If you can’t say anything nice…..

They are all in bed being tucked in for the night after a long and busy day. This is also the time to lay to rest any outstanding snaggles, so that peaceful rest may ensue.
“It dumb!” says my eldest boy with a limited word bank at the end of the day.
“What is dumb dear?”
“Doz fings.”
“Which things?”
“Todd Parr.” [Translation = the decorative ‘transfers’ on their wall]
“I didn’t know you knew his name?” I mutter half rhetorically even though we have read all of those books more often that I care to recall.
“Yes.”

“Why don’t you like them?”
“Dey are for babies.”
“Space things are for babies?”
“No!”
I look up at their walls, spaceships, stars and cheerful primary colours. Spouse is with Junior on his bed, on the other side of the room. All four of us look up to examine their walls. I calculate how many years this theme has been in place? Maybe 6 or 7? His birthday is imminent. He will be 8 years old.

I can just make out spouse’s eyes in the gloom as he catches my glance and mutters “I don’t think my salary will cover gold leaf!” [translation = Junior’s favourite colour is "golden"]

For some reason I am a tad miffed. [translation = upset] I run a surreptious finger along his jaw line. Do I imagine that it is becoming more angular? That little pudgy face with six huge dimples, is just as soft but develops planes. His smooth brow, translucent skin with a tracery of blue veins is that of a boy, not a baby.
“What kind of decorations would you prefer dear?” I watch his liquid eyes retrieve words, but his little brother is too quick and answers for him, “tertiary! Not primary, not secondary! Big boys need tertiary colours like Lilac and "dusty rose!”

Dress for Success - Appropriate Attire

How would you advise a middle aged woman to dress for a day out, to a family friendly, outdoor, public event ? I’ll make a suggestion and you tell me if I am right? Comfortable jeans, sludge coloured to disguise the stains that will be acquired during the 6 hour trip. Cotton socks and comfortable trainers. [translation = sneakers?] Short sleeved T-shirt to avoid the embarrassment of string straps leaving the shoulders and "exposing" more "flesh" than might be wise, even though the climate is warm. An open in the front, light cardigan for those air conditioned tents. Have I missed anything? Maybe a neon baseball cap to make myself more easily identifiable in a crowd. The underlying theme here, is comfort rather than fashion. What do you think? Will I do?

I thought I would do, but I didn’t, ‘do’ that is to say. I had forgotten a few things. The first thing that I had forgotten, was that my boys’ fine motor skills are now so advanced that they can undo "zips." [translation = graduated with flying colours] My light cardigan has a zipper and two more zipper pockets, in the front. As we queued [translation = lined?] my boys discovered the zips and demonstrated their mastery of this new skill for twenty minutes. [translation = with matching sound effects, towit, ‘zip, zip, zip.] There again, I accidentally transformed myself into a form of entertainment, which is no bad thing when waiting is on the cards. Fortunately, there were three of them, zips that is to say, so there were more than enough zips to go around. [translation = simultaneous sharing skills were avoided]

Whilst I would be the first to admit that my mother is right [translation = my arms are two inches too long, to be in proportion to the rest of me] this current habit is only making my bodily defect worse. I don’t know quite how to describe this trend of hanging, [jelly legs] off each of my arms, to drag me down, now that they are 65 and 48 lbs respectively, but there again, that doesn’t relate to clothing, unless I’m foolish enough to wear long sleeves. But I digress.

The other unexpected quality of this garment, was that it was cuddly and "soft." Two pairs of hands greatly appreciated this facet, such that I spent the remainder of the time being stroked, pummeled and kneaded, a bit like cats when they’re getting themselves comfortable. [translation = "bread making"] But at least it kept them in place. What if I had made the mistake of wearing my other one, the one that feels like sand paper! I would have made myself a pariah and they’d have run away. Anyway, it was probably the nearest thing I’ll get to a massage in the next decade, and it was free.

I do worry slightly as hands flurry over my chests in a public forum, not an attribute to be encouraged, but I notice that spouse gets the same treatment in confirmation of their anti sex "discrimination" policy.

