Food and growth

Many people have a hard time understanding why the parents of special needs children are so incredibly inefficient.

So many of these children are more than capable but their parents get in the way of progress. [translation = a lawful impediment] Most parents have the best of intentions, but sometimes it can take a very long time for what appear to be simple skills, to be mastered.

In this particular household, we have been struggling with mealtimes for many a long year. For one of my sons, food is aversive. Like many children, food is of no interest to him. [translation = refueling stop] A wise parent would open a catering carton of Goldfish crackers and be done with it. [translation = guilty as charged] Other more foolish parents, know that the food campaign must be maintained. [translation = what’s a few more months or years at this stage of the game] I already know, that there is a very fine line to be followed. [translation = push to hard and he can not eat for five days straight] I also know that we are slowly moving in the right direction. [translation = from 3 foods to 17 foods in three and a half years]

We start our day before it is light. My son drapes himself on the table shoveling breakfast cereal into his mouth that remains open, whilst he attempts mastication. [translation = many speech delayed children have a hard time controlling where their tongue is, in relation to all the other bits and bobs in there] He attempts to talk at the same time. [translation = bad table manners but how we love those moments of voluntary communication]
“When it is?”
“What is what dear?” I think for a second. Did he just say ‘when’ rather than ‘what’? He did! I blink and await elucidation.
“I din say ‘what’ I say ‘whennnn!’?”
“Yes, thank you. I realize that now. Seems like my ears aren’t working properly this morning.” How many more failing body parts am I to discover?
“Das o.k.” So magnanimous. I wait. I do not prompt him to continue because then I might jinx my chances. I wait a bit more, listen to the crunching cereal and watch Cheerios ping around to various quarters of the room. [translation = one of the penalties of poor lip closure]
“So…..I say…..when it is?”
“When is what dear?”

I wonder how I’ll manage with this new phrase and my new response? Maybe I should dig out a new response to use for the next six months? What new response would be a better response?

“When I am having my snack?” he bellows as he chucks his spoon into the bowl with a clatter, clutches both tightly, springs from the chair with the skill of a gymnast, skitters to the sink, flings them both into the bowl, flips back around 180 degrees with a grin from ear to ear to finish with, “coz I finish my breakfast and I am being dah hungry!”
[translation = balm to the barmy ears]
Gold medal winner that he is.

Ah poor little chap! The sympathy vote

From our visit to England

Little chap attempts to compose himself in the car. The wailing has waned as we make ready for our public appearance. We are in a holding pattern until we can return to civilization. [translation = the holiday flat] Fortunately I had a towel handy, as you do when you go for a beach holiday in the rain. I’m not certain what size of towel it really is? Too big for a hand towel, too small for a bath towel. Whatever size it really is, is unimportant, as it only serves the purpose of covering him from waist to mid calf.

One corner of the towel is very soggy. It is soggy because he has been chewing and biting it for the last twenty minutes. I am uncertain why it should be, that people in great pain should find relief from their pain by biting? I do know that before the days of anesthesia, victims were encouraged to down a pint or two of ale or something stronger, and would have a cloth inserted into their jaws to bite upon when the pain became too much to bare. Was this to protect their teeth? Is there an instinct to clench one’s teeth in times of great pain? I can think of childbirth where women were also given similar relief; bear down and bite down. There must be something in it.

I also know that for one of my sons, when he experiences pain, he is apt to bite anything within biting distance. The thing that is usually within biting distance is me, as I rush to assist him with whatever injury he has currently inflicted upon himself. Broadly speaking, stuffing the end of a towel in a six year old’s mouth, is an act, likely to be misinterpreted. If the stuffing is accompanied by screaming, indicative of someone being impaled by a 6 foot stake through the heart, a parent’s actions fall into an entirely different category altogether.


Having overcome the latest dose of public humiliation and risked the summoning of the Child Protection League, we are now recovering our equilibrium in the car.
The rest of our party are already ensconced in the pub, where luncheon has been ordered. They await our presence. Junior assures me that his wounds are such that even the thought of food is enough to move him into a state of stomach churning vomiting. But I also know that he is hungry. If we can just reach a state of relative calm, I am confident that consumption can be achieved and malnutrition warded off for another 24 hours.

The wet corner of the towel is a source of distress but the rest of his bodily condition is of greater distress. We practice our breathing and gird our loins as we step out of the car. I hold the towel around his personage at the back. [translation = the lady in waiting holding the train] He hobbles towards the door, a cross between John Wayne, Long John Silver and a ballerina on tippy toes.

We are observed by a mother putting her baby into the car and assisting her elderly parents to do likewise. She smiles at me, a warm smile, “oh dear, little bit of an accident? Never mind, you’ll be right as rain soon.” She shuts her car door and gives us a little wave. My son mutters disconsolately, “not little accident, BIG accident.” I mutter soothing words as we slowly make progress towards the door. He is a little large at six and a half to be having that kind of an accident, but on this occasion, it is not that kind of an accident. It is an entirely different kind of accident, the kind of accident that few people on the planet appreciate.

The bar staff watch our slow progress towards the table, but say nothing, the height of discretion. Everyone is very conciliatory towards a young gentleman's delicate sensibilities. I do not address the situation directly, as this is a perfectly satisfactory state of affairs for all concerned. This mis-understanding elicits the appropriate behaviour from strangers. He sits on his bench and sighs, exhausted. He glances down towards his knee and winces as he bends his leg to seat himself. His eyes widen as he peers beneath the table and the towel. “I can see it! I gonna die! No hospital!” he squalks. [translation = at 50 decibels] I tease the corner of the soggy towel towards the corner of his mouth. He seizes it in his front teeth, worries it like a dog with his eyes tight shut and then chews contentedly.

It would never do for his eyes to have to see the graze on his knee, the pinpricks of blood down his shin that no-one can touch or clean. [translation = and the rapidly forming scab, I hope].

Moral - do not use your imaginary snow board, at high speed in a park that inhabited by foreign birds.

Little known fact - English Pigeons are twice the size of their American cousins.

Even lesser known fact - Superpigeon and snowboards don't mix.

Addendum - the child and the towel were surgically separated some thirty six hours later, with no long term ill effects for either party.

Patience.......the "answer."

Curiouser and curiouser

I resist the ‘what is it now!’ message that bubbles up through my brain. I try very hard to replace it with ‘humble gratefulness for the power of speech.’

I am irritable. [translation = more than my ambient state of grumpy] He stands four feet below me, semi clad clutching the toilet plunger. “What I am?” he demands. What realm of existentialism are we branching off into? I peer at him through wonky bifocals as I teeter on the top of the ladder.
“Er you’re a boy dear.” I shove one box to the back of the cupboard and pull out the next one.
“No! What I am?” Saints preserve us! What is he on about now? I shove my glasses up my nose, as when you are close to the ceiling in California, the temperature is nearer 100 than an ambient 90 degrees. The heat in my head is offset by the icepack on my chin, because autism doesn’t exist in a vacuum. [translation = dental woes]
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?” If I drop a box on him by accident I will never forgive myself. I wedge the box for safety purposes and curse the idiot who designed this kitchen.
“What it is ‘peculiar’?” I pause, suppress a sigh and wonder who I am going to have to hunt down and "do away with" this time? Why are people so quick to judge and condemn?
“’Peculiar’ is odd, or strange, or different.”
“I am odd or strange or different?” It’s not echolalic as he has changed the tone to a question. I am rapidly going off that Amendment. [translation = freedom of expression]
“Who told you that you were peculiar dear?” Why are people so quick to draw dubious conclusions?
“No, it was dah lady.”
“What woman dear?” I can tell that my milk of human kindness begins to curdle. Why are people so negative, always willing to assume the worst?
“Dah lady in dah store.”
“What woman in the store?” Maybe at the cheese counter? Why are people always ready to cast aspersions?
“Dah lady in dah store when I be having dah meltdown.”

