Pause for thought

"Mike Stanton" of "action for autism" a member of the "autism hub" drew our attention to a "new case" which needs our thought. You can read the article here in the "Mail online" and I'll update with a link to the Channel 4 programme soon.

Very best wishes to Henry and his family.


If this seems an unlikely turn of events watch "here" it's about 1 minute into the piece after the headlines and it's about the first 9 minutes long. Click on the right side where it shows Ben Haslam [part three] and hit play. [Mon 14th July] I needed the volume up full to hear it. Bear in mind that the current US dollar to sterling is 2:1.

I'll let you know when I figure out how to access part 1 and 2.

Thanks to Sarah Spiller for this series.

To read an educated opinion on this trend go "here" on "Left Brain Right Brain."

For me, tonight's nightmare will consist of a private and personal discussion:- 'would we be willing to relinquish custody of our children to have their needs met by the State?'

But we're lucky, as it's only a theoretical debate.

Best Comment of the week award

<a href="http://whittereronautism.com/"><img src="http://i135.photobucket.com/albums/q158/mmcewen/Recipes-1-1.jpg" /></a>

[Inspired by "Scribbit."]

Goes to............

"Joe" at "Club 166" for his comment:-

"Just finished catching up on all the "England is Evil" posts.

I believe the British Bureau of Tourism would happily hire you as an ombudsman, if they read these.

Joe"




My kingdom for a job!

My republic for employment!

Yah!

Hear, hear.


Please feel free to do likewise with the award and make up some rules to go with it perhaps?

Cheers dears

Awards

"Autism Insights" has kindly nominated me for an award, the Arte Y Pico Award.

Upon winning this award you are tasked with the following rules…

1. You have to pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award. "arteypico.blogspot.com"


Since my language skills are poor, I find I'm obsessing on the 'art' bit, therefore first up would be "Karen" over at "Art in the Garage." If I were English, I would say that she is a real arty farty type, but as that is unlikely to translate that accurately over here in the States, I should probably say that her creative talents are inspirational! That would be the first lesson of the day = if someone says you're arty farty, it's a compliment.

Then there's "Tara" over at ""TLCIllustration"
She's more of an airy fairy type, but she can certainly be a "little devil" sometimes.

Then we can move on to "Louceel" for a jolly good yarn or two, or alternatively we can take a peek at his palatte and take in a "piccie."

That's all for now.

Cheers dears

Wall E movie review

Yes I know that everyone else on the planet has reviewed it and seen it already, but some of us have to wait until the dust has settled and the Theatre house is empty before we venture forth.

How I love empty theatres!

How I love Pixar.

There are lots of great things about this film for smallish people. For my smallish people the best thing was how there were very few words. The first half [?] was word free. The exaggerated noises, expressions and 'body language' made it easy to 'read' and understand.

When the people come along, words are used and conversations take place but I think it would be possible to turn off the sound and still understand the story as it's caked in visual cues.

Although Pixar is now Disney, or rather Disney's gobbled up Pixar, fortunately the movie isn't drowned in Disney mush.

I am probably biased by the environmental theme.

Warning:- some children may find that subsequently, robot noises and gesture are preferable to word production.

Pet Rocks [England is evil 8]

Sometimes I think we can be more direct as bloggers at the weekend, when traffic is lower, maybe more rambling, perhaps less slick and maybe more frank?

After several aborted attempts he is eventually lured onto the beach, despite the sand. I cannot fathom the derivation, but the new game, of his own making, works a treat. After nearly an hour of this play, it would be easy to think that his retrieval skills are unmatched.

His phrase is, “I went digging and guess what I found?” whereupon he presents me with a rock with an exceptionally surprised expression on his face and a little gasp. Then it’s my turn to say, “Wow, just as well I brought the bucket!” If I fail to look sufficiently surprised he gives it another go. He is patience personified. I have rarely seen him so content at play with something other than ‘electronics.’