I also forgot that jeans have pockets. I have yet to evaluate accurately which is more of an impediment to ambulation: a small pair of hairs in your back pockets or a small pair of hands in your front pockets? There again, I was indeed fortunate to only have one pair of additional hands at any one time. It’s easy to see how front pockets help when you’re trying to walk in time with your mother, your feet on hers with the pockets for balance and a firm purchase point. The white trainers were a mistake of course, but not a fatal one.

I’m seriously toying with the idea of throwing away all my T-shirt and replacing them with the modern skin tight version. It’s not so much to update my image, more a means of prevention. If there’s only enough room for my skin beneath the fabric, this might prove a deterrent to people sticking their heads in there, for fear of suffocation. I am gradually adjusting to the raspberry noises that they make on my skin on contact, therein proof positive of lip closure. This development has meant that the general public give me a wide berth, in the mistaken belief that I am flatulent person.

So as you can see, my wardrobe and fashion sense may be dire, but other people are making great strides in all kinds of "unlikely" directions.

Don’t try this at home

Your mission, should you care to take it………is to herd three children from the school yard [translation = playground] to the car parked by the curbside at a distance of a mere 50 yards from where you currently stand?

Recipe – take two people, one adult and one child. Ready? Stand together so that as much of your body is in physical contact with the other. [translation = it doesn’t matter whether you’re front to back, back to back etc.] This is your starting position. Set? [translation = get ready] It is now the smaller person’s duty to rotate around the larger body, whilst remaining in physical contact at high speed. Go! The bigger person must now walk towards the car whilst the other continues to rotate.

The smaller person must move their feet with greater agility to avoid entanglement. [translation = a bit like French skipping] Additionally the smaller person should repeat a phrase of three words continuously, preferably rhyming, at just the right pitch and at 50 decibels in order to ensure that the adult brain is incapable of functioning.

Now, would be the ideal time for the small person to stick their head under the upper garment of the adult such that flabby female flesh is exposed to those who look on bewildered. It will not help to yell ‘proprioceptive input’ at the aforementioned audience at this time. [translation = or any other time come to think of it]
Continue thusly in the general direction of the car.

Additional garnish – choose from the following [wisely] –
Hold the hand of the child that falls down a lot.
Ensure that you haven’t left the third one behind.
Be aware of personal belongings, yours and theirs.
Add crowd.
One pinch of noise [wide choice available to tune into or out of]
A smattering of well wishing comments from friends.
Traffic safety persons [with whistles]

Yes, it is ‘oh so cute’ when they are two, maybe three, but at six and a half, the general public do not vote this way. They register deviant and give a wide berth to the spectacle.


Repeat as necessary, [translation = daily] until phase passes or a suitable ‘intervention’ can be manufactured.


It would probably be wrong for the adult to break free at this point and run away, right?
[translation = where is a trampoline when you need one?
Why isn’t there a swimming pool there instead of a storm drain?
Why didn’t I bring his weighted vest?
Don’t you dare carry him!]

Flip a coin

During the lull at the IEP meeting, when i’s are dotted, t’s are crossed and photocopies made, I chat to the other team members. I remark about how well the play dates have been progressing with the child we called Joe, in my older son’s class; what a delightful boy he is, so sweet natured, such language facility, how my boys are able to ‘share’ him, how patient he is with them both, how’s he managed to magically lure them outside……I glance up when I realize that I am rambling, to check that we are of one accord regarding Joe’s outstanding personality, so that they may contribute to his adulation, that "paragon of virtue," lucky boy, lucky family, lucky school. I see widened eyes and electricity pass between them.

Initially I put this down to confidentiality, which is as it should be, but a blurt or two corrects my misapprehension. Their experience differs from mine. I note the double check. Are talking about Joe here? Indeed I was. Joe, who like my son, is a filthy little ragamuffin at the end of the day. Where do they find so much dirt? How do they manage to get quite so mucky? I beam with warmth for that exceptional child. A polite puff or three follows. We are not on the same page, or even them same book. I am happy for things to remain confidential but it made me reflect upon the truism, that children behave differently in different circumstances. [translation = as do adults]


For as long as I can remember I have had a healthy respect for this truism. I used to be somewhat fearful and cautious about these differences, but in the light of Joe in my home, with my children, whatever the truth of the matter, in my eyes, Joe showed his true colours, the rainbow that he is and the hidden treasure.

