Suffer little children

I snatch it away from her without ceremony, her latest prize from school. A neon yellow squishy ball. For some unaccountable reason, war has broken out between them for ownership, resulting in a mass outbreak of jelly legs. No-one appears capable of walking. [translation = positioning oneself in a vertical position to place one foot in front of the other in a regular sequencing pattern.] My children flap about the ground [translation = dirt] like so many landed salmon, but much noisier. I stuff it up my jumper, [translation = sweater / shirt] the squishy ball that is to say, so that I have both hands empty and available. I guide small people in the general direction of the car. I stand tall and attempting marching with my one new perfect breast in the centre of my chest, matched either side by my own pimples.

I hold two hands firmly as we attempt the sidewalk, but junior is distracted by the cars parked alongside, or more accurately their tyres and wheels, his latest ‘interest.’ I try to explain about how people do not like it if their cars are touched by strangers, but I have yet to hit the right note in my attempts.

Progress is slow. Many parents and children swirl around us, the obstruction. I notice the odd raised eye brow, but assume that everyone is jealous of my new and improved feminine physique.

I also notice that quite a few children say goodbye to him, not strangers, familiar enough little faces, but none that I can put a name to. Several children make friendly remarks to him, all of which he ignores. [translation = due to a shortage of "interpersonal skills," amongst other things] Older brothers and sisters of these same children, also make comments. I hear a mother or two ask “is he your new friend?” or the equivalent thereof.

I dig in his back pack. The daily report is there. I read it whilst he talks to a pirelli, a tyre that is to say. My other son take a rest and lolls against me, with the weariness of a long distance runner. I am a lamp post. My daughter stands nearby, a hip thrust out with the petulant attitude of the near tween, as we move, imperceptibly, slowly, from one wheel to the next.

The cars are stacked up and the drivers face towards us. Each occupant knows that their car is next for scrutiny. “Look at him, he is dah dirty one,” he guffaws as the owner leans over and lifts her sun glasses for a better view.

From the note, I gather that junior attended the mainstream first grade class for seven minutes, where he aced the spelling test. More importantly, although his letters were not formed to his satisfaction, that even though his "robot writing" had the odd curve, he managed to contain his fury and limited himself to motor mouth self talking, much to the confusion of his temporary new class mates. He managed to remain on his chair.

I hunker down to sit on the curb, [translation = the gutter, with one foot on the storm drain,] whilst he examines a hub cap, a shiny one, where he examines his reflection and pulls faces of delight. I fold my arms over my breast, then unfold them, then refold them under it. The "tip of his index finger" bravely skims the surface of the hub cap.

The special ed teachers and mainstream teachers, have a close working relationship and years of experience. They colaberate to find a ‘best fit.’ I suspect that the mainstream children are given the equivalent of a pep talk. I believe, that in some senses, it is merely a nudge in the right direction. This is due in part to children's natural affinity for one another’s best interests. It is also because the school has an ethos of inclusion that permeates "all personnel" and pupils. It is reinforced with a rigorous ‘anti bullying’ policy, the like of which I have not witnessed elsewhere. The trick here is to utilize the pupils to police their fellows. They see what adults may miss, the subtleties that are lost on addled brains. The youngsters weed out the tormentors, teasers and nere do wells, because they know what they’re looking for and can see through the veil that is raised to deceive world weary, jaded and forgetful adult.

“How was Mrs. B’s spelling class?”
“Boring, boring, boring.”
“Who did you sit next to?”
“I dun know. I dun know. I dun know.”
“Were there any girls in the class.”
“Dunno. Dunno. Dunno. ”

Clearly, a perfectly ordinary exchange that all parents experience on occasion. Maybe I am able to jam my foot in the door of the ‘all parents club' afterall, I wonder to myself? Junior tugs at my trousers, to point, sputtering with excitement, “did you be knowing dat wheels,er..... hub caps, dey are having dah best robot writing on dem!”

Well, a big toe perhaps?

The threat of evisceration

At 7:05 in the morning I place fruit on the table, the empty table before school. I check the time. I beam with self satisfaction. Never in the history of this household have we made it to anywhere near seven in the morning without a houseful of screaming banshees. I tip toe upstairs to gently waken my sweet bairns from their slumbers. Each bed has a mound and sound. I lift the covers to a sudden flurry of activity, to discover that each is playing an electronic device, “we’ve only been playing a few hours!” she pleads in her defense, white faced and dark eyed from sleep deprivation. Each child now sits on an electronic device with their hands behind their backs, a picture of innocence but for the little muffled tunes emanating from their bottoms. I pout and purse my lips, searching for the correct verbal response. I remain silent for safety purposes and mime them to ‘go downstairs.’

I debate the best method of reaching the goal of ‘school on time,’ now that I have three thoroughly exhausted little individuals to speed through a contracted morning "routine?" Every minute counts and we’re already 5 behind.

Spouse appears after a disturbed and brief, night’s sleep.

“I’m warning you now,” he announces to three sets of eyes. Spouse is taking command and I watch in awe, because he has skills that I do not. In his open palms, he manages to contain a wide collection of ‘electronics.’ [translation = the tools of bribery, "reinforcement" and possibly, most importantly, motivation]
He continues, “I’m going to take them all to work with me, every last one of them!” A collective gasp of warm horror steams into the cold room, where goose bumps cover each naked body. “I will not tolerate this kind of theft!” It would appear that my own ‘hiding’ skills are not up to par. {translation = they are getting much better at finding.]

My daughter just covers her mouth with her hands, holding it all in.

No so her brothers. Junior is the first to explode, “ I be angry wiv you. Dat is not fair. I not tolerate, coz you are at dah workin forever!” A valid point, that demonstrates his increasing grasp of the concept of time and delayed gratification. In this instance, a huge delay, due to the long hours that spouse spends toiling away at work.

His brother has already managed to use up his bank of words during the early twilight hours of the day, in bed, with the Gameboy. Wordless, he keels over like an axed tree, rigid. Spouse continues, “I going to take them to work and take out their tunes! If you’re very good, you MAY have them back, ……..at some juncture.”

“I wan my juncture now!” screams the sparking jumping jack.

Spouse and I exchange glances as he marches off the scene to find something to put them all in. I consider my incredibly long ‘to do’ list of jobs, chores, errands and things to mend. Whilst a few are of an "electronic" nature, most are far more dull. Disemboweling ‘electronics’ failed to reach ‘list status’ at all.

As he passes, I notice the corner of a crooked smile on his face. He will have such fun dismembering, disconnecting and then re-assembling those three little devices, whilst he is ‘at work.’

The long goodbye

[from the weekend]

I make him do it against his will. I make him hold the pencil, although I skip the pencil grip to correct the manner in which he grasps it.

I edge him towards my make shift chart, a soft shoe shuffle but in bare feet. He faces the chart but his chin drops down so that his eyes can avoid it.

“It’s going to be fine dear,” I coo. He raises his arm stiffly, like a lever and draws a wobbling line through ‘Saturday’. This is everyone’s visual cue that we are on the last day of the holiday. Sunday has a arrived. The last 24 hours before they return to school.

