Saturday awards encore

"Melinda" from "Dear Noah"s blog honoured me with the "Nice Matters Award"......be sure to check her out at the link! THANKS again "Melinda."

I don't think I've ever been a bonus before.




This award is for those bloggers who are nice people; good blog friends and
those who inspire good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a
positive influence on our blogging world. Once you’ve been awarded please
pass it on to 7 others who you feel are deserving of this award.

SO I now have to PASS the torch so to speak to 7 others who I feel fit the above description. SO my nominees are:



"Cottontales" This is a lovely site that displays superior bloggy skills. Ideally I would write this in green. The handwriting font that she uses does make me feel as if I'm reading her diary, which makes me want to write this in blush!

Next there is "Mommydearest" who has a plateful of busyness which I can particularly relate to.

A relative newbie for me is the lovely "Anne" who hangs out in her own place at "Anneshouse" which makes perfect sense to me. I'm always in awe of people who are brave enough to post pictures of themselves, but so saying, if I looked like Anne I would be braver.

Another spot I visited regularly in the summer was the "Smiling Infidel." This is a great site that always gives me a giggle, guaranteed. I am particularly grateful to her for teaching me that if you visit a blog you should always comment [unless you might be repeating someone else's comment - I'll have to check with her about that.]

I used to visit "Karianna" regularly and then I lost the book mark! Her insight and patience keeps me on my toes. It's another one of those super squeaky clean sites [from the blogging perspective] which always looks so fresh.

Then who could resist a blog with the title "The Anti Wife!" I mean! That should be mine.

Is that six? Fine, then this is seven. "Manic Mum" over at "40 weeksanovel." This is another blog that I found by chance through "Kim Stagliano," used to visit regularly. For the moment you can enjoy a preview of her novel as we all need to support aspiring writers when their hard work finally has a chance to blossom.

Hmm. so can I still do a bonus?

A bonus goes to "The Ironic Catholic." I don't think you need to be a Catholic to enjoy the uproarious humour.

Post Script - if anyone has any hints about how you put these awards on your sidebar.......?
Yours
The technically challenged one!

Me, myself and I – busy multiple persons

We gather for dinner at the end of a long day.

“Whatever would we do without your multitasking mum,” he asks rhetorically. The average child isn't the least interested in the doings of a stay at home parent. It is entirely debatable, whether anyone is, interested that is to say. Most probably, those most directly affected are also the least interested. Those people would be all of the other people also in the same home.
“I am being.”
“What are you being dear?”
“I am being 2.”
“Two what dear?”
“Fings.”
“What things are you being dear?” Somehow that still didn’t come out quite right? I must be more tired than I thought?
“I am being dah multi.”
“Multi what dear?”
“Dah multitask.”
“Really. What tasks are you doing?”
“I am dah eatin…… [it’s sort of eating, but not much is going down]
and I am dah sittin ……. [well, he’s half on the chair, let’s give the fellow the benefit of the doubt]
and ……I am dah sleeping…… [heavy eye lids]
which is being dah 3 fings…..not dah 2 fings.” His head drops like a rock to the table, mouth open, crumbs falling, fast asleep. There’s not so much as a flicker of an eyelash but I suspect that his brain is still whirring.

Interpreting social cues

A while back there was a popular programme on the telly. It was called "A very peculiar practice." The main theme, for me at least, was the inability of the main character to decipher what was going on under his nose.



When I speak to someone for the first time, I inevitably ensure that I am at my most polite. Polite, the British version, differs from other cultures. More often than not, in America of all places, this is not a helpful mode of communication.

My son plagues me, “is it nine?”
“Look at the timer dear, 19 minutes to go.”
“It is a rule?”
“Yes, it’s rude to telephone people before 9 at the weekend, it’s a rule.” He searches my face for a hint of deception.

The key to conducting a successful telephone conversation, is the ability to tune into the timbre of the other person. I prefer to talk to someone face to face, as I am a visual learner and need those cues. Without them, I need to listen very carefully and adjust my tone. My own telephone skills are poor which means that I am sympathetic to the difficulties that others experience.

I tap out the numbers as my son waits close by nibbling his finger tips with his eyes squeezed shut.

I hear a cheery voice and make introductions. It’s the Dad, a jolly straightforward American. This is going to be easy. We exchange a few pleasantries. He hands me over to the Mum. I remember that play dates are Mums’ department. I make introductions again, just to clarify.

“Yeah. I know,” she replies in a halting, jittery tone. Perhaps she’s busy. Maybe this is the wrong time?
“I’m sorry to disturb you so early on a Saturday morning, I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time?”
There is a pause. Maybe she’s adjusting the volume, or running away from her children to conduct a conversation in peace and quiet, or she’s tucking the receiver into her shoulder so that her hands are free?
“Early? It’s nine o’clock!” I’m not sure if I’ve just insulted her? Nine o’clock may not be early? Perhaps I’ve implied that she lies around in bed all day, whereas she’s been up since first light?
“Sorry, I just wasn’t sure this was convenient?”
“Convenient?”
“Yes…..I just ….. perhaps this might not be a good time,…..perhaps?”
“Good time?” I begin to wonder if I inadvertently slipped into speaking Swahili.

“I just wondered if he’d like to come over for a play date, although I understand that you might have other plans.”
“Who told you we had other plans?” she snaps back as quick as a whippet
“Um, no-one, er…….it’s just that it’s such short notice I didn’t like to assume that he’d be available.”
“Available?”
“Er available to come and play.”
“Are you gonna be home?”
“Yes…..of course.”
Of course! Just in time I remember that quirk a few Americans have, a preference for child care by a woman rather than a Dad. It’s a preference that I don’t fully understand, but I’ve come across it before.
“Well sure,” she croons slowly and softly. It’s not a Southern drawl, not an accent, more of a reluctant and uncertain acceptance.
“Shall I give you our address?” Another pause follows. I imagine her moving to find a paper and pencil.
“Well I don’t know where you live!” Pause. “I’ll go get a pen.”

