Sequencing the autistic child

Whilst I have a tendency to exaggerate, the truth of the matter is that careful planning is often the key to success.

I decide that I will be successful.

To increase my chances of success, I know that the best thing to do is to plot a time line, a feasibility study, for a trip to the supermarket. I am an American. I have a huge positive attitude. Fortune favours the brave! Then I'll check my energy reserves to see if we have a match?

Albertson's is our nearest grocery store. I assume that we will spend the barest minimum of time within it's confines, 10 minutes maximum, to include paying and bagging at the check out.

I determine which six items are most essential, in case we need to bail early, as well as an escape route, that doesn't include carrying anyone.

Ten minutes drive there, and back again, with accompanying screams. That would be half an hour tops. I flick the corner of the on-line coupon I have been saving for an emergency. It would be so wonderful to have all of my groceries delivered to my door, but so extravagant. This is not an emergency, this is 'normal.' Anyway, it would take me far too long to fiddle about on the computer to complete the order.

I estimate the time involved prior to that particular evolution. It may take between 10 and twenty minutes to get both of the boys dressed. Since dressing is an aversive activity for them, I should also calculate the likelihood and duration of meltdowns? So that would be another 50 minutes, as a worst case scenario.

Of course we would need to visit the bathroom before leaving the house. That may take another ten minutes per child. This must include persuasion time. Maybe we should fulfill this step prior to dressing, to avoid the inevitable naked status again? So that’s another 20 minutes, assuming we are meltdown free for this activity.

What else? How many minutes will it take to prompt two small people to attach sandals to their feet? Thank goodness we’re not in sock season! It’s another one of those conundrums that might take ten minutes but could potentially descend into a 50 minute wrangle. I err on the side of caution but do not wish to be overly pessimistic. I plump to split the difference with 25 minutes. What else?

At some stage, eventually, we will need to enter the car. Always the most difficult step. It might also take me quite a while to find them and or catch them too.

Once in the car, and later once they are all in their seats, I will prompt and wait and prompt and wait…… until they all have their seat belts on. This is a skill they both learned some months back. I must not do it for them. They will learn to be independent if it kills me.

I look at my children playing pretend Pokemon and debate whether it is a worthwhile exercise to disturb this peaceful scene at all? Conservatively, this little trip may take all morning, or rather, two hours and five minutes. Not for the first time, I wonder if I could just wait in the car, delegate the responsibility for all these steps to someone else, someone more capable and with more patience? I quite fancy sitting in the car in the garage for 125 minutes on my own. I recheck the fridge to see if it has magically filled itself whilst I wasn’t paying attention?

It hasn’t. My positive attitude wavers.

I check the freezer in the hope that the two year old bag of frozen peas might have become fertile, bountiful and multiplied.

It hasn’t. My positive attitude dwindles.

I decide to be brave and make a start. Reboot.

Some time later, we arrive at the supermarket. My positive attitude has a severe dent in it. I remove my earplugs and tuck them back in their little box duct taped to the dashboard. I turn around to face them and give them careful verbal instructions as to what is expected. My eyes glance over their heads to the car parked behind us. There I see three children playing cards with the windows open. No adult appears to be present. For a few ragged moments, I contemplate going into the supermarket alone. My positive attitude experiences jealously. My green tinged gaze drops down, drawn by the rhythmical kicking of two little feet, naked feet. I scrabble around the floor to hunt for sandals. Did he throw them out whilst we were driving along or did he jettison them whilst we were still in the garage? I should go back and check. I dither. It's taken us so long to get here! Just in time I remember that we are in America. It is all too common to find signs in California that state 'shoes and shirt required.' The supermarket doesn't have one. Hooray! I push the buttons to open the doors and scramble out of the car to grab as many hands as I can gather.

We negotiate the parking lot. A car pauses in the thoroughfare as we wobble on the curbside. The angel driving the car waves us across, his biceps hang from the window and I see the tattoos flex. The angel continues to wait, stroking his beard, as we cavort across the road. One child emits sparks and the other threatens jelly legs. We reach the opposite curb and I glance back at the driver as he revs his pick-up truck, to nod my thanks and bestow sainthood upon him.

We approach the entrance and the electric doors. Strangely the doors are already half open. Standing in the half open doors, is one of the checkers. He tells us that the store is closed for the day. It will re-open at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning for the inaugural official name change to “Lucky.” My positive attitude shrivels to the size of a peanut. One child drops the ground in a heap and the other dashes off at warp speed. My daughter, the whippet, races after the hare, whilst I disentangle the heap from my ankles. I refuse to calculate the number of minutes we have wasted to get to this point in the day, nor convert them into seconds.

Moral – 125 minutes on the computer is not a waste of time if you can subsequently eat. Positive lesson learned.

And the next time you see the ballistic kid and the incompetent parent, just think, 'I am lucky," because some of us are, lucky that is to say.

Zero Sum and the division of labour

During the summer holidays our lives take on a more leisurely pace. Crumble.

Whilst there is no school to attend, I select a minimum number of goals for the day.

The primary goal would be for all members of the family to be dressed in day time clothes by 9 a.m. at the absolute latest.

Spouse appears, bleary eyed after 5 hours sleep, returning home from work at 1 in the morning as slave to a start up business. The night time hours were filled with visitations by small people at irregular intervals. I herd my children in the direction of the breakfast table to a chorus of shrieks of protest whilst spouse fiddles with the equally unco-operative printer. No-one is hungry and the bribe of ‘electronics’ time at 5:30 p.m. is still ten and a half hours away and therefore too remote. The weeping and wailing continues throughout the ten minutes attempt at something that might loosely be described as breakfast.

We attempt table clearing but they turn themselves into a moving obstacle course, bump into one another, drop bowls, clatter spoons, tumble over cereal boxes, spill milk and generally make my head spin. Which mess or child to clear up first?

