Moving on swiftly - Fort Knox

We return home en masse, mid-day and sweltering, to hear a voice on the telephone shouting “"Natalie!" Are yah there?”

The answering machine flashes.

Six messages.

“Hey Mom pick up the phone already!”

Surely not! I thought we'd "sorted" this all out! I drop six bags full of groceries on the floor and dither.
“Here, I’ll do it!” she offers, which cattle prods me into action, “yes, hello, Madeline here, how can I help?”
“Where were yah? I’ve bin callin all morning!”
“Er food shopping.” Why did I say that?
“D’ya have Jay’s address?”
“Um…..….Jay Jones, Jay Smith or Jay Higginbottom?”
“I dunno their last name.”
“Oh….er……”
“She went for a sleepover to Jay’s last night. I gotta go pick er up now.”
“Ah….well……..I…”
“She’s the little kid with the ratty hair, glasses and goofy teeth.” I run this description through my lexicon of Jays. “Oh…..would that be Higginbottom perhaps?”
“I dunno.”
“Let me see. I don’t know the address exactly but I can give you driving directions to their home or the telephone number.”
“Number.”

I oblige.

I think I prefer my new role as Yellow Pages substitute. Who'd have thought that Anglo Americans could seek shelter in a castle? I consider myself to have escaped quite lightly.

Poor Higginbottoms.

Occupational Therapy - No Flying!

Since this is autism Awareness month I thought I'd take the opportunity to rant about the lack of medical insurance coverage for services for autistic people. I could point you towards Michael Moore's film "Sicko" as a good starting point. If you're not American then the terms, 'out of network' are meaningless. But if I tell you that being 'in network' doesn't work either, then that would only add to your confusion.

How much does it cost to send two children to occupational therapy twice a week, for four and a half years? I'd tell you but I can only count up to seven, even on a good day.

Is it a good investment? It depends upon your perspective, I suppose. My perspective shows me that instead of 'ground dwellers' I now have 'aerial artistes.'

No longer the patter of tiny tippy toes, instead we have earth shattering quakes and crash landings.



































































For the moment I am happy to observe their acrobatics. Soon we shall commence yet another campaign but I need to work on my 'words' prior to commencement.


Thus far I am failing miserably. "Get down from there this instant!" doesn't cut it, as they're already very good at the 'getting down' bit.

"What on earth are you doing up there!" is a pointless rhetorical statement that sends us down a blind alley about planets.

"What are you thinking of!" may just illicit a straightforward answer.

No. I shall bide my time and not let my mouth run away with me. This time I shall be sure that the words match the situation. No more nauseating little ditties to haunt the next 5 years or more.

Trade off

We gallop to the restaurant at a cracking pace.

Because it is morning, my son has a full word bank available to him. He talks non-stop, coherently if you ignore the stutters and stammers, which I barely notice as I'm riveted to his message.

My daughter is shifty, “he’s doin it again Mom. Everyone’s lookin at us.” Of course the street is devoid of foot passengers, as the cars whiz by on a Sunday. Her little brother doesn’t talk, nervous of the traffic, ruffled by the wind, anxious about the passage of time, destinations and whether the fries will be too hot to eat for a few minutes, a few very long minutes.

We have already practiced what we will do when the fries arrive and they are too hot. We spent a riotous 20 minutes at home where I demonstrated all his usual ‘behaviours’ when this obstacle occurs. I wasn’t as loud as him but seeing your mother roll around on the ground in protest, uttering all too familiar scripts, can sometimes touch your funny bone and release some of the pent up tension.

He’s ready to try and that’s all that I could wish for.

“Mom! Get him to stop!” her head whips around to check who is watching. I watch my son chat. Quite often when one thing is going exceptionally well, other things fall by the way side. For right now, speech flows, communication bubbles but his bodily co-ordination is barely hanging together. I find I have a growing interest in Lilo and Stitch which makes a refreshing change from Pokemon as today's topic. I may just have to bury yet another of my prejudices against supposedly harmless cartoons.

It is quite miraculous that he has managed to remain vertical at all as his loose limbed form tumbles, bumbles and circles at high speed on tippy toes. His knees keep tangling, his feet keep snagging. Two skinny boot-lace legs dangling in the breeze. Somehow or other we continue to move in the general direction of the restaurant. He must be traveling at least four times the distance from the rest of us. I am struck by the fact that I would find this feat, dancing and chatting, completely impossible.

But it’s not that which bothers her. She’s bothered by his arms. His shoulders are hunched by his ears, arms are bent at the elbow, slightly extended with the hands crossed in space. He maintains this rigid formation without effort. It’s a very common stance both here and elsewhere. For some of us it’s a classic. It is as if his body belongs to a third party, someone who choreographs movement, remotely, at long distance, with a weak, intermittent signal. I'm tempted to scoop him up before he falls flat on his face, to have that beaming face close to mine. The only part of him that seems to be under control is his head, where his facial expression is also a classic, happiness.

Tinker, Tailor, Postman…..I Spy

I drag all parties into the garden against their will on a mildly overcast day.

Ideal planting weather.

Other neighbours labour in their yards, whilst we play in our garden. The boys lie in the gravel and sing an old Carpenter’s song, or rather particular snippets that they perseverate upon:- ‘bring me a letter,’ ‘oh yeah,’ ‘Mr. po o o o o ost man.’ It is their task to remain within the confines of the garden for a minimum period of ten minutes, one tiny step in the direction of desensitization to 'outside.' The little talismen of Pokemons assist to distract and engage.

My daughter is an enthusiastic under gardener, keen to learn the ropes. We have before us an array of magnificent plants to plant, each in just the right spot.

“Shall I dig a hole for this big one?”
“Great idea, but where shall we dig the hole?”
‘Mr. po o o o o ost man.’
“What about there, in that bare bit.”
“That’s a good idea but I think you might find that white or bright flowers are better placed in the shady areas where they’ll draw the eye.”
"Mr. po o o o o ost man."
"This purple thing?"
“I want to put the purple violets next to the mail box.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s drought tolerant, in full sun and the scent will be given off when the postman fiddles with the box.”
“Lucky mail man!”
“Bring me a letter.”
“O.k. how about this one, with the long bits?”
“We need to check the labels too, as some plants prefer sun and other’s need more shady areas.”
"Mr. po o o o o ost man."
“What about this pink one?”
“Great but we need some sand to plant that one as we have clay soil.”
"Mr. po o o o o st man."
“They’re very fussy these plants!”
“Hmm I suppose they are a bit.”
"Bring me a letter."
“I like this one! It smells of…..bubblegum.”
“Bubblegum? The scented ones are good in spots where you’ll brush past them with your body, like the rose scented geranium. When they’re leaves are disturbed they release their perfume.”
“Bring me a letter.”
“I like the one around the door coz when they bring a parcel the smell comes in the house.”
“Oh I’m glad you noticed that. It’s like when the UPS guy comes through the front gate and sweeps past the Aquilegia, same thing. Jasmine round the door frame.”
“The Fedex guy always comes around the side.”
“Yes where the Honeysuckle is.”

At the sound of gravel crunching, my son sits up from his position to look over the fence at the visitor. “You are be love,” he murmours. The mailman jumps from his little delivery van and waves. Other neighbours stand and pause momentarily to hail him too, familiar and welcome. Late 50’s, a grandfather with a Santa Claus beard, pith helmet, regulation shorts and a heart break smile.

“Hi guys! Got em all workin today huh!” My daughter examines him, trowel in hand. My older son grins at him, wordless. My youngest son jumps to his feet, “wait a minute, wait a minute, oooo yeah,” as nips over to peer at the name and address. “Dey are for you mom…….all of dem are for you.” I beam at my son and the postman as the garden gate clicks closed, on to the next house, the next family, the next welcome.

