Wading through Treacle

Let me just say at the beginning, that I have long been aware that my children, like many others, are not the kind of children that can be hurried. Although I have the standard stock of phrases at my disposal to engender hurrying, I have yet to detect any crumbs of evidence, that they are effective. [translation = in any way whatsoever] For some strange reason, I continue to use them, frequently. [translation = very old dog sticking with ancient non-functioning tricks]

Elderly brains are quickly confused. If the mother in question visually witnesses a great kerfuffle, [translation = children bouncing around the place] she may mistakenly interpret this as movement. A wiser mother would recognize this phenomenon as prevarication and avoidance. [translation = think zebra herd blending] No-one is actually going anywhere. [translation = circling the befuddled wagon]

Now you would think, where two sons have severe speech delays, I would adjust how I talk to them? [translation = I refuse to define ‘severe speech delay’ because it is meaningless] In my defense, I would point out their receptive language [ translation = incoming messages] is good, but their expressive language is poor. [translation = outgoing messages] That aside they frequently stumble over little hurdles. [translation = sabotage by mother]
“Come along now, get your skates on!”
When I think of the time I have spent translating this one phrase to my idiom blind children, I realize the many other, more positive things, I could have done in the alternative.
“Come on you old slow coach or we’ll never get there!”
Using references to other vehicles when you’re planning to travel in the family car, are not helpful. Translation into the local lingo ‘slow poke’ produces even more dire results. [ translation = of a more violent and personal space nature]
“No dilly dallying.”
I mean! Who invented that phrase? Why is it still stuck in my brain. How can I eradicate it’s usage?
“Last one in is a rotten egg!”
Obviously food references are lost on this rabble but allusions to anything that ‘rots’ does not engender the desired effect. [translation = move swiftly in the opposite direction away from the thing that rots]
“Get a wriggle on you lot!”
Perhaps if it was wriggle ‘off’ or wriggle ‘to’ it might work. [translation = perhaps I am clutching at straws?]
“Stop dawdling!” This has the same magical effect as shouting ‘freeze!’ But at least it stops the bouncing for a second or two. Thereafter two people topple over from the effort of balancing.
"Make it snappy!" only encourages some of the behaviours that we are trying to eliminate. [translation = gives a mixed message and provides a positive reason to bite]
"Jump to it!" [translation = they don't ask 'why' any more, they just 'jump,' which might be considered progress?]
Now that I am in America I have attempted to update my phraseology by using “come on already!” which I hear a lot, but I’m never sure if it’s ‘already’ or ‘alrighty’? Since neither version works, I’ve let that one slide.

I resolve that today will be different, better. I will do it properly. I gather the troops, hunker down, salvage as much eye contact as is available and sequence them through the steps in logical order-
“Bathroom, then socks, then shoes, out to the garage, into the car, seat belts on and drive.” At the signal ‘drive’ two people fall on the ground wailing. [translation = inconsolable] What! What? What now? I know they don’t like the car but really! There sister leans against the kitchen counter rolls her eyes, arms folded in disgust. I massage backs and wait for calm. [translation = restoration of the powers of speech] One sits up, the other props himself up on one elbow, “what dears?” I ask imploringly.
“We be crash. We be deaded…….er dead.”
“What?”
“Dying den.”
“Dying, why dying?”
“Coz we crash dah car if you not open dah garage door!”

Not autism just complex advanced laundry skills

When I was a youthful person, several life times ago, one of my hobbies was sub-aqua diving. Dive suits are made of neophrene. After every dive it is necessary to rinse off your suit with fresh water to ensure that this expensive piece of equipment does not rot prematurely. Ideally it should be left to dry under natural conditions. [translation = say no to tumble driers] If you care for your suit it will give you years of trouble free wear.

Like many of the younger generation, my spoiled children enjoy the pampering of a lightweight wetsuit. [translation = no goosebumps for my little wimps] It is a well documented fact, that they only people who have swimming pools are movie stars, millionaires and show offs. [translation = and a few Californians, although these categories are not mutually exclusive] Around here, we lucky people enjoy a swimming pool in our very own garden and it is kept warm by solar panels on the roof of the house.

As soon as the pool water reaches 96 degrees, junior deems the temperature acceptable, dons his wet suit and gingerly makes progress. [translation = there’s the ‘wetness’ campaign too.] Each year, the wetness campaign becomes shorter. As the days pass and the water becomes warmer still, we find that junior delights in wetness at a sloshing 99 degrees. [translation = but still in his wetsuit] My little chap is his own personal mobile sauna. [translation = and a very speedy one at that]

Following a nasty bout of stomach flu, we have returned to our normal routine. Children splash, scream a lot, and frequently give the appearance of drowning. [translation = senior prefers to hover just below the surface, immobile for long periods of time] Thus, when the squalker erupts from the pool making rooster noises, I am immediately aware that something is up. The something that is up, is unknown, because the ‘up’ is so distressing, that words have abandoned him. Instead, he rain dances at high speed and tippy toes on the hardcore. After a couple of athletic jumping jacks, he kicks starts his body into remedial action and spins off in the direction of the toilet.

I supervise the swimmers deep in thought. Why does he look like a cartoon so much of the time? 85% of his time is spent at high speed. [translation = fast forward] He runs where most people would walk or saunter. It’s not just the tippy toes that seem cartoonish. What is it? The fact that his arms are straight, rigid against his body? That may be part of it. I run the video of the runner through my mind's eye. Of course! It’s because usually when you run, you lean forward, sort of in to the wind, whereas he is vertical, suspended by an invisible, taught string running through his torso, so that his legs seem disengaged from the rest of him. [translation = "Irish Dancing"] I am just patting myself of the back for unraveling this conundrum, when the rooster crows reach level 10 volume with accompanying bangs and crashes. Oh no! He’s in his wetsuit! The one with the zip up the back. I dash into the loo. Too late. He lies on the floor, curled like a shrimp having convulsions.

He takes a considerable amount of time to cleanse his personage to his requirements. [translation = not just clean, but sanitized to hospital standards] Remarkably he is in fairly good spirits following this trauma and anxious to return to the pool. [translation = stomach flu free and returned to normal functioning] We both glance at the contaminated wetsuit. “Sorry dear, that’s not going to be so easy to clean.”
“Oh no! What am I be going to be doing now?” he sighs.
“It’s a bit of a stumper!”
“Good golly! This has gotta be the end of life as we know it on this planet!” [translation = gotta love the appropriate scripting]
“Maybe you could wear a swimming costume instead?” [translation = trunks?]
“No, no, no. I am not a fish.”
“Fish?”
“No net, no net, no net.” I think. I think about boy’s swimming costumes, those loose garments that permit unfettered movement when swimming. I look at the three new virgin pairs of swimming trunks that he refuses to wear even though I have washed them many times in order to soften them. I grab a pair of scissors, vandalize the garment and remove the netting.