Spouse nips off to take a shower with the plunger in his left hand. He reappears moment later, semi clad to remove one boy, “you’re coming with me matey, you honk!” A less than savoury aroma. Junior’s lower torso fails to function, so he scoops him up to deliver him to the shower. As soon as his tippy toes lose contact with the floor, his legs whir into bicycling motion at high speed. Watch out Tour de France. I remind myself to encourage him to use the trampolene at regular intervals, if we have any hope of surviving the day.

We attempt teeth cleaning with the remaining two. This should be easy with the reduced numbers. A toothbrush crisis produces mass hysteria, “he’s got my brush! I don’t want his stinky mouth germs!”
“But……..but…….but…” he fizzles out and hurls the toothbrush in her general direction. It is sometimes difficult for him to locate items or distinguish one person’s belongings from another’s, it wasn’t deliberate. He dissolves into a full blown meltdown of frustration, hurt feelings and possibly a dash of inadequacy.

Junior skitters back downstairs to join the mayhem and accidentally comes within striking distance of his flailing brother. More agony ensues and my daughter flees the room and the noise.

I marshal my reserves and try to clear my head. I hear the garage door open as spouse wheels out the rubbish and recycling to the curbside. I park myself on the floor between my two wailing boys to rub backs and pray for peace. mM own personal peace corps wouldn’t go amiss. Calm, if not order, returns after only a few minutes. One sits up and runs his snotty nose along the sofa whilst the other duplicates the action on the carpet. I debate whether it is possible for me to do this today, again?

I take them both to the loo, as strong emotions often supercede more basic functions. Better safe than sorry. Spouse puts all the electronic bribes on to recharge, ready for later, as he was too tired to remember the night before. I attempt to scrub the snail trails of snot, prior to solidification and then make headway on the other spills. My daughter returns from bedroom fully clothed and with a cheery smile, little ray of something or other. She clasps me around the waist, since I am on all fours in a sea of cheerios and milk. Spouse refills the coffee hob so that my emergency caffeine supply is ready. I dither about my stamina quotient for the day, which appears to be severely depleted but has to last until 9 o’clock tonight.

I debate whether it would be a worthwhile exercise to put drop clothes throughout the house as a preventative measure? [translation = dust sheets] Spouse puts the toaster away on the high shelf that’s out of my reach. This avoids the step retrieval step, for shorter people like me. I ask my son to go and choose his clothes, always a time consuming exercise. I move the little one back to the bathroom for teeth cleaning. I trip over spouse fiddling about on the computer again. Who has time for computers when the morning routine is in tatters.

I pick up three sets of pyjamas and I trip over a cat that entwines my legs due to neglect. This is the first step in the sequence of steps to achieve ‘dressed.’ Spouse scatters cat food in the general direction of his bowl so that the fur ball is enticed away from the danger area. My daughter plagues me with questions: what are we doing today? Where are we going today? I am sorely tempted to spend the day building an air raid shelter to hide in.

At 9:01 a.m. he glances at his wristwatch, “Oh heck! I’m so late!” and steps towards the door. I begin to flap. When that doesn’t work I use words, “don’t leave me!” I bleat like a star crossed lover. He turns towards his flapping wife with a blank expression, “what?”
“Look!” I flap some more and open my arms wider so that he is better able to take in the three yards of brown fabric that go to make up my dressing gown. I am not day time attire and no shower.
“But..” he checks his wrist watch again but his body is reversing towards the door simultaneously. I feel a rising sense of panic in both of us, but for entirely different reasons.
“Look at me! You can’t go yet! You’ve done nothing this morning except get ready for work, whilst I’ve been running around like a blue….oh, never mind! Go to work why don’t you!” I pout and fold my arms in defeat. I peer up at him, hoping for the pity vote but his face wears an expression of bafflement. I prompt, “what?” in an unpleasant tone.

His shoulders slump, soft open palms, “I’ve done what I can….unblocked the shower, fixed the printer, sterilized the stinky one, the trash, all the rechargables, coffee, toaster, booked the flights on line,……” he peters out, after only managing to recall a mere fraction of his tasks. The ‘what more do you want?’ remains unsaid. He wears the hangdog expression of the truly unappreciated.

My shoulders sink too as I remember to breathe. I take a few steps towards him and lower my head so that he can kiss my forehead, as substitute during mouth realignment. I resolve to refrain from referring to him as my ‘lesser half.’ I feel his stubble against my skin, “didn’t even have time to shave did you?” I wheedle.

Moral – some people notice nothing until they make contact, head on.

As I write and post, I always wonder, 'is this the one that will make you de-lurk?' So come along now, be a good egg, let's here it for the Dad's.

For an update on parents' ability to communicate effectively, go "here."

Play Therapy? You cannot be serious!

I believe that 'play therapy' is a term of art, but you can pick your own label.

At three in the afternoon I sneak away to pause and make a pot of tea. 9 hours down, six to go. The noise is deafening but they’re happy playing Pokemon. Not only are they playing pretend but they’re playing together. I do not lie. This is the culmination of many years of play therapy.

In theory, since I am more than half way through the day, with the added lure of ‘electronics’ time in two and a half hours, or 150 minutes as displayed on the visual count downer, this should be plain sailing. But all parents are familiar with the late afternoon threat of thunder. Maybe it’s because they’ve been working hard all day, or awaken so early, but whatever the reason, we parents know that we need to keep a little bit back, tucked up our sleeves, for the inevitable crisis moment.

I double check the weekly menu planner on the fridge to anticipate what level of protest is most likely? Only Wednesday, pizza, and Friday, pasta, are easy. The other five nights a week, we endure dinner, which is merely the opportunity for nutritional input. I pull a face; Asian pork on a bed of steamed rice with wilted Bok Choy. What was I thinking of? A real hard sell. I console myself with the thought that the children’s loss is the compost bin’s gain.

