Seasonal problems

He sniffs and sniffs and sniffs and sniffs. It is all to no avail as his nose trickles. I watch him, my face set. He is seven years old. I don’t know which is worse, a nose that runs continuously with it’s accompanying sniff with no further ameliorative action, or the occasional ameliorative action, which consists of wiping the offending appendage off on his sleeve, from elbow to cuff, or worse still, on whatever else is near to hand, be that carpet, the sofa or my thigh.

I am well aware that my face reads disdain and disapproval but I am unable to prevent those muscles settling into that well worn groove, as I steel myself for the inevitable, dithering between intervention to prevent the crime or watching the fulfillment of the offence, dishcloth at the ready. Last time he had a cold, a few months back, we wrote out a sequence of steps to deal with runny noses. Since he is a visual learner, we used the equivalent [translation = dumbed down, of "Carol Gray's Social stories"] Most children need a little guidance in this department, but autistic child need very specific help.

If this was a preferred activity such as playing with a computer game, not much help or assistance would be required, but basic hygeine, bodily functions and self care don't really make it to their radar screen. It is important to avoid the 'but why?' scenario when dealing with these basic functions, because any rational explanation you can come up with, is also ineffective. e.g. 'because you need to be clean' -'but why?' "Isn't it uncomfortable having your face all messy like that?"
"Messy? No, it not messy, it fine!' Take it from me, you're just not going to be able to come up with a satisfactory reason as to why they should comply, at least not for my lot. We won't even touch on the 'do it for me, do it to make me happy/ proud/ pleased' as that line of reasoning is doomed before the words have even been formed.

Now he’s so much bigger, I swear that if it wasn’t for the asthma, I’d stuff a couple of tissues [translation = Kleenex] up his nostrils, like people with frequent nosebleeds do.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. I wait and seethe, but he is blissfully unaware of my presence. He looks up from his work as his back arches and shoulders rise to his ears in one supreme effort at stemming the flow, but failing. He slips of his chair muttering, ‘is not workin.” He blunders off in the direction of the bathroom. He re-emerges with a fistful of tissues [translation = Kleenex] and honks in a fairly efficient fashion, “das better,” he murmours moving back towards the table, letting the soiled wads fall to the ground. Only one stomp towards the table and he back tracks an additional stomp, “oopsie, I forgot that one.” He scoops the paper from the ground on his third attempt, bimbles back to the bathroom, clanks open the pedal bin and approximates a lob, whereby most of it ends up in situ. He saunters back past me, giving me a casual glance, “your face is broken.”




Shattered more like.

Pass the buck

[translation = blame somebody else]

I hide the teapot in the cooker [translation = stove] as the cleaners are on their way on a Monday morning. Their scrupulousness is appreciated in all quarters of my household, with the exception of the teapot. The teapot is off limits, my personal dark little secret. I do not want it sparklingly clean and pristine. It makes better tea if it is stained the colour of mahogany, but this is not a message that is easy to translate in this country. [translation = my Spanish is limited to Dora's exploits and my French is rusty] Therefore, taking the line of least resistance I have resorted to deception. Of course autistic children, we are told, generally are incapable of deception, they are too literal.






On return from school with the offspring, I release the teapot from it's hidey hole and pop the kettle on the hob. [translation = tea kettle on the flames] A shadow addresses me,
“What you do?”
“Me? Oh nothing.”
“No. You do sompfink. What you do?” Is this the same child that would not utter a syllable for four, sometime five hours?
“Just getting the teapot ready for a cup of tea.”
“What that fing is called again?”
“This thing? Or that thing?”
“Bowf fings?” I have early intervention mechanism to thank for this tirade.
“This is the oven and this is the teapot.”
“Oh right, yes.” It’s not that his vocabulary is limited, it is merely that the words are mis-filed, so he’s unable to retrieve them at will. It’s like having a dictionary, which is no use to you if you can’t spell a little bit in the first place.
“Why you cook da teapot?”
“I didn’t,” I answer truthfully. He puts a tentative finger on the oven door in confirmation. [translation = no-one believes me]
“It is cold. You not cook it den?”
“That’s right.”
“Why oven den?” Why this sudden interest in teapots and cookers? Who am I to be cross examined by a seven year old about my relationship with a teapot? What business is it of his anyway? [translation = patience on low ebb]
“No reason,” I add nonchalantly.
“”No reason.’? What reason? I mean, er, why you put da teapot in the oven if you not cook it?” Really! What is wrong with the child, can’t he just let it be?
“Well, if you must know, I put it in the oven to hide it. The oven is a very good place for hiding things.”
“Good for hiding. Good for cooking. Good for two things. Dat’s good.” At last he seems satisfied although I suspect the whole exercise was merely a ruse to delay starting jobs. [translation = chores and homework]



We go through our school routine of snacks, making packed lunches and getting clothes ready for the following day. It’s so difficult to decide in which precise order to do these things in, as if you don’t have sufficient motivation in front of you, then there is no human way of dragging them forward to the goal of task completion. [translation = getting things done.]

As I settle them down to homework at the table, with the promise of stories and supper to follow, a general protest ensues. There appear to be far too many arguments against completing homework in this next 30 minute section of the day; additional nutrition required for optimal brain function, a little light television in advance, to relax the mind and let the body wind down, social interaction needed with the felines of the household to ensure bonding and minimizing dysfunctional behaviour.




I look at them all and their feeble excuses in exasperation, when senior son adds his two pennarth [transation = 2 cents] “I cant do mine cos I lef it at school today.” It’s late, we’re behind schedule [translation = our timetable] and my energy reserves are low. I decide that we can play catch up tomorrow instead, where the therapy commitments are lighter, where there are a greater number of minutes available to prompt them through it all. I make my decree and they all scamper or lumber, off to pursue other, infinitely more preferable activities.
I return to the kitchen to start preparing supper for the masses. I jiggle the steeping tea pot. Should be ready by now? I switch on the cooker and yell to warn the children of the impending noisy explosion that indicates that the pilot light is functioning. I hope that the cleaners won’t comment on the absence of the teapot after 5 years, as I wouldn’t like to hurt their feelings. Hopefully they’ll just assume that I’ve switched to coffee, converted to the American mode. Perhaps they’ll think that I’ve adopted the filthy American habit with tea instead, where you only use a tea-bag in a cup, poke it with a teaspoon and fish it out with a special pair of tweezers?






