Russian Roulette

Many people consider a diagnoses of autism to be a curse, a curse more dire than cancer. My knowledge of medical matters is minute, but I now know for certain, that there are many other diagnoses that make autism pale into insignificance. One diagnoses that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, assuming I had one, an enemy that it to say, would be Malaria.

So lets say that a great being from on high offers me one wish, wipe out autism or eradicate Malaria, mine to choose. Malaria is a disease that steals children away from their parents in their thousands, in a hearse or a funeral pyre, a permanent solution.

Family members gather from the four corners of the globe to celebrate the wedding, a blissful oasis of sanity in torrential British Rain.

Less than 24 hours later, I awaken at 2:55 a.m. on the morning of our departure. I check the children. Everyone is asleep. Maybe I am a nervous traveler. I conclude I am nervous. I acknowledge that I am a traveler. I examine the floppy underside of the four poster bed’s canopy, threadbare and suspended by thin rusty wires that will mark the fabric in a month in this cool, damp atmosphere. Who in their right minds could attach a stick to each corner of a mattress, throw a sheet over the top and cal it a four posted bed? I focus on other real and imaginary faults in our hotel room, as there is nothing like a good moan to make me feel oh so much better. I refuse to think about the impending disaster that is about to unravel until I have concrete facts not conjecture. I concentrate on irrelevant trivia instead.

Our goodbyes are hurried and harried as we head off for Heathrow at four in the morning. The children doze and sleep during the five hour drive. “They’ll be awake on the flight now!” I moan.
“It’ll be fine,” he coos glancing away from the chevrons on the motorway as we creep our way along the three lane super highway at 28 m.p.h. We trundle through the familiar steps of returning the hire car, bussing to the airport, checking in and baggage drop. We divide our attention. He does the former, I deal with herding and entertainment, a semi-seamless exercise in well practiced teamwork. In 13 hours we will be back home in San Jose, all ready for the next bout of dental surgery and a quiet New Year celebration. We already know that everyone in our household will be awake to celebrate as that's one of the advantages of jet lag.

We corral our energy reserves and our children for the last leg and most significant impasse of our return. Loins are girded, steps are sequenced and reassurances fill the fetid air. Only 20 minutes to go.

The public address system summons their father as my heart sinks. They always call the father, the man. It’s a pre-emptive strike, a matter of public policy. It works on the underlying assumption that the woman will collapse in hysteria and cause a scene. Scenes at airports are not welcome in a sea of nervous passengers. I wait in a holding pattern with my children, but I already know what he has to report.

He returns, grey faced under mid day stubble.
“She has cerebral malaria. She's been admitted to Derriford Hospital.”

We are couriered to a quiet spot where telephone calls are possible as well as the exchange of information. I hunker down on the carpet with a cell phone attached to my ear. I store facts in a new file in my brain:- parasites, few people actually die of malaria, they die of massive organ failure, long term effects, treatment.

Of course there isn’t really a choice, but I pretend that there might be one as my eyeballs and his, lock together. I suspect that to abandon your spouse and three young children in an airport, 15 minutes prior to a transatlantic flight, is more than adequate grounds for divorce.

The caller passes the phone to my daughter, who is remarkably lucid. She provides me with dire and graphic descriptions of the progress of the disease, one that she has witnessed first hand. I am unable to process the references to falling platelets, Velcro and glucose, but it gives me cause to wonder why someone has given her a truth serum.
“Tell you what, give me a moment and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
“What about your surgery?”
“What surgery?”
“Teeth.”
“Oh I’ll cancel that.” Fancy her remembering! “I’ll make my way back down to you and I’ll try and by there before nightfall.”
“It’s dark by 3:00 mum! Are you coming in a rocket?”
“Er….”
“If you’re quick you can catch the 1:30 bus.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can dear, I love you.” How can she be delirious and yet have the Heathrow to Plymouth bus timetable in her head after more than a year in Mozambique?

I resist the urge to bolt out of the airport to run the 225 miles to Plymouth. I take them aside, one by one, to remind them of the rule, carefully instigated some 6 years ago. The rule, written in blood, states that whoever is ill gets mum’s full and undivided attention. Everyone else is left to starve. When it’s your turn to be ill, you will be number one. Each child protests at the unfairness of being absent for a year and then stealing the entire show. They grumble but accept the truth.

We debate backpacks and hand luggage.
“What do you think?”
“I have pull ups, changes of clothes for 3, water, medications and cuddlies.”
“I’ve got the new toys and other questionable forms of entertainment choices for a ten hour flight. Oh, and the emergency bag of Goldfish crackers.”
“Hand over the fish!”

I stand and hug my partner. He hugs me too. We stand and hug for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. “See you later!” I beam as I retreat with carefully measured steps. I attempt saunter rather than march, gallop or warp speed. I ensure that each time I turn and wave that I wear my Cheshire Cat face, the one that equals ‘all will be well’ because I am a well practiced charlatan, but only at ten second intervals.

I leave in the clothes I stand up in, a handbag, a backpack of irrelevancies and a heart full of woe. Once I am sure I am out of sight I speed up. I become immediately aware of airport design. Airports are designed to funnel and channel large groups of people in one direction. I am now the lone wayfarer traveling in the opposite and wrong direction. All the signs are positioned with care to fit the oncoming traffic. I face the backs of all personnel who concentrate on the mainstream traffic. I have reason to ponder how many people change their minds at the last minute and jump ship, squander hundreds of pounds in non-refundable air fares every day?

I wait in a long queue outside the ticket office. The huge clock ticks on the wall. I present myself as the next candidate and make my request. The 1:30 is full. Panic. The next bus isn’t until 6:30. She suggests a standby option. If some unfortunate soul fails to make it on time, I will be granted the opportunity to steal their seat. I take my ticket and park myself of the cold metal mesh bench to wait. I glue my feet to linoleum to stop my toes tapping.

I use my time constructively. As I am the unluckiest person on the planet, everyone will be on time for the bus and everyone will take their seats. There will be no spare seat for me. However, I can secret myself in the luggage compartment if I’m sneaky. If I’m discovered I’ll climb into the overhead baggage rack. If they find me I shall commandeer the public address system and plead my cause to my fellow passengers. Who will give up their seat for me? Surely some kind hearted being will take pity on my plight? How much to make it worth your while? I check my purse. Dollars predominate rather than pounds. Everyone in England will be aware of the chronic exchange rate. I check my personage for valuables. A tired and tatty wedding band is my only option, worthless because it is devalued by the inscription on the inside. I resolve that during my next international travel excursion I shall drape myself in the Crown Jewels. Is there such a thing as a collapsible tiara?

I decide to be mature, calm and practical. Om. I shall plan for contingencies. What will I do if I can’t get on the bus? It is possible to wait in a bus terminal for an additional four hours? I could walk up and down to calm myself, or maybe round and round. How many miles can I walk in four hours? Will they sue me for the trench that I leave in my wake? No, impossible. What then? I know! I’ll take a bus to Victoria and take a train. Will there be a train, will there be a bus for that matter? No matter, I’ll take a taxi. Am I willing to waste a perfectly good bus ticket, forty pounds, 80 dollars and spend more money? I know. I’ll take a taxi to Gatwick airport and fly down to Plymouth. I’ll be there in a trice, in next to no time, blast the expense. What if the flight to Plymouth has already left? I shall hail a taxi and drive like the wind and add a second mortgage to the impending divorce bill.

The public address system announces the arrival of the bus, the 500 to Plymouth departing from Stand 11. I skuttle out and take my position ready to pull my forelock, if not completely tug it off. I mentally practice hurling myself on the ground, throw myself on other people’s tender mercies, preferably without cuts or grazes.

