Definitions

I cut off bite sized chunks of my anchovy and tomato sandwich as I contemplate. Junior contents himself with a book, “Alphabet Mystery.” Part of the trouble with the label ‘non-verbal’ is that in many instances, it isn’t what it seems to be. By non-verbal, one assumes that the person in question, does not communicate with words, or alternatively, communicating with words is not their first choice. The latter definition, vague though it may be, would be a better description of the kind of speech delay that my boys have. Senior’s speech is more halting or sporadic, interspersed with long periods of silence. Fortunately those periods of silence are much shorter that a few years back.

Back then, a day or two might pass without a word being uttered.





He’d communicate by gesture or mime. It did worry me, [very much] because when he did ‘chose’ to speak, he used long words, way beyond what might expect from a child so young. You doubt me? I do too to be frank, and obviously I can’t recall his lines verbatim, but this would be a rough quote;
‘I like Tyrannosaurus Rexes but I prefer [yes, ‘prefer’ not ‘like better’] Lambiosaurus because they are herbivores, but you can call them plant eaters if you like.’

The echolalia was a different issue. [translation = simply put, an ability to repeat long sentences exactly like an echo]

This is why I take such an unnatural amount of pleasure when they do choose to speak. [translation = in between the times that I’m begging for them all to be quiet, of course.] It’s also part of the reason that I have become so sneaky and underhand, as I tip toe about trying to ear wig. Generally speaking, if you hear some unusual speech pattern emerging, or rather ’being voiced’ it’s handy to have a quick check list available so that you don’t get your hopes up too high too fast. Firstly you should run a scan over all media input that they have been exposed to in the last six months, as it is highly likely that they’re just repeating some fascinating line that they’ve picked up and are now perseverating upon. [translation = probably the most annoying of annoying new phrases] So when you hear your child ‘talking’ get as close as you can without being visible and then run through the following options.
The rules of the ‘non’ verbal
- talk to an imaginary friend or person but not in a pretend manner [highly unlikely]
- talk to somebody, a real person [possible and probable in some instances]
- talk to a ‘thing’ / ‘something,’ that is technically inadequate, but not in a pretend manner [ more likely]
- don’t talk at all [ most likely]

I would hope that this tick sheet would save you a lot of disappointment.
Meanwhile, in conclusion we can say that speech delays, when coupled with autism, make a heady mix for the unwary and naïve, such as myself. Speech therapy and professional teachers, make no end of headway with both my boys. It may well be true, that the subtle nuances of the English language will always escape them………......................…excuse me, someone is poking me in the ribs…………….
“Don’t do that dear it hurts!”
“Sorree, but I am needing your hand.” I give him my hand, but he starts scribbling on it with a felt pen. [translation = marker]
“Don’t do that you big mucker.”
“I not ‘mucker’ I ‘writer.’”
“What is it that you’re trying to write and why do you want to write it on my hand?”
“I am wanting to write ‘x’s because you smell too badly to have kisses.”

A new partner every night – in flagrante delicto SATURDAY

It's pitch black when he steps near the bed and snaps on the light to find us.
"Don't say a word!" I command, "it's not my fault," I plead.
“No! I’m not complaining! I was just going to comment, that’s all.”
“Well if you were home a bit sooner it wouldn’t have to be this way!”
“Can I help it if we’re in ‘tape-out’?”
“You know your business dear, but all work and no play can lead to some rather alarming developments!”
"So I work whilst you play."
"Depends upon your definition of 'play?'"
“But when you work for a ‘start-up’ company, you know that the hours are going to be long.”
“There’s ‘long’ and there’s ‘never released for time served!”
“Even so!”
“Well what’s a woman supposed to do? Going to bed alone every night.”
“I know, but it’s not as if you’re lonely. Or are you?”
“Me! Lonely! Perish the thought. I long to be lonely..”
“Yet, every night when I get home, when I get to bed, there they are, another one, another someone in your,….. sorry ‘our’ bed. We need to discuss this?”
“There’s nothing wrong, you’re just not here. When you’re not here, there’s an empty place in the bed. Nature abhors a vacuum!”
“Well, it’s all very disconcerting this business, I never know what to expect. It can affect a man you know. Several nights running now.”
“I know. What can I say in my defense? I am weak willed.” With a touch of pneumonia to boot.
“Is this some kind of Catholic sin of the flesh that I don’t know about? Too many years in a convent?”
“Atheism can protect you from a lot of things!”
“Does he have a pull- up on?”
“He does.”
“I’ll park him back in his own bed then shall I?”
“It’s probably for the best.”
“Right.”
“I’ll check on the others whilst I’m at it, afterall it’s not 2 a.m yet.”
“True. Only 1:15 a.m. Quite early really!’
“Indeed.”