The boom of the oven that follows as it ignites, still startles me, but this is nothing to the shriek of agony that comes seconds later. Senior son erupts into the kitchen and stares in horror at the oven, eyes on stalks, palms covering his mouth, “Oh no! What you do? You are in such big trouble. I tell Mrs. Loper it was you! You are da naughty one! You cooked my homework.”

Shell game

I reconsider my ban on straws. [translation = drinking straws] They are no longer permitted to drink every drink [translation = beverage] with a straw regardless of temperature or content. No longer will I need to explain that although they are drinking hot chocolate that a straw is compulsory, not bizarre. Enough of this lip closure hogwash. [translation = jaw muscle strengthening technique] I am single handedly responsible for three life times worth of disposable plastic straws. Admittedly as yet, they are short life spans, but threatening to be terminated prematurely. I need gain control of this environmental crime.

But in punishment for such an arbitrary rule change on my part, I now have to endure the sight of them missing their mouths on regular occasions. Additionally, the increase in laundry is another punishment to the rule changer.

I mean! How can you miss your mouth? It’s not as if it relocates itself somewhere else about your person without warning? It’s a permanent fixture. If it were there this morning, it is likely to still be there later in the same day. Possibly, if you’re very lucky, it will still be there the next day, and every other one thereafter.

Toddlers and others with ‘Learner’ plates, are permitted to have a few accidents, but those of us advanced beyond the age of five, should accept that this is a given.

I blame speech therapy myself, all this multitasking isn’t good for children such as mine. They can talk, they can drink, but not both at the same time; it’s too distracting, too confusing. It they continue to try to talk and drink at the same time surely they’ll all drown? There again, if they keep missing their mouths and filling their laps instead, perhaps I am worrying unduly.

There is no hidden agenda, your cake hole [translation = mouth] is in the middle of your face. There is no conspiracy theory here. What is the problem? Why are you making such difficulties for yourselves?

I am exasperated to the point of wrath, driven to an early grave: “here lieth a woman buried beneath a multitude of failed campaigns, and far to many plastic straws that are non biodegradable.’

I stomp away from the table to make a quick cup of coffee to restore my sanity. The coffee gurgles. My body moves on automatic pilot, a smooth, efficient flow of movement. I grab the carton from the fridge, line up the cup, but my brain fails to register as I miss and pour the milk into the sink.

A word from the Wise

The baby sitter [translation = Respite Care] arrives promptly at 6:00 p.m. [translation = always] I resist the temptation to kiss her feet and greet her cordially. She attends to the herd whilst I attend to other outstanding matters. [translation = laundry of course] 95 minutes later she seeks me out. [translation = extracts me from seven hampers of laundry]
“Aren’t you goin yet?”
“Er nearly. I’ve only got this last lot to fold.”
“I thought you said you were going Christmas shopping?” [translation = holiday shopping] I pull a face. [translation = "allergic to shopping" of any kind]
“I am. I just don’t know where to go and I don’t know what to buy?”
“Well yur not gonna find anything much if you stay here!” I concede the wisdom of her words, bid farewell to small people and skuttle out of the house on an aimless mission. [translation = doomed to failure]
I return home 90 minutes later with long trousers for the boys and one gift for senior daughter which she probably doesn’t need or want. [translation = a person who has taken minimalism to an extreme, even for a Brit] The sitter glances at my carriers. [translation = bags]


“Spose ya didn’t have that long after all that time ya wasted.” She gives me a look that tells me that I am a failure in the shopping department. She updates me of occurrences during my absence. [translation = none, they all fell fast asleep as soon as the garage door closed.] We sign forms and I bid her farewell.




I plop onto the sofa and examine the list of some 600 programmes of entertainment waiting for me on the TIVO since my last visit. [translation = oh lucky woman] I determine which murder I wish to be party to, and how much dismemberment I can cope with? [translation = whodunits] I crack open another tub of peanuts. [translation = 1lb {sub translation = short 4 ounces as a pound is only 16 ounces out here. I blame the illiterate Pilgrim fathers] I can’t believe I’ve managed to munch my way through all ‘four packs for the price of one’ purchase, already. [translation = rats to the braces]
I am in mid munch when I hear foot falls on high. [translation = rats, I thought it was too good to be true] It’s not the skippy one or the bumpy one. I leap from my seat to turn the power off the telly. [translation = just in time to avoid vision of fatal stabbing with a pen]
“Hi mom,” she sidles.
“Hello dear, I thought you were asleep?”
“I was, but then I heard you come home.” [translation = her bedroom is above the garage door = no chance of a secret life style] She smiles at me, sweetly before asking
“Is the sofa stinky?” [translation = she’s seen the towels that I’m sitting on, post senior son’s stomach eruption.]
“It’s a bit steamy, but otherwise quite fresh.” She steps onto it gingerly and snuggles in to my body, arranging my arms just so.
“So,” she adds casually, “did yah get any presents for me?” [translation = rats, I forgot she has her birthday before Christmas{sub translation = failed motherhood 101 again]


“Er not exactly,” I haver. She bounced off the couch and pounces on the bags. [translation = the ‘typical sibs’ are always short changed {sub translation = the normal brothers and sisters are neglected}]
“What! Clothes! Trousers for the boys! What about my presents?”
“Tomorrow, definitely tomorrow, if he’s well enough to go to school that is.” She slumps back beside me and we listen to the tumble drier tumbling and the washing machine washing as I try and find an excuse.
“Y’know you shouldn’t be eating peanuts,” she scowls helping herself to a couple with dextrous finger tips.
“You’re getting me muddled with Daddy, he’s the one on the diet.”
“You’re the one with the wonky teeth.” [translation = no flies on her {sub translation = rumbled by the perceptive child}]
“Isnit quiet,” she half whispers.
“You’re right, that’s what it’s like when you’re all asleep.”
“I like it!”
“Me too. Would you like me to read you a story?” I reach over to the teetering stack of books on the trunk, but she doesn’t answer immediately. I wait, my thumbnail riffling the corners. I stroke her matted hair as she nestles.
“Nope. I’m o.k. jus like this.”