Early Days 8 - cracking the code

That innocent word, 'play' can be huge hurdle for some autistic children. "Scheduling time" is a marathon and many of us, parents that is to say, have a hard time planning out what to do, how and when?

What we [parents] refer to when we say 'play' seems simple enough and doesn't need any explanation, but 'play' when it comes to autistic children may not be quite so straightforward.

If you looked at my boys when they were little, you would have seen them playing, not just the typical autistic play of lining things up, moving toys in a mechanical and repetitive manner, examining some tiny feature on a toy but behaviour that would 'pass' as typical play. Teasing these elements apart, unless you are very observant or a play therapist, is not that easy for the novice. [translation = me]

The key element that experts often refer to is 'lack or impairment of imaginative play.' When I looked at my boys, I would see them pretending to be dinosaurs, or dinosaur eggs. To me that looked like imaginative play, there was no impairment that I could see. I knew what my eyes saw and yet I knew that I was missing something, but I didn't know what it was?

A typical exchange at that time would be when I watched my son be an Allosaurus. I wasn't allowed to join in, though I often tried. [translation = on each occasion that he pretended to be whichever dinosaur was in favour that day] He didn't mind me watching by then. [translation = first he was unaware that I was watching, then when he did become aware that I was watching, he objected violently] This was something that he played alone. Since dinosaurs were his area of enthusiasm, this was my cue to engage with him. [translation = joint attention]


I had learned to be upbeat and use simple language. His mimicry was superb, his body and gestures matched those in the many, many books we had about dinosaurs. I knew that to praise him, would guarantee a level 10 meltdown. It also took me a long time to correct myself. [translation = not to ask a question that elicits a response, which would seem the most obvious step when you're dealing with a speech delay, but instead, to make a statement which removes the pressure and stress of having to find a response]

At that time we were still trying to fathom out his rule matrix. [translation = the many triggers to meltdowns] One trigger was buried in this daily 'pretend' play, but I didn't know what it was. The experts always ask you, 'and what exactly preceded the outburst'? I knew that I was doing something wrong and provoking his meltdown. I changed 'my script,' my 'approach,' and everything else I could think of, to try and make it work, but the outcome was always the same. It remained the same until he was able to use enough words for me to be able to translate and interpret their meaning.

I watch. I have a pad of paper and pencil behind me listing in detail each exchange we have attempted over the last 27 days all of which have been unmitigated failures, each of which I've crossed off, eliminated. I am going to play dinosaurs with my son if it kills me. [translation = or the T-rex bites my head off first]


"You are a Lambiosaurus!" He rears up a little in response, bears his teeth a little more and claws the air in slow motion. I watch carefully, willing myself to see the trigger. Nothing. So far so good. He jumps onto the sofa a morphs into a different dinosaur. Which one? I watch. I watch until I am sure.
"You are a fantastic Stegosaurus!" He snaps a glare at me! I used a 'praising adjective' by accident! It just slipped out! I hold my breath waiting for the explosion. Nothing. I got away with it, but he did notice the word. Maybe I've made a mistake? Maybe all this time I've been assuming that he didn't like praise but actually it's something else that's setting him off? What could it be?


He lumbers off the couch onto the floor and morphs into a, into a ? yes, into ..... "You're pretending to be a fabulous Parasaurolophus!" I blurt with unsuppressed excitement. He arches back raging at the ceiling, screaming his lungs empty, not as any dinosaur but as a misunderstood child. He rolls on the floor crying and beating the carpet. What? What? What? Please help me understand.

I can't believe that I've blown it again. I rub his back as he curls into a small hard ball, blocking me out. I wipe away the tears coursing down his cheek his body wrapped up like an egg. Why is there no manual? No book? No 'how to?' Can you plead with a four year old?



All I can say is 'sorry' quietly, again and again as I stroke his silky hair. He calms, slowly and lifts his head, "I not pretend," he says crisply. These are probably the only three words he will utter during the next 24 hour period. 3 words. His eyes stare into mind. Eyes may be windows but I still can't see. He says it again with emphasis on 'pretend.' 6 words in 24 hours! Does this mean they'll be no words tomorrow, that he's used up two days supply of words? I cringe at the thought of the future silence, wasted on a repetition because I am too stupid to understand him the first time. I stare at the surface of his glistening eyes willing myself to see.
"You're not pretending you ARE a dinosaur!" I gasp. He dives at me, medicine ball head to sternum shouting "YES!"
We rock. 7 whole words! We rock back and forth clutching each other with all the force that can be mastered by a four year old.

