Touche

You may care to read 'phobias' prior to this article.


My daughter is engaged in the bathroom [translation = sitting on the throne] with one foot operating the lever on the pedal bin as she chants “bin, trash, garbage, rubbish,” in time to the clanking of the lid as it crashes against the pedestal. I sit at the table with the boys. Junior son’s current breakfast consists of 3 grapes, each color, a raspberry, a strawberry, a blackberry, a serious challenge, a few blue berries, the blandest and most innocuous fruit ever to grace the planet, a cube of pineapple and half a banana. This means that breakfast is generally a very LOUD affair. This is of course perfect timing, now that we're reaching the end of the soft fruit season. He'll have forgotten all about them, that he has nearly conquered them. By next year they'll be 'new food' again. Ah well. The fruit is a precursor, nay an aperitif, to more preferred food, 44 minutes of fruit, one minute of cereal. 44 minutes to eat a quarter cup of fruit, one minute to eat a cup of cereal, but life’s a trade off. Her chant continues in the bathroom, “bin [clank], trash [clank], garbage [clank], rubbish [clank].” I consider removing the label from the bin, marked with the same words to assist those who have difficulty identifying everyday household objects without such clues.

I run a quick inventory of the odd things in my house that are labeled, just a few of them, like the 4 foot toy chest that has a little yellow label on it saying ‘trunk’ or the 6 foot fridge labeled ‘fridge’ or more confusingly, the door labeled ‘sink,’ which is at eye line height, so that when he walks into the door in the morning, he’ll be reminded that he’s really heading for the sink. It’s like some deep surreal mystery, where I inhabit the same planet where I am the alien.

We reach the hurdle of the latest new fruits. He screams as is his wont and tries to escape from the cage of his carver chair.
“It’s hairy!” he yeowls.
“What is?”
“The fruit!”
I examine his platter looking for a rogue bloom of mould that I may have missed in haste. Nothing. Pristine fruit, the peak of freshness, a delicious, juicy, tempting array of the best the supermarket has to offer.
“It’s not dear, it’s perfect.” His sister appears by my side to comment, “he’s never gonna eat it ya know.” I am uncertain whether she has mislaid her American positive attitude or whether this is my reality check?
“Rubbish, of course he will, he’s eaten one every day for ten days now.”
“What cha mean ‘rubbish,’” she enquires, head to one side. I blink, checking continents.
“Oh, ‘rubbish’ can mean ‘nonsense’ or ‘don’t be so silly,’ sort of thing, too.”
“Hairy, hairy, hairy! ‘Hairy’ cannot be food,” he screams in case I didn’t manage to hear him properly the first time.
“He’s not gonna eat it,” comes the voice of doom. I look again in case the hygiene consultant shed a follicle inadvertently during food preparation, as such mistakes do occur in non commercial kitchens such as mine. Nothing.
“It’s fine dear, no hairs.” The other one starts up, breaking his monastic silence, “I, I, I, um, I don like fruit, it is yucky for me, but I’m gonna try, I’m gonna try and eat it anyways,” he says stuffing a blueberry into tight lips.
“You need to open your mouth first dear.”
“I can’t eat hairy! It is bad to eat hairy.”
“There is no hair dear,” I say firmly with my eyes very close to his eyes. He growls with exasperation at my stupidity.

I concede the point that some fruit is in fact hairy, a whole category of hairy fruit such as kiwi, or peaches, if you’re being really picky, but his breakfast is devoid of the hairy varieties. He gestures with his index finger towards the offender. I follow as he identifies the raspberry, stabbing the nearby air space with teeth bared and a crumpled nose, as the stench of raspberry is clearly overpowering. Our faces move in closer to examine the culprit. “See!” he accuses, but I don’t. He hurls himself back in the chair and clunks his skull of the wood, ‘mothers! Who’d have them!’

“Your eyes are bad, your eyes are stupid, why you have stupid bad eyes that don’t work proper?” A well reasoned argument, one that I haven’t recently considered but always subject to review. I try harder. I pick up the raspberry to line it up with the bifocals at 6:52 in the morning, and do you know what, he’s right, there are tiny little hairs on a raspberry, minute ones. This is a valuable new piece of information for a middle aged person to acquire. I wonder why it is, that whilst for most people, advancing years result in greater wisdom but that other less fortunate persons, are forced to face chasms of ignorance? I also wonder how best to proceed, now that I have been proved wrong both categorically and category wise? His face is set, arms folded across his chest in a gesture of defiance. I replace the fork on the side of the platter as a droplet of juice forms on the pierced raspberry. I debate how to manage my defeat, which apparently is discernible from my facial expression, as he reaches a gentle hand across to my shoulder, “I am sorry your eyes are old rubbish.”

