Chat, chat, chat – breaking News

From a few days ago.........

Good parents don’t typecast their children.

Good parents avoid labels such as ‘Henry, our little athlete, Mary our little mother, Poppy our little jokester.’

There are so many reasons why it is a mistake to label our children. Once they’ve been cast, they often strive to meet those expectations. Even when they are mis-labeled, the effect can still be profound. Parents can miss a whole slew of information because they’re not looking for it. If the ‘mother’ child makes a joke, the parent fails to notice, because that isn’t the jokey child. If the jokey child runs a four minute mile, no-one notices. We see what we expect to see, we miss anything and everything that doesn’t fit into our preconceived perspective. Or maybe that’s just me?


“I’ll make an appointment as soon as they’re open dear.”
“Now?”
“No at 9:00, they open at nine.”
“What time is it now?”
“Er….7:21,” I scurry after him like a jogging buddy even though I am terminally allergic to any form of exercise.
“How many minutes?”
“Er…….99.”
“How many seconds?”
“Er…………………..five hundred……five hundred and forty, I think?”
“I will have a different pill?” He has lost the ‘non-verbal’ part of his label. I have lost my marbles.
“Maybe, or perhaps a smaller one. Do you remember the doctor showed you the three sizes of pills”
“Yes. It is the pill that gives me the headache?”
“Yes I think so.”

As we chat, he moves. My slow lugubrious, laborious, lethargic 8 year old marches swiftly around the house and I follow in his wake. When I say 'march,' I mean exactly that. Instead of walking on his tippy, tippy toes, digits splayed, he has his heels on the ground, a rare and quite startling alteration, but only one of so many. His hands touch the furniture in time to the band of his feet, but his head flicks towards me at regular intervals.
“As you were saying….” he says, which nearly makes me trip over my own feet.
“I was? What was I saying?”
“You were saying about tummy aches.”
“I was?”
“Yes. You said that they weren’t as bad as headaches.” Where has my recall gone?
“Ah yes. Well I don’t really know, but I think that headaches are so bad that you can’t do anything, just lie down in bed, but with tummy aches you can keep going.” However, I’m not really sure that I can keep going? It is only 7:22 in the morning. The pill has been in his system 40 minutes and I am already completely out of my depth, trotting behind my son, trying to catch every word. I am so muddled and befuddled.

I have been told that most people are already set in their ways by their early 30's rather than their 40's. We become incapable of adopting a major change. At best, we can hope to alter less than 5% of our character, behaviour and opinions. Imagine that! A titchy little 5%. The only caveat to this research is where a person has a life altering catastrophe, such a near death experience. Those individuals cast off the shackles of the past and are reborn. I had accepted this fact as truth. The idiom 'old stick in the mud,' could have been tattooed on my forehead, but now, evidence to the contrary blasts me on a daily basis.

“Wait up! I’ll be right back.” He lifts a hand in a parting farewell gesture as his body shifts into super fast gear and whizzes out of the kitchen. I scramble after him, through the galley, past the utility room, into the garage, out of the door, down the path I scamper after the galloping, sneaker covered, feet of my son.

This isn’t my runner. This isn’t my Houdini, the energizer bunny that spins into the path of oncoming traffic. This is my dormouse, the sleepy, gentle child curled in a teapot.

This is the wrong son doing the wrong thing. I hear the traffic and see my shambolic boy, as he widens the gap between us. I run. I see the traffic. I run faster. I hear the hoot, the blare of a horn. I fly, dressing gown gaping to rugby tackle him to the ground.

It only seems a few seconds ago that I was too scared to correct his speech, fearful that the few words that he spoke voluntarily, would dry up. This is all so new, relatively. I’ve been reluctant to risk correction, short of rephrasing and repeating the right version. Far to scared to extinguish the spark.

“What are you doing mum?” he asks slightly dazed, sprawled on the concrete.
I squeeze him tight and run an eye over him to see how much damage I’ve caused.
“It’s o.k. mum, I’m not hurt, er hurted, I mean hurt, I was right the first time!”
“Oh.”
“What is it, what’s wrong, why are you crying? I only went to get the newspaper for you! Here, it’s got a great picture on the front!”


Post script - please do not rush out to your paediatrician based on this post. There is a huge downside that I've not had a chance to compose, other than the OCD. There is no such thing as a free lunch.

The Ancient Mariner

Where is my compass when I need it?

Or should that rather be a sexton? Or a map?

But I have learned one new thing; anxiety is contagious, or should that be infectious?

My older son’s obsession with the passage of time has grown to gargantuan proportions. I am unable to field his constant question, ‘how long until electronics?’ Nothing distracts him from the passing seconds displayed on the timer. He carries it around with him and glances at the figures with every breath. I’m not sure if I’m anxious or just plain ratty at the harassment, but I do know that it’s not healthy for either of us.

We will both be arithmetical athletes if he keeps up at this rate. There are insufficient seconds between the seconds, for me to give any attention to my other children and responsibilities. It is only possible to read a couple of words or part of a line about “Your Anxious Child,” which means that I am no closer to finding an appropriate coping strategy for any of us. “It’s taking too long” he wails, interspersed with “how many minutes until electronics? No, no, no, I mean how many seconds?” He will wear out his vocal chords if he keeps twanging them in the manner. They’re not used to such exercise.

I am in the midst of circular thought patterns myself, when it dawns on me that another cause of concern is that he has also failed to play with his electronics for the last few days. When the designated time, 5:30 p.m. finally arrives, instead of pounding off to grab one of the coveted toys, he ambles around listlessly. After we’ve started our bedtime routine after supper, it occurs to him that he has missed ‘electronics’ time again. I am uncertain how this turn of events has come about?



If we spend another 24 hours like this, I might as well book my spot in a padded cell. There again, that might give me a few minutes to read, learn, strategize and come up with some kind of new campaign, no matter how inadequate it eventually turns out to be. How can he have so many words and yet I have none, or at least not the right ones?

As the timer starts beeping he dashes to my side to wave it around in a storm of ecstasy, “it’s 5:30, it’s electronics time, at last! I thought it would never come! I’m so glad that’s all over with.” He deflates into the sofa with a sigh. “Now I can relax, that’s so much better.”

His fingers turn the pages of one of the manuals to one of his games, as he studies the pictures and instructions.

"Um.....aren't you going to play with your...Gameboy.....or something?" I offer tentatively now that he appears to be at peace.
"Nah!.....whatever," he adds with all the charm of a teenager. Whatever! Whatever? Don't you 'whatever' me matey! We have endured an entire day, second by second, and now all we have is 'whatever!' I am unfamiliar with 'young people speak,' but even I know that this roughly translates to 'it is a trifle of no consequence.' Where is all this 'young people speak' coming from? 'A trifle of no consequence' does not match today's experience. I am completely mystified, a condition which I believe is rapidly becoming my new status.

Much later, when I tuck him into bed at eight, he realizes that another 24 hours has passed, during which time he has failed to play any electronics.

We have turned into a family of rampant, racing radicals, not the free kind.

Pass me the monkey nuts, I need to re-energize before I fall off my wheel.

