Is it all a big lie?

One of the many failings of autistic people, from society’s perspective, is their apparent lack of interest in people. They appear to lack many of the attributes of sociable behaviour. [translation = check out DSM IV] Part of the matter lies in some people’s human nature, mine, for instance. For instance, when my children were evaluated for autism, I was not particularly surprised that they didn’t know their own last names, address or telephone number. [translation = they only knew this information if they were prompted to sing it, and I don’t think the ‘experts’ knew the right tune.] What did surprise me, was that they did not know MY first name, MY favourite colour, or MY favourite food. [translation = how outrageous!]

At the time, which seems several centuries ago, I assumed that they just couldn’t find the right words, [translation = speech delay] or it was one of those touchy subjects that invoked a meltdown. [translation = triggers] The implication was, that I was off their radar, as were my personal preferences. [translation = of no interest] To have someone, an expert, explain that you do not exist in your child or children’s world, is sobering.

So many clues had been available to me, such as when they had to draw their mother at school, but wouldn’t. [translation = major meltdowns] I chose to see this as ‘couldn’t,’ because I knew that holding a pencil and touching paper was abhorrent. [translation = tactile defensiveness and poor fine motor skills]

I am aware now, of the many excuses I made for my self, but at the same time, the clues had to be balanced against the other evidence, such as their ability to name every dinosaur that ever set foot on the planet. [translation = and pronounce it correctly] Their enthusiasm for their admittedly narrow interests, was all encompassing, and misleading to a dim witted parent. [translation = none required] How could I be off their radar when their constantly required me to carry them? [translation = both at the same time until the last two years] They couldn’t be undemonstrative when the hugs were so often and demanded with such desperation?



The whole subject of autism was a locked box to me. [translation = steep learning curve]

I am prompted out of my reminiscing daze by my youngest autistic, speech delayed son.
“Do wimmins have wallets?” from the child who loves the letter ‘w’.
“Some women do.”
“Do you have a wallet?” A personal question, directed at me, a social question.
“I do!”

Now he opens the box for me. I hereby declare that it is safe for me to drop off the planet and join the dinosaurs.

And on the subject of "lying."

Is there such a thing as double yuck?

I had them over, [translation = against my will] to three sets of all too willing hands, but I avert my eyes so I do not have to look at the disgusting things. I find it hard to believe that I have shelled out hard cash for these most revolting items. [translation = $3.99 each] I remind myself that it’s all in the cause of therapy. [translation = cheap at the price]

Each child offers thanks in their own unique way.

“Thanks Mom, it’s kinda gross…. but in a cool way!”
“I fink maybe I am liking it a little bit, or maybe not, or maybe…….I don know,” his hands pump the vile thing, which calms him, [translation = just as it is supposed to do] and narrowly avoids a meltdown.
The little one squeezes it tight and offers, “woozy woozy woo! We love you! Yes we do!” by which he means that the therapy toy is a hit.


“I think dey are horrible!” offers Nonna, in her strong Italian accent as she pulls a face. She said out loud, what I thought myself.
“Hey mom! Nonna said a bad word.”

It's always so much better when minds think alike. I think that’s probably a triple yuk, but of course that is merely my own very narrow perspective.

Danger lurks around every corner

I take my youngest autistic son to the supermarket with me. [translation = grocery store] To say that such an errand was akin to punishment, would be an understatement, but I am out of options today. Like most children, shopping is one of his least favourite activities, [translation = me too!] but malnutrition is but one missing meal away.

I have carefully chosen an alternative store. This alternative store, has one overwhelming advantage over it’s competitors, one that the store owners are probably blissfully unaware of. The shop has electric doors, which are the bane of many a parent’s life. [translation = they’re open, they’re closed, hop in, hop out, get in the way off all customers who arrive or leave, as they are invisible, chortle merrily throughout]

However, in this particular sanctuary, the electric doors have foolishly been located in close proximity to the produce section. [translation = fruit and veg] Few things are as obnoxious as fruit and veg, to my son. The stench of produce is more than sufficient to curtail his door activities, or at least that is what I am hoping.

The produce department has long been an area of fear and dread because periodically, water sprays down upon the lush vegetation, a mist of glistening droplets. Whilst for most people this adds to the enticement, for others it is a deterrent. [translation = sensory] Should you see a small child scream and run for cover amongst the boxes of green bananas under the tressel table, clearly he is a hooligan on a quest to trample fruit. Or even a larger child for that matter.

I have only three or four items on my shopping list. I encourage his help but he will have none of it, nor will he touch the list. He won’t touch the small piece of favourite yellow coloured paper, because it is paper. [translation = tactile defensiveness, but we’re working on it] Additionally, my list is hand written and fails to meet his standards of cursive letter formation. [translation = I imagine that he would find fault with the copperplate of monks too]

I nearly trip over a basket that some idiot has abandoned in the middle of the aisle. Why do people do that? The inconsiderate nature of the general public never ceases to amaze me! My son chortles, “Elliot is idiot, Elliot is idiot, Elliot is idiot.” His scripting is right on target, which is excessively irritating. [translation = many speech delayed children use clumps of words that they collect from here and there. More often than not, the spirit of the phrase is accurate, like a dart.]

To distract himself from the pain of shopping, he reads every label aloud, loudly. This innocent pastime engages him as he bolts around with his arms folded across his chest in a protective gesture. He startles and jumps at things that I am unable to identify. [translation = hyper-vigilance] In the dairy aisle he fondles eggs and cooes gently at them. Strangely, eggs, any eggs, are always soothing to both the boys. It is as they have magical powers, even though neither of the boys eat them. This is the calmest 7 seconds that we experience.

He queries labels and harangues me with questions with every step. For every step that I take, he takes ten, rushing around in the style of a skateboarder. I choose my last item. [translation = grab something that looks vaguely like what I want and hurl it in the basket] “We are done?” he sparks.
“We are.” He accelerates off in a tail spin to the bakery department to choose his treat. [translation = task completion and reward time, for holding it together for 12 minutes]

He skids to a premature halt aghast at the view. I look at the cakes and notice that each set has a hand written label. [translation = it would appear that the bakery does not employ monks] He covers his mouth with his hands and bounces on the spot. [translation = a dilemma of the tallest order, how to look at the cakes and yet screen out the offensive labels?] He agonizes for a few more moments before a bolt of spare bravery comes to his rescue. He takes one long single step, very slowly, to bring his body close to the glass. He stands rigid with his arms close to his sides and his eyes closed. He breathes slowly and deliberately. When he’s ready, his eyes snap open and absorb the cakes.

“What is it?”
“What is what dear?”
“Petit?” Oh dear, a new word, a foreign word. Do I want my son to learn foreign words at this juncture? Other than "Brioche?"
“It means ‘little’ dear.”
“Why it is four? Why it not three?” [translation = his current favourite number]
“It’s the name of a cake dear, "petit four," means little cake. It’s French, a different language.” [translation = actually it means ‘little oven,’ but I didn’t know that at the time] He mouth starts to move, he puffs and blows like a steam engine pulling away from the station.