An Ode [for Thurs p.m.]

Warning! Do not read this prior to, during, or shortly after food consumption.
American washing machines are an abomination. [translation = sorry, but the truth hurts] They are a prime example of the fact that America is a dinosaur when it comes to technology. I don’t care how many widgets or megabytes your harbour, if you can’t design a decent washing machine, then you belong in the Neolithic period. [translation = o.k. possibly Chalcolithic, if I’m feeling generous]

Huge lumps of metal litter America because ‘white goods’ have a life span of approximately 18 months. [translation = or 6 months due to consumer mis-use {subtranslation = family of six}] Not only do these contraptions use gallons of water [translation = as opposed to their European contemporaries, that try hard to use but a mere a thimble full] but they are as noisy as a jack hammer. [translation = European ones are silent] American models boast several ‘cycles’. [translation = on, off, fast, slow, thinking about it and pause {sub translation = too many to list for the European partners}] The only thing I can think of to say on a positive note [translation = I am an American I will seek out a positive note even
if it kills me] is that they are large. [translation = as is everything in America except Rutabagas and serving of spinach or anchovies]


I peek out side to count the line of mini haystacks. [translation = 7 piles of laundry decorated with senior son’s stomach contents] A busy night for all. Senior son has enjoyed four baths during the course of the night following each eruption. It is curious to note that the non-verbal, even when they have made great strides, revert to type when under stress.


You, the child, note that your body is about to explode. Do you call for assistance, something along the lines of ‘Mummmmmmy!’ or ‘helpppppppp!’? Nope, you’re too busy trying to assess your body’s treachery, word retrieval is at an all time low. Because you are concentrating on your body, your spatial awareness [translation = always dodgy at the best of times] eludes you. Instead of hanging over the side of your bed [translation = line of least resistance] to empty your stomach, instead you orientate yourself towards the wall. [translation = serious splash-back at 90 mph]
Under such circumstances [translation = duress] you cannot be expected to learn from your error. [translation = you repeat the exercise at intervals throughout the night, as that washing up bowl, although strategically placed, is too small to register]


Fortunately, in between whiles, you seek out human contact. [translation = your siblings] All of the children have loved to ‘nest,’ from their earliest inception. [translation = siblings’ beds and personages, are similarly contaminated] I check cupboards. [translation = closets] I am out of bath towels, blankets and bed linen. [translation = normal service will be resumed as soon as possible]


I plop myself down on the sofa next to the cleanest child on the planet. He grinds his forehead into my rib cage as I fondle his hair. We do not exchange words. I start work on the hay stacks, in between sessions with the carpet cleaner. I run an affection finger over the washing machine as it clanks, bangs and brutalizes my laundry. [translation = postponement of visit to the river with a rock.]

Bravery awards as follows: [translation = a mention in dispatches]
To senior son, for quiet endurance throughout.
To junior daughter on finding that she is fully splattered at three in the morning – “Oh man! That is the grossest, most disgusting……..vile……oh well, give me a hug, while mum cleans him up.”
To junior son, similarly situated - ‘das o.k! Maybe it is disruptive but I am knowing it was an accident. I fink it is your tummy dat is dah bad one.’


Post script- feeble apologies to one and all for lack of internet communication of late.

Where did I leave my Sanity pack?

I climb into the shower to cleanse. [translation = remove the crusty mascara on my temples, disguising the grey hair] I assess the causes for the sudden laundry explosion? Are they even dirtier and more accident prone? [translation = expunge negative implications]


I wrap my dressing gown [translation = robe] an little tighter and wiggle my toes deeper into the fluff muffs [translation = slippers {sub translation = ‘in house’ footwear of a casual nature}] Inches of exposed flesh remind me, that technically it is Winter. [translation = it is a bit of a stretch to say that California has seasons}] As usual, my American pals are steaming ahead, [translation = making progress] whilst other, less efficient personages [translation = foreigners] are lagging way behind on the trajectory towards the ultimate goal of the Holidays. [translation = period of time where persons of different faiths and shopoholics celebrate the season] My progress is impeded by four birthday celebrations during December; my mother, father, youngest son and youngest daughter. Were it not for these milestones, I am confident that I would be well ahead of the hunt. [translation = cunning fox]


As it is, I am bogged down [translation = hampered] by these events that must be marked. [translation = given due deference] I remind myself that I am an American. [translation = I do not lie] I determine to tuck my negativity under the sofa cushion along with junior’s treasures, and adopt a more positive line. [translation = groan inwardly with the effort] Commence flipping:

1. Children acknowledge seasonal change and need for warmer clothing. [translation = more in tune with the world at large]

2. Children are larger [translation = somebody must be eating something] and heavier. [translation = which is a self reinforcing reminder to me not to carry them]

3. Increased tolerance for clothing and textures. [translation = the nightmare transition from short trousers to long trousers has been eradicated {sub translation = no naked knees}]

4. Warmer clothing, on bigger people, with many layers results in laundry explosion. [translation = be still my beating heart, there is a logical explanation, sanity restored]

I am now mentally exhausted from this ‘flipping’ extravaganza, [translation = turning things around] and so decide to spread a little misery across the world by writing my holiday cards. [translation = torture foreigners with a different cultural perspective]

Splinters and planks

[Translation = No autism today thank you]


It’s decided then! We’re not having autism around here today. [translation = this neck of the woods] Not to put too fine a point on it, I’m just not in the mood for it, so it’s cancelled, autism that is to say. This is a mindset that suits me just fine for today, [translation = this is a preferable perspective] as I have far too much to do, to be messing around with autism. Whilst they’re at school, we’ll put autism on pause. [translation = freeze frame]





Now, where shall I start? [translation = inertia, too much to do producing an inability to make a start] So much to, do and not enough time to do it in. [translation = lethargy] I know, now that I’ve finished sterilizing the house, [translation = obsessive cleanliness] I can move onto more cerebral exercises, such as putting all the books into alphabetical order. [translation = meets the need to organize, such as to gain a finger hold of control which induces calm] Or should I sort them by size, divide them into hard backs and paper backs, by subject? [ translation = more order more control, becoming distracted by minutiae, losing sight of the end product] Perhaps I should just wipe them all down first?[translation = displacement activity rather than doing what you should be doing. {sub translation = prevarication}] Mind you, I don’t know if they’ll all fit on the shelves in any event? [translation = ideation, inability to foresee the end] I know, I’ll sort them into piles first. [translation = inability to sequence, prioritize to produce a positive outcome] I should probably wear rubber gloves and some soapy water. [translation = tactile defensiveness]