For many this would be dull, especially the constant repetition. It’s probably the sort of thing you do with a toddler, but I really don’t care. I’m sure most parents love to play with their children, but for me, everything is always a group activity. If my other children were present my attention would be divided, and the ‘play’ would be a stresser. Who is doing what? Always on edge waiting for the next meltdown, the next disaster, the next unforeseen and unanticipated danger. May I’ve just forgotten how to relax?

I know we all have them, those sweet moments of perfect intimacy. It’s these tiny huge moments that slip through my fingers. Just for now, for me, one on one, is such a precious treat.

I’m so happy I could cry.

Ding, ding, ding, [England is evil 7]

It’s not that I’m ignoring him, more like not paying attention. He’s happy, playing, why break the spell?

“Ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” What a sweet adorable child. I wonder how long this one will last? I continue to make supper as the light fades. The minutes tick by as he continues with his new mantra, “ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” I can see him flit from one soft toy to another to repeat the same phrase out of the corner of my eye. Little gem. He darts between his brother and sister. She swats him like a fly but he's back to the soft toys in a ceaseless circuit of energy.


Where has this sudden good humour come from I wonder? Where has ‘England is evil’ gone? Ah the innocence of youth.

When I snap on the light in the kitchen I notice the gloom in the sitting room. I step in and reach for the table light but the darned thing is fused. “Ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” I look across to see him with the light bulb in his hand.

Light fingered Leviathan!

Still, it's an improvement on "last year."

OMG [England is Evil 6]

It would appear that travel not only broadens the mind but seemingly expands the vocabulary. It’s not a development that I particularly relish as I am surrounded in a ceaseless chant of blasphemy. Fortunately, they stick to the letter abbreviations rather than the words themselves, but it sends an entirely wrong message to the natives.

To be fair, if not even handed, the children are united in the opinion that they are really saying ‘oh my gosh,’ but few people give us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s the American accents but heads turn and I’m sure to blush.

They acquire curious variations on old themes such as ‘little guys first in case they burst!’ and ‘apology not accepted,’ although neither phrase endears them to their relatives.

The final straw comes in an unexpected format.

Delightful friends pop over for dinner and catch up. As always, they bring entertainment which guarantees that their visit is both remembered and anticipated with glee, and not just by the adults. Long ago, we forced our children to watch one episode of Dr.Who, it was not a successful experience. When the door bell rang the troops gamboled into the narrow hall only to be greeted by a two foot moving "Dalek."

I am uncertain who was more surprised?

Predictably, we have absorbed each of the six phrases that the Dalek’s micro chip provided. We hear them frequently. Luckily, in England, if a child wanders the streets saying “exterminate, exterminate, exterminate,” no-one turns a hair.

I suspect a different reaction in America.

There again, if it wipes out the 'England is Evil' mantra all shall be well.

On the other hand 'England is Evil' in America might have all sorts of unforeseen repercussions.

Thank goodness for duct tape!

It’s a wild life [England is Evil 5]

I lean on the fence and look over the view of rolling green hills and a herd of giraffe. Whilst I look at the giraffe I can’t help but wonder why they do it? If you live in a small, dark pokey house with teeny tiny windows, why would you blot out the view with a three paneled dressing table mirror? I expect it’s just an English thing, as so very many odd things are.

A long legged calf trots along with the grace of some women in high heels as my daughter snuggles up to ask a question, “why are they all huddled up like that, all curled and hunched?” I scan the horizon for wizened giraffe without success. “Where? I can’t see any curly giraffe.”
“Not giraffes, women.”
“Curly women?”
“No Mom, those women over there, those English women that are all crumpled.”
“How do you know that they’re English?”
“Are they what you call ‘wimps’?”
“Wimps! English women aren’t wimps! English women are more like Amazons, cut off their right breasts to achieve better aim with a bow and arrow, or is it the left one or maybe I’m thinking of Britannia.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing, I expect they’re just a bit chilly.”
“Why are they standing like question marks?”
“Are they?”
“Yeah. Do they have dodgy deportment?”
“Dodgy deportment? Where do you get this stuff from? Actually, on second thoughts don’t answer that. I expect they’re just older and colder than some.”