Pneumonia – the end and the beginning

I stagger back from the doctor’s office where spouse is holding the fort. “So do you think we should explain to them why you’re malfunctioning?”
“Malfunctioning! I’m just ill, that’s all. I’ll be as right as rain once the anti-biotics kick in.”
“That wouldn’t be a very helpful explanation to them though, would it? You’d get yourself in no end of trouble explaining it like that, you’ll need to re-phrase it.”
“Yes, you’re right. Keep it simple. Any ideas?”
“You’re always better at explaining than I am.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Spouse gathers the troops so that I can preserve oxygen. I explain with a big smile on my face. I await questions, hoping that there won’t be any......................

“Why it is new? Why it not old?” sparks the literal one.
“Not ‘new’ dear, it’s pneu – here let me write it down for you.”
“Pneu! That is the stoopid one. Silent ‘n’s are in ‘gnat’ and ‘gnaw’ and oh! That’s right! You are not the bad one afterall. ‘Pneu’ is in ‘pneumatic’ too. You are not the big fat lying one! I am forgiving your stoopids.”
In confirmation he darts behind me, lifts my shirt to plant a kiss of compensation in the small of my back.

“You are ill? You are dead?” queries the anxious one.
“No, I’m not dead dear, just ill.”
“Not dead?”
“No. Not dead.”
“When you are dead den?”
His sister intervenes as I become short of breath,
“Remember, nobody dies until they’re at least 90 and that’s ages away.” What can I say? Ninety seemed like a good compromise at the time.
“19! 19? 19! iz not a big number. 19 is a small number. I hate it, it’s bad, I don won you to be deaded.”
“Not 19, 90 you stewpid head, why don’t you ever listen properly,” she bellows because this conversation seems to be upsetting for everyone.
I put one arm around her and pull her in close even though I should probably correct her.

“Now listen! Do you remember the blue tape?” I point the kitchen cabinet where handy reference photographs accumulate. It depicts the conclusion to this same debate six months ago when we experienced difficulties with 'time and death.'
Since it is a recurring theme, I thought it best to keep handy.
It shows blue masking tape running from the kitchen to the stairs,
marked with numerals from 0 to 99.
It is a magic visual cure for this particular anxiety,
or at least it is for now.

Sometimes you just wish you’d never
started in the first place.
Maybe I should have avoided this whole
quagmire and stuck with ‘malfunctioning.'

Conversation piece

I clean the toilet. At the age of 46 I can admit that two years ago I was uncertain how many sides a dodecahedron had? I can also admit, that it was my four year old that caused me to wonder. A speech delay combined with autism makes for any number of misunderstandings and confusions. How can a child point out incorrect pronunciation of a Pokemon character, too subtle to be understood by elderly years, and yet simultaneously, that same child is unable to remember the word 'cup?'

I use bleach and ignore the screaming environment. As usual I am a vision of loveliness, jeans, T-shirt and yellow Marigolds. A small and persistent person, is close by, watching my progress after his latest 'oopsie, too late, oh well, never mind, better luck next time.'

I resolve to be more careful about what new mantra I install in them next time. I scrub, flush, rinse and cleanse. His nasal tones reach my ears. Although he is always nasal, this time he is more nasal than usual, because his nostrils are pinched closed to protect them from the bleach fumes. “What is your favourite shape Mummy?”
“Er, I think probably a circle.” It is unusual for him to be close by whilst I am performing this kind of task, he is almost 'chummy.' [translation = unusually friendly]
“Wot abow trapezoids, don you like dem too?” He doesn't usually engage me in 'casual conversation.'
“I do like them, I just prefer circles.”
“You don like parallelograms too?” O.k. maybe not 'casual conversation' per se, as this is one of his preferred topics, but he still has to tolerate the fumes to remain here and chat to me.
“I do, it’s just that I like circles best.” I think we might be having a reciprocal conversation?
“Oh. What is your favourite tertiary colour?” How many exchanges is that? Why is he still here? Why hasn't he given up yet and left me stranded in mid- 'conversation' like he usually does? Just as I begin to think that we might really be having a conversation is usually the same moment that he disappears, whilst I'm in mid-sentence.


“What’s yours?”
“Brown, because it is the colour of chocolate and that is my favourite food too.”
"Well, that's lovely. Thank you for telling me that. You're getting to be such a great helper. I love how you use your words these days." I turn to face his blue eyes, eyes where the pupils are focused on mine. I move to one side so he can flush, perform his 'helper' duty.
"Daz o.k. I love how you ......you......you are dah great cleanerer!" His hands move from his nose to cover his ears in anticipation, of the Niagara flush.

Oral Defensiveness

Some days after the truffle debacle, [see previous posting] I learn something scientific. When the weather is cold, ganache, when mixed with toasted hazelnuts and spittle, reformulates it’s molecules into cement. Conversely, when the central heating is on, wafts of chocolate permeate the air, goblets liquefy and form steady rivulets down the furniture and walls.