Whilst in theory there should be sufficient information for me to be able to narrow down the field of options, unfortunately, meltdowns in store are still a frequent occurrence.
“Well, never mind what other people say or think! They don’t know you one jot, nor what they’re talking about!” I snap. Some people should just mind their own business. [translation = rancid Stilton]
“Not me.”
“Pardon?”
“Not me……..er……you.”
“Me? I am peculiar?”
“Yes. Dat is what dah lady is said, er……in dah store……when I be having dah meltdown.”

Ah. So quick! Fancy him noticing that! Fancy him choosing this moment to relate the incident to me that must have been percolating away for more than a week.
“Well of course in that case,……..everyone is entitled to their own opinion, the lady was probably quite right.” How astute, I permit the Amendment to stand. [translation = by Royal Decree]

So if you've struggled to load this page and want to comment, you'll find it much easier on my new "loads like a dream" duplicate "blog."

Oral defensiveness and budgetary control

Many, many lifetimes ago, I was a purist. My first born child lived on a diet of ambrosia. [translation = organic, fresh produce, lovingly prepared without salt or any other pollutants] Sugar was an unknown substance to her. It is directly because of this mistake that I now suffer the consequences.

My youngest son, now aged 6 and a half protects his mouth, because he has oral defensiveness. This symptom is one of many that an autistic child may or may not have. [translation = optional extra with no additional charge] He is also neophobic. [translation = fears food] His bravery in the food department has grown considerably over the last few years following early intervention to help de-sensitize his mouth. Instead of only eating three foods [Goldfish, Cheerios and milk] he now enjoys a relatively vast panoply of some 17 foods. [translation = when he reaches 21 'foods,' he can cast off the label ‘neophobic,’ as the cut off is 20] Yes, it’s true. Very soon he will graduate from ‘neophobic’ to ‘picky eater.’ Horray!


In the meantime, I have other pressing concerns, namely cost. Some six months ago I stopped reveling in the delight of watching my son eat his 13th food. [translation = baby oatmeal] I no longer concerned myself with the pleasure of knowing that he was consuming 4 ounces of milk along with the dreaded baby oatmeal. I was growing tired of experimenting with different coloured, expensive, sprinkles and sugars, to dust the surface and entice his tastebuds and lure his eyes. Why was I buying little packets of very expensive baby oatmeal for a 6 year old? This behaviour had to stop. Those packets, even the very big ones, are very small. This means that they are also very expensive. [translation = because they are little] If you are six years old with a big tummy, not a baby tummy, you can write off a packet every five days. At $3.99 a pop, such extravagance had to cease! [translation = if not forthwith, then at least lets make a start]

I stole some of spouse’s Quaker Oats, big boy food that is especially good for those with diabetes, heart conditions, high cholesterol and weight issues. In order to make oatmeal, [translation = porridge] the chef must grind those rolled oats to dust. This provided me with my aerobic workout for the day. It still had ‘bits’ but they were little bits, not big bits.




I am happy to report that after six months of de-sensitization, Junior will now consume porridge. We have yet to go ‘cold turkey’ on the sugar sprinkles, but we’re moving in the right direction.

Whilst shopping in the supermarket, my little eye, spied a handy dandy convenient alternative. Individual sachets of different flavoured porridge with all kinds of enticements therein, such as sugar dinosaurs. Admittedly, dinosaurs are a thing of the past in this household, [translation = extinct on the planet and extinguished at home] but there is always an outside chance that we can tempt him in to pastures new.[translation = try anything once]

“He ain’t gonna eat it Mom!” she says succinctly, as I sit in my usual position. [translation – next to my son with a teaspoon quarter loaded in what I hope is an attractive manner]
“Who could resist that cute little red dinosaur or that winkum dinkum little yellow egg!” I ask rhetorically. She doesn’t answer, merely rolls her eyes and gently shakes her head.

My son sits in his carver chair [translation = caged to the table] His knees are curled up to his chin. His arms wrap themselves around his legs leaving his hands free to be clamped over his mouth. He has double protection, as the right hand fans out over the left hand. Just in case I have devious plans, his eyes are squeezed tight shut. The spit bowl is strategically placed at the point on the table where his elbow might be, if his elbows were not already tucked neatly into his sides. I couldn’t have done a better job myself even if I had put him in a straight jacket. He is as neatly coiled as a spring.

My older son continues to eat his Weetabix with a fork, slowly, but feels the need to add his two pennarth. “I dun fink he is gonna eat it either!”
“Well thank you for sharing guys!”

This has been the daily scene for some ten days now. Six months to go from baby oatmeal to adult porridge. How long to go from porridge with sugar sprinkles, to porridge adulterated with other substances? I begin to wonder if this campaign is an improvement or merely cyclical? Whilst wholesome mothers of the world serve their offspring the best that money and effort can provide, I, on the other hand, am rocketing my own son into the somewhat murky world of dental caries. Is one flake of oats beneficial if accompanied by it's own weight in sugar? [translation = logic and mathematical challenge of the century]

I remember the penniless student at University. He decided to save money and made up a vat of porridge which he poured into the top drawer of his desk. After several weeks of this exclusive mono diet, he was carted off to hospital with a severe case of Rickets. I wonder which is better, Rickets, achieving adulthood but without the benefit of teeth or malnutrition if not death? My arm begins to ache and draws me back to the matter at hand.



Her fingers toy with my tools of the trade. The face cloth that is now cooling, the vibrating spoon, all used to de-sensitize his face and mouth prior to his ordeal. “How long do yah think it’s gonna be this time?” she asks distractedly, glancing at the window. She continues, “you know you’ve forgotten the tick chart, or shall we use stickers or stamps?” [translation = additional motivational tools for the truly desperate] I look at my daughter who will be ten in 6 months. “I’d forgotten about those dear, thank you! What do you think? Which one shall we use?”

Junior interjects and unravels to announce his own solution, the lowest common denominator, “I know! We be doing dah tick chart wiv dah stamps AND dah M&M's for each mouthful I am being swallowed in my tummy.” [translation = as opposed to spat out]

Lummy! Things really have improved! [translation = the M&M days are long gone{faded and finally extinguished}]

It’s just as well that there are other people around to remind me of the full arsenal at my disposal.


So saying, neophobia is one matter, but other people have a whole plethora of food difficulties or an entirely different magnitude as you can see over at my pal "Phantom's" blog at "the Phantom Scribbler."

There again, I'm suffering from a little oral defensiveness "myself."

Rules is rules you Ninny!

I stand at the kitchen counter fighting and cursing, silently. Junior saunters over to drape himself at my side.

“We can be having dah electronics now? It is being dah 5:30!” I check the clock. [translation = never trust a child on a mission] I know I should check for chore completion but the rising waves of pain are making me fractious.
“Were you a good boy today for the baby sitter?” I offer lamely.
“Ooo yes, I was being dah extra, extra good.” Why do I doubt his veracity?
“Really? Well I’m very pleased to hear that!” But I still don’t believe it. I glance around to notice that the carpet is visible. [translation = tidy toys task is completed]
“Well it certainly is very tidy around here! You must have done a marvelous job?”