I watch the seats fill with weary passengers as they steam up the windows and their luggage clutters up the hold. A traveler from India presents his ‘e-ticket.’ The conductor is unimpressed and explains in painstaking and lengthy detail, why this is an inadequate means of passage. I shift my weight from one foot to the other to ensure that my blood continues to circulate through my brain, rather than burst through my ear drums. I dither.


Is now the time to be an assertive American? Can I be an assertive American? Can I pretend to be an assertive American? I extend my hand that clutches the damp and scrumpled ticket. I am suddenly aware that my arm is quaking. I realize that I have no-one to put a brave on for which means that I am in danger of melting or leaking. I decide to dissolve after I know the fate of my transportation.
“O.k.” he beams. O.k.? I am immobile with shock. "No luggage?" he prompts. My startle response is fine. I scamper onto the bus in a heartbeat and climb the stairs to the only available seat.


I perch on the only available seat and wait for the whoosh of the pneumatic doors. I secure my seatbelt to hurry things along. I concentrate on the large sign at the front of the bus which reads ‘TRIO.’ I try and work out what this could possibly mean?

The bus pulls out of the station and I am immediately aware that I really am an American afterall. My seat is on the right hand side of the bus, in a country that drives on the left hand side of the road. This means that I am unable to look out and perseverate on the road signs at ten miles intervals.

Within seconds the woman directly behind me begins to chatter on her cell phone. She has been on a trip to the Middle East for 10 days on holiday. I am unable to shut her out. I give up trying to shut her out. I am happy to dwell in her world of bad hotels and unco-operative camels, excessive alcohol consumption and inedible food. She phones her Dad first and her boy friend second. She is divorced. So is he. He has a child. She does not. I learn all about her food preferences as they discuss which take out to order. Her plans for New Year make me gulp. Will there be a New Year? Is it possible to stop time? Can you stop time if you have a really good reason? Is my reason good enough? Who can I appeal to? Two hours of personal, before she shuts the phone. It is rare to be so intimately acquainted with someone who you have never seen.

My male companion reclines his seat. I decide that I shall sleep so that I will have boundless energy on arrival. I recline my seat too. He turns his face towards mine and winks, “just like being in a double bed innit?” he smirks. I am uncertain how to respond. I only have two reactions available to me as my brain short circuited several hours ago. I can grin or cry. I opt for the former.

Another cell phone clicks open behind me. He chatters too. Several other young men turn to stare at the chatterer, to check his appearance and decipher his message. The several young men murmour between themselves, “should we tell the driver? Whaddayafink?” A corpuscle of excess testosterone. Their heads are huddled, their voices low and muffled, a conspiracy. Bottoms shuffle in seats, a double take, a double check. I hear expletives coupled with the word ‘Arab.’

I panic. I have no interest in the cell phone caller, his nationality, political allegiances and such like. I am incapable of racial profiling someone behind me who speaks in an unfamiliar language. I do know that I have an overwhelming need to maintain my current trajectory to Plymouth without interruption or delay. No pulling over, no heated debates, no explanations or apologies. I lean over to the young men, “it’s o.k. he’s just talking to his mum.” Three sets of suspicious eyes turn towards me, “Farsi,” I explain. I maintain the eye contact of a practiced and convincing liar. I pause as if listening to the next snippet, “he doesn’t want her to cook supper for him……..he’ll pick up fish and chips on the way home,” I add smiling, “what a considerate lad,……not wanting to put his mum out and all,” I beam adopting my best maternal countenance, wistful and warm. They sniff a bit, stretch out their knotted shoulders blades, unclench taught knuckles and let the blood flow again. Huff, puff and pouf.

A congestion of traffic clogs the roads as my reclining companion jitters in time with his i-pod. I believe I am suffering from a serious case of restless leg syndrome myself, without the assistance of a musical accompaniment. I lose all principles and reason. Sod the environmentalists and their disapproval of DDT. I’m tempted to nip over to Mozambique and kill ever Mosquito I can find, single handedly with a fly swat, but I can’t afford the deviation from my allotted course.

The Groom of 24 hour status, meets me at the bus station to appraise me of the developments during the last 6 hours. Plugged into the internet he has all the facts and figures at his fingertips, all of them dire.

In the hospital I approach my sleeping daughter. A tatty Xeroxed paper advises ‘would visitors not sit on the beds.’ I am sorely tempted to slip in alongside her, curl my body around hers, a sponge to absorb the sweat. I am certain that if I get close enough I’ll be able to smell an accurate parasite count, better than any blood test, as a mother’s intuition is unsurpassed. My adult child. Parents do not have favourites but my first born child, the first live birth, 26 years later now turns her face, vermilion and glistening as storm clouds of purple roil beneath her skin. Do her half open eye lids see anything as she slumbers? Tinnitus impedes her hearing, clouds her world from mine.

Our family faces a 7 day vigil, in England, in the rain, until her health is restored and the hurricane passes over. The confetti of happenstance flutters down on all our lives, without logic. On a different continent a child swallows a super sized marble and is rushed to the ER. The phase of oral defensiveness is challenged and may be conquered, given time. The evidence is there in black and white, in a x-ray. It is probably an experience that we should have experienced some 5 or more years ago, but development is unpredictable in autism. Of all the ‘diseases’ that are a scourge on mankind, I am heartily glad to know that Malaria, for one, is curable.




I wish all families could be as lucky as ours. Four healthy children. What more could anyone want?


This piece is dedicated to the memory of Katie.

Powerless little people like me all over the world "support" and mourn with her "family" for their loss.

More awards - Super Star

My family has just experienced a very trying fortnight. [Full report on Monday] Now that's we're all back safely in the States, I've had a couple of days to shed the jet lag and get back on track.

I suspected that my blog would have died of neglect during my absence so I was delighted to read everyone's comments and know that there are so many remarkable, loving people out there. I hope to get back in the groove shortly, to business as usual, as well as share all our shenanigans and tackle the google reader which is probably about to explode.

In the meantime, I need to attend to many outstanding matters such as this:-
"tegrib92" over at "The Brewer Family" And Miles to go before we sleep,' was kind enough to send me this award several eons ago. I offer my humble apologies for being so remiss in passing it along. My indebtedness is overwhelming currently, so my choices do not reflect the full degree but a sampler of blogs that I hope other people will enjoy as much as I do.

Firstly there is "Mrs.G" at "Derward Manor." This is still a relatively new blog for me but I thoroughly enjoy her sunny disposition, outlook on life and wry sense of humour, but you already know that's my funny bone.

Also to "Bub and Pie." This is partly to assuage my guilt because I nearly always visit her blog but rarely comment.

Sad to say, but it appears that I am a creature of habit and return to the same soft spots on the bloggosphere where I can guarantee a soft landing with a hint of escapism. That's why I nearly always end up at "Scribbit" along with the world and his wife, but she can keep the snow. After two week in the UK I am now officially allergic to weather again, something to do with thin blood or possibly, thin skull.


Cheers dearies.

Master Muffet

“Drinks stink! I wan water.” I am so pleased that my youngest child is able to demonstrate his new ability to express his displeasure in words, rather than having a hideous meltdown on the floor. The other five children at the table cover their ears and lean ever so slightly backwards in their chairs, the wave formation of 'GOALLLLLL' when you're not attending a football match. This is the new goal, triple play dates on Friday afternoons. Lets work those social skills!

The new victims are fellow class mates but infinitely more verbal than the majority in my household. Although I am more than happy to moan about our spots on the spectrum, other people have entirely different, and yet similar spots to deal with. His big brother covers for him, “he’s beed even louder at home!” The pals examine him and appear to agree that this is true. He may be very loud at school, but that’s nothing by comparison with the comparative freedom of home, where ear plugs are ever ready and freely available.

