What do you mean you’re bored?

I don’t know who told him to say this, but I just wish he would stop saying it. I suspect that some well meaning speech therapist put the idea in his mind. I can almost hear her now, “are you feelin bored honey?” in that oh so soft American accent. Which of his three speech therapists would be the most likely culprit? Debatable. They’re all of that particular mindset. [translation = kindly and concerned] It's so hard to keep a track of the little mind bombs that other people set in your children's heads, once you permit them access to the outside world.

He stands before me, legs astride, clutching a cereal box to his chest, “I am bored honey!”

Well really!

I am able to understand him of course, because I am his mother, but many people would not be able to understand this sentence. The words and syllables of the sentence run together and sound more like ‘Iyamboardhunny.’ There is no inflection. The tone is completely flat. He sounds like a robot, a very loud robot with the volume control button stuck in the on position. He repeats it three times, takes a breath and then repeats it three times again. “IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” I have an overwhelming urge to separate the syllables and words with a clever, chop them all up, diced. He shakes the Cheerio’s box at me for emphasis.

At 6:05 in the morning, I am not really in entertainment mode, merely breakfast mode.

“Tell you what, howabout we have breakfast first and then we’ll do something together?”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.”
“Yes I know you’re bored dear, but we’ll fill up our tummy’s first. Give us some energy to play!”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He jumps up and down a bit.
“What would you like to do after breakfast? Shall we do some colouring? Painting? Playdough?” Always best to get the messy play out of the way first thing in the morning, as it gives you the opportunity of the rest of the day to attempt to clean it up. [translation = possibility a handy hint for someone]
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He squeezes the cereal packet to his chest. The pressure is collapsing the centre of the box.
“Do you want to choose your bowl? Which spoon would you like? I think the yellow one is clean.” Why can't I distract this child to the matter at hand?
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He has a will of iron.

He thrusts the cereal box in my face on taut extended arms. I cannot think how to get over this hump at 6:07 as his sister saunters by. She links her arms round my waist and rests her face on my back.
“Good morning sleepy head.” I swivel round for a hug. She grins, revealing not properly cleansed teeth. “He woke me up,” she yawns.
“I’m sorry dear, I can’t get him to start breakfast, he wants to play.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s so bored, but if he doesn’t eat now we’ll end up being an all day breakfast diner.”
“No, he’s not bored.”
“Yes, he is. He’s been screaming about how bored he is for the last three minutes, that’s what woke you up remember?” By now, every neighbour in a three mile radius is aware that I have a bored six and a half year old.
“Oh. Oh I see. No. He saw that advertisement on the telly yesterday.”
“What advertisement?”
“The one about Honey Nut Cheerios. He wants to try them instead of the plain ones.” I release the grip on my daughter and swing the small one up into my arms so that we are face to face over a box of crushed cereal. “Is that it? You want Honey Nut ones? You want to try a new food?” [translation = this is my "neophobic" one who only eats 13 things] He grins to reveal not properly cleansed teeth, and nods his head three times. I squeeze him until I notice that I’m probably poking him with the corner of the cereal box. Poor benighted child! He verbalized his request, kept verbalizing his request and didn't have a meltdown, even though his deaf old mother was too stupid to understand him. Where did he cull this patience gene from? I stroke his sister's hair as she has rescued me, again.

I remind myself that honey has all sorts of wonderful things in it. I refuse to think about sugary snacky food. I remind myself that this is probably the first self initialized attempt at selecting a food for consumption. I will adopt a new mantra, 'honey is good, honey is good, honey is good.'

I refuse to debate the power of commercialism or advertising. I refuse to chastise myself for my lack of supervision such that he was able to see the advertisement in the first place. How did that happen with TIVO? I am unable to size up the harm that television has done to rot his brain versus the benefit of adding an additional 'food' to his paultry diet. I concentrate on all the health giving properties of organic honey, all the additional occupational and oral therapy possibilities that this opens up.


Does that count as a new food?
Tell me that counts as a new food!

Cultural Bias – message received and understood

I grew up in a time and country that mocked Americans. Like many children, I didn’t question the status quo. I had my own views but didn’t voice them. I knew that adults were unable to appreciate the joys of a good Western and that American cartoons were infinitely superior, rather than ‘absolute rubbish.’ [translation = trash]

One of the clues that I gleaned about Americans was actually a mistake. It was my mistake. I disliked titles. I accepted Mr and Mrs. Salomon as a title but I wasn’t much taken with Lord and Lady MacIntyre. I wasn’t overly fussed with the ‘Lord’ bit, but ‘Lady’ stuck in my throat. [translation = craw] I felt similarly about Queen and Princess, as even at that age I was biased against stinky pinky.

I had learned that the colour blue, indicative of the male species, became associated with boys a long time ago. Blue, or the dye indigo, was expensive and rare. It was used to dye the robes that little boys wore. This meant that when there was a raid, the boys, the valuable creatures, could be scooped up and rescued speedily. The history books were silent as to the fate of the girls. Thus, when I became familiar with American terminology, I was delighted to accept the title ‘Sir.’ I liked the title ‘Sir’ for men but I liked the title ‘Siree’ for women even more. Yup, those American’s would yell it out too, ‘Yes, Siree!’ and it was so empowering. What can I say? As a little girl, the term spoke to me in an oh so personal way.


I carried that delusion around with me for many a long year. [translation = my own personal secret weapon] My confidence was boosted by the knowledge that somewhere in the world, women had the power to make things happen. [translation = kick arse] When the bubble finally burst, the ridicule was easy to brush off. What was not so easy to dismiss was the vague sense of disappointment. [translation = someone had stolen my magic wand]

A little thorn such as this, helps me when I come across mis-understandings in my own children, especially the speech delayed ones. Whilst I am the first to laugh at their mistakes, I try hard to thread my way back to the source, so that I can help them untangle it. The English language is such a tricky thing. It is full of pitfalls for the unwary. Today’s educational system is based on the system of phonics, how the words and letters sound. It your attention span is challenged and your auditory processing is dodgy this makes the task of understanding the spoken [or written] word so much more difficult. The issue is further fogged by the fact that for many autistic children, communicating by language would not be their natural first choice. For mine, gesture and mimicry would be their first choice. For many it is sign language, but their success can be compromised by poor fine and gross motor skills. But I digress.



We drive around in England on holiday on the wrong side of the road. For some strange reason, the road signs seem far more obvious than they are in America. Maybe it is because the car is smaller. Maybe it’s because the whole scale of things is smaller. We seem close to the road, closer to the edges of the road and somehow far more crowded. Maybe it is easier to pick up the road signs because they differ so greatly from their American versions. They are different colours with different icons, far more icons that I recall from America. More importantly, probably due to my own cultural bias, they are easier to understand. ‘X’ ing in America for railway crossing always causes me a double take in America, but the British equivalent does not.