“I fink…….when I am growed up……I am be a mailman too.”

Rats to the "Theory of Mind."
























If you happen to find yourself with a few spare moments, please take a minute to watch this video.






Alternatively you can click on this "link."

Safe landing for the space cadet

The friendship between my youngest daughter and her pal has a dire effect on my family’s well being, or rather my "own sanity."

My eldest daughter, an impartial third party, takes me in hand. After a year in Mozambique, her negotiating skills are finely honed. As she has spent her teenage years in America, she is also far more clued into the locals.

“So what are you saying? Do you think this woman is the wicked witch of the west or merely a "space cadet?”

“Um…..the latter.”

“O.k. so you’ve got to stop pussy footing around and lay down the law.”

“I never get the chance!” I bleat.

“You’ve got the grab the bull by the horns, make the time and have it out with her.”

“It’s easier said than done.”

“I bet she’s got not idea that you feel like this.”

“You think?”





























“Well if you talked to her you’d find out wouldn’t you. She probably hasn’t got a clue what a pain in the ass this all is. I bet she hasn’t got a clue about autism either.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it. You never used to be such a wimp.”

“I’m not a wimp! I’m just…….exhausted.”

“Hardly surprising with all those hoops you’ve been leaping through!”

“I suppose I just don’t want to mess it up. It just takes to much energy to carve out some more time to think about it properly.”

“There’s nothing to think about. It’s a no brainer mum. Next time she comes, drag her into the house and talk to her, explain it to her, no-one on the planet is going to be that dense.”

“You think?”

“You don’t have to be mean about it. The boys have a routine, without it there’s chaos. Yes to playdates but pre-arranged, no more ambushes and no more sleep overs. Play dates are a privilege remember?”

“Are they?”

“Yes. They always were for me! Do your homework, do your chores, behave well and the reward is the playdate.”

“Is that how it works?”

“Worked for me. Those were your rules and we stuck to them for all the years I was growing up!”

“Ah and look how great you turned out! But it’s just not practical. How can I have a private conversation with her when there are five children roaring around the house unsupervised. Would you consider looking after them for me perhaps?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Include the kids. Let them see that this is how adults behave, they talk about things and figure out a solution.”

“Good grief! How did I ever produce such a clever woman as you?”

“So you’ll do it?”

“I shall.”



I did.








Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Positive Reinforcement."

Also with another post called "Speech Delays."

The current exchange rate

My eldest daughter takes up residence and dusts off the sands of Mozambique.

“What on earth are you doing Mother?”
“Oh you know, it’s the usual seasonal problem.”
“What?”
“Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, ant invasion.”
“What is that stuff?”
“Ant killer.”
”You can’t just powder the garden like that, it looks like a snow storm, you’ll poison someone.”
“Only the ants and myself, no-one else goes out there.”
“Have you checked the label? There must be some natural repellent you can use instead, something environmentally friendly. Why don’t you ever check labels?”
“Er because usually I just hurl things in the trolly, scoot to the check out and hope for the best.”
“You’re hopeless!”
“Hmm probably, I haven’t had time to …..look for alternatives.”
“I research it for you, before you wipe us all out.”

***

"What on earth are you doing?"
"I'm drying his wieners so that I can leave them out to reach room temperature by the time he comes home from school."
"No! I can see that! I mean why are you using kitchen paper to dry them?"
"Because he won't eat them if they're wet, and by the way they're called paper towels out here."
"I don't care what you call them, they're a waste of precious resources, squandering trees willy nilly on a whim."
"These are not "whimsical wieners," they are part of a very carefully orchestrated desensitization campaign."
"They're vile. Why don't you buy Tofu dogs instead, at least they're vegetarian."
"I will, as soon as I've used up these ones over the next few days. There again, since they're going to end up in the garbage disposal unit in any event, I could just skip that stage."
"I think I'll put duct tape over the garbage disposal unit."
"Why?"
"To help you to remember "not to use" it."
"Yes I do seem to have an awful lot to remember all of a sudden."


***

“Ooo what’s happened to the coffee maker?”
“I turned it off. It was on stand by. Everything in this house seems to be on stand by. More energy is used by domestic appliances on "standby" in America than a full day on the National Grid back home. It’ll only take a couple of minutes to warm up.”
“But my body needs a vat of caffeine right now!”
“You’re so impatient.”
“Must be old age.”
“You’ve been Americanized.”
“Too true.”

***

“I have to get some new slippers today. These ones are falling apart, they’re a health hazard.”
“You could knit yourself some new ones, that would save money and literally make a smaller environmental footprint!”
“I can’t knit a pair in a day! At least not if I also want to get anything else done.”
“It’s all a matter of priorities. It would do you good to sit down for a whole day and it would save using the car for another pointless trip.”
“I could walk to the shops!”
“You could, that’s a good option. It’s a question of examining every decision to get the best environmental outcome.”
“I don’t know if I have enough energy or brain power to factor in another variable into the current decision making process.”
“That’s why I’m here to help! It’s simply a matter of changing how you think about things.”
“Just remember that my brain is small, old and worn out already.”

***

“I also have to get some of that laundry put away today. You can hardly move for laundry hampers.”
“Ah I was meaning to say, maybe I could rig up a clothes line for you in the garden. That tumble drier is on non-stop.”
“Yes but with the wet beds and all, it’s difficult to keep up.”
“Well it’s your decision of course but think of all the energy you’ll save, not to mention money.”
I look at my 26 year old daughter. I am tempted to make a sarcastic comment about going down to the creek with my laundry and a stone to do the washing, but of course that is precisely what she has been doing for a year in Mozambique.
“But if I dry them outside they’ll all fade in the sun and far more importantly they’ll be crispy, then I won’t be able to get anyone dressed and no-one will want to go to bed.”
“It could be part of your desensitization campaign surely?”
“Maybe.” It's quite frightening to realize that she sounds just like me, standing on my soapbox, perhaps a decade ago.

***

“What’s all that paper scattered around?”
“Those are the things that I absolutely must do today.”
“Such as?”
“I have to go somewhere to photocopy those forms as ours isn’t working. I have to sort out that foreign bank account too.”
“Ooo look at that! You won the Premium Bonds! Pity it's not the lottery out here.”
“I know but I have to write to them to get them to re-issue the prize as it’s out of date.”
“You should do that first! It’s a priority.”
“Yes but I have to get them to send it to me here in the States, which may be against the rules. Then I have to send it back to pay it into my British Bank account, it’ll take forever.”
“Pay it in here instead.”
“Then I’ll have to pay a fee to have it exchanged into dollars rather than pounds.”
“Still fifty pounds, is fifty pounds!”
“True. Come to think of it, fifty pounds is $100 dollars!”

Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Development is Child's Play,"

and also celebrating my other life over "here" in "California Dreaming."

Rabid over rabbits

Americans would describe my current mood as ‘pissed.’ This actually means that I am drunk. I would say that I am pissed off, which means that I am annoyed, or ever so slightly dejected. As much as I try, I am unable to extract myself and my family from the continuing influence of another family.

After the "Easter debacle" we enjoy a trouble free week, as my daughter is unwell and stays at home for a few days. We are resolute, no more shenanigans.

On returning home after her first day back at school, I discover that she is in mourning for the loss of her friendship with pal. Pal now enjoys a relationship with a boy, her seventeenth boyfriend. Her date book is now full, with no time left over for my daughter. I sympathise with her loss, whilst secretly enjoying our easy escape. I explain that sadly, this is so often the way with many girls but that she should not be down-hearted. If she is a true friend, she will be patient and understanding, wait for the boyfriend to move on and her pal’s loyalty to return.