I wait in a state of nervous confusion. I take care with my address details. I don’t do it the American way. The American way is to provide detailed instructions, turns to right and left, number of stop lights or blocks, helpful landmarks on route until finally, if you’re really lucky, eventually, they give you the number of the house and the name of the street. Brits give the address first. They use similar navigational hints, afterwards, if necessary. Left at the Frog and Toad, right at the Queen’s Arms, straight past the King’s Head, sharp right at The Two Trees. This isn’t possible in America, as there is no such thing as a pub.
“It’s 14799 C-h-a-r-m-i-n-g-t-o-n L-a-n-e.” I wait in silence, as if I say anything I might cause confusion.
“Can he bring anything?”
“No, just his sweet self will do nicely.” Maybe that didn’t come out quite right? I can see him in my mind’s eye, soft spoken, rounded shoulders upon a slightly curved spine, shy eyes behind thick glasses and a bewitching smile.
“My son……he’s a boy you know!” Oh dear! It did come out wrongly.
“Yes, yes of course, I’m sorry, it’s just that……well, you know, he’s such a lovely child.” I don’t know what I’m saying any more, I should just shut up.
“A boy!” Her tone is emphatic which is odd because I don’t believe I’m arguing.
“A great chap.” Why didn’t I say guy! I resolve to try harder with the ‘boy thing’ in America.
“Time?”
“How about 1? Would that suit you?”
“Sure………thanks so much.” I hear a click at the other end of the line. I am off the hook.

I give my fizzing child a synopsis of the good news, set the timer for 4 hours ahead and pour myself a vat of coffee.

After more than twelve years in this country, I still have a great deal to learn and no teacher.

Break Out Blogger Award

This award goes to "Casdok" at "Mother of Shrek" a relatively new blog to me, but heartfelt and wise.

Also for "Mamampj" at "A Room of Mamma's Own" because I'm jealous that she has a room of her own.

Lastly to "This Mom" at "This Mom Blogs" because she surfs the storms and shows us the way ahead so beautifully.

Cheers dearies

Feed the Beast

‘When in doubt,... panic!’

This idiom is a local one, coined by my Dad.

The words are well lodged in my brain, down deep and entrenched. The White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland is my twin. When you see a woman running around in circles, flapping her hands and repeating ‘oh dear me,’ that in fact would be me, or rather it would be, if I had allowed the idiom to rule my response. Instead I ignore it, stomp on it and resolve to vanquish it forever.

I haven't always been a nervous type, despite this early introduction to the concept. Nor would I describe myself with that delightful term 'laid back.' I'm somewhere in the middle, or at least I used to be, until I found I was surrounded by children and outnumbered.

I tell you this, because it becomes clear to me, that whilst I may or may not be the source of my son’s OCD tendencies, I should nonetheless, have the power to help him.


I receive sage advice from other people in the trenches regarding OCD. I remind myself that this is familiar territory. The difference is just that this is a different version from the one I’m used to. I'm used to a three or four year old's version. That version was his little brother. I need to dig up and brush off those strategies to apply them to his older brother.

In the meantime, I resolve that whilst I may not be able to help him immediately, I can work on my own attitude.

During the course of the average day I am 25% annoyed, 25% irritated, 10% cross, 10% frustrated, 10% dithering, 9% grumpy, 5% confused, 5% switched off, and 1% falling about with hysterical laughter. This little glimmer, lights up the whole day and makes the other percentages dissolve. I believe this to be a fairly typical, moaning Minnie, British type.



That said, I have also noticed that as we simmer, bubble and boil during the average day, it’s like existing in a high octane tank. Any stray spark is enough to ignite the whole caboodle. They are so volatile. What triggers a meltdown this minute may be of no consequence on a different day or a different time. As a result I am hypervigilant too, waiting for the shoe to drop, or rather be hurled across the room. Lets face it, shoes are torture for some people.

I spend my waking hours chanting ‘om’ in my brain. I string together a whole slew of lies, ‘you can do this, I know you can,’ ‘remember to breath, this is easy,’ ‘concentrate, don’t lose it now,’ 'try, try, try again.'



The words I say to myself are generally the same words that I say to my children, which is convenient but a little patronizing.

When that moment comes, as it so often does, instead of spontaneous combustion, I find I drift and rise into a state of balmy calm. The petty irritations and annoyances bleed away. I am almost weightless. I am left clear headed and untroubled. I can suddenly see that everything really is fine and that all is well. I becomes easy to make the right decision, to prioritize and cope with whatever it is this time.

It is a very reassuring ability to have acquired. The first time I felt this response viscerally, was when I lost one of them in a park. The family we were with, were in a state of panic, bless them. Not me, not externally. Rushing around like a headless chicken wouldn't help. There was an emergency broadcast system, why not use it and lock the place down? It sounds so cold blooded and maybe it is? Same as when the house caught fire. What to save? Why the children of course and then start the hosepipe once I heard the fire brigade were on their way. I could list any number of ordinary domestic and family disasters over the years. What do you do if an acquaintance sits on your chest and tries to strangle you? Well yelling isn't possible and she's almost double your body weight. Tickle her of course.

A clear head, that's what you need, and when you need it, there it is.

I've had my fair share of days of being a blubbering heap on my own kitchen floor, incapable and incompetent but when that next feather floats down, the little chip or straw tips the balance, we have no option but to cope. I don't care if it's adrenalin or laughter, it's always enough to part the foggy clouds.

Now, what I need to do, is to artificially import that attitude to the other 99% of my day.

I wonder if there is a ‘step by step’ guide on-line? I’m sure I can find something to download.

Maybe I’ll upload instead?

Easy peasy!