I am also reminded of a rule that I have known about for approximately 5 years. Although a flavour may be preferred, when it competes with texture, texture always wins. It is hard to describe the emotions that run through a mother’s heart and brain as one observes the conflict. Good mothers exhibit horror and concern at the agony inflicted on the child. Lesser beings endeavour to suppress giggles. I must admit to taking no ameliorative action, merely let the experience run it’s course. It’s is hard to reason, contain or communicate with someone who emits sparks whilst dancing on red hot coals.

Mastication is not one of Junior’s strong suits. His jaw muscles are on the feeble side, and his lip closure is non existent, except on high days and holidays. Aversive textures when introduced into the oral cavity, have the effect of provoking him into a spectacular ‘rain dance.’ If there is any doubt in my mind that this aversion is likely to be resolved in the near future, I only have to watch this battle with my own eyes.

His nose and mouth register the delightful flavour of chocolate. So finely honed are these senses that he is able to detect whether or not the chocolate is Swiss or Belgium. Both varieties are acceptable. Anything else is not, although we are making strenuous strides in the Ghiradelli department. So the taste buds are cooperating, but the receptors that register texture are rebelling. Hazelnuts, toasted or otherwise, have texture, a ‘bitty,’ granular texture, that is difficult to ignore. He is able to differentiate between the two but not separate them. If the ratio of ganache to hazelnuts is approximately 60:40, the average mouth would be hard pressed to separate one from the other. A substandard mouth, is overwhelmed with competing messages; ‘Texture! Spit it out! Yummy chocolate! Swallow now!’ Not an easy one to resolve for the best of us.

How does this conflict manifest itself? Well obviously we have to have a great deal of screams, as word formation is lower on the hierarchy. He needs to ensure that the volume of screaming, approximates the agony that he is suffering, namely loud.

When something is attacking you, the best ploy is to run away. Whilst this may be the lowest common denominator, it is also a sound theory. Not a very effective one in this particular instance, but that aside, running all over the house screaming trying to escape from your mouth, smacks of a basic internal logic.

Admittedly his fingertips are very sensitive, but they can on occasions, if pressured, also be very brave. Hence it is a good idea for him to use his fingers to help empty his mouth. Although he practices spitting regularly, he’s still not very good at it. If your spitting powers are inadequate, you end up with whatever you have expelled from your mouth, all over your chin and front. Making raspberry noises to assist with elimination, is a great variation on a theme, but ultimately ineffective.

Fortunately we are in a modern house with faucets, so cleansing his mouth under the running water is a great proactive gesture. The drowning, screaming, gurgling noises take a little getting used to, but it’s all moving in the right direction. Once the wet chocolate covered clothes have been removed he is in a more vulnerable situation. At this stage he resorts to electric chicken noises, an indication that he is about to reach the peak of his endurance. I hand him a wash cloth soaked in tepid water. He stuffs it in his mouth and collapses on the kitchen floor. His rib cage rises and falls, but the rest of him is a rag doll. When his breathing returns to something that approximates normal, he unplugs his mouth to say,

“you know, I am too tired to do dah deal.”
“What deal?”
“Dah dealing of dah cleaning dah spit truffle.”
would like to follow through. I should follow through. I should make him clean it up, or at least try to clean it up. He rolls over on the hardwood floor into a foetal position. He is asleep in seconds.

It’s an exhausting life, this food business.

Post script – should anyone find that they are sniggering, please leave your details, as I may need to call upon your indulgence, as a character witness for my next interview with the Child Protection League.

Keep it simple Stupid!

Over the years I have learned a great deal by trial and error, predominantly error. Mistakes are great because those are the lessons that you learn best and never forget. Two immediately come to mind. If you fail to pierce Chestnuts when you bake them , they will explode and make the oven impossible to clean. It also traumatizes the feline population. In a similar vein, there is no point in trying to pierce the yolk of an egg, if you want to cook it in the microwave. It doesn’t matter whether you remember this step of not; if the egg explodes it is inedible, if it stays in tact it is also inedible.

In my new life I have learned to simplify my life, lessons and language, to basically use less words. Although I have a tendency to overlook this fundamental.

Junior appears at my side, as I am knee deep in chocolate, making truffles. He sniffs with melodrama and sighs winsomely,
“Ah I can smell it I fink.”
“Good.”
“What you do?”
“I’m making chocolate truffles.”
“I am loving dem. What is dah ‘truffles’?”
“Candy.”
“I love dah candy truffles.”
“No you don’t, they have nuts in them.” He gasps in horror and simultaneously clamps his hands over his mouth.
“I fink I might be liking them anyways.”
“Nope, peanuts are poison remember.” I am cruel to remind him of his screaming mantra.
“Dey are peanut candy truffles?”
‘No. Actually they’re toasted hazelnut ones, but you hate ‘toast’ remember. ‘Toast’ is ‘burning fire’ if I recall correctly.” Too many words! He gasps and clamps again, enveloped in wafts of ganache.
“Peanuts are poison, hazelnuts are…..they are……not da peanuts.”
“They’ll still be ‘bitty.’ Can’t have ‘bitty’ can you, you might melt, or whatever it is you do.”
“I am not melting with dah bits, I am spitting with the bits.”
“Fair enough, I stand corrected.”
“You are not standing you are, what you are? Oh yes, you are slouching.” Deportment is everything!
“Well that’s as maybe, but if you think I’m going to be cleaning up chocolate nutty spit for the next half an hour you’ve go another thing coming my boy!”
“How about dah compromise?”
“Pardon?”
“If I am dah brave one wiv dah bitty hazelnuts, den I will be cleaning up my own spit if dey are poison?”