My youngest son deflates against my body, exhausted after having walked five and a half steps from the car at Longleet safari park to my side, “Oh em gee! I broke a nail! OMG! I broke a nail! OMG! I broke a nail!” I pick up his spaghetti arm to check his fingers, just in case. Typical! Where has he picked that up from I wonder? He sighs as his chin sinks to his chest and then blinks at the view like someone deprived of light for the last 40 years, “I am liking dem.”
“I like them too, they’re such graceful creatures.”
“Creatures! Dey are not be creatures, day are be wimmins.”
“Not you too!”
“Yes I am liking the English wimmins very much.”
“Indeed! Why might that be then?”
“Coz of der squishy bits.”
“Which squishy bits?”
“Dah squishy cushions on der tummies for resting the elbows.”

Never let it be said that older women are not appreciated by the discerning, regardless of nationality.

Bolting [ England is evil 4]

It’s a common enough issue for many a parent. One moment they’re there, the next moment they’re gone, without so much as a puff of smoke. It is familiar territory for many a parent. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was some kind of warning or preamble:- “Hey mom! I’m just going to trot up to the top of that mountain o’er yonder to investigate the sparkly thing on the top. Catcha in 5!” Then they’d be the chance to intervene, deflect or distract. Perhaps they already know the IDD tactic that we parents employ? Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that an AWOL child produces an instantly insane parent. It’s a given.

Exceptionally good parents, such as myself, know that the only solution is constant supervision, never let your guard down, never assume anything. This is the relationship that me and my bolter have enjoyed ever since his legs started working in a vertical propulsion kind of way rather than a horizontal kind of kicking the air kind of way. I’ve had seven years to perfect the art of padlocking the bolter.

But of course there’s always jet lag.

We slumber, all of us in our second floor flat in the holiday let at the seaside in the pitch black of the silent hours. Their father is with his mother, on the other side of town. The click of the unfamiliar latch is the only clue as the door closes with a sigh. I stagger out into the hall. For some reason my brain clings to the false clue, the empty unworn shoes on the mat. I force my mind to the land of reason, where no-one around here ever wears shoes voluntarily. I hover, can I leave two children asleep and unsupervised? I grab the keys and lunge out the door, down the stairs to the front entrance with the even bigger lock that closes automatically as a safety device. I whip outside to the forecourt and parked cars and the empty road. There is no sign of him in any direction. I hop from one foot to the other, which way to go? How far could he get in five seconds, or is it ten seconds or maybe several life times? Horror stories, headlines and urban myths percolate through my last functioning brain cell.

Cell phone! Who should I phone?

I cross the road to check in both directions down the dip.

Nothing. I dash back strangely breathless with the deafening thud of my heart beat. Blood rushes through my ear drums. No! Waves! The beach. The sea. The water! I rush around the building to the side entrance to punch in the secret code to the gate. This is ridiculous, he’d never remember that code, alpha numeric. Did we even tell him the code? I should be looking somewhere else. Where else? I burst through the gate, over the concrete, up the steps to a vista of silver starry beach. My son lies face down drained of colour in the moonlight, slowly making sand angels with his arms and legs. I plop down next to him. I wait before I squeak. I put a hand on the small of his back and take a deep breath. This isn’t my bolter but his older brother. He rolls over lazily, “hi mom,” he beams. We return to the slumberers as we watch the moons together, the one in the sky and the one reflected on the water.


The sixth time he bolted in the same hour I had a sense of humour failure and decided to sit on him!


Well.....more like drag him into my bed and admit defeat. I'm sure I'm not the only one who adopts the parental padlock pretzel position? I hope?