I think this is one of the few times that I am genuinely pleased that ten year olds date. I dither whether to test her sophistication?
“So is it a lovie dovie kissy kind of relationship?”
“Oh nooo! That comes later.”
I’m tempted to ask how many decades later, but I don’t want to push my luck.

When the weekend rolls around again, we are ready for family peace, or if not exactly peace, then our piece of family time.

All in all, we seem well placed, as I accidentally find the Easter chocolates that bought a month ago, a week after Easter has already past. It’s almost worthwhile digging them up again from their new hidey hole in the garage, rather than keeping them until next year. A little celebration, to mark our good fortune.

I debate whether to embark upon the tidy toys marathon or to leave it until after the bike ride in the park, when the telephone rings. The pals chat on the phone whilst we adults exchange worried glances. Both my sons dart around the house like energizer bunnies. I’m used to Mr. Speedy and his mosquito tendencies but I am disconcerted that his older brother seems to be on a similar trend. “When?”
“When what dear?’
“When are we go on our "bikes"?”
“15 minutes. Shall we set the timer?”
“Dere is no such fing as the Easter bunny?”
“True but don’t go telling any other little children just yet.”
“It is be 15 minutes?”
“Lets go and find the timer together.”
“Does the Easter bunny have a timer?”
“No he has a calendar.”
“You are say 50 minutes or 15 minutes?”
“15.”
“He has an old calendar?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I fink he has a timer.”
“I fink his timer is needed dah new batteries.” My daughter’s demands come thick and fast, but we hold firm, “Daddy and I will talk about it first, tell her you’ll phone back in five minutes.”
I drag the boys out of the garage for the umpteenth time, unable to enrapture them with the passage of time on the timer. “We’ll put our shoes on later dears.” I don’t think I’ve ever known them to be so keen to retrieve their hated shoes.

“Dumb, dumb, dumb!”
“No mean words dear.”
“Dumb is not be mean.”
“Er….well ……what does it mean?”
“It is be mean not be talking.”
“Oh that kind of dumb.”
“Yes dah Easter bunny is be dumb.”
“Do you mean dumb ‘stupid’ or dumb ‘not talking’?”
“’Dumb’ not talking.”
“Yes you’re right, the Easter Bunny doesn’t talk.”

Maybe pal should come with us on the bike ride to circumnavigate the possibility of sleepovers and whose house to have a play date? We could deliver her home so that she’s not stranded with us indefinitely. Better a few hours in the afternoon at the weekend rather than endless disruptions during the week. We debate back and forth, anticipating potholes and pitfalls until we manage to come up with a plan.
“Dah Easter bunny…….he got it wrong.”
“He did? What did he get wrong?”
“It is be a secret.”
“How about you girls go on your scooters and the boys go on their bikes?”
“Brill! That would be awesome.” We exchange adult glances, surely this is the fairest option?
“Better go and phone her then. Do you have the number?” We hear a knocking on the window, and there she is, "pal" has arrived during our five minutes debating time. There is no sign of her deliverer. The girls embrace and exchange breathy information, “I waited in all morning but he didn’t call.”
“Some people are so unreliable,” she sympathizes.

I think I can be relied upon to rip the phone from the wall some time pretty darned soon. I track down the boys in the garage to uncover a secret before I forget. They pogo on the concrete with their hands behind their backs in a dry leaf pile of chocolate wrappers. “He is be come two times dis year!”
“I am liking dah dumb bunny!”

I want to ask.......but I refrain.

We have lift off!

One of the many delights of living in California, is the weather. The seasonal changes are detectable for those paying attention, but the subject of weather is not a daily topic of conversation as it is in other countries.

Some while back, before the boys had been diagnosed, our family was expanding but the house was not. On one particularly blissful day I advised my spouse that if he did not make the spare room cum office habitable, I would make his existence less blissful. He in turn advised me, that nothing on this earth or the next, would ever make the room livable. At this impasse, we made a rash decision, we would find a bigger house to fit our bigger family.

We spent many weeks looking at mansions and not at our bank balance.

We subsequently decided that we would stay put and extend the building capacity with an extension.

Of all the many properties that we viewed, one had an outstanding feature called a ‘whole house extractor fan.’ It is a deceptive term, so if you are not familiar with it, I will attempt a non technical description for you. Firstly you need to visualize a Boeing 747. Take off one of the propellers and stick it [along with some hardware of some kind or another] in your roof space. Attach securely to something that isn’t going to fall off or down. Cut a couple of little holes at either end of your roof, the gable ends. Cut another hole in the centre of your ceiling in the middle of the house. Connect string, sorry, wire, from the propeller to a switch below, somewhere well out of the way, such as a closet. The idea is, that when you turn it on, the propeller whirs away and sucks all the hot air out of your house and swooshes it outside to help heat up everybody else’s houses in the nearby vicinity. This means that with luck you won’t have to turn your air conditioning on at all, or at least for less time.

There are however, a few minor details that may not be immediately apparent. Californian houses, in earthquake land, are made of plaster and bits of wood. The theory is, that when the house falls down around your ears you’ll be buried in matchsticks rather than bricks. The down side to this feat of engineering is that if you drop a pin, the sound echoes throughout the property. Hence, when you flick the switch on your WHEF you definitely have the impression that the whole house is about to take off and surge into space like an escaping balloon. Everything rattles and shakes and the noise is death defying.

Generally speaking you would turn the device on at bed time, to cool it down ready for sleep.

We are currently in the month of April and I know that you are wondering why this seasonal topic is on my mind? It is on my mind because it takes a great deal of time for my little chaps to adjust to the experience of the WHEF.

When the thermometer hit's the 90's, tempers are frayed, we are bathed in sweat and that would be the time to flick the switch to earthquake mode. Far better to start early, daily. It's yet another desensitization campaign. If we start now, by the time the mercury is rising we should be well on the way to cooling off.

We start off with a new social story which immediately puts them on notice that something is afoot. We examine the switch in the cupboard. We peer up at the grill in the ceiling. They both criticise the builder for installing the grill skew whiff, something that I had previously overlooked. We spend far too much time bogged down in definitions and better alternatives which range from 'vacuum' to 'blower.'

The boys decide that the best place to be during the trial run, is outside the house. This is a quite remarkable decision bearing in mind that they have been "allergic" to outside for as long as I can remember. This is probably the very last thing that I could possibly have anticipated. I open the door to watch them leave the safe place and walk willingly into what was previously the 'unsafe place.' They scamper over to the perimeter fence, the furthest possible distance from the house. This wasn't quite what I had in mind, not really a long term solution although an excellent coping strategy. They cover their ears with the palms of their hands, resigned to the inevitable, "O.k. mom!" he bellows, "go turn on the rattleshake!"

A stride in an entirely new direction.

I better go and count how many steps there are from the fence to the house and calculate the number of days to reach a less safe harbour.

The Food Police

I am a great believer in ‘isms.’

They fit neatly into my own prejudice and bias.

You could say, ‘by their isms, shall ye know them.’ For me, the world of food, was my own political platform, running a close second to my eco warrior existence.

I'm reminded of this when I watch a programme on BBC America, which mentions the words "aduki bean." I immediately lose the thread of the story and whiz back in time to when I was a real cook that ate real food.

I was a follower of the ‘your body is a temple’ institute for the ever so slightly deranged. Those were the days where Miso soup and home made flapjacks were the order of the day. No salt, no sugar, no harmful fats. If it didn’t have the word ‘whole’ in it, then it would never pass over the threshold into the house of pure. My kitchen was filled with bean sprouters and home made yoghourt fermenting on a pilot light. Just say 'no' to the contamination of British youth. I had one perfect daughter on the perfect diet.