Naughty Nicholas

The names have not been changed to protect the anonymity of the players.

“Stop it Nicholas!” he barks at a sandy haired little boy. My boys look at Nicholas and stop doing what they are doing.
“Not like that! Here do it this way. Are you listening to me?” Nicholas isn’t listening. My boys are listening. They are both unusually quiet, uncommonly still.
“Geez you’re so dumb sometimes. Squeeze the red button why dontcha?” Nicholas doesn’t squeeze the red button. Nicholas’ Dad helps Nicholas’ thumb squeeze the red button, “there. See? That’s how you do it.”

“Ouch!” squeaks Nicholas. Two additional ‘ouches’ echo, but Nicholas’ Dad doesn’t notice. I think I dislike Nicholas’ Dad, but say nothing. I say nothing because one of my sons is wrapped around my ankles and I’m carrying a six and a half year old, the epitomy of an over protective and incompetent parent. We wait. It will be our turn soon. I remind myself that we all have bad days. I would not like anyone to closely observe one of our bad days. I remind myself that we are enjoying an exceptionally good day. Lucky us!

I am surprised that my boys are waiting so patiently. I am also surprised that they appear to be watching with close care and intense attention.

One of my boys learns by observation. He will watch whilst somebody else does a task. He’ll watch again, and again, and again, until he’s ready. When he’s ready he will make his first attempt. He rarely gets it right the first time. No-one is allowed to help him. He will scream uproariously with each attempt until he finally masters the new skill.

We watch and learn.



“Give me that,” snaps Dad, as he wrestles the controls from Nicholas. Nicholas pulls a face, so do my boys. “Enough with the attitude!” snarls Nicholas’ dad. I shift the weight on my hip a little as Nicholas looks at me with a clear blue gaze. I smile a bit, then I remember that my teeth are no longer off limits. I flash him my enamel with a glint of retainer. He smiles back. “Pay attention Nicholas or you’ll never learn anything.” His head snaps back to his dad. “Don’t’ you know it’s rude to stare at…. er……. people!” I glance away because I suspect that I am blushing or blanching.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“I am stare at people?”
“Oh no, I don’t think you ever stare at people, at least not that I’ve noticed.”
“I am rude?”
“No, not rude.”
“We are have a turn?”
“Yes, we shall soon.”

I think perhaps Nicholas’ dad overhears us.

“Come on Nicholas. Lets give these guys a turn, you’re no good at it anyway.” Nicholas’ dad pulls Nicholas from the seat and moves off to another exhibit. My son unravels himself from my feet and tiptoes cautiously onto the empty, warm seat. My other son slowly and gently slithers down from my hip and steps tentatively towards the same seat. It is very quiet. Their two little bottoms shuffle a bit to make room for each other.
“O.k. let see if we can get this thing to work,” I offer, seeing as how I am a poor teacher in the technology department. Two little faces turn towards me. They are not smiling even though they now have the opportunity to exploit their time and enjoy the activity that they have waited for so patiently.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Nicholas’ dad is naughty.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

By other parents, such as myself have committed greater "crimes."

How do you spread a little luck and rats to the "theory of mind?"

The Discovery Channel and fine tuning

For Carolyn and David - hope your translation powers are up to par?

“I have been dah discovered!”
“Really? What have you discovered dear?”
“I have discovered……dat…….I am not liking dah green eggs and ham.” I look at him. Is he telling something that I don’t already know? Something that he didn’t know? Or is this just a way of exercising the use of a new favourite word ‘discovered’?
“Well thank you so much for telling me that dear.” It’s genuine, I really am glad that he now wishes to share little matters of a trivial or social nature.
“D’you know wot?”
“What dear?”
“Dere are uvver fings dat I am discovered too!”
“I’m sure there are. Would you like to tell me some of them perhaps?”
“No! Dey are dah secret discovered.”
“Secrets. Oh you shouldn’t have any secrets, well at least you shouldn’t have any secrets from me. Never have secrets from your mum.” I deliver this in what I hope is an authoritative tone or maybe a warning.
“Er…..what it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dah voice?”
“What voice?”
“Er…..yur voice dat is coming from you?”
“Um?”
“I mean it is dah lagoon.”
“What is a lagoon?”
“Yur voice is dah lagoon.”
“It is?”
He pulls a scary face, leers with claw hands by his ears, to mimic a breathy horror movie tone, “yes, you are dah secret of dah black lagoon.”

Oh dear! It seems I’ll have to mind my tone, and moderate my moan.

High definition

I have always been a very poor judge of character, a failing that my mother takes great care to remind me about, at frequent intervals.

Over the years, my small and motley circle of friends, has been a source of great angst for my mother. They all had faults and failings, not the least of which, was being the wrong type of person. Lame ducks, losers and users, were inaccurate descriptions that didn’t match my experience. “Where do you find them?” she would sigh, as if I had deliberately chosen my pals to annoy her. If there had been a ‘discernment’ class available in those days, I would have been signed up for one on one tuition, no doubt.
……

The car park is nearly full as we search for a space. There are a great number of people milling around dressed in strange attire. The majority wear head gear, with a high count of straw hats. My suspicions are confirmed by a sign that indicates an Art’s Festival Today. Today, we are going to the Tech Museum in San Jose. All of us.

The crowd is dressed unfashionably. This is not conventional mall clothing. Instead there is a colourful display, a patchwork of individuality. They all deserve prizes for uniqueness.

She catches my eye because she’s just like me. Similar age, wild hair and freckles. We all know that excessively thin people should never expose too much flesh, unless they wish to be mistaken for a wire clothes hanger or it’s Halloween. Her naked back is a xylophone rack, jutting hip bones and gnarled elbows. I lose her in the crush of the crowd as I move my mob in the general direction of the museum.

We have been coming here for approximately three years, which means it is familiar territory and not scary, either for them or me, but for different reasons. I know that if I lose anyone, they will each gravitate to their favourite spots: one to the roller coaster simulator, one to the car simulator, one to the seismology area.


I see a child, maybe ten years old, who wears loose, scarlet shorts and black, wooly, knee length socks. It is August. It is California. It is 102 degrees in the shade. His feet are shod in sandals that are much too large, which makes it even more difficult for him to walk on his tippy toes. His arms are bent at the elbow, his fingers fiddle with his lips. If I knew him at all I would kiss his tousled, un-brushed hair.

A real woman of generous proportions displays more breast flesh than is common during daylight hours, indoors with efficient air conditioning. It’s not the spaghetti straps that that dig into the folds that draw my attention, but the small penny sized scar nearby the overflowing cup. She calls to her chum, “go get your head examined by that machine!” She glances at me as I stifle a giggle, head to toe, toe to head. I wither under her gaze. I tell my rude eyes to blink and stop staring at the headlights, before I am mown down and quite rightly so. "I just thought it was funny....." I mumble, "what you said I mean, to your friend." She smiles back me, "right!" I see her perfect movie star little teeth and warm, plush lips.



It’s not often that you have the chance to see so many small people who either have their arms folded, or clasp their hands with the high tension grip of public anxiety.