We play ‘I Spy.’ I loved ‘I Spy’ as a child whenever I could bribe someone to play it with me. I thought that my children would also enjoy playing ‘I Spy.’ I was half wrong in this conclusion. The girls loved it, the boys loathed it. Approximately two years ago, playing ‘I Spy’ was a refined method of torture for the boys. When you think about it for more than a nano second, the reasons are obvious. Here are a couple of chaps who are generally overwhelmed by the busy messages that their bodies and brains receive. [translation = a jumble] Added to this, you the parent, are asking them to single out units of information when they are already buried.

Additionally, to add insult to injury, the child is then expected to not only process the incoming information, but also then verbalize their findings. The little one has a layer of hyper-vigilance. [translation = everything is out to attack and kill him.] the other lacks a gymbal [translation = stabilizer] which I suspect means that he is permanently at sea. [translation – sea sick]

As a result, ‘I Spy,’ is still, strictly speaking, a no go area. They permit us to play with their sister. [translation = increased tolerance] We explain the road system; brown signs for tourist attraction. We also translate ‘tourist.’ Green signs with their corresponding numbers are ‘A’ roads. [translation = big ones] Blue ones are motorways. [translation = bigger ones like freeways] White ones are ‘B’ roads. [translation = little ones] We do not attempt to translate ‘dual carriageway.’ [translation = psychological cul de sac]

Time passes amiably enough. [translation = with the prop of a time count down as to our estimated time of arrival, to assuage the ‘when will we get there?’ metronome] All of a sudden Junior writhes into a screaming vortex. He is out of his seat belt and scrabbling at the driver, grabbing and scrambling for control. We have no option but to pull over as he is wordless.


On the side of the road, the hedgerow presses against the window, close enough for us to examine the veins of the leaves, as Junior recovers his composure and his ability to breathe. I have my ‘stop hand’ up to each face that tries to intervene as we wait and minutes pass. All the adult passengers want an answer and explanation, but they are genuinely concerned for his welfare. Surely the child must be suffering from a fit or impaled himself on a deadly weapon to be creating such hysterical display? The rapid fire questions from all directions only serve to wind up the pressure again until he is once again overloaded, spluttering and a fire cracker of flailing nerve endings. To calm him down a second time, takes even longer.

When he is calm, he is also now exhausted. Few people appreciate the physical exertion of a level ten meltdown. Now the word bank is on closed. He turns in his chair and points back along the road, wordless. All heads in the car turn to follow. We examine the road hunting for clues. His sister, advocate and best pal, translates for us. “I know! It’s the sign! Back there away a bit. The sign that shows the car falling off the road! Thanks for saving us Leo, but we’re not really gonna fall off. You’re safe when Daddy’s driving.” He blinks at her for a few minutes, checks that all the bodies in the car with him are still alive and then promptly falls asleep.


I conclude from this one tiny incident, of many [to follow] that England is far too dangerous a place for us to live in. [translation = as if I needed any additional excuses] In essence, the old country suffers from far too much new.[translation = we are allergic to new]

Fault on the line

I lay out their clothes on the floor, two sets. I have been doing this since time immemorial. [translation = 8 years] I may be an automaton in the mornings but this is one of the morning routine’s steps that I have no problem with. I make sure that each item of clothing reflects the manner in which an ordinary person might put on their clothes. Each set looks like a little mannequin, a flat one, lying out on the carpet in anticipation. We have spent many a long year helping both the boys try and put them on in the right order, the right way round.

It’s just one of the tiny little props that we have engineered in their lives. These little markers make up the scaffolding to support our visual learners. The props have been built up over the years to help them move forward, tiny little fragments that make their lives and therefore ours, run more smoothly. Since it’s summer their short trousers lie inert, an inverted V, zipper on top, snap unfastened with underpants overlapping the top, Y opening as a pointer. The T-shirt is also ready, together with a pair of socks. A pair of shoes for each child by the side is a pointer, aimed to indicate which set is whose.

A couple of children ago, spouse would examine the bible. [translation = developmental milestones of typically developing children] When the boys came along we ignored the bible more and more. As a result, I am now uncertain at what age a child should be able to dress him or herself? My [unreliable] sources tell me that this should occur at around the age of three or four, but in the meantime we keep trundling. It's not that we have no expectations of them, it's just that are expectations are on elastic. We are confident that in the future that there will be more and more things that they will be able to do. The difference for our boys, is that they'll do whatever they're going to do when they're 'good and ready,' rather than when they're 'supposed' to do it.

As parents we have learned that there is no point in fretting about such matters. You put their scaffolding in place, the best design you can come up with and practice a lot but their milestones are like unseasonal hailstorms. [translation = Cherry blossom petals in December]

When the average child hits a milestone the average parent is delighted. When the autistic child collides with a milestone, even if it's the wrong milestone and years too early or too late, the parent of that autistic child rarely behaves rationally. When the typical child does whatever they're supposed to be doing, when they're supposed to be doing it, we are pleased. However, when the autistic child does what they're supposed to be doing, even a very tiny little thing, the parent may experience something very close to a heart attack. You may be celebrating milestones long after other parents have reveled in those same markers, but that only makes them better. [translation = exponentially]


Sometimes it can take up to half an hour to persuade them to even attempt to put them on. Even when they are more willing they often muddle the sets up, as there’s so much scrabbling around on the floor. The clothes become tangled and rucked. The boys become entangled with each other. They benefit from being in close enough iin proximity to copy each other. [translation = the inertia of one can often motivate the other.] They must not be too close because the margin of error is narrow. Sometimes a race ensues, often as not, instigated by their sister. Racing and clothing are not a happy combination. [translation = guaranteed to cause at least one meltdown] There are too many pitfalls like zippers, snap fastenings, socks that hide their openings, shoes that change form by being kicked into an upside down position.


Am I weary of these details? Funnily enough I’m not. They are so ingrained, familiar and automatic that they don’t even reach the status of chore. It is hard to describe the magnitude of the issue of dressing, to say nothing of toileting. So ordinary and yet so impossible.

As I get older and greyer, I wonder what kind of girlfriend [boyfriend?] or life partner, will take over the responsibility of laying out their clothes for the morning? We need to return to the 1920’s where a gentleman would have a manservant to attend to such matters. They need a Jeeves, each of them. Someone to tie a cravat, chain up the pocket watch and attach a button hole rosebud to the lapel. I wonder how many gentlemen, elderly gentlemen, exist today,who are still incapable of attaching their socks to their suspenders, living in some assisted living programme?

I pat the cloths instinctively, a check, a note to myself that I’m ready for the marathon of dressing. Spouse appears bleary eyed behind me to arch his back and rake his hair, a cat waking reluctantly.
“I thought you were bringing them down with you?” I ask, as he is alone.
“I was going to,” he pauses to yawn and smack his lips together, “but they’re getting dressed.” He puts balled fists to his eye balls and grinds the sockets.
“What do you mean, their clothes are already here?”
“Oh right yes. Well, they’re getting dressed upstairs.”
“Upstairs! What do you mean upstairs?”
Although I can hear my own words coming out of my mouth, I am unable to stop myself from sounding like a complete idiot. I can hear screams from on high followed by a stampede of fast drumming feet. Junior appears before me and skuds to a halt. His brother is close on his heels, too close on his heels. They collide and swear at each other, “Barnacles!” “You fishpaste you are!” Palms of small hands check small craniums for damage. All is well.



