Mirror, mirror, on the wall - Beauty from within

One’s outward physical appearance has the first impact. Whilst it’s important to be well presented, that is to say clean and tidy, otherwise, it is not important at all. [translation = not one jot!]

Most of us are aware of the pressures upon young women about their appearance. Since I have two girls, I have always been at great pains to concentrate upon their inner characters.

Since my eldest daughter is on the cusp of her 26th birthday, I have had a great deal of practice. [translation = self esteem for all children is essential] As a result of all this practice, I am indeed a past master about sweeping aside the frippery and trappings of fashion. [translation = second to none] Do not come to me in your pink frilly skirt with your face made up and your hair just curled. [translation = show me your soul instead]

My youngest son presents himself before me standing at attention like a soldier. [translation = although he is leaning like the Tower of Pisa] Our eyes meet. I wait. I wait because I think he is about to tell me something. We spend a few moments in frozen silence whilst I debate whether or not to prompt him. [translation = risk breaking the spell, invoking a meltdown] He raises his eyebrows several times in what I assume to be a meaningful way. Indeed, rather a suggestive manner! [translation = but what is he suggesting?]









“Am I hansom?” Ah! His eyebrows were prompting me! Such sophistication, such subtlety! [translation = I qualify for the 'thick as a brick' award of the day]
“Oh yes, your hair looks fabulous. What a great job you did brushing it all on your own.” Hallelujah!










“I am hansom?”
“Well, hansom is as hansom does.”
“What?”
“Er, hansom is all well and good, but it’s your inside that is far more important.”
“I cannot be brushing my insides. Oh how stupid you are being today! How am I be brushing my insides? I do not like dem anyways.”
“Forget about your insides for the moment, who told you that you were stupid?”
“No-one is telling me I am stupid today. I am telling you dat you are dah stupid person.”

I pause, that phrase was so pat. [translation = perfect intonation of someone in authority, the perfect sentence that tells me that it is really someone else’s = echolalia] Who was it? [translation = be assured that I will track that person down, I will store that speech pattern forever, an lo, be afraid, be seriously afraid] He breaks my distraction with, “you are being stupid now, er ……I mean, you are still stupid?”
“Lets concentrate on the outside again, your lovely brushed hair. My! but you look suave!”
“I am suave?”
“YES!”
“What it is dah suave?”

Perfect. [translation = and definitely not stupid]






suave (swäv)
adj. suav·er, suav·est
Smoothly agreeable and courteous.
[French, agreeable, from Old French, from Latin suvis, delightful, sweet; see swd- in Indo-European roots.]
suavely adv.
suaveness, suavi·ty (swäv-t) n.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2003. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

ThesaurusLegend: Synonyms Related Words Antonyms
Adj. 1. suave - having a sophisticated charm; "a debonair gentleman"
debonair, debonaire, debonnaire
refined - used of persons and their behavior; cultivated and genteel; "she was delicate and refined and unused to hardship"; "refined people with refined taste"
2. suave - smoothly agreeable and courteous with a degree of sophistication; "he was too politic to quarrel with so important a personage"; "the hostess averted a confrontation between two guests with a diplomatic change of subject"; "the manager pacified the customer with a smooth apology for the error"; "affable, suave, moderate men...smugly convinced of their respectability" - Ezra Pound
politic, smooth
diplomatical, diplomatic - skilled in dealing with sensitive matters or people

Alive and well

Just before six in the morning I spot an email from my eldest daughter in Mozambique. [translation – on the cusp of her 26th birthday] I pause just long enough to read the first and last line: “Dear Mum” “Love Tamsin.” Although it has arrived via her e-mail address there is always the possibility that she has been dead in a ditch and someone else has tracked me down with the terrifying news. [translation = the neurosis of a mother with adult children] I zip on by, to attend to my youngest son and his toileting.
If I were a sensible person, I would admit defeat and print out her message to read, but in my endeavour to save the planet by using less paper, I hold back. [translation = especially since my oldest daughter is a hug a tree / save a whale type of a woman]
I attempt to shovel cereal into two small boys who appear to have mislaid their oral cavities. [translation = and their arms don’t seem to work this morning either and have been replaced by limp, overcooked, spaghetti strands.]
My eldest daughter is not a secretive type, but she generally fails to pass on pertinent information, such as her return date. In my email to her, I asked her a number of very specific questions in the hope of eliciting the information that my mind so desperately needs, such as ‘are you alive?’ My dreams have been inhabited by wild animals of a carnivorous frame of mind, whose quest for their next meal generally consists of her various body parts. I am disappointed that it is always a black panther, my favourite, that appears to be chewing off her toes as I awaken with a start.

My son falls off his chair for no particular reason and lies on the floor covered with cereal and milk. {translation = failure to properly supervise] Not for the first time, I am tempted to ask if everyone could stop being autistic for three and a half minutes so that I can read the letter in it’s entirety, without interruptions or distractions? My other son bangs his fists on the table to tell me “I am explode dah toilet,” and promptly does so, without the benefit of being anywhere near the vicinity of the aforementioned toilet. I debate whether to clean up the son with cereal or the son with other matter? Should the first accident take precedent due to timing? I decide that I am clearly unfit to be in charge of anyone. I am not phased by either accident because both kinds are so frequent. [translation = I am more concerned that no-one is hurt or ill or both]

I am completely mystified as to how my gene pool could have created a make your own igloo, Banana slugs are my friend, hiking / biking, trek round Tibet solo, kind of a daughter? There again, on the whole I remain happier if I refrain from examining my own gene pool too carefully. [translation = let sleeping dogs lie]

I regret that I failed to fit her with a monitor, so that she could zap me every 24 hours to reassure me of her well being. At least I know she was truly alive at 2:24 a.m. when she sent the e-mail. Maybe the monitor should ping every hour, or minute? I ensure that my exterior oozes, calm so that my boys’ level of anxiety does not rise. Although they are generally oblivious to my existence, I have a tendency to leak magnetic stress molecules. The elastic rope around my waist pings me back to the stake by the computer, via a bucket of hot soapy water and a scrubbing brush, so I have no option but to read another few words. The words I read are ‘renewal of contract,’ before I’m snapped back to the table and small people, where one complains about his malfunctioning spoon. I replace his fork with a spoon. [translation = one implement looks very much like another unless you are truly interested in eating]

During the course of the morning, I travel back and forth through the narrow galley kitchen many hundreds of times. The lap top computer and the email message are on display for me, but time and the opportunity to read more than a single word or line, do not present themselves. I skid through on route to the family room and a small person who calls my name. I slow to a stop, pause, freeze frame, read half a sentence and then speed up as the name calling increases in volume.
I debate whether it is possible to renew an annual contract by a day, or maybe two if I’m feeling really generous? I decide that I am not feeling generous, really. I decide to practice being generous, my weakest suit. My son presents himself before me. All his clothes are on backwards because I wasn’t paying enough attention. [translation = I further resolve to practice being generous] I tell him what a great job he has done and then bite my lip because what little generosity I might have ever had, is leaking away.