He offers me no further information. I dither for a few moments, watching his expectant face.
“O.k. then, let me find the key, and we’ll turn it on in 3 minutes.” I set the visual timer to three minutes, just long enough to read the instructions on the bottles and swig down a quick dose of painkillers. My son watches me.
“You forgotted?”
“I did? What did I forget?”
“Dah rule.”
“Which rule might that be then?”
“Er….the danger….dah cutting…….dah I don know!” he squalks frustrated by his inability to recall the rule, the rule that I made up, repeat often and then ignore myself. I grab him quickly to cut off the meltdown, to reward him for his efforts at reciprocal exchange, for his staggering ability to demonstrate that the theory of mind belongs to the rat population. “Yes, yes, yes, you’re quite right, ‘never open anything bought in America without a pair of scissors in one hand and a cleaver in the other’.” He grins at me, revealing crooked English teeth. I make a mental note to ensure that all additional rules, whether for adults or children, are kept succinct.

“What you are do?” he asks solicitously. [translation = we both know that I am attempting to open my medication, following a visit to the dentist. Since he already knows this, he is merely being conversational, a significant development for an autistic child with a speech delay] Horray!
“Well I just need a pill or two for my teeth.” I am careful to avoid the term ‘pain management.’ Although this Americanism is now familiar, I doubt if it will translate to well to a six year old. I also suspect that the use of the word ‘pain’ will trigger a traumatic reaction. [translation = OCD response to any trigger word that is associated with death, and there are far more of them than one might first imagine, even if you happen to have a dictionary handy. ]
“ Your teef are hurted?”
“Not really,” I reassure, “stuck in some Petri dish somewhere,” I mutter as I rip packaging and accumulate paper cuts.
“Dah dentist be grow new teef for you?” Lummy. How can he know ‘Petri’ dish and it’s associations, but have no knowledge of whether a ‘pear’ is a fruit or a vegetable or even edible?
“Oh no. She’ll just throw them away.”
“Oh. So no hurt den?”
“Oh, only a little bit, so if I take some of these now, it will stop it from getting any worse.” I peer at the small print regarding dosage through dirty bifocals, with an out of date prescription . [translation = the bifocals not the medication]
“How many?” he asks.
“I have no idea. I think it’s two Advil for 8 hours and then two Tylenol for four hours, to overlap, or is it the other way around?” I mutter as brain function reduces in direct correlation to increase in pain.
“I fink dat maybe you are be making dah mistake,” he offers in a slightly warbling tone, the one he uses when he is trying to be cute and persuasive. [translation = rare] I contemplate whether it is wise for a 47 year old English woman to take medical advice from an American six year old? There again, he is an American! [translation = a race blessed with medical knowledge imbibed from their parents after birth, or perhaps in vitro?]
“I fink dis is dah one you be needing.” His index finger, the extra sensitive one, pokes the third bottle. [translation = Vicodin] I try and ignore the fact that my son is encouraging his mother to take the hardcore drug option.
“Why that one dear?” I can’t help myself, I just have to know.
“Well, first it is being dah cutsey one.” Firstly! Do I detect the appearance of voluntary sequencing?
“Yes, it is a rather cute bottle.” [translation = I withdraw all my prejudice against over-use of the word ‘cute’]
“Den it is being dah golden,” he oozes with breathy awe.
“Ah yes, yellow is your favourite colour.”
“Last, er third, er lasty, it being started with a ‘V’” he sighs with dreamy fluttering eyelids. [translation = the less commonly used letters are the most favourted ones]
“Well that is sound advice, dear. Thank you.”


The other two appear from nowhere. “Time for electronics! Can I watch t.v. first?” she pleads, weary after a day at camp.
“Well I promised the boys electronics first, as a reward for being so good for the baby sitter whilst I was at the dentist.” [translation = 5 hours equates to financial ruin]
“No fair! They already had t.v.” she snaps with annoyance.
“No they haven’t, they’ve been here with the baby sitter all day, whilst you were at camp.”
“Yes, we did!” offers my oldest son, the young man who is too honest for his own good. [translation = defends all his siblings and stray felines without a second thought]
“What do you mean? I still have the key!” I open my palm to double check my sanity level. [translation = visual prompt for a visual learner on the cusp of senility]
“Yes, but, but, but……..” he fizzles out. Instead of having a meltdown, he points to the family room. I follow him. The armoire is open. The telly sits there, surrounded by a plethora of remote control devices. I reach up and touch the screen. It is warm.
“See!” he explains. “We wuz very, very good.” I try not to frown or pout or scream. [translation = the real cost of 5 hours of baby sitting, the real pain of 5 hours of baby sitting]
“What were you doing that was so…..good?”
“Well, I wuz fightin, er I mean, we wuz fightin.”
“I see.” I practice breathing. [translation = ommmm]
“She said...babysitter said.... he wuz dah loudest,... an I said ‘no, he is dah loudest in dah world ever,’ every one is knowing dat!” he summarizes with glee. [translation = marks awarded to all those who are able to count the number of negative reinforcements here?] Junior pops back into the room with a question, “I fink you are dah stoopid!”
Well really! That’s all I need, the return of the name calling phase. [translation = a habit I thought we had extinguished]
“Now come along, we don’t name call, remember?”
“No! I am saying you are STOOPID!”
Oh please! Not now! Can’t we do this later, in five minutes or half an hour, whenever the pain killers kick in? “Now listen…” He cuts me off, “No, you are not listening to me!” Golly, where did that come from? Echolalic, scripting? “I say, you not take medicine for dah teef. DAT is stoopid.” I brace myself.
“Why is it stupid to take medicine dear?”
“Coz dah teef are in dah Petri dish not in your mowf!.” [translation = extractions] I smile gingerly, floored by the logic. What a ninny I am! [translation = foolish person]

A few steps forwards, ....and back

I race to the loo in the middle of the night in a drug induced stupor. [translation = Vicadin after dentist] I make it just in time and sit groggily. I stand up immediately, snap on the light and turn to check. Someone has put the lid down. Hallelujah! My nose takes my eyes very close to the lid for further examination. [translation = no bifocals] For some reason, the lid is covered with green luminous slime? Ah! Toothpaste! [translation = the Shrek the movie merchandised version of children's Colgate] I stand up again to contemplate.

Teeth cleaning, for my children and many others, is a very large hurdle.

The amount of slime is directly correlated to the number of attempts that someone has made to try and squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush. [translation = fine motor skills, sequencing, pincher control, hand strength and co-ordination] Someone gets full marks for effort. [translation = as well as a great deal of staying power for a less preferred, if not aversive, activity!]

I flip up the lid, turn and resume the position. I stand abruptly and skip round to examine further evidence, evidence of a not so successful nature. I scowl and rearrange the ice-pack on my chin. I cannot work out why I am so unduly miffed? When I think of the years that I have spent changing dirty diapers with my hands, as well as cleaning up dirty bottoms, you would think I should be immune? There again, I have never actually sat in someone else’s dirty diaper. I decide to be logical, resist scatological. I am uncertain if I am irrational or irritable or both? I dither between the sin of pride or purity or possibly prudity?

I am paralysed by indecision: sterlize my body or the loo, which to do first? I try and remember what I did last time such a dilemma befell me? Like when I used to bathe them altogether, aged 4, two and a half, and a year old. One stood up in the bath and vomited over the other two? I pull a face and then notice some grouchy old woman, just next to me. I peer a little closer until my breath steams up the mirror.

I take my grouchy self to the shower to cool off, clean up and refresh my battery. Who cares if it’s three in the morning! No doubt in a few years, if not sooner, if senility continues on it's current trajectory, I’ll be wearing incontinence pants myself. [translation = full circle]

Old wives tales taken from 'other obscure sayings' =
[London, England circa 1558 attrib. Anon*]

"There be some, for whom cleanliness, is always in favour,
But there's others, who allow their duties to waiver,
So......
Bathe in the moonlight and ere after dawn,
Yea'll be scrubbin the toilet for the rest of the morn'."