Prevaricate

I used to consider myself an honest person, don’t we all? I’m not averse to telling the odd white lie here and there, but definitely avoid the big whoppers. [translation = mortal, not burgers]

With my first generation of children a couple of decades ago, I found that my primary position on ‘truth’ was compromised. I adopted a new position; ‘sitting on the fence.’ Then, a youthful and ignorant parent, I worked on the sound theory, that if I offered two opposing options, that my child would have to work it out their own way. Of course I stacked the odds in my favor on each and every occasion; ‘some people think it’s o.k. to eat animals and earn their living that way, other people prefer to think of animals as friends, now would you like Whiskers fried or roasted for Sunday lunch?’ Now that’s what I call value free parenting.

These days, when the audience is more literal and is beginning to acquire a sense of humor, I find that my fence is getting a bit rickety, but that happens with age. With this generation’s black and white world, my fence is being shaken. I am in peril of a tumble.

“I am special?” he asks before the sun has risen. I blink behind my bifocals. I am not a morning person. When he first wakes up, he has more words available to him than later in the day, as he uses them all up. He seems to be operating on a quota system.
“Of course, every child is special. Indeed every person is special now I come to think of it.” I need my brain to wake up and connect with my mouth.
“No, no, no. Me. Me. Me. Am I the special one?” Oh dear! Who has being saying what to him? Don’t mess it up! Encourage and positively reinforce every utterance. If only I could get him to start at the beginning, to fill me in on all the prior thoughts leading up to this question.
“Who told you that you were special dear?”
“No, no, no. Not ‘deer,’ ‘boy!’ Am I a special boy?” Oh dear! I fell right into that one. Wake up! Starting firing on all cylinders! Have my neurons abandoned me?
“Who told you that you were a special boy?” Why am I a night owl? [translation = barmy old bat]
“I don know. I mean, I mean, I mean, I cant remember who is saying dat.” I think. Hurry, hurry, before he loses interest. I need to metamorphose into an early bird. [translation = leopards and spots] I think hard. Why didn’t I train to be a speech pathologist when I was 18? Can I swap [translation = trade] my paper qualifications in ‘uselessness’ for a practical skill set?

I have no back-ground information, no pointers or clues. I don’t want to provoke a meltdown by trying to extract chapter and verse from him, when he just wants an answer. I think of an answer. Not an answer to him, but an answer for him to use.
“The next time someone says that to you, can you try and do your ‘good answering’ for me?”
“Er, maybe.” Perfect! Never agree to anything initially, without due consideration of any and all consequences. A sound response that will stand him in good stead, both now and in the future.
“Can you try and look at the person, their face, shoulder perhaps, and use your kind voice to say, “And you’re special too!”

Well it’s not a lie. [translation = ain’t that the truth]


prevaricate
verb [I] FORMAL
to avoid telling the truth or saying exactly what you think.

Helpful Interpreter sabotages credibility

One of my chaps suffers from tactile defensiveness. [translation = doesn’t like the way things feel for current purposes] Because of this, his Birthday Suit is his favorite. [translation = prefers to live life without the trouble of laundry] He is a very lucky boy, because several people have worn his clothes before he does. This means that they are soft. He is also lucky that he lives in California, where signs on restaurants and other public establishments, give advice to similarly minded people: ‘shirt and shoes required.’

It is unfortunate [for us] that he is also hyperlexic. [translation = he can read and understand, more than is common for one of such tender years, for current purposes] Since he is also literally minded, it is difficult to argue with him; “but it dun say nuffink abowt twousers!” This kind of behavior makes a parent hypervigilant too. Turn you back for a moment and all you are left with is a pile of clothes. In the alternative, if luck is on your side, you can play Hansel and Gretel in the Mall, following the trail of clothes, because the hypervigilant, are also speed demons. But I digress.