He bursts away from me, "I am egg! You sit on me!" I am in a state of shock, too dumb to quibble, I simply obey. I sit on my son who is curled up like an egg. [translation = proprioceptive input on the sly] The egg starts to crack as I move off, to find that a baby Corythosaurus has hatched, tweets mewling noises and preens his crest for my wonderment. He had invented a game for us to play together, our first real pretend play. He has used 14 words in one day. We played it every day. I try hard to forget to count words. It was my all time favourite game ever.


Lastly, a lesson in imaginative play, brought to you by the 'guy' I love to hate, Spongebob et al in 'The Idiot Box.' [translation = television]

Hidden talents are squashed by a bushel

I am excused therapy duty due to an inability to communicate verbally without spitting on people. Spouse takes the boys to occupational therapy. My daughter and I finish off her homework and commence thumb twiddling.
“How about we play football on the driveway?” I suggest on a beautiful sunny Californian afternoon.
“You can play football?”
“Of course!” I lie. Since the boys refuse to go outside unless bribed and even then, only visit fleetingly amidst much squalking and far too much protective clothing, this is a rare treat for us both. It takes a while to find one soccer ball that hasn’t given up the ghost. We make do, as we don’t wish to waste valuable minutes locating a pump and other accessories. I open the garage door, which provides an extra wide goal. I take the road side. Together we play for just gone an hour.

“Gosh Mom. I didn’t know you could play football so well!” she offers breathily. I beam braces back at her, “did you have fun, just the two of us?” She grins, “yeah, can we play again soon?” Her words die on the wind as the family car pulls gently into the drive.

The boys exit the car in a manner indicative of someone yelling ‘fire!’ in an auditorium. Junior is gone in a flash, hands covering head, wailing through the cross fire of sun, light breeze and general outdoorsiness.

His brother tumbles out the car, Bambi, drunk on moonshine. He leans against the car as the seasick sailor does, waiting for the ground to stop waving. Not for the first time, I have cause to wish that Harry Potter's fireplace is rushed into commercial use. He shakes his head clear, a dog fresh from a bath. He pauses to survey the scene, blinks to clear his vision.
“You wanna play football with us,” she offers dubiously.
“No fanks. I hate soccer,” says the traitor to his European gene pool.
“Mom’s playing too!” she entices. He startles and looks around for me, even though I stand but 3 feet away from him, in front of him, not hiding behind a tree. When he spots me, he flinches as I come into focus, “oh dere you are! You play football?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Shall we play together?” He looks at me and then his sister, patently bewildered but also looking for a legitimate get out clause. ……..
“Nah! Soccer is a girls' game,” he says nonchalantly, and saunters off at a jaunty gait. In the light of his previously expressed anti "sex discrimination" views, I am taken aback. There again, political expediency [translation = scapegoat] seems an exquisite intellectual development.

Clash of the Titans

Sometimes, especially when they were younger, people would mistake my boys for twins. One with long legs, one with a shorter body meant that when they were sitting they seemed the same size. Like most twins or siblings, any similarities between them are of little significance. It is their differences in personality, character and disposition that singles each one of them out. If you then cover that child with a layer of autism, a patchwork quilt, [translation = homemade and of a unique variety] the result is too complex for the average nitwit, [translation = parent] to fathom.

Unfortunately for them, I am the designated nitwit of the household.

All human beings have little triggers, things that set us off, irritations and foibles. Sometimes we can identify the cause, something from the past that makes us react in a certain manner. Other times and other things we just accept, it’s part of our own singular make up. We find methods of coping with these triggers such as avoidance. If you find sirens annoying, then you don’t rent an apartment above the Fire Station. [translation = house] Although maybe, that is the very location to help you acclimatize and de-sensitize yourself.