I spot her again, the scrawny one, with her significant other, as they attempt to dance in time with the Macarena simulator. Rarely does one witness such a public display of the truly un-coordinated. It could so easily be humiliating if it wasn’t for their humility. It is hilarious to watch. Their hilarity is infectious. She bends down to retrieve her straw hat. Her backless dress gapes at the front. I glimpse straight through to her knickers, or rather, her boxer shorts. I feel a pang of guilt. This is probably the only other woman on the planet who also wears boxer shorts under a frock, because life is unpredictable. You never know when you might have to climb a tree or a ladder, or scoot down a fireman's pole. It's a safety response for mother's who deal with flight or fight. I wonder if she hangs from monkey bars too? She clasps the hat to her chest, breathless from dancing.


I see master black socks skip over to her and huddle into his mother’s bird like rib cage. There is no soft bosom to cushion his skull. I watch her skinny, sinewy arm slither around his shoulders for a gentle embrace. Her sharp chin rests on the nest of his unruly hair. Her eyes squeeze tight. Her mouth widens into a huge, expansive smile. The warmth of her happiness glows.

Maybe she’s skinny because of jaw surgery too? I wonder if she had to carry her son and for how long? I wonder what her name is or his? I am full of silent questions, as I don’t want to break the spell.

Can you define a person in a sentence? Can you get under their skin? Or try?

To me she’s an eight stone heavy weight with the strength of a Rhino, but then, what do I know?





So here’s to emancipation, not emaciation and friendship.

Cheers!

Wordless Wednesday #2

Scroll down past #1 and #2 for Wednesday with Words!















































I think I need a widget? Any advice gratefully received.

Wordless Wednesday - sort of #1

Paper cuts

Scroll down for 'Wordless Wednesday' #1 and #2

Yes, I know they hurt, paper cuts that is to say.

Indeed they hurt proportionately more than most other kinds of cuts.

I’m not sure why it is that we’ve not experienced them prior to this point. I suspect it has something to do with his aversion to the texture of paper, which he generally avoids because of his tactile defensiveness.

“How can I restart life?” he shrieks with his finger poised under the running tap water. His forearm is steadied by the edge of the sink but the rest of his body jangles and sparks. The sound is deafening as he growls, barks and makes rooster noises in-between the sentences.
“I’m gonna die!” he bellows. His older brother comes over to observe and comment, “have I ever had a paper cut before?”
“No I don’t think so.”
“I think maybe I am allergic to paper. Can you tell my teacher that I’m allergic to paper coz I don’t wanna die either.” His brother continues to scream, “I’m too young to die!”
“Is he really gonna die? Maybe we should take him to the ER?”
“I’m too old to be a bird!” he shrieks and flaps. I push a damp face cloth into the mouth that spits and snaps at the air, to give him something to bite on. The kettle clicks off and puffs of steam rises. “Don’t burn him mum, he’s not been that bad. Don’t worry little guy, you’re gonna be o.k. mum’s not gonna burn you honest!” I am so grateful that there isn’t a social worker lurking around to report me to the authorities. I have no idea what to do about the ever blossoming OCD tendencies in the boys which keep popping out at unexpected moments.

Every few minutes he erupts, jumping jack style, from his position on the step and hurtles off with muffled cries to the other room. He bounces frantically on the trampolene like a thing possessed. It would be funny to observe if it weren’t quite so extraordinary to witness. He dashes back to the sink and the water.

He remains in this position for a long time. When the time is right, he nips off to collect some entertainment, a book, and then returns to the tap. The water flows over his left hand and he holds the pages of the book in his right. I consider this to be the equivalent of getting back on a horse after a fall. I am delighted with this coping mechanism. I flick on the garbage disposal unit to empty the debris that’s piling up as the sink fills. I remember a second to late, that the noise and the whirring blades are likely set him off.

They don’t set him off. Instead they set off his brother who comes charging into the room to defend him. “Don’t chop off his fingers! He’s not been that bad! He needs his fingers for school tomorrow! He can’t go without his fingers.”

This scenario continues for an hour and fifty minutes. I eventually transfer him to the sofa where we read Calvin and Hobbes and cuddle, whilst his legs tap rhythmically on the trampolene.

Spouse returns home unusually early. “It’s unusually quiet around here,” he murmurs as his head snakes around to check that he has returned to the correct den, in daylight hours. "Nice to see you sitting down for a change. You should try and take things more easy." His twitchy but deflated son, skitters off on a mission. He is replaced by his older brother and a torrent of questions. He stands stock still, blanched, as his son blasts him with questions that revolve around the duration of life, the many hazards of life, and life as we no longer know it.

I sip my tea. Stone cold. “I thought it would be nice to come home in time for dinner for a change.” I gulp. Dinner? How come I didn’t get around to it today? Is it that time already? Where has the day gone? I have reached an all time low in productivity. It seems so unimportant now that neither of the boys ever eats anything. I shall be stripped of my title, 'home maker.' A traitor to the cause, a woman who makes nothing. My tiny universe has been turned upside down. I was so sure that I'd become more efficient as they grew older, not less so!
He rubs his chin, “oh dear, I’m sorry,” he offers as I am covered with confusion. “I know! How about we go out for dinner instead, a real treat.”
“Do you know anywhere local that serves Ensure?”

[two chocolate and one vanilla please]

I am grateful to anyone who doesn't point out that the 'remain clothed at all times' campaign, has failed.

That darned Cat in the Hat!

“Can can, can you do the can can, if you can then I can,” he sings as he spins, interspersed with Pokemon noises, a surreal combination at the best of times.

I find it more difficult than usual to concentrate.

Whilst I have long been a fan of dear Ludwig, this modern version can be intensely annoying after a few hours. I hope that this "perseveration" will make him oblivious, as we have company.

The play date victim is a sweet natured, tolerant, typically developing girl.

The girls play.

The boys spin.

This faultless visitor has one minor idiosyncrasy that is of minute concern. Every sentence she utters is accompanied by the phrase ‘Ohmygod.’ I know that it is the verbal equivalent of ‘er,’ ‘um’ or ‘actually,’ but it is disconcerting for elderly foreigners who are set in their ways, such as myself.

After her last visit, it took a great deal of time to stop the boys from adding this 'word' to their vocabulary bank. Their version ‘oh my gosh’ sounds distinctly fake, but in a pool of fake, one more drop makes no difference, or so I like to think.

All too often, like Pavlov and his pooches, we make associations, one thing becomes inextricably linked with another. You smell freshly baked bread and you suddenly feel hungry. Your cell phone rings and you immediately answer it, even though you are conducting a conversation with another real human being, face to face. You see blood, you feel faint. You see Dad on the driveway, you say “hello Dad.” You see Jane on the playground, you say “hello Omygod.”

In the 95 degree heat, I need clothes of gossamer but slightly less revealing. I set the thermostat to 80 in the family room and leave the rest of the house to roast. For two pins I’d abandon the ‘you must remain dressed at all times’ campaign, but we must maintain standards, or rather, I must. It would never do to be starkers in my own home, as that isn’t the kind of modeling I’m cut out for. After 12 years in the country, I admit that I need to go on the ‘how your air conditioning works’ course. I squirt myself with a water bottle and pay attention.