Between a rock and a hard place [England is Evil 3]

I sally forth with 20 minutes reprieve, to the corner shop to buy my caffeine fix. My face is puce, windburn rather than sunburn, evidence of Summer’s existence in England. I leave my compulsive hand washer and the rest of the rabble in the tender care of their father.

My new skin tone clashes violently with the radio active rock emblazoned on my chicken chest, a wedding anniversary present. The gift is a Dichroic rock, a by-product devised by NASA. It flitters between an iridescent shade of lurid green and virulent neon pink. Co-incidentally, it’s arrival matches the children’s sudden interest in minerals, gem stones and fossils that appear to consume our every waking moment. Since we are on holiday and therefore technology free, we are rapidly growing an impressive library of books, pamphlets and brochures on the subject.

By some stroke of genius, we also mined a true ‘find,’ a touchstone indeed, in the form of a lump of Quartz with it’s own little bag labeled ‘worry stone.’ It might as well have been carved in granite, chiseled in marble as a miraculous ‘cure’ for the OCD amongst us. I have a whole new respect for cheesy seaside shops. He quotes directly from the accompanying leaflet:- ‘an excellent channeller for healing, dispels negativity,’ which it most certainly does! A closet Indigo child perchance! Proof positive of the power of mind over body, as long as we remember to bring the lodestone along.


His ability to absorb and regurgitate facts, is exactly matched by my own shortcomings, my inability to do likewise. Hence, I have had the forethought to write ‘Dichroic’ on my left hand. I also have the gift of second sight, a veritable Nostradamus but even more scientific, reliable to a statistical significance of plus or minus 3, or 7 on a really good day. I know that some stranger will ask me, ‘what is that thing glowing on your rib cage?’ and I shall be dumbstruck, wordless and brainless in response.

I keep up a cracking pace along the path, bent horizontal into the force 9 gale. I see evidence of seagull carnage on the path. Only the feathers remain, swirling against a wall long after the urban fox has departed. I have yet another reason to be thankful that I’m alone and have escaped the trigger of death and all other matters related to a tenuous life span.

Strangely, once in the coffee shop, no-one asks about the rock, either because it is barely dawn or alternatively because the glow is smothered by several thick layers of waterproof clothing, customary attire for those on a beach holiday.

Fortunately the weather means that I am propelled back to the flat at warp speed with the coffee still piping hot, all ready for the next barrage of questions from the boys. Inside the gloom I prepare myself mentally for the vast diversity of instant explanations of all things English to include ‘the purpose of clotted cream’ and ‘the true nature of a cornet.’ How come I am suddenly the resident expert on all things English, a role for which I am woefully ill equipped. Sadly, I am poorly prepared for my daughter’s surprise question as she peers over her book, with a nest of bed head hair “what does ‘cleavage’ mean?” I look at the book, ‘A concise guide to rocks and minerals,’ and her gaping nightie neckline. I blink and think as she continues, “ I get the ‘name,’ ‘hardness,’ ‘specific gravity’ and ‘lustre’ even though they spelt ‘luster’ wrong on the chart but what’s cleavage?” Vast chasms of ignorance play with my brain. How many times am I destined to be exposed as an idiot before first light? Parenthood is so unfair on the middle aged. What use is my encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs now, assuming that information was still available and not already written over by miscellaneous facts and figures about Thomas, only to be subsumed by Pokemon details? “It must be something to do with…..splitability, how easy or difficult it is to shatter it.” I run away into the kitchen where I can wrack my thesaurus for a proper substitute for ‘splitability,’ wash my hands prior to breakfast and scrub off the ink as my youngest son pounces on me, “no!”
“No what? I mean……er….”
“I am mean stop, do not be wash yur hands.”
“Why? I’m just about to make breakfast.”
“You are not need to be wash yur hands now.”
“Why? Er breakfast……!” I seem to be caught in my own loop.
He uncurls his index finger to jab me in the chest, “because nuffin bad is happen. Now you are be have yur worry stone.”