There is a mass exodus from the table due to inadequate snack provision. The girls depart upstairs to leave me with four little boys.
“What’s your name again?” asks Master Muffet.
“Madeline.”
“Yeah right. So did you know?”
“Know what dear?”
“You house is infested with Brown Recluses.”
“?”
I have no clue to what he eludes. We’re not particularly recluse and the ‘brown’ evades me completely. “Brown what dear?”
“Brown Recluses. They’re everywhere.”
“Really? Show me.”
I follow him into the family room but he stops dead in his tracks. His body bars the way to whatever it is, whilst he regales me with certain pertinent facts which I appear to be in need of.
“Do you know?”
“Do I know what dear?”
“Brown Recluses can bite you in the jugular and then you will die.”
“Really. That’s very interesting. I didn’t know that. Can you show me what you want to show me?”
“Sure. Look. It’s here, under the magnets, don’t touch it though. He'll bite you in the jugular and you'll be dead in minutes.”
I lift the magnets to see a small, light brown spider. “Ah, so a Brown Recluse is a spider.”
“Yeah and they’re killers. If they bite you on the jugular, which is here on your neck, then you will die. My auntie has them in her house too. My auntie has Black Widow Spiders too and they are even more deadly.”
He continues in this vein without pause for breath. My knowledge of spiders is limited, as I am currently still stuck on Pokemon, easing into Yu-gio. I back my way gently into the kitchen and the laptop so that I can check out Recluse Browns. Mr. Muffet is approximately three inches away from me and continues to talk. I am unable to detect whether he is breathing at the same time, but I assume that he must be, otherwise he would have keeled over long ago. Interestingly, he is very keen that my eyeballs and thus my attention, should be on his eye balls whilst he talks. He is a very small child but I find myself shrinking beneath his penetrating and unblinking gaze. Very soon I shall be backed into the tiniest corner, stuck in a display cabinet and secured in place with a pin through my abdomen, a very poor specimen.

I am unable to deflect him. I troll through my lexicon, to recall if or when your child ever starts to ‘go off’ on their favourite subject, it is permissible to set limits without necessarily damaging their psyche. At the same time, if this is a Brown Recluse and if it has the qualities that he describes, then I might need to abandon ship or at least take all the children off the premises.

The internet, the link to sanity, tells me that this is an urban myth, there are no Brown Recluse Spiders anywhere around here, or at least no colonies. The occasional one might turn up, traveling like a hitch hiker from another State, but they haven’t taken up residence. As soon as Mr. Muffet sees the website on the screen, he covers his ears to tell me that it is all lies. This tips me off that someone else has tried the same tactic. So often logic and facts are so much more calming that general platitudes, but not in this instance.

Now Mr. Muffet is agitated and anxious and this is my fault. I have no idea if it’s OCD but I do know unhappiness when I see it. It is a familiar well worn path and I know that I need to head him off at the path before something unpleasant occurs. I let the words fall from his mouth in an unending stream until the flow slows to a more tranquil pace. The eye contact has been missing for a few minutes, but now it returns.

I strike during the calm. “Tell you what, you can talk for another three minutes then it’s going to be my turn to talk about what I like.” He barely misses a beat as I set the timer on the counter, “er ….whadaya like…ta talk about?”
I think. This is a child who is very nearly as disinterested in food as my own son. I would guess, without supporting evidence, that he is not a neophobe. My neophobe son eats 13 foods. If you eat more than 20 foods you are just a picky eater. I bet he eats 21 foods. I know that the 5 foods that he requested for snack time were unavailable. He had polished off all the purple and red Goldfish crackers, leaving the other colours untouched. No alternatives were
acceptable.
“I like to talk about ………brocolli.” He blinks a couple of times before a shiver courses through his body from hair follicle to toe nail. “I’m done!” He turns on he heel and leaves. Victory and defeat for both of us.

Boo Hoo! Pooh Who? Music to my ears

There are many children around who relish tales of how their parents met. Sometimes these are the romantic invention of fiction, whittled over time and worn smooth with frequent practice. Other children have no interest in such frills and fancies.

“Tell me again!” she beams, not because she is a girl, but because she is typical.
“Again?” I glance at her brothers, indifferent to the silent nell of bed time.
“Go on?” she goads. I capitulate, not because she is really interested but because I yield to her desire to avoid bed time for a few moments longer.
“Well…….I met your Dad when your big sister was about 4 years old.”
“How did you know he was the one mom?” I debate the issue of ‘the one’ when in reality I was already divorced when I met him.
“Lots of things really.”
“Like what?”
“Well one day, Dad took me on a very special treat.”
“I am like dah special treat too,” chimes in the one who is not listening.
“Where to?”
“To the opera.”
“The opera!”
“Hmm well light operetta actually, but lets give credit where it’s due.”
“Huh?”
“Operetta is better, operetta is better, operetta is better,” he whispers, spittily, combing the carpet fibres with his finger nails.
“I mean, Dad bought some very expensive tickets for our special date.” I cringe now, as I did then. The word ‘date’ is both foreign and reserved for the young. There were so many obvious and subtle undercurrents in the early days of courtship; to bridge the invisible class division between us, to impress, to romance? “Anyway, he took me to see Puccini.”
“Pooh who?”
“Pooh who, Pooh who, Pooh who,” he hoots softly, in the breathy tone of the distracted.
“Oh, er Puccini wrote operettas, and we went to see Madame Butterfly.” Surely a reference to my circumstances at that time? A young divorcee with an abandoned child? The pathos, although the reality was so different, but it suited my whimsical notions at the time.
“He is dah good guy? Dah Puccini?” interjects the superhero, monitor of good and evil in all situations, no matter how irrelevant. “Er, yes um, I suppose so.”
“Was it a good movie?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a movie. The opera singers were on stage and sang the music to the audience, in real life as it were.”
“Was it a good…….story…..er song?”
“Yes, it’s about a woman in Japan during the War. She met a man and they fell in love. He left to go back to the States and she has a baby and…..that’s sort of the end.” I fizzle out wondering how my well honed tale has gone so awry?
“Doesn’t sound like a very good story. Did he lie to her?”
“He beed liar?” gasps the superhero.
“Er, um well they sort of had more of a cultural misunderstanding….you need to be older to understand the…..overall message.”
“What is the overall message?” That people do and say stupid things and pay for them the rest of their lives?
“That……..you can love someone very much…….but……sometimes things don’t always work out quite the way you imagine.” Why do I keep digging pits to bury myself in?
“Work out quite, work out quite, work out quite,” murmours the other one.
“Dey are bruvvers?”
“Pardon?”
“Dey are BRUVVERS!” he yells.
“Who?”
“Like Nonna?” I fail to see the relevance of their Italian Grandmother at this particular romantic juncture.
“Nonna’s brothers? Your Great uncles?” I offer with an air of desperation, unable to connect the tiny dots. What is he on about now?
“Er…..” he faulters at my lack of comprehension. I seem to be off track, if not slightly derailed, but my daughter clues me back in to the right theme. “Yeah, right, they kinda sound that same.”
“The same as what?”
“Italiano!” she mimics in the sing song rhythm of her forebears.
“What’s that got to do with brothers?” I ask no-one in particular.
“Pooh cheeni is dah bruvver da Pinnochio?” I look at him. I look at his brother as they await my response, jointly. The subtleness of language may be lost on those with a speech delay but I wonder at what other connections they make that I miss? Elements of timbre, rhythm and rhyme. Measure, metre and mire for the unwary. I play for time whilst my brain does catch up, “you know, that is a very good question. They sound like they could be brothers. They both have Italian names don’t they?”
“I fink he’s wrong?” says the elder.
“Why dear?”
“Coz you say Puccini is dah good guy and Pinnochio is dah liar.” Three small people grin at me.
"So you can't have a good brother and a bad brother in the same family?" I guess.
"Right!"
I love the innocence of childhood and how they pull you in and trip you up. I don’t know if they’re wise beyond their years or whether it’s happenstance and gobbledegook. I decide not to disturb the order of his world by mentioning Prodigal sons or Black Sheep. I do know that whether they have words or not, we’re all only scratching the surface.