* Some old barmy bat in Jolly Old San Jose.

Ironing out the kinks

I swear that next time I buy a new hose to water the garden I shall purchase one that promotes itself thusly: ‘guaranteed to kink all the time.’ I am heartily sick of having a non-functioning sprinkler system. [translation = water garden by hand for an hour and a half very late at night or very early in the morning, with a kinky hose]

Junior stands cautiously in the door jam, not really in, but definitely not out. [translation = dislikes ‘outside’ with a passion] The large cardboard label from the new hose, together with it’s plastic ties, lie nearby waiting to be recycled. I fight with the recalcitrant hose and ignore my son. [translation = whilst ignoring a child, let alone an autistic one, is not to be encouraged, if I attempt to llure him to adopt ‘out of the house’ status, I’ll jinx my chances]
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Er, dah ‘kink.’?”
“Ah. Very pertinent question. A ‘kink’ is a fold or a bend. See this lovely new hose?”
“Yes it is dah lovely red and red is being your favourite colour!” [translation = whoop de do, he knows what I like!]
“Yes, you’re right again! But do you see this bit, the bent bit, that is a kink.”

He steps from side to side in agitation, much as small children do when they need to visit the bathroom.
“Kinky! Kinky! Kinky! I am liking dat word ever so much.”
“Ah yes, of course you do.” [Translation = a word with two ‘k’s is special]
“Why it is saying dat den?”
“Why is who saying what dear?”
“It say not.”
“What not?”
“No! Not what not, not kink!”
“Oh the label. Yes, you’re right again, it does say ‘no kinks, not ever, guaranteed.’”
“But you said dat dah hose is being having dah kink and dah label saying it not.”

I pause, not wishing to provoke a meltdown at the contradictory nature between advertising and real life.
“Well…….as you can see……..they lied!”
“Lied!”
“Yes.”
“Dey go to jail?” I sincerely hope so.
“No it’s not bad enough for jail.”
“What is bad enough for jail?” Questions, questions, questions, all of which are little trip wires for the unwary, ‘jail,’ being just one of them. This of course, is why the Monopoly board ended up in the recycling, as well as the box, because both had a ‘Go to Jail’ notification, which haunted the poor child to a point of distraction. I am rapidly running out of ideas when another face appears at the door. A rescuer?
“There’s a knot at the other end, that’s why it’s not working,” my daughter offers as a diagnoses.
“A not’?” he queries.
“No, not a ‘not,’ a ‘knot’, the ‘k’ kind of a knot,” she explains. I feel that I am slipping into a crossword, or is that just cross? I look from one to the other to check the invisible lines of communication. [translation = who is going to lose it first?]
“He is not a liar den,” he states boldly.
“Who is not a liar dear?”
“The hose makers. Dey say ‘not kinks,’ dey didn’t say ‘no knots.’”

Works for me. [translation = meltdown avoided, cognitive dissonance abated]

Would that things could always be so "smooth."

Validation – thank you Nonna

I begin to think that I may be an American afterall. [translation = able to use and understand the psychobabble language without effort] It came to me earlier today.

At the moment we are lucky to have Nonna, the children’s Italian grandmother staying with us for a few weeks. One of the advantages of having another adult at home all day, every day, is that teeny tiny things are confirmed, such as my own sanity.

For instance, I have been known to complain that they boys are my shadows. If I leave the room, or am otherwise out of visual contact, a hue and cry ensues. I appreciate, that when I explain this, that most people, not unreasonably, believe that I am exaggerating.

A simple task such as taking the recycling from the kitchen to the outside bin, a distance of some 25 paces, involves careful planning. Over the years, I have tried any number of different approaches to this tiny task. I can run outside and back again, having deposited the recycling in the bin of course, in approximately 44 seconds. Yes, I have timed it, and that’s my all time record to date. However, this option has a number of disadvantages. The main disadvantage is that when I return, breathless with empty bin in hand, there are two small boys flapping around on the floor like landed salmon. [translation = but much louder] Apart from the distress and trauma caused to my boys’ by my fleeting absence, in addition, I will then spend upwards of 30 minutes trying to calm them down again. [translation = thus reducing my efficiency quotient for the day]

Now, I know what you’re thinking! ‘My, my Madeline, you are missing the perfect opportunity to therapize those little chaps!’ As always dear pal, you are completely correct. Sometimes, we do take the therapy option, afterall, any chance to lure them outside would always get my vote. [translation = both are ‘allergic’ to outside] There again, if someone hates to go outside, it might be better to make the ‘outside’ experience, a little more positive and enjoyable, and sadly, recycling doesn’t fall into that category, outside or otherwise.

Sometimes when I’m feeling brave, we will attempt this feat; negotiation of the step, carry ‘horrible’ thing in your hand at the same time, [translation = tactile defensiveness at the very least] pass through the door jam without making contact,[translation = motor planning] or at least avoiding painful contact, [translation = insufficient sensory input for one, as well as the challenge to depth perception ] step into the sunshine, where are the sunglasses[!], walk the seven steps to the big bin, avoid looking at the plants and or bees, wait, [always a tricky one] whilst the bin lid is opened for you, attempt to hurl horrible thing in your hand into the open bin, cover your ears to protect you from the noise of the horrible thing falling into the bin, then sequence your way back into the house to wash your hands. [translation = times two] And of course those are only the edited highlights.

Personally, I cheat and go for the easy option, due to my cowardly nature. [translation = do everything at night whilst they are asleep]

So now, with Nonna here, I believe that I might just have a chance of nipping out to dump the recycling, whilst the children are present and awake, without the usual fall out.

I make my 50 yard dash, with bin, U-turn and return in 33 seconds flat, [translation = a new world record!] to the kitchen, where Nonna stands on the middle of the floorboards with two small boys flailing at her feet. Her hands flap at me to help make herself understood over the din, “but you were only gone for a moment! It’s like dey think you are dead or something!” Her eyes widen in disbelief as the word ‘dead’ penetrates her grandson’s ears. [translation = increase in volume of at least twenty decibels] Nonna’s hands fly to her head to rip out the hearing aides, whilst I grovel on the ground with my grief stricken guys.

And that my good pal, is the story of how I lost my efficiency but regained my sanity. [translation = a sprinter not a marathon runner]

A dollop of normal

Nonna has come to visit for a month. She is the only octogenarian that I know, who still has her inner child fully in tact. My own inner child evaporated some years past. We are often able to tease each other. [translation = if I turn up my own volume for the hard of hearing]

One of the many reasons that I love my mother in law, Nonna, is because she is the only person on the planet to have described me as ‘glamourous.’ [translation = she wasn’t wearing her glasses at the time, so I probably just came across as a shambolic rainbow, but it doesn’t matter, she said those words] Apart from that delightful crumb of flatterer, and far more importantly, she adores her grandchildren. Since she is Italian, she is the kind of person who cheers when they swing from the chandeliers, metaphorically speaking. [translation = the boys have motor planning, and gross motor difficulties, so such feats are [as yet] beyond their abilities]


I cook in the kitchen, in anticipation of later dumping my creation in the garbage disposal unit or compost heap. [translation = the neophobic and picky eaters abound] The scent of mieux poix wafts through the house. Nonnna appears on cue. [translation = olfactory system is still fully functioning]

“Ooo, that smells nice!” she offers as she peeks under the lid. The vegetables gain their glaze and sizzle with temptation. She raises a hand, as do I. Her finger is poised to scoop out a taste, mine is poised to rap her knuckles with the wooden spoon. We both freeze in position with our eyes locked, middle aged mother to elderly child.