“There you go! Perfect!” He rests his forehead against my hip bone for a few seconds, all the thanks and acknowledgment I need. [translation = more than] He skips towards the pool and hurls himself in with glee. [translation = wet all over but no wetsuit.] I stand next to the soiled wetsuit.

[translation = how do you wash them when they’re in that condition?]
Should I have posted this in "Alien" instead?

Autism and loss

If you have an autistic child, you lose a great many things. Parents of autistic children are martyr’s of self sacrifice. I for one, would be the first to lie down and let my children trample all over me. [translation = deep proprioceptive input] Some of those sacrifices are huge and important. Other things are tiny and insignificant.

One of the most hugest things that I lost, by having autistic children, was the joy of creating a birthday cake, once a year for each child. Matching the cake to the child, chocolate for one, lemon for another and…….well no cake at all for him, come to think of it. To make the perfect cake to match the perfect child, is no mean feat. Although I fancy myself as quite a baker, if truth be told, I am but a mere amateur.

Once you have chosen the perfect cake, you have the delight of toying with the perfect frosting, the endless possibilities and combinations. The only greater pleasure in making the perfect cake, with the perfect frosting, is decorating the perfect cake perfectly. None of that shop bought rubbish around here, on no. We have far more exacting standards. [translation = self imposed]

It was alright when they were little. [translation = less discerning] I could make a cake shaped like a banana, [translation = a preferred food] or a house, [translation = indifferent] or an ark, [translation = animals are o.k. as long as you avoid bears] generic story book characters, [translation = as long as it’s not associated with any specific illustration] But as they grew older, unless I could create a perfect replica of Thomas and his rabble or Pokemons and their gangs, then I’m afraid my efforts really wouldn’t do at all.

Whilst it looks close enough to you and me, for other people, it was a travesty, a sham and an inferior interloper. No room for an artsy approximation. [translation = creative license withdrawn, and non renewable] No matter how hard I tried, I was always going to miss the mark. Unless it was perfect, [translation = uniformly manufactured] it was trash.

How does one solve such a difficulty? How can one advance one’s cake making skills to meet ever higher standards? Will this be the end of life as we know it, if home made birthday cakes are allowed to slip away from our grasp? Will my psyche remain intact if I am barred from performing this act of maternal devotion?

Maybe.

The solution? Well for me, or for us, the answer was complete parental capitulation. Buy the cake and stick a plastic something or other on there. Result = perfection and perfect happiness. How does one cope with this change in events, this new status quo? Mourn the loss of love at this unique offering? Perhaps, but alternatively, I can count the hours of labour that I’ve saved, [translation = days] whilst I sit down and pretend to eat ‘shop bought’ cake with a happy person. [translation = but only after I’ve washed the plastic decoration to a sterile standard]

Afterall, cake is severely "over-rated."
Now I know that there are a few amongst us, who are of a "scientific disposition" and doubt my powers of deductive reasoning, logic and conclusion.

For those who need such proof, I can only say that given my mathematical genius, I am happy to supply the proof that you crave so desperately, with the following formula.

If we allow for all possible variables such as 'sweat of brow,' strain on bifocals, challenge to fine motor skills of the elderly, permitting, plus or minus additional factors of grey hair, wrinkles and blood pressure, not to dismiss or in any way devalue the contribution of the co-efficient of excessive stirring causing pain to a factor of 3.33 recurring, recognised in the well known medical condition of housemaids's knee, or should that be elbow[?] as a ratio against the happiness of a child, measured to a standard deviation, not to be confused with deviance, the result adds up......perfectly.

Please feel free to supply your own formula together with your workings in full by return.

No time like the present!

The sense of urgency when your child receives a diagnoses of autism can be overwhelming. It is as if everyone is yelling ‘early intervention’ at you. As a parent, you are of course willing to do anything and everything possible to help your child but the choice of options is phenomenal as well as expensive.

Lets move to the best school district tomorrow. No make that today, or yesterday come to think of it. Wait a minute the best therapist is in the opposite direction. Can we commute? How often can we commute? Can we afford it? Should we live on a train permanently and save money on rent? Nevermind, the best therapist in the area has a waiting list of over 8 months. Goodee we’ve avoided living on a train for the next 8 months.

It is at this early stage, that parents most resemble headless chickens. Every free moment is spent on research. Every other moment is spent worrying. It is a frantic time for everyone. Do something! Do something now! Anything! Fix it before it’s all too late. Someone will be shutting that window of opportunity and you’re going to squish your fingers. [ translation = or something much more dire]

As I look at my son on his eight birthday, I’m not so sure about that window of opportunity, but if there really is a window, it’s wide open, and the view has a bit more perspective. Many happy returns of the day. Now pass me that chicken, I have the time to pluck it.

If you'd like a different take from a high brow perspective, you can nip along and visit "Kristina" - must be something in the ether.

Tenacity

When I mention that my son has a limited diet, many people are sympathetic. Many people experience the child who only eats a diet of pizza, chicken nuggets and other fast food items. My son eats "none of these" things, with the exception of fries. [translation = chips] Currently he enjoys a diet of some 17 exclusive items. Whilst I take many opportunities to widen his diet, I’m not in the least averse to a little help from any quarter. [translation = I have no shame]

I am up a ladder in the kitchen replacing the camping items. It is a galley kitchen. [translation = major thoroughfare with the family room and garage at one end, and access to the rest of the house at the other end.] My daughter pursues her little brother with a vengeance. I stand back and let her do her stuff. I have no idea why she has suddenly got a bee in her bonnet, but I’m more than happy to give her free reign, if only for my own amusement. The bag of salty pistachio nuts was a treat for the camping trip. My eldest son is the nut aficionado, like his Dad. My daughters like nuts, but they can more or less take them or leave them. Junior has yet to eat a nut, any nut. Even the universal peanut butter is poison to him.

Junior now likes salt, preferably from the salt cellar in a continuous stream. [translation = the consequence of permitting ordinary household items to exist without being bolted down or locked up]

She grasps a handful of pistachio nut shells, not the nuts. She’s eaten the nuts herself. She figures that the shell without the nut, salt covered, would be a great preliminary step, shell licking, prior to nut licking. I’m with her. It’s a sound theory. A shell is an inert thing, not a nut, a mere casing and not food.

“Lick it!” she commands. Junior makes rooster noises in response and legs it. translation = runs away very fast] She is nine and a half, and fit. He is six and a half but he has greater motivation on his side. [She stomps after him, “Come here you! You’ll like it, it’s salty, hmmm yummy, I just love it, you’ll like it too, give it a go.” Jumping Jack flash is still careening all over the house, utilizing a zig zag running approach to throw her off the scent. “Stop it! Stop it now! Stand still or I’ll sit on yah!” she bellows. Still shriller shrieks are emitted from Sparky as she hunts him down, a squib on the loose. “Just lick it. You love salt, you’ll love this, it’s great,” she persuades.
“Come here you little monkey!” she squalks, getting breathless. Junior responds with monkey noises and swings his body around the newel post of the staircase with aplomb. His agility is startling and his tippy toe escape sounds like a machine gun on the wooden floor.