Marital Bliss

Happy, or rather, successful partnerships, married or otherwise, share a common feature, the ability to communicate effectively and dispel conflict by achieving peaceful solutions to differences in a harmonious manner. But only in an ideal world............

We bicker in the kitchen. Because we are bickering seriously and refuse to be deflected from our joint purpose of one up-man-ship, we ignore our children. As often as not the subject matter of a conflict is irrelevant, something and nothing. Quick tempered or slow to rise to the bait, the skirmishes between couples are all too commonplace.

“Don’t be so pig headed, just give it a go.”
“Mommee has not being head of dah pig,” interjects the ignored one.
“I won’t or rather I can’t, and there’s and end to it.”
“Where it is, dah end?”
“It’ll only take a mo.”
“What it is dah mo?”
“Another time perhaps, just not now! Can’t you see I’m up to my elbows in dishes?”
“Not elbows, dah forearmses. Not dah dishes, dah soapes er…..bubbles.”
“Leave them be, they’re not going anywhere. I need your help now!”
“Where dey go, where dah dishes are going?”
“It’ll only take a sec, done in a trice!”
“Why for are you dah fast talk?’
“You always say that and then I’ll be stuck in the garage until kingdom come!”
“Why for are you dah loud talk?”
“Hogwash, you don’t half exaggerate!”
“Why for are you dah mad talk?”
“Not ‘mad,’ cross!” chorus the foreigners to the speech delayed seven year old.

A moment of silence aids blood pressure fall out and the restoration of sanity.

Friendship cools to acquaintance

“God Madz you look like crap!”
“Yes well that’s international travel for you!”
“I thought they had all that plastic surgery out your way, er cosmetic surgery?”
“Er… they do… I suppose.”
“You should book yourself in for a makeover.”
“I’ll bear that in mind…….if I only had the time.”
“Oh yeah. The kids. Is that them?”
“Yes.”
“What are they doing under the table?”
“Playing. It’s a bit noisy, too many people.”
“God I bet you wish you had your tubes tied before you left for the good old US of A!”
“Well, I er…..”
“Still spect it was the old hormones at your time of life. Shit it’s a curse.”
“The hormones or the age?”
“Both.”
“Ah…well it’s a bit more complicated than…..”
“But I mean, if you’d have known, it you’d have had any idea…”
“I'm sorry?”
“It’s just….. you know….. no-one would choose to have….. you know….?”
“Actually, I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Look , no offence or anything but if I knew I was gonna have a couple of …well you know…?”
“Spit it out why dontcha?”
“Fuck Maddy, I don’t mean anything it’s just you know, if you had a choice…?”
“Look at them. Just look at them!”
“I am! They’re lying on the carpet Madz, you know, they’re all, you know, weird and well it’s like they’re all alone, like you, know …..there’s no-one else here!”
“Is that really what you see?”
“I mean they look kindof ok but they’re not really here are they?”

Wordy Wednesday

Miss Wordy Wednesday drops by for a chat.
“Hi I wasn’t expecting you to post today! I thought you’d dropped off the planet?”
“Well I aim to please.”
“What happened?”
“It would take too long to explain right now but high drama and international travel should just about cover it for present purposes.”
“O.k. I’ll let you off. You get to play the ‘jet lag’ card, but just the once.”
“Deal.”
“So what have we got today then?”
“Not self explanatory?”
“Hmm I can never be sure with you.”
“Have a go.”
“It’s one of those fashioned labyrinth toys?”
“Correct.”
“A Christmas present?”
“Sort of.”
“So……you gave one of them this present and……they hated it at first….and then…..they tried and tried despite the dogdy fingers, eventually they did it?”
“Very good.”
“Well that was short and sweet for a change.”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite what?”
“Well it’s not the right answer, a good one nonetheless but a bit wide of the mark.”
“Huh, might of known it was too easy.”
“Sorry.”
“Well?”
“Ah right. Well it’s actually my toy.”
“Really, I wouldn’t have thought you would bother with such trifles?”
“My mother gave it to me several eons ago.”
“Ah! I know. It’s an antique and……… they broke it……..but they said sorry, so you didn’t feel so bad, a triumphant apology?”
“What a vivid imagination you have.”
“I like to think that I can play along.”
“Indeed you do.”
“You’re just humouring me huh?”
“Very well reasoned.”
“But wrong?”
“Sorry.”
“So? I give up.”
“Well I dig it out every year and play with it on Christmas Eve, on and off on Christmas day, until eventually I manage to get to number 60.”
“Right so…….no, I’m drawing blanks here.”
“Well broadly speaking the children aren’t really interested in what I am doing.”
“They were interested this time?”
“No, that would be asking too much, they just did they own thing.”
“Well you can’t really compete with ‘electronics’ can you?”
“Too true.”
“So where are we going with this?”
“Usually, if I say something like ‘hey look at this’ or ‘see that pink flying elephant in the sky’ or ‘I think a monster has eaten all your electronics!’ anything like that, then nobody really pays any attention, they just pootle along in their own sweet way.”
“Ah yes, I remember you saying that you had to be some kind of a Cheerleader type to catch their attention.”
“Right. On the whole there’s not really any point in saying anything to them unless you engage their attention first, and then you’d better have something pretty darned interesting to say to follow up.”
“The positive reinforcement thing, make it worth their while or next time they won’t both again.”
“Exactly.”
“I feel exhausted already, and that’s just thinking about it not actually doing it.”
“Well there’s the thing!”
“What thing?”
“I was sitting at the table with them.”
“You sitting! Did you have an attack of the vapours or something?”
“Oh very funny, I do sit down sometimes you know.”
“So?”
“Well I was concentrating on my toy whilst they played with their Dad and I reached the end of the labrynth and squeaked “ooo look! I made it to sixty!””
“And?”
“They all responded! They clapped and hooted and said things like ‘good job!’”
“A new first?”
“Yes! And spontaneous, no prompting, nothing, it was quite staggering.”
“How old are they now?”
“Lets just say they’re not babies or toddlers, older,…. every year.”
“I can’t even conceive of……well…….I suppose…..sort of waiting so long for something so……ordinary. I hope that doesn’t sound mean?”
“You? Never mean, but yes you’re right, the ordinary around here is so extraordinary.”
“I hope you thanked the therapists?”
“I shall, you can be sure of that.”

The Day after Boxing Day

Boxing Day is the day after Christmas when all the workers who service your home pop around to visit with their box. You the householder, hand out tips of gratitude to the butcher, the baker, the milkman, the postman and any other men who provide a service! Or at least that's the traditional, old fashioned tradition.

We, all modern American's, are heading back home for the "wedding."

So whilst we're away, here are a few posts, some of the more popular or older posts that you may have missed.

This time of year when families gather, old memories come back as reminders, whether they are welcome or not. They are useful reminders that whatever you think is adrift in your current life, there is no way to accurately "predict the future."

Parents all over the world, endeavour to do the best for their children but sometimes we have to admit to ourselves that we're all just "muddling through."

During any holiday, parents can bump into the unexpected, little hurdles that we aim to clear but often "trip us up."

Some parents have a partner to assist them in the task of raising children, others are less fortunate. Others still, fail to appreciate the "input of the other parent."

Multitasking is the name of the game if you happen to be a parent. Whilst you never imagined that you would become a juggler in your old age, if you hope to survive you need to dig up those "hidden talents."

Modern life means we have it easy as appliances, make domestic existence "so much more flexible."

Since the holiday season is over, I can return to my "grumpy old self."

They say that travel broadens the mind, but all too often it leads you down a "blind alley."

A speech impairment or delay can be a curious thing. Sometimes you may feel that you are "wading through treacle."