Luckily for me, I learned a long, long time ago that transitions, the passage and concept of time, were a challenge. A week’s holiday was fabulous but at the end, a monumental weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth would ensue. People would make accusations that they might, or might not regret, based upon a faulty concept of time travel. Wild angry rebukes about theft of time, larceny of holidays, and kidnapping of leisure by some willful nere do well, would whirl around the house.

I attempt the usual platitudes, the joy of seeing ‘friends,’ a quick spiel about what constitutes a friend, the pleasure of being back in a familiar class, adding verbal clues to the visual ones in that room. He is not impressed and snuggles back into my dressing gown burying his face. He nuzzles and giggles the plumbing, holding excessive quantities of Ensure. Such affection. He mutters into the material, “but I stay home,’ he pleads. I lift his lovely face, smooth his troubled brow and utter more reassurances, that all will be well. His nose crinkles with annoyance, “no I wanna stay home and play Gameboy forever!”

Hmm. Definitely time to go back to school.

Perseveration - what it is?

For a faster loading version visit here:- Whitterer On Autism

A very good question. Go to the top of the class. I can offer you a dictionary definition – or the various definitions as proposed by the experts. They make for a good starting point. However, they reflect the ‘discipline’ of the expert. The cognitive expert’s version differs markedly from the behaviouralist’s version and so on.

How about -'Persistence of a verbal or other behavior beyond what is apparently intended, expected or needed.' from "Behavenet."

Or we could use "Wiki's" version - 'Uncontrollable repetition of a particular response.' We could try something more medical in it's terminology, but for current purposes, we have enough to work with, more than enough.

I have two versions to offer. They have a common element – repetition, otherwise they differ. Both of my boys, do this. They do it in different ways from each other. They each do it differently this month/year/ day, from how they did it last time around. It is essentially a moving target that often reflects the ‘stage,’ whatever that might be, at any pin prick in time.

Take the repetitive phrases, little ditties gleaned from the cosmos, that they repeat in a loop, sometimes for many hours; ‘to infinity and beyond,’ ‘Elliot…..idiot,’ ‘ I am not a number.’ Here, we have echolalic [translation – repeat as in an echo] tendencies, which complicate the picture.

What about the fixations or special interests? “ I am a train, not a boy, not a toy, not a girl, not a lamb,” with the elements of rhyme, meter and rhythm. Autistic children often fixate on a narrow subject that infiltrates any number of aspects, if not all, of their lives. Trying to dissect different elements may only confuse you further.

How about we try slipping in the tick or the stim? Stims and tics are terms used as shorthand to describe ‘self stimulatory behaviours.’ Many of us are familiar with hand flapping, flickering fingers and oh so many more variations on a theme. Many parents get in a great tizzy about these habits, in part because they are so noticeable to other people. The child with a hand down his diaper will only attract a moment’s attention. Not so the 7 year old, or older child. The child who whizzes around making train noises, repeating the phrases of the ‘Thomas the Tank engine’ books by the Rev. Aubrey, is a more subtle version. People may notice, but it’s ‘cute’ in a three year old. In an older child the same habit marks him or her in the public eye. But he’s word perfect, so it that echolalia instead?

There again, we have the OCD factor – ‘trains are busy, trains are fast, I am a train, no I can’t eat trains, eat nothing.’ The fear factor, the phobia, special interest or fixation can all play a role and confuse the picture, especially if you are not an expert. It’s hard to determine what you are witnessing, which makes it more difficult to decide what, if anything, to do about it?

Logical, very logical thinking, is a factor that plagues the ineffectual parent, frequently. A small incident of no particular significance can blow up into a major factor without warning.

Strangely, I have lots of photographs of my children having meltdowns. How could that possibly be? Why would I have a camera in my hand at such a time? Because the few seconds of delay in a digital camera, for an autistic child, can mean the difference between a photographic opportunity to capture a sweet memory and the moment of self destruction. The hair trigger, is aptly named. But I digress.

What about the child that tears his clothes, shreds and rips them? Would that be tactile defensiveness or sensory integration issues, or both? Probably, a millinery problem for the parent. What if he sucks his clothes, chews them, bites them? Is that oral defensiveness or the sensory complications? But what if he rakes his skin, pulls his hair, bangs his head, pinches himself to leave welts? Is this different or the same? For us, these have been passing phases, severe when they first manifested themselves, but less so, during the next visitation period. They come and go, which makes them closer to stims. Perhaps?


Does this help? Probably not. If it is of any use at all, it is merely to illustrate, as always, that autistic children [and adults] exist on a spectrum. There is no one size fits all.

So let us leave aside the definition of the indefinable. What do you, as a parent, do about it? Well if I knew the answer to that I would be doing a much better job than I am! All I can say, is that whatever you call it, however you define it, it exists and you need to deal with it. When these little flurries occur, you have several options depending upon whether it is of a destructive nature, be that physical self mutilation or mental self mutilation. If your child is hurting him or herself, for me, there is no other option than to intervene, distract, redirect or cuddle. If it is ‘mental’ [translation – “I am dah bad one, I am stoopid, I have a bad brain] the choices are the same.

However, sometimes [translation = often] they are calming, harmless, positive. If you have a non-verbal child and they repeat the same sentence for 40 minutes or more, it may be intensely annoying but it’s strengthening they jaw muscles. [translation – and they’re having fun] It is harmless, it is calming.

Depending upon what they are perseverating on, I find it helpful to think of the behaviour as a minor skin rash. You treat the condition according to it’s severity. If it itches you scratch it. Often it is an unconscious reaction. If it’s a warm day you scratch it more often. Maybe at night, it doesn’t itch at all, or when you’re swimming. Sometimes it’s really itchy and you have to franticly scratch away, you may even bleed a little, but it will form a scab. I don’t want the scab to turn into a scar, by doing this too often, but scratching an itch every so often, doesn’t seem quite so awful as many would have us believe.

Sometimes, it is not calming. Sometimes it is the eye of the storm, accelerating. This can be a fearful experience. [translation = for the parent] But it is meeting a need. One parent may take a child out to exercise, exhibit some sporting prowess to release the tension. Another parent must stand by and watch the eruption of the vortex, so that the child may experience peace, expended. Intervention isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. [translation = good]

When you witness your naked child hurling himself against a glass door repeatedly, as well as all the other direct incidents I’ve mentioned already, I tell you truly, that it is difficult to think ‘deep proprioceptive input’ and ‘how can we achieve the same result is a less destructive manner?’ If one is slow, deliberate and determined, whilst the other is a fizzling firework let off in the house, I may be the one person on the planet who understands that you may just want to throw up your hands and weep in defeat. [translation = especially if they do it at the same time] But I think you’ll find, that there are far more people around with similar experiences than you might expect.


I wish that there were easy answers and that I could point you in the right direction, but unfortunately, direct experience does not necessarily result in accurate data.

But how am I so different, with my little quirks and foibles, the need to have things ‘just so.’ The temperature of my tea, made in just the right way. The song that seeps through every brain cell, that I cannot turn off, that drives me to distraction but I cannot stop, although I don’t ‘voice’ it.

What about you? Do you have your rituals? Is your nose out of joint [translation – bummed] if your commute is disrupted? Bummed [translation = annoyed] by the lack of ‘signal’ from your cell phone in a dead zone. The unreasonable manic driver who cuts you off, that you would gladly hang, draw and quarter, so long as you didn’t have to meet him face to face, or his family. When swear words [translation –cuss words] rile up like bile in your throat but you refrain from articulating them aloud.