My idea of fast food and a culinary treat would have been a handful of dried apricots, almonds or a smattering of yoghourt coated peanuts and raisins, knocked back with a glass of Lassi. Convenience food was a banana. No food was too obscure not to be tried at least once. Bombay mix and Tamari sesame seeds, quinoa and couscous, anything to tickle those taste buds. Health food store heaven.

Then, a couple of decades later, the other lot came along to rattle my silver cage and shatter my glass house. It was about the same time that I fell of my pedestal with a splat. The purity of the nutrients that my children imbibed, were of an entirely different order. My holier than thou attitudes were swept aside with one hearty tug to the table cloth and the whole food pyramid came tumbling down. After I’d swept up, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was dealing with food issues of an entirely different magnitude. The magnetic force of my culinary skills turned to rust and plans to dust. My ivory tower had been vanquished by neophobes, the most mighty of conquerors for the average middle aged mum.

It is with a heavy heart that I follow the occupational therapist's advice. My youngest son is to be introduced to meat, in the form of little hot dog sausages. Flavourles and textureless. We have ploughed through social stories, all leading up to this momentous moment. I ensure that they are room temperature to give him the best possible chance of success. They glisten in the bowl. They do not look particularly appetizing but I am assured that this is the first step in the long road towards 'hot dogs on the 4th of July.'






















The desensitization campaign commences.

"Are you ready dear?"
"Yes."
"So we're going to look at it first with our eyes. Can you use your good describing words for me?"
"It is be brown and huge and it is being a wiener."
"Excellent! How about we smell it now? What does it smell of dear?"
"It be smell like poison!"
"Hmm. How about you lick it now."
"NO!"
"Um o.k. how about you just touch it with your finger instead."
"I am have dah M & M if I touch?"
"Yes. Touching it would be very brave indeed!"
He extends a tremulous finger tip, the baby finger, the least sensitive of all his digits. I watch, silent as I don't want to jinx him. As his finger tip makes contact he lets rip with a blood curdling howl and a 30 mph exit screaming "my wiener is wet!"

Maybe I should revise the campaign date? 4th July 2009 perhaps?

Everyone's a critic

Snippets collected over a few days:-

"What are you doing Mother?"
Mother?
"Um...knitting dear."
"And what exactly are you knitting?"
"Socks.....for you."
"But it's Summer. You bought that wool ages ago and you're only getting around to it now, when it's nearly 80 degrees outside?"
"Well yes I do seem to have got a little behind."
"I'll say!"
"Never mind they'll do for next year."
"I don't know if I'll like that colour next year. I'll be a year older, more sophisticated, you know."

Don't bet on it dearie.

"Mommmmmm!"
"Yes dear?"
"Which you are like?"
"Um.....?"
"Dis card or dat card. Which one is be dah winner?"
"Um.....?"
"In dah battle."
"Er......?"
"Choose!"
"The red one."
"Huh! No, you lose I win."
"Good for you dear."
"I know coz you are always choose dah red."

I need to be less predictable.

"Are you tired dear?"
"No."
"You look sleepy. Wasn't that a yawn?"
"No.....it's just dat.....my eyelids are be heavy and my mouth......is been need oxygen."

You and me both dearie.

"Why are you phoning love?"
"Because I haven't spoken to you person to person for three days now."
"Two and a half."
"Pardon?"
"Thursday! Now it's Saturday or will be soon."
"Um.......?"
"You're 8 hours ahead of us. It's three in the morning here."
"Sorry.......I'll call again later."

Now there's a mistake I haven't made in a long while.

Bird brain

I check just to be on the safe side.

He is still bouncing from the sofa to the trampolene shouting “Geronimo!” at fifty decibels in the family room. He's been at it for about 25 minutes. I detect no immediate indications of a flat battery. This kind of self regulation is to be applauded and encouraged. Horray! I return to the washing up and the view from my kitchen window.

It’s bound to be a controversial campaign but something has to be done. I think a complete ban on birdlife is the only route available. There I am, diligently dragging home body bagsful of bird seed, and what do they do? Spread it all over the garden. Little hooligans! Why can’t the birds appreciate a free lunch when it’s provided? Are they all on some kind of a special diet?

The feeder hangs just outside the house in the empty space between the L of the family room and the kitchen, a view from each site. A special birdfeeder design to deter squirrels, a gift to me and them. Why don’t they just eat it? Do they have malformed beaks or something? What is wrong with the modern birds of today? Why aren’t they here now, to entertain me with their antics whilst I wash? Do we only have nocturnal birds to visit? Are owls the real culprits? Flocks of unwise vegetarian owls. I notice that the noise has died down as my son steps into the kitchen.
“I am be dah mouse.”
“Really.” What a pity he can’t match his favoured vermin in the sound production department. I watch the birds gather around the feeder, fluttering and pecking.
“I am be energetic.”
“Indeed you are.” There must be nearly 20 birds. I wonder what kinds they are? I really ought to get a book on bird identification in California.
“Now I am bin done exhausted.”
“Oh, that’s good.” I’m a wee bit weary myself. I do so hope 'bin done' hasn't come back to haunt us again? Two little words inserted into every sentence. I thought that phase had faded? All too often they return. I console myself with notion that we're only too lucky to have any phrases at all.
“I am beed have dah rest.” He exhales to demonstrate.
“What a good idea. Maybe we could sit down and have a cuddle, have a rest together?”
“Nope.”
“No? Why not?”
“Coz now I am bin done......I am beed…..energy…….guy……again.” He tears off back to the family room to resume his regime, and as he roars “Geronimo!” the birds blast away, scattering seeds at warp speed.

Blindsided

We think long and hard before we agree. It would be impossible to take the boys to a three hour Church service but that’s no reason to deny my daughter the chance to go with her pal. I write out our telephone numbers on cards, one for my daughter and one for pal’s mother as they have been mislaid again. It seems like the ideal opportunity to expose my daughter to a different way of life, as well as inform pal’s mum that my name is not Natalie.

I’m surprised that the name of the Church is unknown but I’m very forgetful myself and word retrieval is often an issue around here. Maybe it’s the accent that I have trouble with, or the speed of delivery but I only catch three words; alternative, black and singing.

Racism in the States is more complicated than in Europe. Since I am Caucasian, I find it simpler just to assume that I am a racist and await enlightenment, preferably from someone who is not Caucasian but is American. Hence I prove my ignorance, as these words match the category of ‘gospel’ in my brain.

I am sad to miss my daughter for a big chunk of the day, what should be a family day. I am happy that she will be in good company away from the mayhem of home. The promised treat of “Horton Hears a Who,” to follow sounds like a well balanced mix.

We spend our secular day with a carefully orchestrated easter egg hunt for the boys, followed by lunch in a preferred restaurant of the French Fries variety, low key, low maintenance, high happiness quotient. Despite the fact that it a glorious day we bury ourselves in the darkness of the cinema. We both have a largish boy on our laps, although we pay for four seats. If my daughter comes home to broadcast the glories of “Horton hears a Who,” we shall have a riot on our hands. This is the perfect chance to navigate them both through the trauma of movies in a public forum.

We transition through our day with care until we are re-united with my daughter.