My boys have lots of triggers. Each one has his own set, that differs from the other. They also collect more triggers as they get older. Old triggers seem to fade but are always lurking in the wings ready to pounce. Junior has a ‘thing’ about "death," dying and all other related aspects of ‘terminal,’ a word that he can read, write and spell accurately. [translation = an offshoot of hyperlexia]

His brother also has a ‘thing’ about "death" but different triggers. For reasons too humbling to go into, his current understanding, is that death occurs after the age of 90. Although his auditory processing is good, when it comes to numbers he is often confused, mistaking 19 for 90. Any word that sounds like either of those words can also be a trigger. Initially you might not think that there are too many words that sound remotely like either. If you break down those words into their phonetic sounds and jumble them up a bit, you may be surprised at how often their variants turn up in ordinary everyday conversations. [nye tea high teen nigh T]

Both have supersonic hearing, which means that they can tune out the sound of the motors that power the freezers in the supermarket and tune into the conversation between strangers on the other side of the store. [translation = or vice versa, or from one to the other, all without warning] Because they both have poor social skills, as well as a higher social concience than most, this means that he will hone in on the distance conversation that contains ’19 or 90,’ seek that person out and ask “you are going to die?” If the child that asks you that question has an expression of genuine concern, this may cause unknown and undue distress to the unwitting victim.

Where does this leave us? Well it can mean that sometimes something very small can cause a fireworks display. We need to appreciate that what might be an irritating trigger when we are adults, may have a much more explosive effect on someone smaller. [translation = with more nerve endings and less self control]

My son dashes out into the garden to rescue a cat. Both he and the cat are naked because my son was just about to start dressing. [translation = had completed undressing] He’s not quick enough to nab the cat who skitters back indoors. The sudden U-turn by the cat, sends my ungainly son off balance and into a heap. He hobbles back indoors distressed by his poor cat catching skills. He is unperturbed by the flap of skin on the top of his toe and the river of blood that follows him. I park him on the nearest available chair to commiserate with him about the foolishness of the feline population. I hope to distract him from the river of blood but he seems oblivious. We discuss herding cats, a subject near to my heart, whilst my hands investigate damage. His sister appears downstairs, sleepy eyed and tousled. “The school bus for the field trip is leaving at 9:10 sharp!” she advises and yawns. The ‘9:10’ of her message, penetrates my son’s psyche and sparks a negative reaction because he thinks she has said ‘ninety,’ “ninety? I am dying?” he screams, still obvious to his wound. The growing pile of blood stained rags and towels make her gasp. “Oh no! Are you o.k? Can I see? No!” It is her reaction that make both boys react. The real victim notices that he is leaking, “I am blood?” he enquires curiously, but bedeviled by thoughts of death. He looks in the general direction of his leg but fails to notice that he has a foot on the end of it.

At the same time I hear a "piercing 50 decibel" echo somewhere far, far away, [translation = the upstairs bathroom] followed by rapid fire footsteps. Junior appears within seconds to witness the scene, “he is blood, he is ugly, he is dead, hospital, emergency room, only 4 toes, 911…..” he talks at 90 mph, a never ending stream of words. His vast vocabulary is strung together. They all spell out the same general message of doom. When he reaches the end of his current word bank he squalks, a sound half way between a rooster and a drowning man.


Spouse appears, drowsy after three and a half hours sleep. My daughter is scared of the blood herself but recognizes that her little brother is spiraling. She soothes him with reassurance but he is impervious. When he starts to rip his hair and beat his body with his arms, spouse steps in and whisks him away from the scene.

At first glance this picture may seem a little grim, but that is only one perspective. A different view is a far more optimistic one. A few years ago we would have endured meltdowns and guessed at their cause; blood and fear, but clearly this is a much more complex matter. We are better able to understand the complexity because they are better able to express themselves verbally. As we get a better handle on the causes, we are better equipped to help them find other strategies to cope, help them practice them and help them learn.


The minutes tick by to bring us closer to 7 in the morning, an arbitrary time designated as appropriate to start the day. Another, very ordinary day.

It is at such moments that I am so grateful, that the two and a half years of the ‘plaster campaign,’ [translation = Band-aid] will finally pay dividends.

Scheduling the autistic child

When your child is diagnosed with autism, there may be a tendency to panic. [translation = probably only me] It is quite possible that panic will prompt a parent into frenzied activity. [translation = research ‘fix it’ yesterday, but faster] After this phase when the fog lifts a little, it may be that the parent sets some goals, tiny ones. It is a good idea to identify some trivial matter that makes life exceptionally difficult and work on that little bit only. [translation = baby steps] In our family circumstances, I decided that henceforward, we would collect the mail from the mailbox every day.