“Why you are a cartoon?” bellows my youngest son.
“A cartoon?” I repeat, tearing my eyes away from the screen for the umpteenth time.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I… er…….understand. Can you say it again dear?”
“You are dah run, you are dah stop, you are dah read, you are dah run, again.”
“I am?”
“Yes, today you are dah cartoon, again and again and again.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You are dah electric.”
It would appear that I am no longer invisible. [translation = or can they see the blue sparks from my brain that escape through my ears?]

My mother said….

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?” Are we still on this spot? I’ve given up trying to turn it the other way around, from ‘what it is’ to ‘what is it,’ but I still inwardly groan at the questions that emerge from nowhere, without clues. Questions out of the blue with no referencing? Why can’t he add the bit that he wants to know about? Why does he leave that bit, the essential bit, out? I purse my lips and remind myself of the joy of having a far less speech delayed child than I once had.
“Dah ‘disobey’?”
“Disobey? Well that’s when you’re asked to do something and then you don’t do it.” I don’t add ‘just like you,’ but I think it. [translation = if you think an evil thought, it’s just as much of a sin as if you had done the deed]
“He is disobey.”
“Who is?” Reference back please, fill in the blanks. Why do I have to extract these from you?
“Daddy.”
“What did he do?” Come on now, you can do it!
“Oh you are dah stoopid!” he chortles agreeably.
“No more stupids.”
“Ah.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. [translation = regroup and find his place again, since I interrupted his train of thought with an unwelcome reminder.] His speech has improved beyond measure but I still keep hampering the poor child’s progress with irrelevancies.
“I say……he is disobey……..dat is he DIDN’t do what I said.”
“What did you ask him to do?” One complete sentence at the beginning could have eliminated all of this.
“I say he must OBEY my rules and HE disobey! Dat is dah opposite.” Spouse appears at the tale end of the conversation. [translation = and it is one, a conversation that is to say, where he offered information for mere social purposes] Spouse joins the conversation with his own contribution: “what?”
“He was just telling me that you disobeyed him, didn’t obey his rules.”
“Really?”
“Yes, just like the ditty, ‘my mother said, I never should, play with the…er……um people, in the wood. If I did, she would say, naughty girl to disobey.’”
“I’ve heard that before somewhere, but it was different somehow. Why is it different?”

I try to cut him off, to stop him thinking what the missing word is, the "politically incorrect" word that we don’t use any more. If my son hears that word, he will want to know what it means. Once he has heard that word, he will repeat it. [translation = often] I know that it is a word that he will adore. He will adore the word because it has two ‘y’s in it.
“Er, now what was it? Say it again and it might jog my memory.” [translation = word retrieval]
“What it is?” splutters junior.
“What is what dear?”
“Dah word dat he forgotted?”
“He forgot it.”
“No I haven’t, it’s on the tip of my tongue…..er……umm….”
“He is dah stoopid too?”
“We don’t say stupid any more. No, it’s just that when you get………” I peter out as I try and avoid using the word ‘older,’ but he’s ahead of me.
“You mean old and mould?” he squalks as he leaps from his chair in response to the trigger word that sets off alarm bells about death, dying and general morality.
“No, no, no, it’s just that sometimes it’s hard to remember a particular word. You have that sometimes and we do too.” I nudge spouse to encourage him to also offer words of balm, but his cranium is still full of whirring cogs. Why did I make a fuss about ‘stoopid’ and risk falling into the quagmire of OCD instead? [translation = the far lesser of two ‘evils.’] I nestle him onto my lap for a squeeze, [translation = calming deep proprioceptive input] stroke his back and feed him single Goldfish crackers with the other hand. I hope this will be sufficient distraction.

I try to think of words that rhyme with it. I can’t think of any, apart from tipsy, which wouldn’t make sense and doesn’t have two, very essential "‘y’s."
“He did fogortted or he is not forgotted, which it is?”
“He forgot, he can’t remember. Oh dear. Never mind. Better luck next time!” I chant in my sing song, ever so annoying tone. I glare at spouse commanding silence, but he is oblivious, lost in the labyrith of word recall. His eyes widen as he emerges from the maze, which puts an electrode to my own brain so that I can shout “PIXIES! Don’t play with the pixies in the wood.”
Spouse frowns and raises his index finger prior to verbalizing his objection.
“PIXIES!” I shout, bringing my face and eyes far to close to his.
“Oh! Yes. I see. Pixies it is then. Wouldn’t want to give you a word with two ‘y’s in it now would we?”
“Two ‘y’s! Two ‘y’s? TWO ‘Y’S! What it is? What is da word being wiv two y’s? I want it. I want dah word wiv dah two ‘y’s.”

Ah yes, finally, at six and a half, he manages that most supreme of skills, the pinnacle of reciprocal conversation, where his question actually references back to the thing that he wants to know about. Hallelujah!

What is autism? And more lizards

His love of "lizards" grows daily. The three pets cluster together as he examines them minutely through the glass.


“ I am calling him 1RMA.”
“You are? Why are you calling him Erma.”
"Not Erma, 1RMA!" he bellows.
"Oh. Why?"
“Coz dat is his name is being.”
“Why Irma. Irma is a girl’s name. Is he a girl now afterall?”
“No! He is a boy, stoopid one. Dat is why he is being named 1RMA.”

I suppress a sigh. My stupidity is rapidly becoming legendary. Where did he come across that name? A bit old fashioned or is it merely American?

“Why Irma.”
“Coz it is dah name ov dah ONE dat has babies.”
“Babies?”
“He has dah babies in his tummy bit.”
“Boys don’t have babies, except seahorses, sort of, remember, we talked about that?”

I wrack my tiny brain, waiting for connections. I give up.

“Why Irma?”
“Cos ‘I’ is like dah number ‘1,’ dey are like da same fing, and 1 is better than 'i'.”
“Fair enough. What about the rest of it?”
“He is dah first reptile muvver of dah A.”

I keep my expression blank but I suspect that my blankness is interpreted as blank rather than neutral.

He sighs, deflates a bit. I am stretching his patience.
“Here! Give it me!” he commands snatching the wipe board from my ineptitude. He writes…..... 1 R M A...... which he explains verbally means
1 = I or first
R = Reptile
M = Mother
A

“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”
“A is meaning Autistic.”
I take a deep breath. I look at my son. I push my shoulders back.
“What does autistic mean?”
“Agh! You are dah stoopid one! I sorry. I sorry you are so stoopid.”
“I am sorry I’m stupid too."

I debate whether to continue or let it rest. Do I really want to know the answer? Will I understand the answer? Will I provoke a meltdown?

"What does autistic mean dear?”
“Evvyfing, but it should be started wiv dah ‘A’ not dah ‘E.’ Dat is stoopid too. It is stoopid to have evvyfing start wiv dah fifth letter, it should be start wiv dah first letter of dah alphabet, dah A for autistic.”

Is this a moment of supreme depth, profound and meaningful, or the random meaderings of a small person? I have no clue. I need to talk to my sensible cynical self, before I delude myself that I'm in charge of a genius rather than autistic child who appears to be developing an imagination. [translation = autistic children are renowned for this 'deficit.'] My sensible cynical self tells me to climb down from my tree. [translation = ivory tower]

He skips off leaving me with a riddle that I cannot unravel. I await enlightenment from an unknown source. Are reptiles autistic? Are lizards autistic? What is the common denominator? Why don't I know as much about lizards as I once knew about dinosaurs? [translation = pre Thomas the Tank engine and his disreputable rabble.]