Perhaps I should have a snack first before I make a start? I peer in the fridge = yuk! [translation = prevarication and oral defensiveness] I’ll turn the volume down on the telephone so that I don’t get interrupted. [translation = inducing isolation, reinforcing lack of ability to socialize, aural sensitivity disrupting thought processes] Ooo I hope I have enough time, don’t want to make a start and then have to dash off? [translation = anxiety inducing, need for task completion and perfection or no attempt will be made at all. Anxiety without foundation, this is a house with at least one clock in every room of the house]








No! You’re absolutely wrong. In my experience apples always fall many miles away from the tree. [translation = just as well my catching skills are marginally better than my underarm throw]

Technical Assistance

At 2:55 a.m. I follow in his wake. Every light in the house is on, blazing into the darkness. He sits on the family room carpet playing with his sister’s new toy. [translation = hooray! Unsupervised and self initiated imaginative play] I debate my best course of action in the blur of my brain. Ignore him? That’s what I should do, then he won’t get any positive reinforcement of this behaviour. [translation = being awake when he should be asleep]

I move towards the computer and try to focus on the screen, but my eyelids seem to have put on weight during the last four hours of sleep. [translation = weight gain in the wrong venu]

I remember that ignoring an autistic child is one of the more stupid things that you can do. I try and adopt my ‘autistic viewpoint’ widget. [translation = align my thought processes to something approximating my child’s] On the whole he is more than happy to be ignored. [translation = left in peace without any demands being put upon him] This means that instead of ignoring him I should do something positive. But what?

Whilst I think, a small person materializes by my side.
“What you do?” [translation = haven’t a notion at the moment]
“I er, I’m working on the computer.” [translation = bare faced lie, how can you ‘work’ when technically you are still asleep?]
“What it is?”
“Er, um, it’s a blog.” [translation = oh no, why did I say that? Now I will have to explain the unexplainable!]
“What it is ‘a blog.’?”
“Hmm, now it’s funny you should ask me that. Lots of people have been asking me that very same question, and do you know what? I haven’t got the foggiest notion what a blog really is.”
“You don know?”
“Well, some of them are diaries [translation = journals] others are just a way of chatting to your pals, but with written words rather than spoken words, like you would on the telephone.”
“I hate dah telephone.”
“I know.”
“So it is for the writing for the friends?”
“Correct. But I don’t know what it is really. What do you think it is? Do you like how it looks.” He peers and then squints his eyes.
“What it is, dah ‘tags,’ dah ‘sleep disruption’ is meaning?” You may well ask.
“Er ‘disruption’ is when things don’t go smoothly, you have a few bumps.”
“I like smooth.”
“So do I.”
“But I am liking the word ‘disruption’ dat is to do my new word of the week.”
Oh goodie!
“I’ll write it down for you, to add to your other words.”
“Der are words and I am reading dem. Der are pictures, and I am liking some of dem, but the best bit is dah tools.”
“The tools?”
“Yes.”
“What tools?”
“Doze lickle fings over der, on dah right, dey are crossed over like the skull and crossbones of dah pirates. What day are?”
“I don’t know that either I’m afraid. They keep appearing.” I think they’re breeding during the night.

Point to Point [translation = an eye for the details]

Reluctant as I am, to cast about spurious rumours, [translation = rumors] I feel compelled to correct a few misapprehensions regarding professional persons who therapize my sons. At aged 7 and a half and nearly 6, autistic they may be, but without the ministrations of therapists [translation = early intervention programmes] we would be in an entirely different place. [translation = the funny farm] Their speech delays may be significant [translation = for some people], but they manage to make themselves understood one way or another.

 

Oh excuse me just a mo, [translation = second] someone is reading the screen whilst I type. [translation = one of the challenges [translation = problems] of some autistic children, it that they have 'splinters' of skills. [translation = something that they can do that many 'typical' children do not do i.e. the autistic child does it too early.] Excuse the digression but he won't be budged. [translation = fixates on his area of interest]

“Mind the step dear, that was my toe!” [translation = spatial awarenes isn't a 'strength' at the moment.

“Oopsie. Sorry toe.”

“Now what do you want? Can’t you see that I’m busy typing.”

“Typing? What it is da ‘typing?” [translation = the meaning of many simple words, defeat him, yet although 6, he can read just about anything. {subtranslation = hyperlexic}]

“Watch and learn.”

“Oh! typing is da letters on da screen?”

“Yes.”

“I like dem.”

“Good, thanks so much for sharing that with me. Now, don’t you have something to do yourself, 'play' perhaps?” [translation = always positively reinforce all attempts at communication with your autistic 'non-verbal' child. [translation = even if it's inconvenient and time consuming]

“No fank oo, da 'playing' is da boring for me. I like to watch you doing the working with da letters.” A universal truth I suspect, ‘watching other people work’ that is to say. [translation = 'play' is a new thing around here, we're still learning how to do it. It is not a preferred activity.] “I don fink I am liking doze ones.”

“Really? Why?”

“Coz dey are too, too, too squarey.”

“How about this one? This any better?”

“Yes, it is a bit better, but it is still too, too ‘small’ I am thinking.”

“Very well. How about this? Is this any better?”

“Oh yes! I am liking that one a whole lot betterer.”

“Great, now why don’t you run along and go and count something?”

“What I count?”

“Anything you like.”

“What?”

“How about bounces on the trampolene? That’s a great one, you are so good at your bounces.”

“I fort you said dat I was no good?” [translation = oopsie]

“Hmm, what I actually said was that it would be better if you could put your heels down, rather than jumping on your tippy toes and making your calf muscles lock.”

“Ah. So I am not da bad one?”

“No, you are the best jumper on tippy toes that I have ever met.”

“Fank you. You are a bad jumper though. Oopsie, sorry I hurted your feelings.”