They traverse through the kitchen, back and forth on switch backs. “I’m gonna get you!” she taunts, more positive than practical. Squeaky now has springs under his feet and wings for arms, so light on his feet, as fleet as a hummingbird. [translation = but a lot noisier] “They’re just shells darn it! There’s no nut, just the shell, the salty shell, it’s not even food!” she barks with frustration. “They’re only……er……..made of….? What are nut shells made of mum?” she asks, leaning against the ladder for a breather whilst junior sputs and spurts.
“Well, they’re er. … made of……woody….” I’m saved from declaring my ignorance as she hares off after her prey. “Stop it. Stop running. You know I’m gonna win,” she declares without any corroborative evidence. They dodge around the sofa, each vying for position. “Listen, sea shells aren’t food right? So nut shells aren’t food either. You’d lick a salty sea shell wouldn’t ya? This is no different it’s just a shell!” She launches herself over the body of the sofa, but he’s off like a whippet at the starter gate, miles ahead. They streak back through the kitchen. She pauses. “Why won’t he lick em Mom? Aren’t they just like sea shells? What are sea shells made of?”
“Well….they’re er…..made of……” Junior skates past again darting hither and thither like a beserk clockwork mouse. She plops herself down on the floor, “I just don’t get it. What is his problem?” I step down from the ladder and hunker down next to her, beads of sweat forming on her brow.


“Thanks for trying lovie, but maybe we can find better ways?”
“I thought that was a better way.”
“I know you did dear, very logical, and I think he was having fun really. I think you’re right, that making food more fun is a good way to go.”
“Do you remember when we made things out of mini marshmallows and cocktail sticks?” she beams.
“I do.”
“Didn’t work though huh!”
“Well he "touched" them and after a few days, he would join in and make them too.”
“Do you remember when we played finger soccer with peas? That was fun too.”
“I do.”
“Do you remember when we made faces outta fruit?” I listen to her list the many ways in which we have attempted to entice her brother to at least be on touching terms with food stuffs. It is a very long list. I’m surprised that she remembers so many of them.
“Do you know what?”
“What dear?”
“I told my friend about the funny things we do with him.”
“Oh yes.” I wait, her shoulders curl inwards, her chin drops ever so slightly, her fringe languishes over her eye lashes.
“They said that he was weird.”
"Indeed!"
"I know," she sighs, "everyone is different, it's o.k. to like different things," she parrots back at me. There's nothing like a direct quote to make your appreciate the full banality of your own words. [translation = tolerance sounds so feeble]
“Ah! Well…..did you have fun doing those things? He started to have fun too. As long as we’re happy doing the things that we’re doing, and not hurting anyone else, then I don’t think it matters what "other people think?” Now there's fighting talk!

Early days 9 - Please explain what you are doing and why?

I consider myself to be a logical and efficient person. All too often I find myself in an odd spot. This spot and it’s oddness, are usually revealed to me by an independent third party, the really logical and efficient one.

Like most parents, I adapt my own behaviour to cater for my children’s needs. These behaviour patterns build up over a very long period of time, especially if your children happen to be autistic. What seemed like a jolly good idea at the time, [translation = step in the right direction] can end up being a straight jacket. [translation = the need for sameness, routine and predictability]

I open the door to my chum in my dressing gown. [translation = good friend and robe] My pal visits for coffee when my three youngest children are at home with me. We are in the family room attempting play, without coffee. [translation = we don’t want any accidents and anyway coffee ‘stinks’]
“I want it!” screams Junior.
“What do you want dear?”
“Dah Bingo game.”
“Great! I’ll just nip up and get it. Back in a minute!” I dash upstairs leaving my chum and my children. I am back in the blink of an eye and deposit the Bingo box in front of him. He pats the lid and reads all the writing on the box.
“I want it!” screams Junior.
“What do you want dear?”
“Dah Marbles game.” I excuse myself and go to retrieve that game from his bedroom. I return with accompanying cheesy grin, because I am so proud of him.
“What are you doing?” asks my friend as Junior starts to verbalize his next request.
“Oh just getting the toys that he wants. Isn’t it great!”
“Which bit of that is great?”
“That he asking, using his words, that he wants toys, that he’s not having a meltdown because I’m too slow, that all hell doesn’t break loose whilst I’m upstairs, that they can hold it together long enough for me to get back down….delayed gratification isn’t it? Great! Great! All great!” She looks at me with a withering stare.
“What?” I squeak.
“How many times have you done that?”
“Done what?”
“Gone and got what he wanted?”
“Today or over the last month? This is such a break through.”
She sighs and mangles her hands, “let’s say today?”
“Hmm, let me see. He’s been up since about 5, it’s nearly 11 now, er……I’m not sure, but lots. Lots and lots.”
She looks around the family room where every available space has a toy, a toy brought downstairs by me for my son because he asked me to.
“You’ve not had time to get dressed then?” she asks innocently.
“Not quite, but I knew it was only you. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“Would you like me to watch them so you can have a shower?”
“Oh no, that’s o.k.” She looks at me again. I am not sure what that look is saying?
“Was it tough getting them all dressed this morning?”
“We were done by nine thank goodness, but breakfast was a bit of a disaster.” She looks across to the table with the detritus of ‘breakfast’ remains.
“Have you thought that maybe he could go upstairs and get the toy himself?” she offers, ever so gently.
“Oh no. You know that none of them will go upstairs, much too scary. That’s probably one of the next steps I should be working on ‘de-sensitizing’ upstairs.”
“Maybe we could help him ‘play’ with some of the toys that you’ve already brought down?”
“What rather than reading the words and patting the boxes?”
“It’s a thought, although I know you’re very pleased that he’s able to touch the paper!” she acknowledges warmly. [translation = tactile defensiveness]
“Oh you’re so clever to remember! Isn’t it wonderful!”
“Yes.” She mangles her hands again. “The words are great, but he’s still …….quite loud.”
“I’ll be working on that next, modulation and regulation, using an inside voice, saying please, all that kind of stuff.”
“I can see that you’ve thought it all through,” she says hesitantly, slowly. I beam and bask back at her, my true friend, one of the few people on the planet who understands.
“Maybe he could choose his own toys by himself?” she repeats.
“Well the toy cupboard’s locked anyway, so I’d have to do the de-sensitization to upstairs at the same time.”
“Why is the toy closet locked?”
“Because every morning they wake up at about 5 and empty it. Take everything out, dump out everything on the floor and then run downstairs. It’s more of a cupboard emptying exercise. They don’t play with anything once they’ve emptied it. I’m not really sure why they do it apart from to drive me completely batty. I couldn’t think what else to do so we just put a lock on it. I’m not at my best at 5. Am I 'fading' or 'extinguishing,' I get in such a muddle?” I suppress a yawn.
"Neither at the moment, but don't worry about it. No time for the gym I suppose?”
“Gym! Are you mad, you know I’m allergic to exercise.”
“It would give you a change of scene.”
“The child care won’t have them, we were banned, oooo 18 months ago.”
“Have you made any progress with the Respite Care application?”
“I’ll try and do it later. Would you like some lunch?”
“Thanks but no, I need to be off.”
“Sure.”
“Er, what are you having for lunch?”
“Oh I won’t bother if you’re not staying, I’ll just make a start on theirs.”
Our entire conversation is punctuated by weeping and wailing from various parties. The meltdowns are frequent but also low frequency. I am outnumbered, and even with the help of my Muse, we are hard pressed to keep everyone occupied. [translation = for the 40 minutes of her visit.] She is probably the only adult person I will converse with in a week. [translation = spouse works for a Start up]