“Dat is dah most stoopidest…….”

Oh dear. A level 8 meltdown ensues to the horror of all the surrounding shoppers. At six and a half, he is too large to be rolling around on the tiled floor screaming. There are too many feet and too many table legs for this to be safe. I have no option but to scoop him up and retire to edge of the wall.

Seven minutes later he has still not regained the power of speech, but he is able to lift an arm to point. I follow where his index finger indicates. The sign on the cakes reads ‘Large Petit Four.’ For him, to have ‘little’ and ‘large’ in the same description, on the same label, is too much of a contradiction for him to be able to fathom or tolerate.

I decide to give it best. [translation = admit defeat] I leave my basket of four items un-purchased. I carry my son, limp, exhausted and ever so slightly damp. [translation = ignore the rule about ‘no carrying under any circumstances’ = another campaign failure] Surely there must be something edible in the freezer at home that I can unearth? I sneak one of the cookie samples for him as compensation. [translation = and pray to the basket collector to forgive me my idiocy]


Recently, someone, probably 'anonymous,' implied that I might indeed be losing my grip on my rather tenuous sanity. Should you care to share your own opinions on this vexing matter, please comment upon whether I really do have a "screw loose."

England, my England! [two]

There are many dangers associated with foreign travel. I imagine that these dangers multiply considerably depending upon the number and ages of your traveling companions.

We live in suburbia in San Jose in Jolly old California, but once a year we make our annual pilgrimage home to England. Many people would not describe such a visit as ‘foreign travel,’ but that would be a mistake.

In our case we discover a new and heretofore unknown, phenomenon. [translation = danger] Whist many autistic children are drawn to light switches and enjoy turning them on and off for considerable periods of time, [translation = stimming] we have not had direct experience of this with our own children. [translation = perseveration] Although we have visited this same rental [translation = holiday home] for three years, I hardly even noticed the table lamps. Although our Californian home enjoys the wonders of modern electricity too, we do not possess a table lamp anywhere on the premises.

Nonetheless during our annual sojourn to England, we find that there are no less than 8 table lamps, the same table lamps that have been in situ on each visit, but this time they truly make their presence known.

I can confirm that I’m not a fan of table lamps, a highly dangerous domestic appliance in my humble opinion. Why are there so many of them? Why are they all so unstable? If you pick up a table lamp surreptitiously and try to run away with it, you are instantly horizontal on the floor clutching your tale lamp, because the plug in the wall refuses to let go. Maybe that’s the true problem? If we had American outlets instead, then the plug would simply fall out of the ball with accompanying blue sparks to allow the child on the other end, to depart complete with table lamp. [translation = jettisoned] Such matters are so hard to evaluate.



I can’t accurately account to you, why exactly they haven’t featured in our life style to date, but they’re definitely in a whole new category of ‘things to be avoided.’ There again if we had packed duct tape to bring with us, perhaps that would have been a way to make the darned things less portable? Either that or nail them to the furniture. [translation = lose deposit on rental] How many table lamps can a six year old carry in one instance? Is this something that we wish to test? Are there any studies that have already been completed in this matter that we might benefit from?

I am uncertain as to why he is suddenly fascinated with them? [translation = probably because they are new to him and they're quite pretty] I do know why he is collecting them and lining them up, because for me, that particular little light bulb was switched on some time back. [translation = stress due to 'new' place, where organizing things is calming and gives a child a sense of control]

When I tuck them all into bed,
I let him sleep with just one of them.
[translation = but remove the bulb]
If a lamp had magical properties in days
of yore, then who am I to deny him his
Talisman.

As we attempt to evaluate
if we should stay in the States
or return to old Blighty,
table lamps will be fairly
high on my list of cons.


At least that is one item that I will not be buying either side of the pond, because I detest "shopping."

England, my England! [one]

I find that I am so used to the political correctness of my adopted country that I completely forget that it is otherwise elsewhere. [translation = senility advances] I am reminded of what I take for granted, by visiting home. [translation = England for a fortnight]

We’re on a tight schedule [translation = timetable] and visit friends for lunch. Because we are on a tight schedule, our friends also have other friends for lunch at the same time. [translation = three couples plus our children] This is a fortunate turn of events because we all know that our friends’ friends, will be our friends too.

After lunch, I help my friends clear the table. The kitchen is awash with the dirties. I excuse myself for a moment and nip to the loo. [translation = restroom] The window is open as I wash my hands at the sink. [translation = ear wigging is one of my many more reprehensible habits.] I can hear my friends’ friends talking on the patio outside. I idle. I listen. [translation = ear wig]…….

“Do you think his head has anything to do with it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well it is unusually large, don’t you think? You only have to look at the two of them side by side and it’s obvious. He has a huge head. It's like a medicine ball. I’m sure there was a study out about head size and other abnormalities.”
“Yes, now you come to mention it, I do remember hearing something like that too.”
“They’re quite sweet though.”
“Yes.”
“Quiet though.”
“Hmm, don’t have much to say for themselves. Need to learn to speak up for themselves.”
“Do you think that’s the speech delays or are they just shy?”
“Difficult to say.”
“She said they’re ……..getting better or something or other.”
“Hmm, well that’s a mother for you I suppose.”
“If that’s better, then what do you suppose they were like before for goodness sake!”
“One hardly dares imagine.”
“There’s that nice school down the road from where Frederick and Felicity live.”
“What one would that be then?”
“Oh you know. School for the deaf or something, but I think they take all disabled children.”
“Well that would be bound to help. Anything to get them to talk surely. They must be experts at helping speech, don’t you think.”
“Well it’s looking a gift horse in the mouth if you ask me.”
“Why does she keep banging on about occupational therapy though?”
“No idea! I mean really! They can walk. It's not as if they're really, properly disabled. They look perfectly normal to me!”
“Just ordinary children really. Mind you, the older one’s a bit…well, er…how can I put it kindly? Er ….floppy.”
“They call that a Klutz in America. What a dreadful word!”
“Oh right! A bit of a butter fingers.”
“Hmm. The other one is so……….busy.”
“Oh yes, right. Busy. Busy as a little bee, buzzing around. The energy of the young.”
“I know.”
“She’s quite a little madam.”
“Who?”
“The daughter.”
“I know! But parents do tend to over compensate when one, ….well two children are, er, abnormal.”
“Quite.”
“Can’t blame them really.”
“No………..I suppose not. They’re not doing her any favours though, molly coddling her like that. They’ll pay for it in the end, ultimately. Spare the rod and all that.”
“They’d be so much better off back here, with family support, friends and such.”
“Indeed.”
“Better to be amongst your own people.”
“Oh yes, definitely. Nothing like home when you’re in trouble.”
“And are they ever in trouble!”
“Do you think they realize?”
“Must do, surely.”


.............. well we surely realize something! [translation = ain't that the truth]

To be fair, these kinds of 'friends' exist in all countries. I prefer these kinds of "friends," that Estee Klar-Wolfond over at the "Autism Acceptance Project," but maybe that's because they're global.

