Request in a letter, needs expert translator

At various opportune intervals during the day, I nab him to park him at the table. Once in position, I mention that it might be a good idea to add to his list for Father Christmas. [translation = Santa Claus]. He sighs with a mixture of weary patience and defeat, “O.k. what we are putting now!” he queries with exasperation. Autism’s rigidity seems impenetrable. [Ref 1]
I detail the five items that I have managed to extract from him thus far: [translation = auto suggestion] chocolate, Belgium only, a book, non-specific, a game, general but probably of the ‘board’ variety, something to cuddle and ‘a present.’ It is a woefully short list for any 6 year old to have produced. Generally children of this age either have a list several yards in length, or a shorter version with very specific items, make serial number and price, just so that there can be no mix ups.
“Can’t you think of anything else you’d like him to bring you for being such a good boy all year?” I weedle.



“Ah mummy, I is not a good boy anyways and I don want nuffink any roads up.” I seek out the blue eyes to see if I have timed this badly? I point to my beautifully configured numbers in the hope of encouraging him to add another. I don’t want to induce cardiac arrest in Santa when he finds a list with only five items on it.
“Can’t you think of anything that would make you feel very happy, that would make you feel a happy green?”
“Well, maybe I am wanting something.”
“Really? What?”
“I am having to want three eggs actually.”
“Great! Number 6, three eggs, that’s a great one! Can you think of another one?”
“Er, well, maybe I fink I am wanting a great gold star.” Saints preserve us, we’re on a roll! “Wonderful! That would make a superb gift. Anything else?” Is there a chance we might reach double digits?
“Hmm, let me see now, I think my last fing would be some green toofpaste so that my teef can be happy too.” Why didn’t I anticipate this? Does anyone manufacture green toothpaste? Do I have enough time to go to Walgreens? Will they let me open half a dozen tubes so that I can squeeze out a squirt and check colours? “Superb, happy teeth must be the best thing in the world, anything else?”
“ Umm, may be I need some bendy pens, I mean soft pens that won’t be hurting my hands and fingers.”
I know that his 'list' looks strange to a casual observer. I could explain each items significance but that's not really the point. The point is that he has no compunction to explain what these things are. The theory of mind, or lack thereof, tells us that he assumes that I understand, that I think as he does, therefore there is no need for him to expound. Even if I were a complete stranger he would still not explain, even if prompted, there would be no point. His perspective is that everyone knows their significance. It is easy to see why this tendency is seen as pivotal, in an autism diagnoses if not merely narcissistic.

“Fantabulous, those are the best pens on the planet! I hope he has some?” I wonder where they can be bought? “Any other offers? Anything else? You’re up to 8 now!”
“My last thing will be a sharing thingy.”
“What kind of a sharing thingy?”
“A game that my bruvver is liking very much, so that we can be taking turns together. I like the game cube game because is it yellow, er because is it nearly golden colour, which is my favourite colour, but he is liking it because it is a Pokemon game and it will be making him happy, it is called a “Topaz Pokemon Version.”

So much for the Theory of Mind.

Ref 1 = 
adamantine \ad-uh-MAN-teen\ adjective
1 : made of or having the quality of adamant 
*2 : rigidly firm : unyielding 
3 : resembling the diamond in hardness or luster

Vegetables win, even though tomatoes are a fruit

I’ve never been a very good cook, something to do with beating sauces anti clockwise, I believe, but it never made much sense to me. To this day I can’t understand how you can hold a wooden spoon backwards, but apparently I am guilty of this crime also. I’ve never been one for labels, so if my soup turned into a solid, then I’ll call it a stew. If my dessert turned itself into a liquid, I’d just give a different name. It’s remarkable how often you can call something ‘Surprise Fricasse’ and no-one is any the wiser. Never mind if it was overcooked, just chop off the burnt bits. Underdone, never mind, nuke it in the microwave, who cares if it’s a bit rubbery, you can bluff it out: “Yes, that’s right, I said ‘Goodbody Flan,’ it’s an ancient recipe to line the stomach of miners when they were down the pits, very nutritious.”
It’s very handy for desserts that refuse to set, as modern appliances such as the cuisinart [translation = magimix] mean that you can just whiz it to a liquid and you have pudding soup, it still tastes o.k. It’s all about expectations.


