Puppy Love – howl at the moon

One of our most serious and all pervasive issues has been the matter of pretend play.

My son would often pretend to be a dinosaur and he was a very good mimic. As soon as I commented or guessed, “are you being a Triceratops?” he would collapse in a huge meltdown. I assumed it was because my guess was wrong and therefore very annoying.

I later learned that it wasn’t the ‘guess’ that was wrong, it was the trigger word ‘pretend.’ Much later still, I learned that the word ‘pretend’ was offensive. It was offensive because he wasn’t ‘pretending.’ As far as he was concerned, he ‘was’ whatever he was mimicking. He ‘became’ whatever he mimicked. A budding method actor.

………

It’s the new wallpaper to my day. It doesn’t really matter what the subject is, or what we might be talking about, everything is peppered with Chihuahua. I blame the friend, or more specifically, the mother of the friend that bought the dog. She has no idea what her new pet has done to my family, and let me tell you, it is not a pretty sight. Fortunately there are no sound effects, just dog talk.

“He is dah Christmas present?”
“Who is a Christmas present?”
“Dah Chihuahua?” It colours every conversation. He’ll manage to squeeze it in to the most unlikely chat. “Would you like barbeque sauce or ketchup?”
“What do Chihuahua’s like? I like what he likes.” It’s a blatant lie and a figment of his imagination at the same time, quite a feat. I was never particularly keen on the breed in the first place, but they are rapidly descending into a puny pet peeve.

I try deflection. The subject is moot. “We can’t get a dog until after Christmas. It’s not fair to find a puppy and then leave him in kennels when we go to England.”
“Dey have Chihuahua’s in England?”
“Yes but you can’t bring a dog from England to the States….” I avoid the Rabies, customs and waiting period, period.
“Why?”
“Because…..English Chihuahua’s don’t understand American, it would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.” Oh how I love the Constitution!

I distract.

“Can you read that sign dear?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say dear?”
“Danger keep out.”
“That’s why it’s red, to tell you about the danger.”
“Dey have a big dangerous dog? Chihuahuas are not being dah dangerous.”

His sister joins in the debate. She has her own agenda. Perhaps she can muzzle him?
“We can’t get a Chihuahua as they bark all the time.”
“Dey only have dah little bark.”
“They have sharp claws and they’ll scratch yah when they jump on yah.”
“Dey do dah little jumps and I am big.”
“He’ll lick yur face and bite ya.”
“No he will be dah good dog.”
“A lab would be better or a retriever. Now that’s a real dawg.”
“I don wan a real dawg I wan a Chihuahua.”
“Anyways. They don’t have Chihuahua’s in America. You have to go to Mexico to buy Chihuahua’s.”
“Mom I need to go to Mexico!”
“We’re not goin to Mexico, we’re going to England dummy. Mum tell him we’re not going to Mexico. Tell him we’re not gonna get a Chihuahua. Tell him we’re gonna get a big dog.”
“We go Mexico before dinner?”

I fly away. I remember our one holiday to Mexico. It was based on the sound theory that we should visit Mexico, whilst we were here in the States. Once we returned to the UK, it would be a much longer and far more expensive holiday. It made perfect sense. It made perfect sense before we went. Mexico had been Americanized. It was just like America but with different accents and a milder climate. As it turned out, it was not just like America. They had no Goldfish, which was far more distressing that no seat belts in the cars.

Everything is a prompt, so I stop, prompting that is, in the remote hope that we can avoid this all pervasive subject.

He self initiates conversations, in a sly and circumnavigatious manner.
“You like em?”
“Like what dear?”
“Hot dogs?”
“Er, not really.”
“Hot dogs are like wieners.”
“Er, yes, little ones, so they are.”
“You can get wiener dogs.”
“Dachshunds dear.”
“Dachshunds are little dogs just like Chihuahuas.”

I wonder if we have time to stop by the travel agent before dinner? How much does it cost these days? One adult, one way to Mexico? I should pre-order the vegetarian option, a tofudog?


I am hounded on every front. There is no way out. I should start practicing commands like ‘down boy!’ Little traps await me around every corner, ready to pounce. Logical persuasive leaps abound.

He fingers the old one, the red collar with the bell and little name tag.
“We are recycle?”
“Um…..yes.”
“We are recycle dis?” He shoves the collar in my face.
“Well it’s a cat collar really.”
“Chihuahua’s are been having dah tiny necks just like dah cats.”
“Well….”
“It be save.”
“Er….”
“It be cheep, cheap, cheaper if we dun buy a new collar.”


His powers of persuasion are unleashed. He crouches on the floor on all fours.
“You like me?”
“Of course I like you dear, I love you.”
“I am cute?”
“Very cute.”
"I am a lovely little guy?"
"Of course!" That's so odd. I'm not permitted to call him little any more.
“You see my bootiful eyes?” He blinks to wet the deep brown pools.
“How could I not?”
“You see? I am be……I am pretend…….I am an adorable Chihuahua.” Pretend! Hallelujah! He said it! He said it out loud! I was here, I heard him and there is no meltdown. A new all time first.

But it's not the last we hear about puppies. There is always another line, paragraph and chapter. Puppy talk dogs our days.

I need a campaign or an escape route or an ‘off’ switch. I think I’ll start by buying a dog house, a little kennel that I can hide in, with optional drawbridge.


The next day following his playdate, he accosts me in the kitchen.
“You are dah dumbass?” Well really!
“I beg your pardon!”
“Oopsie. I sorry. You are dah stoopid?” Good grief! I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a improvement. I wait. I prompt, and dangle a treat, against my better judgment.
“Yes dear?” I do not snarl. I am obedient and stay put.
“Why you say it a Chihuahua?” he yips.
“Um….your friend’s puppy, that little dog…..well it is a Chihuahua,” I avoid barking.
“No!” he woofs. I listen to His Master's voice and beg for more information.
“Yes?” I am at heel without the restraint of a choke collar.
“No. You got it wrong."
"Really!"
"Yes. On my playdate......"
"Ahuh?"
"..his mum bin......."
"Yes...?"
"She be..." I wait. Prompts and encouragement can only take you so far. Sometimes you just have to wait for them to retrieve, regroup and restate.
"His mum din bin say dat .....he’s a Pomeranian,” he says with perfect diction without slobbering.
"Ah."

You know, some parents can be a real handicap. I adopt a hangdog expression and I slink away, with my tail between my legs.


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Picture this!

I am plagued so I adopt a siege mentality.

I absolutely refuse to make any decisions about anything before they go to school. Children are children, which means that they can recognize weakness. I am at my weakest first thing in the morning, and so that of course, is the time that they leap on their poor hapless prey.