Since bias against one's country is reprehensible, I also speak from the other side, over "here."

Sweet and Sour

A very long time ago, my mum would meet her chum [translation = British] for coffee in Dingles. [translation = a department store in the House of Fraser chain] Every Thursday morning after she had completed her shopping, there they would sit, to chat. Very occasionally, I would accompany her. During their chat I would nibble sugar lumps surreptitiously. [translation = delusions of invisibility were quite possibly a foreshadowing of my future existence]

Some time during the intervening years, I found that I lost my sweet tooth. Despite this loathing of all things sweet, I took up the hobby of sugar craft in my late thirties, at about the same time as multiples of very small people also entered my life. [translation = 3 babies in 34 months]
One day, a pal of mine came over to visit for coffee. [translation = American] She leant against the kitchen counter as I scrambled around my house chasing the aforementioned small people. Because I had a small galley kitchen, I was always at pains to keep the counters clutter free to increase the available working space. Behind her, at the back of the counter, I had a large collection of sugar creations in the process of being created, together with the tools necessary for such a hobby. [translation = very fiddling, time consuming hobby] Otherwise the space was clear which meant that the sugar animals stood out in stark relief against the cream coloured walls. She admired my handiwork and then asked how such delicate confectionaries remained in tact? How come they were not all smashed, eaten or stolen by the little sweetnesses in my life? [translation = the aforementioned children] I muttered something about the height of the counter and a certain lack of climbing skills but I knew that this wasn’t strictly true. [translation = my three year old daughter was a climber, early, but she understood that touching was not permitted]

Later, when she had left, I had a nano second to consider why it might be, that my sons were not interested in stealing the sugar animals that I have made so lovingly for a birthday cake? I hunted for my inner child that I carelessly mislaid a couple of centuries ago.


Did they hate sugar like me? That must be it! Somehow it did not ring true. I was unable to recall any children who ever refused sugar. Perhaps they thought they were real toys and not made of sugar? I tried to think of any child that would not be lured by the sight of a toy on the kitchen counter. I was unable to recall any children would be able to resist the temptation of a new toy either. Were they simply too short to see the back of the counter? I hunkered down on the floor and looked up at the counter to check. No, a perfect view of lots of colourful, adorable animals made of sugar. I lay on the floor instead just to check the view. I was unable to see the sugar animals which made me feel much better. I lay there for a little longer waiting for waves of relief to wash over me. Unfortunately my floorboards turned out to be wave free, so I stood up instead. [translation = also to avoid being trampled by the stampede of small feet en route to the dinosaur collection]



To this day, I still find it odd that despite my innate love of ‘whodunnits’ I failed to investigate this more fully. [translation = denial?]

Some people are just never happy

And of course I would be one of them!

Some people are under the misapprehension that I am an unnaturally happy person and have no complaints. [translation = in the realms of autism at least]

Such people, I would have you know, are quite wrong. Generally speaking, I usually feel much better if I am permitted a jolly good moan. It can be cathartic to just write things down that bother you. I am given to understand by my psychobabble pals, that the act of crumpling up the paper and burning it, funereal style, also helps put an end to the process. [translation = closure]


You see whilst both my boys are autistic, each 'type' of autism that they have, differs from the other, which is very tiresome for a parent with a small brain. If that wasn’t enough to contend with, they also have speech delays, but each child’s speech delay differs from the other, which is even more bothersome for a parent with an even tinier brain.

Currently, now that they are much less speech delayed than they were a few years back, we now face the annoyingness of small people who wish to communicate. [translation = verbally by using words instead of meltdowns]

For instance, I have no idea how many hours of your waking life you spend talking? Some people are chatterboxes, and others are little more reserved. Some people chat noisily, whilst others are much more modest and reserved. It all adds to the variety of human existence.

How many hours should a baby babble for? That is a fact that I once knew, but have somehow managed to mislay. [translation = rapid advance of decrepitude]

Around here, my more verbal, speech delayed, autistic son, babbles as he breathes. There is a constant stream of noise associated with this particular chappy. He emits little mouth noises, ditties, refrains and catch phrases without pause. If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed that he would have worn out his vocal chords over a year ago, especially if you take into account the screaming sessions. I would prefer not to take account of the screaming sessions, but as it is, it’s all part and parcel of snapping those neural pathways into shape. [translation = practice makes perfect]

In the meantime, I am tempted to wear ear plugs, [translation = but not all of the time] to blot out the barrage of sound. If I were to wear ear plugs all of the time to lessen, but not eliminate, the excess volume, this would mean that I would probably miss my other son's attempts to communicate. Both brothers suffer from a severe lack of volume control. [translation = one is so loud that he could burst your ear drum with one piercing shriek, but the other one is so quiet that he would need to have a megaphone attached to his mouth to amplify his whispers.]

It's all so grossly unfair. [translation = confusing] Why can't they swap a bit? [translation = trade] Why can't motor mouth keep quiet for a while and hand over some of his excess verbiage to his silent brother? [translation = the one for whom I can count the number of sentences he utters a day] I have to face the truth, that I am just naturally grumpy.

Now stand back from the screen so you don't singe your eyebrows, as I have a match in my hand. [translation = and it's lit]

For a health update on one cause of general grumpiness, go "here."

Powers of invisibility

Back in the days when I was a student, I would often leave my contacts lenses out and live the day in a myopic blur. Sometimes this was due to vanity. Other times it was because I preferred the challenge of recognizing people by their colour fuzziness. I was always surprised at how accurate my people recognition was without, the benefit of a good view or prior to voice confirmation. It was a combination of different factors such as general shape, pattern of movement or gestures that no doubt assisted me.


Just after ten I feel ruthless. I throw out three pairs of malfunctioning kitchen scissors. [translation = it is audacious to call yourself a pair of scissors if you cannot cut anything] I nip out into the garden on an errand of mercy to make up for the crime of rampant wastage. The air heaves with heat. [translation = malfunctioning sprinkler system] I attempt to give the kiss of life to my crispy garden clutching a hosepipe, whilst I contemplate the meaning of life, the universe and everything. [translation = double therapy]

It is more difficult than I thought to water the garden in the dark. [translation = trip over the cat and land in the rose bed without a thornless variety in sight, even if there were some light with which to see] All I can hear is the rush of the water and the singing of the crickets. [translation = children abed and asleep] I wonder how many more deaths there will be in the family? [translation = Hermit crabs] I pick thorns out of my legs in the dark by touch and try to remember when I last had a Tenanus jab. [translation = shot]

I return via the garage to grab a pair of pliers. I attack all the pokey bits on my braces that have lacerated my mouth. [translation = maybe I’m an engineering type afterall! Or a budding dentist?] As I tweak the last little needle point braces wire into place, all the lights go out in the house. I stand in the kitchen with a pair of pliers attached to my teeth wondering if I will have to remain in place until daylight. [translation = something expensive might snap something off]

Spouse comes to the rescue. [translation = goes outside and untrips the trippy thing]
I know that I am being punished. I know why I’m being punished. I am being punished for teasing an autistic child this morning.
This morning…………………

I stand at the kitchen counter fiddling with the lap top. [translation – paying bills] He emerges from the family room into the small narrow kitchen, calling my name. [translation = probably in need of assistance] I pause just too long, awaiting the confirmation receipt, motionless. He continues to call my name and walks past my back. My head flicks round to watch his back disappear. My fingers drift from the keys and all of me follows my son at a discrete distance. [translation = I can’t help myself, even though it is a mean trick] I follow in his wave as he calls and searches. I still find it hard after all this time, to fully appreciate his perception. [translation = because I am an outsider looking at the outside] He is familiar with my form. I am not wearing brown, which might make me blend in with my surroundings like a Chameleon. The kitchen is very narrow, so narrow that as often as not he will travel the 10 foot corridor like a ball, bouncing off each surface in turn.