These days, cooking and catering is so much easier. All I have to do is shake out a cup full of Goldfish crackers for the children and a bowl of fishy bites for the cats and I’m all finished. [translation = done] I figure that this just makes them all vegetarians by default. Whilst we are making great progress in the food department, fruit and vegetables are not ‘preferred foods.’ The ‘make your own packed lunch’ campaign has been a moderate success and senior son will volunteer to make his own sandwich at other times to ensure that he can use at least 2 ounces of butter on each slice of bread. At this stage, compliance and task completion are paramount. Coronary heart disease is low on the agenda.
Thus when I hear a squeak of surprise from him, I walk over to determine the cause. “My sandwich!?” he bleats.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a sandwich. Well done for making it on your own. You must be very hungry to have made one now?” [Translation = less than an hour before supper]
“But it is tasting, er, not quite right.” I look at the sandwich with one perfect semi circle missing because he didn’t get the wonky teeth gene.
“What’s not quite right dear.” He pulls a face and bares his teeth, arching his back as he hunts for words. “It, it, it……I dun know, but it is tasting funny.” I peak under the top slice which reveals chunks of too hard butter, dollops of peanut butter and a bright red smearing of something that isn’t jam. [translation = jelly]

I glance back to the kitchen counter, the scene of devastation following his ‘cooking’ session. I step closer as the bifocals aren’t up to the task. I trickle of oil seeps from the up turned lid; Tomato pesto sauce. I rearrange my face and return to the table where he is on his second mouthful.

The Wanderer returns

Senior daughter sits at the dining room table brushing up on her newly acquired skill; Portuguese. Six months in Williamstown Maschusettes, has been more than half a year as far as I’m concerned. I hover between her, her smaller siblings and the kitchen. I don’t want to disturb her studies. I need an excuse to interrupt.

“So, what do you fancy for supper then?” I ask nonchalantly. I immediately have her undivided attention.

“Hmm,” she muses, “curry?”
“I can make it today but it will taste better tomorrow.” At the mention of supper, her little sister bounces into the kitchen, all ears, to check whether our choices
fits into her narrow menu.
“True. What have we got? Homity pie?” Senior son follows his sister like a shadow. His little brother is a reflection, hovering in case he needs to duck for cover.
“Yours for the asking dear,” I beam.
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Hominy?”
“No, not hominy,’ hominid!’”
“No, she means homonym, don’t you mum?”
“Actually neither. It’s just ‘Homity’ pie, it’s vegetarian.”
A universal scream of agony emanates at the mention of ‘vegetables.’

“Er not much progress on the food front in six months then?” adds the wanderer, as junior staggers from the room amid retching noises. The other two run off wailing, one copying the other though I’m not sure who is copying whom?
“I know! How about fish pie!” she says to me, now that we are alone. I drift off into visions of glossy béchamel sauce coating the back of a wooden spoon, fluffy potatoes with crisp brown peaks, succulent flakes of tender white fish, a hint of Bayleaf and powdering of allspice. “Well?” she queries as I fail to respond. I drag myself away from rising visions of anchovies, kippers, roll mop herring and fish cakes, “could do, but I’ll have to nip out to the shops.”
“Tell you what, you whiz off and I’ll manage the little tikes.”
“O.k., you keep the two big uns and I’ll take the screamer.”
“Oh no, that’s not fair!”
“It’s o.k. I can manage one screamer in the shops, it’s when I’ve got all of them that it damages my nerve endings.”

With the plan in place I take him ‘with the lungs’ and his pair of shoes out to the garage, “no fishing, I hate the fishing, fishing is bad.”