I have played doubles all day. This is where I play something with them that they hate, then they’re released to 'not play' for another thirty minutes, whilst I tackle domestic chores. This has worked surprisingly well, such that I have nearly caught up from the aftermath of the weekend. Thirty minutes is a very long time for an autistic child of any age, when not involved in a preferred activity. I can hardly believe that we have traveled such a long way from those tortured 2 minutes sessions, several years ago.

Even today, I still smart at the recollection.

The initial evaluation took many weeks to complete. Of the many stark facts presented in the report, one or two pin pricks were quite startling. They were startling to me because it allowed me to see myself and my children, through other people’s impartial eyes for the first time. An inaccurate approximation of their report would be, ‘the mother sat on the floor and prompted him to choose a puzzle. Minutes later she choose a preferred dinosaur puzzle and completed it for him while he stared off into the distance.’ At that time I had no clue what to do nor how to do it. I was left with the knowledge that I knew nothing and that when the second evaluation was completed on my younger son, that I would know even less.


I sip my tea and look at the mess. Toys are everywhere. This is evidence that people are playing. I do see toys lined up, but they lack the exactitude of earlier days of OCD. More importantly, I see a mixture, blocks and string, Pokemon and trampolines, Spongebob and Lego, saucepan lids and cars. Your child may be good at using a saucepan lid as a spaceship, or a Frisbee, or a hat, but for my children it has always been just a saucepan lid. Not in the category of toys nor imaginative play. As with anything you teach, sometimes it can take a very long time before you see any results.

‘But why would anyone teach a child to play Madeline? They’re kids, that’s what kids do, they play, right?’ And of course until a few years ago, I would have been on your side. Indeed, since I am a lot meaner than you, I would add, ‘what other useful purpose do they serve other than to play,’ or "isn’t that where the definition 'child’s play' comes from dimwit!" But my experience tells me that this isn’t always the case.


But I can tell that you doubt me, so an example may help.

Only a few years ago I took them all to Toys R Us, at my daughter’s request. I submitted to the pleads and begs because there were so demeaning. Although we have always had enough toys to restock Toys R Us without making a hole in our own reserves, very, very few of them were played with. Repetitive movements and lining up, do not count.

After the usual torture of getting everyone ready, into the car and driving to the accompaniment of two screaming boys, we arrived safe and sound. We negotiated the parking lot to arrive at the entrance. I then spent the next twenty minutes standing by the electric doors as my youngest son jumped in and out of the doorway and my other son lay on the floor playing with the wheel on one of the carts. Behind them was every conceivable toy under the sun, but I couldn’t dislodge either of them. I had forgotten the Goldfish cracker bribes for my Hansel and Gretel impersonation. My brave daughter made little exploratory forays, returning at regular intervals to still my beating heart. Eventually I picked the boys up under protest and navigated our way through the check out.

Her glee at her trophy, was more than compensation enough for my old leaky eyes. Indeed I have been malfunctioning ever since.

I know this is hard for many people to understand, that children must be taught to play, but sometimes, it can be done. I have the evidence before me, namely, several hours of tidying up, just in case you were worried that I might be bored or mislaid my grumpiness.

But I hope this is useful, or perhaps just hopeful, to someone?

Addendum – sprinkles on the cake [translation = over egg the pudding] I should like to mention that no-one noticed when 5:30 electronics time arrived, for the first time ever, at least not until 5:45!

Maybe some of us parents need some "play therapy" too!

The second annihilation - and walls have ears

From a few nights ago........


We continue on our wayward path.
“We will all be killed?”
“Er……no I don’t think so.”
"We be extincted like dah dinosaurs?"
"Hmm .. I think we're alright for a wee while yet."
"It dah global warming?"
"I er, what do you know about global warming?"
“Der are meteors tonight?”
“Um…..no I don’t think so.”
“We are all to be killed in dah meteor attack?”
“What’s all this about meteors?”
“Dey happen random.”
“Yes, I know that dear, but why all the business of meteors tonight?”
“I be heared it.”
“What did you hear?”
“Radio.” [translation = "ooopsie"]

Moral - it's called a broadcast for a reason. Never assume that a child is tuned out if peel the potatoes, and you tune in to the news.

At least his
communication
skills are more
effective than
those of his "parents."

The Lazy Hazy Days of Summer

When I was young, and irritating, I would pester my mother in the kitchen in the hour that she was preparing dinner.

If I persisted for long enough, and I usually did, eventually she would tell me, “oh, go have some bread and butter if you’re really hungry,” and I always was, really hungry that is to say.

The nutritional message may be different these days, but the underlying fight between delayed gratification and hunger, is a fine balance.

My youngest son now eats bread. Admittedly he will only eat one particular brand of bread, but it’s still bread. We induced him to eat bread by happenstance. Being the chocolate lover that he is, the product Nutella was a gift from on high, liquid chocolate with no bits in it. If you put a teaspoonful of Nutella on a piece of bread the size of your thumbnail, eventually, after many painful screaming months, you too may achieve bread consumption. After a further 18 months, one can slowly alter the ratio of bread to Nutella, if you’re very sneaky.

Whilst they are all out at the park, I prepare colourful, organic vegetables to make kebabs. It’s far too hot to put the oven on, so cremation is the only way to go. Barbeque. I run the sequence through my mind. Junior will obviously not eat the end result but that’s no reason why he shouldn’t help prepare a family meal. Apart from his dodgy fingers and other malfunctioning parts.

It will be a delightful family enterprise, as long as nobody stabs themselves on the skewers. To date, junior will attempt a spoon and sometimes a fork, but anything resembling a weapon is off limits and self imposed. Fortunately, since everything he consumes, could be termed finger food, there is no need for a knife at this stage.