We bow and leave Karate without the white garb, as this is our first week. [translation = newbies] The bow is his cue, he knows it’s all over. As he stands, he arches back, throws his head up to the ceiling and starts screaming his mantra, ‘no nuniform! denEYEbee NAY ked,’ at fifty decibels. I scoop him up and smile at the other participants. ‘Please let the Karate uniforms appear next time’ I plead to the great uniform dispenser in the sky. Tears course down his face and I’m grateful that as he wipes his nose on my shoulder, his cries become more muffled. Autism for him, means a certain lack of tolerance, amongst other things. His emotions are off or on, and flit between each extreme without warning. I’m fortunate that his speech delay makes him incomprehensible to the rest of the class.

His sister comes to my side, taking pity on his plight, ‘don’t worry, they’ll be here next week, I’m sure,” she says with more optimism that she probably feels.
A kindly man drifts across to us, as I herd my brood towards the door. “He sure loves class.” I smile non-committally and cup junior’s head in closer for the next ‘no nuniform! denEYEbee NAY ked,’’ I slip my hand over my sons, as he grips the neck of his T-shirt to rip it off. His bottom wriggles, trying to slough off his shorts, a superfluous shedding of snakeskin. “It can be tough for them to transition when they’re little,” he adds gently. Fortunately, I am familiar with this kind of American lingo, “yes, he’ll be just fine, as soon as I get him out to the car.”

"No nuniform! denEYEbee NAY ked,’ continues to come in angry staccato bursts, as he struggles to get his arms out of his threadbare T-shirt. I debate whether it is physically possible to remove all your clothing whilst you’re being carried, but I have no personal life experiences to draw upon?

“Yup, he sure is a determined little guy,” he says in the conversational tone of one ‘knowing’ parent to another, as we step in unison. Senior brings up the rear, but has no words, for which I am grateful. His sister joins in, addresses her little brother in a jovial voice, at just the right pitch to travel well, “you know the rule, you gotta keep em on, nobody here wants to see ya butt naked, that would be inappropriate cos we’re not at home.” I swallow hard, feeling my grip tighten on junior’s thrashing 52 lbs. The man’s face sags, his lips part, I avoid his eyes.

MORE

Generally speaking, and I love generalizations, autistic children are described as being ‘more.’ I never thought about this label until a friend of mine asked me what it meant?
“They don’t’ seem ‘more’ to me, they seem so much less?” she blurted, but that’s because I know her well and I have Rhino hide. I didn’t need to ask for specifics but there’s no harm in checking that I have hold of the right end of the stick? “How do you mean?”
“Well, they’re speech is crap, [translation = delayed, two and a half years for one of them and 18 months for the other one, which means that fortunately for me, they both speak as if they’re about 4, even though chronologically they’re 6 and seven and a half, so it’s more like having twins.] She continues, “they don’t do any sport, can’t even catch a ball, klutz!” [Translation = all American children are judged harshly upon their ability to amuse themselves and others, with a ball, although I am uncertain as to why this should be so important.]
“They look funny, you know, how they walk and all.” [Translation = one of them appears clumsy. The other doesn’t walk, he sort of sparks, as if he’s stuck his fingers in a power outlet.]
“How come he can read and the other one can’t?” [Translation = he’s hyperlexic which means he can read anything, way above his chronological age. The other one could read when he was three, but he sort of lost that ability when the autism really kicked in.]
“Why don’t they eat proper, like, you know, all kids love pizza?” [translation = pizza is poison, well that’s the opinion of one of them, but it’s not surprising because he’s neophobic, which means he’s afraid of food, which means he’s doing a wonderful job of staying alive at all.]
“How come he’s so picky clean and the other one’s such a grub?” [translation = autism is rarely straightforward, one is obsessively compulsively clean and the other is oblivious. It’s sort of hyper-vigilance for one, something, anything, everything, is going to attack him, but the other one could be buried in a pile of manure and not really notice.]
“Why is his face still all pudgy, like a baby’s? It’s just too weird to have a six year old with a baby face.” [translation = he has very little facial or jaw muscle tone because he doesn’t chew anything because he doesn’t eat anything. That’s why it’s so difficult to understand what he says because he sounds as if he’s talking with a mouthful of marbles. I just wish they were grapes instead of marbles, myself.]
“You can’t see his face anyway under all that hair!” [translation = this is a child with tactile defensiveness, like an invisible bubble covering his head to his shoulders and nothing must penetrate that bubble or he’ll bite you, though not literally. Taking a pair of scissors to that mop would be cruel and unusual punishment, and I don’t want to be had up by the authorities because I’m an immigrant and don’t want to give them any more ammunition towards my extradition papers.]
“It’s weird how they never look at you in the eye, that would drive me crazy!” [translation = me too, but eye contact is tough for autistic children, even orientating their bodies towards the speaker can take years of training. Most of the time, if they speak at all, they might as well be talking to the ether. I don’t see it as an insurmountable problem, I can think of hundreds of careers that involve no eye contact. The tech industry will be beating a path to their doorway in a few years time.]