She chuckles and steps back unsteadily. [translation = hip replacement]
“I was just going to taste that you know?” she says unnecessarily.
“I know,” I say unnecessarily.
“Maybe……maybe one of them will try and taste something soon too?” she smiles.
We both know that is extremely unlikely within the next couple of decades.
“I would enjoy seeing that,” she adds wistfully.

I would enjoy seeing her see that too.

Thanks for the thought "Jerry."

Nonna returned to England on Sunday. We missed her even before lift-off.
For a faster loading version, visit "here" but only if you comment and tell me it "loads like a dream."

Capture and release

The comment, ‘these children will never respect you,’ has haunted me a while. I think of all the things that I want for all of my children. Quite a few of them begin with the letter ‘R.’


There are a great many parents who have their children at the center of their tiny universe. [translation = I’m in that category too] It probably is unhealthy, but I am not qualified to address that matter. [translation = many Brits know little about health] I am reassured to know that there are a few things that I do know, that there are a few constants on the roller coaster of autism. The things that I know, that are constants, are few and far between. I know that these few constants may change at any time without warning, but I still relish the reassurance of the constants.



I hear the ruckus next door. [translation = early warning that they are awake] I roll out of bed and stagger downstairs in an effort to achieve ‘awake’ before they make their appearance. I know that my daughter will sleep in, because it is the weekend, but the boys are relentless.

Light on, coffee on, feed the cats.

I wait in the kitchen trying to force my brain to turn ‘on.’ [translation = as well as the powers of speech] Before too long I hear them emerge from their bedroom. One stomps along the corridor, irregular steps, contact with the wall several times, bumbles down the stairs. Although I can’t see him from the kitchen, I know that half his body is supported by the banister, cheek to the wood, hands as guidance as his body is folded over, his superfluous legs are several steps behind, little tippy toes deep in the carpet pile. I know that when he reaches the newel post at the end, he will spin around 360 degrees by accident, before he steadies himself and renews his path towards the kitchen.

I stand there, in the centre of the kitchen as he makes the final few steps from newel post, en route to the family room. I bar the way, a large form in a brown dressing gown. I open my arms so that I am even larger, a net to ensure his capture. I am now so large that he cannot possibly miss me. He bimbles into the kitchen eyes cast down following his path. He stops dead, one step prior to collision. His eyes rove slowly up from my slippers to my face, before his head clonks into my ribcage so that I can enfold him. We do no exchange words, but I give him a few of my own anyway.

I let him go and resume my position for the next one. I hear his tippy toes machine gun down the hall. I know that the rate of his movement forward, may not necessarily be reflected by the rate of his rapping. [translation = he can ‘rap’ on the spot too, without moving] I know that his hands are holding something, although I don’t know what it will be today. I know that since he is only just awake, that his mouth will be open. [translation = poor lip closure]

His transition from bedroom to kitchen is spectacularly speedy. He arrives clutching a box piled high, a pyramid of Pokemon. How he has managed to balance them is beyond my imagination. [translation = future conjuror or plate spinner] He whirls around 180 degrees, so that he can reverse into me for a hug and not dislodge his hold on the box. I curl my body around his for a second or two as he vibrates, sucks in a mouthful of drool and smiles. My arms unleash him and he spins away.

Like all children, they have a great deal to learn. I hope that they learn to respect themselves and others, all ‘others.’

So today, I am another year older, and oh so much "wiser" as you can see demonstrated over "here."

Sweet dreams

I arrive just as spouse is tucking them in to bed. “Right, so no pull-up then!” he announces in a booming tone. I stop dead and pout. No pull-up? Who is he to determine withdrawal of pull-up privileges? Is he responsible for the laundry? The inevitable carpet cleaning? Now there’s a man who is totally out of line. I think about pulling rank. I decide to keep my own counsel instead, and content myself with thoughts of the following morning’s ‘I told you so scene.’

The nerve of the man!

I kiss my children good night, hide my pout and return downstairs to smolder. What could he have been thinking, to change the rules in such are arbitrary fashion? No preamble, no warning, no carefully implemented campaign. The man must be completely barmy? I can think of no rational reason why he should have chosen tonight to turn the bed time routine upside down. I froth, stew and steam. [translation = voodoo dolls] I won’t have time to do an additional load of laundry tomorrow. The knock on effects could be earth shattering! No spare bed linen. Bare bed. More upset to bed time routine. No sleep for anyone. Curse the man!

In between fumes, I consider my own plan. It’s not as if we haven’t attempted this ‘dry at night’ campaign before, it’s just that it has yet to be successful. There’s no reason that we shouldn’t implement a new campaign, we just need careful thought beforehand. How can I have ‘beforehand’ if we’re already after? [translation = failure at the first fence is not a good reinforcer] All campaigns must be orchestrated with the finesse of a conductor. I suppress a growl. Spouse looks across at me. He is unable to detect the steam coming out of my ears, “are you alright love?”
“Fine!”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, nothing. I’m fine, just fine!” I do my best flounce and depart. [translation = high dudgeon] I swear he the most annoying person on the planet. Who does he think he is? Why is the other adult in the household such a complete nit wit. The venom and bile accumulate, but are well leashed.

I debate whether I should lift him later before we go to bed ourselves. Should I haul 56 pounds of sleeping boy onto the toilet? I decide to delete. I stomp back into the family room, because flouncing more than once in any one day, decreased it's impact. "You'll be o.k. lifting him later?" I announce rhetorically. He blinks in my direction, "er, sure, if that's what you want?"
"Me? What I want? And how exactly do my 'wants' suddenly come into the equation now?"
"Hmm what?"
"You asked if that is what 'I want,' but you weren't concerned with my wants when you pulled the pull-ups!" I snap with the perfect enunciation of the truly incensed.
"Pulled? Pull-ups? What are you on about?"
"You told him he didn't have to wear a pull up, without us talking about it first!" I squeak. [translation = and inadvertently spit at the same time]
"Ah! I see."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"What do you have to say for yourself!" [translation = Lummy! I've turned into my husband's mummy]
"Well, I er, didn't have much choice really." I wait. I wait a bit longer. I suppress a sigh. "Why did you have no choice?"
"Well, it was him wasn't it."
"What was him?"
"Him,... I mean..., he said it, he asked, er, he said he didn't want to wear a pull up any more...... now that he was a big boy, although......those weren't the words he used.........but that's what he meant,.......I think, yes, that's what he meant, I'm quite sure."
"Well why didn't you tell me that in the first place! That changes everything!"


Moral – before you flounce, feel free to ferret around for the facts first.

Word play

I have been known to complain about my boys. It's fair enough for them to have different personalities, characters and preferences, but I would much prefer it if their version of autism could be the same too. [translation = parental convenience] Because autism is a spectrum disorder, I often forget that whilst they have little in common, there are residual similarities that can flare up without warning.

My youngest son has an obsession with death, dying and the fragility of human life. As a result of this, we are careful to avoid the subject. It’s not that we are not happy to discuss the issue in general terms. [translation = and have done many times] It’s more when a word, or an association with that trigger word, slips into an otherwise ordinary conversation, that trouble soon follows. Whilst we have touched on this matter before, I do not expect mortality to attack me from other sources.

My older son as waited nearly 18 hours for his sister’s gift. In his mind’s eye, he has anticipated that she would buy him a ‘transformer,’ whatever that might be? He has been told, often, that it will not be a ‘transformer.’ Instead it will be something cheaper, probably something he will not like. We have told him this frequently, reminded him of his impending disappointment, since his sister’s financial base is modest.