But ‘Irma’ whoever you are, and wherever you may be, I am your number one fan.

Esperanto

Many moons ago when I was just a wee young thing [translation = eternally optimistic] I was confident that this universal language would be the norm by the time I was an adult. Brits are notorious for the weak language facility, especially when compared to the rest of Europe. I skipped over the need to learn Esperanto myself, as I was having more than enough difficulty with French, German and Latin. I longed for the day when I would understand everyone, no matter how they spoke, a time of understanding and tolerance. No more conjugating verbs, declensions and fiddling about with the past imperative. No more pesky ‘amo, amas, amat.’

I have cause to review my weakness in communication skills, as I examine my son’s Speech and Language evaluation prior to his IEP.

The word that leaps of the page at me is ‘unusual.’ His speech delay is well documented but the words ‘atypical’ and ‘unusual’ keep on cropping up.

When I first came across ‘atypical,’ when all terminology was confusing, I was non-plussed. His kind of autism was ‘atypical,’ as was his speech delay. This description tripped me up initially. I had to keep reminding myself that there was ‘typical’ autism, whatever that might be, and ‘typical’ speech delays, goodness knows what they might be, and then there was my son, the ‘atypical’ one.

His speech pathologist gave him the usual barrage of tests prior to the IEP. From this she produced her report, her detailed report and recommendations based upon her findings. She is spot on in every respect. I scribble all over her report, as is my wont, as my son sidles up to snuggle into my side. I underline the numerous identifiable reasons as to why he sounds so much younger than his chronological age of nearly 8. [translation = when he is able to speak loud enough for anyone to hear him] I also ponder her query regarding the pronunciation of the letter ‘R.’ Is this due to immaturity or the English disease? [translation = r’s do not feature as prominently in Britishspeak as they do in American English]

“What you are do?” he asks mid nuzzle.
“I’m reading this report from Mrs. B about your speech.”
“Speech?”
“Yes.”
“It is good it is bad?”
“Good! All good, very good.”
“I is good at dah speech.”
“Indeed you are.”

His feet pummel me, pleased and happy with his performance during testing. He beams with satisfaction, “maybe…..maybe….maybe I don neeed dah speech therapy no more!” I think maybe that depends upon who is listening? [translation = future perfect]

Campaign Consolidation

I determine to return to my former self, the efficient, ‘plan ahead’ self. A decade ago I would plan the year in advance, set goals, note all birthdays and anniversaries well ahead of time. [translation = allow for the vagaries of the international postal system] Then, all of a sudden, a whole slew of babies descended upon us. [translation = fertility increased due to imbibing American water and breathing American air]

I decide that baby steps are the order of the day and therefore limit my planning to ‘Summer.’ Nevertheless I am determined to consolidate and co-ordinate campaigns to date, in a seamless trajectory towards the goal of ‘progress.’

During the Summer we with reduce our footprint on the planet in a few fundamental ways. Firstly, laundry shall be minimized. [translation = instead of changing filthy clothes after each meal consumed, we shall dispense with the need for clothing] Furthermore this campaign will be co-ordinated with outdoor eating to reduce cleaning. [translation= the birds will benefit from the crumbs, clumps and other debris and spills] Bodies are so much easier to wash than clothes. As I have no plan to tumble dry my children after washing, this will further reduce our electricity consumption. In an effort to cut electricity consumption, living outside a hot house, will negate the need for air conditioning. Everyone will be cooler if not burdened by clothing.

Now what have I left out? [translation = missed.]

Now I’d be the first to admit that there are a couple of stumbling blocks in the great plan. It’s not that I’ve forgotten that I have ‘inside bodies’ rather than outdoorsy ones, but that little bump in the plan can become part of the plan. [translation = further desensitization to ‘outside’] All elements of the plan can work together harmoniously. Their education will be considerably enhanced through nature studies. [translation = mother nature and all her little pals are our friends not the enemy] We can practice a whole slew of new vocabulary. [translation = greater than Venus flytrap, bee, lizard and locked gate]

I refine the plan and mine for details that I might have missed when spouse appears. I tell him the good news, that the campaign is nearly ready. I advise him of all pertinent elements.

“All this to save the planet?”
“Indeed!”
“And you’re sure you’ve thought this all through?”
“Absolutely! Faultless! It is the perfect plan.”
“It has a familiar ring to it.”
“It does?” In what manner?”
“Naked screaming children in the garden – isn’t that precisely where we were four years ago before therapy started?”
“?”



It’s just as well that someone has a functioning memory bank.

Apply that!

There’s no nice way of putting it really, so I’ll be blunt, frank and to the point. Pointless is precisely what they are! They have no useful purpose in life. Our lives would be so much better without them really when you think about it for a moment or two. Apart from anything else, they just take up too much space, to say nothing of the ghastly effects that they have on the environment. All things being equal, I would have to say that when all’s said and done, we ought to simply ban them and oh how so much better the world would be, to say nothing of the quality of life.

I’m in a strong position on this one as we completely ignored ours for three years, didn’t so much as even say hello to it. Well you wouldn’t though really, would you? I may be a few eggs short of a clutch but they would definitely cart me off in the wagon if they found me talking to a dishwasher. To be fair, I was prejudiced against the appliance due to it’s colour. Who in their right mind would have a Avocado green kitchen? But that’s American’s for you in a nutshell. [translation = that should be a stone under the circumstances, an avocado stone that is to say]



Since we are all too familiar with a least a hundred reasons why dishwashers should be banned, I won’t enumerate them here, merely concentrate on some of the more obvious drawbacks. The first of these would be space, or lack thereof. I can think of at least a thousand things that would better fill that hole, than a useless dishwasher. [translation = tiny galley kitchen]

The second obvious reason, is that they don’t actually clean the contents of the dishwasher, merely spread the mess more finely over every item and then bake it on hard for an hour.

The third reason, and last for our purposes, would be dependent upon other adult personages that share the same household as you. Some grown up personages, feel the need to wash every item prior to putting it into the dishwasher. These same personages wash each item with one gallon of flowing water per piece. [Translation = 160 "fluid ounces" rather that 128 "fluid ounces," as the "Pilgrim Father’s" mislaid a bit on the way] This, of course, is known as overkill. Why wash what is already clean?

I am glad that we have managed to reach a democratic consensus on this matter. We should now turn our attention to the issue of the environmentally safe disposal of the banned items. However, I can hear a noise in the kitchen and I shall return shortly to conclude.

I enter the kitchen.

“What on earth are you doing?” I splutter rhetorically.
“I am not dah earf I am dah boy!”
Typical, fell right into that one.
“You look very wet,” I suggest to my tactiley defensive son.
“I am not wet. Er… I am wet. I am clean. I am do dah cleaning of dah fings. All dah fings are being very cleaning, er …clean,” says my OCD hygienist.
“So I see.”
I see a small wet boy, who has removed every item of his wet clothing. He stands on a wet step, at the sink that is overflowing with water and enough soap suds to carry off a good advertisement for bubble bath. There probably are some things in there, but they’re hard to discern amongst the foam and froth.
“Usually…..we use the dishwasher to wash those things.”
“I am knowing it but dah dishwasher is bad.”
“Why is it bad?”
“Because when dah fings are coming out of dere, dey at hot and I cannot be using dem when dey are hot.”