“Mom can we do Year Book?”
“Um?” This question has no meaning for me at all. It is an American thing. It’s an American thing that I avoided with my older daughter, which means that I have no previous experience to fall back on. I thought that the Yearbook, was a book of photographs of every child in the class, produced in the year of their graduation. It is a memento and often has amusing notes printed within. This is wrong. This is not correct. I know it is not correct because my daughter is only nine and so has another 9 years of school before she graduates and has her photograph in the Year book.

“Which you are like?”
“Um?”
“Omnitrix, Heat Blast or Four Arms?”
What language is he speaking? He dashes away and returns with some plastic figurines, prizes from school. He shoves their nasty hard limbs far too close to my glasses for me to be able to focus. I stab at an answer.

“That one!”
“Four Arms?”
“Er…yes.”
“Ah! You are like coz he has red,” he sighs, as if I have cheated somehow. Somehow I think I may have, cheated, that is.

I trot off to the screamer in the family room. He is on a circuit. He runs around the L-shaped sectional, jumps onto the toy trunk and flops in to a bean bag, before leaping up and starting again. Round and around he goes, screaming all the way and yet never missing a step. I have no idea what has set him off. I lean on the door jam and wait. I count. I count his circuits. He is growing bigger and stronger. I should hook him up to a couple of wires and he could power the tumble drier single handedly, or double leggedly. It takes longer for him to tire but eventually, 12, his flop stops.



I approach Mr. Snotty but I don’t touch his sweaty form because I know that all his nerve endings are still exposed. A touch is the equivalent of an electric cattle prod and I don’t want to spark him off again.

“Can you tell me?”
“Er….I fink I can’t do it.”
I wait.

“I mean I fink I can tell you but I fink I can’t do it.”
“Do what? What is the ‘it’ that you can’t do?”
“I can’t do shower.”
“Shower?”
“Dad is saying I am being having a shower.”

Oh yes. That’s right. I remember now. We decided that instead of enduring our finely honed 40 minute morning routine, we would squeeze in another step. We wise parents decided that it was much too difficult to only have the eldest child take a daily shower. Instead, genius step, we would shower them all. We are all an absolute shower.

“Well….you’re really mucky now!”
“I am not muck I am sog.”
“So, if you’re already soggy, a little bit more water won’t hurt much.”

I try and think of a lure.
Just like all parents, I need a little bribery.
I bait my hook.
“Tell you what?”
“Wot?”
“You can use the powder puff afterwards.”
“Yur powder puff?”
“Yes.”

He’s gone, flash! Like a streak of lightening, he streaks without his pyjamas up to the shower. I clean the flasher until he is sparklingly clean.

I rub him dry with a soft towel in a fog of talcumn powder as he ponces his body with the puff.

“Pouf! Pouf! Pouf eee!” He is as white as a ghost.
“I am dust. I am fluff. I am laugh!” The bathroom is a cloud.
“I am not sog. I am soooooo smooooov!”
I dress him for speed and send him on his way.

He is the sweetest smelling child that the school photographer will greet today, if a little dusty.



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Wordy Wednesday

Spelling b....b....b.....bounce.

How do you get ready for the spelling test? Mine write out flashcards at school to help the process. It's the American way.

When they bring them home. We have to learn them, but how? Dull, dull, dull.

We cheat. We spread them out on the carpet and bounce on the tramplene. We pretend it's a game. I call out a word and they dive to retrieve the right card. They read it aloud from the card, which of course is even more cheating, because we're sneaky like that.

Now my eye sight is poor. I'd have a hard time bouncing up and down and trying to recognise a card right down there on the carpet, not necessarily the right way up. I'd have an even harder time if the cards looked like this.

It's not hieroglyphics nor wingdings.
GIVE

















MADE

















HAVE


















SAME
















FINE

The Wedding

I peer at the computer screen and the announcement of my brother’s wedding to JP. It will be a duplicate of their Chinese wedding which took place, funnily enough, in China. This time it will be in England. Friday 29the December. Autumn and Winter are busy months in this American household. The children zip back to school just in time for us to bump into Halloween, trip over Thanksgiving, plummet into two December birthdays, tumble into Christmas and hop over New Year. It’s carousel time. We plan to insert another horse.




“So this is the itinerary as I see it,” he announces, as my mind is busy with other things. Perhaps if I buy two suits for them, one size too large, right now and then beat the fabric with rocks, I might just be able to make them soft enough for them to wear in….......two months time?
“Christmas Day is on a Tuesday this year, so we’ll fly on the Wednesday, Boxing Day and land on Thursday.” I wonder if they’ll want her to be a bridesmaid or a flower girl? It’s a civil ceremony so at least we won’t have to be silent and immobile in a church.

“We’ll drive down all day on Thursday from Heathrow. With a bit of luck we’ll arrive at the hotel late Thursday night.”
I should probably get her a new outfit anyway. Where will I find something woolly and warm enough, in California? I may have to buy something myself! Ooo how I hate shopping.
“Then if we can drag them all out of bed the next day, on Friday, just in time, the Wedding is at 1 p.m.”
I should probably start prepping them for the agony of air flight again as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be a good time to start.
“Then they’ll leave on their honeymoon, in the wee small hours, I expect.”
At least we’ll probably get away with only one suitcase, or maybe two if we take our own bedding. I’ll have to find or buy some ordinary warm clothes. England in December can be wicked.
“On Saturday we can drive back and stop off at my parents in Poole and stay the night. Probably only a five hour trip but it will be the New Year weekend, so traffic might be busy.”
I must remember that if I’m wearing woolly tights, I won’t have any shoes that fit. Perhaps I should wear boots, or galoshes hidden under a long skirt?
“Then we’ll drive to the airport the next day. Have to be up early though because of 3 hour check in.”
Should I just pack the present and wrap it on arrival? Otherwise all the paper will be scrunched. Can we stop off somewhere to buy paper? Should I pack the paper here?
“That means that we should be back in SF on Sunday and home later in the afternoon. Almost one complete day devoted to the wedding and all the other days traveling.”
I wonder if we’ll have time to visit some other chums, en route?
“All done and dusted in 5 days!”
“Well……with that many transitions…..it’s probably best to just let all the meltdowns flow back to back, with no wriggle room. A huge 5 day melta-marathon.” I feel slightly nauseous and I’m still on terra firma. I’d better buy an extra large catering carton of ear plugs…..and Goldfish.

Perhaps I should just shove the Goldfish in my ears and have done with it?

Completely Potty

Some things are immutable, and I am one of them.

After 12 year in America, I still can’t make the adjustment.

I sit in a posh restaurant with my good pals. Their children are now adults. My pal stands up, adjusts her lapel and whispers sotto voce, “I just need to go potty,” as she departs. I resist falling off my chair because I have an instant translator, but I can’t quell this automatic response. Why do grown up people who are long out of diapers, insist on using this repellent terminology?

To be fair, I waited many a goodly year for my own boys to use that very same phrase, preferably prior to the act. Now that they are older and words are more common, they do use it, sometimes prior to the act. With the speech delays, it would appear to be too much of a challenge to move them onto a different word, such as toilet or loo, although they do know what both those words mean.