Let me explain. The mail comes daily and is placed in the mail box on the fence in the garden. I found that I was unable to leave the house and the mail would accumulate day after day, much to the annoyance of the mail carrier. The problem, was that if I left the house with my children inside, they would panic during the minute and a half that I was absent, even though I was clearly visible through the huge windows. [translation = out of immediate "visual" contact equated to abandonment or worse] When I returned to the house, I would have two small children in a state of serious distress who would take some time to calm down.

Neither child would venture outside of the house to accompany me, because ‘outside’ was hated. I could overcome this difficulty by carrying them both outside with me, as the tight grip was calming to them. [translation = deep proprioceptive input] However, if I had a child on each hip, I had no spare hand with which to retrieve the mail. Often I overcame this, by collecting the mail at night when they were in bed. Often, I was so tired, that I would forget to collect the mail at night.

So that is why I chose this one [of hundreds] issue to tackle. We worked on this daily. [translation = even on Sunday when there is no delivery] Day after day, week after week, month after month] It never become ‘preferred,’ it always remained a chore. [translation = surrogate therapy] but gradually the screaming became less so, small feet were exposed to ‘outside’ and the mail didn’t get soggy or fried, depending upon the season.

I learned so many things from this tiny ritual – aversion to the texture of paper, his ability to read upside down, that opening and closing the box was a feat of sequencing, gross motor skills and ideation, that we could take turns, that sharing was not an impossible goal, ………..I could go on, but you get the general picture.

These days, because they are all at school, I can collect the mail myself, at leisure, read it all and take appropriate action for each piece in peace. Today, one of my sons is off colour, ‘PH,’ which means a sick day at home. [translation = potentially hazardous] Nothing dire, just one of those fleeting temperatures first thing in the morning,[translation = fever] that disappears on the cue of the school bell. [translation = but likely to rise at some random and inconvenient time of the day]

Since staying home is everyone’s preferred option, I must take care not to reinforce the fun of being at home. There are a couple of other factors as well. Not only is being at home preferred, but being at home ‘with mum’ is even more preferable. [translation = I am truly the most popular person within a 25 yard radius of my own house] If that isn’t enough joy to dispel on it’s own, then we must also factor in the ecstasy of ‘being at home,’ ‘with mum,’ AND no competition. [translation = no siblings or father] Now you have an autistic child in heaven. How could one possibly hope to make this experience a negative one, short of sticking pins in the poor child?

It is a sobering responsibility to know that you are the most popular person on the planet due to an accident of birth. [translation = your status is undeserved] I could sit on the sofa with this one all day just cuddling, [translation = cuddling and proprioceptive input] and he would be happy and content. A day spent in this manner would guarantee that he would never again visit school. [translation = or anywhere else for that matter] Such behaviour would reinforce all his ‘prejudices.’ [translation = lock the door and throw away the key, grow roots and remain inside forever]

As the garage door closes, I watch his body contort with barely suppressed glee. I can see every one of his pearly whites. [translation = teeth] His eyes are cartoon moon slits. He shivers and trembles with delight. I visualize pin cushions, small ones. What to do? We do the full body hug, a jitterbug affair. My brain groans with the effort of summoning up little positive pricks. He bounds away from me to pounce on a cat. Cat and boy gambol on the carpet whilst I make a list of activities to take us through the day, not too taxing but just enough to take the edge off bliss. I look around at the interior of my house, buried in piles of jobs. [translation = chores that have no hope of completion today]

How to get the balance between rest and activity, when his asthma is active? I know that we must avoid the spelling test part of his homework. [translation = physical exertion and aerobic, see note below]

“What you do?”
“I’m making a list of all the jobs I have to do today?” He continues to roll back and forth on the carpet. All of a sudden he is by my side, my companion, my bosom buddy, my number one fan.
"You are write dah list?"
"Yes."
"Of dah jobs?"
"Yes."
"What you have one?"
"Nothing yet, I'm still thinking."
"I have dah idea for the one!"
"Oh really! And what might that be pray?"
“We can get be getting dah mail, like we did in dah olden days.....together...jus you and me..... er….....pleasssssssse?”