For a glimpse of "not coping with OCD" and "general grumpiness" you can visit "here."

If you've struggled this far to load this page, then you may wish to try my new duplicate blog next time, over "here."

Wordless Wednesday # 4

Ms. Wordless Wednesday, gets on my case, “really Madeline, it’s all very simple, you post your photograph and do the linky doo dah thing. How difficult is that? You have to cut out the words, that’s why it’s called ‘wordless’ you see?”
“Indeed, verily I am on board with the concept.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Doing what?”
“Putting words in your ‘wordless’ post?”
“Ah, well that’s because the photo makes no sense unless there are some words to go with it, by way of explanation you see.”
“While we’re on the subject, that photo, the one you choose for today?”
“Yes?”
“Well, you might try and choose a photo with a little, hmmmm, how can I put it? Perhaps with a little artistic flair? Something easy on the eye? Attractive? Something a little more than a mere snap?”
“Ah, that's why we need the words.”
“Oh no, not back to the words, can’t you just drop it?”
“Well I’ll try very hard .... next week, but in the mean time, I need to explain this one.”
“Must you?”
“It’s very simple!”
“A photo of three children in a bedroom, simply fascinating.”
“Exactly. They’re in the same room!”
“Would it be rude of me to say ‘big deal!’”
“Oh indeed not. But have you noticed that they’re all occupied with something that doesn’t involve mortal combat or sibling rivalry?”
“Well brothers and sisters play together every day, and fight, it’s what siblings do. All perfectly normal.”
“Most siblings yes, but not mine. Play is new. Playing together or even in close proximity together, is new. This is major.”
“Well, I’m sure we’re all very happy for you.”
“But you’ve missed the biggest bit.”
“Which bit?”
“Do you see it’s a bedroom?”
“There’s a bed in it! What else would I think?”
“Ah yes, but what may not be immediately apparent, is that the bedroom is upstairs!”
“And this is supposed to impress me in some way? We have two story buildings in America you know?”
“But of course. The point is that nobody goes upstairs, ever, without being accompanied by an adult. The usual adult, would be me."
"They're afraid of the dark?"
"It's day time in California, lots of light."
"Ah, true. So what are they afraid of then?"
"Predominantly, being out of visual contact with me."
"Oh yes, I remember that bit now."
"You see, I didn’t take them upstairs myself, or even suggest it. They went up there together, of their own free will. They didn’t run downstairs again as if deamons were on the attack. They played up there together for a full 20 minutes. It’s a new first, a tremendous one.”
“Oh, I get it. How old are they now?"
"Nearly 7, eight and a smidge, and nearly 10."
"Well that’s one less thing to worry about I suppose.”
“True, but they may never repeat it of course, hence the photograph. It provides concrete evidence that it really happened, that I didn’t imagine it.”
“You’re a sad case dearie.”
“Yes, I think I need to fess up to that one.”
"O.k. so one last thing Madz."
"Yes?"
"Next week?"
"Yes?"
"Keep it simple stupid."
"Every day in every way, I get bloggier and bloggier."

Just put them back in your cakehole

Some people do it. I do not. There are many purposes for teeth, most commonly to assist in the task of eating, but some purposes should be banned.

One of those purposes would be using your teeth to help you open things, such as packets and packaging. Who wants to be handed an open package all covered in someone else’s spittle? I can do without that kind of help. It’s a filthy habit. It’s a dangerous habit, you could hurt your teeth, or your jaw, or accidentally swallow the chard that your teeth have shreded. No. I’m sorry, but that’s one function that should be strictly off limits. I cannot imagine where anyone would acquire this deviant habit from, as I certainly do not qualify as a model in this particular department. Even though my teeth do join now, they haven’t for the last 46 years, so it certainly wasn’t me! My reputation is untarnished, although the teeth could probably do with a buff.

We fight our way through the fist session of homework of the new school year, one of the most tortuous periods of the day. This period, that should take approximately 10 to 15 minutes, expands into a two hour marathon. My scrambled brain recognizes that I need a new campaign and certainly a new approach to the Bedlam that I am forced to witness and participate in.

I clutch a sharpened pencil in each hand to pass over to the next child that either hurls a pencil or breaks a pencil, from my box of nearly a hundred sharpened pencils. I need to instigate a ‘be kind to pencils’ campaign forthwith. My youngest growls and worries a pencil in his teeth. Another tip breaks off and his sister intervenes, “don’t do that dingbat, yu’ll poison yurself, they’ve got lead in em!” He drops it like a hot poker and grabs another, rips off the eraser to ram in his mouth.
“Don’t do that dear, you’ll break your teeth!” He refuses to relinquish the pencil so I nip into the kitchen to dig out a more suitable biting instrument, as I have already mortgaged my soul to the dentist. He drops the pencil on the tablecloth in a pool of drool. Poor pencil. Poor teeth! I look at the end of the mangled pencil, eraserless with the mental cap crushed with the tiny indentations of baby teeth.
“Is dah washing machine difficult to break?”
“Um…..not really. Why do you want to know?”
“Is it be broken in dah earthquake?”
“Probably not. It’s made of metal.”
“I thought it was made of dah steel.”
“Oh er ..well yes. I suppose it is.”
“Steel is dah strongest.” I wish I had a copy of the school curriculum. I need to know if it’s earthquake awareness week or whether they’re learning about different building materials or both? My knowledge of raw materials is limited to the ‘animal, vegetable or mineral’ variety, although I used to know a great deal about coal.

“My teef are being dah strong!”
“Indeed.” We both examine the all too visual evidence, crayon carnage.
“I fink my teef are dah earthquake poof!”

Another retrofit mouth?

The Humane Society

We stumble into the building tripping over ourselves in our haste, a rambling, rabble of ragamuffins. They disperse in three different directions but I remain calm because no-one can actually escape. One single entrance, that is also the sole exit, is balm to a woman such as myself.