After a few minutes I give up and reply, “here I am dear.”
Because I am still behind him he startles, a couple of micro-moments after I have spoken. Seconds pass before he snaps his body around to face me, the source of the disembodied voice. His huge eyes focus on my five foot six form [translation = adult to child ratio] and he startles again.
“Der you are! Where you were? You are dah magic?”

I smile. [translation = meany]

I bet the cat’s still laughing at me.

And maybe the "dentist" too!

Insatiable curiosity

Nonna is visiting for the summer. She is a little hard of hearing but has the debatable benefit of hearing aides. [translation = where are they?] She attempts washing up amid many gallons of water and a non functioning tap, [translation = faucet] whilst I make lunch for the masses.

“When will it be fixed?” she asks at the fountain streams and floods the kitchen counters and floor.
“Two weeks for the parts to come and heaven knows when we can ever find a plumber,” I bellow. [translation = or afford one]
“Is it original?”
“Original?”
“Did it come with the house or is it new?”
“I have no idea.”

I mop the floor with old towels as the boys attempt to skate. [translation = fall over, bump themselves, get very wet and have meltdowns for all three reasons]

“Why it is?”
“Why is what dear?”
“Why it is wet?”
I point to the broken tap.
“No!” he screeches with annoyance, “no, why is dah water wet?”
“Water is always wet, that’s what water is, wet!” I am annoyed at my inadequate explanation of something so straight forward. I am annoyed that the other one has run away to hide with a catering sized jar of peanut butter. [translation = in America these jars are the same size as a small person's head] I hunt him down, leaving the other two questioners to their own devices.

“Come along now, you know that’s not good for you. If you eat too much you’ll be sick.”
“Why I am sick?”
“No, you’re not sick.... yet, but you will be if you eat too much of that, it’s too rich.”
“Rich? You mean expensive?”
Pardon me! I didn’t know he even knew that word and such a perfect delivery!
“Er, no, not expensive, too…….too……fatty.”
“Fatty! Fatty? Is not being fatty it is……er……..a solid liquid. See?” He extracts a finger from the jar with a slick of peanut butter. I hear Nonna squeak in response to the cascading tap and scurry back into the kitchen clutching the jar of peanut butter to my chest.

“When’s lunch gonna be ready mum?” my daughter asks quite reasonably as I reach across the sink.
“At this rate we’ll be lucky if we’re ready by dinner time!” I mutter under my breath. [translation = evening meal time] Instead I offer something more optimistic, in the hope of stemming the tide of enquiries, if not the fountain of water, “just give me five minutes dear.”

“How many seconds are der being in dah five minutes?”
“300!” I snap as I set the visual timer.

“Is it new that?” asks Nonna, flapping a hand in the direction of the timer. I think of all the timers that we have in the household but I have no idea in what order we bought them nor how old this particular timer is. “I have no idea. Newish I think.”
“You had it last year when I was here?” she continues. I think. We’ve had the visual one forever.
“Yes.” I am confident that is the correct and truthful answer.
“I don’t remember it,” she murmours. I am uncertain how or if, to respond in view of the number of hours I spend looking for the many accessories that she possesses, but is unable to find.

She stacks the last cup on the side of the sink in a precarious position. “What about this one then?”
“What one?”
“This thing here…….the dishwasher. Is it new, or did it come with the house?” I take a deep breath. I cannot quite work out why I am so irrationally annoyed with this innocent question? I am tempted to run round the house and take an inventory of every item to date stamp each one. [translation = post date] I exhale as the next round of questions come flowing from a couple of speech delayed people.

“When I am gone?”
“Pardon? Do you mean ‘where have you been’?”
“Er, no I .....'mean?'....., er……..what it is ‘been’? Bean? Bean! Mean and bean rhyme! I do not like bean.....er ....beans.”

I feel that I have lost the thread of every conversation.

“You think this is a new one?” asks Nonna waving the sodden towel at me.
“No, definitely old, almost a rag, only used for mopping up.” At last I have identified an accurate fact.
“It looks like brand new to me!” she baulks.

“Mum!”
“Yes dear.” I try and suppress the ‘what is it now’ tone in my voice.
“Do you think that Hermit crabs can smell?”
“Yes. They definitely have an enhanced sense of smell, so that they can find their food and sense enemies approaching.” At last I have identified an accurate fact.
“No. I mean can they smell. They smell bad. Do you think one’s "died?”

“What it is?” shouts the next one at full volume.
“What is what dear?”
“It is dah midnight blue or dah indigo?” I grit my teeth and look around for anything, anything at all, that could remotely be described as blue. I can see nothing within my immediate vicinity. [translation = or his] “Can you point to it dear?” He takes his hand out of his pocket, uncurls his fingers and reveals a tiny piece of lego.
“Mid blue” I pronounce.
“Midnight?”
“No, just mid.”
“Can I be putting dah little ‘l’ and dah little ‘e’ after dah mid?”

I have the urge to go and dead head the roses, or shred a head of lettuce with the sharpest knife in the drawer or cut the grass with a pair of nail scissors. I decide that my brain has died and that I too, have completely run out of words. [translation = or at least any useful ones]

Mirror, mirror, on the wall - Beauty from within

One’s outward physical appearance has the first impact. Whilst it’s important to be well presented, that is to say clean and tidy, otherwise, it is not important at all. [translation = not one jot!]

Most of us are aware of the pressures upon young women about their appearance. Since I have two girls, I have always been at great pains to concentrate upon their inner characters.

Since my eldest daughter is on the cusp of her 26th birthday, I have had a great deal of practice. [translation = self esteem for all children is essential] As a result of all this practice, I am indeed a past master about sweeping aside the frippery and trappings of fashion. [translation = second to none] Do not come to me in your pink frilly skirt with your face made up and your hair just curled. [translation = show me your soul instead]

My youngest son presents himself before me standing at attention like a soldier. [translation = although he is leaning like the Tower of Pisa] Our eyes meet. I wait. I wait because I think he is about to tell me something. We spend a few moments in frozen silence whilst I debate whether or not to prompt him. [translation = risk breaking the spell, invoking a meltdown] He raises his eyebrows several times in what I assume to be a meaningful way. Indeed, rather a suggestive manner! [translation = but what is he suggesting?]