I nip outside to light the barbeque. The bite sized pieces of chicken marinade silently in the refridgerator before they prepare to meet their fate. I remind myself that before too long we should increase the pace on his diet. 17 foods is all very well but 4 foods a year is a sorry record. There is little time during the holidays, to prepare his full panoply of foods and I suspect that my lack of reinforcement and consistency, has allowed a few of them to drop off his agenda and become ‘new’ foods again. Of course I only have myself to blame. It’s my fault that he has eaten a Nutella sandwich followed by chocolate pudding and Goldfish crackers for over a month now. Dinnertime is the least effective time to introduce new foods. Whilst he continues to grow and his appetite has increased, his diet hasn’t matched those spurts.

I reach for the Nutella and leave my renewed resolve on the shelf. Maybe tomorrow? It would be so lovely to have a peaceful dinner, outside on a balmy Californian evening. Perhaps we might have a quiet dinner, quiet enough to hear the naff little water fountain that should induce calm but cannot be heard over the din. No matter how many wind chimes I add to the pergola, we’d need a force ten gale and a 30 piece brass band to out ‘din’ them. I smoosh the finest smearing of Nutella into the air bubbles of the high fibre bread, so that he can’t lick it off and leave the bread untouched. I cut the sandwich into two perfectly even halves. I throw caution to the wind, grab another slice, slick it with Nutella and fold it over, a round and a half of sandwiches to fill the ever growing tummy.

I hear the screams before I hear the garage door open, our normal early warning system. Seconds later three children burst through the door and scatter like thieves. Two carry Jamba Juice cups, from a chain of shops that specialize in fresh fruit smoothies. The empty wrapper in the wake of my son’s departure, tells me that his compensation for the agony of ‘outside’ was a cookie. It is a rather large cookie, the size of CD. 16 ounces of pulverized fruit is likely to dull the hungriest of appetites. I dither before threading the skewers myself, an acknowlegement of zero motivation in children.

Twenty minutes later rainbow kebabs glisten with temptation. The tantalizing wafts of smoke lure spouse away from the computer and inspire him to gather the troops. Barely have our bottoms touched the chair seats, when a weeping wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues from junior. I assume that the rainbows are not attractive to him, seeing as how they are also in close proximity to his person. I assume that barbeque smoke is torture. I assume that since he is not hungry, he would prefer to skip to the pudding. I assume that he is tired and overwhelmed after two hours in the park. I await confirmation of all my correct assumptions.

“Dat is dah bad. Dat is dah pooky. Dat is dah wah wah,” he wails. I find that his terminology does not match my current reference system. His siblings giggle with expectation. This is the nightly travesty that we continue to refer to as dinner.

I turn to spouse, “did he say pooky or pukey?” Perhaps he’s gone off Nutella?
“Don’t ask me?” Perhaps he gone off bread! No, please, I take it all back, just don’t let him have gone off bread! He can’t lose 2 foods just like that. I don’t want to go back to 15 foods, I like 17 foods, even if they are all the wrong ones!
“Pooky, pooky, pooky, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah,” he continues in a high pitched, querulous baby voice, from some dratted cartoon no doubt. The giggles of his siblings turn to guffaws of positive reinforcement, if not encouragement.
“Why is it bad dear?”
“Look it, look it, look it!” he bellows as he stands on his chair to make a passingly fair imitation of King Kong. I look at the sandwich. No foreign bodies have contaminated it as far as I’m aware. It is exactly the same sandwich he has had for weeks. That’s it, he’s bored of it, I’ve over done it by being so lazy, by seeking a little peace. No peace and we’ve lost a piece or maybe two?
“Cut, cut, cut!” he shrieks. He makes ineffective Karate chops on his sandwich.
“Don’t do that dear, you’ll squish it and then it won’t taste very nice.”
“Cut it, cut dah sandwich!” he roars.
“It doesn’t need cutting dear, it’s already folded over.”
“Agh, dah stoopid. I cannot be eating dah fold, I can only be eating dah cut.”
Spouse hands him a knife, “O.k. fuss pot, you want it cut, then you cut it yourself.” One child covers his eyes, one child covers her mouth, as we all watch spell bound at the inaugural knife juggling world record. Junior stabs the sandwich repeatedly with malice aforethought. He manages a ragged tear that dismembers the fold from the rest of the half of the sandwich. He picks up the fold with the nails of his thumb and index fingers and hurls it a good 15 feet, underarm. “Pooky!” he curses, as it lies like a dried up worm on the asphalt. His voice drops several octaves. He sinks his teeth in his transformed sandwich, to blast us with a gravelling tone, “I am the master of disguise!”

Echolalic, yet eerily apt.

But it would appear that this isn't the only branch of the family with communication "problems."

Mother’s Little Helper

The new campaign got off to a faulty start, [translation = dry at night and pull up free] but since then we have regrouped with the master plan. [translation = guaranteed success]

No expense has been spared. [translation = gross extravagance] The new game for the Wii [translation = computery thing] has been bound in many inextricable layers of see through tape and been strapped to the wall above his pillow. It is stuck there in what we hope is a tantalizing manner. [translation = constant source of torture] The ladder chart accompanies it. [translation = visual tracking system] All parties present have been debriefed on the de-pull-up plan. [translation = to provide moral reinforcement] Seven consecutive dry nights and the game will be up and the prize will be his.

We note that all youthful parties present are equally anxious that he should succeed in his mission. [translation = true joint attention] The only malingerer is me. I find it ironic that he has already achieved this goal a couple of year ago, but since that time, this skill has fallen by the wayside. My conclusion, though not necessarily a correct one, is that back then, his OCD was of such gargantuan proportions, that he was unable to tolerate his derrier being damp. If this is the case, then it might be reasonable to assume that his OCD has lessened, or possibly that he is too fatigued from the struggles of the day, to be bothered with such trifles at night? Despite these doubts, we soldier onwards and hopefully upwards.