That of course, would be the fourth reason.

Joe et al and everyone

I read a longer than usual post from "my pal." I read it and I tried to think of the right comment. [translation = lurking penalty]

Thought provoking posts are often painful to the brain.

My brain has stirred.

The trouble is, that I know that I could be a jolly good mum with the right preparation. [translation = perfect] I could spend all day studying and preparing. After that I would be able to fully devote myself to the perfect hour with my perfect children. I would be superb. Everyone, expert and novice, would agree that my performance would be second to none.

Unfortunately, the hours are not quite so conducive.

Fortunately, I am in a different place than I was a few years back. I have that precious commodity, time. But it's a recent development. I remember the exhaustion of physically carrying two smallish people.

I know that it's a long road and that there is no easy fix from my other "pal," because Susan is a trouper and lets me see the road ahead.

If I really stretched myself, being an elderly person, I could envisage myself putting in a European working day. [translation = 7 hours]

For some unknown reason, some people expect me to be a parent all the time. [translation = how unfair is that!]

Anyone reading this is likely to be a parent. If you are a parent, I suspect that you're doing your best. Your parents also did their best. We all do our best for as much of the time that we are able.

It can never be enough, what could ever be enough? But we are all in the same club, exclusive, unique and welcoming.

Best wishes and cheers

Light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance

Experiences of our childhood colour our lives, little time bombs waiting to go off.

When I lived in South Africa as a child, a kindly neighbour noticed my interest in Chameleons. I was fascinated by their colour changes. [translation = because everything from my previous existence in England, was grey] I would park one of this leaf and watch patiently. I would remove it to an alternative venue and watch, patiently in my new technicolour world. The lady, and clearly she was one, leaned over the fence, white haired with a countenance of innocence to whisper, “you know, if you put them on something red, like a flower, they explode! You won’t ever do that though will you?” I nodded and then shook my head in agreement or possibly disagreement. I was aghast and mesmerized by the thought. Was she teasing? Do proper ladies tease? Could it possibly be true? Even at the tender age of 7, I was still too cowardly and guilt ridden, to give it a go, but the tantalizing thought has haunted me ever since.

These days, my concerns are much more down to earth.

I return from the shops. [translation = store] to find my children on self destruct. The chaos is overwhelming. [translation = never leave the house for more than 33 minutes at a time] I debate whether to unpack shopping or tidy first? Instead I consider dragging out the colouring materials, in an attempt at entertainment of children in a static manner, so that I can manovre around them.

My youngest son is already at the table, peering into the glass aquarium that houses the lizards. The aquarium is surrounded by many coloured pens, scraps of paper and scissors.

“Look! He is dah bomb! He is about to exploding!”
“Pardon! Say it again. What do you mean? Did you say explode?”
“Look at him!”
I look. I look more closely.
“He is going upsie downsie upsie downsie.”
I look. Isn’t that called breathing?
“Any minute now….boom!” he chuckles.
I yell at spouse, “did you let them watch cartoons whilst I was gone?”
“Lookie, lookie, lookie!” he continues, finger tips tapping the table.
“Did you feed him something?”
“No! He is waiting.”
“What is he waiting for?” Am I really having this conversation?
“Surprise!”


His nose is pinned to the pane. Little plumes of breath steam and disappear. I examine the lizard. He looks the picture of health to me. No signs of imminent combustion, but my knowledge of lizards is limited. Are lizards related to Chameleons? If they are related, are they first cousins or something more remote, like third cousins removed twice? Why do I not already know this?

I try again. I ask the expert. “What do you mean? What have you done to him? Why is he going to explode?”
“Lookie, lookie, lookie!” he giggles, with the hugest cheesy grin. What can he see that I can’t?

I increase volume, whilst keeping a watchful eye on the lizard and my son, “did you let them watch cartoons whilst I was gone?” I yell at spouse.

Spouse disengages himself from the computer that he is attached to, and pops his head around the door jam, “what?”
“Did you let them watch cartoons whilst I was gone?”
“Only a couple of minutes. Well, maybe half an hour or so. Perhaps a …..er……”
“What were they watching?”
“I don’t know. Cartoons. I think…that’s right……..educational cartoons.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“Anything about lizards perchance?”
“Er…….don’t thing so.”
“Chameleons?”
“Chameleons? Why Chameleons?”
“Any Animal Planet?”
“No, just cartoons, er educational ones.”
I can’t work out if it is better or worse that they haven’t been watching Animal Planet.
“What did they watch!” I squeak.
I return to the aquarium for another look. “What is that in there with him?”
“What?”
“Yes, what is in there with him, that piece of paper?”
“Dat piece of paper is a rainbow for him so he can be finding dah pot of gold.”
“It is a rainbow.”
“Yes, dat is what I am saying. A rainbow will be making him happy.”
“Do you want to make him happy or do you want to make him explode?” What happens to a Chameleon if you put them on a piece of paper coloured to look like a rainbow?
“He will be happy when he explodes.”
“He will? Why would anyone be happy to explode?”
“Because when he is exploding all his babies will be coming out of his body.”
“Why do you think he is having babies?”
“Because he is dah fat tummy. Dah fat tummy is explode.”



Clearly my lecture on the subject of the birds and the bees fell on deaf ears. [translation = the lizards weren’t listening]

Do unto others

We attempt rational review rather than ranting and raving. Why is it that I have to herd cats with jelly legs [translation = children] whereas HE sweeps about with a school of well trained fish? [translation = children] I try and keep the tone of ‘grossly unfair’ out of my voice, during the discussion. What is it that he does or doesn’t do, that I am do wrongly or not doing? What is the difference? He shrugs his shoulders with a blank expression in return. I try again to extract the pertinent facts from my husband. What is his secret? Why won’t he share?

On the whole, due to spouse’s commitment to work [translation = voluntary servitude] he isn’t home very much. When he is at home, during the weekend, [translation = sometimes but not necessarily awake] he will often take the children out for a jaunt. [translation = especially lately due to maternal malfunctioning] During such occasions, small people remain vertical and move about as a unit. This is in direct contrast with my own experience where those same small people either lie down or run away or both. Now this is a man who might directly benefit from such behaviours. [translation = weight issues, diabetes and high cholesterol mean that frantic burst of exercise would be a plus] I should really like someone to explain why our experiences are directly opposed? Who should I ask? The perpetrator. [translation = the man with parenting superpowers]

His excursions with the children are not without event, but it’s a question of the order of magnitude. [translation = Richter scale.] It has long been my experience that I have failed to perform to the standards that others expect. [translation = could do better] Generally I hover between E for effort and F for failure. For myself, I am content with ‘better than yesterday.’ [translation = slacker] Be that as it may, for the most part, I am more than happy to cheat and lie to gain a better grade, and for the right now, I long to plagiarize, but he won’t give me as much as a peek.

“What?” he asks.
“What what? I didn’t say anything?”
“You didn’t have to, I can see your question written all over your face.”
“Really! How very astute of you. So what is the answer then oh great one?”
“22.”

It's always 22, regardless of the question.

What do you mean you’re bored?