Maybe you don’t throw a hissy fit, [translation – meltdown] because you’re an adult and have learned what is, and is not acceptable, but the gut reaction is the same.

They are all a variations on a theme, maybe a trapezoid peg in a quatrefoil hole. Or maybe, the other way around?

This is a useful site with lots of "practical suggestions."

Transfer of skills - cross contamination

I wish it were otherwise, but frankly, most of the time, I find the whole autism thing completely mystifying. It's like a plot to trip me into senility early, well, a little bit early.

Take the simplest task, anything, go on, nothing too taxing. How about coaxing a grammatically correct question? A campaign to change 'what it is' to 'what is it?' Sounds like it ought to be feasible? After twenty minutes of sputtering I determine that I will fare much better if I refuel.

I stop into the kitchen with exasperation and decide that if I don't eat soon, I will probably expire on the carpet.

I think of a quick fix, big calories, small quantity, for speedy consumption and immediate energy boost. I grab the uncut loaf, cut a thick slice and match it with a dollop of Cambazola, even though it is chilled.

I hear someone commanding my attention, turn towards the dictator, but I can't wait another second for his words to formulate as I stuff the bread towards my mouth.

The smooshed, bread and cheese disintegrates on impact with lips that only part half a centimeter after jaw surgery. How could I have forgotten that I have not eaten anything 'solid' for nearly three months? I knit my brows at the small one, as he gathers himself to announce his announcement; "I was gonna be telling you dat! You cannot be eating it."

Multiplication

“Do they breed?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Breed?”
“Who”
“Lizards. I mean, not do they breed but how do they breed?”
I'm not convinced that his emphasis clarifies his question? I look into the bleary eyes of my husband. [translation = significant other] Is it morning or night, if you return home from work at 3 and it’s still dark?
“Well don’t quote me, but I have my suspicions.”
“Do you think we should check on-line what sex they are?”
“I’ll add it to me ‘to do’ list if you like. Put your mind at rest.”
“Don’t you think that one is looking a bit pudgey?” We peer into the aquarium.
“What it is?” pounces Junior.
“What is what dear?”
“Dah ‘pudgey’?” he blurts.
“Fat.”
“He is not dah fat! He is dah cute.” Never insult a lizard regardless of the time of day.
"Maybe he's about to have a growing spurt?" I offer.
"Maybe, perhaps grow a bit longer."
"Dey don't shed, it is dah "snakes dat are shed," not lizards."
“That’s as well as may be,” spouse adds, raking his hair. "Let's not get bogged down in "that" again."
“What it is?”
“What is what, dear?”
“Dah ‘may be’? It is dah same as dah ‘maybe’?”
Spouse leans on the edge of the table, fingertips tented and breathes deeply. He swallows a yawn at five minutes past six in the morning, before continuing, “well he may also be pregnant.”
I look at my husband. He looks at me. His eyes widen, slightly. We both know, that it didn’t come out quite right. We look at junior and wait for the question.

It doesn’t come. Instead he asks “how many?”
“How many what dear?”
“How many dah babies he is having? Er…….eggs dat are havin dah babies inside of dah shell?”
Oh great. Just great.
“I’ll leave you to explain that one dear, I have toast to burn.”

Breakthrough - carnivores gnash their teeth

A year onwards from where we were last year. Chipping away at "neophobia."
[translation = a diet containing less than 20 foods]

We have been going great guns. Junior is now consuming oatmeal, pasta, rice, and applesauce. That constitutes four new foods! Feel free to congratulate us and send us your heart felt best wishes.

I know the campaign has been hard, months actually, added to every meal of the day, but it is beginning to pay dividends at last. Maybe he’s not really eating it as such, but those items do enter the oral cavity. He’s still at the 'spitting them out afterwards' stage, [after we’ve counted to four,] but it constitutes movement in the right direction. We count more slowly now too, which makes it more agonizing for him and for us, come to think of it. We try and persuade him to close his mouth, lip touching lip during the count, which is a great advance as you it is difficult to scream if your mouth is shut. [translation = more of a muffled drowning sound] Every time the mouth opens and the screams leap out, we advise him to close them again and begin the counting again, from one. Otherwise it doesn’t count. [translation = would be cheating of course]

Personally I think his therapist is getting a bit above herself. There’s ‘positive’ and ‘enthusiastic’ but there’s also ‘are you completely mad!” I think I managed to cover my surprise quite successfully at the time, when she suggested that we should put the pressure on and make him try meat. Yes! Meat! Has the woman taken leave of her senses? Is she completely insane or merely certifiable? My eyes are wide but I keep my lips firmly clamped together as I process this suggestion. Turkey? Perhaps a little beef? Now I know she’s lost it, but I smile cautiously giving the illusion of agreement and consensus. It’s not as if he’s a vegetarian by choice as such. In fact,if you consider his fish consumption this is clearly untrue, although categorizing ‘goldfish’ in that manner might be a bit of a stretch.

We leave occupational therapy with our four little tubs of tester food; oatmeal, pasta, rice and applesauce. I strap the children into the car, deep in contemplation.

Meat? Turkey, chicken, lamb, beef? What is the blandest, most textureless, flavourless meat on the planet?

Of course! Hot dogs!

I worship the ground that their little American feet walk on.

Change of Name Deed

I wait patiently, lurking in the shadows, as my boys hang over the edge of the aquarium, bidding a fond farewell to their reptiles.
“We love you ickle wickle ones. Be good boys why we are away!”
“Dey are not boys, idiot!” admonishes one non verbal child, to the older but more severely speech delayed child. The soothing tones with which they coo, are reserved for the animal kingdom. Mankind, does not fair so well in the humane department.
“Do dey have food?”
“Yes, idiot. Look dey have dah healfee foodz!” blurts the neophobic one. He may not eat any of it himself, but he is more than capable of appreciating what a healthy diet might consist of.
“Look at iz lickle claws! Day are so cute. Ain’t you jus dah little gorgeous one!”
“He dah beautiful. He is dah stripey. We love him cutsie wootsie one.”

Oh please! Get on with it won’t you boys. How many compliments can a few small cold blooded creatures take? Don’t you think you’re going a bit over the top? The ‘compliments’ lesson with the speech pathologist, was weeks ago now. How come this skill has to percolate through to the surface right now, just as they’re about to go out. Couldn’t they have delayed the arrival of this skill until they arrived at the restaurant? Couldn’t the average over worked, underpaid server, benefit so much more greatly from the odd kindness? Why waste all these words on reptiles?

Spouse yells at them from the garage, ‘now or never,’ to lure them to the car, to take them to the restaurant, just the four of them, whilst I wait at home, the non eating member of the party. They scamper past me in a blur. I scamper after them just in time to see the garage door close. Hey! What about me! Don’t I get so much as a non verbal hand wave?

Talk about immature, attention seeking behaviour!

I’m seriously thinking of changing my name to ‘lizard.’

Back in a Jiffy

I nip out to Target to buy a gift token for the birthday party tomorrow. As I drive in the rain, I reflect over the holiday week that we have just enjoyed. Back to back play dates and small people everywhere.

This is the first 30 minutes that I have had truly alone in 8 days straight.