I allow them to let off puffs of steam. their excitement whirs a while. After about twenty minutes, they have expended enough energy to risk entering one of the smaller enclosures. We battle with unco-operative doors. I remind them all about the need to sanitize their hands between each cat stroking session. They are perfectly happy to submit to the hand washing in order to maintain the health of the cats and kittens. The greater good. A man enters the same enclosure. My children are still louder than many, as they lack volume control. “Geez! Aren’t the kids back at school yet?” I’m uncertain if this is rhetorical, a joke or both? I smile towards him.

Another woman enters the small enclosure. A member of staff. “Wow we have a lot of kids here today. Are you on a field trip?” she asks my daughter. She answers, a little non-plussed, “er…..no. We’re just visiting.”
“You know, you guys might like an older kitty, like that big one over there, the brown one,” their eyes follow her finger to the cage where the man crouches before his favoured choice. His head flips towards us and then snaps back to the bars.
“Kids should be in school,” mutters the man, as he talks to the cage and strokes the paw that pokes through the wires.
“Schoolie, Schoolie, Schoolie,” chants my youngest in his high pitched, baby voice tone, a mode he adopts specifically for communication with cats. He skips around the small room reading all the names pinned to the cages. The woman watches him buzz and read. I know that she’s trying to figure him out. Is he really reading all those names? Why does he sound so weird? She says nothing, just watches. My older son is in ecstasy surrounded by cats. He whole body roils a la Mr. Bean and his mouth tic is so loud and frequent, that everyone thinks that he has a serious attack of hic-cups.

“In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!” The man glances across at my son. His words are out of context with everything. His little perseveration phrase is indicative of his state of happiness. There is no such thing as a peer group for him. His lack of social skills may have inadvertently given him an opener with the man.
“Are you a fan? What’s your team?” My son continues to spin, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his own personal bear hug. He starts to meow but I consider this to be an improvement on the barking, mainly because it is quieter. Also, because we are surrounded by cats. They might be unduly alarmed if they were given the false impression that a stray dog had gained entry.

The staff member keeps an eye on him as she opens each cage to administer food to her charges. The man asks permission to remove the cat of his choice for a cuddle. The staff member obliges. The large man sits in the small chair and strokes the chocolate coloured fur with a tender touch. “He’s one hellava guy,” he murmours to the furry face with the slit eyes of adoration. He doesn’t appear to notice as “hellava guy,” echoes through the air several times. He continues to stroke his preferred cat but lets a proprietary eye rove over my children. He speaks to the employee, “we came to see Molly yesterday.” He nods towards the cat. “This is the second day we’ve come to visit her,” he adds but this time he tells all of us, everyone in the room, even though there are few listeners in his audience.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, stayin alive, stayin alive,” sings my little one.

I catch the woman employee looking at me. I smile. She looks at the boys and then back at me. “Big family!”
“Yes. It’s an in service day at school,” I explain unnecessarily.
“No school today. No school today. No school today.” Her eye catches mine, again. She’s cautious, “are they…….” her eyes flick to the man and back to me, “they like cats,” she smiles.
“Indeed they do,” I smile back. Both our smiles broaden as she watches my boys with warmth.

“I’m probably gonna adopt her today,” adds the man with a hint of desperation. “I didn’t have time to do all the paper work last night.”
“He certainly is a lovely cat,” I say to his bowed head on the top of a body that appears to diminish before my eyes, curling around the cat, shrinking.
“We just came to get some flea medicine,” offers my daughter with a little flicker of concern. “We already have two cats, our own cats.”
“You came all the way here just for that?” he snaps , perplexed, relieved and too loudly.
“Well….. and to see the kitties of course. It’s a treat!” she adds by way of explanation. I watch the man unwind, arms soften, grip loosen and face open. Molly runs her front paws up his chest and her head nudges his chin.

A match.

If you are struggling to load this page or to comment, you can visit my duplicate "Loads like a dream" site, where I hope to establish myself soon. "here"

There is also my other "life" that is driving me completely batty "too."

Don't Take the Repeats: Team Whymommy Roundup

Peace of mind can be very noisy

I am reassured when I read that "other families" are noisy too. I know that there are lots of quiet families too, but it’s the noisy ones that give me peace of mind.

We endure a forty minute journey in the car, ironically, to the Humane Society. My daughter sits calmly in the centre back seat, a brother on each side. It is her misfortune in life to be the central divider. Her arms are folded across her chest as she looks out of the window and comments to me on the various points of interest that she sees. “Look mom, do you see that balloon thing?” she bellows but in a mild tone. She has no option but to yell because the amount of noise emanating from her brothers is strong competition.

“Why do boys like bunnies? Why do boys like bunnies? Why do boys like bunnies?” he chants in his robot voice. As usual, I have no idea where he has found this gem. I keep an eye on the GPS map on the dash board as the woman’s voice that provides verbal directions is too quiet to hear. A least I know that my son is coping her voice, even though I still can’t identify the source of the new phrase.

“Internet! Internet! Internet!” he blasts before reverting to the original phrase. I need to install an 'off' switch in this child. His older brother talks in a Pokemon voice and plays out a Pokemon scene, the same scene, the same discourse, the same exchange for the entire journey. Without his medication he has reverted to monosyllabic and echolalic and ever so happy. I’m not sure which one of us is more delighted, him or me? He is no longer irritated by his little brother’s motor mouth. Once again he finds him a source of camaraderie and amusement. Even his distinctive laugh has returned, the one that sounds like the Flamingos in Alice in Wonderland. The Flamingos turned croquet mallets with that infectious giggle. I lack his generous spirit.