I think that part of the trouble stems from the pronunciation, not just their’s but everyone’s. It’s so disconcerting how they say it. Maybe it’s the American accent? Maybe it’s the Californian lilt? But to my ears, it always makes me do a double take. It would be o.k. if they said ‘I need to go ‘Pot EE,’ but they don’t, do they. No! Instead, they say ‘I need to go ‘Pah DEE!’ It’s an invitation to celebrate, to boogie on down, crack open the champagne and let rip with the fire crackers. It gets me every time.

………….

I sit in the garage on my three legged stool drowning in my own creative juices. A small spot light is trained on the pottery wheel in the gloom, so that I am at the centre of my own little universe. I have a factory mentality. I am already up to par, 20 minutes to throw a wibbly wobbly pot. 3 pots per hour. If I continue at this rate of production I shall be all set. I glance up at the shelf of squidgey pots. It’s a pity that they not all the same, a set perhaps? They do not look manufactured. I remind myself that they are art. They are supposed to be different, er…unique. If they were all the same then they wouldn’t be art. The only things that they have in common with each other, is that they are made of clay, vaguely round, in the ‘pot’ category and made by me. That will just have to do. “Good Enough.” I hear the telephone ring in the kitchen and step towards the door leaving a snail trail of clay in my wake. I listen. It is the school.

I pick up the receiver, it is slippery with slip. [liquid clay] We exchange information and I promise to be at the school shortly, with a replacement set of clothes. I replace the receiver and wonder if it will now cement itself to the handset. I have clay on my ear. I scrub my hands and ear and then run upstairs for clean undies, shorts and socks, just to be on the safe side. I dither.

I should cycle to school? But there’s the flat tyre. It would only take me…..too long. The planet loses again. I drive to the school. I am an environmental wimp taking the easy rout when I hit the first pebble on the road. Mother Nature will disown me.

The administrator tells me that my son will be with me shortly and adds, “you have dirt on your nose.” I blink. When American’s say ‘dirt’ they do not mean dirty. When they say ‘dirt,’ what they really mean is ‘mud, soil or earth’ depending upon the consistency, Occasionally they do say and mean dirt, but not very often, and they never use a ‘y.’

It is the sort of comment that women make to other women or sometimes men. It falls into the categories of ‘lipstick on your teeth / Charlie’s Dead [ your petticoat is showing] / your flies are undone,’ kind of a comment. I never mention the ‘undone flies’ myself, but that is because I am a respectable married women, the kind that needs a good reason to justify gazing at men’s flies. As yet, I have not been able to come up with a good reason for staring at men’s flies, so I avoid the subject completely, and leave the topic well zipped.

“It’s clay,” I tell her unnecessarily. It sounds like an apology but she wasn’t accusing. Her unspoken ‘whatever?’ hangs in the air. The delay between her comment and my response is far too long, so now I appear odd as well as foreign and dirty and apologetic. I decide this is not a good combination to be on display in public. My son bowls into the office, where his boot lace legs appear to have become entangled.

I whisk him into the bathroom to help expedite his change. As the door closes, the light turns on the extractor fan kicks in. This is just as well as the stench in such a confined area, is enough to bring on a fit of the vapours. I suspect that I have turned into a girlie. Boys' innocent pee has been transformed. My olfactory powers have altered. I am in a four foot cell with moose musk and no peg for my nose. He sits on the loo, the only convenient spot whilst I wrestle with his shoes and Velcro. Because he sits in this position, he does what comes naturally and demonstrates how he had the accident in the first place. His “oopsie’ is perfectly timed to co-ordinate with the fountain. I am glad that the speech delay has not delayed his verbal response. I am sad that his useless father has failed to teach him the basics of gravity. Hands free is not a good technique.

It is immediately apparent that his shirt will need replacement too. “She’s right!”
“Who is right dear?”
“My teacher.”
“What is she right about dear?”
“It’s real stinky.”
It would appear that all relevant personnel are aware that my son smells like a skunk but no-one saw fit to advise me that I needed to bring a sterilization unit as well as clean clothes. I tell him and relevant personnel that I will return shortly with more clean clothes and hare off home again. I am glad I am in the car ruining the planet because this means I’ll be able to make my second trip within the hour.

Timing is crucial. I have three damp bottoms to trim sitting on the shelf in the garage. If you flip over any piece of crockery, you will notice a ring of unglazed clay. This is the foot of the bowl. The potter carves it into the base, so that you don’t scratch your table. The pot must be dry enough to carve, but not dry enough to crumble. Timing.


I get home and grab a clean T-shirt. I hover. What have I forgotten? I grab a bag of baby wipes and a hand towel. I see the telephone blink at me. A message. I have no time for messages and dash back to the car and the school. By the time I arrive it is break time. All the children are running around. I look for a static one in a soggy red tie-dye T-shirt. There appear to be a great number of children all wearing red T-shirts today, although they don’t appear to be soggy. I spot him and lunge on over, waving a white T-shirt of surrender. I stop just in time to prevent collision but he’s already ahead of me disrobing the wrong half of his body. I yank up his elastic and whip off his shirt with a flourish. He finds his nak.ed tummy to be a great source of amusement and contrived embarrassment. I am flummoxed. Why the top half? We kiss and hug, to the bewilderment of other players and I leave.

I stomp into the house having gassed myself driving 7 minutes in a hot car with a pile of rancid clothes. I gasp for air to rid my lungs of the fumes, fill a bucket with hot water and plunge them in to soak. I hit the message button. I learn that my son has had a potty accident. I saunter off to the garage to trim bottoms. I pause. I walk back into the kitchen and press ‘replay.’ Different time, different message, different son. I bound up the stairs three at a time, grab two T-shirts, two pairs of shorts and underwear and four socks just to be on the safe side. One set goes in a bag to remain at school as insurance against further mishaps, the other I roll up into a sausage and tuck under my arm as I head off for school, with sack of baby wipes under the other arm.

I extract child two, strip, clean and re-dress the screamer before heading to the class room to deposit the bag of spare clothes on the teacher’s desk.
“Hi Maddy,” she smiles. I pat the bag and she looks at it. “Oh dear!” she adds.
“Oh dear what?” I ask.
“There seems to be some er……dirt on the bag. I hope it isn’t inside too.” I look at the bag and the smear. I do not spit ‘clay,’ because it’s not her fault that she is more observant than I am. I snatch the bag away and grin, “I’ll be back!”


Outside I am accosted by a strange child. Strange Child clutches two library books to his chest, moves from one foot to the other blocking my escape and doesn’t meet me in the eye. I have no time for Strange Child as I have pots with dry bottoms to attend to. Possibly crispy bottoms by now. He continues to talk at me. Why is he talking to me? I want to interrupt him, ‘listen here Sunny Jim, who do you think you are talking to? Do I look like a librarian to you?’ I remember that I am an adult. Adults on school premises are by definition teachers, aids, administrators and other safe people whom you can accost at any time for any whim. I give up.