He is offering to
a] try new food and
b] sterilize the aftermath!

Sounds like a deal to me. High five.

Tactile Defensiveness

Well what do we think about this concept? In a nutshell! It’s a right pain in the bottom, or more accurately, in the finger tips, especially the preferred hand’s index finger, the imaginary balloon that encompasses his head, from the shoulders up, and particularly the mouth, both exterior and interior. That is quite a high percentage of body to avoid.




I mean, if you have to be a wimp, why can’t your sensitive spots be located somewhere more convenient? How about in-between the shoulder blades? Not much traffic there. That would be ideal, especially if you are male and won’t have to fiddle with bra closures later in life.
Who could have arranged this design fault?
Who can I complain to?
Where do I send the relocation request?






There again, it’s not just the sensitivities themselves, more his reaction to them, or rather the over-reaction. I’d be happy enough to deal with reasonably articulate objections; “mother dearest, I’d just like to mention that this new T-shirt has several flaws that I’d like to draw your attention to, in the hope that you will be willing to assist me in minimizing, not to say eliminating, their annoyingness.” I would also readily accept the American version of the same request, since we are a bilingual family: “Hey mom, ken yer fix this T-shirt? It’s really buggin me!” Though why insects feature quite so prominently in American conversations, is quite beyond me. But I could deal with that. No problem, only too happy to help. But no. Instead of a logical treatise, we have a fit of the screaming ab dabs.
[translation = …….I await your input?]


Part of the problem is the misleading label. The ‘tactile’ bit, might suggest that you are defensive about things that you touch. This is true. To ‘defend’ yourself, you simply do not touch things, any things, ever. However, there is the flip side – things touch you. You can defend yourself from things that want to come and touch you, by explaining that you would prefer not to be touched. When the non-verbal become less so, and begin to be more proactive, you can see this clearly demonstrated, when he takes the stance of a question mark and screams expletives at the wind that is ruffling his hair. Difficult to explain to the casual onlooker, but we’re used to that in any case. Perhaps he should be renamed Canute?

There again we are trying to keep
away from monarchical
references now that we are citizens.

At least I know that not 'all' of him
is similarly afflicted!

Counting

So come along now. Humour me for a moment. How many times do you change your clothes in any 24 hour period? Yes, I know that there might be a few variables in there. Depends upon which day you’re talking about because Wednesday is gym day. [translation = attend ‘work –out’ place] On Thursdays you go to see a film. On Friday you might meet a few pals in the evening. Perhaps, if it’s Winter, you forget your umbrella. You might experience a downpour. Life is full of little unexpecteds, as well as plans, that mean a change of clothes may be needed.

Laundry occupies more of my life than I anticipated. It's hard not to notice, as it's stacked in heaps all over the house. I have a tendency to complain about this job a good deal. I am very good at it, complaining that is, not laundry. When it comes to moaning, I have a head start on my contemporaries, because Brits are of a pessimistic nature. Where your American glass is half full, ours is definitely half empty. Indeed somebody probably stole the contents. Furthermore, when we find out who that somebody was, we’ll remove their outer clothing, put itching powder in their underwear, and tie them to a lamppost. I suspect this kind of behaviour hasn’t spread to America, due to a shortage of lampposts, as itching powder is freely available. I’ve checked. When it comes to prioritizing appropriate punishments, then public humiliation comes pretty high on the list. But I digress.

One average family can produce quite a lot of laundry. If you ignore the matter of wet beds, mop up towels, bath towels and the big stuff, you're still left with considerable quantities of clothing. This is especially so, in Winter where more clothes are worn. Not only more clothes but they bigger ones, ones with a greater surface area due to long sleeves and legs. Socks become a necessity rather than an optional extra. Outer wear, in the form of jackets, coats, gloves and hats, also feature. All these items become dirty.

If they remained on people’s bodies for longer than a nano second, it is just conceivable that they might become dirty on the inside. Fortunately for us, such an occurrence is rare. Instead they become dirty on the outside, often.

This is not because they are particularly naughty, they are only averagely naughty. Indeed it is quite often when they are trying especially hard to be ‘good,’ that they make the most dirt. We have reached the stage of development where occasionally, if I’m very lucky, someone might be persuaded to ‘help.’ Helping is a messy business, mainly due to the inefficiency of physically moving parts of the body, such as arms, legs and hands. On the whole these body parts refuse to act in concert, instead they prefer to work independently from one another, causing no end of chaos, angst and dirt.