They remember and spark to tell me the news simultaneously. They shout, loudly. They huddle, a skirmish, a scrum, to get as close to me as possible, to be the first to tell me the news. [translation = completely normal sibling rivalry]
“Me! me! me! Look at me!”
“No, no, no. Look at me!” they are all elbows and knees vying for position, thrusting themselves into my attention. [translation = as if I could do otherwise]
“I am clothes!”
“Me too, me too, me too!”

Combined, they make a writhing mass, a Medusa head. I shimmy between them, insert myself as a barrier, one to each hip, an arm to hold each one in position for a bear hug crush to stifle their words and give a clearer message. We cling to each other in the kitchen in silence. Their grins are so huge they risk splitting their faces. My own mouth widens uncontrollably. I feel a couple of elastic bands on my braces twang with the strain.

As with so many 'firsts,' it may well be a 'one off,' [translation = unlikely to be repeated in the near future] but that means that it's all the more important to savour the trembling moment.

Suck it up

This is a curiously annoying American term, which effectively advises the complainant to accept whatever is happening with good grace. This is the annoying phrase that comes to mind as I watch the grandmother of my children attempt to encourage them to smell a flower. It is very much like the same exchange that I have had endured first hand with my children for many a long year. [translation = no progress on this particular front] The main difference here, is that she is an even more mature woman but has the added impediment of being hard of hearing. The fact that they even give her the time of day, that fact that they tolerate such an unreasonable request, tells me volumes.

I would hasten to add that I have no idea if this is an 'autism' thing or a 'child' thing. For us is it merely the current status quo.

“Come on. You smell. Smell it. It is lovely. You try.” I have absolutely no idea why this is so difficult for them, both of them.

Their bodies are orientated towards her. Their eyes flicker across her face at intervals, no doubt checking for signs of sanity, if not additional advice. Her thick Italian accent still captivates them.

“I am smelling it?” he gasps, eyebrows reaching up to his hair line.
“What? I can’t hear you. Say it again.”
“I am smelling it?”
“That’s right. I want you to smell the flower. Here, come closer. Put your nose nearer it so you can smell it.” They shuffle their feet but don’t actually move forward. “Come on, try. It is lovely. You will like it.” She and I both know that flowers are of no current interest to either of the boys. They oblige her only because they love her, a fact that should not be glossed over. Even a year ago they would have been more likely to walk on hot coals, than willingly do anything for anyone.

She coaxes him. He takes a step closer, balances on the toes of one foot, lifts the other leg high behind him, ballerina style to blow his nose in the general direction of the flower.
“No! Not blow, sniff. Sniff it with your nose.”
He repeats the same gesture.
“Why you blow? Sniff it. Sniff it in, not out.”
“What it is ‘out’?”
“What? Say it again, I can’t hear you.”
“You say sniff in not out?” To verbalise something once is an effort. To repeat a question, was unheard of around here. [translation = only 18 months ago]
“Yes, that’s right. If you blow out then your nose cannot smell it. You need to breath in.”
He sucks in mouthfuls of air, goldfish style.
“No. Not with your mouth, with your nose. Your nose.”
“My nose cannot be opening and closing. I can only be doing dat with my mouth.”
“What? Say it again, I can’t hear you.”
“I SAID I CANNOT BE OPENING AND CLOSING MY NOSE. I DO THE OPEN CLOSE WITH MY MOUTH NOT MY NOSE.”
“You don’t have to shout. I am not that deaf you know.”
“Oopsie, sorree!”
“What you say?”
“I SAID OOPSIE, SORREE! Oopsie, sorry I shouted.”
“What? Never mind. Sniff for me. Sniff like when you have a cold.”
“I don have a cold.”
“I know you don’t have a cold right now but pretend, sniff with your nose.” He pinches his nostrils together and snorts dry snot.
“Don’t do that, it is dirty. Not out, in, sniff in.” She demonstrates. [translation = models the requested behaiour with great aplomb]
He blows his nose again. She slaps her thighs and laughs. “Can’t they sniff? Why can’t they sniff?” she asks me. She shakes her head and raises a hand to stop me answering what is now a rhetorical question.
Can I offer prizes for the correct answer? A virtual flower perhaps? Any answer? Any insight? A little clue? A hint?

Detour down a blind alley – the right to light

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dat fing?”
“What thing dear?”
“Da fing dat is not dah window?”

“Er…” I gaze out of the car searching for ‘what it is?’ is England, in the rain, driving on the wrong side of the road, where everything is very confusing for them, not the least of which must be the rain, driving on the wrong side of the road. “Do you have any more describing words to help me dear?”
“Um……when is a window not a window?”
“Oh dear, I’m not sure that that really helps lovey.”
“Er dat fing on dah houses which is looking like a window but it is looking like dah wall too.”
“Oh yes of course, silly me.”

Now that I understand the question, ideally I should like to provide a fully comprehensive answer that is capable of being understood by a six and a half year old. Preferably an answer that is full enough to curtail additional questions or confusion. I would prefer to avoid matters that they are unlikely to understand, like tax. [translation = abstract concepts such as money, currency, exchange rates and tax have yet to be covered] I need the conversation to be brief, as I have to move on to more important matters, namely the schedule for the day.

It is important to cover the schedule for the day, for otherwise uncertainty and stress levels will rise. I have already carefully worked out what to say about the schedule, smoothing the pitfalls and glorifying the moments that are of positive significance for them. This detour in the conversation is unscripted, or maybe my brain is just too slow to keep up with them. “Those windows were windows, but a long time ago, in the olden days, they bricked them up, got rid of the glass.”



“English peoples are not liking dah windows?”
“No, English people love the windows but ….
“English peoples have no windows so dey cannot see dah grey sky?”
“Er no it’s..”
“Dey have no windows to keep out the raining?”
“Er no, it’s that..”
“English peoples not want to see dah wonky roads?”
“All very good ideas but…anyway English peoples....I mean English, er .. British people, I mean you are half English, I mean you have dual nationality, you're English too, that is to say British. Do you remember that we talked about that?”
"What you say? I am half? I am dual? What I am?"
"Never mind that now, where were we?"
"We are in dah England remember?"
"Yes I know, I meant....what did I mean?"
"You are saying I am dah half a jewel."
"I was? Er, windows, we were talking about windows."
“Yes you are dah good rememberer. English peoples are keep dah houses warming?”
“Good one, yes, I know it’s cold but..”
“English peoples hate dah Windex?” [translation = Windolene]
“Not really, it’s just that..”
“English peoples don like blue?” [translation = Windex]
“Er..”
“English peoples are dah very stoopid peoples?”
“No dear, they didn’t like the tax. In the olden days the King said that people had to pay tax depending upon the number of windows they had, so because people didn’t want to pay too much tax they bricked up a lot of their windows.”