Later, on this same first night, I am awoken by what sounds like a baseball coach in my bathroom. I find my youngest son sitting on the throne, [translation = loo] with his older brother close at hand, shouting things. [translation = taking turns is a challenge at night] I take both sleepy boys back to bed and tuck them in. I return to my own bedroom and pass out again. Some 55 minutes later, I am awoken by mutterings in the bathroom. I again find both my boys closeted. I return them to their beds, tuck them in, fumble my way back in the dark to my own bed and collapse.

We repeat this exercise throughout the night. By 5 minutes past five, I give up and decide that I will be awake. I follow the voice back to the bathroom.
“What’s going on dear?” I ask the one who speaks, as I steady the prince on the throne, who appears to have passed out, floppy with closed eyes.
“You said!” he offers.
“What did I say dear?”
“You said I am dah big brother!”
“Indeed you are dear.”
“Well.”
“Well what dear?”
“Well……er……..I am dah big brother!”
“I know that dear, but what are you doing up in the middle of the night?”
“I am dah helper!”
“Yes, indeed you are, you’re very helpful, but wouldn’t it be a better idea to get some sleep?”
“You said!” I decide to shut up, as I’m not helping. I remember to count to 15 and include ‘ands’ to permit his word retrieval system to kick in without constant interruptions from his mother.
“You said…….dat I am dah big brother……and I am to be a helper to him!” he throws an accusatory finger at the inert body. “So I tell him…..’you can do it, I know you can…..come on….try, try, try again’……just like you say.” I lift the body, flip him over my shoulder and walk towards their bedroom, whilst his brother skips ahead of us. “I done good? I am a good reminderer?” he enquires with enthusiasm. “Er……yes……you did great, you are a very helpful big brother. How many times did you remind him dear?”
“I dun know, but lots!” I plop his little brother upon the bed and he instantly curls up like a prawn, still asleep, bare from the waist down.

“You know somethink?” sparks the awake one. [translation = voluntary reciprocal exchange]
“No, what?” No words are forthcoming. He points and the words flow with the gesture, “on his……er……..but……he has a big……red……elipse.” [translation = ‘oval’ would do!] The imprint of the toilet seat is unmistakable. I wonder how many minutes during the last 10 hours, he has been parked like a rag doll? This crowning glory provides visual evidence of a campaign trail, which already appears to be floundering. [translation = fatal flaw not accounted for]

But my list of "failures" continues to "grow."

A rose by any other name

On Sunday morning I debate whether it is feasible to clean the fridge or not? [translation = well overdue]

I glance at my spouse with his nose glued to a computer screen. I interrupt his concentration to ask his opinion. [translation = feasibility study mate] I translate for him why I need his opinion. [translation = will you look after the children so that my time is free to attend to the rot in your refridgerator]

“Sure!” he says with enthusiasm as his face turns back to the monitor. I spend far too long fighting the fridge, interspersed with chasing my children, until I am able to pronounce that the fridge is clean and the children are correspondingly dirty.

I examine the interior of my clean and empty fridge and dither. Shall I toss everything back in there and risk food poisoning, or should I sort and dispose of the more dubious items? I glance across at my spouse deep in the mire of designing a GPS system for the children. I dither. Should I disturb his endeavours and risk losing my children, or should I attend to my own mould, [translation = shower] or should I spend far too long determining the life span of limp spinach and other sundry items? I pull over the compost bin and set to it.

It occurs to me that I appear to have temporarily mislaid the raging feminist facet of my personality.

Later, I slam the fridge door with it’s nearly empty contents and skip to the big compost heap for a transfer. On my return, I dither. Should I shower or therapize someone or water the garden before it gets too hot? Maybe I could combine the first and last and skip a step completely? I wonder if my neighbours would appreciate this combination? I glance at my spouse deep in design. I interrupt his creativity to request assistance. “Is it o.k. if I nip upstairs and have a shower?” He blinks at me blankly, “sure, knock yourself out!” I translate. [translation = adult supervision of children is required] “Sure, take as long as you like.” I pout. I decide that I will not translate his missive and instead I shall take him literally. [translation = be a big fat meany and dilly dally]

I nip upstairs, three at a time and dive into the shower for my usual pit stop. Afterwards I attempt ‘drying’ with a damp towel, give up and dress with care. [translation = pull on an old sundress] I decide that if the feminist facet has eloped, then I shall expose the womanly wiles instead. [translation = serious personality disorder] I dither. Which one? Moisturizer, acne cream or wrinkle killer? I slap on a bit of each and hope for the best. I ram the bifocals back on and bounce down the stairs having completed my ablutions to the best of my ability in approximately four and a half minutes. [translation = getting very lax]

I present myself to my family. I decide to be helpful and give them a hint, “tad ah!” I spin, in my sundress, a swirl and a twirl.
“You are er…….dizzy?” asks one with a certain degree of uncertainty.
“You are dah princess?” is another tentative offer. [female attire always has this affect on them] They try again.
“You are dah flower?”
“You are dah colour…..ful?” We spiral down into a guessing game of twenty questions. [translation = or is that really ‘up’]
“Er…dah dress up?”
“No, no, no……I got it…..dah Power Ranger!”
“No, no, no…….dah hero guy!”
“Dat dog ……dah one wiv dah spots!”
“Ooo yeah, das right…….er……Lab……Lab…….Lab…..um…..Dalmation!”
I pout. [translation = I sometimes wonder why I bother!] My hands settle on my hips even though I try very hard not to adopt an attitude, as my daughter glances up at me from the sofa, “you’ve got white goopy blobs on yur face Mom!”

Note to self – check mirror before making next presentation

A dim view - England, my England

Now that I am for all intents and purposes, practically bald following my hair cut, I take comfort in the extra layer of material on my head in the form of my trusty baseball cap. The trusty baseball cap was purchased in 1995 when we first arrived in the States. It was my token gesture to blending in with my new surroundings. It is a modest garment, a faded sludgy brown, maybe tan. Over the years it has faded more so by the burning unrelenting sunshine that it has to endure. It’s crispy peak has protected by eyesight for as many years. I wear it now, in England, over a decade after it’s acquisition, to protect me from the torrential rain during our Summer holiday.