“He’s always clutching something, he’s like a baby with a transitional object, shouldn’t he have grown out of that by now?” [translation = it’s not always the same thing, in fact it changes every couple of weeks, but without it, he’s paralyzed, he has to have it with him like a talisman. It’s a small inconvenience to pay to have a child feel safe, although I’d wish he’d choose bigger things that aren’t so easy to lose, or less of them so that his trouser pockets are permanently bulging, as it only adds to the John Wayne effect.]

“I mean, they’re brothers! Why aren’t they the same?” Ah, because that would be too easy and far too boring.

post script - this was not a 'real' conversation but a compendium of daily comments and queries from the curious.

Variations on a Theme

How is your ‘to do’ list? Mine from last year. An early reminder to prepare for the holiday busyness.

Only a little bit different from yours really.
1. How to avoid getting cat litter in your shoes.
2. How to deliver 56 cup cakes [translation = mini muffins] and one large cake to four different schools in the same hour? Whilst avoiding speeding ticket.
3. Determine how to explain that underwear is a compulsory not an option in school? Another social story? Duct tape?
4. Find time to make and decorate cakes prior to delivery?
5. Research availability of cat shoes
6. Attend two school parties and one school performance at the same time?
7. Spruce up ‘self’ to be presentable = dye hair on head, remove hair everywhere else, wash and find clean clothes.
8. Read any book that isn’t about autism to prevent too much self-absorption.
z. Install American spell checker and request assistance with numbering.
aa. Practice appropriate facial expression to exude calm and hide braces.
cc. Find very tiny very precious Pokemon toy or be mentally and physically prepared to take the consequences of failure. Search options
a. search toilets
b. empty vacuum
c. sift cat litter
dd. Think of gift for Spouse for Christmas
ee. Read latest book on autism, especially chapter 9 –‘ the reasons, causes and consequences of inadequate parenting.’ Speed read if necessary.
ff. Think of gift for Spouse for Birthday 10 days later
gg. Recall which child is going to which therapist, on which day / time during the holidays?
hh. Find baby sitter for child/ children not attending therapy. Check list qualifications thereto. Ignore lack of same in self. Consider percentage of danger/bonus money associated with the task? Then double it.
ii. Carefully consider correct punishment for 5 year old forging his report card? Debate whether a bravery award for ‘holding a pencil’ would be more appropriate?
jj. Research best method of removing glue and glitter from toilet seat?
kk. Rethink the sensory diet. Brainstorm and forward plan all likely and obscure possibilities of the next / new step in the sensory diet.
bb. Remember to put them on body, the clothes that is to say, before exiting house.
ll. Research best method of removing glue and glitter from small derriere without pain, if the owner of the said derriere, suffers from tactile defensiveness.

High What

High what?
I have always had very strong views on the nature v. nurture debate and closely align myself with the nurture camp. Or at least I did until I was presented with two autistic boys. I quickly changed allegiance to the opposite camp.

I tell you truly, that before I set foot in this country, I had never in my life given anyone a ‘high five,’ when I was then aged 35. Such familiarity was well beyond my remit. I’m still not confident enough to ask whether it refers to some kind of sporting gesture, or merely indicates that you and your partner are fortunate enough to both enjoy having five digits? What is the appropriate behavioural model if your partner has less? These are the kinds of things that give me sleepless nights. If you had told me a decade ago, that I would be encouraging my children to make this gesture, or that, perish the thought, I too, would become such a person, I would have suffered an attack of the vapours.

I distinctly remember trying to train my three year old to practice shaking hands before he met his grandfather for the first time. The words, ‘how do you do?’ and ‘very well thank you,’ were beyond him, due in part to the speech delay, but I thought that the hand shake gesture was a possibility. I put all the other social requirements to the back of my mind, things like deportment, deference, respect, table manners, British food and speak only when you are spoken to – at least we’d be alright on that one, as no-one was very likely to speak to him anyway.