“That’s o.k. now run along and bounce to one hundred. Don’t forget the ‘ands’.”

“But the ‘ands’ are making me tired!” Hardly surprising really, 1 – 100 plus ‘and’ between each number, must be 199 all told. [translation = by my reckoning] Certainly would make my calves ache. [translation = but it 's better than making my brain ache by trying to rise to his high standards of penmanship]

Trying not to be critical

Doors in America are so stupid. Actually, that may be a little sweeping? [translation = an exaggeration] Perhaps it’s just Californian doors. [translation = a 'specific,' over generalisation] It’s bound to be to do with the architects or contractors, I expect. [tranlsation = wild guess {sub translation = some kind of non specific 'ism'}]It will be something to do with earthquakes, I'll bet you. [translation = they always use that old excuse.] Example = 'yes, we built your house out of something that resembles matchsticks, so that you won’t be buried in a pile of rubble and bricks when the next one comes.' A likely story!


I mean what idiot would put doors in a house without any key holes? Doors are supposed to have locks. I’m not fussed about the key or anything. It’s not as if I want to lock the doors, although that might not be such a bad idea come to think of it. No it’s the key hole I lack. All these doors and no key holes. What were they thinking of? I won’t go into a full attack on those stupid pocket doors. [translation = sliding doors that disappear back into the framework, nothing to do with 'pockets' at all, that's just there to confuse you.] I mean it’s not as if we live on a boat where quite frankly, pocket doors should remain.

How is any self respecting mother supposed to spy on her children, if there are no key holes? Have you ever tried trying to peer under a door where the gap is, the big and unnecessary gap, which no doubt is again excused by having something to do with earthquakes. [translation = just makes the house drafty] Yes, we make doors with big gaps at the top and the bottom so that in the event of an earthquake you’ll be able to escape underneath the locked door, if it were locked, which it won’t be, because there isn’t any lock nor a key.

You can get a serious crick in your neck trying to peek under them, doors that is to say. It’s a disgrace. I want them all ripped out and replaced with doors that have key holes. There again I could have them replaced by glass doors, that would sort it out. Actually doors with one way mirrors, like they have in police stations. Or even made of something that you could hear through too, that would be even better.

There they sit together at well gone nine in the evening, no night, after eight, it’s night, really it is. They’re playing together. They’re playing together very quietly and not fighting. But I can’t hear what they’re saying. I need to be able to hear what they’re saying so that I can check whether this is a worthwhile play experience, sort of 'free therapy' after hours, which should probably be charged at double the going rate. If they’re just messing about, then I can bowl in there and send them back to bed and be done with it. [translation = they’ll just be being naughty. {sub translation = failing to use time appropriately}] But I can’t risk cutting short a valuable exchange, a practice session at the old social skills and reciprocity.

[translation = I think they’re just two mischievous siblings.] But that’s not so bad. [translation = a good thing]

Plan A

Sometimes people get up in the morning and find that some part of their anatomy is failing to function as it should do. Sometimes the part in question may be the legs. For some unaccountable reason they’re not working. This may be due to the party in question merely having got out of the wrong side of the bed.



This can be very tiresome for the parent and quite obviously for the child also. There are number of possible techniques available to the parent to overcome this difficulty. The first technique is to retreat to the bed room, lock the door and climb back into bed. This presupposes you are able to ignore the howling that comes under the crack of the door. If this is not a viable option for the parent, however tempting, then other strategies may come into play. The dish cloth bandages may assist depending upon which child is suffering from this syndrome.



As a general rule, junior members do not respond well to nappy pins, [translation = diaper pins] so be assured that this will probably worsen an already bad position. Alternatively you can use the psychological approach ‘You can decide to have a grumpy day, and be sad all day, or you can decide to have a good day and be happy all day?

Your choice.” It is generally a good idea to start off with this in any case, in the hope that the meaning of the words may percolate through, given time.

At this juncture, it is in your own best interests to acknowledge that your plans for the next hour and fifteen minutes for the child before he goes to school, must be abandoned. You are now on plan B. If for some reason you have failed to formulate a plan B, then it would be a jolly good idea to come up with one quickly, since there is a high probability that failure so to do, will have you hurtling through the alphabet faster than you are able to keep up.

Sometimes it may be difficult to discern the exact nature of the problem. The legs may be ‘wonky’ or perhaps ‘wobbly’ but since these descriptions shed no light upon the source of the issue, the parent may still be struggling to offer assistance. Plans to work on the gross motor skills must be canceled. The possibility of using fine motor skills in a seated position to obviate the need for functioning legs, is optimistic. Generally speaking wobbly legs may be an indicator that the rest of the body is likely to rebel also, if challenged.


It is tempting to abandon B and opt for plan C, where the screaming child is placed in a locked sound proof box, preferably until the screaming stage of development has passed, regardless of the number of months that this might take.


I lift the non functioning legs together with their owner to the sofa. I reach for the first one on the stack of Thomas books and begin to read.

Hemorrhaging

It’s no good!
I think I have sprouted a leak somewhere.
Brain cells seem to be seeping out of my cranium faster than I’m able to duplicate new ones. It would appear that I am incapable of doing first grade homework.

[translation = form 1]I find this fact, hard to digest and more than a little alarming, but I have no way of gathering further information to determine whether senility has really set in or whether there’s a chance I am suffering from some kind of communication problem? [translation = again.]

Although it’s a maths problem, [translation = math] I try and work out the answer from the clues given by the words…..'are left.’ I conclude that this is an indication that the answer is 'more than one,' i.e. a plural. ‘Is left’ would be a dead give away that the answer is singular. Even I can manage = 1. However, I don’t think this can be the right way to work it out, it must be cheating to exploit the grammatical deficiencies [translation = shortcomings] of the person who designed the math problems. [translation = also not a good explanation for a non-verbal 6 year old.]


At some unearthly hour of the morning [translation = night] spouse returns home. I have senior son’s homework by my bedside. I’m restless, can’t concentrate on my literary classic whilst I’m defeated by a little person’s homework. How I hate homework! I hated my own, and I have hated each subsequent generation's homework with even more vitriol. [translation = short of the patience gene, I was last in the queue {sub translation = line}]











I sheepishly ask for spouse’s assistance with the matter in hand.
“Oh I was looking at that yesterday,” he comments. I look at him expectantly. I count to fifteen. [translation = slowly whilst I wait for further and better particulars {sub translation = more inforamtion}]
“Well, obviously you can’t do it.”