Her delight in being cast as the ‘giver of gifts,’ has only served to heighten the excitement. [translation = for everyone under the age of ten] For her, a gift, any gift, is a gift. For the boys, any gift, that is not a specific gift, is not a gift at all. In fact, not only does it cease to be a gift, it changes into an object of hatred.

It is hard to dampen my daughter’s enthusiasm. [translation = I don’t really want to, but I must, so that she in turn, will be prepared to have her gift shunned, her feelings hurt and cope with the disappointment]

It all happened so quickly, during the daily debacle, more commonly known as dinner. The noise is deafening, but fortunately we are in the garden. [translation = polluting our neighbours’ peace] My anxious daughter needs reassurance too. We confirm that after dinner, we will take her to the shop to buy the treats for the last day of soccer camp. The boys will remain at home and go to bed. [translation = status and pulling rank as the eldest] Whilst it would have been preferable to reassure her out of earshot of the boys, sometimes you just have to take the heat.

The boys’ protests rise a decibel or two at the outrage of exclusion.
“Boys! BOYS! BOYS!” she bellows with her hands raised high to catch they’re attention. They stop. [translation = the magical powers of siblings] “Howsabout I get you a prize whilst I’m there? Wouldn’t that be great? Would you like that huh? I’ll buy em with my own money, so it’ll be kinda little……..but only ……if you go to bed nice.” Her face is spread with a cheesy grin. [translation = so is mine] She bounces out of her seat and hugs me where I sit. [translation = the girl done good!]

So how can I burst this bubble? [translation = cigarette burns on a kitten] I have to deflate her a little, to take the edge off when they burst.

I take several opportunities during those 18 hours, to remind the boys about how to behave when you are given a gift that you hate. Since 99% of the gifts they receive fall into this category, they have had a great deal of practice.

Finally, her moment arrived. She presents herself with a flourish, clutching her Target bag to her chest in her hot little hand. She is ecstatic with anticipation. She sinks her hand in to whip out two little sets of cars, the kind that children are often given in party favour bags. Junior snatches his and disappears, shouting ‘thank you’ in response to my prompt to his rapidly retreating back. My other son points to the words on the packet, wordless. His sister reads them for him, even though he knows what it says: ‘die cast cars.’

His scream could shatter every window in the house, as he grabs the packet and hurls it as far as he is able. My daughter is horror struck. My son collapses on the floor to beat it with his fists and kick the hardwood floors as he howls. I settle my daughter with Nonna and concentrate on my son. [translation = before he damages himself]

He remains incoherent for some minutes. Now he is eight, he is big. Now he is eight, he is strong, but his anger is usually internalized. [translation = self mutilation] I stay close because his injuries are swiftly inflicted. The minutes tick by as we wait. I did expect a negative reaction, but not of this magnitude. Slowly his body relaxes. The growls turn to sobs. When he lifts his face, I see fear not anger. I continue to massage his back as I await the return of words. Eventually, they come:
“She is not my friend?”
“Of course she’s your friend! She loves you!”
“She wants me die?”
“Pardon?”
“She give me a toy to make me die?” Oh no, not him too! Is it contagious, this OCD fixation on death.
“Die can mean lots of different things. It can mean colour.” His eyes follow my finger as I point out all the different fabrics in the room, all their different colours.

I help him to his feet and lead him to the kitchen. I pull out an ice tray. “You can mould ice in this tray. If I put metal in it and the mould was shaped like cars, I could mould cars. That kind of moulding is called ‘die’ cast.” He looks at me dubiously, as his little brother bounces in, the little letter lord. His arrival gives me an idea. [translation = treason. Please don’t deport me. I’ll claim insanity and win.]

“Do you know what?” Both snap back with ‘what?’ Hallelujah! “When something isn’t alive, that's ‘die.’ All these other kinds of ‘die,’ making toys, colouring fabrics, that’s a different kind of ‘die.’” I double check that I have everyone’s attention. Miraculously, I have everyone’s attention. “You call it ‘D,’ ‘Y,’ ‘E.’ Not the same thing at all. See?” I waggle the ice tray with one hand, and flap my skirt with the other. Both boys’ eyes travel from one to the other and back again.

I wait.

One shrugs his shoulders. The other offers, “I fink I am liking ‘dye.’”

Both scamper off without a backward glance.


I only wish my ‘OFF’ and ‘ON’ switch, was as efficient as theirs. [translation = bad gene pool]

If they had glanced back, they would have seen a haggard old woman, trembling against the kitchen counter. I suspect that I shall pay for this crime of corruption, later in the school curriculum.

Post Script - I offer my humble apologies for my somewhat erratic visits to all your blogs, but now we are on Summer routine. [translation = a contradiction in terms]
Just in case you missed it, your reward for waiting for this blog to load and if you would prefer a blog that "loads like a dream" I am now a duplicate over "here." [although I'd rather have a few real clones than a mere duplicate]

The Finish Line - Sophie’s Choice

As I sprint through the average day, I am far from health conscious, but that's because I know that life is a marathon, more about survival than winning.

***

I soak in the balm of silence, the first hour and a half of solitude in over 7 weeks. All I have to do is collect my prescription and make a picnic. Two minuscule tasks to complete in ninety, whole, tantalizing minutes. Bliss! The silence is tangible. The boys are in morning Summer School, my daughter is in soccer camp, Nonna, nearing the end of her visit, is in the Mall shopping for gifts for her return.

I have promised my daughter that we will come and watch her soccer match, the climax of the week. If necessary, I shall bribe Nonna to care for the boys and go alone, but by hook or by crook, we will be there on time. Otherwise I fear she’ll put herself up for adoption.

I know that Nonna is gainfully occupied. When I dropped her off at the shops she was gleeful at the prospect of the glorious exchange rate:- two dollars to the pound. Her money will go twice as far. I confirmed that I would collect her at 12:30 sharp, in order to be back in time for the bus delivering the boys home.

I make preferred sandwiches and assemble supplies, a great quantity of props and bribes to entertain the boys whilst I watch the soccer match. I complete all household duties in record breaking time.

I bimble up the road to collect Nonna with bags of time to spare. I listen to the radio to exercise my brain and broaden my tiny horizons. I cruise the edge of the Mall in case she has finished early. I loiter in a position where I have a good view of the door. I listen to the weather forecast, not a cloud in the sunny, sunny sky. The glory of California.

The announcer announces something. What did he announce? He announced the time. What is the time? I check my wristwatch and compare it to the car’s clock. There is a discrepancy of two minutes, which means either Nonna is 5 or 7 minutes late. I jump out of the car and hover by the door. I peer through the window to see if she’s queuing at the check out? She isn’t. I scan the sidewalk. Nothing, or at least no Nonna. I check my wristwatch. I run our meeting arrangements through my mind again, in case I mis-spoke. Did she have her hearing aid? I try remembering if Nonna was wearing a watch? I can see her soft face, small frame and the fabric of her sleeve but I just can’t focus on her wrist, nor her ear and the hearing aid. All these thoughts cost precious seconds. I re –check my wristwatch. I think of the boys arriving home to an empty house via the jolly yellow school bus. What do they do with children when they find that no-one is home? Do they take them to foster homes? I have no idea. This has never happened to me before. I try not to see their distraught little faces, the meltdowns at the breakdown in routine.

Should I stay or should I go? I lunge into the shop and run up and down the aisles flip flops flapping. I don’t call her name out loud, as I know she wouldn’t hear me, with or without the hearing aid. I sweep past the attendant to check the changing rooms. I am quite certain that none of the feet that I can see under the doors, belong to Nonna. I race back to the front in case I’ve now missed her on the sidewalk. I remember that I have a cell phone for emergencies. I dig in my bag and attempt to use it. Who shall I phone?