We are all too free with our opinions, but sometimes we may inadvertently reach the "wrong conclusion."

Some of us are slopping in our definitions, but other people require "more precision."

See you later alligators.

Boxing Day - Colours of Friendship

"Jen P" over at "What Jen Finds Out" is determined to drag me up the blogging learning curve and has kindly passed on this token of friendship. I refuse to write all that mushy stuff about relationships as I might split my stiff upper lip.

Traditionally, in other parts of the world, Boxing Day means that trades people who have helped maintain your household and sanity throughout the year, pop around to collect their tips, where the homeowner has the opportunity to show their appreciation for other people's hard work and support.



As I look around at the recipients it would seem there are a great many connections already, but there's now harm in spreading it a little further. As I sit here surrounded by small people playing with Pokemon, I can easily pop along to "Chelle" at "Crazy Thoughts," to catch up and share.

Another prodigious blogger is "Holly" at "Fragile X" where the six of them muddle along much the way that everyone else does, especially this one that made me chuckle "today."

Then moving swiftly on to "Haddayr" at "Haddayr's Journal" who manages to keep me on the straight and narrow as we share a similar sense of humour, thank goodness!

Then there is the dauntingly wonderful "Niksmom" over at whose dedication, humour and energy leave me dead in my tracks.

If you fancy changing your perspective a little and altering your focus then I would highly recommend nipping along to "Casdok" at "mother of shrek," her refreshing outlook on life, keeps us all on our toes.

Everyone already knows "Bub and Pie" but now that I have her on my google feed reader I can be a bit more organised. Her antics with her children, juggling career and family life leave me feeling more than a little weary, as I have every admiration for those mums who manage to work outside the home too.

"Like a Shark" is another site where we share many of the same turmoils of indecision. I'm sure all parents struggle with 'what to do' and 'what is the best option' for their children and here we can see that road, wind and turn, twist and circle, but always end up in the foamy crest of a wave.

Also to "Sarah" at "The Nefariouspoo of Sarah [A field trip into Disability Advocacy" as although her plate is full to overflowing, she still finds time to work for others.

Hoping that Boxing day brings you many callers.

Awards for Friendliness

"tegrib92" over at "The Brewer Family" And Miles to go before we sleep,' recently experienced blog award over load. As a result, and being a generous spirited kind of a person, she very kindly gave me two. An all time first around this neck of the woods, although the woods around her place seem so much more attractive.

It therefore gives me the chance to return the favour to some blogs that beetled about who are far more friendly.

First there is "Josie 2 Shoes" over at "Picking up the Pieces." Josie has introduced me [in full technicolour] how complicated family life can be as well as illustrating the strength to come to terms with the past and forge ahead despite the odds.

Also to "Jocelyn" at "O Mighty Crisis" where she enjoys the delights of of family life with an arresting prose style that I for one, thoroughly enjoy.

Always a friendly spot, "Mom NOS" at "Mom Not Otherwise Specified," is sure to welcome you all with open arms, and a cheerful, thought provoking approach.

Also to "For What It's Worth" who struggled with many of the same issues that we are coping with, but with a far better attitude, of course.

"Dantesinfernowithchildren" is another great place to visit, but make sure that you have cleaned your bifocals because it's one of those teeny tiny font sites.

I also nip along to the "Phantom Scribber" on a regular basis even those her postings are less regular than they once were, I have overcome my frustrations by adding her to my google feed reader. Maybe I'm not as technically challenged as I once was!

Also to "Dori" over at "The ups and Downs of our Life" where a mum's dedication to her family always leaves me in awe of her patience and gratitude.

So I'll stick with my usual 7 for the time being as I struggle to play catch up.
Cheers
Dearies

Happy Holidays from the Aliens

Blogging Buddy Awards

"Mamampj" over at "A Room of Mama's Own" has passed along this lovely award of the 'blogging buddies.' Is my feline bias on show?

Fortunately this award is self explanatory so I won't have to test my brain capacity by coming up with suitable international translations.

Barely a year ago, I didn't even know what a blog was. If you had told me that I would make blogging friends I would have scoffed and doubted your ability to spell.

Hence, for this post I had a dig back to when I first started blogging, to those people that I first met on the blogosphere to acknowledge their help, support and understand over the last year and how much I appreciate them.

One of my first buddies was "Jerry" over at "My Autistic Boy and Other Adventures in Fatherhood" We share a common perspective but his wife is much more attractive than mine.

Then to "Susan Senator" who was kind enough to let me know how to go about commenting in her usual gracious manner.

Also to "mommyguilt" over at "musings of a housewife" for her many kind comments and encouragement.

Again to "Hattie" over at "MotherPie" a real writing woman. In fact I suspect that she enjoys the title of lurker/rare commenter, so if you share this title, consider yourself similarly thanked.

Also to "4-frogs" at "4 green and speckled frogs"
where she shares her families disappointments and triumphs.

"Lisa" at "Lisa-jedi" over at "Life in the New Republic"


shares her creative family moments and her kind words were very much appreciated.

Then to "Gretchen" over at "Gretchen's Blog" where she spans the generations just like me but with far more grace and charm than I can muster.

A Snippet of Sleepover

My daughter has 6 pals over for her "sleepover birthday party." I find it odd that I am surprised. I am surprised that all six of my daughter’s friends share certain personality traits. Vociferous, opinionated and confident. It is alarming combination especially when there are so many of them. I thought I knew them all quite well already but they are different creatures in a school setting. They are different creatures when they visit us for an individual play date. En masse they are impressive.

I have only two priorities for this venture, that my daughter enjoys her birthday celebration and that the boys keep their nether regions covered, anything else is a windfall. It is immediately apparent that the latter may affect the former.
“Geez, put yur shirts on why dontcha,” demands a youthful nine year old. Neither boy pays her any heed. California in December may have an occasional chill, but inside it is balmy.
“I SAID put yur shirts on!” she repeats more loudly with an acerbic edge. The boys continue to play with their Pokemon without a care in the world. “Madeline yur boys aren’t listenin to me!”
“I know, but it is rather warm in here don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but you know….they’ve got their shirts off,” she exclaims, outraged with a hint of embarrassment, “I can see their…..er…….skin an all.” I dither. Shirts off but trousers on, is far more of a generous compromise than I could have anticipated.
“I know, how about you run off and play with the other girls, leave the boys in here, then you won’t have to er…look at them?”
“Hmm, maybe.” She squirms a little, as indecisive as me.

She adopts a different tactic and makes her feelings known.
“Pokemons are evil. I hate em!” My sons continue to play with the plush, fluffy creatures.
“They’re dumb!” she continues when no reaction is forthcoming.
“Are yah deaf?” Neither so much as blinks in her direction. I dither. Intervene or wait for her to get bored?
"Are yah in special ed coz yur deaf?" Silence. She steps back into the kitchen to ask the same question to me. "They're in Special Ed because they're autistic, remember we talked about this with your mum?" She looks back at me blankly, "oh yeah," she mumours distractedly. She returns to the family room relentless, to yell at the two deaf boys.
“I hate Pokemon!” I find the repetition a little tiresome but she is dogged. It occurs to me that some kind of mis-communication has taken place. Some how or other she has filed 'autism' into the 'deaf' category, they appear synonymous, but then children often mid-file unfamiliar information into the wrong category.
“D’yah hear me? I said they’re dumb and stoopid.” A trigger word. A banned word.
“Day are not stoopid. Stoopid is a bad word. We are not be saying ‘stoopid’ in our house. It be dah rule.”
“Itsa stoopid rule. That’s a real dumb rule. They’re evil guys believe me, I know!”
“You be not know.”
“How many ya got anyways?” she adds in a voice that fails to beat the sound barrier.
“Infinity,” he answers casually.
“Really?”
“No I be lie coz infinity is my favourite number huh!” he roars with laughter as he rolls around of the floor delighted at his own joke. His older brother mimics the sound of each Pokemon exactly, as the boys continue to play together. He blinks across at the girl, “you wanna play wiv us?” he asks tentatively.
“No, they’re dumb…..and evil,” she persists. She hovers in the kitchen close by as I prepare the next of innumerable snacks for those with hollow legs.
“Er, when’s his birthday?” she asks me.
“June.”
“How old he’s gonna be?”
“He will be nine.”
“Oh.” She seems ever so slightly disappointed although I’m not entirely sure why? I keep my own counsel because I am an adult and therefore technically the enemy.