She arrives home breathless, late and sodden for no immediately apparent reason than I can fathom. I am fairly confident that baptisms are not performed on Easter Sunday, or am I? I experience brain freeze without the benefit of ice-cream. I am tempted to wrestle her to the ground, sit on her chest and give her the third degree. I proceed with caution. I opt for a towel.
“My you’re flushed, you must have had a super time. Would you like to go to Church again next week? Maybe we could go together as a family?”
“Uh uh.”
“Uh uh yes or uh uh no?”
“No.”
“No? Was it a bit too long for your first time?”
“I was real bored.”
“You seem to have caught the sun on your arms.”
“Yeah it sure was hot outside.”
“Outside? Outside where?”
“Outside the church.”
“It was an open air service?”
“Huh?”
“You …….and the congregation...er the people, were outside the church?”
“No we were outside the Church.”
“Isn’t that just what I said?”
“No. We were outside. Everybody else was inside.”
“Why was that then?”
“I was ……scared.”
“Oh……..what did you find so…….scary?”
“All the "screamin."”
“Screaming? Who was screaming?”
“The guys who were rollin on the ground.”
“Ro……were they……..did they…….were you on your own outside?”
“No we sat together. Her mom went back "inside." She said she was scared too…….but I think she wuz jus sayin that to make me feel better.”
“So……..how long were you outside, just the two of you….alone…….in the …….Churchyard.”
“It wasn’t really a Church.”
“Ah…..”
“It wuz a …..an alternative……I forget now. Can I sleep in the boys’ room tonight? Please? I won’t keep them awake or nothin……I jus don’t want to …….."dream"…..er……sleep…..alone.” I have no idea why their nesting instinct is so strong in times of trouble, a heaped herd of hurt.
“O.k. but just this once. We’ll talk about this again tomorrow after you’ve rested. Maybe it would be a good idea not to tell the boys about it tonight.”
“You’ve got it! There’s no way I’m gonna tell em that stuff! It’d giv em nightmares and that’s a fact, bein little kids n all.”
“So…….why are you all wet then?”
“We went back to the house after.”
“After the service, after the movie?”
“We didn’t get to see the movie.”
“Oh. What did you do then?”
“We played with the hosepipe in the backyard…..it was a lot more fun than…….seein a borin old movie.”
“Yes, I think perhaps it might have been a little babyish for you.”
“How would you know? Maybe we could all go and see it together next week? As a family?”
“What a good idea.”
“They said that we could see it maybe soon, but I’m kinda wondering when ‘soon’ might be?”
“Perhaps we could manage sooner, because you have been very patient. Sometimes things don’t always pan out quite the way we want them to.”

It’s bound to be easier second time around afterall!

I believe we have reached the end of that particular chapter.

On a more down to earth plain, I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Dedication to Medication."

One strike and you’re a crisp!

When she asks me I’m not ready, but I never seem to be ready for anything in these ever more complex days. My pschobabble pal would tell me that I over analyse these things, which is probably the very sad truth of the matter. So many thoughts, strategies and questions run through my own mind that I’m usually paralyzed into temporary silence.
“Oh look mom! There’s those guys again.”
“Oh yes.”
“The guys that were hitting on those girls in the sports car last week.”
“I think it was the other way around actually.”
“Really.”
“Yes, remember the girls pulled the car into the curb when they saw the guys.”
“Nearly ran us over!”
“Hmm. Nearly ran them over more like.”
“Why would anyone want to run those guys down?”
“I think they were just trying to frighten them.”
“Why would they want to frighten the guys?”
“Er…..some people…..dislike Mormons.”
“What’s a Mormon.”
“Someone who belongs to a particular religion, their the disci...er.....people of "Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints".”
“What’s their religion about?”
“Well they’re the ones that come knocking on the door to tell us about their religion. It’s part of their religion to go and tell other people.”
“What do they tell?”
“Mainly that if you don’t join their club……you won’t……go to heaven when………if the end of the world comes along.”
“Do we wanna join their club and go to heaven?”
“That’s for you do decide.”
“How many Mormons are there?”
“I have no idea, we could look it up when we get home. I’d guess that they’re less that one percent of the world population.”
“So 99% of people aren’t gonna go to heaven?”
“That would be the logical conclusion. But logic and religion often don’t fit very well together.”
“Mommee?”
“Yes dear?”
“What would happen if you hit a teacher?”
“Hit a teacher?” Where did that come from? I feel beads of sweat sweep my brow which perfectly match my sticky palms that clutch the steering wheel.
“Yeah, at your old school, when you were little, like me, what would have happened?”
“My school! Nothing would have happened, I mean, that would never have happened, it’s completely inconceivable that anyone would ever hit a Sister, I mean a nun.”

I have never physically touched a nun in my entire life, none of us did. They didn’t touch us either, unless you count a whop with a ruler, which I don’t, count that is to say. We lived in a no touch zone for years. I see my white knuckles and try to maintain a steady speed in a 25 mph residential area.

“But what would happen if someone ever did?” I dither. The floor would open up to let the flames engulf you, swallow you up and all that would be left would be a little puff of black smoke where your blackened soul was once. I give her the logical secular answer, “well, you’d be expelled…..instantaneously.” I wait for what might come next, hover in "limbo." “It’s o.k. mum, that’s all I wanted to know.”
“Um….no other questions?”
“Nope.”

My heart starts beating again and I begin to breathe. She probably doesn’t need to know about everlasting hell and damnation just yet, if ever. I wonder why they say once a Catholic always a Catholic? It’s all perfectly logical!

For a more practical look at some of the hic-cups for parents with autistic children, you can see me over "here" at "Trusera" with "A Combined Approach."

Finely tuned communication

Broadly speaking I am outnumbered. All too frequently I make the mistake of dealing with three conversations simultaneously and lose the thread completely. Generally speaking, I find it more efficient to complete one conversation first and back track later to pick up other threads. I like to think of it as my anti-unraveling campaign.

The latest crop of ditties that the boys have acquired is rather disconcerting. What is even more disconcerting is the hilarity that accompanies each one. I find it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything at all in the whirlpool of laughter. The fact that it is also reciprocal and infectious makes it hard to keep a straight face for more serious conversations.

“Come along now, it’s time to put away your clothes.”
“Time? What time it is being?”
“Ah, time to put away clothes.”
“Subway! Eat fresh! Subway! Eat fresh! Subway! Eat fresh!” he cooes.
“You want us to put away the laundry? Why?” queries my independent pre-teen. It would appear that is someone else who is in need of a few life skills.
“Cheese is an adventure! Woe,” he announces in a breathy tone, oblivious to his sister's strident tone.
“Well they’re your clothes.”
“How much wood can a wood chuck chuck!” he giggles.
“But that’s your job.” Her body language tells me all I need to know, but her brothers continue to circulate their own circuitry.
“Now I weemember. If you shout fings, you remember them still. I LIKE PIE!” he bellows, little liar that he is as he rolls back in fits of laughter.
“What’s my job?”
“Innernet! Innernet! Innernet!” the robot voice still plagues us.
“Put away the laundry and other mom stuff,” the eyes roll but she spares me the 'duh!'
“Gone fishin! Gone fishin! Gone fishin!”
“Au contraire. My job is to teach you how to put your own clothes away so that you can be independent and grown up.”
“Bet on it. Bet on it. Bet on it.” The robot sounds optimistic.
“Fine! But I don’t want to be grown up and inde..........”
“Are we nearly there yet! Are we nearly there yet! Are we nearly there yet!”
“Sorry dear? What was that again? I don’t think you quite finished what you wanted to say.”
“Gedda new look fur yur bedrorom!”
“Fine! I’ll do it but I don’t know how?”
“Eggy eggy eggy!” even though Easter is long gone.
“We’ll learn how to do it together.”
“Hold dah ice! Hold dah ice! Hold dah ice!”
“Fine but whataya gonna do all day if you don’t do the laundry any more? Sit on yur butt and chat to yur friends?”
Mercifully she didn’t say 'fanny'!
“Butt jokes! Get yur butt jokes here!” the list of banned words grows daily.
“What an excellent idea! I will sit on my bottom all day and learn how to use my cell phone.” 7 years after the event.
“Yur welcum! Yur welcum! Yur welcum!”
“What!” Her face is a caricature of incredulity.
“No ifs no buts no co co nuts!”
“Um……well…..I suppose I’ll do everything I usually do except put away the laundry.”
“Pretty pretty shiny shiny.”
“Fine! But you don’t put the laundry away now anyways. There’s always at least three hampers of laundry at the top of the stairs.”
“Good fur you! Good fur you! Good fur you!”
“True but what about the other four hampers? And it’s never the same laundry, it’s a constant turnover around here.”
“Count dem? How many pairs of hands do you think I have? Two! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“I don’t believe you! You’re a li………not telling the truth.”
“Gonna stab yah in the head wiv a fork!”
“I know! How about I teach you how to sort them, wash the dirty clothes, then dry them, then fold them and then you’ll see how many full hampers there really are on the average day?”
“Here’s to gluttony!”
“Fine! I said I’d do it alrighty.” She flounces from the room, a gesture that she's worked to perfection over the last few weeks.
“Bring on dah rainbow……and dah weather forecast is……fine!”