I phone spouse. Spouse is concerned and fully comprehends the full nightmare with very little explanation. He offers to cycle home but it will take him at least 25 minutes. I had forgotten that we are on the ‘save the planet’ campaign and he is without his car. His useless car is parked on the driveway at home, where the bus will shortly arrive. I promise to keep him updated. I snap the phone shut, drop it my bag and run back into the shop for another quick check in case she nipped in there whilst my back was turned.

Nothing.

The phone rings again. I rifle my bag and shout into the phone, “What?”
The lady on the other end of the line informs me that one of my children missed the school bus, or rather that the bus left without him. I have one child hurtling towards home in the bus and another stranded back at the school. She tells me that the bus will return to collect the lingerer later. I thank her and snap the phone. Brain cells fire and synapses click into place. That means that the bus will arrive even earlier, because now the driver has to speed up her deliveries in order to return to the school to collect the abandoned one! I lunge for the car hardly mindful of jay-walking.

I drive home carefully. I ensure that I am exactly on the speed limit at all times, as I cannot be stopped for an inconvenient speeding ticket. Any additional delays may just push me over the edge. I will traffic lights to change in my favour. They don’t. I drive home very carefully because I cannot have an accident and my brain has turned to mush. Sweaty palms are not helpful at this juncture. I breathe very carefully because I do not know what happens if you hyperventilate whilst driving. I am being so careful that something will surely snap.

My mind drifts up into the clouds so that I can see all the traffic below, one tiny little yellow bus charging back to my house, me, in my big family van, carefully wending my way to the same location. Since it is the last day of school they are bound to be even earlier, which means that my tiny window of opportunity has just closed to a crack.

I keep a very careful eye out for lunatic drivers who might inadvertently delay me, as every second counts. I flip between miles and kilometers per hour, just to add further confusion. I suspect that I am the lunatic driver and open my eyes even wider. Now, anyone coming the other way will be able to see the whites of my eyes and be warned that a crazed woman is not one to be messed with.

I should have asked someone in the shop if any little old ladies had had an accident in their store this morning? What if she’s forgotten her pills? So many pills, important pills for diabeties, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, great disposition. It’s past her usual lunch time, what if she’s passed out from lack of……..whatever it is that diabetics lack? No, no, no, of course! She is a diabetic, therefore she’ll have some emergency food in her bag. Did she have her bag? Must have done, she was going shopping. I run through the check list that I checked with her before she left; her glasses, reading glasses, pen, pills. I don’t remember food? Nevermind, she’s a grown woman who has the sense to know that she needs to buy something to eat. She’s in a Mall, she’s not going to starve. Did she remember her money? You can’t shop without money. She would have phoned me, but she has no phone! Why didn’t I give her my cell phone? Because she’s deaf and it’s too complex for a first time user.

The phone rings in my bag setting off alarms in my head. I dig for the phone. I ignore the rule; ‘only stupid people use a cell phone whilst driving.’ I know it’s going to be the school, or possibly the new foster parents but I go ahead and speak anyway, “Stupid here, please give me back my children?”

It’s neither. Spouse is confused by my response and wants an update on the crisis situation. I update him with my speed talking since I lack speed dialing. He offers to cycle home. I offer to puncture his tyres next time the opportunity presents itself. I snap the phone shut and leave it in my lap on the off chance that I will learn how to speed dial by being in close physical proximity to the device.

I realize that when I do eventually get home, I will have no way of knowing whether the bus is about to arrive or has already left, taking my poor benighted child with her, since I failed to be there on time. I wonder if I am able to spot the bus’ tyre tracks on the drive? What would they look like? Is it dusty enough? Are there any tell tale puddles to catch out unwary bus drivers? I remember that it is over 90 degrees in the shade and that a puddle’s life expectancy is counted in milliseconds.

I debate speeding. I decide not to. If I speed I will crash or run someone over, then I will be responsible for extinguishing a precious human being, ruin their life, end their life, their family’s, as well as my own. If I kill someone by speeding the bus will be late, my children will be fine and it will all have been for nought, I will have killed someone for nothing. I grind my teeth, or rather my retainer. I remember that a retainer should not be ground. I congratulate myself on the acquisition of a new skill, the ability to grind my teeth, now that they join for the first time in my life at the age of 46. I open my mouth to stop myself from ruining $600 worth of retainer. Now my eyes and mouth match, open. My heart beats so fast that I can feel it elevate. I shut my mouth before my heart pops into it.

I need to calm down before my child gets home, assuming that I haven’t already missed him, which would mean that he would definitely be frantic. I need to present a composed front, so that I will be able to calm down my frantic child. He will be frantic because his brother is not on the bus with him, his constant companion if not his twin. I anticipate a whole slew of new neurosis pertaining to buses, yellow and otherwise, as well as other forms of vehicular transportation, for both me and them.

I park at home and leap into the garden to check if any small people have been abandoned there. They haven’t. I check the house just in case they sneaked in the back or broke a window to gain entry.

They didn’t.

I curse the bus driver and her adherence to her professional ethics.

I zip back to the drive way. Maybe they’re still on their way? I examine the driveway for clues. I am without clues, clueless. I dredge my brain for crumbs of ‘The Last of the Mohicans,’ that I read many centuries ago. I notice lots of twigs, pebbles and gravel, but I have no way of knowing if they have been disturbed, or if they have been disturbed, that it was the bus that was the disturber? I resolve to practice recognizing the debris on my driveway, daily. As I peer through dirty bifocals, I am covered in a cloud of dust as the bus pulls in. Hallelujah!

I skip to the bus with my best ‘happy but calm’ expression on my face. As the doors pull back the bus driver regales me, “are you o.k.? You look kinda…….” she peters out and does not say ‘disturbed.’ I smile back to reveal my ever thinning retainer, as both my boys stumble down the steps. Both! Both? How did that happen? The bus driver waves goodbye and sweeps away. I embrace my lost boys and await the meltdowns. They brush me aside and head off indoors without a care in the world.

I stumble in after them collecting their belongings that leave a trail in their wake. Two down, one to go. Now I must find Nonna. Please don’t let her been laid out in a diabetic stupor?

My brain shifts up a gear. I must persuade my car phobic boys, to get into the car, after they have just spent 40 minutes on a bus. They are too big to carry, or drag. What am I going to do? How can I get them in the car, without breaking a limb, mine or theirs? I rely on my old friend, bribery. I ignore the current healthy food campaign. I whiz to the emergency cabinet and whip out a packet of chocolate biscuits, the cookie trap.

When I return they are both breaking into the cupboard with the electronic games, the contraband, as no Gameboys are permitted until 5:30, and only if chores have been completed. I make sure that the biscuits are at their sight level as I announce the number of cookies that good boys will receive, who enter the car and have their seat belts fastened.

Their howls of protest are enough to burst ear drums. Each has a hand on an electronic toy, a preferred activity. They look at the biscuits. They look at the Gameboy. There is a pause in the screaming.

“I can take dis in dah car?” he asks.

Both boys hover with perfect eye contact whilst I dither……..’yes! o.k.! Now, into the car as quickly as you can!” They both bounce on the spot for a few moments before collapsing on the floor clutching their games and screaming. Despite the noise, their behaviour is compliant. One crawls along the floor like a solider on manoeuvres and the other is on all fours like a puppy, but they are none the less, moving in the direction of the car, albeit in slow motion.

As I toss their shoes into the car after them, I remember that I missed the toilet break, compulsory before any trip. Yet another campaign failure!