Poor spouse has been working throughout that time, including Easter Sunday, rarely returning before 1 in the morning and yet still managing to be on time for work at 8 every day. Poor spouse has averaged 3 to four hours sleep a night, as the children, all of them, are on erratic sleep patterns, which involve frequent visits to our bed. Poor spouse.

During these intervals we have discussed the ‘project at work’ in great detail, although our cognitive skills are challenged in the wee small hours. Poor spouse.

I have enforced the ‘no electronics until 5, IF you are good,’ daily. Apart from the odd trip to the supermarket, I have been bereft of adult company. I have had to content myself with spitting words at a wide variety of people under the age of 9, as well as fielding cogent questions about teeth, braces, elastic bands and international dental care. [translation – my children’s typically developing children with full powers of speech and enquiring minds] I may only be a ‘one man band,’ but the tune has been fairly melodious. The discordant cries of ‘where Daddy is?’ denoted divided loyalties.

I return home 25 minutes later, anxious that poor spouse should not be over burdened with child care responsibilities in his weakened and weary state. As the garage door rattles closed I hear other noises in the interior of the house. In the interior of the house, I see small people wired in to their various electronic devices at 2 in the afternoon. I also hear those little independent electronic devices wittering out their individual annoying tunes. It is a scene that looks so "deceptive."

Bear in mind, that these are children would remain wired in and tuned out, from now until the next Ice-Age, if I ceased to be on the scene. [translation = not the movie, and ignore global warming for this purpose only]

I see poor spouse with his face reflected in the computer monitor. I step closer. Even on this rain filled day, there is enough light for my shadow to darken his view. He lifts his face to mine in vacant acknowledgement of my presence. His children do likewise.

My vision turns crimson. I contemplate murder suicide, shortly followed by murder and blissfully merry widowhood. I think of blue calming things, such as an ice pick. I practice controlling my airflow, but breathe fire. I step back into the kitchen to regroup.

I consider my options carefully, as I do not wish to ruin a potentially ‘good’ weekend by having a paddy. [translation = throwing a hissy fit]

Stage one – determine whether or not spouse’s computer is perseverating upon work issues or play issues?

I march towards spouse and peer over his shoulder to read the screen = play! Ha!

I adopt a jolly sergeant major tone and speak in a voice loud enough to be heard by each member of the family. [translation= family member] “And what do you suppose you are doing?” I ask him rhetorically. The children recognize the tone and turn towards us. Spouse blinks and parts his lips. I ensure that my eyes are opened to their maximum capacity before continuing, “you know the rules, no electronics until 5!” I pull the power cord from the socket with a flourish. Three children erupt with glee, cast their electronic devices aside and roar guffaws at their father. Mass hysteria ensues, to the non-verbal, yet audible chorus of “if yur gud!”

I suspect that "Kal" doesn't have these issues, even though she has double trouble too, with twins no less. But there again she's won an "award."

Perseveration with a sprinkling of OCD [on the side]

“I don’t think he cares one way or another, as long as they serve chips. [translation = French Fries]
“True, but so many restaurants don’t have any cruet.”
“I know, but there again, if they have anything, they usually have the salt.”
“Unless we go to an Italian, then you have two foot of pepper mill being lobbed around by some minor, but not a salt cellar in sight!”
“Odd combination really. There again, if we go Italian, there probably won’t be any chips either.”
“It’s so strange.”
“Strange. A very strange country.”
“Mind you, if he carries on the way he is, we could probably do with avoiding that particular perversion.”
“True, I don’t think people understand.”
“Well it’s so unhygienic, regardless of the other health risks.”
“Still, nobody noticed last time.”
“That was over three months ago now, and they did, notice, that is to say.”
“The last time we went to a restaurant?”
“Yes. So he’s not really had the opportunity in the meantime.”
“Do you still have the salt cellar locked up?”
“Oh yes. Stuffed at the back of the cupboard, the one full of cereal.” [translation = disguised by the horror of the equivalent of barbed wire, that is breakfast cereal.]
"Oooo! I've just thought! Do you think we could count it as a 'new food'?"
"Food? More like a chemical or an additive."
"I like that. We count the additive."
"Well, I don't know, might be considered cheating."
"Well if salt is a chemical, then so is water, H2O and all that."
"Gosh. I just had a thought too! He drinks water. Water isn't part of his 13 foods."
"You're a genius! That means we've hit 14 foods without even trying."
"How come we never thought of that before?"
"At this rate of progress, he won't be a neo any more." [translation = neophobic, a person who eats less than 20 foods]
“She didn’t look very happy at the time.”
“Who?”
“The server.”
“Which server?”
“At the restaurant.”
“Right! When she lifted the tablecloth to see a six year old chugging down on a salt shaker.”
“Hmm, I think it was the other three empty ones that he’d stolen from the other tables that freaked her out.”
“Just think, he’ll live for ever, like a little pickled er……...”
“Onion?”
‘No, er……?”
“Pickled egg? Roll mop herring, pepper, walnut……?”
“Hardly! And none of those are American.”
“What then?”
“Oh I know, Gherkin!”
“Ah! Dill pickle! Actually, they’re all in vinegar. H must be more like an anchovy!”
“Hmm, he’s certainly swimming against the tide.”

Health Warning – each salt cellar only a few grains in them
Healthy Note – many children and some autistic ones, enjoy lining things up
Caution – don’t try this at home. [translation = or in a restaurant]

Just typical – social skills and the autistic child

[Fast forward to real time for my annual gloat]

Of course the disappointment stems from faulty expectations on the part of the parent, but it stings none the less for that. I think most parents find that the pin pricks of their children feel like personal stabs. It’s part and parcel of being the adult. If you are the adult, then it should be you who is the rational being and dismisses these petty hurts.

When you see the real glee in the typical child’s eyes on arrival for a play date, your chest swells with vicarious pleasure. When you explain that ‘electronics’ are not permitted until 5, you also recognize disappointment in the visitor. The declaration of universal boredom, coupled with discrete enquiries as when mom will be collecting, tells you really all you need to know.

But it is delightful to clock the social skills of your own children, as they attempt entertainment, joke telling, alternative toys and different options. Each accommodation is offered verbally, in a reasonable tone of voice, evoked from genuine concern. They also cope with the repeated rejection, that nothing is acceptable. But when the sulks come on, I have to acknowledge that they have reached their current limit, as they have exhausted their stock of social skills. Their bank of social skills, is larger than I had appreciated. They look at me for a cue or possibly a clue. The guest hides under the stairs, but he is young. I guide my boys away to let him cool off.

Admittedly this is a best case scenario, when my boys are on their own home territory. They may not be able to repeat the 'exercise' elsewhere. [translation = inability to generalize skills] As a pair, they were able to help each other fill in the gaps and probably would not have done as well on their own. Nevertheless, in my mind it is a coup.

When the coast is clear, I see him run upstairs to join and play with the other typicals. I know that he will re-appear at the stroke of the hour, like magic, ready to turn on the charm again, as well as the ‘electronics.’

All children have ‘off’ days, [translation = bad ones] but it wasn’t my children who sulked. They're so few and far between, those opportunities to crow, so I hope a small gloat, once every 12 month, doesn't count as a mortal sin!