“Am I hansom?” Ah! His eyebrows were prompting me! Such sophistication, such subtlety! [translation = I qualify for the 'thick as a brick' award of the day]
“Oh yes, your hair looks fabulous. What a great job you did brushing it all on your own.” Hallelujah!










“I am hansom?”
“Well, hansom is as hansom does.”
“What?”
“Er, hansom is all well and good, but it’s your inside that is far more important.”
“I cannot be brushing my insides. Oh how stupid you are being today! How am I be brushing my insides? I do not like dem anyways.”
“Forget about your insides for the moment, who told you that you were stupid?”
“No-one is telling me I am stupid today. I am telling you dat you are dah stupid person.”

I pause, that phrase was so pat. [translation = perfect intonation of someone in authority, the perfect sentence that tells me that it is really someone else’s = echolalia] Who was it? [translation = be assured that I will track that person down, I will store that speech pattern forever, an lo, be afraid, be seriously afraid] He breaks my distraction with, “you are being stupid now, er ……I mean, you are still stupid?”
“Lets concentrate on the outside again, your lovely brushed hair. My! but you look suave!”
“I am suave?”
“YES!”
“What it is dah suave?”

Perfect. [translation = and definitely not stupid]






suave (swäv)
adj. suav·er, suav·est
Smoothly agreeable and courteous.
[French, agreeable, from Old French, from Latin suvis, delightful, sweet; see swd- in Indo-European roots.]
suavely adv.
suaveness, suavi·ty (swäv-t) n.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2003. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

ThesaurusLegend: Synonyms Related Words Antonyms
Adj. 1. suave - having a sophisticated charm; "a debonair gentleman"
debonair, debonaire, debonnaire
refined - used of persons and their behavior; cultivated and genteel; "she was delicate and refined and unused to hardship"; "refined people with refined taste"
2. suave - smoothly agreeable and courteous with a degree of sophistication; "he was too politic to quarrel with so important a personage"; "the hostess averted a confrontation between two guests with a diplomatic change of subject"; "the manager pacified the customer with a smooth apology for the error"; "affable, suave, moderate men...smugly convinced of their respectability" - Ezra Pound
politic, smooth
diplomatical, diplomatic - skilled in dealing with sensitive matters or people

Alive and well

Just before six in the morning I spot an email from my eldest daughter in Mozambique. [translation – on the cusp of her 26th birthday] I pause just long enough to read the first and last line: “Dear Mum” “Love Tamsin.” Although it has arrived via her e-mail address there is always the possibility that she has been dead in a ditch and someone else has tracked me down with the terrifying news. [translation = the neurosis of a mother with adult children] I zip on by, to attend to my youngest son and his toileting.
If I were a sensible person, I would admit defeat and print out her message to read, but in my endeavour to save the planet by using less paper, I hold back. [translation = especially since my oldest daughter is a hug a tree / save a whale type of a woman]
I attempt to shovel cereal into two small boys who appear to have mislaid their oral cavities. [translation = and their arms don’t seem to work this morning either and have been replaced by limp, overcooked, spaghetti strands.]
My eldest daughter is not a secretive type, but she generally fails to pass on pertinent information, such as her return date. In my email to her, I asked her a number of very specific questions in the hope of eliciting the information that my mind so desperately needs, such as ‘are you alive?’ My dreams have been inhabited by wild animals of a carnivorous frame of mind, whose quest for their next meal generally consists of her various body parts. I am disappointed that it is always a black panther, my favourite, that appears to be chewing off her toes as I awaken with a start.

My son falls off his chair for no particular reason and lies on the floor covered with cereal and milk. {translation = failure to properly supervise] Not for the first time, I am tempted to ask if everyone could stop being autistic for three and a half minutes so that I can read the letter in it’s entirety, without interruptions or distractions? My other son bangs his fists on the table to tell me “I am explode dah toilet,” and promptly does so, without the benefit of being anywhere near the vicinity of the aforementioned toilet. I debate whether to clean up the son with cereal or the son with other matter? Should the first accident take precedent due to timing? I decide that I am clearly unfit to be in charge of anyone. I am not phased by either accident because both kinds are so frequent. [translation = I am more concerned that no-one is hurt or ill or both]

I am completely mystified as to how my gene pool could have created a make your own igloo, Banana slugs are my friend, hiking / biking, trek round Tibet solo, kind of a daughter? There again, on the whole I remain happier if I refrain from examining my own gene pool too carefully. [translation = let sleeping dogs lie]

I regret that I failed to fit her with a monitor, so that she could zap me every 24 hours to reassure me of her well being. At least I know she was truly alive at 2:24 a.m. when she sent the e-mail. Maybe the monitor should ping every hour, or minute? I ensure that my exterior oozes, calm so that my boys’ level of anxiety does not rise. Although they are generally oblivious to my existence, I have a tendency to leak magnetic stress molecules. The elastic rope around my waist pings me back to the stake by the computer, via a bucket of hot soapy water and a scrubbing brush, so I have no option but to read another few words. The words I read are ‘renewal of contract,’ before I’m snapped back to the table and small people, where one complains about his malfunctioning spoon. I replace his fork with a spoon. [translation = one implement looks very much like another unless you are truly interested in eating]

During the course of the morning, I travel back and forth through the narrow galley kitchen many hundreds of times. The lap top computer and the email message are on display for me, but time and the opportunity to read more than a single word or line, do not present themselves. I skid through on route to the family room and a small person who calls my name. I slow to a stop, pause, freeze frame, read half a sentence and then speed up as the name calling increases in volume.
I debate whether it is possible to renew an annual contract by a day, or maybe two if I’m feeling really generous? I decide that I am not feeling generous, really. I decide to practice being generous, my weakest suit. My son presents himself before me. All his clothes are on backwards because I wasn’t paying enough attention. [translation = I further resolve to practice being generous] I tell him what a great job he has done and then bite my lip because what little generosity I might have ever had, is leaking away.

“Why you are a cartoon?” bellows my youngest son.
“A cartoon?” I repeat, tearing my eyes away from the screen for the umpteenth time.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I… er…….understand. Can you say it again dear?”
“You are dah run, you are dah stop, you are dah read, you are dah run, again.”
“I am?”
“Yes, today you are dah cartoon, again and again and again.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You are dah electric.”
It would appear that I am no longer invisible. [translation = or can they see the blue sparks from my brain that escape through my ears?]

My mother said….