I stagger back in the general direction of the flat. [translation = apartment] My progress is slow due to the fact that my trousers are sopping wet and have therefore grown several yards in length. The excess material slaps back and forth around my ankles. At each stop, at each shop, for each purchase, I make a point of discussing the abhorrent weather. [translation = moaning about the weather is the inalienable right of every Brit] Each check out girl, and they are all girls, assures me that this is highly unseasonable, if not unreasonable, especially for June. I suddenly remember why it is that nobody wears make-up in England. I am unable to see anything through my fogged up, rain drenched bifocals, but this doesn’t matter because my face is so wet, that they merely slide down my slippery nose in constant peril of slithering off completely.

My plastic carrier bags crowd together for comfort, nestled, as they cut off the blood supply to my tortured fingers. The baseball cap begins to droop. Waterlogged. I am in danger of total blindness if the peak decides to give up the ghost and flop down like a trap door and completely block my vision. I wear my natty little waterproof jacket, purchased from Paradise Point in San Diego, a decade ago. Fortunately it is pillar box red, which saves me from annihilation by the convoy of traffic, windscreen wipers on full speed, but still unable to spot hapless grey pedestrians. I am glad that I am wearing black socks because the black dye from my shoes will ensure that I have tattooed my feet to match. I wonder if the red dye will similarly tattoo my torso? The red jacket has never experienced so much as a droplet of rain since it has been in my sole possession. I wonder if my watch is waterproof? I wonder if any part of me is waterproof? Am I soluable? I will soon find out for sure, if the rain continues for much longer. Surely I will just dissolve into a puddle and merge with all the other puddles into one big lake, never to take human form again. A water baby, though unwilling.


I have a sudden vision of Devonshire Cream Teas, or should that be Cornish Cream Teas? Where are my loyalties exactly? Which county should I favour? Since I don’t like jam [translation = jelly] nor scones, nor cream, this is an odd vision to be envisioning at this moment. Maybe this is what happens when you have a near death experience? Malnourished and sodden, I have no other option but to foresee cholesterol loaded calories as a life saving gesture for survival.

I replace that vision with a better vision, that of microwaved left over curry, once, or if, I every return to the flat. [translation = solid dry ground, an island in this watery world] No wonder British people eat so much curry. No wonder that Chicken Tikka Masala is the national dish. No wonder that in order to survive the weather, Brits all over the country have to resort to reheating curry in order to kick start their arteries, increase blood flow and prevent us spiraling down into a race of reptiles.

I feel a small glow of smugness as I recall the conversation with my youngest son an hour after we had first arrived in the flat. Barefoot within seconds, they had investigated our new surroundings with a certain amount of interest, especially all the light switches on the lamps. They made a full and thorough inventory of all the buttons available. At some stage, my son presented himself to me for inspection.
“I am different.”
“Er yes, indeed you are.”
“No! I am more different.”
“Really. In what way are you more different?”
“I am a different colour.”
“Really. What colour are you?”
“I fink dat part of me is being, er, grey.”
“Really. Which part of you is grey?”
“My feet is. Look!” He lifts each foot in turn so that I am better able to see the mucky soles.
“Oh yes. You’re right. Part of you is grey.”
“Why I am grey?”
“Because you are barefoot. Your feet have picked up the dirt on the floor.”
“Dirt is grey? Da grey is dah dirt? I am dirty?”
“Well yes, part of you, your feet, are dirty.” Why is this not obvious to him? A spark plug ignites in his brain and sends him into a parody of an epileptic fit. After a few minutes he calms down enough to take remedial self help treatment. He sits on the floor and blows the sole of each foot in turn. This method of cleansing is ineffective, which sends him off into an additional flurry, “what I do, what I do, what I do?” I scoop him up and carry him to the sink to wash his feet with cold water and washing up liquid, which is about the only thing that we’ve managed to unpack thus far. As I restore his personage to [his] hygienic standards, I reflect that it really must be the case that our floors at home are clean enough to eat off, if he has never before experienced dirty feet in this manner before. But of course if you clean your floor between three times and five times a day on average, to co-ordinate with each meal, notwithstanding additional accidents in between whiles, then of course they’re going to be clean.




As I glance toward the quay, I am unable to distinguish the horizon from the land or the sky. Together with the fog, there is merely a uniform backdrop of grey. Grey sea, grey sky and possibly some grey land in-between, but who would know? This reminds me of when my father would take me to visit whatever ship he was serving on, during his career days in the Navy. Hundreds of grey ships would be tied up along the dock. Big ones, small ones, pointy ones and fat ones. They all had special names, even though they were all virtually indistinguishable from one another. They were all painted the universal battleship grey, which I thought rather dull and unimaginative. As my father would wax lyrical about the many different features of each type of ship, I would imagine a fleet of rainbow coloured boats instead, a flotilla of welcome, rather than this drab array of uniformity.














Of course! How apt! Grey sky, grey sea, grey ships, the perfect disguise! No wonder Britannia rules the waves [but San Jose still lures my gaze]

Tiptoe through the tulips

One of our ongoing campaigns, is to continue to try and expand junior’s diet. Currently, he eats 17 foods. [translation = jolly annoying but more commonly referred to as neophobic] Ideally I would wish for our family to enjoy a meal together in the evening, but that dream may be a while away yet.