A good teacher has a lesson plan that has been carefully devised after school hours. The good teacher also has qualifications in her chosen profession. A good teacher then puts that lesson plan into practice with her charges. If there is not time to devise a plan, then the weak teacher finds that she falls into bad habits, unless there is someone else around to guide and highlight the mistakes. Unfortunately, ‘on the job training’ and irrelevant qualifications, are the norm for parents of autistic children.

My worthless piece of advice for the day? Find your Muse or become one yourself, they are invaluable for your sanity, and we all need a good chum.

Qualitative Vibraters – but does it work?

Like most families, my children are a variety pack. [translation = should have gone for the clone option] Ideally, I would like them all to behave in the same manner under any given set of circumstances. [translation = a need for predictability, routine and sameness] Since my offspring fail to meet my requirements in this regard, I have had to adapt. [translation = Darwinism]

Whilst I am allergic to shopping, I would have to admit, with reluctance, that my house is full of items that I have purchased. [translation = with the very best of intentions] I have made a considerable number of errors with my buying habits, as evidenced by the weighted vest. This was supposed to calm and ground my older son. I am uncertain whether the item in question, failed to ground him, or merely kept him pinned to the floor, but that is why it is so important to nail down your parameters before you start?

So, saying, whilst the vest failed for him, it had quite a different effect on Mr. Sparky. One of my [many] mottoes, is ‘if in doubt, try the other one.’ [or two] Hence, once I had managed to woman-handle my youngest son into the loathsome garment [with scratchy bits] he did indeed become calm. [translation = reduction in spark emissions plus or minus 7, to a significance of 0.5] [ish]

Habituation, should of course be our watchword, or maybe ‘addiction’ might be more apt? Certainly, once he was in it, thereafter I was unable to extract him from it. It became his second skin. [scratchiness and all] This was not an outcome I would have predicted. [translation = or guessed]

I could attempt to list further experiences in this regard, but for the moment, we will simply fast forward to the current investment: the sound machine. To recap, in brief, the sound machine will calm my sons and assist their ability to relax and drift off into blissful, dreamful sleep, with the added benefit of drowning out motor mouth. Thusly, was my logical prediction. [translation = feeble hope]

Currently, on day [or night?]……3, we determine the following.
1. The sound machine is adored by senior but loathed by junior. [Translation = they of course share the same bedroom]
2. My daughter is miffed at being completely left out of the equation. [translation = the usual bad rap of the typical sibling]
3. ‘loathed by junior’ roughly translates to ‘screams his head off.’ This would not be considered an improvement over the motormouth status.

Hence, I now have two moaners and one happy child. [translation = not a good percentage rate, especially if the object of the exercise is blissful happy sleep] All too often around here, the ‘object of the exercise’ is buried. [translation = I forget what I was trying to achieve in the first place] Fortunately, others around here are now able to take matters into their own hands. [translation = self advocacy]

Spouse and I debate ‘what to do now?’ downstairs in the family room. [translation = it is too loud upstairs with one screamer, one moaner and a happy one that is purring {plus two cats}]
“Perhaps we could swap them around?”
“How do you mean?”
“Put the sound machine with attached child in the single room, and leave the other two together, sound machine free?”
“We could put noise reduction headphones on him, and music headphones on her?”
“That’s always a possibility, but they always get tangled up during the course of the night.”
“True.”
“What else?”
“Take it back to the shop?”
“Throw it away?” [translation = recycle]
“Listen!”
“Listen to what?”
“Exactly!”
“What am I listening too?”
“Semi silence!” We stand in the middle of the family room staring at the ceiling. [translation = the bedrooms are directly overhead. Maybe we have x-ray vision?]

I creep upstairs. I peer into the semi gloom of the first room, where my daughter languishes. [translation = sleeps in a thoroughly untidy manner] One hands clutches a free gift, a small plastic guitar that plays the same 20 bar tune in an unending cycle. [translation = until the battery runs flat]

Next door, Junior is asleep, mouth open and drooling. [translation = must practice lip closure exercises!] His brother is also asleep. [translation = although as often happens, his eyes are open] He has a soft cherubic smile on his face. There is no sound from the sound machine. Come to think of it, there is no sign of the sound machine? I am unable to detect it’s little green light?

I grovel around on the carpet. I find the socket, [translation = outlet] and the plug. I trace back along the cable, [translation = cord] hand over hand, to his bed. I peek under the duvet. He lies on the sound machine. It is in the middle of his tummy.

I lay the palm of my hand on the small of his back. I can only assume that the thing also vibrates? Or maybe it’s warm? Or perhaps it’s the texture? Or maybe it’s territorial? Or maybe it’s consideration for other people’s aversions? But my life is a guessing game not science. I’ll have to extract it! The sound machine, that is to say. An electronic device in close contact with potentially wet pull-up would not be a happy combination.

So in answer to the question ‘yes, but does it work?’ I can only offer the inadequate explanation above. But as a professor once told me, ‘first define your terms.’

Suck on that you Rich Vandal!