My youngest son, "Mr. 17 foods," is experimenting with different cereals. He has also spent the last few days quoting huge chunks of “Green Eggs and Ham.” I am uncertain whether there is a connection or not? I am confident that his consumption of ham or eggs of any hue, are still many light years away.

His older brother is closeted in the bathroom. His little brother approaches the bathroom bearing one Alpha-bit in a perfect pincher grip. There is a very large Cheshire Cat grin pinned to his countenance and his eyebrows flicker like Grocho Marx.

“Hello der!” he beams. “Would you like to try one?” He waves the Alpha-bit before his brother’s face. This would be a particularly nauseous kind of sugary pap, with no discernible nutritional value whatsoever.
“I’m busy! Get out man.” My 'non-verbal' 8 year old has been transformed. He sits on the toilet defending his privacy, now that acknowledges that he needs some, privacy that is to say. I have yet to adjust to his new speech. I am unfamiliar with many of the hip phrases that he trots out with ease. I need to research who he is keeping company with? Where has he learned all these easy pat phrases from? Why has his mid-Atlantic accent turned all hip hop? I need to attend a hip hop crash course for fossils.

“Try one, you will like it, you will see!” His voice is light, enticing, a tease.
“No way. Go away man. Can't yur see I'm busy!” Usually it is all of us trying to persuade him to eat. It is so bizarre to watch him try and be the persuader.
“Try it, try it and you will see!”
“Oh man! What is wrong with you! What kinda crazy talk are yah doin?”

He skips, hops and dances before his trapped brother like a marionette on speed.
“Would you like it here or dere?” he fizzles and extends his body, slow motion, into an exaggerated sign post in the direction of the table.
“You are crazy man! Give me a break dude.” I am inclined to concur. This scene is entirely the wrong way around.

The girls appear just as the trapee is making his escape from the tiny bathroom. His little brother is like a darting mosquito, taunting his victim as he hovers and flits, still clutching the single Alpha-bit. The girls giggle, both boys become aware that they have an audience. He grabs a second Alpha-bit in the other hand. Both arms wave around, “would you like dem in a house? Would you like dem wiv a mouse?” The girls giggle. He continues, relentless, without mercy, spurred on by the girls.
"Can you stop with the "motor mouth" already!" He slaps his forehead in exasperation, “o.k. den!” His tormentor pops one Alpha-bit into the open mouth and one into his own mouth. Both boys shriek, but for different reasons. Both girls shriek in surprise. Everyone blinks at the same time to chorus ‘ohmygod!’ for many different reasons.

So this, my fine friends, is what we in the trade, mean by negative reinforcement.

Extraction by fair means or foul

I decide that I no longer care for Amazon’s packaging system.

It has degenerated from ‘open with a pair of scissors and collapse the box with a cleaver,’ to ‘open box with a chain saw.’

I have struggled to extract the contents for some minutes but avoided drawing blood.

My youngest son presents himself before me, amid the carnage of the semi opened packages. He pauses to gain composure and then makes his announcement.
“Look mummy! I am choosed my own cloves.”
“Indeed! And you put them on your body too!”

I cheer, as wonder how he has managed to squeeze himself into clothes put aside for the rag bag. Not only has he physically grown three of four inches since he last wore that ensemble, but it would appear that he also branches out into other pastures new. It is a rare moment to witness, when your child does something willingly, independently and successfully. Not even a prompt. I remind myself, again, that this is what independence looks like. It may not be my version but it’s still undeniable. I admire my corseted son and his cheesy grin for a job well done.

The sleeves are tight enough to restrict blood flow. The hem of his T-shirt gradually creeps up. The waistband on his trousers, slowly creeps down. The bikini effect. I wonder if I should suggest a change of attire but don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. It occurs to me, that this may be a gift in disguise. Nudity will be a thing of the past, since he will be unable to remove his skin tight clothing. Now that’s what I call a fringe benefit! I’ll need a can opener to extract him myself, or maybe a chainsaw?

He sucks in his cheeks and puckers his lips, goldfish style to ask, “why I am not dah puffer fish?”
“Er well, you certainly swim like a fish.”
Or rather a crab! He groans as he exhales and his tummy pops out.
“No! I am meaning that I need to be small, er smaller……fin as dah puffer fish when he is not puffed.”

I do not like green eggs or otherwise

I feel like a pedestrian in the middle of dodgem cars.
“I can hear my own bones!” he splutters and stretches like an athlete.

The other one bellows, “In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!” My mantra singer. This is interspersed with the many lines of Dr.Seuss that he has committed to memory, especially the Green Eggs and Ham volume. Whilst I dither whether on not to buy ear protectors for either or both of the boys, it occurs to me that I may be in greater need myself, as the ear plugs just aren’t up to the job any more.

Motor mouth continues relentlessly. His big brother complains, “you are just so annoying. You are so loud. You’re driving me crazy with all your "motor mouth talk." Mom, he’s bothering me.” This stream of words seems to be a replacement for pouncing and throttling the breath out of him. I consider this to be an all round improvement all round, in a carousel kind of a way. “Red alert, red alert, red alert,” chortles the little one. “Mom, he’s driving me crazy!”

“I know dear, I’ll just finish making the sandwiches and then we can fill up his mouth with bread.” I do a double take. Did I really say that out loud? “I mean I’ll find his vibrating spoon in a minute.” My son looks at me with wonky eye brows, deliberates a while and then announces, “don’t worry mom, I’m gonna deal with him for you,” and marches to towards the family room, the source of the incessant chatter. I drop the knife in the sink and hare on after him.

They stand face to face, much too close, nostrils flaring.
“Listen here you!”
“Red alert, red alert, red alert.”
“Why do you keep saying that? You are so annoying!”
“In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!”
“Can you just shut up already!”
“Red alert, red alert, red alert.”
“I’ve had enough of you for one day. You’ve been doing this all morning! Right!” He marches back into the kitchen, opens the correct drawer, rummages around in the back and whips out the vibrating spoon. Seconds later, in a smooth and seamless transition, he presents himself to his tormentor. “Here motor mouth, stick this in and chew it!”
“Eeow, that’s gross, eeow, that’s gross, eeow, that’s gross.” He summits nonetheless.



We wait. Soon, all we can hear is the buzz of the spoon and the purr of the air conditioning. A cool breeze sweeps through the house and peace reigns for a few moments.

And in my other "life".......

Goldilocks, don’t let the bears win

I ensure that I have a full hour to devote to the babysitter prior to our departure. This enables me to run over the rules and remind her of where everything is. I am determined that this shall be a successful relationship for all of us.