The wolves stop howling with the first biscuit as I reverse out the garage and head off to the Mall at 39 m.p.h.
“It is afternoon?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It is 5:30?”
‘Er no,……it’s 1:10 p.m.”
“It’s no 5:30?”
“No it’s 1:10 p.m.”
“Why we are having electronics time den?” I curse another failed campaign as my boys munch chocolate biscuits and play electronics in the middle of the day with no ‘tasks’ completed at all. I concentrate on Nonna’s rapidly decomposing body, lost in the suburbs of San Jose. I wonder if she knows the address and telephone number? I should have written it down for her, just in case!

“Where we are go?” asks the little one.
“We’re going to look for Nonna. You can both help me.” As soon as I’ve said it, I wish that I hadn’t.
“Nonna! Nonna? Nonna? She is lost. You lost Nonna? Where she is? She is stolen? She is lost? She is dead?” I wonder, not for the first time, if this child has extra sensory perception, or simply a mind reader?

I think.

“No, she’s fine, but she wanted to play…....…hide and seek with us. She’s hiding and we’re going to seek her out.” The phone rings from somewhere in the realms of the footwell of the car. This effectively prevents me from driving and speaking on the phone, as only idiots do that. I am saved from being an idiot.

I turn into the parking lot and hunt for a space next to the sidewalk. This should minimize the likelihood of them being mown down by traffic when they run away, which they surely shall. One eye looks for a space, the other eye looks for Nonna. I pull into a parking spot before I go cross-eyed. I turn in my seat, with all the doors locked, as I de-brief the boys as to my expectations. I am careful to keep the tone of fear from my voice. The prospect of escaping children in opposite directions and an elderly prostrate body in need of urgent CPR, is enough to send chills down my spine. I prompt verbal confirmation that the message has been received and understood. I open the doors.

They leave the car. One plummets to the ground in a heap and the other catapaults away. Clearly the message was received and understood but no-one complies. I make a mental note to redraft the message to include compliance, even if I have to write them in my own blood. I scoop up the 65 pounder and stagger down the sidewalk after the other one. Another campaign bust! The campaign to never carry anyone, under any circumstances.

In the distance I recognize the pogoing form of my youngest child and yes, there is Nonna, vertical! My son’s body becomes rigid too, as his eyes register the scene. He slithers down my body like a plank and gambols off in the general direction of his maternal grandmother.

We gather together. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she says in a slightly flustered manner and a thick Italian accent. Her hands flutter over the heads of her two grandsons. One pecks her hip with kisses of relief and slicks of snot. The other burrows his head in her waist with unsuppressed glee. She’s alive! And we still have enough time to make the soccer match. “Ave you been waiting very long?” she asks tentatively.

I smile as I lie and tell the truth at the same time, “we’ve only just got here!” I bellow.

I doubt if I shall ever win any races, I'm sure I shall never be fit, my mental health my be compromised but one thing I'm quite certain about, my sense of humour will see me through to the finish line, wherever that may be?

Winkin, Blinkin and Nod *- Is it any wonder?

I listen to my 8 year old speech delayed son, talk with his six and a half year old, speech delayed brother. Two years ago such a conversation would never have taken place. Then, they barely acknowledged each other's existence, let alone converse with one another.

Considering the different nature of their all too different disabilities, it is a miracle that they ever manage to understand each other. [translation = or have the patience, tolerance, and motivation to try]

I find it hard to express how every little fragment, together, signifies a huge leap in their ability to communicate. The ability to rephrase when someone doesn't understand you the first time, which always led to a meltdown. To add emphasis to a word to help your listener. The ability to initiate a conversation of a social nature. [translation = no pay off]

There are far too many fragments to detail, but sometimes they miss the beginning or the ending of a word. Sometimes they miss the beginning or end of a sentence. They both are starting to tease.

“You like dah Reeses Pieces?”
“Recess? I do not like Noddin.” [translation = name of Summer School]
“You don like Nolan? Who is dis guy Nolan? Why you no like him?”
“Nola! Nola? Nola. Nola is a girls name.”
“I din say Nolus, I say Nolan!”
“Who is Nolan?”
“I don know, dat is what I am asking you?”
“What you ask me?”
“Er……..I don know…..er I mean…..I have forgotted.”
“Nevermind big guy, better luck next time. Anyway, peanuts is poison!”
"Oh man!" He slaps his forehead in an exaggerated parody, "jus forget about it!" he adds, shaking his head slowly. Magnanimous to a fault.




Here is the poem just in case you haven't come across it before.
[warning = it may be a little mushy for some tastes]


Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod

Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod, one night sailed off in a wooden shoe;
Sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going and what do you wish?" the old moon asked the three.
"We've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea.
Nets of silver and gold have we," said Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe.
And the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew.
Now the little stars are the herring fish that live in that beautiful sea;
"Cast your nets wherever you wish never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three - Winkin', and Blinkin', and Nod.

So all night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam.
'Til down from the skies came the wooden shoe bringing the fisherman home.
'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be.
Some folks say 'twas a dream they dreamed of sailing that misty sea.
But I shall name you the fisherman three - Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod.

Now Winkin' and Blinkin' are two little eyes and Nod is a little head.
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee one's trundle bed.
So close your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sights that be.
And you shall see those beautiful things as you sail on the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three - Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod.

p.s. I am transitioning to a new [fast loading site] =
"Whitteronautism.com" I'll be posting there daily until it's fully up and running. Cheers

Senility may be a blessing for some?

I try to remember why I am down in the dumps today? I know that I worked it out earlier but now I have forgotten again.

Could it be the wet bed and the laundry? No, that’s pretty much a daily event. It must be something more than that mere trifle.

Something cyclical? I check the calendar, flip through the months but I’ve been sloppy about recording cycles. Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps a contributing factor.

The death of the coffee maker? No, not that. Miffed, irritated and with a serious case of caffeine withdrawal but otherwise, it’s of no great consequence in the great scheme of things.

What about him walking into the pool with all his clothes on? No, I don’t think it was that. I was there at the time. There was no danger. In fact the look on his face was priceless when I mentioned that he might prefer to wear his swimsuit. [translation = gave me my daily dose of laughter therapy]

What else? The dental appointment, the bill, the future pain and discomfort, all of which fell into the category of bad news? No, not really, after three and a half years, I’m sort of immune. [translation = case hardened]

Then there was explaining to that stranger about them being autistic. That was…….tedious, not particularly depressing, quite commonplace these days.

Was it something new or was it something different, or neither of the above? I have no recall. I tread backwards through my day, just as I prompt my children to do. [translation = a dose of my own medicine]

None of the meltdowns were that bad, mainly level 7 and 8’s and there weren’t that many, no more than one or two an hour. [translation = for each] A longer day of course, because we are on Summer holidays, but of no great import. [translation = standard fare]

The early start didn’t help, as 5 a.m. is about my limit. The hourly visits during the night were something I could have done without, but we’ve done it before. [translation =often]

Maybe it’s the blogging? There are some dire postings out there. [translation = other people’s genuine misery]

I didn’t have time to listen to the news on the radio, which has no doubt saved me no end of angst. [translation = safe in our own bubble]

Prompting them to re-dress every 45 minutes or so, to coincide with a bathroom break? Of course not, I can do that in my sleep. [translation = and often do]

Do the breakages matter? Mere irritations. The mess? No, just evidence of play. The spillages? Isn’t that why cloths were invented? It’s all just standard parent and children fare, with a percentage more, for the autism?

Now what was it? What did I do first thing this morning? Or was it yesterday? I check the calendar again. What did I do? I see the appointment marked in red in my own appalling hand writing: IEP Triennial, 9:00 a.m.. [translation = Individual Education Plan for a Special Needs Child]

I remember!

I try very hard to forget again.

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."