Clarity of Speech

Small bodies are draped around my house during the Spring break after another busy night. Since their bodies are covered in clothes and we have achieved ‘dressed’ status, I am more than satisfied with progress under the circumstances. Although it’s difficult to pin point when ‘night time’ ended and ‘day’ started, I would guesstimate that it has taken us three hours to eat breakfast and dress. I contemplate the day ahead and our free social skills training. [translation = playdates] It is possible to transform the house into an image of respectability in a few intervening minutes, to present an acceptable front? I debate whether I can hold myself out as a responsible adult supervisor of a play date when I am semi comotose? My mind percolates upon the subject of liability waivers? Whether or not a child's signature is valid without parental input, when junior starts up.
“Mom! Mom! Mom!” he squalks.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I mimic, in the hope that he will be able to tune into the concept of volume control.
“Don copy me!” he commands with indignation. “Dat iz not a nice fing to be doing to a lickle guy like me.”
“You are right. Now what did you want to ask me?”
“Oh er, yes, um, we are not turtles?”
“You’re right, we are not turtles.”
“No. Er are we not turtles?”
“No, we are not turtles.” I re-run that line trying to work out where my double negatives are taking me. It seems like an exercise in existentialism to my tiny brain capacity.
“No I am not sayin dat. I am sayin, I am askin, what it is ‘not turtles.’?”
He has gone to all this trouble to clarify his enquiry verbally, with a smidge of eye contact, a bucket load of patience and what do I have to offer in return to positively reinforce this effort?
“Um, well, er….”
My daughter helps me, “you shouldn’t be coz yur human, but yes, you are nocturnal.”

Just typical! Nothing to do with a "speech delay," everything to do with an American accent. There is a ‘C’ in nocturnal! It is the third letter! Why don’t you pronounce it? Say it out loud. I dare you! Again. Louder. Faster.

I'm lucky to have a local to "translate."

Autism Awareness Month - What are you looking at?

Every so often you have the opportunity to step outside yourself and view yourself as others do. This kind of insight usually occurs when you least expect it. One of the [many] times this has happened to me, was on a fairly ordinary day. When I say ‘ordinary,’ I mean this in the way that ‘ordinary’ had become for us.

As I am the proud owner, [translation = temporary tenuous custody, at the best of times] of two autistic boys.

At that time, they were still on the smallish side, 39 and 45 lbs respectively, which meant that they were portable. Portable was convenient for me, because their legs only functioned on random occasions. [translation = incipient jelly legs] Added to which, they had a strong preference for being both high up and squished. [translation = the latter referrers to deep proprioceptive input, the former has yet to be formally diagnosed]

Thus if you lie on the floor screaming for long enough, preferably in stereo, you soon learn that your poor benighted mother will carry you. It is a good idea to reward your mother at this point by ceasing to cry, as this will ensure positive reinforcement and ensure that she is quicker next time. In you continue in this vein for long enough, before you know it you’ll only need to squeak a bit and just like Pavlov’s dog, she’ll scoop you up. Easy.

If we then fast forward a couple of years after this kind of exposure, we can now clearly see the woman walking out of the occupational therapist’s office towards us. As you watch, two slightly larger children, who have aged a couple of years since we began, scurry on all fours towards the woman, presumably the mother and scurry up her legs like monkeys until they are securely nestled in the waist area, one either side. You, the observer, note that they don’t appear to be twins. On closer inspection you are fairly confident that one of them is larger, probably older, but neither has much to say for themselves and at least that dreadful screaming has ceased. You find it quite odd to see three heads aligned in such a manner that has not been posed by a photographer. You cast your mind back to consider when last it was, that you saw three such heads on the same plane?

One child sucks his thumb, or hand, now that you look a little more closely. The other one has his hands planted firmly over each ear. The woman wears dark glasses, as well she might, shame on her! Now where have you seen those three heads before? That’s right! Of course! Those three little monkeys, see no evil, hear no evil…..

now don’t you say another word!

Parent nil, "monkeys" win again. "This" could be me!

Leisure time

For the Spring break we are at home, with time, lashings of it. 72 days on a "purely liquid" diet, and counting. I whiz up a quick protein shake for myself after a loudish verbal warning to those who object strongly to the sound of all electrical domestic appliances. On completion my daughter requests a banana milkshake. What luck! I avoid adding the spotty bananas to the compost heap. I invite her to join me, a quick lesson. Everyone is in a good humor as we are without a timetable. [translation = schedule] With the routine temporarily shelved, everything is peaceful, apart from the whirring of the liquidizer. [translation = blender] I am careful to instruct her upon the importance of always putting the lid on prior to turning the power on. We giggle at the prospect of a banana spattered kitchen, how bananas quickly oxidize to resemble black slime. What a hoot! I do a quick head count to see who is watching and who might be listening, but we are alone. The boys clean their teeth, or rather eat toothpaste in the bathroom, because the best time to do what you want, is when your mum is otherwise engaged.

By lunchtime, I am peckish. I prepare an adequate [preferred] repast for the smalls and then turn my attention to the nauseating protein shake. Once the ingredients are ready, I plug it in. It is only then, that I notice that I have mislaid the lid. I check all obvious locations. Nothing. My stomach growls rather than gurgles. Perhaps I could put cling film over the top, [translation = Saran wrap] with a tiny hole to allow for air expulsion? A plate? The palm of my hand isn’t big enough. I pause as a naked child jack knife’s from his chair, as a crumb has touched his skin. The other two cover their ears for protection, an instinctive reflect during every meal. He is in full meltdown for a couple of minutes. We are all grateful that it is only a couple.

I re-dress him and advise upon the many benefits of clothing – think of it as armour! Mollified, but not convinced, he complies and returns to his chair for a second attempt, hunkered down if not entrenched.

By mid afternoon, I am more than a little peckish. I sneak away to the kitchen for the protein drink, contemplating when I might find the time to clean the braces. The milk is now less than attractive, room temperature. [translation = warm in California] I decide to have it anyway, as punishment for being so lax. I check the dishwasher for the lid, and the sink, and the cupboard. Where have I put it? A crash from next door sends me scurrying, even though it is not accompanied by death shrieks. Three lizards have ‘escaped’ from their aquarium. Three children attempt capture and containment of same, with less than adequate equipment, namely, their hands. The day progresses.

By the time it comes to tuck them all in to bed, I am sorely tempted just to climb in with them. It hasn’t been that busy a day, quite a pleasant one all told. I can’t imagine why I am quite so exhausted? I go downstairs to start clean up and see the liquidizer harbouring it’s nutrients. I debate. Nearly 12 hours in mid 70’s heat. If I eat it now, will I die of food poisoning or merely have an upset stomach? I am miffed. I should have just mixed it up with a hand whisk or shaken it in a jam jar. I am an idiot. Where on earth did I put the lid? I run a quick inventory around the house as my brain is accustomed to registering things that are in the wrong place – the toilet brush upended in the bathroom to tempt spiders, the plunger upended in the bath to provide a soft landing for the spider, the towels heaped in the centre of the bed to provide a nest for the spider. No. I cannot recall having seen the top to the blender at any time during the course of the day.

I tip it down the sink and finish off. Upstairs again, I deflate into my own bed, wondering when spouse might reappear after another long day’s work. I wonder if he took the lid of the blender to work? By accident? I wonder if by the time dawn breaks I will be a skeleton?