Three pairs of eyes examine houses in the rain with bricked up windows. I try not to count the houses. I try not to count the bricked up windows. I perseverate about how to explain the abstract concept of taxation to an autistic, speech delayed six and a half year old person. [translation = how can I avoid percentages?]

“Not stoopid English peoples, stoopid English King!”

Spoken like a true republican.

A place for everything and everything in it’s place

In the rush, I forget. I arrive at the school for pick up, just in time. [translation = to get a parking place] I gathered my small people and shepherded them to the safety of the car. There seem to be far too many legs and arms around for me to keep hold of and I am again grateful for the lovely car, or rather the lovely car’s automatically opening doors. As they slide open to allow for easy entry, junior stops dead and screeches as the top of his lungs. [translation = approximately 400 people turn in our general direction to see which child has a stake through the heart] Two children enter the car and take their seats, one remains steadfast on the curb incoherent. He assumes the position, curled like a shrimp on the pavement, his body appearing to have convulsions. The retching, choking noises are interspersed with rooster noises. [translation = better than screaming and an indication that verbal communication should be returning shortly] People step around him. Several kindly persons offer assistance. My explanation that he ‘will be just fine,’ appear to be a patent lie. Clearly the child is having a near death experience, whilst I, his mother sit by his side and stroke his back. I peer through the moving crowd. His teacher is at the door. She gives me a thumbs up sign and smiles. [translation = he had a great day at school, sorry the ‘great’ part of the day is now over]

His sister leans out of the car to check on his progress, “maybe five minutes? D’ya think?” Her assessment is probably more accurate than mine. [translation = of his recovery time] I nod and smile. She turns her attention to her other brother, where they entertain each other with crumbs left over from their lunch sacks. [translation = thank goodness it’s only one child having a meltdown with no knock on effect to the others!]

Junior realizes that he is on the ground. [translation = tactile aversion is playing second fiddle to whatever the current horror is] He flips over to make a remarkably accurate impression of a Russian dancer as he kicks his feet out to shake off the dust. His squeaks are timed perfectly. [translation = coordinated in time with the leg thrusts] He leaps to his feet, brushing off specks of dirt like a whirling dervish. Once he is satisfied that he has achieved the desired level of cleanliness, he sighs and droops a bit. I take this is my cue.



“What is so bad dear?” He sparks remembering what it was that set him off in the first place. He points a tremulous index finger to the interior of the car. [translation = the same car that we have had for two years.] I look too, just in case.
“You’re gonna kill me?” I look blankly at him trying to connect dots that I cannot see. He helps me out. “You’re gonna kill me wiv dat fing?” I notice the dust buster on the carpet, left over from my ‘blitz the car’ effort. I am so lucky that he is now able to tell me things.

“Oh that’s a mistake, I just forgot to put it back on the recharger.” The dust buster is one of his more hated domestic appliances. [translation = because of the noise] It is my habit, to announce in a loud voice that I am about to use a domestic appliance. [translation = this is a vast improvement upon having to all housework at night, when they are in deep sleep]

This is thus a two fold problem? Firstly, there it is, the hated thing. Secondly, the hated thing has popped up unexpectedly in the wrong place at the wrong time. [translation = boo!] I remove the hated thing and sling it in the boot. [translation = trunk] He takes a cautious step towards the car, examines the floor and gently brushes the carpet fibres where the hated thing had been lying, just to make sure that it is truly gone and that there is no cross contamination.

We drive home. “So! Does the car look clean?” I ask under the foolish misconception that anyone might care one jot.
“You wash dah car?” he asks incredulous. I have occasionally used an automatic car wash service. Once, I had the children in the car with me whilst it was automatically washed. My idea of entertainment and my boys’ idea of entertainment did not match. [translation = rats in a trap that is on fire]

To me, the presence of the dust buster signifies that I have cleaned the carpet at least, but it appears that this is not an automatic conclusion. I remind myself that I have a whole book about teaching inferences to autistic children. I remind myself that maybe I ought to dust off that book, instead of the car carpet. Seems that I do everything too "late."

Co-ordination and balance or Treason!

[Pre - holiday in England]

We return from the garden centre. I am full of beans. [translation = ready to plant]

My son is wasted. [translation = American term meaning excessively tired, as opposed to the English, term meaning inebriated.] I took him with me as he doesn't react quite as violently as his brother does to this kind of trip. Spouse cared for the other two.

Now don't get me wrong, I am entirely delighted that my two severely speech delayed boys now talk, it's just that the thought processes behind the production of those words, is still far too fast and complex for me to understand. More often than not, I tie myself up in knots. [translation = intractable ones]

My son collapses of the floor like the deflated balloon that he is, together with matching sound effects. [translation = shopping is exhausting for him]
“Whatcha got mom?” asks his sister with enthusiasm.
“Ooo I bought loads of lovely things just look!”
“Gee but you were only gone half an hour!”
“Really, it seems sooooooo much longer. [translation = ten minutes drive there, 3 minutes choosing, 7 minutes queuing, paying and packing, 10 minutes drive home] Anyway, now we have to decide what to put where? Want to help?”
“Sure!”
“So you remember the vine that died on one side of the arbors because of the frost?”
“Yup!”
“Well, should we replace it with this glossy Jackmanii, or this smouldering Stephanotis?”
Junior appears in the kitchen, “what you do! Plantings are in dah garden not in dah house! Dirty!”
“They’ll be in the garden soon enough, we just have to decide which one to put where? Do you want to help?”
“NO! I am hating dah gardin and I am hating dah plants also.”
“Fair enough.” He hovers close by, brewing.
I reconnect with my daughter. “So what do you think?”
“I love that velvety purple, that will look lovely next to the other three white ones on the back fence.” I pause. Two arches. Three vines. Three white vines.
“Hmm, maybe we had better put the Stephanotis there then they’ll all be white, and they’ll all be scented which will be lovely when you’re sitting there.”
Junior buts in, “what it is, ‘assorted’?”
“Um, various, mixed, that sort of thing.”
“Why you are calling him Jack den?”
“Because that’s what he….er, it is. It is a Clematis Jackmanii, it’s Latin, named after the chappy that bred him, er…. it…..I think.”
“What rhyme it is?”
“Rhyme?”
“Yes. What be rhyming wiv Jackmanii?”
“Er…….?”
“Jackmanii, Jack boy e i, Jill girl e i, e i e i o e i!”
“That’ll do nicely, well done.”
"He is ancient?"
"Who, er who is ancient?"
"Jack."
"Well, he...it's probably got a couple of years growth I suppose."
"A couple is two!"
"Yes, that's right, good boy."
"Argh, NO!"
"No?"
"You said he was ancient."
"Did I?" As usual I have completely lost the thread of this conversation.
"Yes, you said he was Latins. Latins is ancient too, he cannot be only two."
"Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Breeders give plants Latin names so that everyone in the world can understand them. It's a common language. It doesn't matter what language you speak, everyone......understands......Latin." I peter to a halt anticipating an onslaught of additional questions that I am surely unable to answer. However, to my surprise, he seems completely satisfied with this response. I turn to my daughter again, who has waited patiently [again] throughout.
"So, shall we make a start? Find the fork?"
Junior has been cogitating for a few minutes.
“But he is not a Jack, he is a ‘patio plant,’” he spits twanging the elastic of the label.
“He’s a patio plant too. A plant can be more than one thing. Just like you! You’re masculine, a scholar, a chanters, a lyricist, an American, a fleet of foot, a Brit, a feline friend, a chocolate connoisseur, a jester, lots of different things all at the same time, all rolled up into one little boy.” I stop my brief list. I wonder if he can translate all those terms. Should I have used simpler language? I wait for him to process. Why do I keep doing that? Using too many words?
"I not little," he asserts after a brief pause.
"True, you're quite big now." I wait a bit longer....reminding myself of the discrepancy between his receptive and expressive language skills. [translation = understands what comes in but can't necessarily come out with the right words]