I had horrible nightmares predicting my son’s reaction to anyone attempting to touch him, shake his hand, let alone a six foot giant with an English accent claiming genetic connections. I spent many a long night before the visit, in bed imagining the wide variety of scenarios that were possible, all of them bad. I have never discovered whether it’s possible to know how many times you have fainted during the night, if you happen to be horizontal at the time? I prayed that the speech delay would disguise his American accent. It didn’t. Since he was still small, the hilarity caused by his speech or rather his accent, went unnoticed, at least by him. He may not have technically understood what was going on, but the underlying vibrations were easy to detect. He had few words at that time, but he decided not to use any of them for the entire fortnight [translation = 2 weeks] that we were there, he effectively went on strike. A distinctly British disease.

Just in case you were wondering ‘well if that’s the case why didn’t you get him checked out?’ I can only say that you’re absolutely right, but at the time, he could read simple sentences, spent hours pawing over books and could name you every dinosaur ever dug up with the correct pronunciation, when he was only three. We thought that he just chose not to talk very much, because when he did speak, the sentences were often too complex, rather than the other way around. But that issue is complicated by echolalia, which I’ll leave for another time.

Meanwhile, we are left with a couple of autistic children with the wrong kind of parents. It truly is the match from hell, the autistic child and the Brit parent. Now admittedly I’m speculating here, but imagine if your world was encompassed by a barrier of frosted glass. Outside you have the parent, the tight lipped, monotone, softly spoken, wooden bodied muttering adult. You’d barely register through the glass, you’d just be a quiet foggy shadow. What you need is a loud vivacious animated effervescent cheerleader type, and I think you only find them in the States. If that was the parent on the other side of the glass, it just might catch your attention, might and I repeat ‘might’ be, just sufficiently interesting to make you step up and try to smear back the mist.

In the meantime, if you spot some crazed woman in the park squalking “High Five,” at 50 decibels in a funny accent and attempting to co-ordinate palm to palm contact with a few small people, give her the benefit of the doubt? They may have many disadvantages but the majority of them are genetic. The minority of their problems are merely genetic.

A Grain of Rice

Phobias

They’re great aren’t they and there are so many to choose from. These days, the media remind us of a whole slew of new ones that none of us knew existed. Things like Social Phobia or Social Anxiety Disorder. It’s not that I’m belittling them, I just find it fascinating that more of them keep appearing. The best thing about such disorders is that there are magic pills to make them go away, what better medicine could there be. It’s fortuitous timing, discover a disorder and it’s cure simultaneously, how lucky is that? Each time a new phobia is announced I just want to shout ‘hooray’ I don’t have that one, I must be sane after all, which is always very gratifying. Personally I think the best test of good health is to count the things that you don’t have rather, that fret over the ones you do, that way, even if you have a whole laundry list of ailments, you still know that there are millions of other’s that you’ve avoided.
Recently I came across another one that I was also ignorant about when I was reading a book. , called "neophobia." Have you heard of that one? No, neither had I. It was only because I was reading that particular book that I knew what it meant, but without any other clues, I would have remained stumped. There’s no clue to give you a hint as to what it might be, especially if you’re not familiar with ‘neo’s and quite frankly, I’m not, familiar with ‘neo’s that is to say. O.k. I’ll put you out of your misery, it means fear of food, or near enough for current purposes. Now I can tell that you’re bright and that you’re way ahead of me, but no, it has nothing to do with anorexia, bulimia or obesity, not that kind of an eating disorder. No, this is something really quite straight forward, it’s the fear of eating, or perhaps ‘fear of putting something in your mouth,’ might be a little more accurate. I know, you’re ahead of me again as Darwin’s been around a long time, but even without him, we know that if you happen to be afraid of food, you’re destined for a pretty short life span. There again, if that really is the case, then we don’t have to worry about that particular phobia, because anyone whose got it will be dead pretty soon. I’m inclined to agree with you on that one. Afterall, this isn’t one of those phobias you fix with a pill. Even if there was a pill, how is this kind of phobic going to swallow it?