Since teaching ‘competence,’ is also an ongoing campaign, the net result is of course, more laundry. This household is an ecological disaster area. If the environmentalists ever discover how much water and soap we use, we’re likely to be deported to some remote island. There again, a remote island might not be too fussy about nudity. I could kill two birds with one cake of soap. Pass me a map somebody.

ABA and aversions

A few years back junior had a strong aversion to water. This was odd for someone who also had a compulsion to be squeaky clean. I might describe it as an aversion to being wet, but that would not be accurate. If a droplet of water fell on his clothing, he would not be ‘wet,’ but he would be naked in a nano second. Taking your clothes off regardless of your whereabouts, might be mildly amusing if you are very small, a toddler say. It is less funny, depending upon which continent you are on, when you are bigger, in a public forum and in a cold season.

When we moved to this house, junior had yet to be born. The one thing I wanted in a home was a big kitchen. The one thing I did not want was a swimming pool. At home only millionaires and movie stars have pools. My hormone filled, pregnant brain knew that a pool was a bad idea. How would I clean it? What if it leaked? What if somebody drowned?

Two or three summers ago we discovered that the pool was ‘safe’ for junior. He wouldn’t go near it. This was consistent with his aversion to water. By chance, midway into the season, he discovered that when the water reached 98 degrees, the pool was fun. It was not the water itself, but the temperature that he objected to. This was confirmed when September came and the temperature dipped below the critical 98 degrees. That was it, he reverted to type and nothing would persuade him to put so much as a toe in it. During this time, swimming sessions were combined with a shower to clean off on completion. Dressing thereafter was pretty optional. All my children were extremely clean for several months.
At the end of the first week of September, it occurred to me, that junior hadn’t been near a shower or bath for 7 days. He would not use the shower in the house and had forgotten that once upon a time, he enjoyed baths. By the end of the second week I was getting worried. He was getting smelly. I asked spouse to help, that perhaps they could have a shower together, as slippery small people require super human strength. It was not a successful exercise for anyone. After the ‘shower’ he did have a few damp bits but this merely served to redistribute the dirt and add a considerable quantity of snot to his person as he howled in rage and frustration.
At that time he was only at ‘school’ for two and a half hours a day, which gave me lots of time to strategize. We adopted a different approach. A very, very slow approach. This might be more accurately described as ‘de-sensitization.’ He was still ‘Thomas’ obsessed at the time. We made the unprecedented step of playing with Thomas upstairs, on the landing for 20 minute periods. Gradually we edged closer to the bathroom. Once in the bathroom at the furthest distance from the bath itself, we tip toed closer. When the other’s were bathing, we would play with Thomas close by on the carpet, which meant that he observed the ‘fun’ they were having, and was occasionally splashed. Day after day, week after week.
We played Thomas in the empty bath, touched the taps, rolled the wheels along the side. We had other preferred activities in the bath; snacks, reading and drawing with markers. It took forever. Each progressive step caused meltdowns and genuine angst for everyone. He was so filthy you could have chipped off a crust of dirt with a chisel. By Christmas, we got there, toe by toe, inch by inch.

What did I learn from this experience? That I left it too long to start. I should have recognized the problem immediately, not let things lag for a week or two hoping that it would go away. My lack of action merely made the aversion become truly entrenched. Even now I need to remind myself that even though ‘water’ is part of the problem, it is coupled with the ‘temperature problem.’ I know that they do not have a ‘will of iron,’ instead they have an ‘aversion.’

Aversions cannot be tricked, they are real. I also know that whilst we are in steady state as far as bathing is concerned at the moment, that the whole exercise is likely to be repeated, when we next experience change, although hopefully the transition will be swifter. That’s why it’s really called ABA; from A to B, and then back to A again six months later, or sooner if you’re very unlucky or careless like me.

The Master plan – ‘social engineering’

I’m not much of a monarchist but I quite fancy the concept of ‘Queen for a Day.’ I think it’s the being ‘waited on hand and foot’ bit, that’s most attractive. There appear to be no suitable candidates for ‘lacky.’ Now that I live in a Republic I’m probably better off being proactive.



I arrange my facial features to attack each one in turn. I start with the easy one and telephone Senior daughter to leave a message on her telephone. She is out of range because she is on a mountain, in the snow, in an igloo, [translation = snow cave] which she made with her pals, but the message should await her, I hope. I keep my choice cheery as I try an recall remedies for frost bite and hypothermia.

I grab the last jar of Marmite and snap on the machine to make toast. I turn to bounce in front of spouse, much to his alarm. I flap a few sheets of paper in front of his nose in a non threatening and tempting manner, “there you go dear! You know all about HTML codes, don't you. Could you please convert my blog archive to ‘titles’ instead of ‘dates’?” I give him a quick flash of the braces and scamper off before he has time to reply. I flick the on switch for the electric kettle as the gas version has died. Preparations progress.