I hunker down to sort out whatever it is that is bothering him. I look into his eyes as he explains. I am just about to offer a solution when my handbag bleeps, loudly. It bleeps so loudly that I tip over backwards, sprawled before Strange Child like an upended cockroach. “Oh, you’re not the librarian,” he says in surprise.
“How do you know?” as I cannot resist.
“Coz you’ve got dirt.” I resist shouting ‘CLAY!’ as this might be mis-interpreted. I am surprised to learn that librarians have a reputation for being squeaky clean. I make a mental note to seek out dirty librarians and photograph them.

I stomp towards my car. I am now in a thoroughly bad mood. I am not anxious to go home and recycle crispy pots that are past their trim by moment. I shall never manage to make a decent pot for my brother and his betrothed before their wedding day. I am doomed, downcast and desperate. I drive to the studio because it is very close to the school and I have 7 and a half minutes until school is dismissed for the day. I go to sulk and perhaps a little inspiration, because there will be nobody there to grouch at, just artists silent creations. I plod up the one in three hill that is the driveway entrance. Inside the owner sits at her desk. I have not visited for over a year. She doesn’t recognize me at first until I greet her.
“Maddy! I hardly recognized you!” I grin and flash her my retainer. “I’ve been meaning to phone you. You’ve still got those pots on the glaze shelf.”
“Really?”
“Sure, outside, on the members shelf.” I skip out to the member’s shelf because I had forgotten that I belong to another and entirely different club. I peer through the dust. It’s not so much that my membership has lapsed, more buried and superceded. I recognize nothing. I spot a Goldfish. Horray! That must be mine. I pull it out from the back, covered in clay dust, dust bunnies and grit. I gallop inside to the tap to rinse it off. Perfect! Well, not really perfect perfect of course, but ‘good enough’ has become my new motto.

The pursuit of happiness is part of life's journey but perfectionism will drive you way off course, to a cul de sac at best or a padded cell at worst.

Party more probably promotes potty less.




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Sleepover

You may wish to read "this" first.

I decide it’s not a misnomer afterall. It is completely accurate. Someone visits your home to have a sleepover and sleep is… well and truly over. My typical girl and her pal do not sleep during the night. My atypical boys are out cold by 10. They share the same bed, parked like railway coaches on sleepers. I sleep briefly here and there, in between whiles. I should be far better at this but I’m not.

I awake, dash down stairs, but I’ve missed them. The telly is still on, the couch is still warm, but they’re back upstairs again. I can hear the floorboards creak as they jump from the mattress on the bed to the mattress on the floor. I run back upstairs to curb the gymnastics. I’m happy for them to expend the energy but I worry about broken limbs.

I learn something new. Having spent half my childhood in Boarding school I thought I was fully equipped with extensive knowledge of what a sleepover entails. My version of an imaginary sleepover would consist of lots of whispering and giggling in the dark, sneaking food out of your tuck box, sweeties under the bedclothes, which all comes to a premature halt with the arrival of Sister in the doorframe. The main problem for me now, is that the current nightmare is not imaginary.

When spouse returns from work at three in the morning, they are still awake. I am semi conscious or more probably semi comatose. He keels over into bed and I dash downstairs again. I’ve missed it. The evidence of midnight snacks at 2 in the morning is obvious.

I forget that we have lots of ‘cool stuff’ like the trampolene and a plethora of therapy equipment. By four in the morning I am in need of some serious therapy myself.

I learn a new fact, an unfamiliar definition of being a girl. I fold her Calvin Klein bra and her other discarded clothing stuffed in the corner of the room under a soggy blanket, empty honey stick wrappers and a crushed water bottle. I am perplexed that there should be such a thing as a bra for an eight year old chest, as flat as an ironing board. I am silent on the definition that ‘every girl has one! I mean, isn’t that what being a girl is all about?’ I am fashion challenged and take a dim view of the industry as a whole. Who in their right mind would truss up a child in an additional piece of elastic? I decide that I am even more of a dinosaur that I realized. Caverns of ignorance are opening up to swallow me and we’ve another seven and a half hours to go.

Later, the same morning, after dawn, daylight approaches.

I spot clean the carpet with my two helpers, as I don’t have enough time to shampoo the whole thing.
“What’s that one?”
“Orange juice.”
“This one?”
“Honey.”
“Honey? You were eating honey last night?”
“We thought it would be less messy.” Less messy that what? Tar and feathers? Her father will be here to collect her shortly. We are ready. I have a sudden flashback. I recall a time when I truly believed that biscuits were a safe and unmessy food, the ideal snack for under the covers and only a few crumbs to worry about. I must have been about twelve. I failed to take account of the fact that they were also made of chocolate and that chocolate was indeed in the messy category. These were the cookie kind of a biscuits rather than the’ biscuits and gravy,’ kind of a biscuit. I believe I was a bit of a late developer.

The girls sit neatly on the bed coordinating the clean up operation. They are both squeaky clean after their showers. The hot water tank is empty. I think of it as an early warning prior to the teenage years, or if I’m really unlucky, the tween years.

“You missed a bit.” I look up at her from my position on the floor, on all fours with a scrubbing brush in one hand and a bottle of spray cleaner on the other, but the door bell rings. I push the brush into one small pair of hands and the bottle into the other small pair of hands, “there you go, keep it up and you’ll be able to be together for another five minutes.” I scarper downstairs to the front door to pick up my props, a shovel and gardening gloves. Just in time I remember to shove on my dark glasses, prescription lenses, as I open the door to greet him.
“Hello! Do come in, they’ll be just a couple of moments.” He stands by his daughter’s suitcase with all the essentials of existence for 24 hours away from home, when you are eight. I chatter away and avoid eye contact. I call to the girls upstairs at intervals in an annoying sing song tone, “your Dad’s here!” but there is no response. I whip of the gloves and drop the shovel, “I’ll just go and check how they’re getting on,” I add as I escape upstairs.

The girls clutch each other, exchanging the fond farewells of those about to be parted by continents of distance and decades of time. The boys emerge from their bedroom. I can tell that a question is traveling from his brain to his lips. I want to transition the girls out before I can attend to his question, because his questions are always a challenge and I have enough challenges to juggle at the moment.
“Mom?” Too late. He looks at the doll in his hands. His hands pass the doll back to the visitor before she departs. He stands completely still wearing only a pair of Y fronts. The Y is directly in line with his spine. I am so glad that our guest has a brother
“Mom?” Oh no. How long is this going to take?
“Yes dear?”
“If boys…….play……if boys play wiv……….if boys play wiv girlz fings……..” I wait. I try not to hop from one foot to the other. I obliterate the image of the Dad waiting downstairs by the front door wondering if we have all been abducted by aliens in the attic, or alternatively, that we are the aliens that have abducted his daughter. “Do boyz turn…..into girlz?”
“No. No never.” I avoid the trap of ‘there is no such thing as girls and boys toys,’ as I scurry the girls downstairs. He smiles to greet us. I want to draw him aside and whisper “she told me everything but it’s o.k.,” but I don’t want to confirm that I am both foreign and mad in one sentence.
“I think your cat is trying to get in?” He points at the glass door. I dash over to the door and out, grab the cat and take two steps to the right where his little personal cat door awaits him. He hates the flap on his delicate little nose. I give him a gentle shove but he goes all Garfield on me, an X splayed on the outside of entrance. I pout as he whips around behind me and furballs through the human door. I follow in defeat.