For the time being I am more than satisfied with a lesser deal. The lesser deal these days is for everyone to be at the table together, for a period of time. The time period is vague. [translation = more than a minute fits the bill] When I say ‘at’ the table, this is because I don’t expect anyone to really sit, in the conventional meaning of the term. [translation = hunkered down, kneeling, draped, or in close proximity to a chair, are all good enough]

At first, this might see quite a low bar. ‘But Madeline, surely if you have such feeble expectations of your children, they have nothing to rise towards?’ And indeed, as always, I would applaud that viewpoint. The trouble with that viewpoint, is that it is blind to a few little matters that are of great import.

For instance, if you have a limited diet and are required to be at the table with other people, then you have to see and smell their very offensive food. Sometimes you may also have to hear it too. Whilst I do not know what smells you dislike, I could hazard a guess that you would have a hard time eating your dinner in a male public restroom. Likewise, even if you are not a vegetarian, a slaughterhouse wouldn’t be my first choice of venue, to eat my tuna sandwich. We are all familiar with tales of foreign travel and exotic foods. [translation = chocolate covered cockroaches anyone?]

Hence, for my son to be at the table, whilst other people eat other things, this translates into a momentous achievement. [translation = thus we unite to chant ‘remember, everybody likes different things,’ but next time I’ll pick a better tune, or maybe better words, or basically something less irritating during the following months of repetition]

This means, that even a simple lunch time sandwich may cause great difficulties for the person who finds that peanut butter is ‘poison.’ Strangely, my other son finds the smell, taste and sight of bananas very offensive too. This is a great nuisance, since bananas are one of his little brothers 17 foods.

The trouble with only eating 17 foods, is that each of those 17 items appears more frequently in a daily diet. If for example, you as an adult person, enjoyed caviar or oysters or smoked salmon, even if you could afford to eat such things, you probably wouldn’t eat them every day, or even every other day. None of them would be around to torture the other people in your household very often. Even if you threw caution to the wind and stuffed yourself on smoked salmon for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and squeezed in a morning and afternoon salmon snack too, at the end of the day, the packet would be empty. [translation = but your tummy would be full to capacity]

As an aside, maybe you could find 17 foods that you could exist on for the next year? Just you, no need to concern yourself with other people’s foibles. Imagine you’re on a desert island. [translation = with fresh daily shipments by helicopter] Each item must be a single item. [translation = no casseroles] Don’t cheat and combine one thing with another. [translation = spaghetti but no sauce, chicken but no breadcrumbs, or breadcrumbs and chicken separately, they’d be two items] Be careful of pies as the crust and the contents will be at least two items. Even a nice safe soup is likely be a cheat, and I know that you’ll put your croutons on the side, for later or dessert. Two of your 17 items must be beverages. E.g. milk and water. That gives you 15 things to choose. Now come along now, you’re an adult, so don’t forget to ensure that you have a well balanced nutritional diet. Let me know how you get on. 365 days and counting!

But as usual, I digress. Meanwhile………..



As always, my timing is flawless. [translation = 5:30 p.m.] The children are absorbed in the ‘electronics’ reward time, as I nip back in from the garden with the world’s most perfect tomato in my hot little hands for my lunch. [translation = home grown and still warm from the sunshine.] The air conditioning in the single family room, ensures that their air flow is pure. [translation = no chance of him detecting that a tomato has entered the house] My handy dandy egg slicer, means that my sandwich is ready in a trice. I skip to the dining room to eat my lunch. [translation = summer holidays may result in malnutrition for some.] I sit at the table, as a proper grown up should and admire the bouquet of flowers. [translation = not from an admirer but from a guilt ridden dentist]

After one mouthful, I realize that I’ve forgotten the chives. I dither. Eat now, whilst the going is good and skip the addition of perfection, or add the perfection and risk skipping the eating? I slip from my chair and move silently back into the kitchen. [translation = the stealth of the truly motivated] I return to the table with a handful of chives and a pair of scissors, but as I open the blades I hear a howl from the family room, following by speedy steps that stop at my side. He tiptoes in place with his fingers neatly pinching his nostrils closed, eyes shut, “dat is dah terrible, dat is dah awful, dat is dah stinkiest ever, ever, ever!” His eyes blink open and then snap shut again before he whizzes away to bellow over his shoulder, “But das o.k. coz everybody is liking dah different things!”

Well something is getting through!



Not ‘one sandwich’ but several items = tomato, mayonnaise, slice of bread, one egg, ignore salt and pepper, all equates to four food items. Just as well I skipped the chives.

Autism – what really gets me down

If I had to describe what it is about autism that really gets on my pip, it would be the tiresomeness of it all. By this, I don’t mean how tiring autism is, [translation = the lie down and sleep kind of tiredness] but more the real tiresomeness of it all. [translation = annoyingness of it all]

It would be alright, I suppose, if what is true today, would also be true tomorrow, or yesterday, or the next 12 hours, or twelve minutes, for that matter, but it’s not, is it? [translation = rhetorical question]

What is true and accurate this second, may not be so in the next second. [translation = the second second] For example, quite often you can get away with lots of casual every day statements, comments, questions and other bits and pieces that make up an ordinary sort of conversation, without anyone taking issue with you. Then all of a sudden, just as you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security, you utter a few more words and all hell breaks loose for no apparent reason. It was o.k. for you to say what you said, two sentences ago, but now, someone has switched on their radar and you’re under attack from all sides for the most innocent of comments.

An example always helps in these instances. [translation = I hope] So you’re nipping along in your winkie dinkie little European car, with a truckload of passengers, on the wrong side of the road because you’re in England on holiday. You chat to the other adults in the car, as all people under the age of ten, are asleep. Because they are asleep, by definition, they are not listening. All radars are in the off position.

“It should be the next left I think?”
“Do you think?”
“I think so.”
“What do you think?”
“I can’t remember if it’s the next left or the left after the next, but thinking about it, I think you're right?”