England is Evil [2]

After 22 days in England, I grow weary of the mantra. It’s difficult to determine which is more annoying, the ‘England is evil,’ ditty, muttered in glowering tones of impending doom, or the ‘when we are go America?’ question, in the alternative. It’s tempting to climb into the tumble drier and hide, but of course in England domestic appliances are designed for people of diminished stature. I’d be lucky if I could put one foot inside the dinky little machine, manufactured to dry one pair of underpants at a time. It’s a timely reminder of why all British people wear thongs, regardless of age or physique.

The national shortage of Goldfish crackers, is of course unforgivable. Curiously, of all the many evils of England, the medieval practice of afternoon teatime at four o’clock is a big hit all round. I fester over the issue as to whether Jammy Dodgers biscuits are available in America, as their little red hearts are so endearing? Sadly, I already know that our arteries shall not be clogged with clotted cream, as strangely it is a culinary extravaganza that hasn’t caught on in the States.

22 days has meant a seamless automatic translation of fries into ‘chips’ without so much as a stutter. Collectively we overcome many new obstacles and learn a great deal. We learn that it is indeed possible to play beach cricket if one employs a neon yellow tennis ball, which appears to be close enough to ‘golden’ to make it acceptable foreplay. We learn that shower grouting can liquefy, but hardens very nicely on warm bodies. I learn that rather than a Rolls Royce being a stately and magnificent tribute to the British car industry, it is really only ‘cute’ and ‘weeny.’ We learn that the current level of hand strength means that it not possible to remove a three pin plug from a wall socket, even if you use a knife. We celebrate tool usage and a narrow escape from an ER visit. Furthermore, British road users prefer foreigners to use the same side of the road as they do, the left. My sons are indifferent, although it’s far more ‘fun’ when we drive the American way by mistake.

We learn that small fingers can be persuaded to pick up shells from sandy beaches. We learn that mother’s who lie about Hermit crabs inhabiting English shells are likely to be stoned, one way or another. I’d better nip that habit in the bud before someone becomes really crabby.

England is Evil

Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted that he feels able to express his viewpoint verbally. I’d just prefer it if he could be a little more circumspect, especially whilst we happen to be in England. I’m sympathetic to many of his complaints, that the milkshakes are too small and that weather is too big, but loud mouthed Americans are just to much of a cliché, even for him.

Handy travel hint of the day – to ensure that your suitcases are fresh for next year, tuck a tumble drier sheet inside before storage. Take care to assess whether or not tumble drier sheets should be eliminated from your life style, along with the tumble drier to reduce your carbon footprint on the planet. Should you suffer the misfortune of someone vomiting in your suitcase, admit defeat and chuck away the suitcase, carbon footprint be damned. Be grateful that your brain torture has ceased and that the mysterious stench is no longer mysterious. Don’t forget to thank the thoughtful child that shut the suitcase after use.

Normal service shall be resumed as soon as humanly possible.

May the force be with you too

In the salon I hand over the gift voucher with glee. An hour of frivolous indulgence should never be squandered. I leave with two parts of my scraggy anatomy spruced up to meet American standards of womanliness. I anticipate that the manicure should remain immaculate for the next twenty minutes during the drive home.

As I drive I calculate which mode to adopt on arrival? Guilty of the crime of ‘absent without leave,’ I shall be soundly punished one way or another. Maybe the sulky, silent treatment? Maybe mountainous meltdowns? It’s the price to be paid for such selfish skullduggery at the weekend. Whilst many a parent returns home to be welcomed with open arms, other parents need to be a bit more savvy.

On previous occasions I made the mistake of bringing home treats, due to a combination of gratitude for the time off and a hefty dose of guilt for being so grateful in the first place. For some reason, I had temporarily forgotten that most treats are in fact torture, but I learned from my error. Whilst it’s tempting to try for a hug, that too is subject to negotiation. There’s nothing like unexpected physical contact to really ruin someone’s day. I decide to play it by ear.

