theme, I thought it best to keep handy.
It shows blue masking tape running from the kitchen to the stairs,
marked with numerals from 0 to 99.
It is a magic visual cure for this particular anxiety,
or at least it is for now.

Sometimes you just wish you’d never
started in the first place.
Maybe I should have avoided this whole
quagmire and stuck with ‘malfunctioning.'

Conversation piece

I clean the toilet. At the age of 46 I can admit that two years ago I was uncertain how many sides a dodecahedron had? I can also admit, that it was my four year old that caused me to wonder. A speech delay combined with autism makes for any number of misunderstandings and confusions. How can a child point out incorrect pronunciation of a Pokemon character, too subtle to be understood by elderly years, and yet simultaneously, that same child is unable to remember the word 'cup?'

I use bleach and ignore the screaming environment. As usual I am a vision of loveliness, jeans, T-shirt and yellow Marigolds. A small and persistent person, is close by, watching my progress after his latest 'oopsie, too late, oh well, never mind, better luck next time.'

I resolve to be more careful about what new mantra I install in them next time. I scrub, flush, rinse and cleanse. His nasal tones reach my ears. Although he is always nasal, this time he is more nasal than usual, because his nostrils are pinched closed to protect them from the bleach fumes. “What is your favourite shape Mummy?”
“Er, I think probably a circle.” It is unusual for him to be close by whilst I am performing this kind of task, he is almost 'chummy.' [translation = unusually friendly]
“Wot abow trapezoids, don you like dem too?” He doesn't usually engage me in 'casual conversation.'
“I do like them, I just prefer circles.”
“You don like parallelograms too?” O.k. maybe not 'casual conversation' per se, as this is one of his preferred topics, but he still has to tolerate the fumes to remain here and chat to me.
“I do, it’s just that I like circles best.” I think we might be having a reciprocal conversation?
“Oh. What is your favourite tertiary colour?” How many exchanges is that? Why is he still here? Why hasn't he given up yet and left me stranded in mid- 'conversation' like he usually does? Just as I begin to think that we might really be having a conversation is usually the same moment that he disappears, whilst I'm in mid-sentence.


“What’s yours?”
“Brown, because it is the colour of chocolate and that is my favourite food too.”
"Well, that's lovely. Thank you for telling me that. You're getting to be such a great helper. I love how you use your words these days." I turn to face his blue eyes, eyes where the pupils are focused on mine. I move to one side so he can flush, perform his 'helper' duty.
"Daz o.k. I love how you ......you......you are dah great cleanerer!" His hands move from his nose to cover his ears in anticipation, of the Niagara flush.

Oral Defensiveness

Some days after the truffle debacle, [see previous posting] I learn something scientific. When the weather is cold, ganache, when mixed with toasted hazelnuts and spittle, reformulates it’s molecules into cement. Conversely, when the central heating is on, wafts of chocolate permeate the air, goblets liquefy and form steady rivulets down the furniture and walls.

I am also reminded of a rule that I have known about for approximately 5 years. Although a flavour may be preferred, when it competes with texture, texture always wins. It is hard to describe the emotions that run through a mother’s heart and brain as one observes the conflict. Good mothers exhibit horror and concern at the agony inflicted on the child. Lesser beings endeavour to suppress giggles. I must admit to taking no ameliorative action, merely let the experience run it’s course. It’s is hard to reason, contain or communicate with someone who emits sparks whilst dancing on red hot coals.

Mastication is not one of Junior’s strong suits. His jaw muscles are on the feeble side, and his lip closure is non existent, except on high days and holidays. Aversive textures when introduced into the oral cavity, have the effect of provoking him into a spectacular ‘rain dance.’ If there is any doubt in my mind that this aversion is likely to be resolved in the near future, I only have to watch this battle with my own eyes.

His nose and mouth register the delightful flavour of chocolate. So finely honed are these senses that he is able to detect whether or not the chocolate is Swiss or Belgium. Both varieties are acceptable. Anything else is not, although we are making strenuous strides in the Ghiradelli department. So the taste buds are cooperating, but the receptors that register texture are rebelling. Hazelnuts, toasted or otherwise, have texture, a ‘bitty,’ granular texture, that is difficult to ignore. He is able to differentiate between the two but not separate them. If the ratio of ganache to hazelnuts is approximately 60:40, the average mouth would be hard pressed to separate one from the other. A substandard mouth, is overwhelmed with competing messages; ‘Texture! Spit it out! Yummy chocolate! Swallow now!’ Not an easy one to resolve for the best of us.

How does this conflict manifest itself? Well obviously we have to have a great deal of screams, as word formation is lower on the hierarchy. He needs to ensure that the volume of screaming, approximates the agony that he is suffering, namely loud.

When something is attacking you, the best ploy is to run away. Whilst this may be the lowest common denominator, it is also a sound theory. Not a very effective one in this particular instance, but that aside, running all over the house screaming trying to escape from your mouth, smacks of a basic internal logic.

Admittedly his fingertips are very sensitive, but they can on occasions, if pressured, also be very brave. Hence it is a good idea for him to use his fingers to help empty his mouth. Although he practices spitting regularly, he’s still not very good at it. If your spitting powers are inadequate, you end up with whatever you have expelled from your mouth, all over your chin and front. Making raspberry noises to assist with elimination, is a great variation on a theme, but ultimately ineffective.

Fortunately we are in a modern house with faucets, so cleansing his mouth under the running water is a great proactive gesture. The drowning, screaming, gurgling noises take a little getting used to, but it’s all moving in the right direction. Once the wet chocolate covered clothes have been removed he is in a more vulnerable situation. At this stage he resorts to electric chicken noises, an indication that he is about to reach the peak of his endurance. I hand him a wash cloth soaked in tepid water. He stuffs it in his mouth and collapses on the kitchen floor. His rib cage rises and falls, but the rest of him is a rag doll. When his breathing returns to something that approximates normal, he unplugs his mouth to say,

“you know, I am too tired to do dah deal.”
“What deal?”
“Dah dealing of dah cleaning dah spit truffle.”
would like to follow through. I should follow through. I should make him clean it up, or at least try to clean it up. He rolls over on the hardwood floor into a foetal position. He is asleep in seconds.

It’s an exhausting life, this food business.

Post script – should anyone find that they are sniggering, please leave your details, as I may need to call upon your indulgence, as a character witness for my next interview with the Child Protection League.