At the supermarket, at the fish counter I stand close to my youngest son as he lies on the tiled floor flapping like a beached salmon. I give my order to the clerk. I am impressed that the chiller cabinet works effectively and that as a result, the odour of fish is virtually undetectable. I ignore the cries of “I am dying, the smell is killing my nose, oh no, my nose is falling off, agh, agh, agh.”

As he hands me my brown wrapped package, the clerk nods in the direction of the salmon, who is still rolling and flapping on the floor, “is he gonna be o.k.?”
“Oh yes, he’ll be fine, he doesn’t have to actually eat it, just stay in the same room. This is like a trial run.”
“Howdaya mean.”
“Can he stay in the same shop within a two yard radius of me whilst I buy the fish?” The checker tweaks his white brimmed hat but says nothing as we depart.

A complete success really.

Problem solving

I am generally of the opinion that my body is there to assist me in my daily occupations, but other than that, I don’t tend to give it much thought. My body automatically does things that I want it to do without me having to exert any energy to achieve my aims. This is because I have an exceptionally clever body. I tend to forget that other people’s bodies do not necessarily behave in a similar manner. Other bodies have parts that do not listen to the messages that their brain’s command, they are recalcitrant, deaf, ineffectual or ignore important information.

I engage my son in a lecture. I explain carefully that the Eucalyptus oil that I have put on his chest, must not on any account, reach his eyes. There must be no chest hand eye contact. Soap is essential to prevent this cross contamination.
‘Do you understand?’ is repeated at twenty second intervals, re-inforcing, confirming, clarifying, checking in, anything to prevent the oil in the eye meltdown. It’s automatic and formulaic but does not impede the inevitable. We used to put the drops of oil in the centre of his shoulder blades so that he couldn’t accidentally brush it with his hand.

I demonstrate that he has not been singled out for this treatment, I too have been anointed, look as the glistening smear in the hollow of my collar bone! See, me too? We can do it, both contaminated. We both benefit from the ability to breathe more easily. It is not a conspiracy, it is a good thing. He is mollified by the fact that we share the same fate, but this doesn’t prevent his finger tips from seeking out the spot. Each time I whisk him off to the bathroom where we model hand washing. The spot is a magnet to those finger tips, he can’t help himself.

I turn my attention to the other two, so that he’s without a finger guardian angel. I have no other option when school is 20 minutes away and everyone is naked.

In the family room I negotiate socks, feet and shoes, all of which are proving problematical with junior. He squalks and flaps as I prompt and persuade. At the table a scream of agony erupts from senior, followed by the thunder of naked feet pounding towards the bathroom, gallons of water and unco-operative soap. I nip round to check progress. He stands at the sink naked and soggy, huge saucer eyes of concern peer out anxiously beneath a hank of hair.
“My fingers did it again, but I got em, I washed em good, I am o.k. now,” he explains with triumph.

He returns to the table and his breakfast cereal which is still only half eaten as his progress is delayed my his unco-operative hands. He takes the initiative and sits on his hands. He stares at his cereal bowl. He casts a glance at each hand, under control under each thigh. It dawns on him that whilst the wandering hands are secure, it is also difficult to eat cereal without their assistance, ‘darn it!’ He shakes his head and releases one hand, the right one, reluctantly. The spoon makes contact with the bowl’s contents, but the bowl is traveling. Against his better instincts he allows the left hand to come out too, to help steady the bowl. Once his mouth is full and munching, the right hand is also occupied with spoon control, but the left one is left free to practice devilment. The drips of milk run down his naked chest which invite the left hand to investigate. The finger tips trace the milk drops, without permission, “ah!” he screams and scrambles off his chair to repeat the hand washing exercise, self initiated, self correcting.
He reappears from the bathroom, breathless and exasperated.
“How are you doing dear?”
“Well,” he sighs, weary from yet another 50 yard dash when the asthma is in full swing, “you know, it not my fault. I think it is the bad hand, it won’t do as I say, it won’t listen to me any more.” He stomps his foot to emphasize the point, a couple of nano seconds off.
“You know what?” I ask, wait, and count to fifteen.
“What?” horray he got there!
“I don’t think it is a bad hand.”
“Not bad?”
“No. It’s the milk, the milk drips.”
“The milk drips are bad?”
“The milk drips make the hand move, it’s not the hand’s fault, it’s the milk’s.” He doesn’t comment, which isn’t particularly surprising, as it sounds pretty odd to me too. I should really be having this conversation once I am awake, not at 7:20 in the morning.