Little boy blue

We read every nursery rhyme in existence a while back, when they were little. I read the English versions that use the word ‘shall’ frequently, which seems less common in America. Nobody listened to me but I persisted because I have a cussed streak. After 8 months on a waiting list, we finally wormed our way in a speech therapy spot. At last! All would be well. I sat in on every session so that I could learn what to do and how to do it. After a few sessions I asked about homework or practice. The therapist* had several suggestions. The one I remember was almost as follows:-
“Do you take them to the park to play ever?”
“Yes, almost every day.”
“So when he climbs the ladder say ‘up, up, up’ and as he slides down say ‘down, down, down.’”

I looked at her in disbelief before I burst into tears.

These days we are on to bigger and better things, perhaps?

I have several items on my wish list; popsicle mould, shoe horn and curtain hooks. It is my lot in life to be burdened with far too many brilliant ideas, ideas that often fail to materialize or morph into a different category of catastrophe.

My wish list differs from other people’s in several respects. Firstly, it should be a shopping list but instead I keep hoping that these things will just appear like magic, as I usually have a strong allergic reaction to the shopping part of the equation.

Secondly, I do nothing actively to assure that these things become part of my household. Whilst they remain in the ‘wish’ category, I can pretend that if they did ever arrive, they would be successful. If they did ever arrive, I would quickly discover that none of them were magical and I would still have the same issues to deal with regardless.

The shoe horn will speed up the process of persuading three small people to achieve the status of shod. The popsicle moulds will mean that one of my boys will consume pureed fruit, or at least that’s the theory. I would prefer the theory not to be disproven for a while. The curtain hooks are too complicated to explain.

My daughter and I make a mad dash to the shoe shop as her trainers have died, ripped up, heel dismembered, soles unstuck, lining worn and the laces in tatters. She tries on many pairs of shoes and unlike her brothers, would be quite happy to buy several pairs.

Whilst she amuses herself I examine the socks on display to see if any might be seamless and or, cost less than a pair of shoes. My fingers step over all the alternative types of shoe laces that we have entertained over the years, none of which proved successful, merely expensive party poopers. We settle on one pair of trainers for walking to and from school, and a pair of flip flops, as it is already in the balmy 70’s in California.

At the check out a shoe horn lies idly on the counter with the shop’s name printed on the handle 'for customer use only.' Safe! “I don’t suppose you have any of these to sell?” I ask blithely, confident that the dream shall remain so.
“No, but you can have that one if you like?”
I do not like! Who is she to burst my bubble! “Well thank you so much, that’s extremely kind of you. Are you sure you won’t get into any trouble?”
She beams me, “no, no trouble at all. Nobody uses em anyways.” She plops it into the bag with the shoes as it drops like a lead balloon. I stagger out of the shop with the weight of the world on my shoulders, or rather in the bag, as I know it’s time to pop the balloon and burst another myth.

The following day I proceed with caution. We have foiled breakfast, challenged dressing, today in blue rather than Mario colours, what a coup! Teeth are approximately cleansed.

We have a well rehearsed shoe schedule. It is far from perfect but on an averagely goodly day, I can have them all shod in 12 minutes. That’s not to say that whilst I focus on one child someone else won’t remove and or hide their shoes, such that we’re closer to a 40 minute marathon.

I produce the shoe horn with a flourish, name it, explain it’s purpose and attempt to use it on the first rapturous child. Echoes of ‘shoe horn’ swirl around my head from two captivated boys, a thing that claims to be a horn but is silent even when you blow it. I remove it from his mouth and wipe off the spittle. This is going to take longer than I anticipated. Did I think about it all before I started? For some reason they both want to put their feet on it at the same time, a bit like skate boarding and nowhere in the vicinity of their shoes. I grab one of my own shoes and demonstrate the use of a shoe horn, “see! See how my foot just slides into the shoe?” They’re even more keen to have a go but I only have one shoe horn and four little feet. We practice taking turns as I didn’t expect such enthusiastic co-operation. His foot follows the shoe horn in the air as he sits on his bottom on the hard wood floor. The shoe horn appears to be magnetic to feet but we need to put the toes into the shoe first.

“I am little!”
“I know but you’re growing every day.”
“I am blue!”
“Oh dear. Really? What’s the matter lovie?”
“I am a boy.”
“Don’t you like being a boy?”
“Put em all togevver!”
“Put what altogether?”
He grabs the shoe horn, sticks it in him mouth again and makes a raspberry noise. He collapses on the floor in guffaws of laughter. After quite a long while he recovers, and sits upright to tell me “Little boy blue, come blow up yur horn!” but only briefly, as he falls backwards, still laughing.

Little Boy Blue poem

Little Boy Blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow the cow's in the corn.
But where's the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under a haystack fast asleep.
Will you wake him? No, not I - for if I do, he's sure to cry

* I have a tremendous respect for this woman, as I had a great deal to learn.

I become intolerable

One of my children plays away on a Friday afternoon, so I only have two of mine and two others for the play date. Two boys down stairs, two girls upstairs, that is the overall plan.

I’ve been borderline before, but now I’m teetering on the edge. I already knew that she was an assertive child. Although she exudes confidence I know that the truth is otherwise. Aged 8 she comes to play with my 10 year old daughter. She is two months older than my son.

I drive them all home. The girls chat in the back of the car.

“Your car is huge.”
“Yeah. My Dad bought it for my mom for a Christmas present.” I decide not to mention it, that it was a replacement car that happened to arrive at Christmas.
“Geez, you must be real rich!”
This is how the myth survives.

“Why is he all……you know……floppy?” she asks me.
“He’s tired, it’s been a long day for him.” I avoid the subject of poor core body strength and vestibular issues.
“He looks all…….you know……weird.”
“Tired! Aren’t you dear?” I say by mistake. Should I have mentioned that 'weird' is a banned word?
“Why isn’t he answering. Hey you! Your mom asked you a question.”
“It’s ok, he’s tired. He doesn’t usually talk at the end of the day. He needs a rest.”
“A rest?”
I want to shout ‘drop it!

The boys giggle and squirm together in the back of the car.

“What are they laughing at? Hey, whataya laughin at?”
“They’re just a bit wiggly after school,” I offer weakly but my daughter adds her support, “you know……boys! They can be kinda silly sometimes, just let em do their thing.”
“But they’re so loud! What’s so funny?”
I don’t want to explain that his word bank is exhausted, so I distract instead.
“What are you going to play when we get home girls?”