I slumber, restless until he returns. I drift in and out of sleep, with a rumbling tummy.

In the peaceful black of the night we lie together, wordless. I sigh. He's home. A gurgle that would do justice to the sinking of the Titanic erupts from my stomach. “Blimey! What have you been eating?” he accuses.
“Nothing actually.”
He props himself up on one elbow and rakes his hair with his fingers. I explain the finer dénouements of the day.
“You didn’t take it with you by any chance?”

“Of course not! But wait a minute! I seem to remember……..”
He leaps out of bed. I am hot on his heels as he takes the stairs two at a time. He unlocks the front door and nips out barefoot onto the gravel. I hobble behind. He picks up a pink piece of paper in a plastic sleeve with a pebble, a freebie advertisement. It reads 'Weight Watchers - special introductory price.'
I hope the that "neighbours" aren't on watch?
“There you go!” he exclaims, “not exactly disguised but enough to blend in!” Clearly our own "visual acuity" needs recalibration.

We retire to the kitchen, where he rinses it for me and assembles ingredients, as if I have returned to ‘invalid’ status.
“He’s such a little monkey,” he beams. “He must have had to unlock the door and everything…….”
Our eyes meet. Did we both fail to notice that Houdini did a runner? [translation = escaped without our knowledge] What if he hadn’t come back?

“Of course he came back! He’d made his environment safe, sound proofed as it were!” he gestures open handed. [translation = "auditory sensitivity"]

I have a premonition of my future life spent in an unending search for domestic appliances in the garden.

Pets don’t eat pets!

It’s more of a wish than a reality. These words are on the current linguistic loop, the latest "mantra." All of them say it frequently, but two of them say it in continuous periods of up to an hour, that would be stereo of course. Why are they saying it? Because at 5:10 a.m I was not at my best. If you find a cat hanging over the edge of the new, no expenses spared, aquarium, housing two, ‘free from the garden,’ lizards, a woman needs to protect that kind of financial investment. As that frantic furry paw worried the livestock, I have to admit that I tapped him, purely for attention seeking purposes, not to physically punish him. Although we have several water spray bottles around for the purpose of cat education, there’s never one handy when you need one. Corporal punishment has no place in our home, so my actions were duly noticed by the members of the cat protection league hereabouts.

“Why you dun dat to him!” says the first outraged junior member.
“He is our family pet, we love him always,” says the older, more severely speech impaired member, with perfect diction and piercing eye contact. [Link to cat search]
“Er, well, you’re right, but he was getting the lizards!”
“He was playing wiv DJ and Gecky?”
“Not playing! He was trying to eat them! Pets don’t eat pets! Right?” Horror registers on two small faces, even though only one of them is a vegetarian.
To be fair, as the day progresses, I notice that they build on this initial statement adding pertinent phrases designed to re-educate the cats, appeal to their better natures and send them on a guilt trip.
“Pets don’t eat pets! Pets are our friends, not food! How would you like it if we ate you? It’s o.k. we wouldn’t do that to you, I’m jus sayin. If you’re hungry we can feed you other food.” He witters on and on, paragraph after paragraph, a torrent of words, enough for a speech, key note speaker! I think I’m “eating crow,” or should that be “lizard?”

Snappin!

[translation = failure to express oneself adequately and model appropriate behaviour]

I attempt a verbal warning, but end up drooling instead, which severely reduces the impact of my message. But that's what happens when you "fail to research" a matter thoroughly enough prior to going under the knife.

Lately I have had considerably more empathy with my youngest son and his inadequate lip closure. From his earliest days his drool production was supreme, surpassing any dog that I have ever had contact with. [translation = hypersalivation] Then I thought that plastic backed bibs were the solution. A great number of them were utilized throughout the average day, each one discarded as it reached maximum capacity. We were a household of several dozen such items with laundry bills to match. As usual, due to inadequate parental attention, when his neck grew too thick to accommodate the length of strings on the bibs we switched to double T-shirting him, a rare and unrecognised art. Always the glistening chin, the damp T-shirt and the soft open mouth. 'Perhaps he drools because he's concentrating so hard!' was the general conclusion. Strangely, that was in part, the truth. "Oral motor" issues were investigated.

I would hasten to point out that dribbling is not a symptom of autism but it MAY, in some instances, be an indication of poor or low muscle tone. If this is coupled with speech that sounds as if your child has a mouthful of marbles, it would be worthy of further investigation.

Even a sigh also means spittle. My usual state of grumpy has escalated to volatile as I wait for the painkillers to kick in. It has taken me nearly a precious hour to remove all the elastic and replace with newer twangier elastic on my braces, challenging my crocheting skills to say nothing of my patience. I take a deep breath and then seek out the child that I so unjustly admonished.

I take my non verbal autistic child to one side so that I am better able to bury him in a lengthy explanation as to the cause of the higher levels of grumpiness. This is a child that listens best when his body is in motion. This means that whilst technically we are sitting on the sofa together, his body rolls, stretches and squirms, in the way that a cat does when trying to settle. Whilst a cat eventually finds the right spot to nestle done, my son does not.

I explain the ratio of pain to grumpiness in a parent, and possibly other people too. For some reason I feel the need to further justify my parental error and give a scientific version of the same events. Removal of elastic on the braces also removed pressure on the jaw, mouth flies open and floats. When the new elastics are fitted, blood rushes to every nerve ending and screams. I remember to late, that what I know about science can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Why didn’t I think this through before I started? I give up on the scientific explanation and try another tack. It’s as if a nest of money spiders have just exploded in your mouth and are swarming over every surface inside your mouth and over your face and nose.

We clarify the term ‘money spiders,’ together with a visual aid. He points out my error. The spider I have in mind is a red spider mite, not a money spider. He tries hard to hide his scorn at my inferior intellect and poor categorization skills. 46 years on the planet and I appear to be woefully behind in the arachnid department. He takes pity on me and doesn’t dwell upon my error. Mercifully, we move on.

As I close the computer and I check his comprehension. Is this an analogy that works for him or have I just added to his "phobia quotient?" He turns his body in my general direction whilst he jigs his Irish dance, hands clasped in the small of his back, “ you know mum……..for me……for my mouth….it is dah same…….all dah time.”

Can I use that as a definition of "oral defensiveness?"

It would seem that he's not the only one who has difficulty controlling his "body."

Time wasting

My good chum "moritherapy," who does all the psychobabble stuff, gives me a link to an article about how "autistic children read faces and interpret other people's emotional state." It is just the kind of thing I might have benefited from. [translation - at least three years ago]

Some autistic children are "notorious" for their inappropriate responses. Some poor luckless child scrapes their knee at playtime and the heartless autistic child with no soul nor empathy for the human condition, cackles with laughter. Some people are aware that the contrary is true, that in general autistic people have far more sensitivity to others, a greater degree of compassion, it is merely a bad wiring job in the "response department." Faulty cataloging and a dodgy retrieval system means that response 35a comes out instead of 53z.

The "paper" basically tells us that the autistic child is just dandy at reading a person's emotional state from their facial expression, although the paper far more detailed and interesting than that.