It's time for the next one in the sitting room. I grab the end of the cable and follow it until I find him ‘hidden’ under the trampolene. I yank the plug from the wall, “come along dear, let me see you do 100 bounces!” I make sure it’s a statement not a question. I wonder if it will wear him out or wind him up?


I slip my toes into my Christmas fluff muffs because it is Winter, even in California. I shake out cat food into bowls to entertain the felines and minimize meowing. I track down senior son secreted in the corner behind the sofa covered in twenty or more cushions. I debate whether to extract him or not? Brain waves recall 'never disturb a sleeping baby,' but it seems inappropriate for someone who is 60 lbs, more than seven years of age and awake. I decide that if he is ‘self medicating’ I shouldn’t be the one to disrupt him. I skid back through the kitchen to put the tea pot on one side to brew. I’m still missing one. I hunt.


I find her absorbed in a book. I peek over her shoulder, but my hair tickles her. She brushes me away, engrossed. I dither. Should I snuggle down with her so that we can read together? Can I neglect her needs for additional minutes? I leg it back to the kitchen assured that everyone is safely engaged with something. I take up position to lounge. Queen for 3 minutes will do.

Perseverating

Number one on the ‘to do’ list is still untouched ;
1. Find special needs nanny

I ignore number one and add 177, namely, visit library and pay fines. Soon I will have jaw surgery. This will finalise my transformation into a true American. It took the dentist 7 years to persuade me that this was a ‘must,’ not an optional extra. Three visits ‘home’ convinced me.
It’s a genetic thing. Teeth that don’t join anywhere. This means that you swallow your food whole.
This means that you get a lot of tummy aches.

People think that I am an exceptionally polite person, because I eat everything with a knife and fork. People do not see useless teeth that do not join, because I also have a genetic stiff upper lip.

I determine that whatever it is that I’m going to ‘achieve’ today, it will not involve use of the telephone. It is at that moment, that it rings,
“Hello?”
“Hi Maddy! How’s the nanny search going?” says the Muse. Her cheery tone is not appreciated but as it is 9:05 a.m. she knows that I won’t bark at her.
[translation = not a morning person]
“Er, well, it’s top of the list!”
“You’re procrastinating huh?”
The reason one has a ‘muse’ in one’s life is to ensure that one keeps on the straight and narrow. Everyone needs a muse. Ideally they should be local, not just physically, but someone who you can call upon to translate foreign phenomena. Mine, my muse, fullfils the first requirement, but is worse than useless on the second. [translation = deviant American]

“So another year of not being able to eat sandwiches, French bread and corn on the cob?”
“It’s no great loss, that’s why they invented knives and forks.”
“So you’ve basically done nothing. What about those leads I gave you?”
“They’re on the list too.”
“What number?”
“Er, 178 and 179.”
“Great! When is the surgery again?”
“23rd.”
“This month?”
“Yup.”
“So you basically have less that two weeks to find one.”
“In a nutshell.”

“So this is just an excuse so’s you can cancel it again.”
“Rubbish, of course not! Merely ‘postpone!’”
“At this rate they’ll put you in your coffin still wearing those darned braces!”
“I’ll make sure that they change the elastic bands when they embalm me.”
“Exactly how many times have you canceled the surgery over the last 3 years?”
“I forget.” She’s a kindly soul and doesn’t point out that we both know that I am lying.

I should have had a longer list of criteria for a muse. Now admittedly her psychobabble has been invaluable over the years, but I could do with someone a little more lax. Someone with a little less insight would be handy. Less persistence and attention would be a bonus. She is the sort of person that denies a body ‘wriggle room.’


“Look! I know what you’re afraid of.”
“ME! AFRAID! Have you gone quite mad? [translation = insane not angry] I’ll have you know that I have a very high pain threshold.”

“Depends what kind of ‘pain’ you’re talking about? I know it’s not the surgery itself. ……..you know they’ll be fine, just fine. I don’t like to say it, but you’re not indispensable. The kids’ll be fine, the nanny will do great.”

Damn the woman. She’s fired.

Thicky, thicky, dumb, dumb

During the holiday season, I find I am reflective. At that time of year there's a tendency to think of 'home' and absent family. It can be a generational thing because you remember yourself as a child, the people around you at that time, when you look at your own children. Relatives long past, cluster in your mind. How times have changed? But the shadows of their underlying character would have adapted. What sounds pompous and stuffy, only disguises the message. The crisp exterior shell of people who lived in a different era merely hides the hardships, wars and heart ache the experienced.

[An ‘old school perspective’ – to be read with a perfect BBC male accent of someone of advancing years] A monocle, pocket watch and cane may help visual learners.

Now as we all know, people who claim to have low ‘self esteem’ are really just attention seeking whiners. However, there is modern school of thought that suggests that ‘self image’ may influence significant factors such as ultimate educational status and income bracket, or ‘how they turn out in the end.’ I know it’s a bit racy, but there is a possibility that such psychobabble may have a kernel of common sense at the bottom of it.