As I step through the door my ears are assaulted by a loud combination of someone playing the recorder, another one making rooster noises in protest, a third is buried head down in cushions and an aerated father has an air of exasperation.

“Oh good! You’re home! How did you get on?” We ignore our children, exchange glances. I permit him to note my sparkly finger nails.
“Ooo very………clean.”
Whilst it wasn’t the adjective I was looking for, it was a good try under the noisy circumstances. The rooster ceases to crow and gasps instead, open mouthed, a picture of awe struck, “you are be touch?”
“Pardon dear?”
“You are be touch me wiv your magic fingers!” I swear he's as sharp eyed as an eagle.





















Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.

Bye for now

We’re off on our annual pilgrimage to "England," a green and pleasant land so they say, but not without it's "hazards."
There again, we have the opportunity to relish "family support" for a few weeks and take time to bask in those tiny huge "triumphs."
I suspect we shall spend less time in the "car" with the petrol prices and exchange rate being as they are. It's probably time to kick back, "relax" and let the "campaigns" slide.

1. "Chat, chat, chat - breaking news"
2. "Zero sum and the division of labour"
3. "I do not like green eggs or otherwise"
4."The Humane Society"
5. "Slap on the head for the handmaiden"
6. "Puppy dogs tails indeed"
7. "The Seven Deadly Sins"
8. "I hear Thunder"
9. "Truthful Tuesday, the sin of Pride"
10. "To be or not to be, that is probably the answer"
11. "Look to the Future."
12. "Occupational Therapy - no Flying!"
13. "A Labyrinth of Liars"
14. "Personal Learning Curves"



So here are a few bits and bobs in the interim.
Cheers dears

Everyone is unique

Junk food

I am a woman of strong convictions, so I waste no time, take out my pen and write to the local school district about their disgraceful policy on school lunches.

Not a mung bean in sight, nor in storage. How can young minds learn anything when they are starved of good, nutritionally well balanced meals. Where is the tofu may I ask? Whole-wheat is a good start but wheat-free options should be a priority. Fresh fruit and yoghourt is all very well but what about the lactose intolerant. Haven’t you people heard of soy? Don’t you know there’s more to a salad bar than lettuce and tomatoes? Whilst the new recyclable lunch container policy is commendable, shouldn’t there be a complete ban on paper towels too? We parents have high standards that are inviolate.

I pause as I hear the garage door open.

Children tumble into the house.

Spouse brings up the rear mounded high with sacks of groceries.
“You’ll never guess what?”
“What?”
“Tell her. Hey! Tell your mum what we bought.”
“Um……”
“Come on! Tell her! No words? O.k. just show her then. He chose it himself, just like that!”



























If that’s the 18th food then I’m a beansprout.

I toss the letter in the bin.

Traitor.

Alex Barton's Lesson

All parents are teachers but many of us are mere amateurs.

I have long been an admirer of the teaching profession, their vocation and dedication, all of them. We entrust our children into their care, in loco parentis, secure in the knowledge that they will do their part in guiding them along the treacherous path to adulthood.

I was therefore a little alarmed to read that a young Kindergartener, "Alex Barton," had been voted out of his class, a bit like one of those popular reality shows on the telly. This wasn’t a case like "Lord of the Flies," where the children had run amuck without adult supervision, but rather, his ousting was instigated by his teacher.

It made "me" wonder. It made lots of "people" wonder. It made his mum take "action."

I wondered why a teacher might do such a thing? Five years old, seems a little young to be teaching Darwin’s theory of "survival of the fittest," but I’m obviously not up to date on the State curriculum.

How else might this have come about? Maybe this was merely a role playing exercise, helping the children learn "kinesthetically," where we learn by doing. An early introduction to the power of the vote, elections and democracy?

Then there’s public speaking or the debating aspect. There are any number of valuable lessons to be learned, to say nothing of voicing opinions and sharing.