Once home the boys are out and gone in a flash. The girls saunter into the house, “eeoow! What is that?”
“Oh dear. I think one of the cats must have had an accident. Looks like he’s been eating grass again.”

I rummage under the kitchen sink for equipment.

In the family room I set about cleaning up. She stands over me as I crouch on the carpet scrubbing, “eeow! Are you going to clean that up?”
I lift my eyes to her face which is screwed up in an expression of disgust. Sarcasm tickles the edges of my lips but I resist, “why don’t you two go and play upstairs together?”

They move off, into another room but I can hear their conversation.
“Say it again!” she teases.
“Monna Ray Bay.”
“Hee, hee! He called in Monna Ray Bay! He got it wrong!”
“Das o.k. I know it’s ‘Monterey Bay’ but I like Monna Ray Bay betterer.” He grins at his pal, two guys back from a school field trip. He slips his arm around his wordless pal’s shoulders. One grin reflected back by the other. I nip back with my Marigold clad hands, “why don’t you girls go upstairs and play?”

I hear the cat retching and dash back to the family room.
I hear my son slurping milk.
“Does he always do that?” she asks my daughter.
“Yeah, but it’s o.k., he's jus real thirsty, he’s not doing any harm huh?”
“That’s gross! My mom would kill me if I did that!” I hear him wander away from the table, soft, irregular foot falls.
“Excuse me! I wouldn’t jump on that tramoplene after that huge glass of milk, you may throw up!” I hear him bounce as he gradually picks up a rhythm. Well done! Great coping skills! Wordless self regulation.
“D’you hear me? I said you’re gonna throw up! Jus like the cat!”

Bounce, bounce, bounce. Good boy! Where is the dividing line between assertive and bossy?

I finish up but the cat still looks a little green around the gills. I whip open the door and park him on a garden chair. I dash back inside and skid to a halt near the trampolene.
“O.k. I think he must have some kind of speech thing,” she announces to the room as she stares at my son. I put a hand on the shoulder of each girl and propel them towards the table.
“D’you know I have a friend who has epilepsy?”
“Really?” I watch him bounce out of the corner of my eye.
“Yeah and she has allergies and asthma and all sorts.”
“Really?” When we’re 15 paces away he stops bouncing to sit on the edge of the trampolene. He and his pal exchange wordless glances.
“I can’t remember how many things she’s allergic to though.”
“Here, have a Satsuma,” I deflect. Maybe if I can fill her mouth with something....
“Sat what?”
“Satsuma. They’re very easy to peel. Try one, you might like them?”
“The orange things?”
“That’s right.”
“I have a rule.”
“You do?” Somehow that doesn't surprise me.
“Yeah. If I eat bananas then they have to be cut up for me first.”
“Really?” He flops back on the trampolene, a soft pliant body at rest.
“Is this our snack?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got anything else?”
“Afraid not.”
“Can I stay for supper………..please?” My son sits upright, like a ramrod, across the room, wordless. His pal flinches.
“Not tonight I’m afraid, I think your mother has other plans.” The ramrod wilts and expires back into his original position. His pal lolls over, inert on the sofa.
“Can she stay for a sleepover tonight Mom, please?”
I watch him rip off his shirt, roll off the tramplene onto the floor and cover his head, nose buried in the carpet fibres.
“Er… it’s a little short notice dear, maybe another time.” A huge sigh wafts out of my son as his arms flop out to the side.
“Eeoww, he’s taken his shirt off. Why d’ya take yur shirt off?”
“He’s hot. Let’s leave them both be, and you girls go up and play.”
“We’re just gonna finish our snack here.”

I go over to my son and his pal, “come on guys, lets leave the girls in peace and go and play in the family room. It’s clean now.” We bumble off together.

I put of box of bricks over the damp patch and sit on the carpet next to sack of Pokemon.

They lie on the floor surrounded by pictures of Pokemons that he and his brother made yesterday, carefully, painstakingly and then cut out. This is a feat of unsurpassed manual dexterity, determination and motivation. They turn the paper figures around in their hands making soft little Pokemon noises together, gentle communication. No words. They giggle and grin. I watch and listen. I watch her walk up to him and pounce,
“They’re evil! There! I’ve killed them all!” I stop watching her as she stamps all over the papers. I jump to my feet as I watch them and their mystified faces.

I take a breath. This is not my child, merely a child in my temporary care. My son rolls up in a very small and silent ball. His friend is static, watching. I don’t really want to explain the inexplicable to an 8 year old in front of the boys. I hunker down and touch her arm to turn her towards me, “you know, I think you have hurt their feelings…..quite badly……..look.” She looks at the curve of his exposed vertebrae.
“I din mean to,” she offers and I think she probably means it.
I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind, “it’s o.k. for people to like and dislike different things.” It’s one of my many, more nauseating statements, that I say hundreds of times a day. If I known that I would be saying so often, I would have chosen a better statement. Once the words leave my mouth it is as if they are carved in stone.

When would any one need to use such a trite statement? Why is it so hard to explain? How can my choice or preference be so upsetting for someone else? An example, may, help.

For years I wore the same old ratty T-shirts and jeans, a mummy uniform but for different reasons. If I wore something else it would upset the boys. A few years ago I would have become unrecognizable just by this one change. It doesn’t really matter what I wear, it will smell differently, or maybe rustle. Sometimes, especially if I’ve not planned ahead, he may need to chew the hem of my shirt to calm himself but not if it feels strange in his mouth. There might be static electricity. The texture and colour will be different. A button, zip or snap fastener may offend, especially if we come in to physical contact, which we frequently do. If I take off my glasses, who am I? Even a pair of earrings can be too sparkly or distracting.

All these things caused tremendous meltdowns. We did have an inkling of some of the issues but when words started to come, the picture became less blurry. More intuitive parents fare better. We used this annoying phrase to try and build tolerance and chip away at their rigid rules.

These days, so many years later, their ability to put up with their wayward parents is quite astonishing.

It makes a welcome change to use this phrase now, to someone else and probably, for the first time.......... entirely appropriately.

A growing trend – whoever you are?

It’s the fifth time I’ve seen it in 12 years in the States. I’ve never seen it in England but I’m not there very much any more. I stand by my trolly with my daughter in Trader Joes supermarket and watch, just like everybody else. I see a youngster, a boy, run from one end of the frozen food counter to the other, 30 feet, but he treds on the frozen food. His face is elated and his body is very nimble. My children have not done this. Maybe he is acting out, punishing his parent? Perhaps he is oblivious to social norms or flaunting them deliberately, there is no way to tell. I look around for his parent.

I see her swift movements with a face that’s a mask that masks nothing. She’s calm, almost nonchalant, as she heaves 60 pounds of child off the end of the freezer section. Trader Joes is a chain, a franchise. There are several options in a 25 mile radius. I expect that she visits them in turn. I imagine that she probably doesn’t take her son with her unless there are no other options.
Her rhino hide is impressive. She probably doesn’t notice, but I beam her anyway. How can one not beam such people?

mon - Indoor fireworks

All children squabble, it’s perfectly normal.

I chop onions in the kitchen, frenetic supper production during 30 minutes electronics but I’m only six steps away from them in the family room. The children lined up on the sofa, devices in hands.