My daughter and the rest of her party flutter back into the family room as the boys continue to play. As they lounge on the sofa, the boys’ Pokemon noises are a soft back drop to their discussion about the boys in their own 4th Grade class.

I ear wig, one of my more finely honed skills. I memorize each male name and the reaction of the girls to the naming of each. The flock flees amid a flurry of girlish squeals. One girl, the same girl, remains behind. She leans against the wall watching them. Her fingers twiddle with a coil of her ash blond hair. She sidles closer to my son. She appears coy, with a healthy dollop of simper.
“Can yah make any Pokemon noise?” she coos. I wonder if my son recognizes coy when he sees it?
“Sure,” he beams using a voice that is loud enough to be heard, rather than his usual whisper. He rises to the bait. “You name it?”
“Er…… I don know any Pokemon names,” she titters.
“Here,” he slips across the room to retrieve the Pokemon manual, a thing the size of a telephone directory and just as boring. Her eyebrows shoot up as he shoves the book into her waiting arms and chest. “Geez, they sure do have long names. I don know if I can even say em?”
“Try.”
“Er Charme….leon?”
He contorts his body into an exact replica and growls to a perfect pitch. Her immediate alarm is tempered by intrigue. She calls the name again and he crawls towards her, still miming, still perfect. “Come on Charmeleon,” she beckons, siren that she is. He scampers after her to her squeals of delight.

Oh yes, I think he has ‘coy’ filed in quite the right category.

Colours of Friendship Award

"Elissa" from "Managing Autism"


has kindly passed on this token of friendship. I refuse to write all that mushy stuff about relationships as I might split my stiff upper lip. Whilst I am tempted to quote 'Bah Humbug,' at this time of year I should probably slough off such Grinch like associations.




Firstly I should like to pass this on to "slouching mom" over at "slouching towards 40." This is only fair because the first time I acknowledged this little gemlet I had the outrageous nerve to call her 'sloughing' instead of 'slouching.' Did she harbour evil thoughts towards me following this transgression? No, not a bit of it. In true magnanimous American style she just shrugged it off as of no consequence.

I often toddle over to another little spot where the "Queen" hangs out at the "Queen of Dysfunction." She's an annoying little devil without a blogging schedule. This of course is deliberate on her part just to ensure that she causes as much irritation as possible. Fortunately for me, now that I have her on my google feed reader she's unable to escape quite so easily.

"Linda" of course is never irritating or irritated over at "Are we there Yet." I have no choice but to pass this over to her as she has helped drag me kicking and screaming up the feed reader curve and is always a little oasis of harmony. [unless the kids are playing up]

Another fun place to nip along to is "Adventures of an Aussie Mum." This is the joy of international connections. I am up late and night just in time to read her post as she starts her day.


"Never Judge a book" has to have one too, devious little lurker that she is, especially now that she has a spanking new template to please the eye.

Good old "Sam" is far too cerebral to partake in this kind of malarky but I am happy to send this to him. If ever you feel that life has given you a bad break, then this is the place for you. His stella work stops me in my tracks. The families and patients that he helps, in both his "work" and "play" takes my breath away.

One that I have finally managed to load onto my google reader is "Beck" at "Frog and Toad are still friends." They are by far my favourite American book series although I do have a little bias on that front. It was that clue that first led me to her site, and now she just can't get rid of me.

"Kristina" over at "Autism Vox" was probably my first on line pal. I lurked on her site more many a long evening back in the days where the word 'blog' was not in my lexicon. Indirectly she taught me all about it until I was brave enough to de-lurk and write a no doubt ludicrous comment. I felt as if I was writing on the wall of a toilet stall, but that's probably because of the association of graffiti and bogs.

This is a bog.





















As is this!

Christmas Meme 22nd

"Ashley" over at "Hidden Recovery" has tagged me with a Christmas meme, which is a trifle tragic since this is the 22nd today and I'm almost out of time - eek!

I shall endeavour to do my best as Ashley and I share a common phenomenon, a Leo, both lovely ones, although she is far more biased than I am of course. is one of the first few blogs that I was brave enough to comment upon and we have corresponded off and on ever since.

Best Childhood Gift


The same things that my mother carefully ensured were in each of our stockings each year:- four little squares of chocolate wrapped in shiny paper and tied together like a package, a shiny foiled, tightly furled umbrella of chocolate, a little yellow netting cache of chocolate pennies and a tangerine in the toe.






Best Adult Gift

Yes, it's a thrupenny piece. This used to be my pocket money when I was a small person. My older sister had a silver sixpence, twice the value, much more shiny but not anything like as delightful as the solid thrupenny piece. The Port Cullis emblazoned upon the front and the funny smell that it left on my grubby, sweaty little palms was a real treasure. What was particularly treasured by this gift, was that my eldest daughter managed to find one for me, long after they had been withdrawn from circulation circa 1971 and gave it to me with a twinkle in her eye. 30 years after the event, I found that not only had she remembers this little tale of childhood innocent but also her the wherewithall and stamina to seek one out, just to warm the cockles of my ancient, crusty heart.

Divorced single mother's often enjoy a close relationship with the children. In that respect I was exceptionally lucky, as illustrated by my second most popular gift that I received whilst I was an adult, also from my daughter but at a slightly earlier age.

Tucked away in the ruins of my tatty old jewelry box is another little treasure. During my youthful and rebellious period I wore copious lurid earrings. This fine pair of hand crafted Fimo ear-rings were give to me by my creative daughter. The watch allows you to admire their extreme length with I wore with pride as I stabbed my shoulders with every shrug of admiration.






What You Hope For In The Future

More of the same, the little things, that mean the most.

So I now tag

"Cal Slayton"
over at "Calslayton" as his talent just shines through but he's not very forthcoming on the personal front. We all need a little encouragement in the sharing department sometimes.

Then there are the delightful "Brewers" over at "And Miles to Go" - they really are going for the record as they track up the miles on their way 'home' for the holidays. A real family of marathon runners if ever, I'll be bound. I know they have a tonne of stuff to do but this is such a little memme that I don't feel too guilty passing it on.

Next up is "One March Day" although she has a tendency to be cryptic the variety or her posts always keep me guessing.

A great little spot for when you're feeling homesick for England is to visit "Dulwichmum," it's guaranteed to make me both regret that I'm in the States and rejoice that I'm in the States at the same time, but maybe that's just because we share a similarly warped sense of humour.

A new pal for me is "Mrs. G" over at "Derfwadmanor." If I didn't know better I would swear this woman is a Brit with her dry teasing humour. As often as not the giggles are for free.

If you're in need of a little eye candy [ not the rude kind] then I would recommend a visit to "David Mcmahon" over at "author Blog" where his fabulous photographs inspire me to remove the batteries from my digital camera and chuck it in the bin in defeat.

Another place to visit daily is "Crystal Jigsaw" but that is because I am biased towards bloggers who post daily, as I'm a stickler for routine and there's nothing more annoying than arriving at a blog that still has the old posting that you read several weeks ago - the nerve of some people!

You could do a lot worse than nip over to "Terri" and "Her4kids" to admire her expanding family with the cutest puppies in the world ever, and no, even if you ask her very nicely she won't mail one to you - are you trying to get her reported to the Humane Society or something?