“So there’s just one last thing that I wanted to draw your attention to.”
“Yes?”
“The boys sleep in the same room in separate beds. She’s next door in her own bed. Both the boys wear pull-ups and I’ve left them here on the side for you.”
“O.k. No problem.”
“Great, it’s just that a while back we came home to find that they were all in the same bed. The boys didn’t have pull ups on which meant we had to give everyone a bath and change the sheets, which wasn’t much fun at 11 at night, if you know what I mean?”
“How did that happen?”
“I’m really not sure, but they managed to convince the sitter that they all slept in the same bed and that they didn’t need pull-ups!”
“How strange! Did you tell the sitter that they slept in separate beds and that the boys wear pull-ups?” I look at her for a moment, uncertain how to proceed.
“You know to tell the truth, I showed her the bedrooms and the beds and the pull ups, but I can’t be certain that I made myself understood. That’s why I’m telling you now, just so that there can’t be any misunderstandings.” I smile, in what I hope is a warm and sincere manner.
“Well, you know, everyone knows that boys and girls don’t sleep in the same bed!” This was not the response I was expecting. We live in the Western world, where it is less common for children to share a bed. There are three children and three beds. Is it wise to leave an adult in charge who has no matching skills?
“Indeed.”

There on the chair, right there!

I stumble into the kitchen early in the morning and trip on a crayon. It is the soft fall of the not truly awake enough to hurt oneself, variety. I feel around for my dislodged glasses in a state of temporary blindness and befuddlement. I should have large neon glasses to aid me, instead of the apparently invisible pair that I invested in. I notice the unusually dirty skirting boards. I look more closely. My nose is about to scrape the wood when I dart back in shock. A mouse hole! I scrabble around on the floor checking my skirting boards. There are so many! We’ve been invaded by an army of mice, an infestation no less. I grab a wooden spoon and poke tentatively at the hole. How strange? The hole isn’t a hole at all, it’s solid. I touch the hole with my finger tip. Definitely solid. I look closely at the little grey archway, a cartoon mouse hole, or rather, many, many cartoon mouse holes. I step on my glasses. Well they were wonky anyway. I arrange my glasses and go for a closer inspection. There is also a small grey toilet cartoon, mouse sized, as well as a lamp. The lamp is the clincher, I know which nocturnal child to blame. I start scrubbing my skirting boards in-between gulps of tepid coffee. Washable markers indeed! What a nerve!

Within half an hour I have eliminated half of the invaders and the kitchen stinks of bleach. My eldest son appears, he is in a dither, “hey mom something’s freakin me out, kinda.”
“What is it dear.”
“Er, come wiv me.” He leads me by the hand to his sister’s bedroom. She lies sprawled on the bed, still wearing her dressing up outfit. “It’s just dress up dear, nothing to worry about.”
“I know but it’s kinda scary, er is she a witch or something?” We look at the black curly wings protruding from her back. “I think it’s some kind of fairy outfit.”
“I know but it’s kinda freaky when it’s not Halloween.” This is no longer a two and a half speech delay for my eight year old, it’s something else entirely. We leave her to slumber and trot back downstairs. Our steps stir the little one who comes skittering down after us like a can on a string tied to a car's bumper.

In the kitchen both are horrified but for multifarious and different reasons. The artist is incensed at the destruction but unable to articulate his outrage as he pinches his nostrils. Bleach. The other one recognizes that we are under siege.
“I do not like mouses!”
“There are no mice dear, really, these are just pretend mouse holes. See! I can wash them off.” I scrub to demonstrate, but they’re hard work to remove.
“No. I don’t see. Where are the mouses?”
“Mice dear. There aren’t any.”
“Where are the mouses? They are in the houses, er, the house, er home, er here?” His little brother picks up on the rhyme, guffaws with laughter and spins off chanting “mouses, in the house es, mouses, in the house es, mouses, in the house es.” I foresee the day ahead of me.
“There aren’t any mice in here and anyway, even if a mouse came in, we have two brave cats to protect us.”
He looks at me dubiously as I continue to scrub and push my wonky glasses back up my nose.
“But we had a mouse before, one time.”
“Good remembering. Yes, you’re right we did have a mouse but that was over two years ago.” Fancy him remembering that? Fancy him telling me about it! His little brother spins back into the picture, “you must leave them, dey are dah jolly good joke dat is funny.”
“Really!” I would like to point out that at this moment he is in the minority.
“Yes! Dah mouse come in, he run at dah hole and go boink on his head, fall down.” He is delighted at his wit. I am less so.
“The mouse come in?” squeaks his brother.
“No dear. A mouse hasn’t come in, it’s a joke, his joke.” A bad joke. We are in the midst of this cycle when spouse appears to see what all the commotion is about. After a couple of repetitive cycles he’s up to speed and in the loop.
“Oh well you don’t have to worry about that. We have two cats remember?”
“Mum is already said that.” Good grief is this the same child?
“Good, so we’re all on the same page then. So really the only reason we had a mouse in the first place was because Jasper caught him and brought him inside for you as a present!”
“Jasper! My old cat?”
“Yes. Do you remember him?”
“Jasper bringed the mouse into the house!”
“Yes.”
“But mum said that cats stop mouses coming into the houses, er house!”
“Well yes, that is true but………” He runs away screaming.

We debate how to proceed.
“I didn’t know he was afraid of mice?”
“He isn’t, or rather he wasn’t, but he certainly is now.” The volume of screaming subsides.
“I wonder if he’s always been afraid of them but never been able to tell us before?”
“Maybe?” I’m uncertain if he’s stopped screaming or is just so far away now that I can no longer hear him.
“Maybe the price of speech is more OCD?”
“What a trade off!” I think of the many years I have spent moaning about how different they are.
“I wonder if there’s a modern day equivalent of the Pied Piper of Hamlin?”
“I assume you only want to get rid of the virtual imaginary mice?”
“Well he’s always had a thing about bears.”
“And faces.”
“What percentage of his inexplicable meltdowns were caused by fear about something or other, but he wasn’t able to tell us do you suppose?” I hear another blood curling scream and the thunder of size two feet charging towards us. On arrival he leaps into my arms, wraps his legs around my waist and clutches my neck, “it’s freaking me out man! There is a huge spider in dere!” The adults exchange glances as we collectively feel the floorboards reverberate. He clutches me tighter, a stranglehold as I carry him to the front door. Outside I point across the road, “it’s just a jack hammer dear, they’re digging up their driveway.” I wonder how long it takes to dig up a drive way as I carry my quaking son back inside? “They’re, they’re gonna dig up our house too?” he gasps.
“No dear, there’s nothing to worry about.” I squeeze him tighter as the ‘no carrying under any circumstances’ campaign dies again.
“They are strangers? How can we tell if they’re bad guys?”
“Um..”
“Do you think they are…. burglars? Are they gonna come and steal me?” I see tears welling up in his eyes as he nibbles the edge of the band aid on his finger. I notice that I am trembling too! Probably just insufficient caffeine intake?

Help!

Thoughtful Thursday - The youth of today!

So you may have noticed that people do funny things on their blogs on "Thursdays," like "Thursday Thirteen" and such like.

Whilst I'm not a superstitious person, it's more that I can't count that high, even on a good day. So with the 'th' theme, 'thoughtful' was the best I could come up with.

Ah well, you never know, it just might catch on! I probably need a natty logo or a code, or a clue! Then there's all that link to this that or the other and don't forget to widget something or other else, or it won't work. Maybe I should ask the great High Poobah "himself?"

So, I've been thinking, briefly, about the youth of today, young people, no less, or should that be 'know less'?
Well they're a thoroughly reprehensible lot, I'll be bound.