This information forces me to count the number of outrageously expensive books I have on this very topic. 'Picture' books with adult text, so that the parent can assist the child in learning this skill. When I think of the tortuous minutes I have wrestled with child and book on the sofa, in a vain attempt to persuade his eyes to look in the general direction of the very expensive book, it makes me want to sigh.

Whilst sighing is all very well and good for some, I prefer action. The most appropriate action for the current situation would be to hit myself on the head, with the very expensive book. More fool me for not realising, that if it is true, that this is a skill that he already had, then is it any wonder that he tried to escape? Diagnoses = terminal boredom.

Future Career in the diplomatic corps

Stop Press! Felines taken captive!

“NO! He has to come down stairs with me. Think of your asthma!”
“But I am lovin him.” [Translation – crushing the life breath out of the poor creature.]
“Come on. Let go of him now.”
“But he is havin Unis! Why I am not having Rascal? You are dah meany!”
“Hey! Hand over that cat. I want Unis and Rascal downstairs pronto!”
“Why you are speak di Italian?”
“It’s American. Let go. Let go now!”
“No you are letting go! His tail will be coming off. I don wunn dah Manx cat.”
“Where did you learn about Manx cats?”
“I don know.”
“What is a Manx cat?” I check because the speech delays strain my powers of auditory processing.
“You are such a dumb ass! It is being dah cat wivout dah tail.” When they attempt to swear with an American accent, my rib cage expands. When they attempt to translate it into English, I squirm – dum arse!
“Both of you now! That’s enough. You cannot sleep with cats!”
“But we are dah lonely ones!”
“What do you mean?”
“We are never havin dah sleep overs.”
“You want to go and sleep in somebody else’s house?”
“No! We are wantin dah uvver friends to be comin to be sleepin in our houses, er, house.”
“So you’re telling me that if we have sleepovers, you’ll let the cats go free?” I need them to remain alive due to their "therapeutic value," as speech therapists.
“Yes.”
“Deal!”
Sorta! How did that happen? Career possibilities open up. Negotiator? Or maybe.....not extortionist!

At least only when exploiting certain lesser beings in the food chain.

Yours,
the amoeba.

In my Grandmother’s Chest

One of my favourite childhood ‘in the car games,’ for long journeys from my own childhood of course, not my own children’s. As I stand at the check out at Target, I stock up on essential supplies for the forthcoming holiday. I have a smug and self satisfied expression at my collection of purchases.

I have enough Play dough for several days because now I am the proud ‘owner’ of a seven and a half year old and a six year old who no longer consider playdough to be the substance from hell. They can touch it, they can squish it, tolerate the stench of it’s perfume, permit their bodies and clothing to be contaminated by it. Ah yes, life is good.

A very smart woman behind me, [translation = nattily attired] surveys the conveyor belt and smiles at me in a friendly manner. The huge carton of pull-ups, 65 – 125 lbs catches her eye. Bit of a give away.

I have enough mouth wash to kill every bacterium from here to San Francisco and back again. Enough ‘Ensure’ to ensure that I will be able to refuel at high speed.

Otherwise I have three of everything. It is always a mistake to try and match gifts to the personality and preferences of an individual child. The net result is always the same, everyone likes one particular item and no-one likes the other two. If you wish to commence warring factions in the confines of your own home then this is the best place to start. Having said that, although each item is identical to it’s fellow, due to the joys of mass production, someone will determine an identifying feature, flaw or anomaly, that will ensure that each is distinguishable, preferred or disowned.

I now have enough cleaning materials to make sure that the house remains sterile. This in turn will enable me to continue the on-going food campaign. In most households, food that falls to the floor is discarded as unsanitary and contaminated. In this household, that rule is reversed, because small intelligent people learn fast. Their solution to any food campaign is to deposit my nutritional choices on the ground. Parents need to acquire nerves of steel, so as to be able to endure the sight of their children licking the floorboards. This is not a job for the faint hearted.

My eye drifts over the contents of the trolly behind me. [translation = cart] I am a dry, old stick of a woman. I refuse to permit myself to make any disparaging assumptions, cast any aspersions or otherwise make judgments about her catering pack of multicoloured, flavoured conhttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifdoms. I have it on good authority that they serve a wide variety of purposes. I determine to remain "open minded," it would be dreadful if my

Jaw Surgery – appearances can be deceptive

"Meanwhile, "I repair myself to the school for pick up time.

Outside on the playground, mothers collect and chat. I update my pals as to my current abilities of speech when an unfamiliar face appears. My pals explain my condition, thus saving me a few syllables. I note the blink of a furrow across her brow. Disapproval. There are a thousand unspoken criticisms adrift, all directly linked to a question of priorities – children are a parent’s first responsibility, everything is secondary, but how much more so for the parent of a special needs child? She phrases her question with care, subtly, with diplomacy. It translates to, ‘what’s an old baggage like you having plastic surgery for, you vain old bat, must have more money than sense?’

I blink and think. Her eyes check out my lanky form, not the slim of elegant physique, but the skinny that turns scrawny with age. I have a light bulb moment. I gird my enunciation to offer, “actually, the procedure is covered by my medical insurance, it’s not cosmetic.”
“Not cosmetic?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. If it’s not cosmetic why didn’t you have it done when you were a kid?”
“I don’t really know? I did wear braces, but no-one suggested surgery until I came over here.”
“Well, we do have the best in the world. So how is it different now?”
“They join, I can [or could or will be able to ] eat.”
“What did you do before?”
“Eat with a knife and fork, swallow a lot of chunks, have a great deal of indigestion.”
“Has it always been like that?”
“Er, as long as I can remember.”
“No wonder you’re so……..er slim,” she adds, softened. Which confirms that we should "never judge a book by it's cover," even if it is a bit tatty and decrepid like mine.

My chum leans over to offer, “don’t worry, a few weeks without all that string and she’ll be as fat as everyone else.”

What a jolly thought.

Oral Defensiveness – once bitten, twice shy

This is one feature of my youngest son. On the whole, he refuses all ‘new’ foods. A few of years back, my older son, who is also autistic, had a play date with his chum, a typically developing twin. This fully verbal child had energy, enough to spark my child into action. There were few words between them as they spent the majority of their time wrestling. [translation = roughhousing.] These two five year olds ‘played,’ until snack time, when all four came to the table. At this time junior only "ate three things," but we seem to have been working on this forever.

Very occasionally, approximately once or twice a year, he would snatch food from someone else’s plate, stuff it in his mouth and then promptly spit it out again, with accompanying screams.

The friend immediately noticed that junior had a bowl of Goldfish, but not the fruit and chocolate chip cookie that everyone else had.
“How come he doesn’t get any?” he asked immediately.
“He dun like it,” offered his brother, as both boys have speech delays. His friend was not convinced, so I backed him up, “that’s right, he doesn’t like cookies, but he really hates chocolate chip ones.” His eyes narrowed in the knowledge that he had caught an adult in a lie.

The snack continued. The friend decided that there was a conspiracy afoot and so asked him directly, “do you want one?” Junior rarely responded to questions verbally or otherwise. On this occasion, his response was to shade his eyes like a visor and lower his head, so that the vision of the cookies would be obliterated. The friend asked again, louder this time. My son squashed his nose onto the table cloth so as to close his nostrils from the stench of the cookies. The friend glanced in my direction, a quick check to see if the coast was clear. I decided to let nature take it’s course.