I don’t know who told him to say this, but I just wish he would stop saying it. I suspect that some well meaning speech therapist put the idea in his mind. I can almost hear her now, “are you feelin bored honey?” in that oh so soft American accent. Which of his three speech therapists would be the most likely culprit? Debatable. They’re all of that particular mindset. [translation = kindly and concerned] It's so hard to keep a track of the little mind bombs that other people set in your children's heads, once you permit them access to the outside world.

He stands before me, legs astride, clutching a cereal box to his chest, “I am bored honey!”

Well really!

I am able to understand him of course, because I am his mother, but many people would not be able to understand this sentence. The words and syllables of the sentence run together and sound more like ‘Iyamboardhunny.’ There is no inflection. The tone is completely flat. He sounds like a robot, a very loud robot with the volume control button stuck in the on position. He repeats it three times, takes a breath and then repeats it three times again. “IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” I have an overwhelming urge to separate the syllables and words with a clever, chop them all up, diced. He shakes the Cheerio’s box at me for emphasis.

At 6:05 in the morning, I am not really in entertainment mode, merely breakfast mode.

“Tell you what, howabout we have breakfast first and then we’ll do something together?”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.”
“Yes I know you’re bored dear, but we’ll fill up our tummy’s first. Give us some energy to play!”
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He jumps up and down a bit.
“What would you like to do after breakfast? Shall we do some colouring? Painting? Playdough?” Always best to get the messy play out of the way first thing in the morning, as it gives you the opportunity of the rest of the day to attempt to clean it up. [translation = possibility a handy hint for someone]
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He squeezes the cereal packet to his chest. The pressure is collapsing the centre of the box.
“Do you want to choose your bowl? Which spoon would you like? I think the yellow one is clean.” Why can't I distract this child to the matter at hand?
“IyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunnyIyamboardhunny.” He has a will of iron.

He thrusts the cereal box in my face on taut extended arms. I cannot think how to get over this hump at 6:07 as his sister saunters by. She links her arms round my waist and rests her face on my back.
“Good morning sleepy head.” I swivel round for a hug. She grins, revealing not properly cleansed teeth. “He woke me up,” she yawns.
“I’m sorry dear, I can’t get him to start breakfast, he wants to play.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s so bored, but if he doesn’t eat now we’ll end up being an all day breakfast diner.”
“No, he’s not bored.”
“Yes, he is. He’s been screaming about how bored he is for the last three minutes, that’s what woke you up remember?” By now, every neighbour in a three mile radius is aware that I have a bored six and a half year old.
“Oh. Oh I see. No. He saw that advertisement on the telly yesterday.”
“What advertisement?”
“The one about Honey Nut Cheerios. He wants to try them instead of the plain ones.” I release the grip on my daughter and swing the small one up into my arms so that we are face to face over a box of crushed cereal. “Is that it? You want Honey Nut ones? You want to try a new food?” [translation = this is my "neophobic" one who only eats 13 things] He grins to reveal not properly cleansed teeth, and nods his head three times. I squeeze him until I notice that I’m probably poking him with the corner of the cereal box. Poor benighted child! He verbalized his request, kept verbalizing his request and didn't have a meltdown, even though his deaf old mother was too stupid to understand him. Where did he cull this patience gene from? I stroke his sister's hair as she has rescued me, again.

I remind myself that honey has all sorts of wonderful things in it. I refuse to think about sugary snacky food. I remind myself that this is probably the first self initialized attempt at selecting a food for consumption. I will adopt a new mantra, 'honey is good, honey is good, honey is good.'

I refuse to debate the power of commercialism or advertising. I refuse to chastise myself for my lack of supervision such that he was able to see the advertisement in the first place. How did that happen with TIVO? I am unable to size up the harm that television has done to rot his brain versus the benefit of adding an additional 'food' to his paultry diet. I concentrate on all the health giving properties of organic honey, all the additional occupational and oral therapy possibilities that this opens up.


Does that count as a new food?
Tell me that counts as a new food!

Cultural Bias – message received and understood

I grew up in a time and country that mocked Americans. Like many children, I didn’t question the status quo. I had my own views but didn’t voice them. I knew that adults were unable to appreciate the joys of a good Western and that American cartoons were infinitely superior, rather than ‘absolute rubbish.’ [translation = trash]

One of the clues that I gleaned about Americans was actually a mistake. It was my mistake. I disliked titles. I accepted Mr and Mrs. Salomon as a title but I wasn’t much taken with Lord and Lady MacIntyre. I wasn’t overly fussed with the ‘Lord’ bit, but ‘Lady’ stuck in my throat. [translation = craw] I felt similarly about Queen and Princess, as even at that age I was biased against stinky pinky.

I had learned that the colour blue, indicative of the male species, became associated with boys a long time ago. Blue, or the dye indigo, was expensive and rare. It was used to dye the robes that little boys wore. This meant that when there was a raid, the boys, the valuable creatures, could be scooped up and rescued speedily. The history books were silent as to the fate of the girls. Thus, when I became familiar with American terminology, I was delighted to accept the title ‘Sir.’ I liked the title ‘Sir’ for men but I liked the title ‘Siree’ for women even more. Yup, those American’s would yell it out too, ‘Yes, Siree!’ and it was so empowering. What can I say? As a little girl, the term spoke to me in an oh so personal way.


I carried that delusion around with me for many a long year. [translation = my own personal secret weapon] My confidence was boosted by the knowledge that somewhere in the world, women had the power to make things happen. [translation = kick arse] When the bubble finally burst, the ridicule was easy to brush off. What was not so easy to dismiss was the vague sense of disappointment. [translation = someone had stolen my magic wand]

A little thorn such as this, helps me when I come across mis-understandings in my own children, especially the speech delayed ones. Whilst I am the first to laugh at their mistakes, I try hard to thread my way back to the source, so that I can help them untangle it. The English language is such a tricky thing. It is full of pitfalls for the unwary. Today’s educational system is based on the system of phonics, how the words and letters sound. It your attention span is challenged and your auditory processing is dodgy this makes the task of understanding the spoken [or written] word so much more difficult. The issue is further fogged by the fact that for many autistic children, communicating by language would not be their natural first choice. For mine, gesture and mimicry would be their first choice. For many it is sign language, but their success can be compromised by poor fine and gross motor skills. But I digress.



We drive around in England on holiday on the wrong side of the road. For some strange reason, the road signs seem far more obvious than they are in America. Maybe it is because the car is smaller. Maybe it’s because the whole scale of things is smaller. We seem close to the road, closer to the edges of the road and somehow far more crowded. Maybe it is easier to pick up the road signs because they differ so greatly from their American versions. They are different colours with different icons, far more icons that I recall from America. More importantly, probably due to my own cultural bias, they are easier to understand. ‘X’ ing in America for railway crossing always causes me a double take in America, but the British equivalent does not.




We play ‘I Spy.’ I loved ‘I Spy’ as a child whenever I could bribe someone to play it with me. I thought that my children would also enjoy playing ‘I Spy.’ I was half wrong in this conclusion. The girls loved it, the boys loathed it. Approximately two years ago, playing ‘I Spy’ was a refined method of torture for the boys. When you think about it for more than a nano second, the reasons are obvious. Here are a couple of chaps who are generally overwhelmed by the busy messages that their bodies and brains receive. [translation = a jumble] Added to this, you the parent, are asking them to single out units of information when they are already buried.