Whilst there may be one or two exceptions to the general rule, on the whole, most of them are an absolute shower.

My opinions are confirmed by a radio broadcast on "NPR," which points to a certain population who are described as narcissistic, more so than any previous generations. It is always so gratifying to have one's personal prejudices acknowledged as being mainstream.


One of the exceptions to this general rule, apart from my own "dear daughter," is "Jade."

I visit my youthful and enthusiastic pal’s blog, because every so often, I am in need of an energy boost. Reality check. I suspect it’s mere youth but I know a good egg when I see one. As I stand in my comfortable home, that is too frightfully clean, fret about all my children, write cheques for exorbitant sums and chastise the American system of medical insurance, other youthful persons are on the real front line.

In my idleness, I am privileged to have the opportunity to blog. Others, her clients amongst many others, are not so "fortunate." Silicon Valley is the land of geeks, an international mix and hideously wealthy, by comparison to many.

When I was 20 like Jade, I was also pregnant. When I was 21, I was briefly homeless with my baby. At least it was only one period in my 46, oopsie, 47 years on the planet. It is not an experience that I would care to repeat. Although, if I did have to repeat it, I would prefer to repeat it in a socialist country rather than a capitalist one. But enough of the politics.

The statistics are overwhelming. The news items are depressing. [translation – saddening] We spend so many minutes micro managing our own particular disaster area that I for one, lack the ability and energy to support "those who most need it."

I want to propose a bill to Parliament, er…….Congress. Conscription! Every person must submit a period of time to those with special needs. I need a catchy phase and a good advertising campaign of course, but I'm much too old, crumbly and lazy to come up with my own. Maybe that's something else that "Jade" can help me out with? After all, what's the point of being old if you can't delegate a bit?

In the meantime, prior to my recruitment drive, I am happy to observe Jades' career path, as she's sure to be a rising star.

Twinkle, twinkle.

There again, now I've adjusted my thinking cap to a more jaunty angle, I think that 'Thoughtless Thursday' might be infinitely preferable! What do you think?

The power of ten

Last week

Now that their speech delays are less delayed, they will often ask questions, which is a monumental leap forward for everyone.

Their willingness to try and communicate with words, is still hard work for them. As parents, we have to make their attempts at communication successful. The theory goes, that the more success they achieve, the more willing they will be to keep going or give it another try.

Both my boys have a tendency to ask very precise questions for which they require specific and instant answers. Failure by the parent, frequently results in a meltdown in the child. If you are a child and you have a speech delay, talking, or using your words, is hard work. On the whole it is usually much easier for you to get what you want by skipping the words stage and screaming instead. You will find that if you scream a lot, your parent is likely to be much more efficient and far speedier at fulfilling your request. Works like magic every time, let me assure you.


The stumbling block for me, is whilst this progress is all fine and dandy, it’s very difficult to make their experience successful if they leave out pertinent details, or reference back. Their questions come out of the blue with no clues attached.

In an ideal world, I’d like to change things. I would prefer to confine question time to a specific period of the day, where I would be more than happy to field all enquiries. That time, would be a time of my choosing. A convenient time, preferably one where I am already awake, when my brain is fully functioning and my power pack of patience is full.

I do not live in an ideal world.

Early in the morning my son appears before me in his pyjamas that are several sizes too small.
“Is it ten?” he asks with an anxious expression.
“Is what ten dear?”
“Ten yet?” I look at him and think hard. Is he waiting for ten o’clock? What, if anything, could or should be happening at that time? I think of the tick down chart that shows them how many more days of summer holidays they have left. We check it every day so that the first day of school doesn’t come as a surprise of nightmare proportions. But that’s still 6 days away. I think of other numbers that might be relevant, that he might have mixed up? None of the daily timers have been set yet. They advise them all of the high points of the day, like snack time and electronics time. Is this a reference back to growing older and his fear of reaching double digits? Ten. It is no-one favourite number around here. I dither. Is it to do with something recent or the ancient past if not ancient history?

I don’t want to provoke a meltdown this early in the morning, as I am not mentally prepared at 5:50 a.m. A meltdown first thing in the morning is a pre-cursor to a bad day, a very long bad day. If I keep him waiting too long he’ll have a meltdown anyway. I have nothing to lose by asking a return question, as I’m already out of the limited time allowance permitted at this stage of their development.

“Ten what dear?” He holds up his hands, palms towards my face, instead of using any words.
“Ten fingers?” I ask pathetically. His head slumps to his chest in exasperation. Stand by, here it comes, I’ve blown it, he’s out of patience. He sighs wearily and then his body starts his little gallopy hopping dance, which means that his brain is processing and he’s gathering speed and words are forming a sentence which very soon, he may be able to utter…….. ”No, I mean……..is it ten days…….for my finger……to take the "stitches out?”


Well I'm glad that one of us is with it.
Boy 1, mother 0.

And in my other "life."

Blink of an eye – Tuesday supplemental

Not so long back, they started Pre-school and such like. Their exposure was staggered. 30 minutes for the first day. Internment with constant screaming. The time was gradually increased until a whole morning of three and a half hours was achieved.

Now as they start 4th, 3rd and 2nd grade, I rather think that this would be a good approach again. It seems grossly unfair that they should be expected to spend a whole day in school, 6 hours and 25 minutes. Draconian. They should be allowed to gently ease into the new school year by small increments, after weeks of idleness. It’s not that I won’t enjoy my child free hours, it’s more a question of sharing. Recently, my eldest son has been talking prodigiously, for a whole 4 days in fact. This means that for the many other days in the long summer holiday, he wasn’t. I need to rewind the summer holidays to the beginning, so I can have the benefit of all those missed talking days. Why should the school get them instead? Maybe I could rewind to when he was two and a half, a re-run? Then it was that all the lovely little baby words started to fade and fizzled out like a damp squib.

I have no evidence in support, but after 8 years, I know that the school squanders his word bank during the day and then returns my son to me, silent. I am not a good sharer. I content myself with the knowledge that the first fortnight consists of two four day weeks.

I focus on the label of the liquid multivitamins, give up and take a glug to wash down a couple of Ibrupofen.

I pick up the abandoned play things, the toilet brush, screw driver, curtain pull and magic wand. I look across at the bank of idle timers on the table that have no-one to sequence, coax and calm. I need a complete rest. Six hours and 25 minutes.

Instead I commit myself to hard labour in the garden because my cherry tomatoes have a personality disorder. They’ve invaded the Honeysuckle . I need to prune their ambitions as they dangle over the 10 foot fence. Maybe? I dither. I decide to conduct a scientifically, controlled experiment. How long does it take to turn your body into a pickled walnut? Bath or shower? I pick up the timer, the egg one. I set it for two hours and 15 minutes. I don’t want to forget that appointment at the manicurist. I turn the timer on and my brain off.

Too much to process

As often as not, one becomes so used to the status quo that progress can be a smack in the face.

For us, the issues of time and sequencing are very old friends. This is why we are a household with more timers than the average clock shop. They come in every kind of variety. During the summer holidays I have occasion to use nearly all of them. 8 hours and 55 minutes until bed time. 27 minutes until snack. 8 hours and 25 minutes until electronics. The tick tock of one, fights for attention with the tickety tockety of another one.