"Melinda" over "Dear Noah" who write the most heartfelt letters to her son, take a peek and bask in all that love.

I expect you are all wondering who is the most prolific blogger on the blogosphere? A question that haunts me daily too! I am here to assure you that despite my best psychological endeavours, devious and cunning questions, I have been unable to unearth the troop of elves that help "Secret Agent Mama" with her prodigious output.

I can also highly recommend "Why Would I Sleep" which I'm sure will hit just the right note with far too many of us.

I am guilt free as I tag these people because it can either be as short and sweet or as lengthy as time allows.

When I have caught up with the other 27 outstanding memes, I plan to make one of my own. This will consist of a lengthy list of blogs that I visit who I will henceforward be boycotting because of their teeny tiny font size, or at least I would boycott them if it weren't for the seductive content.

Cheers dearies.

Accidentally tagged myself with Crazy 8

Why does that sound vaguely painful? Anyway I popped over to say hi de ho to "Akelamalu" at "Everything and Nothing" where she has one of those huge 8 memes going on. I hate 8. [Sorry "Bev"]


So


8 things I want to do before I die:
1. Work out where to live?

2. Sleep for a full 8 hours during one night!

3. Fly in a helicopter.

4. Fly in a balloon, or rather the basket that hangs under the balloon.

5. Go abseiling again.

6. Fly in a biplane and write messages in the clouds that can actually be read.

7. Kill the urge to jump off cliffs, tall buildings or anything else that is high enough that I would be dead by the time I hit the ground, or possibly sooner.

8. Grow wings and fly.



8 things I say often
1. “Good grief”

2. “Hi de ho there”

3. “Lummy"

4. “Rats”

5. “I can’t remember.”

6. “Positive energy”

7. “Can we have another cuddle?”

8. “Do you think they're asleep yet?”



8 of the Books that I am currently reading:

1. Why Does Chris do That? Tony Attwood
2. Cautionary Verses, Hilaire Belloc
3. Michael Quinion, Port Out, Starboard Home
4. Look me in the Eye, John Elder Robinson
5. Time to be Earnest, PD James
6. Ruth Rendell, The Water's Lovely
7. Bill Bryson, Neither Here nor There
8. Art the Critics Choice


8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over


None. I've completely gone off over and over again.


8 Things that Attract Me to My Best Friends:

They are all terrifyingly superior beings - not really eight I know but at least it's truthful.


8 People I Think Should Do Crazy Eights:
The next 8 commenters!

So first up is "Miscmum" over at "miscellaneous Adventures of an Aussie Mum," don't you just love how the ex-colonies still use mum? Which Americans could be as co-operative.

Then we have the scintillating "Stephanie" from "Tribe of autodidacts" We share the same taste in reading material, but her brain is a great big one as illustrated by her ability to teach her own children, in her own home without any signs of going completely off her trolly! Or should that be 'cart'?

Moving along swiftly to "Mym and Shula" over at "Poppalina" certainly not a site for the fainthearted. If you are creatively challenged this this just might be the site to inspire you to bigger and better things. Alternatively, like me, you can just peek out from behind a very small rock and lurk. Of course they too are foreigners but you have to guess which little island they reside on. As a hint I can tell you that it's not England or Canada. You mean you didn't know that Canada was an Island?

So we move along to "Stepping over the Junk" where art, creativity and motherhood combine in a very happy home.

If you wish to add a bit of zip and zing to your day, then you could do a lot worse than nip over to "White Noise and Random Thoughts." If you're quick about it you may just catch a glimpse of a very "fetching young man," not that I would know anything about that of course, seeing as how I am a respectfully married ancient person.

Delightful "Angela" also has a little "turtle sleeper" just like me and you can find them over at "Angelascap."

thur - The Littlest Angel - Kindred Spirits

Maybe your child is a loner, some children are, as are some adults come to think of it. Some children are aware of the fact that they are without friends but they're happier that way, self sufficient and independent. Some children are unaware that they have no friends. A few children become aware that they have no friends and wonder why? Occasionally, a child who has no friends, finds one, a friend that is to say. That individual, in this particular instance, has been in the same class as my son for three years but until just recently they have completely ignored one another, or maybe just not noticed the presence of the other?

For four years I haven't pushed him. It's a harmless piece of traditional fluff of no importance. But this year he is older, 7, the age of cognition for some children.

I decide to tackle the issue head on. Friday, the last day of school, the children are required to wear a Holiday hat and engage in the holiday spirit. The latter is likely to be a challenge. The former is more of a brick wall.

My youngest son's head is generally off limits. Whilst he has been known to don head gear on occasions, more often than not it's more protective in nature rather than the more usual clothing garment. A wooden box with a peep hole equates to protection.


There is no point in appealing to his better nature. There is no point in suggesting that he tackle this feat just to please me. He doesn't do guilt, fortunately, so there are few choices available to me. He has no need to fit in with his peer group, he is immune to peers. He is immune to groups come to think of it. Bribery would always be my first choice given the option, but I am unable to attend school as his shadow, armed with a sackful of Goldfish Crackers.

I don't know what, if anything the other children say to him, but I do know that if the entire school wears hats, most of them red, it's a visual cue with neon lights.

We have the usual struggle over school attendance, last day or not, he still doesn't want to go to school. There is no point in reminding him of the party, as party roughly translates to 'poison pain.' There is no point in reminding him of the gift exchange because the presents will be wrapped in paper and therefore untouchable, and in any event their contents, by definition, will be disappointing.

I do remind him of the one tolerable thing about school, that he gets to spend time with his pal, the new love of his life, his first, only and best friend, Adam. Little Adam is my own personal angel, as he has given the most precious gift to my son, the present of his very own unique self, to bond with my own little devil.

I pause and contemplate Little Adam, high end spectrum, verbal and fragile. Adam is a twin. He has a twin sister. My son was a twin, but his twin didn't make it out into the world alive. The black hole on the sonogram was seared onto my memory, but back then, I didn't appreciate that I was a visual learner. The icicle of terror made me hold my breath. It was melted by the steady blinking shadow of a second secret heartbeat. As a result, I find that I have a tendency to read too deeply into something of no great significance. My son wants to live with Adam, be with Adam, exist in Adam's orbit, permanently. It is a crushing new development that leaves me and Adam's mother, in a state of disbelief and delight.

"You know?"
"Wot?" he bellows.
"Are you going to give Adam a Christmas present?"
"No. Er yes. Um why?"
"Because he is your friend." He looks at me blankly but lured in by the enticement of his current adoration.
"I have an idea!"
"Wot?" he bellows.
"How about I take you to the shop and you can choose a holiday hat, one for you and one for Adam. Perhaps you could choose two the same that you could both wear tomorrow, together." He clamps his hands over his mouth to cover his rapid breathing and the battle over competing emotions. He adopts the expression of constipation unable to achieve peace of mind or body. So easy, so difficult. The caress of friendship, the torture of a hat, the agony of indecision.

"You can try it on in the shop and see it it's itchy or scratchy? You could choose one without elastic?" You could wear it inside out for all I care. He rocks back and forth on the hard wood floors on his bony little bum with his arms clasped tightly around his legs and his head tucked into his knees.

"That way you'll look almost the same," I whisper to the silent mop of hair.
"Like bruvvers?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe people are think we are twins?"
"Maybe." No promises.

The usual and the less so

Thursday Thirteen.

1. The usual seasonal Christmas tasks, such as buying presents, wrapping them, cooking special treats, cleaning up the house, write a few cards, attempt the holiday photograph, hang the last few ornaments, remember to turn the Christmas lights off during the day time to save energy and the planet, prepare for the children's Christmas parties at school, order the turkey, more laundry and packing, bake for the neighbours gifts, visit the Christmas light show one evening after school before it gets too busy.