Perhaps this was a carefully orchestrated plan, to teach inclusion by demonstrating exclusion, lesson one, with a follow up next week?

It could be that this was a litmus test to check the class’ moral fibre, a bench mark and launch pad for a new campaign of social awareness.

Alternatively the teacher decided that her students were in need of a demonstration of the "bystander effect." The bystander effect is when an incident occurs that requires action from the onlookers but few are able step up to the plate. Alex found that two of his classmates were able to act, but who would choose to test five year olds?

I expect it was something to do with the harsh lessons of reality, that life can be a "popularity contest." When is the right time, developmentally and chronologically to learn that lesson?

I wonder what her plan was? I’m just curious. It seems a curious lesson plan to amateurs. I wonder if the rest of her profession concurs? I somehow doubt it. I suspect she is in the minority, singled out with a unique perspective. I wonder if she is a good sharer? I’d love to know her perspective? I’m sure we’d all like to understand.

My own behaviour as a parent would not hold up well under public scrutiny.


I’m sure there are some saintly types around who never lose their cool. Sadly, I’m not one of them. All to often, every day in fact, I’m pushed to the point of "exasperation." I lack the patience and temperament for "teaching," and more importantly, a vocation. My retaliation is usually in the form of sarcasm. Luckily no-one around here understands sarcasm. Unluckily my tone makes the underlying message unmistakable = Mum is mad. I make many mistakes and more than a few hideous blunders. I’ve learned to forgive myself the errors and vow to do a better job tomorrow, every day, but that’s the nature of human frailty.

Fortunately, no-one’s going to call me to account for my misdeeds.

I get away Scott free.

It’s only all the "children" that will pay.

A one size fits all

As the time for the play date approaches I have a growing sense of dread. I have my own mother’s words circulating through my skull, variations on ‘don’t be such a wimp.’

It’s one thing to discipline my own children in my own home, but it’s quite another to tackle someone else’s child. It would be so easy to do irreparable harm, however unwittingly. I just don’t know the child well enough.

In theory, I have decided on my approach, the one that I generally use. I practice in my head and anticipate reactions, but it’s all just theory. The practice rarely turns out as planned.

When the first demand is bellowed I ignore it, or rather I pretend to ignore it. After a couple of repeated demands she comes to seek me out in the kitchen, “hey! I said I want a snack. Didn’t ya hear me?” She turns on her heel and stomps back into the family room to continue playing. I swallow hard and ignore the yellow stripe down my back. Am I the only one afraid of ten year olds? I tiptoe into the family room to survey a relatively calm scene of play. I am cautious of the firecracker child. She glances up at me, or rather my empty hands, bristling. Her mouth drops open, presumably with outrage or disbelief, as I sit down next to her on the carpet. “You know “Rebecca,” in our house we try and use our indoor voices.”
“What?”
“We try and use quiet voices so that we don’t hurt our ears.” She looks at me as if I am a thing from another planet, which I probably am. Will she spontaneously combust?
“O.k. so can I have my snack now? Is that what ya want?”
“That is sooo much better, much easier to listen to.” She looks at me again. Is she checking for sarcasm?
“Snack?”
“I’m going to get everyone a snack.”
“When?”
“I’m going to start now and I should be ready in about five minutes. Here. Do you see this timer. The red bit shows five minutes. It would be great if you could wait those five minutes because there’s six of you and only one of me.”
She looks at me. She looks at the timer.
“Is that o.k. with you?”
“Sure.”
“Shall I tell you something else about our house?”
“Sure.”
“When people say please and thank you, I work sooo much faster.” I attempt a smile to the unknowable child, the stun gun in the arsenal of sophisticated pre-teen population.
“Please.”

Save me from the typical types.

Hand luggage and Teflon

It takes up a disproportionate amount of time in my working memory:- how to minimize luggage but maximize options?

It’s quite selfish really.