Once words emerged and were used with greater frequency, we began an exchange.
“How many minutes until……..?” fill in the blank.
“Look at the timer dear.”
Always the same response, for years. Now during the summer, we add an extra line: “which one?”

Yes, and on and on we go, forever, without end. Yes, they’re just like everyone else’s children, where we all repeat the same phrases, except the boys ask more frequently. I don’t choose to examine the OCD elements and try to remind myself how well their voluntary speech is coming along.

The tick down chart on the window tells them all that there are only 8 days left of their summer holidays to go, until school begins again. Every day, I make a big hoo hah about taking them to the chart, so that they can be reminded of the dwindling days of freedom and avoid shock tactics. An unexpected benefit has grown from this practice. Inevitably, when small people are herded together and forced to keep their own company, tempers can sometimes become frayed. This is especially so as the temperatures climb in August. Fights, skirmishes and scuffles break out at regular intervals.


I think the habit began at the beginning of the holidays as I intervened to break up the latest wrestling match. It was something along the lines of, “if you think we’re going to behave like this for the next nine weeks……!” delivered in an unpleasant tone of growing exasperation. Thereafter, the OCD amongst us, would race to the chart to check how many happy days there were left and how many days of war had passed. When the mid point was reached, panic ensued. Every moment must be spent extending the happiness quotient.

Meanwhile, my youngest son hurtles around the house chanting his latest phrase: “Lights, camera, action!” at fifty decibels. This phrase is followed by a brief interlude before he reaches the conclusion, some minutes later: “Cut!” at 75 decibels. This is definitely a new development, one that has my nerves all of a jangle. I’m quite content with the new phrase, it’s the surprise ending that makes my heart miss a beat. In view of the fact that he has been using this phrase for more than seven hours now, I should have adjusted to the new sequence, but I’m having a hard time recalibrating my own alert system.

Another alarming development is how he is able to hold a conversation with his Pokemon playmates and siblings, whilst in Pokemon character, and yet still manage to punctuate each exchange with his favoured phrase without pausing for breath or missing a beat. I find the whole experience quite mind bending. I try and imagine having a conversation with someone where I would interject an irrelevant phrase and tack it on the end of anything I said? I cannot imagine how this would impact my ability to keep track of the conversation, to say nothing of the effect on the person you are talking to. I am further alarmed to realize than none of the three young conversationalists are in the least bit perturbed, disturbed or annoyed by this.

I am so wrapped up in unraveling this feat that I miss the rumble.

It is hard to accurately describe what we witness and of course there is no warning, or maybe I wasn't paying attention. My six year old erupts from the carpet like a rocket, remains air born momentarily, to land seconds later in a frenzy of movement, as if someone had fitted a live bee hive on his head. His siblings roll around with guffaws of laughter at his latest explosion, immune, de-sensitized and entertained. I mine for clues but keep out of contact range. I assess whether he is winding up or down. He charges to the trampolene where he expends a considerable amount of energy for several minutes. A heart warming display of self management. He collapses in a heap, drained and closes his eyes with a sigh, “dats better,” he confirms. I debate whether to ask and risk rekindling a burning ember?

“What was it dear?”
“I fink maybe a dust was being falled on my head.” I am uncertain whether I am any the wiser? I suspect that if you are on heightened alert and over stimulated, that maybe a particle of dust might be enough to trigger an almighty reaction.

I am still contemplating the meaning of life, or at least, the underlying triggers, when the other one distracts me with the same old spiel, “er, um, how many minutes until electron…” he pauses, mid sentence as he often does, before he skips a step completely, “oh yeah!” He jumps to his feet and lollops across the room to the table, with the bank full of timers. His hands reach out and lift the correct one as he says, “look at the timer.”

Other aspects of my life are every bit as "bewildering."

The temptation to eat worms

I spend the early hours of Sunday morning making perfect pancakes for my children. I sweat, or rather, ‘glow,’ over a sweltering hot plate because I am an unappreciated martyr with an incomprehensible need to get eggs into my children. The maple syrup that they sampled in Trader Joe’s, awaits them at the table. A special and expensive treat. This is the only peaceful meal per week, that we enjoy together. Once they are happily ensconced in mid munch, I will sneak away to telephone my mother.

They all appear just after six, no doubt drawn by the tempting aroma. Instead of evoking blissful happiness, I appear to have provoked mass hysteria for some unaccountable reason. In-between the skreiks of agony, I am given to understand that their expectations have not been met. It would appear that some foolish, tired old woman promised waffles instead of pancakes today. I make a mental note that my memory bank is in need of a reboot, or maybe just a kick. Breakfast is a fiasco, or rather no-one breaks their fast. The syrup is condemned as inedible due to it’s excessively runny nature. No-one comments upon it’s taste. The garbage disposal unit takes the hit. I do not fare so well. I toss bottles of Ensure and the ever growing masses of non eating persons in my family. I remind myself that I am supposedly an adult and therefore banned from throwing a hissy fit of my own. I attempt clean up, when an additional wail demands my ever waning attention.

In the hall, my neglected daughter takes issue with the computer that is mal-functioning. She has used all the usual tricks to tempt it, but they have all failed. I repeat those same tricks that I have already taught her, just to be on the safe side. She voices the exact same complaints that we share when it comes to malfunctioning technology.
“I’m sorry dear, you’ll just have to wait until Daddy gets up and see if he has any magic left.” She pouts. I pout in sympathy. I worry that I am producing another generation of Ludites?

I stand in the kitchen and listen to the tirade. The filthiest child in the world, as opposed to his little brother, the cleanest child in the world, is berating me. “Look! I just don’t get it? I washed my hands and now there’s no towel. Where is the towel? Who took the towel?” He is incensed with my inefficiency. For the last 8 years he has had no use for a towel, apart from the occasional wipe of a snotty face, the dab of a bloody toe or the smearing of primary coloured paint. Now, suddenly, I have acquired another critic. “Don’t just look at me! My fingers are dripping! Find me a towel!” To hear my speech delayed, son speak without a stutter and in complete sentences, several seamless sentences, is too much for me to process. I "recent developments" overwhelming. I am too stunned and tired to quibble. I oblige. My fragile hold on reality, if not sanity, is severely challenged.

It’s official. I am now in a thoroughly bad temper and it’s not even 8 in the morning. I am also a bad mother. I have no energy, no patience and no humour. My milk of human kindness has evaporated, curdled. As soon as spouse’s toe touches the bottom stair, I depart and take my cheesy self elsewhere. I fight back the waves of self pity and the under tow of self loathing. Bad wife.

I shut myself in an empty room. I take it out on my mother. I dial, long distance. I decide that I have no time left for the petty trifles of the elderly, infirm and defenseless. I pout as I listen and count the list of crimes against my person, my unhappy lot. Nobody in the world knows my woes. She stops prattling for a moment, presumably so that she can draw breath. There is a brief pause, followed by “are you still there dear?”
“Yes.” The international line is fraught.
“I’m sorry dear,” she continues, “I don’t pretend to understand your busy life, and mine is so dull by comparison. I only wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all better.”
“Thanks mum. You just did!”