We continue our conversation regarding my "unfortunate purchase," of a sound machine as a sleep aid. [translation = extravagant whim]
“I still don’t really understand why you bought it in the first place?”
“I had only the very best of intentions.”
“Maybe, but these impulse buys are always a mistake.” [translation = the road to Hell]
“I was under extreme duress at the time.”
“Oh you had them all with you then.”
“Yup, in Target.”
“Well that was your first mistake.”
“Target or taking the children?”
“Both really now I come to think of it.”
“I only went there for two things, milk, a birthday card and the sound machine.”
“That’s three!” [translation = clocks the mathematically challenged person]
“Well I was only going to look at the sound machines not actually buy one right away.”
“Definitely two then, because ‘looking’ and ‘children’ are mutually exclusive tasks. So what went wrong?”
“I had one lying on my feet, but that was sort of o.k. because at least he was static. She wanted to go and look at the toys, but I needed us to stay together and junior was so noisy I couldn’t think straight.”
“Motormouth?”
“Exactly.”
“Rhymes or numbers?”
“Counting.”
“Is 5000 still his favourite number?”
“Yes, but you know how it is, if he gets distracted or interrupted, then he has to start again from the beginning.”
“With accompanying meltdown?”
“Only level 7 meltdowns, as having a meltdown interfered with his ability to start counting again.”
“What fun!”
“That’s one description, I can think of many others.”
“Anyway. The sound machine?”
“He picked one up, clutched it to his chest and wouldn’t let go.”
“Unusual for him, he’s not usually interested in anything so mundane.” [translation = anything that isn't a Pokemon]
“I thought it was odd too. Then he kept asking if we could take it home.”
“Which interrupted the counting, which brought about another meltdown.”
“How come you know this family so well? It was bedlam, believe me.”
“You don’t usually capitulate in the ‘buy me an X’ department. Why did you give in? Bad precedent you know! You’re your own worst enemy.” [translation = stupid]
“Tell me about it. But he was so unusually vehement.”
“Not just his usual tenacity?”
“No, more, much more.”
“Much more what?”
“Can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Hey, give me the box a minute.” She examines the empty package. “Did you say that 5000 is still his favourite?”
“Yup.”
“Look at all the numbers on this! Could he have been saying them aloud?”
“I don’t know my brain was numb at the time.”
“Look 5106!”
“Maybe he just wanted it for the number 5000?”
“You think?”
“Well in that case, all you have to do is rip off the numbers of cartons whilst you’re in the store and give them too him. You won’t have to ever actually buy him anything ever again!”
“That’s vandalism! I’ll be had up!” [translation = arrested for product tampering]
“What choice do you have? Vandalism or financial ruin. Jail or the Poor House, you choose?”

My daughter saunters into the room, “you could get him to choose a smaller number!” she offers helpfully. We adults smile indulgently at her generous suggestion, “if only it were that simple dear! But you know him, once he’s got a bee in his bonnet about something there’s no shifting him.”

“No!” she explains patiently. “He didn’t want you to buy it because of the number, he wanted you to bring it home because he hadn’t finished counting to 5106. You could have waited until he reached 5106 and then he’d have put it back on the shelf.”



Strangely I have no reason to doubt her. [translation = the ring of truth doesn’t need a bell, just a tinkle]

Thinking Blogger Awards

Can someone please give me an accurate definition of 'meme' as my 1985 Oxford English, two volume dictionary, is of no help?

I have been tagged by "abfh" for the Thinking Blogger meme.
Many thank you's for forcing me up the blogging learning curve!

These are the official rules for participation:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to "this" post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the "Thinking Blogger Award" with a link to the post that you wrote.




That aside

1. I tag "Jambav Parenting" because they were one of the first groups to contact me when I started blogging. Their's is a collective effort, which means that the variety and range of parenting experiences gives me a more balanced perspective. [translation = also, we share a common language, as 'American' is far too tricky to understand]

2. Then "Facing Autism in New Brunswick," because I am a frequent visitor, love the bicameral parliamentary system, which reminds me of home, and I adore Connor even though we've never met. [Should bicameral parliamentary system be in capitals?]

3. I also visit "Kim Stagliano" even though she drives me batty with her irregular postings. She makes me laugh and is out numbered, as I am. Also because, as an aspiring writer, she's cracked it, so I can watch her fly from the wings.

4. "Estee" also gives me great pause for thought, although she also has a nasty habit of posting irregularly - have these people no schedules! [translation = timetables and a clock] She is doing such "sterling stuff" that it knocks my socks off and I don't think I've ever seen her do one of these before.

5. Lastly, a newbie for me, is "John Elder Robinson." Just the name is enough to make me bow, or should that be genuflect? I will be buying his book, "Look me in the eye," [translation = even though it will be a hard back and therefore extravagantly expensive] but in the meantime I am thoroughly enjoying watching the birthing process. [of a book!]

Suck on that!

“Honestly Madz! You’re such a sucker!” offers my worldly wise pal. [translation = American]

{And there was me thinking that it was only Brits who contracted people's name to a single syllable!}

In the background I hear a debate in the family room, first echolalic and then deliberate.
“Mummy is a sucker?”
“No, she is…..suck ….her, you dumbass!”
“A suck her?”
“Yeah, she not a suck him coz she is dah wimmins!”
“Oh right!”
“Mummy is a suck her, Mummy is a suck her, Mummy is a suck her.” It sounds vaguely normal, in a most disconcertingly offbeat manner.
"What it is?"
"What?"
"What it is dah 'suck her'?"
"I don know."
"Mummy is dah bad suck her."
"Yeah she don suck no good."
"Wonky."
"Yeah wonky teef."


I don't think I have often heard my children discuss me. Still you never hear anything good about yourself if you ear wig. Maybe I exist afterall?
“Mummy is a bad suck her, Mummy is a bad suck her, Mummy is a bad suck her,” they chorus and giggle. They add their own sucking noises to punctuate the spaces and display their prowess. I wonder if anyone else is listening?

“So you really think that’s gonna work!” I return my attention to my pal, although I feel a tad uncertain of my ground.
“Yes. Absolutely. It is the perfect solution. Background noise. White noise. It’s exactly what they need to send them off into blissful sleep.”
She peers at the controls, “You really think sticking them in a room with that thing, that thing that makes waterfall sounds is good for them? He’ll think he’s drowning, you’ll traumatize the little guy.” I look at the options, “I don’t suppose ‘rain’ will do it either?” I mumble. “It does have volume control and a timer!”

“Maybe you could rip that chip out of the machine and install it in the kids?” As always, she has a valid point.
“I’m sure I saw the ‘guaranteed’ words somewhere.”
“Guaranteed to what though? Make you poorer!”
“Money back!”


“So what’s the theory, come on! Tell me, give me a laugh!”
“Don’t be so scathing, I’ve put a lot of thought into this purchase.”
“Oh yeah, like you’re the Queen of research or what!”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you! Can't you go back to being a nice American again?"
"You've gotta stop generalizing about Americans, it's unhealthy!" [translation = my personal translator of all things American with the bonus of psychobabble speak]
"Well, anyway. It’s like this. Firstly, it’s a plug in not batteries, so it won’t run out of omph in the middle of the night and send them all bazzy.”
“True, but the 60 minute timer means that they’ll be awake on the hour to turn it back on again.”
“There is that possibility if you’re being negative.”
“Realistic!”