Whilst I wouldn’t describe myself as right wing, I certainly think that if a pat on the back and a ‘jolly good show!’ would make a difference to the little blighters, then I’m all for it. Anything that would prevent them being a burden on the State would have my endosement. I’m not saying that I hold with ‘empty praise,’ mind you. I think even those autistic types would see through that. You would have to tailor your ‘praise’ better than that if you want it to stick, if you want it to make a difference, a positive difference.



I know it’s quite rash, this kind of ‘positive thinking’ kind of malarkey, but I don’t think it would be too onerous or time consuming. I mean you wouldn’t have to go all mad and gaga like the colonials do, no, no, no, don’t overdo it, but the timely appropriate word, might make all the difference. You don’t have to be all sloppy and sentimental about it. Perish the thought!........

…..I come back to the here and now as a piece of puzzle hits me in the forehead accompanied but a scream of frustration; “you are not doing dah good listening when I am doing dah good talking wiv my words!”
How true, how true. I just tuned out for a
moment there.
It is a very big puzzle afterall.


“I’m sorry dear, what were you saying?”
“I was being dah good one. I was telling him dat he was being dah good one too. I was doing my nice complimenting.”
“Really! I’m very impressed.”
Did I manage reciprocal? Does that qualify? It was almost appropriate!
“Could you do it again dear, because I missed it?”
Well that was nearly timely, only a hint of hesitation on my part.

“Hmm. O.k. I will. But dis time you must be dah good listening.”
“O.k. Deal! Ready?” Come on, speed up, pay attention woman!

He marches over to his brother, hunkers down, places his nose three inches away from his sibling’s face to tell him, “you are done a great job! I like it when you are dah helping bruvver.” Great specificity. Couldn't have done it better myself.
“Yur welcum!” Great reciprocity. Spot on my son!

At least someone’s ‘getting it.’

Very nice manners but thick as a brick

Do you know what yours is? Did you know that such a thing, ‘a learning style,’ existed? You probably do. You probably do because you’re an American, or alternatively, someone from the ‘younger generation,’ which would probably be around ‘under middle aged.’

For anyone else, a learning style[s] is something that you should know a little bit about if you have autistic children. Also handy if you have the ordinary kind of a child too, because there are a variety of different styles available. If you manage to engineer a good match. Then your child’s experience at school could be considerably more positive than it might be at the moment.

When I was youngster myself, born to a man with Edwardian parents, my father would help me learn my times tables. I would march up and down the kitchen to the irritation of my mother, chanting out the lines until I was word perfect. He would test me with spot questions. I’d snap that answer out like a bullet as I exploded in a jumping jack. I was star shaped and I would be the star of the class!
It was a dead cert.

The following day, I would skip along to school, the tables mantra was so easy. The test was administered in silence in those dark days of yore. Pupils [translation = students] sat at individual desks. When I say ‘sat,’ I really mean ‘sat.’ No wriggling please! Britain way back when. ‘Sat’ meant static too, although small movements of the writing hand, wrist and fingers was permissible.

I would sit and stare at my ‘vocab’ book, a dinky little affair the size of an envelope, with my lead pencil sharpened and at the ready, but could I write anything? My toes would tap the wooden floor, my fingers would twiddle rhythmically on the underside of the desk, but no, nothing.

“McEwen! Stop that right now!” What a choice? Remain and fail, or depart to be disciplined by the Reverend Mother?
I would probably manage a few figures,
but not the answers to the questions being barked
at us at 30 second intervals.

I would trudge home at the end of the day, with my vocab book hidden at the bottom of my satchel, [translation = school bag] written evidence of my ‘thicky, thicky, dumb, dumb’ status. My father would always manage to ferret it out and gasp as the illegible scribblings in red ink all over the page. The exasperation he experienced was close to my own.

“But you were perfect last night!” he would gasp. I could only respond as a goldfish does, mouthing words that I couldn’t formulate as an adequate explanation.
“What are all these ‘submission notes’? Were you being naughty? Again?”
[Ref 1] But I digress. Where were we? Ah yes, learning styles.

Visual, auditory, tactile, kinesthetic for starters. Does that help? Not particularly?
I’ll give you an example. Junior learned about the life cycle of insects [translation = bugs] a few years back. They started with Bees on Monday, moved onto Butterflies on Tuesday and finished up with Mosquitoes on Wednesday. I 'knew' that he had no interest in this topic. On the first two days, he was encouraged to sit during ‘circle time’ for these lessons. He spent each of those 20 minute periods rolling around on the floor,
bumping into his pals and laughing hysterically,
much to the annoyance of everyone. One teacher sat with him,
not so much restraining him as trying to contain him, calm him,
quieten him down. Boredom was one thing, disruption was quiet another.

When he returned home on each day, he had learned nothing about these tiny little friendly creatures. On the third day, the poor teachers had run out of energy and chose to ignore him as he danced around the walls of the room, touching items rhythmically and giggling. He paid no heed to the lesson and appeared for all intents and purposes to be in his own little world. They didn't know what else to do, so they concentrated on the rest of the class and let him go his own sweet but oblivious way. Since that was just prior to his permanent departure from that school, one can only sympathise with the poor people attempting to teach a class of 20 little ones.