“Here, just give it a try. Everyone likes cookies. These are the best. You’ll like them.” Junior squirmed in his chair, became more compact, smaller. “Come on. You’ll love em,” he persisted. Junior curled himself into a nut, the smallest hamster in the world, invisible. “Hey! What’s wrong with you? Eat it!” he commanded waving a cookie at junior’s posterior. He tried a new tactic. “I know, if you eat this cookie then I’ll give you a………” He faultered, perplexed. “Eat this cookie and then you can go and play.” It was a nice try, but was the wrong lure, indeed I was a little short on lures myself. I waited, fascinated. “Eat it now or you’ll go straight to bed without any……” I suppressed all nerve endings to ensure that my face remained neutral. Those tired old phrases each came out, one after another, all of them. They’re the words that parents have been saying since children were invented.

Junior unfurled just enough to allow his tentacle of a arm to reach up to the table for another handful of goldfish. The friend wrenched the bowl away, lay on the table and dangled his own arm like a fishing line, in front of junior’s nose. The cookie waved back and forth, “come on, you can do it, I know you can, just a little bit…..” junior snapped at the cookie and bit off a chunk. It was so fast that the fisherman flinched, sprang back and retracted his arm at the same second that junior exploded like a jumping jack, caterwauling at 50 decibels, hands frantically scraping cookie crumbs out his mouth before running to the faucet to wash the inside of his mouth. The friend watched mesmerized, as junior drowned and gurgled under the flow of water, ripped off all his clothes and hurtled away to hide.

The friend was a statue, eyes like saucers, his body rigid, at attention. He relaxed, lost his stupefied look to add, “he really doesn’t like cookies does he?”

I assumed it was rhetorical.

Lines of communication

I can admit it now. It was one of my more stupid brilliant ideas, but what’s the point in having children unless you can exploit them occasionally? I mean to say, what useful purpose do children have on this planet anyway? Bring back the days of chimney sweeps I say. It’s not as if I was asking that much, in the great scheme of things.

Simple enough, I thought. Here we are, in Jolly old San Jose as the temperatures start to soar into the 80’s, ready to bake my garden to a crisp. In America, many homeowners have the benefits of a sprinkler system, as a precautionary measure. We do too, but it doesn’t work. It has not worked for approximately 3 years.

I determine that a fact finding commission should commence. Where exactly is the system broken? The control panel is in the farthest back corner of the back garden. The sprinkler system, and I use the term guardedly, theoretically extends to the front garden. Having spent several hours flicking the switch on the control panel and then legging it to the front garden to check where the eruptions fountain 40 feet in the air, only to run back to the control panel to flick the switch again off, I am worn out, wet and none the wiser.

I devise a cunning plan, one of many over the years. I will utilize the small people. They will form a line, spread over the distance from the back garden, to the front. Each child will positioned at 'shouting/hearing' distance from the other, whereupon all shall become clear. We will attempt "communication."

I outline the plan together with appropriate visual aides to assist comprehension. The first stumbling block is the ‘outside’ factor. A weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues, followed shortly thereafter by a stampede to the furthest hidden recesses of the house.

I retrieve a sack of M&M’s kept for the sole purpose of bribery in the face of adversity, if not aversions. I commence the exercise of rounding them up, once again appreciative of my natural sheepdog instincts. Forget Bo Peep, it was the dog who did the work.

I operate in the mode of Hansel and Gretel, verbalizing dire warnings of imminent melting of chocolate. Thusly, they are all extracted from the confines of the house, out into the great wilds of the outdoors. Whilst I’m tempted to lock the door behind me, I resist, which is just as well as I have to return for additional supplies of baseball hats, sun glasses, galoshes and a few talismen, to ward off the evils of sunshine, texture and heat.

I dither as to which child should be positioned where? I need to keep one as far away from the possibility of water droplets as possible. It’s probably best to put the typically developing one, with full powers of speech and minimal phobias nearest the water, further away from me. I’ll keep the most non-verbal nearest me. It sounds like it ought to work. What have I missed?

I flinch for a moment and then dive behind the wall to the control box to flick on the switch. I wait. I listen. I can hear water, lots of water. No words are winging their way towards me from any direction.

I run at the speed of light to the front garden where the fountains erupt in every direction, flooding the garden and the street. There are no children anywhere. I force open the gate which is always sticking, which is good as an extra security measure. I look up and down the road. Nothing. At least there isn’t any traffic either. Where are they? There is "no fence high enough" nor enough "locks and bolts" to keep them in, to keep them safe and now I've just permitted everyone to escape! I check my neighbours in case they’ve sought diplomatic immunity. No-one is home. It is the middle of the afternoon. I notice that the line of M & M’s and the bag are gone. Someone has stolen my children, all of them! I remind myself that junior would never permit anyone to lay a hand on him. Someone must have lured him with the M & M’s! I rush to the back garden in case they’re hiding under a gooseberry bush, even though we don’t have any, gooseberry bushes that is to say. I remind myself that only one of them is capable of hiding. The silence is erie, I am not used to silence, silence is definitely bad news. Is it time to phone the police? I skid into the house which is also silent apart from the thwat, thwat, thwat sound of my soggy socks on the floorboards.

As I lift the phone and wait for the dialing tone I hear a little…….rustle…….a giggle. Phone in hand, I am hot in pursuit. Silence. I stand poised, ears pricked, cloths drip. I adopt "prowl mode," my favourite because I’m so good at it and have lots of practice. I remove the socks to reduce squelching. My eldest daughter’s bedroom door in shut. I open it without a tremour. A double duvet is heaped in the middle of the room. Movement. Life. I hold the edge and whip it off magician style to reveal three squealing chocolate covered children.

Would that we were all so lucky and could avoid "faults on the line."

What is normal anyway?

‘He didn’t have any shorts on today [underpants]’ says the note inside his backpack. I look at my son, blissfully unaware. Although I am not male, I can imagine that clothes without underwear would be,……….uncomfortable, or would be for someone who had the usual number of nerve endings, or failing that, the correct brain wiring to be able to detect that it should be uncomfortable. I muss his hair and concentrate. More occupational therapy? Something to help him connect the dots. He’s always better after "‘brushing’ and ‘joint compression,’" less discombobulated.

When we’re in the car on the return journey home, his legs grind into the back of my seat, extend, relax, extend relax, not rhythmical, but regular. He’ll wear his knee caps out doing that. What am I going to do with him? In the rear view mirror, I catch a glimpse of my daughter, a snapshot, one that mirrors her big sister, the blue eyed one.

Those blue eyes remind me of school pick up two decades ago and a visit to the Headmistress’s office for ‘a quiet word.’ I was advised that underwear was compulsory not optional at school, for all pupils, no exceptions. It transpired that this was not a one off incident. She often arrived in class "without her knickers," with all the underlying implications of such an offense. A left the office mystified.

It wasn’t until the following day, en route to school, that I watched her in the rear view mirror. She removed her knickers with stealth and stuffed them down the seam in the seat. On arrival, I checked the back of the seat, maybe twenty pairs, all colours. I nabbed the culprit for a shake down. Why?
“Why? I only like the pink ones mummy!”


Of course! It doesn’t always have to be autism, it can just be youth and colour prejudice.

Not senile yet! Thank goodness I am old.