“Whatever. Anyway, the ‘noise’ will mean that it’ll drown out junior’s motor mouth which is driving his brother barmey.”
“You don’t think that the noise of the machine together with motor mouth might just send him over the edge?”
“Can you turn yourself back into a positive minded American again please?"
"Stop generalizing!"
"Anyway, next there are a choice of sounds to meet different people’s perspectives.”
“O.k. so assuming you discount the rain, the waterfall, the rainforest which is also bound to be a bit drippy and the ocean. Far too much water all round for that OCD little guy. So what does that leave you with?”

“Er, heartbeat and summer night.”
“Have you forgotten we live in California? Every night is a summer night, just open the windows.”
“Heartbeat?”
“Sure!" [translation = I'm sure that note of derision is growing.] "You know those nights that you can’t sleep yourself? What can you hear?”
“Er my heartbeat, pulse and breathing?”
“Do you find it helps?”
“Er no,...... it makes it worse.”
“Do you still have the packing and the receipt?”
"Ah.....well.......you see..."
"You Europeans don't have a monopoly on saving the planet you know! We Americans file our receipts first and then recycle."
I would appear that I need to practice my sequencing skills.

Engineering perfection

Two of my four children to not like the ‘great outdoors.’ [translation = my autistic boys] In order to overcome, or at least ameliorate this obstacle, we have been working on a campaign to desensitize them. [translation = since each was able to walk]

Timing is crucial, but that aside there are many other temptations available to the wily parent. [translation = deviant] I select my lures with great care, ensure that everyone has protective clothing on, [translation = sunglasses, baseball caps, clothing to the wrist and ankle] add preferred snacks in a shady corner and I’m just about ready.


I run through my check list. What might I have either forgotten or overlooked? Nothing. Perfection has been achieved. [translation = everything is in my favour] I gather the troops and advice of forthcoming proceedings. Two faces scowl back at me. [translation = it’s still a transition and we hate transitions] My daughter skips out into the garden and calls to her brother’s with glee. [translation = an added bonus] “Hey, come and look at THIS guys! It’s awesome!” The boys step out in the garden with caution, I lag behind a second or two to grab a couple of extra, extra towels for security. I hear them through the open window.

“ooo, what is it being?”
“I fink dey are dancing!”
“Squirming more like!”
“No, no, no, dey are makin dah babies! Look dere bodies, dey are wriggling, wriggling, wriggling!”

I dash out into the garden, tripping over towels, to see all three of them in the glaring sunshine, not in the shade. Not in the carefully designed spot that I have been perseverating upon all day.

They peer into the open bag of Bonemeal, that I accidentally left out in the garden a couple of days ago during my latest planting spree. I take a step towards them, gingerly.

“ooo, looky, looky, looky! Dey are all whitey!”
“No, no, no! Dey are not white dey are creamy translucent.”
“They’re pretty slimey!” [translation = reciprocal speech is when you respond appropriately and on topic in response to what someone else has said rather than going off on a tangent of your own e.g. Pokemon are winners]

I take another step closer, jam my sunglasses onto my nose and take a deep breath. I peer, with half closed eyes at the contents of the bag. I can hardly bear to look. I know I should have put it back in the garage. I should have been more careful watering. I should have closed the bag, sealed the bag, put the bag in another plastic bag to avoid sogginess. I can feel my stomach heave.

“I’m gonna be calling mine ‘Jiggle’ and I’m gonna be writing his name wiv curly wurly ‘G’s.”
“I’m gonna…..name him…….trans, trans, trans,….George cos he’s a very curious one.”
“They’re too many to give them all names guys!”

I watch the surface of the bag ripple. What is the conversion rate of one 10 pound bag of organic Bonemeal to wildlife?

“ooo, I love dah little guys!” he guffaws with laughter and slaps his knees.
“I fink we could, we should, we might …..be putting dem in the bo, box, er……aquarium so dat dey can be our new pets!”
“That’s a great idea! Good job! I hope Rascal and Unis like em too! I hope they won’t eat em like the lizards. Perhaps we ought to put a top on this time. What do you think Mom?” she looks at me expectantly.

If they think I’m going to have a tank full of maggots on the dining room table, then think "again."

The curse of sun kisses

I am blessed with freckles, so many that you can’t put a pin between them. Whilst I used to loathe them, I have gradually grown to accept the status quo. This occurred in part, due to gentle gentleman in France. He explained to me, that in Germany, people call freckles ‘sun kisses,’ which somehow sounded so much better.

Now that my skin is turning into rhino hide, my ancient wisdom is reflected in age spots instead. I don’t know the German for age spots but they don’t fuss me much either. The ones that really annoy me, are the badly placed marks. In this particular instance, it is not vanity, more the unexpected consequences of having a mark where a mark should not be.

The visual acuity of an autistic child [or adult] can often be quite extraordinary. This means that a cluster of random freckles that overlay one another, especially as the sun moves us into Summer, become the equivalent of constellation study. Groups of freckles can become shapes. [translation = or letters or numbers]

The boring collections of freckles sometimes pretend to be a nose leak or a blob of chocolate on the corner of your mouth. Sometimes, as Summer heats up and holidays are in full swing, they might be mistaken for dried blood, if you were so inclined to interpret it in that manner. Some autistic children deliberately choose to interpret collections of freckles as being dried blood, merely to drive the freckler to distraction.

Snot, blood and all other bodily fluids are a cause of great angst in the little one. [translation = OCD clean] Whilst we are working on this aspect of his autism, like so many other campaigns, it can be difficult to manage them all simultaneously. [translation = some take priority over others, such as the food campaign] Blood would definitely score most highly on the Richter scale. Thereafter would be a wide variety of foods. One can also throw in the variable of temperature such as cold ice-cream or warmer than strictly necessary oatmeal, as well as every variation on a theme. Snot would be a high ranker but it would be hard to place it accurately on the continuum.

By the Memorial Day weekend, I have spent sufficient hours playing in the garden, to ensure that my skin has been exposed to the suns rays long enough to make bursts of freckle compilations appear everywhere. [translation = well everywhere that the sun shone, in any case]

I hunker down to wipe chocolate pudding off his face. Whilst I wipe his face, he watches mine. His eyes scrutinize every wrinkle.

“Ah! You are blood. You are dead? You are ill? What you are? Ah! Ah! Ah! Don touch me or I be dead too, go away!” Verbal expressions are of course a joy. [translation = so much better that the screaming meltdown with no clue as to the cause] Few people could be expected to interpret a meltdown as being caused by melanin. Such worries and concerns can quickly spiral out of control, as demonstrated by my son’s premature exit from the room, a little vortex of over stimulated nerve endings. He takes himself to the furthest point in the house to maximize the distance between himself and the alleged dried blood.

I seek him out in the hope of translating the evidence in a more enlightened view. [translation = I know most of his hidey holes]

I know that he hears my footsteps approach from 500 yards away. [translation = supersonic hearing] If there were any doubt in my mind, that I might accidentally surprise him by my arrival, this worry is dismissed as I hear him crow. He crows like a rooster. He does this because the correct words to accurately describe his distress are unavailable to him. They are unavailable to him because he is experiencing distress.