I remember Dad is still there with his suitcase and his daughter. “Ooo sorry about that,” I blunder.
“It looks like your glasses aren’t working.” I blink behind my sunglasses. I suspect I have been caught out. My son appears on the staircase.
“Reactolight!” continues the Dad. Re acto what? The front of my son’s body is three steps ahead of his feet, his head is three stairs lower than his toes, the Y front on his bottom is inverted. The Dad glances across at him before explaining, “you glasses aren’t responding to the changes in light, they’re still dark!” I can already see that my son is brewing up to be both sociable and amiable to our guest. The Dad raises his own glasses to demonstrate what thickie thickie dumb dumb is failing to understand, “when you’re outside the glass darkens, when you come back inside they should become light.” He pushes his own glasses back onto the top of his head like a hair band. He massages the back of his neck from the wait and scratches just above his ear. My son presents himself to the Dad, “hi! Do you have "headlights" too?”

If you have struggled to load this page and comment, you may be better off at my duplicate site over "here" next time.

Modern Love

Being a parent in the modern world is far more difficult than in the days when children were seen and not heard, where nannies took on the majority of responsibility and parents were left free from such troubles. "Many" feel that children take advantage of their home life and are "unappreciative" of the many years that their poor benighted parents have lavished upon them.

A long time ago, in England, when we barely had two chick peas to rub together, I also felt overwhelmed. Later when we came to the States and still hardly had more than a couple of garbanzo beans to rub together, parenting became even more difficult. It became more difficult because we did not have the financial resources to fulfil our daughter's every whim and the temptations were tenfold.

The gap between them and us, widened. Dissatisfaction grew all around. Thus it was, that when she announced her need for independence and escape, we were happy to scrape together the air fare to China, where my brother lived. He willing took on the responsibility of being the watchful, rather than the 'evil' eye.

A few months in China, was an eye opener. Education was a privilege. Plumbing was desirable. Hygiene followed different standards. Everyone worked and worked hard.

The months of her absence were long, for me at least, but when she returned to us, she had returned to the idealistic individual she had been prior to the hormones. Whilst I'd like to confirm that we sent her off to "darkest Africa," that was in fact, her own volitional choice.

Now I have a chance to instill choices in the current generation of children that I am responsible for. Consideration, co-operation and teamwork are not values that are easy to install in any child, least of all those with dodgy wiring systems.

I remember a school trip to the local Humane Society. The idea was to foster a sense of community in the children. There were a wide variety of donations that the children could provide, from home made chew toys and snacks, to old blankets and cast off socks. My reluctance to co-operate with the plan was entirely personal. I would happily donate the goods, make the toys, give of my time and effort, even money, but there was there was no way I was going to subject the boys to such an ordeal. I might just have managed one of them, but two and my daughter as well meant we would have all be eaten alive.


The car transition would be monumental. The noise, smell and crowd would be overwhelming. My list of 'completely impossible' was encompassed and magnified by such a trip. It would not be possible to design a social story to dim the pain. No amount of modeling would get us even close to appropriate behaviour. I think it was about at that same time that I fully realized the enormity of what autism can mean to some individuals. They loved dogs, adored cats, but this pleasant day's outing was the equivalent of throwing them into the lions den with real lions. I remember a great feeling of sadness that they were unable to do what they would love to do.

But that's part of the great joke, a trick that some parents fall for hook, line and sinker. A bottom feeder parent like me, with a little luck, can learn to lure and bait, tease and tempt, coax and corral. In essence, over the past 26 years I have learned that the original parenting skills, still work today. The times and decades change. The techniques have different labels and are more politically correct.

What is the best and most effective method of parenting? It's the oldest one, adopted by cavemen and cavewomen and used on their cavechildren - 'go catch a lion and we'll all have dinner.' The best method, tried, trusted and true is 'bribery and corruption.' There is no doubt in my mind, as I have the evidence before me. The Humane Society is no longer in the category of 'torture,' it is in the category of 'treat.'

Bodacious Blog Award

"Crystal" from "Crystal Jigsaw" was kind enough to bestow the 'Bodacious Blog Award' to me.









I am ashamed to admit that my two volume Oxford English dictionary has no entry for this word. Fortunately in the modern world we can rely on "Wikipedia" which tells us that
Bodacious can mean:

* A full-figured female body shape, also known as a voluptuous or Rubenesque figure
* Bodacious the Bull
* In CB radio jargon, a general-purpose word of praise
* A variety of iris (plant)
* Extremely cool, most excellent, "that is bodacious!"

I will leave you each to decide which definition is most appropriate for you and your blog.



The Unsuspecting Soul of the Bodacious Blog Award Goes To...

"Randy" from "Puddle of Nothing."

"Cami" over at "CamiKaos," and "Mommified Me."

And "Riseoutofme" over "here."

I'll be interested to see who you pass it on to and which definition you choose!

Cheers dearies.

Baby Steps

We decide to debate the topic.

Are they ready?

Is this doable?

If not, how can we wangle the odds in our favour?

It’s time for the school fund raiser, the Walkathon, where the children walk around the field for as many laps as they can manage. Each year we have attended. The first year we just attended and did not participate. The following year we attended and participated, in a manner of speaking. This year, it may be time to step up to the plate and tackle the sponsorship form.

We are already practicing our ‘trick or treat’ skills through modeling, social stories and kinesthetic learning. This would tie in quite well. Go to someone’s house. Avoid being squished by traffic. Use path. Do not walk on grass or flowerbeds. Avoid hedges, think of them as walls not hurdles. Find and ring bell, once. Wait for homeowner. Greet homeowner. Do not run into homeowner’s house. Verbalize request. Do not whisper or bellow. Stay on topic no matter how fascinating the door mat or light switches. Remember, frantic movement and speech confuses your listener. Do not talk to the wall, talk to the person. Listen to their answer.