I have three sets of clothes that I wear all the time, the on, the off and the in the wash. It’s perfect. It’s perfect until we set off for our annual holiday to England.

Wear one and pack the other two in a suitcase?

No.

Wear one and pack the other two in the hand luggage. My suitcase in the hold will be full of other essential items, none of which will be clothes, least of all my own clothes.

This is o.k. because I will need all three sets of clothes for the journey. I shall be up and dressed in set number one at about 5 in the morning. I shall then remain immaculate throughout the day until we fly at 7 in the evening. It is essential that I remain in set number one come what may. During the first hour of the flight, my eldest son will have a technicolour accident, a combination of fear of flying and air sickness. At this point, I shall abandon set number one, wrap them in several bags and shove them at the bottom of the backpack.

Once I have donned set two, I shall remain inviolate during the remaining 9 hours of the flight, apart from other little accidents. Those lap tray tables are so tricky to manage. During the 9 hours I shall be speckled with three meals from several people, and possibly my own. I shall be sprinkled, doused and drenched in every available beverage. I shall reluctantly shun the offer of a free glass of wine. Befuddlement in confined spaces is a mistake.

As we move forwards through the night, we shall arrive yesterday. As we hit the ground in England, de-plane, charm customs, salute passport checkers, locate buses, hire a car and pile ourselves into it, I shall then have been in set number two for 12 hours, together with enough foodstuffs to make a severe dent in the world food shortage.

I shall resist the urge to change into set number three.

We will drive to our rental, de-car, relocate ourselves and our baggage into the flat. I shall make up four beds in the hope that someone will sleep sometime soon. Only when sleep is imminent shall I remove set two, leaving set three available, ready for the next shift, although not necessarily the next day. Otherwise, waking time will arrive and I shall be threadbare and threadless.

This annual problem weighs heavily upon my mind.

Whilst the English are more open to nud.ity, the weather tends to be inclement.

I need an alternative solution.

And here it is.




























There again, I may just have to grit my teeth and go shopping for an entirely new outfit altogether.

Don’t do that. What?

Sometimes I just yearn for a scientific mind.

You see it most commonly in toddlers and those under the age of 5 when social awareness has yet to eradicate it. It always strikes me as being half way between a yawn and a stretch. It’s a gesture that intrigues me as I watch a three year old girl twist and pull her skirt up towards her face, to reveal a pair of pink leggings. It does not appear purposeful, more like the shudder of cat coming awake. It’s the same as another child that appears to half pull off his T-shirt. They remained clothed and decent, as they don’t complete the motion. Somehow it is not the same as someone undressing. It’s more like slow motion followed by a pause.

It should have a name. Where should I start in the dictionary?

It appears that most children grow out of this phase but others do not. I suspect that whatever prompts the behaviour is outstripped by the stronger motivation to fit in with the social mores. Some others are both stuck in this phase and usually manage to complete the motion unless prompted to do otherwise. Because it is slow and lazy there’s enough time to step in. If I could figure out the why, then I might be able to tackle the habit more effectively. It’s all well and good to say ‘no,’ to be watchful and intervene, but it would be so much better to determine the cause.

This is so often the case with so many of their habits. If someone is not aware that they’re doing something, it seems pointless to ban it outright without further investigation. If the social awareness and peer pressure element is missing, or not a priority, it is still wise to prompt and guide, but it’s not ideal. If the tactile defensiveness component is eliminated, what else is left?

It is not the same as undressing. Undressing is purposeful and fast, over in the blink of an eye. This gesture is a distracted movement, common in youngsters that I never see with adults. If they are both kinesthetic learners, learn by their bodies going through the motions, I wonder if once they start the gesture, their bodies just follow through, as the ‘pause’ at the apex of the movement for most people, is over-ridden?

It is these kinds of thoughts that make life so unproductive.

Where are all the boffins when you need one?

Come along villagers, out of the lab, it's time for some fieldwork.