It only takes about 10 minutes of breathing and massage to calm him down sufficiently for him to be able to attend to my words. The logic of my explanation is faultless. His index finger very bravely checks my veracity. Surprise! Indeed, I was telling the truth all the time, only coloured skin, no blood.

Big brother appears to peruse the scene. He stands with his legs astride his brother to assess the situation. He peers at my face as I explain the difficulty. He contemplates for a few moments. [translation = plays for time whilst he retrieves suitable words of comment] He offers his verbal support to bulk up my conclusions, “it’s o.k.! Listen up little buddy! It’s not dah blood, it’s dah snot!” Gotta love those scripts! Boys 2 : Mum nil. [again]

No beating around the bush

["Ben Ownby" Found Alive]

I print off the email from the school and march into the family room for a serious discussion. It has arrived minutes after I have read about a "safety" programme in what is clearly becoming "the State" that is ahead of the hunt.

I give them the pertinent facts gleaned from the warning notice from the school, once I have commanded their attention. [translation = no mean feat! Perhaps I should have done this one-on-one instead?] I quickly find that I have taken on the role of game show host.


'Silver Sedan car, white male with dark hair, 'help me find my dog' to one of the children at their school.'

A near miss for that child, who beat a hasty retreat to an adult. We cannot be as confident of a similar response.

“No a dog!” protests the superhero of felines. A group discussion ensues as the merits of saving various types of pets, but rapidly descends into a debate about species of animals. I corral them all in – back on topic. What would each of them do if faced with a similar situation?

Junior pipes up to declare that he would consider getting in the car if it were "golden" rather than silver. I suppress a sigh and sit on my hands to prevent myself from tearing my hair out.

Further talk assesses skin and hair colour. The colour combinations bear no resemblance to reality or racism, more Todd Parr. I am ready to lie down and die, because we are so far off track and nowhere near the real nub of the dilemma, indeed it would appear that no-one is even aware that there is a dilemma. As usual I have failed to take the time to think through the ramifications of such a topic.

My son back tracks to the make of the car, what exactly is a sedan? I am suddenly aware that I am not at all sure what a sedan is? Knowledge of cars is probably my weakest suit. I operate on a line of elimination – not a mini, not a lorry, not a minivan, not an estate. I know that I’m being cross continental, or maybe just cross, that my delivery only serves to further muddy the waters.

Junior is unconcerned with the type of car, but is keen to examine the potential make or brand of the "tyres" that any erstwhile pedophile might utilize. Grouchiness begins to overwhelm me as Junior quizzes us, as to whether or not ‘see dan’ is a compound word? When ‘sedan’ is broken into it’s phonetic parts. This gives cause for his brother to point out that it is merely two separate words, the verb ‘see’ and the man’s name, ‘Dan,’ providing further evidence of his aural processing skills and attention to his work sheets, where the character ‘Dan,’ features all too frequently for my liking.

I am ready to weep, but instead call for order in the house. Enough. Cease and desist! Attend to the matter at hand, namely abduction, which I refer to as theft. [of the person] I seem to be the only one flustered and frustrated.

Not for the first time, I have cause to recall that I often both mis-read and underestimate their abilities. Such an incident occurred when most of my children were permanently naked. [translation = no ‘dressing’ skills coupled with tactile defensiveness which made the texture of clothing abhorrent] I worried that they were unduly vulnerable, as they had no sense of ‘modesty.’ I was proved wrong during a visit to the ER, where my semi conscience non-verbal son, had a complete meltdown when a kindly female nurse attempted to "unbutton" his flies.

How come 'stranger danger' is so much more complicated these days? If they lured with candy, that would ensure that junior would be safe. [translation = the "neophobic" one] If the stranger sported an attractive bear T-shirt, that would mean my other son would be safe. [translation = "ursaphobia"] My daughter. I look at her giggling enjoying the fun with her brothers. Would "lizards" be her undoing?

I look at my rabble whilst my mind travels through the options of library books, "social stories" and modeling. If the cats have microchips why not the children? Isn't it enough that we have to worry about the "Houdini" issue without enduring further angst from abductors?
“What am I going to do?” I mutter under my breath. My daughter stops giggling to tell me, “it’s o.k. mum, they’re not stupid you know!”
We look one to another, and "another," and "another."

I know she’s "right."

And other dis orders

Back in the good old days of yore, children played doctors and nurses. More often than not, the boys would be the doctors and the girls would be nurses. [translation = unless you were a big sister] The doctors would examine the victim, determine symptoms and then chop things off. Nurses were left to stitch up holes, apply bandages with non safety safety pins and then clean up the mess.

It is my contention that there are really only two types of people in the world, namely nurses and non nurses. Nurses are caring, sharing, kindly types where nothing is too much trouble. Non-nursing types get annoyed about the bodies messing up the family room. I mean, if you’re ill, you go to bed to get better. [translation = so much tidier] If you’re ill, you do not drip around the house getting in everyone’s way. Illness should always be invisible or failing that, upstairs in bed, where one can be visited and tended too are regular intervals.

Although I am a picture of health myself, if I were ever unfortunate enough to be otherwise, I would do the decent thing and excuse myself. I fail to understand why this should be such a difficult concept to grasp. Ill = bed. I am aware that in these modern times, patients are encouraged to leave their beds and walk about a bit, keep everything moving as it were. [translation = empty the bed at the hospital, fast turn over and minimum insurance costs] But in the home environment for minor ailments, it is quite a different story. You need the patient static and out of the way, together with all their paraphanalia. [translation = used tissues, reading materials and bottles of over the counter medicaments]

I’d like to lay claim to other factors such as the visual cue of being both physically present and noticeably ill. The body, static, is the cue for my boys. Their father is draped on the sofa which means that every time he comes onto their radar, it prompts a whole slew of questions, the same questions, that he is too ill to answer.

“He is ill he is dead?”
“Not dead dear, just ill, a little under the weather.”
“He is hospital he is cemetery?”
“Ill dear, remember, he’ll be as right as rain before you know it.” He stands to get a clearer view of the horizontal adult and prods him in the center of the chest with one perfectly placed index finger. There is no movement, just a gentle snore.
“He is dead when are not breathing?”
“That’s right, no breathing means dead.”
“Ah! He no breathing!”
“He IS breathing, listen he’s snoring his head off.”
“Snoring is breathing?”

“Yes.”
“Oh. No cemetery?”
“Correct.”
“What kind of ill is he being?”
“Just a few sniffles.” My son sniffs, practicing.
“Sniff is ill? Sniff is dead? I am being dead too?” This conversation, the same conversation, more or less, is beginning to spiral. We have had this conversation several times within the last hour. The intervals between this cyclical conversation are shorter. I step closer towards my son, “he’s just a little off colour, nothing to worry about dear.” He looks at me with obvious distrust. I know that I’m missing something, but I’m not sure exactly what? For the moment, I don’t know the cause but it will hopefully become clearer given time.