“Maybe we should take them one at a time, that would help?”
“Yes, but there’s also safety in numbers and it would muddle the 'trick or treat' practice. They’re working much better as a team, one fills in the blanks for the other, as it were.”
“So we think we’re ready?”
“Definitely.”
“So who will we visit?”
“Just the two houses." Two tries. Two attempts. "Opposite and to the right only.”
“Deal. You’ll phone them first to warn them that we’re coming?”
“On the list.”
“How long is this evolution going to take?”
“Ooo 30 minutes?” 50 paces to each house.
“30 minutes for each house?”
“Approximately, we have to allow for the unknown.”
“The unknowable.”
“I don’t need to remind you about clipboards and pens do I?”
“Huh! Far too easy, I can take that in my stride.”


New post up on "Alien."

fri - Smooze Awards

"Dgibbs" from "Myfavouriteautistic" has bestowed upon me the Schmooze Award. Thank you Dgibbs, I am quite honored, if a little unworthy lately, due to a series of laundry crises.














“Good schmoozers effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly trails and smiles, happily making new friends along the way. They don’t limit their visits to only the rich and successful, but spend some time to say hello to new blogs as well. They are the ones who engage others in meaningful conversations, refusing to let it end at a mere hello - all the while fostering a sense of closeness and friendship.”

So now it's my turn to pass this little one along.

This one's for "Jeni" at "Down River Drivel" because she shares many of the same intergenerational problems.....er .....issues, that I encounter.

Also for "Kristina" at "autismvox." I am always stunned by her productivity, the clarity of her posts and how she helps keep sloatheful people like myself, up to date. The number of blogs that she keeps up with, her positive attitude and genuine kindness is quite breathtaking.

"Chelle" over at "Soodz" as it would appear that Brits have much more in common with Canadians that I could have ever imagined.

I have to hand it to "Leanne" at "Mumkeepingsane" because unfortunately no-one else truly understands the true nature of laundry crises.

Lastly, but not leastly [is that a word?] for "April" at "Zoning out again," because it's always good to end on a giggle.

The Current Exchange Rate

She pleads as only she can.

I squirm in response and fob her off with some nonsense or other.

“But I’ll help, really I will, I promise.”

I do not like to see my youngest daughter beg, especially for something that is easily within my power to grant.

“Maybe soon.”
“When?”
“We’ll have to see.” May my soul burn in hell forever.
“But why can’t we have one this weekend?”

I do no sigh or stamp my foot or run away. I think she knows the truth of the matter but I do not want to give her cause to resent her brothers.
“Tell you what. We will have a yard sale, but not this weekend. Now I need some time to think about this but I promise you we’ll have one.” She looks at my eyes, checks my mouth and then gives me an excited hug.

Now all I have to do is work out how to follow through?

It’s not the usual planning that concerns me. We’ve lived in the States for 12 years. A Yard sale is just like a car boot sale, except you don’t sell things out of the boot of your car and you don’t have to drive the car to the car boot sale. Instead you put all the items you wish to sell in your front garden for passersby to see. Generally the ‘sale’ is on the driveway rather than in the garden itself, which is why it’s not called a garden sale, which might confuse people into thinking that you were selling plants. It’s quite easy to convert the British version to the American version.

In addition, you need a few signs on poles to direct traffic to where you are.

Sometimes Americans have a ‘block’ sale, where all the home owners in the ‘block’ have a huge sale together. It’s all very easy. Sometimes there can be quite a party atmosphere. Often the neighbours will wander over to say hello, even if they have no intention of buying anything, all very pleasant. Or it could be.

So why have I put off this venture for so long, when my house is stuffed to the gunnels? It is full of things that I would happily donate to charity, just to be rid of it all? Why do I regularly go to the Salvation Army or the Thrift store to off load this surplus, rather than have a yard sale and maybe make a little money? Obviously, we are as rich as Croesus and have no need for money to offset the therapy bills, or we’re lazy, or perhaps our socialist tendencies have run amock?

Or perhaps there’s something else going on?


The first problem, er…issue, is containment. Our house is the only one on the street that has a fence around the garden and two gates with locks. But we would have the sale on the driveway. Driveways are huge in America and we are no different. You could easily fit two rows of three cars on the driveway, and heaven knows how many diddy little European cars.

The drive is house brick coloured, with a white picket fence down one side leading up to the house. On the other side, our neighbour has the typical open plan arrangement. Tree lined at 3 foot intervals, on the side that borders our drive. The drive inevitably leads to the road. The road is Tarmaced or ‘black topped’ as we say out here. There is no sidewalk or path because we are in an unincorporated area of San Jose. Black road, reddish drive. The difference is obvious to everyone, well nearly everyone.

The emptiness of the drive is contrasted by the fast moving traffic on the road but for some reason, this difference is not noticeable to my sons. The thought of having them loose on the driveway, in a crowd of strangers, weighs heavily on my mind. This kind of mathematical problem is easy to solve: $25.83 from the yard sale proceeds balanced against the cost of loss or injury, to two little boys.

I am confident that this matter will fade given time and maturity, but of course there is another major hurdle to overcome.

A yard sale, so commonplace and ordinary, screams social skills. All those little huge things require pre-planning, modeling and practice. I don’t know how many hours it would take to plan a good yard sale with labels and the correct positioning of items, but I do know that the social skills required to pull of such a feat, requires several lifetimes.

The boys do well with visitors that they know, although ‘doing well’ often means ‘ignore,’ to all intents and purposes. Fortunately, familiar visitors are fine with this. They know that this means that the boys are at ease in their presence.

Strangers do not fare so well. Strangers get ‘the treatment.’ It’s like a faulty engine on a chilly morning. My social son runs to the door, flings it open to bang back on the wall and then breathily asks many questions, “who you are? You are my friend? You are play? Er......you wanna come in for a playdate?” or some variation on a theme. The young man trying to sell magazine subscriptions, is a little taken aback as my son skips around his body with agitated hand gestures and invades his personal space.

My other son is more cautious, nibbles his fingers and spins on tip toes. His apparent shyness, is offset by his voice that bellows statements at fifty decibels, “I am 6. My name is Leo. I am home. My mum is call me dah lovely. Dah lovely has two ‘l’s’ which is good, which makes 3 ‘L’s which is gooder still which is like dah rhyme but not really.” The guys who want to save our souls, have lost their cherubic smiles and clutch leaflets closer to their snowy, crisp shirts. I pray that words relating to salvation or everlasting hell and damnation do not pass their lips.

And yet, not so long back, when the doorbell rang it had the same effect as a fire alarm. I was unable to leave them. My only option was to carry two screaming children to the door. They behaved as if I planned to dangle them over an open well. Overall, that was a far less welcoming welcome for a visitor.

This is why some siblings of some special needs children, get a rough deal. The ordinary becomes mountainous. As she follows in their wake to the front door, she’s at ease and unflustered, “don’t mind them,” she’ll smile. She’ll hug one brother and muss the hair of the other, “they can be a bit Cuckcoo sometimes when they get excited.”

The fact that we have one laundry basket full of trains and another two, full of dinosaurs, is concrete evidence of a potential, sale of the century. Their ability to barter, bargain and banter may be weak, but their willingness weigh in, means we’ve won a little wriggle room. Does this tip the scales in our favour?