“What it is ......‘a Brit’?” [translation = oh no, tragedy!]

We will be in England in less than three weeks. Pass me the Globe!

Not Jerusalem*

[Pre-holiday]

We drive home after school.
“I love bananas. I love bananas. I love bananas,” he chants in the seat directly behind mine. This is his latest quote. He has quoted it continuously for the last 16 minutes, the minutes, short ones, that it has taken us to get from his class room door , to the car. At least it is truthful, as bananas are one of his seventeen foods. [translation = neophobic.]
“Are we going to my playdate?” she shouts over the din.
“Are we going to my playdate?” echoes her other brother. She sits between the two of them, sandwiched.
“I love bananas. I love bananas. I love bananas,” he continues.
“Mom, can you make him shut up, I can’t think straight!”
“Think straight!” echoes the other.
“MOM!” she bellows, “DO SOMETHING!”
“DO SOMETHING!” he echoes.
I focus on driving safely from point A to point B. [translation = and people moan about cell phone users!]
He changes his tune without warning or preamble, “ oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Déjà vu!” echoes the other one.
“What is wrong with you two! Are you bein ghosts or summat!” I silently decide that my psyche is happier with the ‘banana’ ditty, but I say nothing as I pull up to the lights. We idle at the traffic stop. [translation = traffic lights on red] A car is next to us, all stars and stripes. [translation = patriotic] I debate whether turning the radio on will make things better or worse? [translation = louder or quieter]
“Oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Déjà vu!” repeats his brother.
“Stop it already!” she screams at one.
“Already,” he repeats, so she gives him the same treatment, with no discernible impact.
“Nearly home dear, not for much longer now.”
“Longer now.” I hear my own voice and tone waft back at me.
“Tell me about your day, dear, just try and shut it out, ignore it, let it drift over you.”
“Over you.”
“Oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Er, we had, we had assembly,” she struggles to remain focused, tuned in but shut out.
“Great! What happened? Any awards?”
“Oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Déjà vu!” repeats his brother.
“We er, sang songs, Star Spangled Banner and er…..a couple of other ones.”
“I actually know that one. We had to learn it for our Citizen’s Exam. Shall we sing it now, together, loudly?”
We sing together as the lights turn to green. I sincerely hope that my mother never overhears such treason on my part. [translation = she’ll put me up for adoption]
“There we go dear, thanks for singing with me. Certainly did the trick don’t you think?” I ask rhetorically. “You know I always muddle those two, the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful,” I add for no particular reason.
We pull into the driveway to park. As I open the doors, Junior springs from the car singing “America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!”
His brother falls out of the car after him, several stanza’s and steps behind him, “shining sea!”
How on earth am I going to fade this before we fly back to the UK? Will two weeks be enough? I debate whether a long distance phone call to remind my mother of the meaning of perseveration and echolalia, might assist? The thought of talking to my mother on the phone on this topic, whilst my son sings in the background, is enough to help me decide against it. I do not wish to have a discussion about his “American accent,” frightful or otherwise. I couldn’t care what kind of an accent he has, now that he has words at all.

*”Jerusalem” is a patriotic song sung in England. It is approximately the ‘same’ in tenor, and isn’t the ‘God Save the Queen.’
Jerusalem

Written by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green
And was the holy lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen

And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills
And was Jerusalem builded there
Among those dark Satanic mills

Bring me my bow (my bow) of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
Bring me my spears o'clouds unfold
Bring me my chariot of fire

I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my (my) sword sleep in hand
'Til we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land
'Til we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land

Send me a postcard!

We are off on our hols, but we we'll be back soon.

In the meantime, here are a few posts that you have may be missed before I joined the Hub.

Leave me a little note so I'm not all lonesome when we get back.
[translation = chance would be a fine thing!]

1. "The Joys of Autism - Progress for all"

2. "High What?"

3. "No Way Jose!"

4. "I am not a princess"

5. "Ear Wigging"

6. "Static"

7. "Trying not to be critical"

8. "Plan A"

9. "Hemorrhaging"

10. "Mother Knows Best"

11. "Umpire"

12. "Fixations - what to do?"

13. "Undiagnosed - are you quite sure?"

14. "Tentative Steps"

15. "Progress"

16. "Wife Beating and recouperation"

17. "Do we have to?"

18. "Come in Number 2 your time is up"

19. "Secretarial Skills"

20. "A Rose"

Play Ball?

It is a curious development. Pal comes over for a playdate with my oldest son. This pal loves to play outside. [translation = typically developing peer]

When we bought this house, it came with it’s own stick, a big one. At the top of the stick is a net for playing netball. I thought it was a bit of an eyesore myself, so I grew Morning Glory all over it as a disguise. This act did not endear me with the neighbours for some unaccountable reason. I was advised by those same neighbours, that the stick was meant for playing the popular game of baseball and that I should restrict my gardening activities to other areas of the yard. I was at a bit of a loss to know where the yard was, but I didn’t let that worry me unduly. But I digress.

Pal is very keen to play this sport with my son. We spend a considerable amount of time hunting down a ball. Pal informs me that our balls do not meet the required American standard. I am slightly deflated by his criticism but promise to seek out a bicycle pump to remedy this fault, prior to his next visit.

Pal attempts to dribble the ball. Instead it makes farting noises across the driveway. My boys find the flatulence of the ball to be an added bonus. [translation = hilarity] Pal is not impressed with either the ball or the guffawing laughter. [translation = foreigners fail to take sport seriously] I don’t really care one way or another. [translation = my boys are outside, a thoroughly loathed status at the best of times] My youngest son will not play at all. [translation = he must be the best and or win ]

Pal becomes teacher. [translation = coach, but not the vehicle kind] He shouts orders in an upbeat manner. [translation = sounds pretty professional to me, but what would I know, since I am unable to locate a sports channel on the telly] Junior takes part tentatively.