Is it really that obvious!
Things are worse than I thought?

“No, the other page with the information is missing.”
Missing! Really! You think so?

Not a missing piece of brain matter but a missing bit of information.
That’s so reassuring.

Mother knows best

Motherhood is about repeating yourself, frequently. You say the same things to the same people many, many times. A friend of mine who was caring for her boyfriend's teenage girls, spoke to me in a state of frustration. She couldn’t understand why she had to ask them to do something more than once. They were intelligent young women and her request was reasonable. She couldn’t understand what the problem was.

The problem stems from the relationship between the speaker and the spoken to. If you ignore the parental bit, you basically have an adult [authority figure] to child [minor with no power] It seems to me that's the root of the problem not necessarily the individuals involved. I have first has experience of this;

“What are you whittering on about now Mother,” said senior daughter. I command very little respect around these parts.
I repeated ‘all I’m saying is, that I have been saying the very same thing to you for years!”
She gave me a sideways glance. She acknowledged that this was true, but confirmed that she had dismissed my advice as being irrelevant due to my status as mother. It would appear that the same information, provided by an indifferent third party was somehow more valid.

I just have to learn to live with it. In fact it’s surprising that after 25 years of being a parent, that this message hasn’t managed to become embed in my own memory bank.

For the current generation I will adopt a different approach. I will find a suitable candidate, some cool, hip peer. I will prime them with the relevant information that I wish to impart to my children. Then I'll role play the exchange with him / her until they’re word perfect. Lastly, I will set them loose on this set of children. These youngsters will then listen and abide by the sage advice of the ‘stranger’ who is not their mother.

Overall, it will be a much more efficient system and hoik them up the learning curve at a speedier rate than I managed with the last generation of children. I suppose that's why they say that 'parenting' is an on-going process.

Umpire

My other job when I’m not cleaning or occupied with other duties is that of referee. [translation = mediator]. With junior daughter and senior son I am the interlocutor. I try and sort out the dispute but I might as well be invisible.

There is a school of thought that suggests you step back and let children sort out their own disputes. I think this is generally a European model. It has it’s advantages. I think this would be a good model if you have first provided the children with the skills with which to resolve their dispute and allowed them the opportunity to practice. If you fail to cover these two preliminary steps then you are likely to end up with a bear pit. And that’s with the normal [translation = typical] population of children. If one of the children is on the spectrum, namely atypical [translation = quirky] then things are out of balance. It’s my job to redress this imbalance. It’s an unfair fight, quite literally. One of the players is handicapped, in the gaming sense of the word, so I need to intervene and start teaching each of them how to go about sorting out spats [translation = fights.]

It’s far easier to be the judge and give them my ruling. I’m comfortable with the role of dictatorship. It’s also quicker and guaranteed to be fair, well most of the time anyway. I’m not so comfortable in the role of mediator and facilitator but that’s probably because I haven’t got the faintest idea what I should be doing. It’s an act of faith, blind faith on my part that somehow or other I’ll manage to guide them into making the right choices, to make compromises, to play fair. But in the long term, they will be better off if they can discover ways of solving problems, preferably by themselves. For right now, they can’t do it on their own.

So that’s what I’m trying to do at the moment. I’m sitting on the floor between the two of them trying to help them work it out. I am being a facilitator. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m being a method actor; if I pretend that I know what I’m doing, then I’ll look as if I know what I’m doing. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, them or me?

There’s a horrid little whiny voice running through the inside of my head saying ‘I can’t do this, this is too difficult for me, I don’t want to do this, I’d rather being doing anything else including the laundry.” I need a manual to explain to me what I should be doing and how. But even if I could find such a book,I wouldn’t have time to read it. I have shelves of unread or speed read books, as evidence of my ignorance.

Why wasn’t I born an American? This stuff is so easy for you lot. I see you in the park and the supermarket, with your lovely little children being patient and kind, sympathetic and understanding, loving and giving, selfless and enduring. What I’d give for just a teaspoonful of that? You make it look so easy and intuitive. I need to climb up this learning curve faster. I need a jump start, an immersion programme, a fast track.


How can I teach something to someone else that I can’t even do myself? How can I teach something I don’t know about to someone whose perspective is a mystery to me?
As I dither waiting for an expert to intervene, someone taps me on the arm, "you are not doing the good listening mummy! I have idea, we put dah timer on and take the turns."

Fixations

No-one is immune. Or more especially, people who believe that they are normal, may find that they drift up a blind alley unwittingly. Not me of course. I don't hold with such wayward manners. British people don't because of the 'will of iron.'

Thus today, I was busy making cakes, corraling children with a bit of tidying thrown in before senior daughter returns, when I came across an old gift I was given. It is a little tube holding a very thin roll-on of essential oils. The label reads ‘anti-stress.’ The fine print, even with dodgy bifocals, tells me that it contains 'lavandin.' I wonder if that’s a misprint? 'Sweet orange, red tangerine and ylang-ylang' essentials oils, whatever they might be when they're at home? I roll it up and down the inside of my forearms and sniff it. Quite pleasant! I wait for my stress to dissipate. I take in a deep breath. Demands for 'goldfish / find lost lego piece /when will my birthday cake be finished?' also waft over me.

The smell is changing because of the warmth of my skin. I’m hot, I’m stressed, I’m pooped. It isn’t even eight o’clock in the morning and I’m already exhausted. The 40 minute marathon to get them up and running, has been abandoned during the holidays, but we try to stay vaguely on track. We pretend that there is still a routine but no-one believes me. I’m like a wrung out dish towel. I’m ready to go back to bed. Perish the thought!

Because spouse was here this morning too, we divided our time between the children.. I spent half of those 40 minutes with senior son and his socks. He put each sock on and off 21 times. Each time he put one on I congratulated him, my performance was a tour de force. Each time I praised him he immediately ripped one off and threw it across the room. I would say ‘oh well, try, try, try again,” with my best sunny face expression glued to the front of my head.