“Dogs eat trees, dogs eat glass, dogs eat metal.” He pants afterwards, in dog mode. His brother hoots with laughter and repeats the phrase sotto voce before returning to the Pokemon spiel. “Look Mom, there’s a car with a dent in it. Do you think it was in an accident?”
“Could be,” I answer as non specifically as I can muster.
“Dogs eat pens, dogs eat pans, dogs eat poops.” Cackles of laughter reverberate around the car. I wonder how long we will have to endure the dog stage of development?
“Ooo look, there’s another one that was in an accident, the side is all bashed in.”
“Dogs eat pebbles, dogs eat rocks, dogs eat boulders.”
“They call that a side swipe I think.”
“Dogs eat mountains, dogs eat twigs, dogs eat sticks, woof, woof, woof.” Every so often, his older brother repeats his little brother’s words. Sometimes it’s echolalic, sometimes he’s just giggly. They enjoy a very exclusive brand of humour.
“What do they call it when the back is all smooshed?”
“Dogs eat grass, dogs eat green, dogs eat fields.” Perhaps I should just install volume control?
“Rear ended.”
“Dogs eat men, dogs eat wimmins, dogs eat…..dogs don’t eat kids.”
“What about the front smash?”
“Dogs eat bottles, dogs eat glasses, dogs eat spectacles.”
“Er bonnet bashed?”
“Dogs eat shoes, dogs eat newspapers, dogs eat machines.”
“That must be the English, what’s the American?”
“Dogs eat Italians, dogs eat Frenchians, dogs eat Germ mans.”
“Um fender bender or humped hood.”
“Dogs eat cars, dogs eat bicycles, dogs eat rockets, woof, woof, woof.”
“Are you sure, that doesn’t sound quite right?”
“Dogs eat galaxies, dogs eat clouds, dogs eat worms.” Nothing sounds quite right at the moment, least of all my own brain.


My eyes flick between the rear view mirror and the GPS screen. I need to concentrate so that I don’t miss the exit. I’m not particularly bothered about taking longer to arrive, but I am particularly bothered about spending any additional seconds confined in this moving torture chamber. I long to drive a black taxi cab, the kind from London, where you can pull up a soundproof screen between the driver and the passengers.

I glance back at my daughter. She seems calm. I think she is calm. I decide to check. “Are you alright dear?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well with the noise and all?”
“Oh yeah sure.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Er no. Does it bother you?”
“Well,” I veer to the right a little.
“Are you asking my advice?”
“Er yes, I think I must be?” I admit to my 9 year old daughter.
“Well you just need to shut your eyes and blot it all out, think about other things, peaceful things.” She pauses, “I spose that’s kinda tricky if yur drivin.” I love how she flips between English and American.

I swing into the car park and the last free spot. I take a deep breath, a full lungful, enough to sustain through the next step of our sequence. My mind races through all the pitfalls that the next hour holds for us. Will we succeed or will we have to beat a hasty retreat? My youngest son bellows, “d’you know dah one fing dat a dog can’t eat?”

We all look at him. It appears to be a genuine question and he has everyone’s attention. “A dog cannot be eating his own tongue cohttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifz den he will not be able to woof.”

My car is stationery. The rubber wheels are parked on the concrete. My car jiggles as the occupants giggle.

If you find this page difficult to load, or hard to comment upon, you can visit me at my duplicate "loads like a dream" site "here" or check out my other over "here."

Saturday Award time again!

"Melinda" from "Dear Noah"s blog honoured me with the "Nice Matters Award"......be sure to check her out at the link! THANKS again "Melinda."

I don't think I've ever been a bonus before.




This award is for those bloggers who are nice people; good blog friends and
those who inspire good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a
positive influence on our blogging world. Once you’ve been awarded please
pass it on to 7 others who you feel are deserving of this award.

SO I now have to PASS the torch so to speak to 7 others who I feel fit the above description. SO my nominees are:

"Crystal" at "Crystal Jigsaw."

"Niksmom"

at "Maternal Instincts."

"Mom" at "Joeymom" as I'm not sure who wishes to remain anonymous.

"Dan" at "Dan's blah blah blog."

"Gretchen" at "Gretchen's Blog."

"Heidi" at "The Woodvale Diaries."

"Melody" at "Slurping Life." [now that we've managed to find each other again!]

"Linda" at "Are we there yet."

This is fun! I could go on forever and just pull over all my bookmarks.

"Joker" at "the musings of a lurcher."

"I am Bossy" because she is and I love her style.

"Kailani" at "An Island Life"

Can't forget "Flutter" of course, even though she's often hard to pin down over at "fluttercrafts" but that's arty types for you.

But those arty types have a way of squirming their way into your radar, just like "Pippert" in the "artful flower."

I may have to do another one of these dooberries now that I've got the hang of it.


"Slouching Mom" not to be confused with Sloughing Mum! And you can also find her "here" will her other "pals."

"Jocelyn" at "O Mighty Crisis."

"Janet" over at "Just a Mom."


"Melissa" at "mejojacspot" how can one resist the ever changing template!

"MOM-NOS" at "Mom Not Otherwise Specified" because I very much miss her regular postings.

What can I say? I read a lot of blogs! And these are so few of them. So that's insomnia for you.

Hmm.......I'm only a quarter way through my bookmarks. Nevermind, I'll try and do better next time. Can I do three more? Is that breaking the rules? What are the rules? Where is the hand book? I need another manual to not read.

So where am I now? Is that 7? Sevenish? Near enough.

So if Melinda can cheat with a bonus, then I can too!

"Michelle" at "Scribbit" as it's a jolly good spot to lurk and pretend you're normal.

Post Script - if anyone has any hints about how you put these awards on your sidebar.......?
Yours
The technically challenged one!

Fish or fowl?

It’s definitely a kid thing, I think I can be confident in asserting that distinction. I’ve never seen or read about any adult doing it. I don’t think it’s an autism thing. I think it’s a sensory thing, which usually amounts to faulty wiring somewhere along the system. That said, because adults don’t do it, this must mean that whatever it is, disappears as you grow up. Perhaps you feel the same way, but find better ways of dealing with the matter? I need grown ups to tell us, let us in on the secret.