A promise is a promise, so I’ll keep you posted.

Surprise, surprise

All too often I am amazed by the boys. Considering that they have negligible social skills, it is surprising how they instinctively get some things perfectly right, all by themselves with absolutely no assistance from me or anyone else.

I have already mentioned, that on the whole, they don’t do too well with unique visitors. The more often someone visits, the more quickly they’ll adjust, but someone who just calls the once, usually comes off the worse for the experience. That said, there are always the exceptions. Not so long back some friends of ours came to visit. Usually we see them in the evening, all of us being child free having mortgaged our souls to a babysitter. Today they come with their youngest child, a sweet toddler of the female persuasion, whilst their older children are occupied with older children occupations elsewhere.

When the door bell rings, my children mob the front door to welcome guests in their own unique ways. The toddler hides behind the safe knees of her mother as by comparison, my children are fast moving and extremely loud. Both the boys spot the little girl. I clamp a discrete palm over my own youngest, whose current phrase is ‘girlz are stoopid! Girlz are stoopid! Girlz are stoopid!” which he repeats all to frequently regardless of company and generally without any reference to anything specific. He could just as easily say “nuts are round,” with the same tone of derision. His more socially adept, but oblivious older brother, notices my hand and connects the dots without assistance. He steps forward and crouches down to be on eye level with the toddler. How does he know that his bulk might be intimidating for a little one? “Hi, you are a girl?” he says it quietly, with a friendly soft tone and a gentle smile. The toddler grins, in silence. His head flicks back to his little brother, just to check, “oh no! You must not be saying that!” he hisses at him, a warning. I reassure.

“I can show you my room?” he offers. The toddler squirms, but still grins. “Maybe we can find some toys for you?” His brother chimes in, “you wanna play Pokemon wiv us?” His generous offer is quashed by his brother, “no dumbass, she just a little. We need to find er……small toys…….no……toys fur little kids.” Both boys hare off in unison, in a race to find the perfect toy for a small visitor.



Their exchanges are so swift that it’s hard to keep track of them as they’re on a roll, motivated. Each suggestion by the little one, is ridiculed by the older, “no, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings.”
“Das o.k. Wot about dis one?”
“No, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings. She could swallow dat, it’s too small for a little kid.”
“Das o.k. Wot about dis one?”
“No, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings. Dat’s a scarry fing for a little kid.”
“Das o.k. Wot about dis one?”
“No, dumbass! Oopsie! Sorry. I dun mean to hurt yur feelings. Dat’s a boy fing …..er…well…..I dunno maybe.” They continue this exchange whilst the toddler behind them wades through the growing pool of discarded substandard offerings. He sees her out of the corner of his eye and launches himself at her, “no, no, no” he cooes, “dat is too dangerous for you.” He whips the wooden toy hammer away like a pick pocket and slips back a flower with the slight of hand of a conjurer. His categories may be a bit off, but his intentions are pure.

I’m sure that there are a lot of boys around who have little brothers and sisters. They’re kind and gentle with them. There are other children without the benefits of modeling, who behave similarly. They’re comfortable being goofy and soppy with youngsters. My son has always been tender hearted when it comes to babies and toddlers, it could almost be part of the diagnoses. Such behaviour is so easily explained – he has a speech delay and poor social skills, it is easier for him to communicate with someone who is not a threat. It is not an explanation that I warm to.

When people connect autism with a lack of emotion and empathy, I am saddened. My children now have words, which they use and share with us. As often as not, even if these autistic children share the same humanity, they may not be able to express it in a way that we’re capable of understanding. Just because we can’t see it or hear it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Wordy Wednesday - Security Blankets

She finds me in my closet dragging out old clothes, a couple of decades late.

A shoe box of old perfume bottles stands by the bin.

So many gifts. So many generous people. These generous people don’t know. They don’t know that there are only one or two perfumes that I can wear. There are several bottles of my mother’s favourite. Her choice of fragrance pervades everything about her.
On me, well, lets say the result deviates from the true scent. It’s a little graveyard of mismatches, a tribute to chemical imbalance.

“Whatcha doin Mom?”
“Oh just trying to slim things down a bit in here.”
“Huh?”


“Er… you know, get rid of some of these old things that I don’t wear any more.”
Her fingers stroke the velvet and water shot silk, flick the taffeta, and brush the lace and net. I fight with boxes of high heeled shoes with ridiculous pointy toes that a different woman has secluded in my cloister. “I love those sparkly bits,” says my Magpie. I look at my Green Eyed Goddess, “would you like them for dressing up?”


“It’s ‘dress up’ Mum.” My American daughter is quick to correct my English phraseology.
“Oh right.” She pulls at tassels and fringes, twists their little coils round soft plump fingers.
“Don’t you want them?”
“I just don’t have enough room to hang on to all these things.” Did I ever wear them? All those balls, cocktail parties and the whole glitterati of youth.
“How can you…….bear to lose them?” she asks with an air of incredulity usually reserved for discussions about chocolate.


“Well, we don’t live that kind of life…” I peter out and leave ‘any more’ unspoken. She looks at me with a blank expression because adult blanks don’t register.
“These are clothes I wore when I was young and went to lots of parties.”
“You still go to parties now!”
“Yes, but I’d look a bit funny going to Gymboree in this get up.” I don’t think the phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ would help her comprehension, merely add to the disguise of facts that are sometimes hard to fathom.
“Why don’t you go to Princess parties any more?” Is there such a thing as Dowager Duchess shin digs?
“Well, things are more casual out here. People don’t wear formal clothes like we did…in the olden days.” Across the continent of time, culture and class.
“You could keep em?”
“Why?”


“So when I’m grown up, I could wear em? When I’m bigger?”
I look at her. I remember playing dress up in my mother’s wedding dress. I remember wondering why she didn’t keep it for my own wedding day? Why had it been rejected for inclusion in the Camphor wood chest, where all the treasures were protected? I also remember another garment, my Granny’s. Outmoded, opulent and irrelevant. Something made and worn, before the turn of the century, the last century.


I did wear it after she gave it to me. I haven’t worn it for probably twenty years. I am unlikely to ever wear it again. It’s still hiding at the back of the closet, undisturbed, because it’s one thing that operates below the radar. If your sense of smell is keen, you can just detect a waft of Camphor wood, hiding a hint of rose petals. It is disqualified from the contest. It doesn’t have to vie with competitors. It is safe and secure, lodged in a separate category. It has ceased to be an item of clothing, merely a talisman, my link to that Edwardian woman. Madam to most, Ethel Mary to many, Mary to less and Granny to only a few. Then, there were real ladies with pure skin draped in hand made lace. Old ladies with secrets, secrets that were shared with small children with incredulous expressions.