This is four adult people in conversation about a tentative destination, where you cannot see the surrounding countryside because is it blinkered from view by ten foot hedgerows. As we dither, collectively, a small person is suddenly awake, with a complaint, a verbal one, “no more dah fink. Dat is stoopid. Shut up wiv dah fink. Dah fink is being silent in dah brain, not in dah mowf.” This dislodges another from slumberland, “yeah, what he said, er says, um said.” The last one wriggles with restlessness, “yeah, me too, all this thinking is far too noisy!”


It would see that they're not the only ones with volume control issues!

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The art of disguise

I interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a reality check.

If you are new to this site, I would respectfully recommend that you skip this posting and turn instead to a little jollity. I am a regular visitor to two jolly sites. One of these is "Dan's" which is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face, especially if you favour cats. Alternatively, you could nip along to "bobbarama" for a wee bit of glee. Trust me, they're safe.

So that was your final warning.

So now, it's just you and me, and nobody is listening. [translation = ear-wigging]

From a few weeks back, on our English Holiday,

[for "Joey's Mom" and "Leelo and his potty-mouthed mom."]

I have deliberately delivered this at the weekend, when visitations are lower, and only the truly desperate can make time in the wee small hours to find a little comfort......

I see her glance at my forearms, so I discretely pull down my sleeves to my wrists before she can focus, to cover all the bite marks. He doesn’t bite so often now, but it’s a habit that returns in times of stress. A holiday is a time of stress, unpredictability and an upset to the routine. Maybe I should try and explain why they bite? The complexity and different forces at work for each of them? The strategies to help each of them?

Her eyes rove towards my hands, “what have you been doing to yourself? Juggling with razor blades?” I debate whether to pull my sleeves down to cover my hands, ball them up like mittens, but it’s too late. “Oh nothing, just a bit careless with the roses,” I lie. It’s our own fault. We forgot to cut his finger nails, those little slivers of glass that slice and carve the flesh. Finger and toe nail cutting, is one of the most howling experiences, only topped in the agony quotient, by hair cutting. These 'self care' duties, are currently our responsibility, because we are the parents. His extreme aversiveness to these tasks, has had a similar affect on us. [translation = reluctance to do the deed]

But holding hands in a foreign land, is even more of an imperative than it is at home. You become so used to the little tell tale signs that you forget about them, they’re of no consequence. It’s only when you are subject to the scrutiny of outsiders, that you need to recall and re-use those old powers of deception.

Who would you tell such things to anyway? Why would you tell anyone? Who would benefit from knowing such things? Surely this kind of information that would only serve to bolster those people who already have reasons to criticize your children? This is the kind of information that helps justify the actions of people, who would do our children harm. As "Kristina Chew" points out, this kind of behaviour permits people to think they can "incarcerate our children," for their own well being and the safety of others. There are only a very few people, with whom I can share such information. A very tiny percentage of the population. The only reason I can think of, that one would bother to pass on such facts, are to people who may have similar experiences. People who also fear that they are the only people with such experiences. Other people who also feel that there is no purpose in sharing such information.

So much of what they 'say' and do is mis-understood, if only by me.

What can you say to the people who are shocked by such behaviour or to the people who are disgusted that you tolerate it, that you, as a parent, clearly have no self respect? To those people? Probably, I would say nothing. To explain, that in the great scheme of things, it’s of no great consequence. To explain that it is a mere irritation that lessens over time, that it is only one element of many. Everything is work in progress. If you doubt the description of 'mere irritation,' I would respectfully suggest the following: if the typical child, bites the typical parent, more often than not, the purpose, however fleeting, is to hurt the parent both physically and psychologically. However, with an autistic child the purpose has an entirely different motivation and as any good lawyer will tell you, the 'intent' underlying any 'offense' is pivotal.

On the whole, it’s re-emergence is entirely predictable and has to be balanced and weighed, against the vast leaps forward that they’re making. Head butts and their aftermath, are obvious to everyone, but a far more subtle, advanced and sophisticated development goes unnoticed. If he comes to a stop at the curb without prompting and spits on the ground, obviously he is a recalcitrant little thug. Such a socially unacceptable gesture, hides his willingness and ability to reign himself in, put on the brakes and stop on his own volition. No-one notices when he hands his preferred toy to his brother to share, nor his brother’s sotto voce, ‘cheers you are dah best one!’ Such trifles are of such tremendous significance that they defy explanation. [translation = it would take too long and we try to avoid lectures] But the minutely tremendous developments are profound for the patient.

I pick these two insignificant incidents, not as examples of 'normal' behaviour, nor as indications of social skills. The ability to avoid running into a road, means that he has a far better chance of reaching adulthood, a significant survival skill. The exchange between him and his brother goes to highlight the bond between them, that has only recently come to light. It may look like social skills, but to me it is empathetic, which is of far greater importance.

Whilst most Brits uncover at the first blink of the sun, I am safe in my long trousers. I claim the excuse of our Californian heritage, which gives me the perfect reason to keep my legs and the multi-coloured bruises, well hidden. I don’t expect people to understand the physicality of restraining 50 or 65 lbs worth of flailing body. It’s not deliberate, it’s escapism, when the fight or flight response kicks in, literally.

“But you look so tired dear,” she sighs.
“But it’s only jet lag Mum!” Isn't it?

It is these kind of holidays, that make me wish I'd taken the advice of those who really know, like "Bev" at "Asperger Square 8," and 'just stayed home.'

In the meantime, we are another year older. We are always learning new "techniques."

A large dose of rest, has restored my appearance to this current state of ‘worn out,’ as opposed to exhausted. And this year is so much better than last year. And last year was so much better than the year before. If we continue at our current trajectory, soon I will only appear elderly, like reverse rejuvenation therapy. Which reminds me to start a new campaign with them, namely, how to push me, their mother, in a bath chair. [translation = and how to apply the brakes] Now that's my kind of exploitation!

For a more mature and balanced perspective about how parents like me, misinterpret matters, please visit "Amanda" at her "site."

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]

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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."