That evening, after the free fall dancing episode, he lectured me in great detail, voluntarily without prompting. I knew more about Mosquitoes than is healthy for a person of my advanced years.

{Ref 1} ‘Submission notes,’sent home to the parents advised them of omissions and commissions by the child during the school day.
http://www.nwlink.com/~donclark/hrd/learning/styles.html
This may not be the 'best' site, but the material is well presented, clear, with useful tips that aren't all about flashcards.

Action Mum’s New Year’s Resolutions

Better late than never!











1. Kill anything living in the refridgerator before it goes forth and multiplies.

2. Endeavour to regularly rotate the piles of clean laundry stacked on the sofa.

3. Fully evaluate cost/benefit analysis of moving to Canada.

4. Train cats to appreciate that children are their friends, not the enemy.

5. Train children to appreciate that confining cats in small places means that they’ll visit the Humane Society [the cats, that is to say.]

• Curb enthusiasm for tumble drier
• No! The tumble drier is not ‘big.’

6. Read paper daily to improve brain capacity

7. Seriously consider advice re
‘you deserve it.’
Find some useless, expensive pastime to indulge in. Short list possibilities;

a. Book club [remember that you’re teetering on maximum brain capacity!]
b. Tennis [you’re clothing would never be white enough and you would also increase pile of laundry on the sofa]
c. Become a ‘lady who lunches.’ Reconsider post jaw surgery and braces.

8. Commence new beauty routine to ward off advancing decrepitude;
• Cleanse, tone and moisturize twice a day OR
• Wash face with Dial [translation Fairy Liquid!] if you manage to remember.

9. Research self improvement courses;
check availability for 11:30 p.m. to 2 a.m.

10. Invent labour saving device to continuously suck all dirt from house. [Consider consequences for self prior to commencement e.g. unemployment]

11. Avoid lawsuit from neighbours; train children to wear at least one garment of clothing [preferably around the nether regions] by Summer. [2007 not 2008] Nakedness is no longer acceptable now that we are all Americans. N.B. hats don't count for the purpose of clothing categorization.


12. Keep large hall cupboard permanently empty so that all ‘mess’ can be hurled inside at short notice to achieve instant ‘Homes and Gardens’ effect.

13. Count on fingers [and toes] blessings.
[Limit this exercise to once only, in any 24 hour period to avoid becoming too much of a fluffy bunny {translation = American}]

Perish the thought!

Damned lies and Statistics

In American, or more particularly in California, we are encouraged to nurture our inner child, to hold onto that innocence, especially if we wish to maintain our mental health. And who doesn’t want to do that?

As adults, we try and remember that even the most wizened and cynical of us, can
learn from children. But does that still hold true if those children are autistic? Probably not. Not going to glean a lot of insight from those little chappies, and they are mainly chaps, depending upon which set of statistics you care to favour.

Personally, I like the one that suggests that as many as 1 in 166 children are diagnosed with autism. I love statistics because you can prove anything with them by careful manipulation. I thought that I was the only person locally, or even nationally with two autistic boys, but now that they’re both at the same school, I find that other families with two. [Ref 1]


What does that mean? Well, it means that together, we three families, have six children, autistic ones, of a similar age, in one school. If there are thirty children in a class, that means that each class will have an autistic child. And why would that matter? It means that your child will be in close proximity with mine. In fact, because my boys are only 17 months apart, they could be in the same class together.

They separate twins, but the same doesn’t apply to siblings, I’ve checked. That means that your child might sit next to mine, perhaps one either side. In fact those other autistic children, the two that are the right age, might end up in the same class too. My two and four more, because it’s largely a matter of chance. Wouldn’t that be super! Your child with four or six little autistic kids, all pals together in the same class. It would be even better if the class had only 20 children, although it would mess up my statistics a bit.

Your child would be a great role model for my children. Mine could copy yours, then they’d learn how to behave properly, just like yours do. Children learn more from their peers than their parents by the time they’re in school, a sort of transfer of allegiance if you will. But that’s fabulous for me, because you’ve taught your children a great set of moral values, things that mine might not understand, like non-discrimination and inclusion. You know, like the Barney song: 'we include everyone!' I bet your kids can sing every word perfectly. Doesn't that warm your heart?

Don’t worry, I lied when I said that our children would meet. My children are in the special ed class, separate, protected and nurtured, because it would be ghastly if they were all in together. They might be bullied. Wouldn't that be dreadful? Mine of course, not yours.

Fancy a play date? Pick up the phone and give me a tinkle.

[Ref 1] and don't forget 'George and Sam,' by Charlotte Moore, but they're on a different continent so we won't count them. Then there's Luke Jackson and his siblings {Freaks, Geeks and Asperger Syndrome} but they're on the same tiny little island, so we'll ignore them too.