Some autistic children are not motivated to act for praise or to please someone else. The ‘theory of mind,’ or the ability to step into someone else’s shoes just doesn’t feature for many. This is a change of catastrophic impact on his young life.
He wants to fit in but it’s tough. I remain calm. I make sure that my body is positioned in an open stance, close enough but not too close. I keep my hands soft and my face soft, so he can see that I am not affected by his behaviour. I’m here to support him, but I am not going to physically help him. “Too bad,” I say in sympathy with his frustration. I think I sound convincing. I hope I sound convincing. Then the upbeat ‘You can do it, I know you can.” I flip flop between cheerleader and sympathy mode. I need a coach, so that I can be his coach.

Each minute passes slowly. I think Zen thoughts. I sniff. The sock pings past my nose again. I feign disappointment, I sympathise, and encourage. Each minute idles by. I’m ignoring everyone else leaving spouse to cope. One on one time, they tell me. Quality not quantity.

I let my shoulders sink and my brow unfurrow. I sniff orangey smells that waft around us.
"Why for you are sniff?"
"Pardon?"
"You are dah sniff!"
"I am?"
"Yes, you are needing dah tissue?"
"No thanks, I'm just smelling my arms. Here have a nif, they smell of oranges."
"But I am hating oranges!"
"I know but these are nice ones, you'll like it, really!" He sniffs, doubtfully. He sinks back into a seated position. Our eyes make true contact. He leans forward and sniffs again only to sink back. He sighs without words, picks up a sock, then the other. Finished! A pair!
“Well done!”[translation = great job] I hug him, deep proprioceptive input. His fingers gouge into my shoulder blades. I hear him sniff.

For another adult perspective on OCD and medications that might help, please visit my pal "Lotta" at "Mom O Matic" for a breathtakingly frank opinion.

Waiting room

It’s 8:15 a.m. and I’ve been up for more than four hours. I’m uncertain whether I’m truly awake or not.



It reminds me of when they were all babies; you’d be nursing [translation = breast feeding] on demand during the night and would sometimes find that you’d reached a state of somnambulance; neither truly awake and certainly not asleep. It was just as well that the low energy banks prevented me from driving. [translation = and people complain about those using cell phones whilst driving!]



When I’m in the waiting room at therapy, I often here the phrase ‘no-one seems to understand.’ I’ve said it myself, far too many times to remember, especially just after their diagnoses, when everything was new and confusing. I try not to say it now, as it isn’t very helpful, to me or to anyone else. It’s like the weeks leading up to the birth of your first child; you’ve done your homework, your bag is packed, you know what style of parent you’re going to be. Six weeks later after the baby has arrived, you just emerge from the shell shock phase. You cannot believe how your life has changed. You cannot believe that no-one told you about this. You forget that lots of people did tell you about it, it’s just that it didn’t really make sense, it didn’t sink in. Now it has.

If you have a group of people gathered together for a special announcement, all the parents listen to the news that Jim and Jane are pregnant for the first time with twins. A collective gasp fills the room. All the people with children think, ‘poor
souls, a baptism of fire.’ All the people without children think, 'Twins! How cute.’

When you meet someone who is pregnant and about to have their first baby, you tell them how life transforming it is. You, the pregnant person, recognize the slightly patronizing acceptance of this truth. You, the teller of the good news, know they don’t get it, but they will do. Unless you’re there, it just doesn’t translate.

So there’s no point in bemoaning the fact that no-one understands about your child. [translation = be a moaning minnie] In truth a lot of people understand little bits about your child, they’re the people who also have children on the spectrum and the therapists and experts who treat them. It may not be a lot of people but it’s more than some ‘one.’ Whilst they may not get it entirely, they’ll be close enough. Just like you don’t really ‘get it’ with their child, you get enough. You’re in the same place, so take solace from that and use ‘waiting time’ as your own therapy by talking to the other parents there. [translation = here endeth today's sermon]

Transitions

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It’s an innocuous enough word. There again, it is a ubiquitous word here in America. In every other country, ‘transition’ merely means change, they’re pretty much interchangeable. Out here, ‘transition,’ is used most commonly with reference to children, as in ‘he doesn’t transition well,’ otherwise known as a 'meltdown.' And yes, it’s nearly always ‘he.’ More simply, it means he finds it difficult to stop doing that, and start doing this.

I came face to face with this word several years ago. I was trying to leave the YMCA with my three littlest ones. Junior was strapped to my chest, his fingers entwined in my hair and screaming. The other two were in the double stroller. They were also both screaming. The front one held the wheels, the second one gripped the door jam, preventing our departure. A kindly woman remarked "my! they sure do have a little trouble transitioning!" She might as well have been speaking Swahili to me for all I understood.

Many children, and some adults I can think of, have trouble transitioning. However, if you are autistic, transitions always result in a meltdown. You may not think that is so very dreadful, until you examine how many transitions there are in the average day.

Lets take the first five minutes of your typical day; you wake up, you fall or bounce out of bed, visit the bathroom, clean your teeth, stagger down stairs, put the coffee on and reach for the newspaper. Sounds about right? Approximately? Give or take? Right. Each one of those is a transition. 7 transitions, seven changes, seven meltdowns, and that’s just the first five minutes.

So lets just imagine that we can fast forward and skip the first 7 meltdowns of the day. Pick another time of the day. Pick another time of the day when you were a child. Remember being a child? So the end of the school day approaches. Horray! Gather books and belonging, leave class room, find parent, get in car and drive home, into the garage, skip into the house for snack and T.V., oh no, perhaps not T.V., more likely homework. Were you counting? Right, 8 transitions, 8 meltdowns. Beginning to make some sense?

This is why autistic parents and their children are so inefficient. This is why every tiny thing takes 8 times longer than it would for a ‘typical’ person.





Still dubious?

One more example then. Say you’ve decided that since it’s the weekend, it might be an idea to take a little trip. Scratch that, the schedule is still pretty full with three small children at home, how about, instead, we go for just a couple of hours to the park? Deal? Great. Use the toilet, wash hands, gather bikes or sand toys, put on your shoes and socks, or other footwear, leap into the car and you’re off. Only five transitions, only five meltdowns, although of course two of them are autistic, not just one, so that’s two times 5, which would be ten meltdowns. You think I’m exaggerating? Lets tear it apart a bit.