However, here’s the thing, I have one of those neophobes, the genuine article I might add, living with me, in my household and what’s even more far fetched, is that he is actually alive and he’s all mine. I can tell that you don’t believe me now and it’s not because I’m not willing to share. Either I’m harbouring the body of what used to be a neophobe in my freezer or I’m just plain lying. But I’m not, honest.
He’s been on the planet for coming up to 6 years now, my own little neophobe. He used to eat only 3 things but now he’s up to 6, hovering on 7, just over one food per year of his little life. Isn’t that a triumph! Before you know it he’ll be into double digits. We’re aiming for 21, because then he’ll lose his ‘neophobe’ status and merely be a picky eater. Hooray! When my son becomes a picky eater we will celebrate, throw a party and serve all of his 21 foods at one sitting. I hope I don’t have to wait until his 21st birthday?

The Joys of Autism - progress for all

You think I’m joking, but I’m not. Enough of this depressing moaning and groaning about the tragedy of autism. For us at least, it has been a good kick up the backside. [translation = but{t}?] Whilst I would not have chosen to have autistic children, now they’re actually here, they sort of grow on me after a while.

Just the other day, I heard on the radio that for most of us, our characters have been formed and set in concrete, from our early thirties. This is a little surprising as I’m sure that it wasn’t until the mid 40’s that the dye was truly set. [translation = cast] Short of a life changing tragedy, such as a near death experience, most of us are unlikely to change more than about 10%, at best. I believe this to be true and it certainly was for me, or at least it was, until we had two autistic boys, following two typical girls.

At first it seemed like the worst kind of career change that I could have possibly chosen. I was unqualified for such a responsibility, [translation = terrified newbie] without the slightest clue about what I should do or how? It was made more confusing by the fact that although they had the same diagnoses, their 'symptoms' were almost opposite. I think that’s why they call it a ‘spectrum disorder.’ Any parenting principles that I'd picked up over the years, were quite frankly, irrelevant. [translation = bad news] I had to start again from first principles, unlearn and re-learn everything. It was daunting. I had been reasonably confident of my competence in at least this one realm of my life. Then I found that due to a couple of dodgy genes, I was now a complete ignoramus. I think I might have preferred to have had autistic boys when I was younger, when I had more energy, when my brain was still flexible enough to adapt. [translation = a sponge not an icicle] I wouldn’t have fretted over every little decision, because the young don’t generally.

On the other hand, age and crumbliness may sometimes allow for a more patient approach, after all I’ve nothing better to do with my life now. And what could be more gratifying than learning to see the world from a whole new perspective, in fact, a couple of new perspectives, at my time of life. Maybe a case of rose tinted spectacles. [translation = Double vision or bifocals, I know which I prefer.

A GOLDFISH = snack cracker

An American commercial nibble. Baked not fried!

In the eye on the beholder

I do my best to ignore the revolting bowl that I’ve just brought back from the studio. I shall never be able to support the family with this particular hobby. [translation = craft] Pottery is too time consuming a hobby for me anyway, not in the least therapeutic, more a source of frustration. The shape is good. The weight is acceptable, you don’t have to be physically fit to lift it. The rim is about as perfect as I’m capable of. The bottom is neat and not too heavy. The glaze coverage is smooth and bubble free. It’s a fair size, bearing in mind that they shrink in the kiln by about 12%, a figure that I find difficult to visualize. It’s not too small to be useless, nor too large to be cumbersome. Not that I’m picky, it’s just that I ever so carefully painted fish all over it, shaped like goldfish crackers. [translation = American snack food] An oval with a ‘<’ for a tail, but for some reason, a great number of the fish icons have chipped off. They have missing chunks, which means that the white clay beneath shows through.

Ruined, completely ruined, just typical! I can’t recycle it, nor even give it away. I nudge it away and continue the washing up as senior son comes sauntering up. He leans against my body as one would a lamp post, idle and content, his line of sight aligned with the kitchen counter. He startles. “You have made me a new bowl?” he gasps. I lean on the edge of the sink and examine him. The arrival of new bowls, usually with the children’s names emblazoned upon them, to avoid ownership disputes, are soon smashed within a few days of entering the household. The bowls I make are a challenge for those with poor fine motor skills and the strength of overcooked spaghetti. They are never a cause for comment, let alone interest. He rocks back and forth, heel to toe, hands covering his mouth, which means that either he is about to explode into a hideous meltdown or he is experiencing excitement. Under the circumstances, I err on the side of caution, anticipating a meltdown as I answer, “Yes. Why? You’re not into bowls all of a sudden are you?”