Additionally, to add insult to injury, the child is then expected to not only process the incoming information, but also then verbalize their findings. The little one has a layer of hyper-vigilance. [translation = everything is out to attack and kill him.] the other lacks a gymbal [translation = stabilizer] which I suspect means that he is permanently at sea. [translation – sea sick]

As a result, ‘I Spy,’ is still, strictly speaking, a no go area. They permit us to play with their sister. [translation = increased tolerance] We explain the road system; brown signs for tourist attraction. We also translate ‘tourist.’ Green signs with their corresponding numbers are ‘A’ roads. [translation = big ones] Blue ones are motorways. [translation = bigger ones like freeways] White ones are ‘B’ roads. [translation = little ones] We do not attempt to translate ‘dual carriageway.’ [translation = psychological cul de sac]

Time passes amiably enough. [translation = with the prop of a time count down as to our estimated time of arrival, to assuage the ‘when will we get there?’ metronome] All of a sudden Junior writhes into a screaming vortex. He is out of his seat belt and scrabbling at the driver, grabbing and scrambling for control. We have no option but to pull over as he is wordless.


On the side of the road, the hedgerow presses against the window, close enough for us to examine the veins of the leaves, as Junior recovers his composure and his ability to breathe. I have my ‘stop hand’ up to each face that tries to intervene as we wait and minutes pass. All the adult passengers want an answer and explanation, but they are genuinely concerned for his welfare. Surely the child must be suffering from a fit or impaled himself on a deadly weapon to be creating such hysterical display? The rapid fire questions from all directions only serve to wind up the pressure again until he is once again overloaded, spluttering and a fire cracker of flailing nerve endings. To calm him down a second time, takes even longer.

When he is calm, he is also now exhausted. Few people appreciate the physical exertion of a level ten meltdown. Now the word bank is on closed. He turns in his chair and points back along the road, wordless. All heads in the car turn to follow. We examine the road hunting for clues. His sister, advocate and best pal, translates for us. “I know! It’s the sign! Back there away a bit. The sign that shows the car falling off the road! Thanks for saving us Leo, but we’re not really gonna fall off. You’re safe when Daddy’s driving.” He blinks at her for a few minutes, checks that all the bodies in the car with him are still alive and then promptly falls asleep.


I conclude from this one tiny incident, of many [to follow] that England is far too dangerous a place for us to live in. [translation = as if I needed any additional excuses] In essence, the old country suffers from far too much new.[translation = we are allergic to new]

Fault on the line

I lay out their clothes on the floor, two sets. I have been doing this since time immemorial. [translation = 8 years] I may be an automaton in the mornings but this is one of the morning routine’s steps that I have no problem with. I make sure that each item of clothing reflects the manner in which an ordinary person might put on their clothes. Each set looks like a little mannequin, a flat one, lying out on the carpet in anticipation. We have spent many a long year helping both the boys try and put them on in the right order, the right way round.

It’s just one of the tiny little props that we have engineered in their lives. These little markers make up the scaffolding to support our visual learners. The props have been built up over the years to help them move forward, tiny little fragments that make their lives and therefore ours, run more smoothly. Since it’s summer their short trousers lie inert, an inverted V, zipper on top, snap unfastened with underpants overlapping the top, Y opening as a pointer. The T-shirt is also ready, together with a pair of socks. A pair of shoes for each child by the side is a pointer, aimed to indicate which set is whose.

A couple of children ago, spouse would examine the bible. [translation = developmental milestones of typically developing children] When the boys came along we ignored the bible more and more. As a result, I am now uncertain at what age a child should be able to dress him or herself? My [unreliable] sources tell me that this should occur at around the age of three or four, but in the meantime we keep trundling. It's not that we have no expectations of them, it's just that are expectations are on elastic. We are confident that in the future that there will be more and more things that they will be able to do. The difference for our boys, is that they'll do whatever they're going to do when they're 'good and ready,' rather than when they're 'supposed' to do it.

As parents we have learned that there is no point in fretting about such matters. You put their scaffolding in place, the best design you can come up with and practice a lot but their milestones are like unseasonal hailstorms. [translation = Cherry blossom petals in December]

When the average child hits a milestone the average parent is delighted. When the autistic child collides with a milestone, even if it's the wrong milestone and years too early or too late, the parent of that autistic child rarely behaves rationally. When the typical child does whatever they're supposed to be doing, when they're supposed to be doing it, we are pleased. However, when the autistic child does what they're supposed to be doing, even a very tiny little thing, the parent may experience something very close to a heart attack. You may be celebrating milestones long after other parents have reveled in those same markers, but that only makes them better. [translation = exponentially]


Sometimes it can take up to half an hour to persuade them to even attempt to put them on. Even when they are more willing they often muddle the sets up, as there’s so much scrabbling around on the floor. The clothes become tangled and rucked. The boys become entangled with each other. They benefit from being in close enough iin proximity to copy each other. [translation = the inertia of one can often motivate the other.] They must not be too close because the margin of error is narrow. Sometimes a race ensues, often as not, instigated by their sister. Racing and clothing are not a happy combination. [translation = guaranteed to cause at least one meltdown] There are too many pitfalls like zippers, snap fastenings, socks that hide their openings, shoes that change form by being kicked into an upside down position.


Am I weary of these details? Funnily enough I’m not. They are so ingrained, familiar and automatic that they don’t even reach the status of chore. It is hard to describe the magnitude of the issue of dressing, to say nothing of toileting. So ordinary and yet so impossible.

As I get older and greyer, I wonder what kind of girlfriend [boyfriend?] or life partner, will take over the responsibility of laying out their clothes for the morning? We need to return to the 1920’s where a gentleman would have a manservant to attend to such matters. They need a Jeeves, each of them. Someone to tie a cravat, chain up the pocket watch and attach a button hole rosebud to the lapel. I wonder how many gentlemen, elderly gentlemen, exist today,who are still incapable of attaching their socks to their suspenders, living in some assisted living programme?

I pat the cloths instinctively, a check, a note to myself that I’m ready for the marathon of dressing. Spouse appears bleary eyed behind me to arch his back and rake his hair, a cat waking reluctantly.
“I thought you were bringing them down with you?” I ask, as he is alone.
“I was going to,” he pauses to yawn and smack his lips together, “but they’re getting dressed.” He puts balled fists to his eye balls and grinds the sockets.
“What do you mean, their clothes are already here?”
“Oh right yes. Well, they’re getting dressed upstairs.”
“Upstairs! What do you mean upstairs?”
Although I can hear my own words coming out of my mouth, I am unable to stop myself from sounding like a complete idiot. I can hear screams from on high followed by a stampede of fast drumming feet. Junior appears before me and skuds to a halt. His brother is close on his heels, too close on his heels. They collide and swear at each other, “Barnacles!” “You fishpaste you are!” Palms of small hands check small craniums for damage. All is well.



They remember and spark to tell me the news simultaneously. They shout, loudly. They huddle, a skirmish, a scrum, to get as close to me as possible, to be the first to tell me the news. [translation = completely normal sibling rivalry]
“Me! me! me! Look at me!”
“No, no, no. Look at me!” they are all elbows and knees vying for position, thrusting themselves into my attention. [translation = as if I could do otherwise]
“I am clothes!”
“Me too, me too, me too!”