“Static electricity!” he squalks.
“Stop buggin me!"
“Static electricity!” He rolls round and around on the couch wrapped in the new fake fur blanket.
“It’s impossible to beat those bats! It’s soooo annoying!” she moans at her Gameboy.
“How much wood can a wood chuck chuck,” he guffaws.
“Stop it with the baby talk you guys! Ow! What was that?”
“Not baby talk…..tongue twister time! Dat is be dah spark.” Good grief! Answering to questions one right after another without missing a beat?
“Spark? Be quiet! Stop making the baby noises!”
“Mom……she bin done call me…..baby!” Even the delivery is perfect! The tone! The whine! Bliss.
“No! don’t tattle tale on me you baby! Ow! What is that?”
“I not tat, I tongue twist! I be tell you already……static electricity.” Bless his little cotton socks, responding to two questions! Hold that thought! Both of them.
“Fine! Just stop it, it hurts. Just be quiet. Do you think you might possibly be able to do that for more than a nano second, just quit it already,” she wheedles, loaded with sarcasm.
“Hey Mom! She’s bin psychotic to me!”
“Psychotic? You mean sarcastic! Baby!”
“Dat too.”

I shuffle over to the family room and peer into the gloom as he takes his next roll in the leopard fur, sputtering blue sparks.

“See, dey are bin fireworks……inside.”

The subtly of language! I think I’m glad about that. I think.

Sun - Spelling Bee or hangman

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times [a day!] Those electronic game devices are the scourge of my life. However, they are the single most motivating force in the boys’ lives.

It’s hard to pin point which feature is most annoying: the irritating, monotonous tunes that jangle through my brain, the inability of anyone to wear a set of head phones, the squeaks and yells that they utter continuously whilst playing, their meltdowns of frustration as the fight their way up the learning curve of a new game or new level,

Then today, what do I find? I find that the wireless feature, that we parents have been unable to locate, utilize or translate, they discover for themselves. As if this isn’t proof enough of their innate abilities, we also learn that they are willing to communicate, one to the other. One draws a little picture with a word or two of description, or a message and then pings it across to the other one. The other one roars with laughter and then returns the favour. Facilitated communication, reciprocal something or other and a whole heap for fun for them both.

Their willingness to communicate in this manner is unprecedented. I am stunned into awestruck silence as I watch them ping back and forth. This heady experience has me dumbstruck until I’m prompted by “how you are spell?”
“How do you spell what dear?”
“How you are spell ‘room.’?”
I oblige.
“How you are spell?”
“How do you spell what dear?” The all essential and most elusive skill of referencing back is still missing. Will always be missing. They will never ever put the clue in the question.
“How you are spell ‘thank you’?”
I oblige. He opens his mouth to ask another one but I jump right in, “you know instead of saying two sentences, you can just say one and get the answer quicker.”

He looks at me blankly, too many words to process. I try again.
“You could say ‘how to you spell……’ and then fill in the blank?”
“Fill in the blank? I am not wanting blank?” I bite my lip.
“No……how do you spell Torchic or Treecko or Mudkip. You add the word you want to spell to the question.”
“I am not want spell doze words.” I grab a pad of paper and a pencil. For some reason the written word so often works, where the spoken word is indecipherable. I write it down for my visual learner with dodgy auditory processing skills. He reads with care. I wait.

“So what do you want to spell now?”

He spells it out to me, word by word, syllable by syllable, just to make it clear.
“Er……how you be…….can I be spell……how you are spell….B..I..N..G..O!” he blasts before rolling on the floor in guffaws of laughter.

Oh the misery of it all.

The Day of Rest

My daughter spends the morning at an Easter Egg hunt. Her father slumbers upstairs with a combination of a migraine and jet lag of uncertain proportional percentages. I hover by the coffee machine but take a different option. I curl up with two boys who are under the weather, off colour and not quite themselves, following a week of fever.

One burrows his medicine ball head into my thigh, powerful and needy but more than merely proprioceptive input. The little one permits me to put an arm around his waist, well away from the danger area above his shoulders. No-one says a word, snug and silent for a change. I debate whether to commence word extraction? My finger circles the palm of his hand in idleness. It reminds me of the baby game, 'Round and Round the Garden, like a teddy bear.......' a game that has never been fun, a banned game. Such a commonplace little pastime. Such an impossible hurdle. The words 'teddy bear' were always a certain trigger for a meltdown. I had to substitute different words and remove the tickle. 'Little hare' was feeble. A fingertip to the nose instead of a tickle, was also in the reject box, just as you would expect from someone with sensory issues. I don't dab at his nose with a tissue because I learned that lesson a long time ago. I see the moisture glisten, untouched and undisturbed, reluctant to break the peaceful spell. His finger nudges mine, his head nods encouragement, his eyes send a mixed message. I begin circling again, gently walk my fingers up his forearm, upper arm, shoulder, pause on his chin and then to fingerprint his nose.

He giggles.

Is seven years too late?

Maybe I should have used permanent ink?


Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Reciprocal Exchange."

Photo Op for an old battleaxe

I notice an alarming new trend. Some little thief keeps pinching the digital camera. The result? When I load a new batch of photos onto the computing I come face to face with this tattered old woman, the poster child for "frownies." She always has the same slightly blurred expression, one claw hand extended in a reach to snaffle back the ownership of the camera.

In an ideal world, this is a battle I should win because he is snapping photos whilst running backwards. Meanwhile I shall continue to fight my attitude if it continues to be captured on celluloid.

Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "For Frantic Parents."

Sing your heart out Peggy Lee

It’s tempting just to shriek. It’s a simple enough question afterall; “will you be home for supper?” This is information I need in advance, from all six of us. Everyone has plans but no-one can be nailed down to a time table even if a hammer was available.

No-one understands.

You can’t take two sick children to the supermarket. You can’t announce to everyone “we still have to eat you know!”

It’s one of those annoying illnesses, the kind that lingers for day upon day. The predominant symptom is a temperature, a fever. It’s the kind of fever that hovers around 99 degrees for a blink or two, but then reverts to normal. Each child needs one full fever free day before returning to school. After the 99 degree temperature is duly noted, each child proceeds to swing from the rafters with glee for the remainder of the day, well within the confines of ‘normal.’

Two little boys celebrate the semi permanent status of ‘no school.’ Other people scowl with discontent, indefinite menus and outstanding chores, as the efficiency standards plummet.

My primary concern is to guard the safety of the 5 laundry hampers at the top of the stairs. Hours of work, carefully folded and ready for return to their destination, should time allow. Without due diligence, the contents will be tossed so that the hampers can be requisitioned as ‘boats.’ Wooden spoons will be stolen as ‘oars.’

My secondary concern is to produce a dinner for an indeterminate number of bodies by 7 in the evening.

Whilst it would be true to report that two smallish people don’t eat much whilst under the influence, theoretically, nutritious meals should be provided regardless, if only to aid recovery. It is difficult to prepare nutritious meals in the company of two small people in need of entertainment and distraction, even if you have all day within which to prepare.

No one period of 3 or 5 minutes appears to be sufficient for efficient brain function from the chef. The half peeled potato seems lonely and irrelevant. What was the melted butter for again? Why did I chop an onion? Why did I leave the soup out to thaw? Do any of these things fit together? How do they fit together? Why is that greased casserole dish sitting there so guilty?

When he phones to warn me of his imminent return home, I’m tempted to tell him to stay at work.
“What’s up?”
“What’s up? I haven’t managed to do anything today, let alone make supper!” I dislike my nervy tone.
“Pull something out of the freezer. The fridge is overflowing!” I endure a pause, pregnant with festering vitriol. I am uncomfortably aware of the truth of these two facts.
“Well……. how about I pick up a take out on the way home?”

Horray! Now why didn’t I think of that?

I climb the stairs and gently tip out the laundry. I lean each pile against the wall. They look a little unstable so I tilt them back a bit in my favour and stack the five empty hampers together. I skip downstairs with my hoard of treasure, grab a handful of wooden spoons to a chorus of “Chips Ahoy!” from two land bound potential sailors.