It’s an odd thing to watch, but not a pleasant thing to observe. You can sort of see it happening but for some reason, you’re not able to stop them doing it, at least not in time.

The child sits before the bowl of food. It can be any kind of food but something that in theory, they’re willing to eat. They also do it with food that they really like, preferred food, so it’s not a question of taste or even hunger. Sometimes they’re in a hurry and that might explain it sometimes, but now I’ve seen it in my own two boys and another boy, who is not biologically related to us, I can only conclude that it’s more common than I thought.

Say it’s something like Goldfish crackers, just for a handy example that happens to be a preferred food for any number of children for some unaccountable reason. They munch handfuls of the things. Chomp, chomp, chomp, even if they’re not very good at mastication. Before they’ve swallowed the mouthful, they stuff another handful in and then another. You can see it register in their eyes first, a glimmer of confusion quickly followed by alarm, quickly followed by ejection.

I suspect that these type of children are also wired with super strong gag reflex, which is just as well under the circumstances. The chin will drop and a tongue will slowly disgorge a perfect pellet of pounded putridness, half the size of a cricket ball, considerably large than the size of the oral cavity itself and shaped like a quenelle. Broadly speaking they do not appear to be overly traumatized by the experience and often start to eat a fresh handful of Goldfish without skipping a beat.



It doesn’t look like greed. It looks like an owl regurgitating, slow, deliberate and controlled. Do they forget to swallow? Do they have no taste buds? Do they lack the musculature to manipulate the food to the back of their throats? Do they not register that their mouths are already full? Of course I can’t be sure, and I expect it differs from one child to another, but for mine I think it’s a combination of the latter with a general lack of interest in food.

What’s your experience? Does this make any sense? Have you ever known an adult to do this?

Lack of qualifications

There are many problems, sorry ‘issues’, associated with autism.

The primary issue is a serious lack of qualifications in parents.

Whilst the averagely pregnant person isn’t qualified for parentdom, neither is the average parent qualified for autism. This mismatch may have a profound impact upon the overall well being of a family.

Whilst there is a lot of hub bub about early intervention for an autistic child, very little is heard about early intervention for the parents. For myself, I can confirm that I was very ill equipped in the autism department. Of all the many useful and fascinating pieces of information I had stored away, very few of them had any relevance to autism.


As we all now know, getting a jump on autism, would be tricky because of the variety pack nature of the condition. There is no point in nipping out to buy many pairs of nail clippers to distribute around your entire house and handbag, if it turns out that your child doesn’t have that kind of autism. Similarly, there is no point in spending your pregnant months on a crash course on speech pathology, if it later turns out that your child doesn’t have that kind of autism. I think that basically, we, the parents, are asking for some streamlining here. What we need is predictability so that we can formulate a plan, to make the future more certain, and adopt routines and campaigns……………..



I think I should have completed one of those multiple choice sheets whilst I was pregnant. One of those papers where you colour in the little preference boxes, to narrow down the field a little. Things that you want in your child. Things that you believe you can cope with.

For myself, I wouldn’t have wanted a mucky kind of a child. I’d much prefer a shiny clean one that sparkles a lot. I’d also want a nice placid one that I could cuddle a lot, a bit like a teddy bear, where everyone would say ‘ah, how cute.’ I wouldn’t wish to spend a lot of time catering to nutritional needs, as that would be so time consuming and tedious. Ideally, it would be nice if they had a hobby, something that was entertaining and perhaps educational.

It’s not a long list, but it’s an important one.

And do you know what? If that had been my list, not that I had an inkling of the life to come, that is exactly what I have, one way or another.

The anxious child

I read that book a couple of years ago to help mine for clues to assist my youngest son during a bout of OCD.

Now I need to find the book and re-read it, with a greater degree of care and a good deal more insight. I need new or different strategies.

Both my boys hate to leave the house. It has always been so. It's not that they're some type of exotic hot house orchids, they're merely rooted to the spot.

When they were very small, I ran duplicate campaigns, as it was too complicated to do different things for different children. One size fits all was merely a survival mechanism. Every day, I would take them out to the driveway where the traditional American mailbox sits on the white picket fence. We would gather the mail as they tried to escape into the road, run into other gardens and generally create more ruckus and angst than any casual observer might guess.

Once inside again, we would read the recipients names and ‘deliver’ the letters to the office, the kitchen and any other person fortunate enough to receive mail.

Communication of any kind, has always been a struggle. PECS helped us when words were few and far between. Since they could both read, we used PECS that also had the written word beneath. Written instructions were usually more successful than oral verbal prompts. This is part explains why neither of them use the telephone, abhor the telephone. Once they went to school, this ‘chore’ fizzled out, as so many of my campaigns have. But they keep growing bigger, both the campaigns and the children.

..............


My eldest son catapaults into the room in a state a great agitation. I lay down the book, “The Anxious Child,” open at page three.
“We made a deal so it’s all gonna be o.k,” he announces breathlessly. I notice spouse reversing out of the driveway and speeding away.
“Great. I’m glad you sorted it out with Dad.”
“Oh no! I forgot the deal already!”
“Never mind. Dad will remember the deal. When he comes back we can ask him about it.”
“No, no, no. I need to know the deal now!” I give it my best shot, “well, when he comes home after his hair cut, he’s going to take you to Target where you can choose a new prize.”
“Oh yes, that’s right, I remember now. That’s the deal.” He was unable to choose his prize. A reward from the teacher for a job well done, at the end of the first week of school on Friday. Now it is Saturday. We, his feeble minded parents, are unable to deal with the constant barrage of questions; ‘how many days until next Friday? The next 'prize' day. How many minutes until next Friday, how many seconds until next Friday?’