2. The less common ongoing non-seasonal tasks - Continue the desensitization campaign. Encourage, persuade and sooth the child that is incapable of going upstairs on his own either in daylight or darkness.

3. Dig out the Christmas Social Stories to remind one child that Christmas stockings are not the work of the devil, that he can put his hand inside the interior of a stocking to extract a present without risk of hand damage.

4. Practice ripping paper. Practice ripping paper with our hands. Introduce scissors for the truly desperate.

5. Remind everyone that it is o.k. to sing ''Jingle bells, Jingle bells, jingle all the........' insert random word, fall on the floor laughing. Ensure that the random word is not a potty word. Perseverating on this song will only be allowed for a period of one hour maximum.

6. Gymnastics are permitted at any time for as long as it takes but the exercises must be free of balls or any attempts at juggling anything.

7. Kinesthetically practice receiving a gift graciously, preferably with the accompaniment of a few well chosen words. 'Thank you' will do just nicely. Parents to model desired behaviour once in every 24 hour period.



8. Although 'catastrophic' is the new favourite word, we shall only use it within the confines of our own home, as it causes too much confusion in public.

9. Repeat the tradition of all making one Christmas ornament together for the tree. This year ensure that the exercise avoids glue, glitter, paper, cotton wool or any other tactily challenging substance. What would that be exactly?

10. This year, may there be less cause for howls of disappointment and frustration, or failing that, less volume.

11. Try and beat last year's record of the 9th of January. This year all presents will have been opened by New Years Day, or is that foolishly optimistic?

12. Remember that most children have more pleasure in receiving than giving. Please let my children have pleasure in receiving. Please may just one of their gifts give them pleasure.

13. Remain hopeful and positive. Maybe by the time they reach window 24 on their Advent Calenders,
one will be able to use his own fingers to open the paper square.

Another one will find a way around the difficulty. The difficulty of covering your ears so you can't hear your siblings cry 'ooo it's a sleigh' which spoils the surprise. The difficulty of not wanting the surprise to be spoilt but simultaneously wanting to open the window yourself, with your own dodgy little fingers. The difficulty of making your eyes track the numbers whilst there are so many distractions and the over-riding excitement of anticipation.

Just maybe, by 24, everyone will open the little door at approximately the same time and enjoy precisely the same delight.

But if not this year? No pressure. No rush. Maybe next year? Or decade.

Reflective Ms. Wordy Wednesday

“Hi! I’m here!”
“Top of the morning to you!”
“That sounds more Irish than English?”
“Hmm. Sorry. Well my Mum’s Irish. Actually that’s just a lie I’ve sort of slipped into, since I’ve been out in the States.”
“Lie?”
“Well her parents were Irish, so I say she’s Irish, but she was born in England so obviously she’s English.”
“Gotcha.”
“If she found out I was going around saying she was Irish she’d have a fit of the vapours.”
“Somehow I always visualize your Mom as being like Princess Margaret.”
“Oh good, she’d like that. The reality is more ‘bog Irish.”
“Bog Irish?”
“Yes, don’t repeat that though, it’s very rude.”
“Rude?"
“Yes, you know, struggled up from the bog kind of a thing.”
“Huh! New one on me. So you’re Dad’s still Scottish though?”
“Yes.”
“Kilts and bagpipes kinda of a deal?”
“Close enough.”
“Not bog Scottish?”
“Castle.”
“Geez that class thing goes on in Scotland and Ireland too?”
“Don’t forget Wales!”
“The little stuck out bit.”
“The same!”
“So what are we looking at today? Child exploitation!”
“Ooo dear that’s a little harsh.”
“You’ve got him scrubbin away at the windows. I just call it like I see it.”
“Yes I can see why you might think that.”
“That’s not what I’m seeing?”
“Hmm therapeutic child exploitation sits easier on my soul.”
“What’s the therapeutic part?”
“Lots of things.”
“Such as?”
“Making his hands and fingers squeeze the lever on the bottle of Windex.”
“Why?”
“To make them stronger.”
“Are they excessively weak?”
“Maybe not excessively, but if you don’t use your hands every day for every day kinds of things, then lots of ordinary little tasks become extraordinary difficult.”
“Bit of a vicious circle then.”
“Spot on.”
“But why window cleaning? Couldn’t you have something….I don’t know……..more kid like?”
“Well for this guy, it’s a question of latching onto anything that he might show a tiny shred of interest.”
“And you’re trying to tell me that he’s interested in cleaning windows? I just don’t buy it.”
“You’re right, it’s not the cleaning or the windows, it’s the blue fluid.”
“Still don’t get it. Is blue his favourite colour or something?”
“No, still yellow. If I’m honest I don't really know what the spark was but he was definitely interested in it, so you work with what you’ve got. Neither of them rarely show interest in anything outside of their rather narrow fields, so when something catches an eye, you just have to go with it.”
“So you’d call this the Windex developmental stage of autism or the blue period?”
“Er…..?”
“Hah! Got yah, I was teasing.”
“Oooo, very good!”
“So you got him to use the wiper thing too!”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The stars were favourably aligned that day.”
“Fluke?”
“Who knows?”
“So he managed the crossing the "mid-line thing?”
“Ooo yes, well spotted, you’re so good at this.”
“Next time I clean the windows, I’ll remind myself of my "mid-lines.”
“You do that dearie.”
“Deal.”
“One last word of warning though.”
“What?”
“Do it too much and you end up with blue skirting boards.”
“You know Maddy, there are many things that we Americans get fixated upon, but you won’t catch any of us perseverating or reflecting upon our windows.”
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, "who is the fairest…….”





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Tactile defensiveness every day

It’s a battle. He will eat the banana but I can rarely persuade him to peel back the skin himself. Even if we leap that hurdle, then I need to cut the banana into slices so that he can eat it with a fork. This is not a boy who will permit his fingers to be contaminated by direct digital contact. He needs a tool to protect his fingers from the texture of the banana.

It has been just like this for a very long time. Failure to co-operate on my part means that either he won't eat bananas at all, one of his thirteen precious foods, or he'll attempt to eat it whole with catastrophic results.

I dither and debate, but ultimately decide to go on strike and withdraw my services at least temporarily, until I’ve finished the washing up. Either he can wait a few minutes or do it himself. I know that patience is not one of his strengths but I doubt if he is sufficiently hungry to be motivated to tackle the task solo.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He yelps, just like a puppy when you step on their tail. His sister takes pity on him and snaps off the stalk for the first strip of peel. She looks me. My eyes widen, “come on! You can do it now. I’ve started it fur yah!” He tries, with the precision of a surgeon, thumb nail tip to index finger nail. There is no possibility that the skin on his finger tips will touch it. Each movement is accompanied by another yip. Some minutes later, two thirds of the skin has been removed. The banana is revealed,lying on it’s last layer of skin.


























“Knife!” he bellows, but we slaves ignore his cries. Thwarted once again, he decides to be ingenious and brave at the same time.

The third Karate chop has barely made a dent in the fairly ripe banana but I am none the less impressed. I suspect that the sides of our hands, are not that sensitive, but it’s still a major step for him.

“Fork!” he commands. I shake my head sadly in reply, “sorry my hands are still wet.” This is sufficient explanation and excuse, as he is aware of the full horror of a fork or any other utensil, when it has been contaminated with a drop or two of water.

“Barnacles! Barnacles! Barnacles!” he swears, shamelessly. Many a child would leave the table and collect a fork. Many other children do not. I could prompt him to do this and he probably would, but without a verbal or visual cue he falls back on his own resources, but that’s what inertia looks like around here.

“I know!” he squeaks. He leans forward tentatively, wide mouthed so that there is no possibility that his lips will touch the banana. His teeth grip the lump and in it goes.

A full 45 minutes later he has Karate chopped and nipped his way through the whole banana. Appetite satisfied, because we all get there in the end, one way or another, resourceful little devils.