As an experience netball player myself, I can tell that he has great form. [translation = English game] Pal offers his opinion, “no, not like that! You play like a girl!”
I am confused by the comment. Netball is a girl’s game afterall, ergo, he is playing jolly well.
“Try it like this. Watch me. See! You hold it to your chest like this. No, no, put your hands the other way around. No don’t stick yur but out, bend yur knees.”
He does rather look as if he is about to lay an egg. Junior adopts the pose and lobs the ball up into the air. [translation = shoots] The object of the exercise is to get the ball to fall through the ring. The object crashes back down. Junior is incensed that his first attempt [ever] is a failure.
“I bad! I loser! I die,” he bellows.
As he bellows, he bends forward, pulls down his trousers, [translation = shorts] and sticks out his derriere. Pal pauses. [translation = frozen and transfixed at the age of 8] Senior roars with laughter. This behaviour continues for the following ten minutes.

I wonder how many of our neighbours are watching this development, as we cavort around on our driveway with a flat ball, three little boys and a net on a stick. I don’t imagine that they would consider this to be progress. Junior exposes his Spiderman underwear approximately 53 times. [translation = which corresponds precisely to the number of attempts he makes to throw the ball through the net]

Later that night I discuss that matter with his father.
“We need a strategy!”
“We do.”
“Which bit should we tackle first?”
“There’s more than one strategy here?”
“Yes, the ‘anti – trouser’ strategy and the ‘anit-negative talk’ strategy.”
“Ah. Which one is worse?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Well the ‘anti-negative talk’ is already an ongoing campaign, so perhaps we could concentrate on the trousers. An anti-flasher strategy.”
“Well, he didn’t really flash [translation = moon] he just displayed his undies.”
“It certainly gets the message across loud and clear.” [translation = universal comprehension]
“No meltdown though.”
“A new form of protest that isn’t a meltdown is………good, ……right?”
“Right!”
“Good?”
“Definitely, and he used words AT THE SAME TIME.”
“Wow. We are moving into pastures new.”
“He could probably get away with it in a pasture.” [translation = field]
“Pity we’re so urban.”

“Gosh!”
“What?”
“You don’t suppose he’s developing into, into…..a sporty type!”
“Blimey I hope not! What on earth would we do with one of those?”
“Can there be anything worse than giving birth to one of those athletic types?”
“The tragedy of it all. How do parents cope with such a disaster?”
“I can hardly bear to imagine. Too, too sad.”
“There again, you did play rugby.”
“Not by choice. Anyway, you played tennis, netball, badminton, and all those ‘throw the thing’ sports.” [translation = javelin, discus, shot put]
“It was compulsory.”
“So tell me? Is it more socially acceptable to drop your trousers in England or in the States?”
“I’m afraid I have no terms of reference.”
“?”

Shaving, wafer, after wafer

Many children, and some autistic ones, suffer a great deal of anxiety. Anxiety is often caused by predictable and understandable concerns. With youngsters, many of their anxieties come from a lack of understanding. Simple explanations can help to reduce their concerns and provide guidance as to how to interpret different things. One of my sons is overly concerned with tools that are sharp or made of metal. Knives, scissors and many other ordinary household items cause him grave concern. With my boys a great many of their concerns are unpredictable. They lurk ready to pounce when I least expect it.

Prior to our holiday, I have two pressing tasks to perform – pluck my eyebrows and trim the Passionflower. I start on the latter, secateurs in hand. Two boys play inside behind the glass doors with their father and sister. [translation = still allergic to outside] They don’t watch me, but they check up on me every few minutes. [translation = any attention given to a parent’s doings, that does not have any direct benefit to the child, is to be applauded. I have spent far too many years being completely invisible] Inbetween whiles, I yell instructions at them, every now and then. Frequently, I have my back to them and shout over my shoulder. “Don’t put it in the sink!” “Try and share with him.” “I’ll get you a snack in a minute.” I know that they are miffed by this, that I appear to have x-ray vision. [translation = as all mother’s have] Two wheelbarrowfuls later, the vine is trim. [translation = two weeks of California growth is akin to an attack by Triffids] I nip back inside and check that all is well.




All is well.

Broadly speaking, I attend to matters of personal hygiene either very early in the morning or very late at night when I am child free. Today however, I am out of time. I must attend to my eye brows and attempt to make my eyes visible by trimming the thatch above. I have approximately three minutes to complete this feat.

I nip upstairs stealthily. I put my nose to the mirror and try not to breathe. [translation = short sighted] With the tweezers in hand I attempt to remove as much hair in the general area of my brow as is possible. [translation = speed plucking is an unacknowledged skill.] Not for the first time, I consider whether a razor might be more effective. [translation = quicker] I achieve near baldness on the right side when I am rugby tackled by a screaming Banshee. “No, no, no, don’t do dat! Dat is bad! I love your wonky bad old eyes. I love dat they are old and mold.” I remove the tweezers from my right ear. [translation = stabbed] I look to my ankles where my youngest son is entwined, face down, eyes shielded by my moth eaten socks. I can’t bend down to him because I am hobbled by his vice like grip. His older brother leans against the door jam to survey the scene. I try to explain the concepts of ‘beauty treatments,’ to two clear skinned, perfectly formed male youths. It is an uphill battle.

“But why?” seems to be the primary refrain to any further and better particulars that I provide to them, by way of an explanation. There secondary concern, oddly enough, is pain thresholds, not theirs but mine. [translation = "theory of mind be damned"]

We give cursory attention to the OCD issues of personal injury, death, visits to the ER and other sundry related matters. I pop my glances back on and peer in the mirror. I calculate when another three minutes might be available to me, to tackle the other eye brow? After further discussion and reassurance, we make our way back downstairs. The boys walk in front of me, exhausted by yet another test of mental gymnastics. He puts a brotherly arm around the little one. “You know it’s o.k little buddy……she is always having dah other one you know.”
“What?” he snaps back. It always sounds like an accusation. [translation = lack or regulation and modulation]
“Dah udder eye in dah back of her head.”

For a truly fascinating perspective on OCD in adults, nip along to my pal, "Lotta" on "Mom o Matic." Brave and insightful.

Bump the hand that feeds you

[translation = when ‘speaking’ is not your first language]

Why do they do that? It is so annoying! You lean down to refill their bowls with food or water and they nudge you, spill everything everywhere, those darned cats. Why can’t they just hold back? It’s not as if they’re helping at all. It’s the same thing several times a day. Why can’t they keep their furry little heads to themselves? What is the point? I need to duct tape their tails to the floor at a discrete distance until the task is completed.








I wish I understood this behaviour. I wish they could tell me why they do it? Why can’t I chat to a cat? There again, there is not a lot of chat around here. Speech delays mean that whilst there are now words, sentences, ‘chat’ isn’t high on their priority list. That’s not to say that they won’t wax lyrical on their given topic of interest, but a monologue is not the goal. [translation = engineer that reciprocal exchange] There again, the girls had a double dose of the chat gene. How much ‘chat’ can one household contain?