“Which one do you like best?” Her eyes widen as her hands retouch every item, a recount, a double check, a last chance. She slithers herself into a shawl and drapes the fringe over her face. She curls up like a prawn, enveloped and blanketed. “This one. I want this one.” She breathes deeply. She sighs. A smile creeps over “it smells of you.”

Learning under pressure.

As they leave the house to get into the car for school, my youngest son makes a U-turn and skids back into the house. He is nak.ed in a nano second and parked on the throne for a last minute pit stop. He is a moment or two, too late. I pick up his sodden clothing and toss it onto the washing machine. I dither. I’m confident that it will take him a goodly while to put his shoes and socks back on without me to prompt him. I know that he would never dare risk permitting his bare little toes to touch the ground outside the house.

I dash upstairs for replacements whilst the rest of the team waits on the driveway, engine idling. I return with the clothes to find him struggling with the Velcro on his shoes. I have no option but to give him a swift sponge down rather than a shower. If you could hear his screams you would assume I’d turned a pressure hosepipe of icy water on him.


I turn my back after toweling him down but he’s off, wearing socks, shoes and a T-shirt, powering out to the car shouting, “be wait now, now wait now, wait, wait, wait!” I scramble after his partially clad form clutching his clothing as I skuttle down the path. I wave the clothes in my hand to attract the chauffeur’s attention. The car occupants watch his arrival, so does my neighbour. I call aloud, “wait he can’t go without his knickers!” My son does a little rain dance on the driveway concrete as his body shrivels and quivers in the early morning chill. Free of social cues, it is only his thermostat that will save him.

I think this is the first time in living memory that he has willingly submitted to going to school. His enthusiasm, eagerness and anxiety to join his siblings is quite breathtaking. I am uncertain whether his sudden keenness to conform has over-ridden his need for clothes, or whether it’s just that clothes are still an after thought of no consequence? Either way, my son has capitulated and demonstrated a willingness to participate.

My neighbour, the man with the voice that could best be described as a fog horn, bellows from the other side of the road, “Git yur shorts on boy!” My son’s ears receive the assault and his head flicks around to see our substitute grandfather modeling the desired behaviour from the other side of the street, legs akimbo, knees bent, curled arms hauling up the invisible underwear. What a trooper he is! My son is covered up and whipped off in a puff of exhaust fumes, safely on his way to school.

My neighbour steps over the road toward me. He tips his baseball cap up, the tired, faded red one, so that white tufts of thinning hair are visible. He blinks, with his crooked smile before he reminds me, “over here, we call em underpants.”

Unraveled - code cracker

I attempt chat of the ‘how was your day?’ variety, as I herd them towards the car.

Traffic is everywhere and Mr.Skippy is in ‘dart’ mode. I grab the back of his back pack in a gesture uncannily similar to a dog’s choke collar. Once initial contact is made, I’m able to secure his hand securely. Our palms are clamped together. It is as if I wear one of those joke buzzers in my hand and an electric current jerks through his system as jumping jacks, leaps and spins charge his body. His mouth empties a continuous commentary on the subject of tyres and Pokemon powers. I remind myself that I should be trying harder to park the car in the same spot, to make this exercise smoother. I should park the car in an empty space at about 1 p.m., an hour and 40 minutes before school is out, the new school stalker.

The electric doors close without dismembering anyone and I glance at their daily reports for a quick update.

Oh no!

He did what?

I speed read… ’he’ .. ’hit’ ….. ’baseball bat’ …… ’lost recess’ ……I flip round to look at the small thug struggling with his seat belt. He’ll be expelled! What on earth could have happened to make him behave like that? I dither. Perhaps I should go back and seek out his teacher? Perhaps I should go back and prostrate myself in front of the Principal and beg for mercy? Perhaps I should try and find out the secret identity of his victim to pour balm on mother and child?

There are few things that provoke such an immediate response in foreigners, but the magic words of ‘baseball bat’ are always automatically translated into ‘lethal weapon,’ probably due to excessive American telly watching. It is surely the first true sign that you’ve produced a serial killer, that and pulling the wings of flies.
“Who did you hit dear?”
“I dun hit.” Typical! An endless stream of drivel about Pokemon and tyres and now suddenly he doesn’t have anything to say for himself.
“See here?" I flap the report card, "your teacher tells me that you hit someone. Who did you hit dear?”
“Accident.”
“Who?” I try to keep the panic out of my tone, but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding?
“Michael.” Poor little Michael, he’s but a mere scrap of a little thing. Poor little Michael is supposed to be his new, best and only friend. At least I know his mum well and her telephone number.
“Why did you hit him dear?” I command myself to remain calm until I have all the facts at my disposal, so that I can panic in a more dignified manner.
“No hit.”
“See here? Your teacher tells me that you hit him. Why did you hit him dear?” I hope I sound persuasive but I think I sound like an interrogator.
“No hit. Bump.”
“Bump?”
“Bump.” How on earth do you bump someone with a baseball bat? Talk about colourful explanations!
“Where did you bump him dear?”
“Recess.”
“Not when, where dear?” Be patient, just be patient, we’ll get there in the end, eventually, hopefully before they put me in my coffin.
“On dah recess time.”
“Oh right. On the playground at recess, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yard.” Of course, silly me.
“Where…..er....where on his body did you bump him?”
“Not body.”
“Not body? Where then?” I am losing the thread.
“Face.” FACE! He hit him in the face with a baseball bat! And since when is your face not part of your body?
“Did he cry? Was he very badly hurt? Did the nurse come?” I know that this is too many questions, but I think I am now officially off my head.
“Er he don bin cry.”
“Mom, can we go home now? Why are we just sittin here?” I look at my daughter who does not seem in the least bit phased by the conversation that I am extracting from her little brother.
“Did you hear what he said?” I squalk at her in a very good imitation of a headless chicken.
“Sure,” she adds nonchalantly. I can feel myself begin to sputter, when she continues, “yeah, Mike’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Coz I was there.”
“You were there! What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Er coz,.... I don know?” I wait. I give up and prompt, “could you tell me what you saw dear?”
“Er. He already told you.”
“Yes, you’re right, he did tell me but I’d like you to tell me too. Is that o.k.?”
“Sure. Um…. anyway, he was buzzin around, ….you know how he does…..he and Mikey were playin…….real crazy wild…..super excito kiddo kinda thing…..he had the ball on his shoulder runnin around in circles and they bashed into each other……that’s all.”
“That’s all? What about the bat?”
“What bat?”
“The baseball bat?”
“Er there weren’t no bat.”
“’Wasn’t any’” I snap. “I mean….” What do I mean? “Did he hit Mikey with a baseball bat?”
“No. He bumped his face with the ball. He missed recess coz he was crazy, wild, fizzin and wouldn’t calm down.”

Hmm. I pick up the daily school report and read it, slowly. It would appear that they are all completely right and I am all completely wrong, and possibly dyslexic!


New post up on the "alien."