Combined, they make a writhing mass, a Medusa head. I shimmy between them, insert myself as a barrier, one to each hip, an arm to hold each one in position for a bear hug crush to stifle their words and give a clearer message. We cling to each other in the kitchen in silence. Their grins are so huge they risk splitting their faces. My own mouth widens uncontrollably. I feel a couple of elastic bands on my braces twang with the strain.

As with so many 'firsts,' it may well be a 'one off,' [translation = unlikely to be repeated in the near future] but that means that it's all the more important to savour the trembling moment.

Suck it up

This is a curiously annoying American term, which effectively advises the complainant to accept whatever is happening with good grace. This is the annoying phrase that comes to mind as I watch the grandmother of my children attempt to encourage them to smell a flower. It is very much like the same exchange that I have had endured first hand with my children for many a long year. [translation = no progress on this particular front] The main difference here, is that she is an even more mature woman but has the added impediment of being hard of hearing. The fact that they even give her the time of day, that fact that they tolerate such an unreasonable request, tells me volumes.

I would hasten to add that I have no idea if this is an 'autism' thing or a 'child' thing. For us is it merely the current status quo.

“Come on. You smell. Smell it. It is lovely. You try.” I have absolutely no idea why this is so difficult for them, both of them.

Their bodies are orientated towards her. Their eyes flicker across her face at intervals, no doubt checking for signs of sanity, if not additional advice. Her thick Italian accent still captivates them.

“I am smelling it?” he gasps, eyebrows reaching up to his hair line.
“What? I can’t hear you. Say it again.”
“I am smelling it?”
“That’s right. I want you to smell the flower. Here, come closer. Put your nose nearer it so you can smell it.” They shuffle their feet but don’t actually move forward. “Come on, try. It is lovely. You will like it.” She and I both know that flowers are of no current interest to either of the boys. They oblige her only because they love her, a fact that should not be glossed over. Even a year ago they would have been more likely to walk on hot coals, than willingly do anything for anyone.

She coaxes him. He takes a step closer, balances on the toes of one foot, lifts the other leg high behind him, ballerina style to blow his nose in the general direction of the flower.
“No! Not blow, sniff. Sniff it with your nose.”
He repeats the same gesture.
“Why you blow? Sniff it. Sniff it in, not out.”
“What it is ‘out’?”
“What? Say it again, I can’t hear you.”
“You say sniff in not out?” To verbalise something once is an effort. To repeat a question, was unheard of around here. [translation = only 18 months ago]
“Yes, that’s right. If you blow out then your nose cannot smell it. You need to breath in.”
He sucks in mouthfuls of air, goldfish style.
“No. Not with your mouth, with your nose. Your nose.”
“My nose cannot be opening and closing. I can only be doing dat with my mouth.”
“What? Say it again, I can’t hear you.”
“I SAID I CANNOT BE OPENING AND CLOSING MY NOSE. I DO THE OPEN CLOSE WITH MY MOUTH NOT MY NOSE.”
“You don’t have to shout. I am not that deaf you know.”
“Oopsie, sorree!”
“What you say?”
“I SAID OOPSIE, SORREE! Oopsie, sorry I shouted.”
“What? Never mind. Sniff for me. Sniff like when you have a cold.”
“I don have a cold.”
“I know you don’t have a cold right now but pretend, sniff with your nose.” He pinches his nostrils together and snorts dry snot.
“Don’t do that, it is dirty. Not out, in, sniff in.” She demonstrates. [translation = models the requested behaiour with great aplomb]
He blows his nose again. She slaps her thighs and laughs. “Can’t they sniff? Why can’t they sniff?” she asks me. She shakes her head and raises a hand to stop me answering what is now a rhetorical question.
Can I offer prizes for the correct answer? A virtual flower perhaps? Any answer? Any insight? A little clue? A hint?

Detour down a blind alley – the right to light

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dat fing?”
“What thing dear?”
“Da fing dat is not dah window?”

“Er…” I gaze out of the car searching for ‘what it is?’ is England, in the rain, driving on the wrong side of the road, where everything is very confusing for them, not the least of which must be the rain, driving on the wrong side of the road. “Do you have any more describing words to help me dear?”
“Um……when is a window not a window?”
“Oh dear, I’m not sure that that really helps lovey.”
“Er dat fing on dah houses which is looking like a window but it is looking like dah wall too.”
“Oh yes of course, silly me.”

Now that I understand the question, ideally I should like to provide a fully comprehensive answer that is capable of being understood by a six and a half year old. Preferably an answer that is full enough to curtail additional questions or confusion. I would prefer to avoid matters that they are unlikely to understand, like tax. [translation = abstract concepts such as money, currency, exchange rates and tax have yet to be covered] I need the conversation to be brief, as I have to move on to more important matters, namely the schedule for the day.

It is important to cover the schedule for the day, for otherwise uncertainty and stress levels will rise. I have already carefully worked out what to say about the schedule, smoothing the pitfalls and glorifying the moments that are of positive significance for them. This detour in the conversation is unscripted, or maybe my brain is just too slow to keep up with them. “Those windows were windows, but a long time ago, in the olden days, they bricked them up, got rid of the glass.”



“English peoples are not liking dah windows?”
“No, English people love the windows but ….
“English peoples have no windows so dey cannot see dah grey sky?”
“Er no it’s..”
“Dey have no windows to keep out the raining?”
“Er no, it’s that..”
“English peoples not want to see dah wonky roads?”
“All very good ideas but…anyway English peoples....I mean English, er .. British people, I mean you are half English, I mean you have dual nationality, you're English too, that is to say British. Do you remember that we talked about that?”
"What you say? I am half? I am dual? What I am?"
"Never mind that now, where were we?"
"We are in dah England remember?"
"Yes I know, I meant....what did I mean?"
"You are saying I am dah half a jewel."
"I was? Er, windows, we were talking about windows."
“Yes you are dah good rememberer. English peoples are keep dah houses warming?”
“Good one, yes, I know it’s cold but..”
“English peoples hate dah Windex?” [translation = Windolene]
“Not really, it’s just that..”
“English peoples don like blue?” [translation = Windex]
“Er..”
“English peoples are dah very stoopid peoples?”
“No dear, they didn’t like the tax. In the olden days the King said that people had to pay tax depending upon the number of windows they had, so because people didn’t want to pay too much tax they bricked up a lot of their windows.”

Three pairs of eyes examine houses in the rain with bricked up windows. I try not to count the houses. I try not to count the bricked up windows. I perseverate about how to explain the abstract concept of taxation to an autistic, speech delayed six and a half year old person. [translation = how can I avoid percentages?]

“Not stoopid English peoples, stoopid English King!”

Spoken like a true republican.