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?” Are we still on this spot? I’ve given up trying to turn it the other way around, from ‘what it is’ to ‘what is it,’ but I still inwardly groan at the questions that emerge from nowhere, without clues. Questions out of the blue with no referencing? Why can’t he add the bit that he wants to know about? Why does he leave that bit, the essential bit, out? I purse my lips and remind myself of the joy of having a far less speech delayed child than I once had.
“Dah ‘disobey’?”
“Disobey? Well that’s when you’re asked to do something and then you don’t do it.” I don’t add ‘just like you,’ but I think it. [translation = if you think an evil thought, it’s just as much of a sin as if you had done the deed]
“He is disobey.”
“Who is?” Reference back please, fill in the blanks. Why do I have to extract these from you?
“Daddy.”
“What did he do?” Come on now, you can do it!
“Oh you are dah stoopid!” he chortles agreeably.
“No more stupids.”
“Ah.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. [translation = regroup and find his place again, since I interrupted his train of thought with an unwelcome reminder.] His speech has improved beyond measure but I still keep hampering the poor child’s progress with irrelevancies.
“I say……he is disobey……..dat is he DIDN’t do what I said.”
“What did you ask him to do?” One complete sentence at the beginning could have eliminated all of this.
“I say he must OBEY my rules and HE disobey! Dat is dah opposite.” Spouse appears at the tale end of the conversation. [translation = and it is one, a conversation that is to say, where he offered information for mere social purposes] Spouse joins the conversation with his own contribution: “what?”
“He was just telling me that you disobeyed him, didn’t obey his rules.”
“Really?”
“Yes, just like the ditty, ‘my mother said, I never should, play with the…er……um people, in the wood. If I did, she would say, naughty girl to disobey.’”
“I’ve heard that before somewhere, but it was different somehow. Why is it different?”

I try to cut him off, to stop him thinking what the missing word is, the "politically incorrect" word that we don’t use any more. If my son hears that word, he will want to know what it means. Once he has heard that word, he will repeat it. [translation = often] I know that it is a word that he will adore. He will adore the word because it has two ‘y’s in it.
“Er, now what was it? Say it again and it might jog my memory.” [translation = word retrieval]
“What it is?” splutters junior.
“What is what dear?”
“Dah word dat he forgotted?”
“He forgot it.”
“No I haven’t, it’s on the tip of my tongue…..er……umm….”
“He is dah stoopid too?”
“We don’t say stupid any more. No, it’s just that when you get………” I peter out as I try and avoid using the word ‘older,’ but he’s ahead of me.
“You mean old and mould?” he squalks as he leaps from his chair in response to the trigger word that sets off alarm bells about death, dying and general morality.
“No, no, no, it’s just that sometimes it’s hard to remember a particular word. You have that sometimes and we do too.” I nudge spouse to encourage him to also offer words of balm, but his cranium is still full of whirring cogs. Why did I make a fuss about ‘stoopid’ and risk falling into the quagmire of OCD instead? [translation = the far lesser of two ‘evils.’] I nestle him onto my lap for a squeeze, [translation = calming deep proprioceptive input] stroke his back and feed him single Goldfish crackers with the other hand. I hope this will be sufficient distraction.

I try to think of words that rhyme with it. I can’t think of any, apart from tipsy, which wouldn’t make sense and doesn’t have two, very essential "‘y’s."
“He did fogortted or he is not forgotted, which it is?”
“He forgot, he can’t remember. Oh dear. Never mind. Better luck next time!” I chant in my sing song, ever so annoying tone. I glare at spouse commanding silence, but he is oblivious, lost in the labyrith of word recall. His eyes widen as he emerges from the maze, which puts an electrode to my own brain so that I can shout “PIXIES! Don’t play with the pixies in the wood.”
Spouse frowns and raises his index finger prior to verbalizing his objection.
“PIXIES!” I shout, bringing my face and eyes far to close to his.
“Oh! Yes. I see. Pixies it is then. Wouldn’t want to give you a word with two ‘y’s in it now would we?”
“Two ‘y’s! Two ‘y’s? TWO ‘Y’S! What it is? What is da word being wiv two y’s? I want it. I want dah word wiv dah two ‘y’s.”

Ah yes, finally, at six and a half, he manages that most supreme of skills, the pinnacle of reciprocal conversation, where his question actually references back to the thing that he wants to know about. Hallelujah!

What is autism? And more lizards

His love of "lizards" grows daily. The three pets cluster together as he examines them minutely through the glass.


“ I am calling him 1RMA.”
“You are? Why are you calling him Erma.”
"Not Erma, 1RMA!" he bellows.
"Oh. Why?"
“Coz dat is his name is being.”
“Why Irma. Irma is a girl’s name. Is he a girl now afterall?”
“No! He is a boy, stoopid one. Dat is why he is being named 1RMA.”

I suppress a sigh. My stupidity is rapidly becoming legendary. Where did he come across that name? A bit old fashioned or is it merely American?

“Why Irma.”
“Coz it is dah name ov dah ONE dat has babies.”
“Babies?”
“He has dah babies in his tummy bit.”
“Boys don’t have babies, except seahorses, sort of, remember, we talked about that?”

I wrack my tiny brain, waiting for connections. I give up.

“Why Irma?”
“Cos ‘I’ is like dah number ‘1,’ dey are like da same fing, and 1 is better than 'i'.”
“Fair enough. What about the rest of it?”
“He is dah first reptile muvver of dah A.”

I keep my expression blank but I suspect that my blankness is interpreted as blank rather than neutral.

He sighs, deflates a bit. I am stretching his patience.
“Here! Give it me!” he commands snatching the wipe board from my ineptitude. He writes…..... 1 R M A...... which he explains verbally means
1 = I or first
R = Reptile
M = Mother
A

“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”
“A is meaning Autistic.”
I take a deep breath. I look at my son. I push my shoulders back.
“What does autistic mean?”
“Agh! You are dah stoopid one! I sorry. I sorry you are so stoopid.”
“I am sorry I’m stupid too."

I debate whether to continue or let it rest. Do I really want to know the answer? Will I understand the answer? Will I provoke a meltdown?

"What does autistic mean dear?”
“Evvyfing, but it should be started wiv dah ‘A’ not dah ‘E.’ Dat is stoopid too. It is stoopid to have evvyfing start wiv dah fifth letter, it should be start wiv dah first letter of dah alphabet, dah A for autistic.”

Is this a moment of supreme depth, profound and meaningful, or the random meaderings of a small person? I have no clue. I need to talk to my sensible cynical self, before I delude myself that I'm in charge of a genius rather than autistic child who appears to be developing an imagination. [translation = autistic children are renowned for this 'deficit.'] My sensible cynical self tells me to climb down from my tree. [translation = ivory tower]

He skips off leaving me with a riddle that I cannot unravel. I await enlightenment from an unknown source. Are reptiles autistic? Are lizards autistic? What is the common denominator? Why don't I know as much about lizards as I once knew about dinosaurs? [translation = pre Thomas the Tank engine and his disreputable rabble.]



But ‘Irma’ whoever you are, and wherever you may be, I am your number one fan.

Esperanto

Many moons ago when I was just a wee young thing [translation = eternally optimistic] I was confident that this universal language would be the norm by the time I was an adult. Brits are notorious for the weak language facility, especially when compared to the rest of Europe. I skipped over the need to learn Esperanto myself, as I was having more than enough difficulty with French, German and Latin. I longed for the day when I would understand everyone, no matter how they spoke, a time of understanding and tolerance. No more conjugating verbs, declensions and fiddling about with the past imperative. No more pesky ‘amo, amas, amat.’