Firstly, no-one wants to go to the park, going to the park is not fun. Going to the park means being ‘outside’ and ‘outside’ is always bad. In addition, even if the ‘park’ were an ‘indoor’ or covered park, it would still count as outside, because it’s not home. Everything that isn’t home, school or therapy, is ‘outside.’

Perhaps you could pick one of those real indoor places, like bowling, jungle gyms or other children’s entertainment places. For now we will ignore the fundamental difference, that the park is free and all these other places involve hard cash times 3. You’d still have the same fundamental problem; it is unknown, it is not preferred, it is not home and involves a transition.

So far so good. Next. Use the toilet before departure. No-one wants to, they need to stop what they’re doing, even if it’s something that they’re not actively enjoying, like homework, and do something else, namely go to the toilet, which means that it is a transition. We hate transitions, no-one is going to use the toilet willingly.

Added to this, everyone has to remove every item of clothing in order to use the bathroom. The two activities are connected; toilet = naked. It’s unfortunate that these two are connected, they shouldn’t be, that’s my fault for being a lax mother, but that aside, for the moment, the reality is, that they are connected.








Once everyone is naked, they need to get dressed again in order to go out to the park. Getting dressed is a transition, no-one wants to get dressed, even if they didn’t have poor fine motor skills which makes buttons, Velcro and zips a form of torture.

This skips over the issue of sequencing; knowing that you need to put your clothes on in a certain order, unless you want to end up looking like superman with your underwear on the outside. It also ignores the problem that scattered clothes, even once they are gathered together, in fact probably because they are gathered together, become an amorphous heap, unrecognizable as clothing. Now they are a lump and possibly a tangle. The tangle of a puzzle that cannot be unraveled by those who only see ‘parts’ and do not recognize ‘wholes.’

We skipped ‘washing hands,’ I only wish we could. No-one wants to wash. If they have to wash, one needs cold water, the other doesn’t care about the temperature or being wet. One will have an apopleptic fit if so much as a drop of water touches any part of his anatomy or clothes, other than his hands. The other could be drenched, would prefer to be drenched, but that would mean another session of dressing.

It probably will involve another session of dressing anyway, because the other one experienced a droplet of water on his knee, during the washing hands session and will therefore be naked again. You need to bear in mind, that whilst it make take them 45 minutes to dress themselves, they can be naked in less than one second, some kind of inverse relationship there.





Ignoring the issue of dressing and washing, we move swiftly on to choosing items to accompany us to the park. Bikes or sand toys? Neither actually, because no-one wants to go to the park, so why should anyone choose something to take with them? This is apart from the fact that choosing, the act of making a positive decision about anything, is also impossible. Not only is it impossible, it is also aversive. Aversive means a guaranteed meltdown, times 2.

Where are we now? Oh yes, shoes and socks or other footwear. Lets ignore the issue of choosing the footwear, you the parent, intervene and choose the lesser of two evils, namely sandals. Sandals are great because this obviates the need to put socks on, that makes the exercise speedier, that’s four socks that don’t have to be put on four feet, in addition to the shoes. Half the time. There again, all footwear is aversive, contemptible. Not only does no-one want to put shoes on, they also don’t want to put them on because it is a precursor to being able to leave for the park, which they also don’t want to do. So there is no motivation to put hateful shoes on delicate feet.

This issue can be overcome by a bribe. The only kind of bribe that will work in this situation is candy [translation = sweeties] This is the lowest common denominator, a quick fix. You think I should use some other kind of motivator, I can see that. How about they put them on to please me, to make me proud of them? Nope. They don’t care what I think or feel and they certainly don’t want to please me. Perhaps I could appeal to another element of their nature, something along the lines of “Wow, let me see what big [independent] boys you can be, show me you can do it, I’m going to be so proud of you if you can do this?” Sound good? Sounds like a step in the right direction? Sounds like it should be, but of course it isn’t. They don’t want to be grown up, they’re quite happy as they are thank you very much. They don’t want to make me proud, they don’t want to demonstrate skills of independence. They don’t want to go to the park.

Any other ideas? The sooner you get your shoes on, the sooner we can go to the park? Obviously wrong for the reasons above. The most natural encouragements are actually the worst choices for these boys, it’s all counter intuitive, you need to think backwards, you need to think inside out.

O.k.. Last step. Get into the car. The last step is actually the hardest step. You may be familiar with the nightmare of abductions, where the kidnapper grabs the victim from the street and tries to stuff them in the car. The victim knows that they must resist, they must avoid, at all costs being taken to the next destination, the second location. This is the final crunch they must resist, failure now, will mean certain death. It’s the same here, resist getting in the car, because if you don’t succeed now, you will be transported to the park against your will.

You doubt my veracity? You think I’m exaggerating? ‘But it’s only a quick trip to the park!’ you sigh. ‘How can that be such a drama?’ you ask. I know, it’s sound unlikely, I find it surreal as well, but the bottom line is, it’s not the park, although that doesn’t help, it’s the ‘getting in the car.’ Getting in the car is the biggest baddest transition, always.

Is there something sub-standard about my car? Do they get car sick? What is the problem with the car? I don’t have a notion what is wrong with my brand new car, nor it’s predecessor, nor it’s predecessor. It’s not the car itself. It’s not the school bus itself, it’s not spouse’s car either. It also applies to any other type of vehicle that we have experienced thus far; buses British and American, aeroplanes, taxis, here and in Mexico.

So what do you do as the rational parent? O.k. scrub round the park. [translation = scratch that] No park then, no park is a punishment. You were only trying to give them a nice time anyway, so no park, park privileges are withdrawn, you can stay at home instead as a punishment. Right? Trick question, very unfair. No, wrong answer. It’s the wrong way around, you need to think ‘inside out.’ Apart from the issue of persistence and consistency, letting them stay at home is a reward, you are reinforcing the behaviour that you’re trying [very hard] to eradicate. No, you’re going to the park come hell or high water. You will all go to the park, no matter what they do, you will go to the park and follow through.



What will happen at the park? You have a fifty fifty chance of it being a disaster/a success. Who knows? Certainly not me, but the point is to go anyway, and endure whatever they throw at you.