Bad daughter. Royal flush.

Not a misdemeanour offence

I stand at the kitchen sink washing up.


A small person inserts himself between my body and the sink, face to face, or rather his face to my tummy.

His head tilts back to reveal a huge cheesy grin. I smile back and wait. I wait a bit longer, wondering what it will be this time and whether I shall ever finish the washing up?

“Are ya done?” he asks in a voice that is several octaves too low for a six year old.
“Nearly, just a few bits and bobs to go now.” He flits away, apparently satisfied. I stack the last of plates and dither as to whether I should fold laundry or wash the dining room following breakfast?

“Are ya done yet?”
“Yes! Do you need help with something?”
“Nope.” He stands still watching me.
“Are you sure, you’ve been asking me again and again, when I’ll be finished?”
“I need ya to be done.”
“I am done, er finished.”
“No! I mean……I need you to be goned.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Away,” he says breathily, a B actor in a horror movie.
“O.k. I’ll go away.” I walk slowly out of the kitchen in the sure and certain knowledge that he is up to no good.

I hide next door and listen intently. I imagine the many forms of mischief that he has planned. I hope none of them involve mess or danger? Maybe he wants to steal some food. Now that would be great. Perhaps some new food, or is that beyond the realms of imagination? I tip toe back towards the kitchen in case I can catch him in the act.

I catch him in the act. A shiver passes through his body as he slips into freeze frame, the cariciature of a thief, hand poised, thumb and finger pinched together to hold the egg slicer. The tableau crumbles, “don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!”
“Why?”
“Coz it might be blood,” he says in an ominous tone, a baritone for a boy.
“What might be blood?”
“Dah egg slice! It is a cutting fing. It is danger!”
“Oh I see!” I think? “Do you need help?”
“Um, no I am being dah danger, er…I am being dah brave.”
I consider bestowing bravery awards but decide that empowerment might be a better alternative. I dither. Maybe this is too much?
“Would you like to help me?” I suggest tentatively.
“What?”
“Help me?”
“What help are you?” How very disconcerting.
“I was thinking you could slice an egg for my sandwich with the egg slicer?”

He gasps, open mouthed and probably aghast, before blasting me with “dat is dah greatest idea!” I whip a hard boiled egg out of the fridge before he has a chance to change his mind, pop it in the cradle and guide his hands into the correct position.

“Off you go then, push it down.”
“Ooo, it is dah bouncy.” Why do they love eggs, even though no-one eats them?
“Push a little harder.” After all these years of occupational therapy, he still doesn't have the strength of force to resist an egg.
“Ooo dah egg is dah strong!” What is the magical property of an egg?
“You’re doing great, just a little bit harder.”
“Ooo he such a lovely cutesy wootsy eggy poos. I am loving being dah good helper.”

He uses his most persuasive tone as he woos the egg into submission. As the wires break through and reveal their slices, his tone changes to a nasal protest, “but you sure are dah stinkiest too!”















So much progress is such a short passage of "time."

It is because of these kinds of experiences that I worry about the effects of early "childhood" as you can see from my tiny "book review."

Classic extra

If you had to sum up your child in a few sentences, how would you do it? Why would you want to anyway?

I want to. I need to clarify but not diminish.

If you met my son you’d know that there was something different about him, even before he spoke, if he spoke at all. Maybe you’d think he was a bit of a klutz. He certainly looks lethargic. He doesn’t have much to say for himself, but he’s well liked. He is a kind and sensitive child, tentative and definitely an indoor type. He sleeps like an angel nearly every night. His primary interest at the moment happens to be Pokemon. Should I mention that we love him dearly as all parents do?

We take the first tentative step after 8 years and visit the psychiatrist for another evaluation of my highly atypical autistic son. The prescription is exorbitant.

Within 45 minutes, the son we are familiar with, is invaded by an interloper. We panic, dither and fret. Who is this child? Where is our son? We have no idea who this boy is?

There is nothing to be done. We have to wait for it to wear off. We know that no permanent damage will be done and it will be out of his system within 24 hours. We have another quick panic or two before we give up and decide to get to know the visitor a little better, before he disappears again.

We sit in the garden at the table. The other two children have finished their breakfast and disappeared inside to watch telly, while we watch our other son. We ignore the other two. They may have to watch telly all day, whilst we concentrate on this one. We watch the stranger who picks at his croissant as he has no appetite at all. I find a bottle of chocolate Ensure to tempt him, but his interest in stealing those bottles and drinking the contents, has also been stolen.

My semi silent son has been replaced with someone who talks incessantly. His voice is so quiet we can hardly hear him, but he is so animated that we strain to catch every delightful syllable. Instead of 95% Pokemon treatises, he taunts us with social chit chat. The old pal that he met up with at Summer school, what he likes, what he doesn’t. Every so often, he will pause, shake his head to mutter, “this is just a crazy day,” or “what a crazy day,” or “this is such a crazy day.” Each time it’s more or less the same words, but each time there is a different emphasis, it is not scripting nor echolalia. We chat to our chatty son, baffled.

He is unable to swim because of the stitches in his finger. Two children swim whilst he sits at my side. He knows that swimming daily is a healthy form of exercise. He jumps up to announce, “if I can’t swim I’ll do my jogging instead,” and trots of to run three circuits around the pool without falling over or bumping into anything. I have never known him run anywhere voluntarily and certainly not without prompting and encouragement.

He is interrupted from his exercise by a bee. He returns to my side to sit. He sits for 45 minutes, outside the house, by my side without pummeling me for his deep proprioceptive input. Instead I watch his feet work. His legs circle at the knee. They slip the flip flops on, and then off again. He does this continuously for 45 minutes. In-between whiles his toes clench and unclench, each digit in turn like an arpeggio on the piano keys. Most days I cannot get him to put on a pair of shoes at all. Putting on a pair of sandals usually takes between 5 and 15 minutes for two shoes. I am uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

His body riles, a pit of snakes that roil and writhe. He is in a state of perpetual motion, unprecedented. His huge eyes are wide open in an expression of interest and surprise. He grinds his teeth as his face registers change like the riffle of a well shuffled deck of cards. His mouth tic is the worst it has ever been and the dribble is unmistakable. Inside the house he walks with stiff legs, around and around and around, a bear without a cage. His shoulders are high, so that he has no neck, head set at angle whilst his face is that of an expert gurner. Both arms are crooked and locked, one bent at the elbow to display a branch of twig fingers. He continues to chat. I am terrified and ecstatic.

He runs about the house with a purpose. He has several different purposes throughout the day. One purpose doesn’t encroach upon another. He manages each one separately without distractions, interference or interruptions. I have no idea what is happening in his head, I can only see what is happening to his body and guess.

When bed time arrives at 8, he is still wired. We allow his siblings to slumber. Downstairs during the night time, is a distressing time. He does not understand why he cannot sleep. We discuss the matter with him because we can, discuss, that is to say. We read books and cuddle the boy who is no longer an interloper but a fine new friend.

Eventually, just after two in the morning, he falls asleep.

Cheer up, it's a small price to pay, in "theory."