“How long is he gonna be?”
“I don’t know dear. Er, perhaps an hour. Let’s play with the marbles until he gets home.”
“I don’t like marbles, they’re no fun. When’s he gonna be home? I need to go and choose my prize?” I pick a number.
“He’ll be here in 60 minutes, 360 seconds. Let’s set the timer together.”
“That’s gonna take forever!” he wails.

We try pokemon, trading cards, magnets and stories. Nothing distracts and engages him. We will not have ‘electronics time’ for another 8 and a half hours. His anxiety about the passage of time, supercedes all other concerns or interests. He stares at the timer, which I do not consider to be of any assistance. “It’s not moving!” he wails. I look at the mountain of laundry that also seeks my attention, if anyone is able to go to bed tonight in clean linen.

The desperate clutch at straws, “I know, I’ll telephone him as ask how long he’s going to be!” The coward passes the buck. I check the number and start to dial. As my fingers stab the buttons, I formulate a cunning plan. “ I’ll talk to Dad for a moment and then I’ll tell him you want to ask him a question.” His eyes widen like saucers, “but I can’t!”
“Yes you can, you’re 8 now. Daddy would love to hear you talk to him on the phone.” So would a lot of other people, myself included. He has never spoken on the phone to anyway, not even a toy one.
“But it might be the wrong number!”
“If it’s the wrong number, you can just say ‘sorry, wrong number,’ and put the receiver down. It’s not a problem lovey.”
“But I would make a mistake.”
“We all makes mistakes. Little mistakes like that aren’t important, nothing to worry about.”
“But it might be a bad man, a burgular, a thief. Someone might wanna steal me.”

I am so out of my depth. With a speech delay there was automatically a little time built into an exchange. This gave me the chance to think and strategize. For years I have been counting to fifteen, including ‘ands’, waiting for him to respond. Now, he’s so far ahead of me that I’m trailing behind, if not drowning. The rings stop and reroute to our home answering machine! Typical. I replace the receiver. “What he say? When’s he gonna be home?”
“I don’t know dear he didn’t pick up.” I rake my fingers through my hair and rack my brain. “Let’s see, what shall we do until he comes home dear?”
“Hey! Look mum.” He points to the window and continues, “the mail man’s here. How about we go and get the mail and sort it.”

5 years too late, is soon enough.

If you struggled to upload this site, then nip on over to my new 'loads like a dream' duplicate site over "here." Don't forget to leave me a comment as I have no sitemeter over there, so I shall feel ever so lonely.

Otherwise, you can check out my other life over "here."

Wordless Wednesday #3

This is an old picture of my daughter. It was taken when we believed that the boys had trouble recognising facial expressions and refused to look at pictures or images of faces, short of line drawings. She was delighted to take centre stage and provide us with lots of portraits to demonstrate different emotions. We hoped that they'd be more willing to look at their sister's face in a photograph, and they were.












I can't remember how long we worked upon that particular campaign as it was a long time ago and we knew very little about autism then. However, I do know now, that it was probably one of my more futile campaigns, but hindsight is so often 20/20 as "Kristina Chew" points out in her recent "post."

Even though this is supposed to be wordless Wednesday, some things just don't make any sense without a matt and a frame, or what we in the trade call "scaffolding."

If you're in need of a little giggle, interested in lineage, focus and details, then scroll down for a little more, or a double post.

A Germ free Thoroughbred

Cleanliness may be next to something or other, but around this particular household, we aim to keep the germ count as low as possible. To achieve this goal, it is my habit to use ‘Clorox loo blocks.’ In America, I am given to understand that they also go by the unfortunate term ‘toilet cakes.’ I pop them cistern to help provide a sanitary conditions for those with bathroom challenges. Today I use blue sanitary blocks because they were cheaper, and my Scottish ancestry refuses to die.

Life in the modern age is full of conveniences to make this goal easier to achieve, sanitary conditions rather than penny pinching, that is to say.

Disposable wipes are now commonplace and flushable ones are available to clog up the environment at an ever faster pace.

Whilst my boys require far less assistance than they once did, but I am always careful to be on hand, ready for when my services are needed. I have purely selfish motivations, the dual goals to minimize the laundry and maintain cleanliness.

“I am need dah helping!” he bellows, even though I am leaning on the door jam at his side.
“Fair enough.” I take a step towards him.
“Why it is?” he squalks without reference to anything at all.
“Why is what dear?”
“Why it is blue?”
“Oh, the water is blue to kill any germs, keep it pure, now bend over so that I can clean your botty.” He flips up like an elastic band, “ooo you cannot be saying dat word. Dat is a potty word. Dat is a bad word.”
“Since when, I mean why is it a potty word? Who said it was a bad, er……rude word?”
“Well it be rhyme wiv potty.”
“Are all words that rhyme with ‘potty’ also bad words?” Who made him the head of the word police all of a sudden?
“Um…..no but ‘bot UM” is dah foreign word. We do not be talking dah foreign, we be talking dah English.” Could have fooled me buddy!
“So what is the polite word? What do we use instead?” How can I learn, memorise and apply, an entirely new word for this part of one’s anatomy, now that I am on a par with the ancient mariner in experience, if not quite in chronological age?
“Well,…..I fink dat dah nice peoples are be saying ‘tush’!”
“Oh really. Well that’s very good of you to let me know. Now who exactly are these nice people who have been correcting……helping you?”
“Oh I cannot be telling you dat.”
“Why not?”
“Because I bin bad.”
“You? Bad! Perish the thought. Never mind, you can tell me, I’m your mum remember.”
“Well I was bein dah ear wig. I was listen to dah girls words.”
“Which girls’ words.”
“Dah girls in dah bathroom.” I am just debating how to tackle this new discovery in a tactful manner, when he lurches off on a tangent, as he startles again, “ooo you are dah bouncy!” I cannot identify any part of my ancient carcass with any degree of bounce or jiggle left.