I continue to help junior with his flying shoes, whilst senior returns to the table for the next cereal episode. After much persuasion, junior is shod and we commence the teeth cleaning torture session. I check on senior. He is seated at the dining room table, it itself a triumph of accomplishment, as he has achieved a static status. Being static whilst wielding a spoon with liquid should encourage a positive outcome.

When I return again, I find him wrapped in a blanket, several blankets in fact, forming an igloo. His head and right arm pop out of the top. There is no sign of the left arm swaddled beneath the depths. A triangle of spilled milk spreads down the front of the igloo where he chest would have been. I pick up the serviettes [translation = napkins] and stuff them back into the drawer, who needs a square foot of fabric when you get much better results with a two six foot squares of hefty material to weigh down an inhibit tresspassers?

Culture shock

My mother sent us a little gift; some playing cards for junior daughter and some handkerchieves for me. Junior daughter liked the cards but was intrigued by the hankies. She uses tissues [translation = Kleenex] although not often enough. She likes the little embroidered flowers on the corner. She’s seen handkerchieves in the Beatrix Potter books. The boys cluster round but quickly declare that they’re ‘boring,’ which is understandable since they are devoid of trains or Pokemons.

“Why is it called that?”
“Because a ‘kerchief’ is a cloth that you cover your head with but a handkerchief is a cloth that your hands can use instead.”
“You cover your hands with it?”
“No, not exactly” I didn’t explain that very well. I make a second attempt. “If it were a ‘neckerchief’ you’d wear it around your neck.” That doesn’t really help much.
“What do you do with it?” she asks.
“You blow your nose on it when you have a cold.”
“Eeoow! Gross!” [translation = a term used almost exclusively by young female Californian persons, who should know better, as they have a much wider vocabulary available to them to display displeasure in it’s many forms. I have never heard a boy use this expression in quite the same manner.]
“You can dry your tears too.”
“Oh.” Better. Perhaps I can recover some lost ground. “Then what do you do with it?”
“You tuck it in the cuff of your sleeve.”
“Eeoow! Gross!” [addendum to translation = must always be accompanied by ‘eeoow’ and appropriate body language of the squirming variety.]
“Or you can put it in your pocket if you prefer.”
“I know, I know” chimes in senior son, “Bin, trash, garbage, rubbish!”
“Actually no, you don’t throw it away, you wash it.”
“It is washed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” This is going to be harder than I thought.
“Because then, when it’s clean and dry, you can use it all over again.”
Nobody answers. They look at one another. I used to have a section of my underwear drawer full of crisp, white, ironed hankies. None of them have a similar drawer. I am at a loss for words [translation = stumped.] Junior daughter helps me out, by summarizing thusly;
“So,” she pauses to collect her thoughts, “you have a nice pretty handkerchief which you put snot on and then stuff it in your sleeve next to your skin?”
“Yes.”
“But, but, but………I know!” says senior son. “It should be big and red like a…..like a……..like a blanket.”
“Pardon?”

“Wait, wait, wait……..I show you,” he plunders off without further explanation. He returns with the Tale of Benjamin Bunny which was also given to him by his maternal Grandmother. He turns to page 16 where there is a picture of Peter Rabbit wrapped in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
“That’s a much better idea,’ his sister comments.
“Me too,” adds the little one.


It seems we are agreed, the board of management have reached a consensus of opinion; we are now an exclusively Kleenex household.

Festive Greetings

Wishing you and yours the 'Compliments of the Season.' May your god, fairy, or talisman support you.
Cheers

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.