Since the children are on the floor, their Dad’s bulk is in their sight line. If he were silent, he might be invisible, but the snoring keeps hyper-vigilant, sound sensitive people on their guard. For this moment, I decide that my inert husband is both a visual and aural mental health hazard and scoot him up to bed. This is the band-aid approach to the issue, until a more permanent solution can be determined. [translation = tidy but not "OCD"]

Camping – babes in the wood

For reasons too dull to detail, I do not camp, but spouse and the children love to camp.

Nature, in all it’s glory, is best viewed from behind a double glazed window, close to a grate ablaze with a glorious fire and a pot of tea near to hand. [translation = "tamed"]

They camp once a year, overnight. They camp with a family who have been our close friends for a long time. In previous years, I have spent the time alone, making up medical insurance packages for each boy; sorting the bills into date order, child order, therapist order, 13 sessions per week. An empty house means enough floor space for this paper trail.

I anticipate this time with glee, no responsibilities whatsoever for approximately 36 hours, depending upon the traffic. I always doubt that I will manage to complete my paper trail before they return, that they will explode into the house and that my carefully stacked piles of paper will become so much tickertape.

After they have been gone for between four or five hours, the paperwork is complete, because I am far more efficient that I thought I was. Completion of the paperwork permits me another 31 hours to debate whether they will be eaten my Grizzly bears, nibbled by raccoons, bitten by mosquitoes or catch the plague from black squirrels. I have ample time to check weather conditions and perseverate over whether they have enough sun screen and umbrellas.

I know that under the "Muse’s" tender care, all will be well. On the other hand, I distinctly recall her having to endure meltdowns due to her complete inability to create a perfect pancake on a woodfired stove, in a clearing in the forest. Fortunately, her advanced skills of perception quickly interpreted ‘hand washing’ to be translated into some form of perverse punishment for junior. [translation = OCD gone bad]


I think these thoughts in the wee small hours, 24 hours prior to the commencement of the trip. I have awoken because of …………something or other? I leave my bed to investigate. A small person is parked on the throne. [translation = stomach flu] He has a temperature. [translation = fever]
“Why I am ill?” he asks with perfect eye contact. I contemplate the previous 24 hours, mining for clues, food, activities, company.
“I think you swallowed too much pool water,” I suggest with a certain degree of confidence. “Do you remember that you learned how to do somersaults underwater yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember how many you did?”
“48.”
“That’s right! Good remembering. Do you also remember that you didn’t hold your nose?” I still cannot believe that is possible, but I was there to witness the endless tumbling and flailing.
“Yes.”
“That means you swallowed several gallons of pool water, with all those chemicals. Can’t have done your tummy any good.”

I am in mid clean up when other frail person shadows me. Tummy ache. I tuck two smallish people onto the sofa, so that I can keep an eye on both and simultaneously clean up. Whilst she also did somersaults, there was no water consumption. Are the two incidents related? This provides evidence of parental misconduct. They both partook of the same supper prepared by the head chef. This means that I have poisoned two of my children.

I grab emergency bowls, old bath towels and buckets from the garage. I align my equipment ready for eruptions.

A third wastrel appears. This last small person is fit and well and tired and lonely. [translation = due to the invisible cord between "siblings"] Although he did not eat the same supper, my tired brain interprets his wellness as further evidence of food poisoning. He approaches with caution to announce, “hello, I am wet!” although there is no pause between the 'hello' and the rest of his statement. It is an oddity of speech that makes 'hello' sound like the name of a person who is being addressed and notified of information - 'John I am hot.'

“Why are you wet dear?”
“Oopsie! I accidentally peed on my bed!” Two sick children giggle on the sofa. I want to be cross but his delivery was so impeccable I crumble. No meltdown, no incoherence. I strip him down and wash him off. I tuck the well one on the sofa with the ill ones, because any cross contamination is sure to have already occurred during the course of the night, regardless of the original source. I have three little cocoons rolled up in blankets on the sofa, nose to tail.

I hear the plumbing system spring into action upstairs. Spouse appears. He stands in the middle of the room to rake his hair with his fingers.
“What happened?” he enquires drowsily after completing four and a half hours sleep, and no supper, either at work or at home, “and where’s the toilet plunger?”

A mere fly on the wall

Warning – ear wigging is dangerous [probably offensive] One year ago......

A few years ago, I began to understand the camaraderie of parents, especially mothers with children on the spectrum. Initially I had thought I was the only person on the planet………then I learned that there were so many other people in a similar floatation device.

I sit in the waiting room at occupational therapy. Two mothers are in mid discussion. The terminology they use, indicates that they are up with the hunt. [translation = done their research] I try not to listen as they chat with each other, but there is only 3 feet of carpet tiles between us.
“So what’s his Rx, if you don’t mind me asking?” [translation = diagnoses]
“Not at all. He has sensory integration disorder and dysgraphia…..of course!”
“Oh course!" they giggle. "No autism then!”
Why does that sound rhetorical?
“OH NO! OF COURSE NOT!” she gasps, her hands to her mouth in that shy, private manner some people have.

They chuckle. A magic moment for two, the bond of friendship is forged.

I feel obliged to say something but I am at a loss to know exactly what, especially as I should not have been listening? It's one thing to be an advocate for your children, it's quite another to poke your nose into other people's private business. I opt for the line of least resistance. I shrink in my chair. A small person. An invisible person. I can almost feel the yellow neon stripe down my spine. Luckily I have my back to the wall. It is at such times that I wish to crawl under a very small rock and die quietly.

I am invisible for approximately 44 seconds before my boys explode out of their therapy session wailing. I sit in a chair with a 5 year old on bouncing on my knees. The six year old is by my side mid rain dance. They are VERY happy. They share their happiness in their own unique ways. Words are a little, few and far between. [translation = none on this particular occasion] My older boy concentrates on my upper arm, a tight grip with his slender fingers, his forehead burrows into my flesh, woodpecker style. [translation = very happy]

My youngest son contorts himself, as I discuss their sessions with their OT’s. [translation = occupational therapists] His skull is on my lap, his vertebrae curve up my body, his rear end hovers under my chin, his legs bicycle before us. I peek over his bottom to see a couple of open mouths on the opposite love seat, mothers with a different perspective.

I turn my gaze to the therapists, “good session then?” I ask rhetorically.
“Excellent!”

A magic moment for five – two skilled therapists, one mother and two boys. One year of progress.

I think I should be obliged to carry a small rock in my handbag, so it is freely available for me to boink myself on the head every so often. [translation = and two little ones to serve as ear plugs to make ear wigging aversive]