I ask my younger daughter to explain this behaviour to me. [translation = animal planet addict] She rolls her eyes in response. [translation = what is wrong with my mother?] She’s growing up so fast. Soon she will be a teen, or should that be a tween and no longer wish to have any associations with me. I must try hard to keep the lines of communication open.

I track down the next one. [translation = superhero defender of the feline population] Now that he can talk, I must seek out every opportunity to ensure that verbal communication is reinforced. I need to find a preferred topic of interest but not something that his main topic. [translation = Pokemon monologue]
“But why do they do it?” I ask in exasperation. He looks at me, straight in the face, “because dey are cats,” he responds, un-phased, unruffled and slightly bemused. Verbal! How I love it.


I find both these explanations unsatisfactory and seek out the little one, he who used to be animal phobic but is now a fan.

I explain my query and then ask “but why do they do it? It’s so annoying!” I plead. He puts down his toy to give the matter his full attention. I see him calculate – ‘can I be bothered to talk to this woman?’ I need to avoid brushing on a distracter, not to be confused with a trigger. [translation = using a word that is of interest to him, such that your conversation becomes ‘off topic’ and then rapidly disappears down a rabbit hole to get lost in the warren] I push, “come, come with me and see the mess they make.” He holds my hand in an obliging manner and follows me to the utility room. I point at the cats. He lets his heels drop to the floor, which means he is going to stay. [translation = tippy toe walker] With hands on hips he examines the evidence and the cats in mid breakfast.
“Dey are eat.”
“Yes.”
“Dey are eat dah falling down ones.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. Look! Dey are eat the falling down ones first. Dey are eat the mess first. Dah mess is gone.” He looks up at me. “I am right and you are wrong. Dey are not dah messy cats, dey are dah clean cats. Dat is not annoying.”

Post script - [translation = post blog reading] At least my 'toileting' issue are mainly limited to the cat litter variety, unlike "Nik's mum," who I am sure would welcome some sage advice. Any sages around?

P.P.S. As I was tidying up before departure I accidentally deleted my folder with my bookmarks for all the autism, disabled and special needs blogs that I visit other than those on the Hub. [translation = oops] So leave me your URL so that I can make a new one please. [translation = or explain how I can retrieve the bookmark]
Cheers dears

Party favours and other irritations

Back in ancient times, party favours had yet to be invented. In those days, a child would attend another child’s birthday party, without a parent in tow as chaperon. The child was at the mercy of the birthday child’s parents. On conclusion of the party, if you were exceptionally lucky, you would be given a piece of mangled birthday cake wrapped up in a paper napkin to take home.

At some time between then and now, party favours were invented. These favours are purchased by the parent and given to;
A] every child in your child’s class
B] every child that attends the party
The parent can make life difficult for themselves by ensuring that the favours match the sex of the recipient. [translation = or ensure that the favours are unisex] N.B. don’t forget to also buy the very expensive little bags, also sexless, that come in packs of 6 or 8 or some other inconvenient number. Good, [translation = creative] parents also decorate the bags. N.B remember to purchase sufficient yardage of ribbon for approximately 40 bags.

The contents of the bags should ideally be the same in order to keep the peace. [translation = same may be boring for the recipient but it is better than different which provokes meltdowns] Technically, your child, the birthday child, should not receive a party favour bag because etiquette dictates that this is a gift for the invitee. [translation = ignore this rule as etiquette isn’t all it’s cracked up to be]

So far so good. Now you are poor, but still have all the big things to do.

It is tempting to skip the whole party favour bag nightmare completely, but that temptation should be resisted. This activity, of assembling the bags should be completed at the dead of night. [translation = whilst you are alone with no small people present to tax your efficiency and sequencing]

So what have we established so far? That Party favour bags, together with their contents should be banished from the earth. [translation – forthwith] What possible justification could one have for such rashness? Oodles of justification since you ask. The modern child is already over toyed! Remember to breathe! Or is that just me? so there we have it ladies and gentlemen, consensus. On a scale of one to ten, how annoying are party bags? Exactly! I was going to say 17 and a half too.

Now we have established the status quo, it is time for a rethink.
Must we?
Yes!

Firstly, etiquette, as etiquette is paramount around here. [translation = anyone in need of an additional spit bowl?] American’s by their very nature, are overly generous. Guests always bring large and extravagant gifts, so the very least one can do is acknowledge their kindness in attending. [translation = danger money] What else?

The distribution of the bags is the ideal opportunity to put all those painfully acquired social skills into practice, the give, the take, the words, now that he is 8. [translation = climb on your friend, without using any words, give him a bear hug to crush his little rib cage and kiss the nearest part of his anatomy that you happen to come in contact with] Great!

But there are also more subtle skills, depending upon your children’s current disposition. Maybe paper is aversive. [translation = tactile defensiveness] Maybe the fine motor skills are challenged? If you are making your own party favour bags, you can simply cut circles of non-scratchy cloth, wrap the contents inside and close with a loose elastic band. [translation = unless you are on the ‘quatrefoils or bust’ stage of development]

If you choose the contents carefully, you can produce a mini emergency therapy kit for the child, which has the added benefit of thanking the parent too. [gum, sunglasses, koosh, parachute guy, puzzles, kaleidoscope, whistle, gazoo…..all such ordinary little familiar things that can lead to therapeutic learning and play, extra special joy …….or a hideous meltdown]

Lastly, it took Temple Grandin’s book, “Thinking in Pictures," to help me understand the role of novelty in the human psyche. I still don’t really understand the joy of the novel, but I know that it exists. If ‘novelty’ can induce ‘play’ then it certainly gets my vote.

Post script - anyone have advice for those experiencing marital "disharmony?"

Early Days 10 - Happy and Healthy

In the early 1980’s I was a young divorced mother of one. Mum’s would chat and drink coffee, whilst small children played. We would speculate about our children’s future. That one would follow in the family tradition and be a lawyer, that one a doctor, this one and that one, and on they would go. When it came to my turn, I would always said the same thing, “as long as she’s happy, healthy and normal, I really couldn’t give a fig.” They would giggle and tease, ‘surely I must have some higher ambition for my child?’

As far as I was concerned, with all the ‘new’ dangers that young people were experiencing at that time, it seemed a very lofty ambition.

These days, with all the ‘new’ dangers that young people are experiencing today, such an ambition seems to be the pinnacle of achievement, although I’ve altered the motto to ‘healthy and happy.’ The healthy, I can manage as best I may, subject to the vagueries of the plague and other epidemics. The 'happy,' is a bit tougher.

It seems strange to me, that as a prime example of cynicism, pessimism and general doom, that the happiness of my children should be so important. [translation = grumpy, old, misery guts]

Americans are entitled to ‘the pursuit of happiness,’ which is all well and good, but the constitution is silent as to how you nail it down, assuming that during your pursuit, you manage to find it in the first place.