I have cause to review my weakness in communication skills, as I examine my son’s Speech and Language evaluation prior to his IEP.

The word that leaps of the page at me is ‘unusual.’ His speech delay is well documented but the words ‘atypical’ and ‘unusual’ keep on cropping up.

When I first came across ‘atypical,’ when all terminology was confusing, I was non-plussed. His kind of autism was ‘atypical,’ as was his speech delay. This description tripped me up initially. I had to keep reminding myself that there was ‘typical’ autism, whatever that might be, and ‘typical’ speech delays, goodness knows what they might be, and then there was my son, the ‘atypical’ one.

His speech pathologist gave him the usual barrage of tests prior to the IEP. From this she produced her report, her detailed report and recommendations based upon her findings. She is spot on in every respect. I scribble all over her report, as is my wont, as my son sidles up to snuggle into my side. I underline the numerous identifiable reasons as to why he sounds so much younger than his chronological age of nearly 8. [translation = when he is able to speak loud enough for anyone to hear him] I also ponder her query regarding the pronunciation of the letter ‘R.’ Is this due to immaturity or the English disease? [translation = r’s do not feature as prominently in Britishspeak as they do in American English]

“What you are do?” he asks mid nuzzle.
“I’m reading this report from Mrs. B about your speech.”
“Speech?”
“Yes.”
“It is good it is bad?”
“Good! All good, very good.”
“I is good at dah speech.”
“Indeed you are.”

His feet pummel me, pleased and happy with his performance during testing. He beams with satisfaction, “maybe…..maybe….maybe I don neeed dah speech therapy no more!” I think maybe that depends upon who is listening? [translation = future perfect]

Campaign Consolidation

I determine to return to my former self, the efficient, ‘plan ahead’ self. A decade ago I would plan the year in advance, set goals, note all birthdays and anniversaries well ahead of time. [translation = allow for the vagaries of the international postal system] Then, all of a sudden, a whole slew of babies descended upon us. [translation = fertility increased due to imbibing American water and breathing American air]

I decide that baby steps are the order of the day and therefore limit my planning to ‘Summer.’ Nevertheless I am determined to consolidate and co-ordinate campaigns to date, in a seamless trajectory towards the goal of ‘progress.’

During the Summer we with reduce our footprint on the planet in a few fundamental ways. Firstly, laundry shall be minimized. [translation = instead of changing filthy clothes after each meal consumed, we shall dispense with the need for clothing] Furthermore this campaign will be co-ordinated with outdoor eating to reduce cleaning. [translation= the birds will benefit from the crumbs, clumps and other debris and spills] Bodies are so much easier to wash than clothes. As I have no plan to tumble dry my children after washing, this will further reduce our electricity consumption. In an effort to cut electricity consumption, living outside a hot house, will negate the need for air conditioning. Everyone will be cooler if not burdened by clothing.

Now what have I left out? [translation = missed.]

Now I’d be the first to admit that there are a couple of stumbling blocks in the great plan. It’s not that I’ve forgotten that I have ‘inside bodies’ rather than outdoorsy ones, but that little bump in the plan can become part of the plan. [translation = further desensitization to ‘outside’] All elements of the plan can work together harmoniously. Their education will be considerably enhanced through nature studies. [translation = mother nature and all her little pals are our friends not the enemy] We can practice a whole slew of new vocabulary. [translation = greater than Venus flytrap, bee, lizard and locked gate]

I refine the plan and mine for details that I might have missed when spouse appears. I tell him the good news, that the campaign is nearly ready. I advise him of all pertinent elements.

“All this to save the planet?”
“Indeed!”
“And you’re sure you’ve thought this all through?”
“Absolutely! Faultless! It is the perfect plan.”
“It has a familiar ring to it.”
“It does?” In what manner?”
“Naked screaming children in the garden – isn’t that precisely where we were four years ago before therapy started?”
“?”



It’s just as well that someone has a functioning memory bank.

Apply that!

There’s no nice way of putting it really, so I’ll be blunt, frank and to the point. Pointless is precisely what they are! They have no useful purpose in life. Our lives would be so much better without them really when you think about it for a moment or two. Apart from anything else, they just take up too much space, to say nothing of the ghastly effects that they have on the environment. All things being equal, I would have to say that when all’s said and done, we ought to simply ban them and oh how so much better the world would be, to say nothing of the quality of life.

I’m in a strong position on this one as we completely ignored ours for three years, didn’t so much as even say hello to it. Well you wouldn’t though really, would you? I may be a few eggs short of a clutch but they would definitely cart me off in the wagon if they found me talking to a dishwasher. To be fair, I was prejudiced against the appliance due to it’s colour. Who in their right mind would have a Avocado green kitchen? But that’s American’s for you in a nutshell. [translation = that should be a stone under the circumstances, an avocado stone that is to say]



Since we are all too familiar with a least a hundred reasons why dishwashers should be banned, I won’t enumerate them here, merely concentrate on some of the more obvious drawbacks. The first of these would be space, or lack thereof. I can think of at least a thousand things that would better fill that hole, than a useless dishwasher. [translation = tiny galley kitchen]

The second obvious reason, is that they don’t actually clean the contents of the dishwasher, merely spread the mess more finely over every item and then bake it on hard for an hour.

The third reason, and last for our purposes, would be dependent upon other adult personages that share the same household as you. Some grown up personages, feel the need to wash every item prior to putting it into the dishwasher. These same personages wash each item with one gallon of flowing water per piece. [Translation = 160 "fluid ounces" rather that 128 "fluid ounces," as the "Pilgrim Father’s" mislaid a bit on the way] This, of course, is known as overkill. Why wash what is already clean?

I am glad that we have managed to reach a democratic consensus on this matter. We should now turn our attention to the issue of the environmentally safe disposal of the banned items. However, I can hear a noise in the kitchen and I shall return shortly to conclude.

I enter the kitchen.

“What on earth are you doing?” I splutter rhetorically.
“I am not dah earf I am dah boy!”
Typical, fell right into that one.
“You look very wet,” I suggest to my tactiley defensive son.
“I am not wet. Er… I am wet. I am clean. I am do dah cleaning of dah fings. All dah fings are being very cleaning, er …clean,” says my OCD hygienist.
“So I see.”
I see a small wet boy, who has removed every item of his wet clothing. He stands on a wet step, at the sink that is overflowing with water and enough soap suds to carry off a good advertisement for bubble bath. There probably are some things in there, but they’re hard to discern amongst the foam and froth.
“Usually…..we use the dishwasher to wash those things.”
“I am knowing it but dah dishwasher is bad.”
“Why is it bad?”
“Because when dah fings are coming out of dere, dey at hot and I cannot be using dem when dey are hot.”



That of course, would be the fourth reason.