“Where dear?”
“Der!” He points and then clasps the underside of my wrist. “Looky dere!”
“Oh that’s my pulse,” I add unhelpfully, although proof of life.
“You are dah germ?”
“Pardon?”
“Um…..you are have dah germs in yur body?”
“Yes, everyone has a certain amount of germs in their body, but we have antibodies to kill them.” I realize what I have just said, out loud.
“You have dah germs and dah ants in yur body?” he asks with an air of incredulity which I share.
“Well……um……you see….”
“It is good den.”
“What is good dear?”
“Dat you have dah blue blood like dah toilet.”

Warm the Globe

Warm the Globe

Vic Grace has started something wonderful, and Barb at Skittles' Place has passed the warmth along to me ;-)

"As we are all aware, blogging does give us the opportunity to reach out and yes, "touch someone" by our words, pictures, links in our blogs and by our comments to fellow bloggers as well.

Think about this - in a world today that is too often filled with news of wars all over the world, fears about terrorism, following newspaper and tv news reports about crime, gangs, and you name it of all the bad things we hear about everyday, wouldn't it be a wonderful thing if we, each of us blogging in our own little space, could actually spread the word through friendship and help, through that little bit of effort, to bring people together, united in a common goal of international friendship?"

All you have to do is copy this post with the list of links below. Combine the previous links with my tags. Add some tags of your own. As others do the same we get the word out about a lot of great blogs. Eventually we may circumnavigate the globe.

Debo Blue at "A Blue State of Mind"
Sasha at "A Day in the Life of Sasha Stinerova"
Maddie at
Singing Owl at "Pastorette Ponderings"
Barb at "Skittles Place"
Mau at "It's About Time"
Jen at "Creatif"
The Meloncutter at "Meloncutter's Musings"
Sognatrice in Calabria, Italy at "Bleeding Espresso"
Keith at "10 Years Running Blind"
Dave at "Rather Than Working"
Linda at "Are We There Yet?"
Dorothy at "Overthehill Boomer Chick"
Patois at "Whee! All The Way Home"
Stine at "Mother's Home"
Smalltown RN at "A Place I Call Home"
Shelby at "Time With Shelby"
Any Apples
BoggyWoggy's Cache
Erika Jean
My Dogs Keep Me Sane
Rambling Shan
Random Autumness
The Turtle Parade

Runs in the family

My mother often described me as a demonstrative little girl.

She always said it as if she was ever so slightly surprised. A maverick.

It’s not that my family was unaffectionate, it’s more that they felt no pressing need to demonstrate their love openly and certainly not publicly. Such things didn’t need to be said. A given. It’s a common enough theme, a cultural quirk of a certain generation and class, that doesn’t translate very well.

Every night my mother would tuck me into bed. She would pull the folded top sheet taught, snap, and tuck in the end. I was pinned tight and secure, “night, night dear,” she would say as she kissed me. I always wanted her to stay longer. I loved to be with her. I wanted to be kissed, cuddled and stroked into slumber, but that was only for babies.

When I went to boarding school at 11.

I quickly discovered that among my many faults, one of my more serious inadequacies was an inability to make a bed with hospital corners. Dormitories had to be ready for inspection before school. If your efforts weren’t up the mark, then the bed would be stripped for you to start again. Making a bed from scratch when you are half the size of the bed, is no mean feat. I failed at this feat on a daily basis. This failure led to additional failures. The time spent attempting to make the bed again, meant that I was late for class. If you were late for class there were penalties. I scored very highly in the penalty department and spent many a long hour in penance at the school chapel, praying for the ability to make a bed with hospital corners.

My prayers were answered and by mid term I had mastered the art of bed making. The bonus of superior bed making skills was that when you slipped between the chilly sheets after saying your prayers, if you were good at wiggling, you could hold your breath and shimmy into bed, and enjoy the tight hold of comforting bed linen. It was almost as if you were back at home. If you closed your eyes and squeezed, you could almost see your mother’s face among the fuzzy specks.

That was about as close as you’d get to a maternal influence. Although the nuns were dutiful and often kind, they were at best ‘Sisters.’ The nearest approximation was the Mother Superior but this was a misnomer if ever there was one. They were all untouchable, a message that was loud, clear and visible by the absence of hands, which lay beneath their habits, clasped in prayer.

I learned a great many useful skills during those long years in a cloistered environment. I learned how to run but look as if I was walking. When my older sister left, I had no translator. Instead of huddling in the toilets so that she could read me my weekly letter from my mother, I had to learn to decipher her scrawl for myself. I found night time entertainment in ouija boards and poker. How to recognize cards from the wrong side and how to read palms. I learned to whisper without moving my lips, and how to fold my skirt to protect my knees during the many endless hours of prayer. This is the true price of private education, a solid investment for your child’s future inheritance.

I’m glad to say that all my children are demonstrative and affectionate. This is no surprise to me, more of a delight. The girls wear their hearts on their sleeves, quick to anger but quick to forgive and forget. The boys are more volatile than the girls, which makes a lot of wild fires and flare ups. We females kiss our faces, lips, cheeks, foreheads and noses.

The boys? Well they’re a bit short in the social skills department. Whilst many boys of their age become aware of cooties, mine, so far, are blissfully unaware. They’ll kiss anyone, boys as well as girls. They know it’s a sign of affection, it matches and demonstrates a feeling. It’s not that they’re indiscriminent, far from it, but they’re impulsive and without peer pressure.

With me? Well, they kiss whatever is nearest, a knee, a hip, a forearm, an elbow. It’s all progress, because they’re so much taller these days. I predict with a certain degree of confidence that in the not too distant future, they’ll kiss the top of grey haired head, if I’m very lucky and play my cards right.

Poker not Old Maid please.

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?"