I can help my children acquire skills that foster a sense of achievement, self esteem and self worth. [translation = asking the rhetorical ‘why can’t you just be happy?’ doesn’t really cut it, autistic or otherwise] I am aware of the high incidence of suicide in the autistic community, and I can guess at some of the sources of their despair. I can visualize my boys as adults. They can dress themselves, catch a bus, make a sandwich, hold a conversation with words, and hopefully a lot more than that, but are they happy?

What makes them happy now, may not make them happy when they’re older. [translation = growth and maturity] I am doubtful that a parent can change a child’s innate personality, even if I wanted to. The raw materials are there to guide and mould, but all the therapy, teaching and acquisition of skills in the world, is not going to ‘create’ a happy person.

If you’ve come here for answers, then I’m afraid that you’ve come to the wrong place, [again] as I only have questions. Is it a legitimate goal in the first place? If it is, how do you choose the right path to reach the goal? Do you want this too, or are other things more important? Give me your best guess.

I would add, that earlier today whilst I was reading "blogs" with a small person by my side, we came across a picture on this "blog". It caused great consternation as we are about to board a boeing 747. Fortunately, once I explained that a "jet plane" is not the same as a 747, the logic saved the day.

Filthy Rich

I am not ear wigging, I am cooking. My daughter and her pal [translation = American friend] come in from the garage having chosen their snacks. [translation = in America it is commonplace to keep catering packs of excessive amounts of food in the garage] They nibble and play together in the family room. Spouse is out with the boys and the shoe campaign.
“Yur sooo lucky to have brothers and sisters to play with!” says the only child.
“Yeah.”
“You have soooo many toys!”
“Yeah, but they’re not really all mine. We have to share em.”
“Yur sooo lucky to have brothers and sisters to share with.”
“Yeah.”
“So you must be real rich, huh!” she says incredulously.
“Er, yes, um no, actually I don’t know?”

The conversation ends prematurely as the clank of the garage door gives us an early warning of the boys’ return. The noise of the engine is drowned out by the screaming from the car, even though the inner door is still closed. Pal turns to my daughter, “gee is he louder at home than at school?” Her eyes are wide, her head pivots towards the sound, an owl. She goes to the door to watch, my daughter follows. They see spouse trying to extract junior from the car, howling.
“Gee why is he cryin like that? Wuz he real, real bad or summat?”
“New shoes,” she says unhelpfully.

I hear the new shoes hit the ceiling in the garage. Junior now has a secondary problem. His feet are naked. Naked feet cannot touch the cement floor. Fortunately a few years ago I had some off-cuts of underlay [translation = carpet] left over. They create a safe passage from the car door to the kitchen door. [translation = a run way for the flight path] He bounces out of the car and his tippy toes propel him at high velocity to the interior of the house. The girls stand back, part the way, and watch the dust of his wake.

When her mother comes to collect the play date victim, most of the windows are open due to the heat. [translation = too mean to turn the air conditioning on yet] As they leave I cannot help but hear wafts of their conversation.
“D’you have a good time honey?”
“Sure but they’re so darned rich! D’you know they have carpet in their garage!”
“Really! In the garage?”


Pity it doesn’t work as sound proofing too.

Grammar

Although I speak English, went to English speaking schools and fulfilled their curriculum requirements, I don’t recall ever being taught English grammar formally. [translation = this is probably why I have such trouble with foreign languages] As luck would have it, I am expanding my knowledge of English grammar at my current advanced age of 46. I can manage noun, verb and adjective on a good day, but anything more than that is a bit hit and miss. I have read "Eats Shoots and Leaves," in recent years, but that was more for the purpose of entertainment rather than education. 'Between You and I' gives me a "ghost" of a chance, but on the whole I have other more pressing matters to tie up my brain with.

Strangely American schools teach English Grammar. [translation = as does "TEACCH"] This is proving more than a challenge to someone with such a tiny brain as myself. [translation = can’t teach an old dog new tricks] I struggle with third grade homework. [translation = and second and first grades too] More often than not, I am completely flummoxed by the old Kindergarten worksheets too. The sheet of paper has twelve little pictures for you to identify, but because it is in American English rather than English English, I am a hindrance rather than a help.

We sit at the dining room table fighting with homework. [translation = times three, although my maths skills are similarly challenged] They are simple line drawings, not that I think that coloured pictures would necessarily help. Even after all this time, whereby each of my children progresses through the school system, I still have a 33% failure rate in identifying these little pictures. I know that he can complete the whole thing in under a minute, but instead he prefers to paw the paper and drag out the whole exercise for the best part of an hour.

“It is a compound word?”
“Is what a compound word?”
“Chocolate pudding.”
“Er, no that’s two words, not a compound word. Seashell, sea and shell stuck together would be a compound word, or rather, is a compound word.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, stop messing around, lets get this work sheet done.”
“I can have a not compound word now?”
“How do you mean?”
“Can I have my chocolate pudding now which is not a compound word?”
“You can have your chocolate pudding after you’ve finished your worksheet.” He sighs and drapes himself over the table.

“Look at the sheet lovey. Ooops you’re drooling. Come along. Look at the picture.”
He looks and wipes and sighs. I nudge. “It’s a bed dear. B E D, bed. Can you write it on the little line underneath?”
“It not bed.”
“It is. Look! Look at the picture dear.”
“No bed.”
“Just three letters. You can do it.”
“NO BED.”
My daughter leans over, “he’s right.”
“What do you mean he’s right?”
“He’s correct then. He’s right and you’re wrong.”
“How else are you supposed to spell bed may I ask?”
“C O T.”
Well really!
“O.k. lets move onto the next one then.”
We trudge through the worksheet. [translation = amid much parental pain]
“What is this a picture of dear?” Now I really know the answer, but he has to find it for himself.
“Come on luvvy, it begins with a ‘c’”
“I know dat.”
“Good, so why don’t you just write it down here, on this little line.”
“No.”
“Only three little letters?”
“Not three, four.”
“It’s three dear, you’re already written it once.”
“NOT THREE, FOUR!” he bellows.
“Cot dear, just three letters.”
“NOT COT!” His sister leans over, “he’s right.”
“What do you mean he’s right?”
“He’s correct then. He’s right and you’re wrong.”
“How else are you supposed to spell cot may I ask?”
“C R I B.”
Well really!



He finishes up writing out the four letter word. [translation = I swallow all of my own four letter words]
“Now I can be having my chocolate pudding that is not a compound word?”
“Yes dear, of course. Well done for finishing.”
“You are sure?”
“Er…yes, of course I’m sure. I mean, what am I sure of?”
“You are sure that chocolate pudding is not dah compound word?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s two separate words and they’re not stuck together.”
He sighs with an air of melancholia. The English language, American or English is curse to one and all.
“O.k……… how about.......chocpud, it is a compound word?”
“It is now.”

I am beginning to appreciate that this isn't just a pond issue. [translation = US v. UK] but also a Canadian v US division. [translation = aren't they more or less the same?] If you like to cook, enjoy a challenge and are not following a gluten free diet, then you might enjoy this "recipe." I might enjoy it too when I can work out which continent I am cooking on?