“In? Into? In? I am not in the bowl, I am near the bowl,” he explains to his mother, the idiot, as there are so many literal word traps for me to fall into. At least this is an indication that speech therapy is having a positive effect.
“Can I see it proper, prop, properly?” he asks breathlessly.
“Sure.” I lean over, grab the bowl and swing it towards him in one easy movement, even though he is now crouching for some unaccountable reason? “Be careful!” he warns, “you might be breaking it!” Each additional word confuses me further. He cradles it gently in the palm of his hands examining the fish on the inside of the bowl, screwing up his eyes. He sighs, “I know Orca whales are the best if you don call them killer whales, thank you Mum.” He lollops away, leaving me confused, but calls over his shoulder, “you can call it my Orca bowl, I use it for supper tonight. O.k.?” I re-examine the bowl and the chips with a different viewpoint.

Top 7

Taken from - Monthly progress report during December 2004

1. It is virtually impossible to ‘kiss better’ the inside of a small person’s mouth after experimenting with unco-operative drinking straws.

2. Pretending to be a cat is delightful progress; pretending to use the cat litter falls into another category.

3. Fog is deemed 'scary' by the non verbal, such that driving at 5 mph becomes compulsory; we hope that the Highway Patrol are sympathetic.

4. Motor planning and co-ordination are improving; six inch red high heel shoes [size nine and a half] on a small boy should ensure that we enter the hallowed halls of the Child Protection League shortly.

5. Junior son’s sensitivities [translation – tactile defensiveness] have been reduced so much that now, at the age of four, for the first time ever, he is able to pick his nose with his very own finger. Hallelujah!

6. Team leadership, co-operation, sharing and turn taking skills, in addition to comprehension. Following watching a program demonstrating how 16 people can be crammed into a British Mini car, Junior daughter demonstrates that two small boys can in fact be persuaded to squeeze into a tumble drier together. Well done Junior daughter, especially managing to shut the door.

7. It is unwise to be without your underwear, if you have poor coordination [translation = fine and gross motor skills] and a penchant for rotary egg beaters [translation = whisks] because;

a. It hurts

b. It is difficult to place a plaster [translation = band-aid] on the offending member

c. Your requests to ‘kiss it better’ makes my brain hurt.

The Dreaded Telly

The reason
Well that’s a relief, at least I know why they’re autistic now. Nothing to do with mercury poisoning, the MMR vaccine, Thimerosol, refrigerator mother or luck, just too much telly. Fancy that! Who’d have thought it? Not a cure of course but a cause. I haven’t had time to check out whether it’s really too much telly or just any telly, but it doesn’t really matter now as they’ve already been contaminated. It’s great, now I have someone else to blame. And there was me thinking that Leaky Gut Syndrome was the answer. When we first came to America we didn’t even have a television as we didn’t think there was anything worth watching then, nor did we know anything about the ‘Theory of Mind.’ We were drawn in after a while though, tempted by public television and the small entertainment budget of immigrants. But I think that was their father’s fault, which ties in with the theory of the ‘Extreme Male Brain.’ By the time the children started arriving we discovered a few programs for little children. I always thought it was Barney and his social skills training that did the damage, but now I’m not so sure whether I should perhaps be looking at Elmo in a whole new light. These days, having branched out into cable TV, clearly I need look no further than Spongebob and his rabble. A curse on all their houses for warping my children. I’m an American now, so perhaps I should sue somebody, anybody. Who cares about parental responsibility, we were duped, it was supposed to be educational not corrupting. Nothing to do with faulty neurons after all, what luck!
It’s a shame really as it removes one of many, many tools in my arsenal of bribes to motivate them, and you need a great deal of motivation with autistic children. It’s only one of many, but it’s a powerful one. It’s the solution to any number of obstacles in the average day, a whole laundry list of achievements can gradually be built up with the promise of telly at the end of the day; get dressed, use the toilet, wash your hands, the list goes on and on. I know there other rewards such as verbal praise, a high five, a hug but the autistic child is not motivated by such trivialities, or at least mine aren’t, but that’s probably because I’m a refrigerator mom.
Never mind, like many parents above all other things, 30 minutes of telly means that I can prepare dinner and don’t say it would be better if I allowed them to help, it would and I sometimes do, but their fine and gross motor skills are a challenge for all of us. I suspect that the computer is equally to blame. But when alls said and done, I blame the dodgy gene pool myself.