Joe et al and everyone

I read a longer than usual post from "my pal." I read it and I tried to think of the right comment. [translation = lurking penalty]

Thought provoking posts are often painful to the brain.

My brain has stirred.

The trouble is, that I know that I could be a jolly good mum with the right preparation. [translation = perfect] I could spend all day studying and preparing. After that I would be able to fully devote myself to the perfect hour with my perfect children. I would be superb. Everyone, expert and novice, would agree that my performance would be second to none.

Unfortunately, the hours are not quite so conducive.

Fortunately, I am in a different place than I was a few years back. I have that precious commodity, time. But it's a recent development. I remember the exhaustion of physically carrying two smallish people.

I know that it's a long road and that there is no easy fix from my other "pal," because Susan is a trouper and lets me see the road ahead.

If I really stretched myself, being an elderly person, I could envisage myself putting in a European working day. [translation = 7 hours]

For some unknown reason, some people expect me to be a parent all the time. [translation = how unfair is that!]

Anyone reading this is likely to be a parent. If you are a parent, I suspect that you're doing your best. Your parents also did their best. We all do our best for as much of the time that we are able.

It can never be enough, what could ever be enough? But we are all in the same club, exclusive, unique and welcoming.

Best wishes and cheers

Light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance

Experiences of our childhood colour our lives, little time bombs waiting to go off.

When I lived in South Africa as a child, a kindly neighbour noticed my interest in Chameleons. I was fascinated by their colour changes. [translation = because everything from my previous existence in England, was grey] I would park one of this leaf and watch patiently. I would remove it to an alternative venue and watch, patiently in my new technicolour world. The lady, and clearly she was one, leaned over the fence, white haired with a countenance of innocence to whisper, “you know, if you put them on something red, like a flower, they explode! You won’t ever do that though will you?” I nodded and then shook my head in agreement or possibly disagreement. I was aghast and mesmerized by the thought. Was she teasing? Do proper ladies tease? Could it possibly be true? Even at the tender age of 7, I was still too cowardly and guilt ridden, to give it a go, but the tantalizing thought has haunted me ever since.

These days, my concerns are much more down to earth.

I return from the shops. [translation = store] to find my children on self destruct. The chaos is overwhelming. [translation = never leave the house for more than 33 minutes at a time] I debate whether to unpack shopping or tidy first? Instead I consider dragging out the colouring materials, in an attempt at entertainment of children in a static manner, so that I can manovre around them.

My youngest son is already at the table, peering into the glass aquarium that houses the lizards. The aquarium is surrounded by many coloured pens, scraps of paper and scissors.

“Look! He is dah bomb! He is about to exploding!”
“Pardon! Say it again. What do you mean? Did you say explode?”
“Look at him!”
I look. I look more closely.
“He is going upsie downsie upsie downsie.”
I look. Isn’t that called breathing?
“Any minute now….boom!” he chuckles.
I yell at spouse, “did you let them watch cartoons whilst I was gone?”
“Lookie, lookie, lookie!” he continues, finger tips tapping the table.
“Did you feed him something?”
“No! He is waiting.”
“What is he waiting for?” Am I really having this conversation?
“Surprise!”


His nose is pinned to the pane. Little plumes of breath steam and disappear. I examine the lizard. He looks the picture of health to me. No signs of imminent combustion, but my knowledge of lizards is limited. Are lizards related to Chameleons? If they are related, are they first cousins or something more remote, like third cousins removed twice? Why do I not already know this?

I try again. I ask the expert. “What do you mean? What have you done to him? Why is he going to explode?”
“Lookie, lookie, lookie!” he giggles, with the hugest cheesy grin. What can he see that I can’t?

I increase volume, whilst keeping a watchful eye on the lizard and my son, “did you let them watch cartoons whilst I was gone?” I yell at spouse.

Spouse disengages himself from the computer that he is attached to, and pops his head around the door jam, “what?”
“Did you let them watch cartoons whilst I was gone?”
“Only a couple of minutes. Well, maybe half an hour or so. Perhaps a …..er……”
“What were they watching?”
“I don’t know. Cartoons. I think…that’s right……..educational cartoons.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“Anything about lizards perchance?”
“Er…….don’t thing so.”
“Chameleons?”
“Chameleons? Why Chameleons?”
“Any Animal Planet?”
“No, just cartoons, er educational ones.”
I can’t work out if it is better or worse that they haven’t been watching Animal Planet.
“What did they watch!” I squeak.
I return to the aquarium for another look. “What is that in there with him?”
“What?”
“Yes, what is in there with him, that piece of paper?”
“Dat piece of paper is a rainbow for him so he can be finding dah pot of gold.”
“It is a rainbow.”
“Yes, dat is what I am saying. A rainbow will be making him happy.”
“Do you want to make him happy or do you want to make him explode?” What happens to a Chameleon if you put them on a piece of paper coloured to look like a rainbow?
“He will be happy when he explodes.”
“He will? Why would anyone be happy to explode?”
“Because when he is exploding all his babies will be coming out of his body.”
“Why do you think he is having babies?”
“Because he is dah fat tummy. Dah fat tummy is explode.”



Clearly my lecture on the subject of the birds and the bees fell on deaf ears. [translation = the lizards weren’t listening]

Do unto others

We attempt rational review rather than ranting and raving. Why is it that I have to herd cats with jelly legs [translation = children] whereas HE sweeps about with a school of well trained fish? [translation = children] I try and keep the tone of ‘grossly unfair’ out of my voice, during the discussion. What is it that he does or doesn’t do, that I am do wrongly or not doing? What is the difference? He shrugs his shoulders with a blank expression in return. I try again to extract the pertinent facts from my husband. What is his secret? Why won’t he share?

On the whole, due to spouse’s commitment to work [translation = voluntary servitude] he isn’t home very much. When he is at home, during the weekend, [translation = sometimes but not necessarily awake] he will often take the children out for a jaunt. [translation = especially lately due to maternal malfunctioning] During such occasions, small people remain vertical and move about as a unit. This is in direct contrast with my own experience where those same small people either lie down or run away or both. Now this is a man who might directly benefit from such behaviours. [translation = weight issues, diabetes and high cholesterol mean that frantic burst of exercise would be a plus] I should really like someone to explain why our experiences are directly opposed? Who should I ask? The perpetrator. [translation = the man with parenting superpowers]

His excursions with the children are not without event, but it’s a question of the order of magnitude. [translation = Richter scale.] It has long been my experience that I have failed to perform to the standards that others expect. [translation = could do better] Generally I hover between E for effort and F for failure. For myself, I am content with ‘better than yesterday.’ [translation = slacker] Be that as it may, for the most part, I am more than happy to cheat and lie to gain a better grade, and for the right now, I long to plagiarize, but he won’t give me as much as a peek.

“What?” he asks.
“What what? I didn’t say anything?”
“You didn’t have to, I can see your question written all over your face.”
“Really! How very astute of you. So what is the answer then oh great one?”
“22.”

It's always 22, regardless of the question.