A place for everything and everything in it’s place

In the rush, I forget. I arrive at the school for pick up, just in time. [translation = to get a parking place] I gathered my small people and shepherded them to the safety of the car. There seem to be far too many legs and arms around for me to keep hold of and I am again grateful for the lovely car, or rather the lovely car’s automatically opening doors. As they slide open to allow for easy entry, junior stops dead and screeches as the top of his lungs. [translation = approximately 400 people turn in our general direction to see which child has a stake through the heart] Two children enter the car and take their seats, one remains steadfast on the curb incoherent. He assumes the position, curled like a shrimp on the pavement, his body appearing to have convulsions. The retching, choking noises are interspersed with rooster noises. [translation = better than screaming and an indication that verbal communication should be returning shortly] People step around him. Several kindly persons offer assistance. My explanation that he ‘will be just fine,’ appear to be a patent lie. Clearly the child is having a near death experience, whilst I, his mother sit by his side and stroke his back. I peer through the moving crowd. His teacher is at the door. She gives me a thumbs up sign and smiles. [translation = he had a great day at school, sorry the ‘great’ part of the day is now over]

His sister leans out of the car to check on his progress, “maybe five minutes? D’ya think?” Her assessment is probably more accurate than mine. [translation = of his recovery time] I nod and smile. She turns her attention to her other brother, where they entertain each other with crumbs left over from their lunch sacks. [translation = thank goodness it’s only one child having a meltdown with no knock on effect to the others!]

Junior realizes that he is on the ground. [translation = tactile aversion is playing second fiddle to whatever the current horror is] He flips over to make a remarkably accurate impression of a Russian dancer as he kicks his feet out to shake off the dust. His squeaks are timed perfectly. [translation = coordinated in time with the leg thrusts] He leaps to his feet, brushing off specks of dirt like a whirling dervish. Once he is satisfied that he has achieved the desired level of cleanliness, he sighs and droops a bit. I take this is my cue.



“What is so bad dear?” He sparks remembering what it was that set him off in the first place. He points a tremulous index finger to the interior of the car. [translation = the same car that we have had for two years.] I look too, just in case.
“You’re gonna kill me?” I look blankly at him trying to connect dots that I cannot see. He helps me out. “You’re gonna kill me wiv dat fing?” I notice the dust buster on the carpet, left over from my ‘blitz the car’ effort. I am so lucky that he is now able to tell me things.

“Oh that’s a mistake, I just forgot to put it back on the recharger.” The dust buster is one of his more hated domestic appliances. [translation = because of the noise] It is my habit, to announce in a loud voice that I am about to use a domestic appliance. [translation = this is a vast improvement upon having to all housework at night, when they are in deep sleep]

This is thus a two fold problem? Firstly, there it is, the hated thing. Secondly, the hated thing has popped up unexpectedly in the wrong place at the wrong time. [translation = boo!] I remove the hated thing and sling it in the boot. [translation = trunk] He takes a cautious step towards the car, examines the floor and gently brushes the carpet fibres where the hated thing had been lying, just to make sure that it is truly gone and that there is no cross contamination.

We drive home. “So! Does the car look clean?” I ask under the foolish misconception that anyone might care one jot.
“You wash dah car?” he asks incredulous. I have occasionally used an automatic car wash service. Once, I had the children in the car with me whilst it was automatically washed. My idea of entertainment and my boys’ idea of entertainment did not match. [translation = rats in a trap that is on fire]

To me, the presence of the dust buster signifies that I have cleaned the carpet at least, but it appears that this is not an automatic conclusion. I remind myself that I have a whole book about teaching inferences to autistic children. I remind myself that maybe I ought to dust off that book, instead of the car carpet. Seems that I do everything too "late."

Co-ordination and balance or Treason!

[Pre - holiday in England]

We return from the garden centre. I am full of beans. [translation = ready to plant]

My son is wasted. [translation = American term meaning excessively tired, as opposed to the English, term meaning inebriated.] I took him with me as he doesn't react quite as violently as his brother does to this kind of trip. Spouse cared for the other two.

Now don't get me wrong, I am entirely delighted that my two severely speech delayed boys now talk, it's just that the thought processes behind the production of those words, is still far too fast and complex for me to understand. More often than not, I tie myself up in knots. [translation = intractable ones]

My son collapses of the floor like the deflated balloon that he is, together with matching sound effects. [translation = shopping is exhausting for him]
“Whatcha got mom?” asks his sister with enthusiasm.
“Ooo I bought loads of lovely things just look!”
“Gee but you were only gone half an hour!”
“Really, it seems sooooooo much longer. [translation = ten minutes drive there, 3 minutes choosing, 7 minutes queuing, paying and packing, 10 minutes drive home] Anyway, now we have to decide what to put where? Want to help?”
“Sure!”
“So you remember the vine that died on one side of the arbors because of the frost?”
“Yup!”
“Well, should we replace it with this glossy Jackmanii, or this smouldering Stephanotis?”
Junior appears in the kitchen, “what you do! Plantings are in dah garden not in dah house! Dirty!”
“They’ll be in the garden soon enough, we just have to decide which one to put where? Do you want to help?”
“NO! I am hating dah gardin and I am hating dah plants also.”
“Fair enough.” He hovers close by, brewing.
I reconnect with my daughter. “So what do you think?”
“I love that velvety purple, that will look lovely next to the other three white ones on the back fence.” I pause. Two arches. Three vines. Three white vines.
“Hmm, maybe we had better put the Stephanotis there then they’ll all be white, and they’ll all be scented which will be lovely when you’re sitting there.”
Junior buts in, “what it is, ‘assorted’?”
“Um, various, mixed, that sort of thing.”
“Why you are calling him Jack den?”
“Because that’s what he….er, it is. It is a Clematis Jackmanii, it’s Latin, named after the chappy that bred him, er…. it…..I think.”
“What rhyme it is?”
“Rhyme?”
“Yes. What be rhyming wiv Jackmanii?”
“Er…….?”
“Jackmanii, Jack boy e i, Jill girl e i, e i e i o e i!”
“That’ll do nicely, well done.”
"He is ancient?"
"Who, er who is ancient?"
"Jack."
"Well, he...it's probably got a couple of years growth I suppose."
"A couple is two!"
"Yes, that's right, good boy."
"Argh, NO!"
"No?"
"You said he was ancient."
"Did I?" As usual I have completely lost the thread of this conversation.
"Yes, you said he was Latins. Latins is ancient too, he cannot be only two."
"Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Breeders give plants Latin names so that everyone in the world can understand them. It's a common language. It doesn't matter what language you speak, everyone......understands......Latin." I peter to a halt anticipating an onslaught of additional questions that I am surely unable to answer. However, to my surprise, he seems completely satisfied with this response. I turn to my daughter again, who has waited patiently [again] throughout.
"So, shall we make a start? Find the fork?"
Junior has been cogitating for a few minutes.
“But he is not a Jack, he is a ‘patio plant,’” he spits twanging the elastic of the label.
“He’s a patio plant too. A plant can be more than one thing. Just like you! You’re masculine, a scholar, a chanters, a lyricist, an American, a fleet of foot, a Brit, a feline friend, a chocolate connoisseur, a jester, lots of different things all at the same time, all rolled up into one little boy.” I stop my brief list. I wonder if he can translate all those terms. Should I have used simpler language? I wait for him to process. Why do I keep doing that? Using too many words?
"I not little," he asserts after a brief pause.
"True, you're quite big now." I wait a bit longer....reminding myself of the discrepancy between his receptive and expressive language skills. [translation = understands what comes in but can't necessarily come out with the right words]

“What it is ......‘a Brit’?” [translation = oh no, tragedy!]

We will be in England in less than three weeks. Pass me the Globe!