Note – spelling tests in our home are a busy business. [translation = preferred] Each spelling word is written on a card. The cards are scattered on the carpet around the trampoline. Whichever child is having the ‘test’ bounces on the trampoline. I call out one of the words after about 20 bounces. The child scans the carpet whilst bouncing and then leaps off to pounce on the right card, reads it aloud and then hands it to me. Yes, I am aware that this doesn’t teach them to spell. Yes, I know that it is cheating. Indeed they will not be able to bounce through their spelling tests at school. What exactly is the purpose of this exercise? [translation = it’s "FUN"]

If I die before I wake………

I stand bleary eyed by the kitchen counter sipping black tepid coffee. [translation = my punishment for being distracted] I contemplate life, the universe and everything, as I watch small people at 5:15 in the morning. Wills, living wills, trusts, trustees and guardians, power of attorney – enough to make your head spin and your brain turn to mush.

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!” he repeats as he runs backwards. This phrase is on his ‘now playing’ list. [translation = an endless loop] I hope that this current phase, will be short lived, but you never can tell with these things, the walking backwards that is to say, not the "motor mouth." Oddly enough he rarely bumps into anything. To date we are on our fifth week of’ backwards’ and of course he improves daily. [translation = becomes ever more agile and speedy] It seems grossly unfair to criticize him for such an innocent pastime, since my main objection, danger, has been unsubstantiated by reality.

So saying, he did take a tumble this morning, but that was due to foul play. [translation = in the feline sense of foul] I intend to give those cats a severe talking to! Fancy having the nerve to nip through someone’s legs when the walker is in motion! [translation = not everyone has yet learned to walk ‘a la John Wayne,’ as I have done.]

I put down my cold coffee for later and interject in the hope of turning my naked backwards walker into a dressed backwards walker. He makes his objections known, in no uncertain terms. His criticisms are not those of his peers, such as colour, design or fashion. He curses his clothing like none other -
“These pants are insane! Why aren’t they Latin?” [translation = they are uncomfortable because they are not sufficiently old and worn to softness]

If I die before I wake……… please find someone else to translate.

Peer Pressure

Once upon a time a very long time ago I sat by a swimming pool with my mum. I was a teenager. [translation = late developer] I pulled blades of grass out of the ground whilst my body dried in the sun. My mother asked me whether I thought it was appropriate for women of her age to wear bikinis? I had no idea what she was asking me. Was it a question of immodesty? At that time the issues of weight, dress code with reference to age, feminist matters and sex where not on my radar.

When my daughter was about to enter third grader, her male teacher at the time commented upon the fact that the majority of her friends were boys and that sadly, this would change during the following year. As an experienced teacher, I was keen to quiz him as to the whys and wherefores? I should point out that both my girls are considered to be Tom Boys on this continent. [translation = standard fare in Europe] Both girls gravitate to boys because of their active natures and inability or unwillingness, to navigate the social waters often associated with juvenile, yet sophisticated, girls' cliques. [translation = clicks]

The teacher explained that girls and boys divided into tribes at the age of seven and above, that by third grade, cement walls would grow around these two groups. I hoped that he was mistaken.

I listen to my son and his chum chat. Both boys are 7. There has been a mysterious electric charge between them since they were three. Chum is a real live wire. An hour of swimming and an hour and a half of football a day, is not enough to discharge his battery. Yet for some reason he is loyal to my son, the one who trundles along at 5 mph. The gap between them widens with age, but the connection remains strong.

I pay close attention to their exchange because chatty Chum has spent a considerable amount of time telling me of how he is bullied at school. [translation = a different school] He has given me chapter and verse on the subject. I am now in possession of an extensive list of young people at his school who fall into this category. I know they names, ages, classrooms, preferred method of torture and inside leg measurements.

Dear sweet natured Chum, who is ‘small for his age,’ is not enjoying the ‘best years of his life.’ Chum has approximately 1000 more words available to him per lungful of oxygen, than my son has. Little Chum chats to my ‘above average in height.’

“But she can’t be your friend, she’s a girl!” Choose your colours. Choose your stripes.
“What?”
“You’re a boy, a guy. We’re guys!” The winning team.
“What?”
“You know. Guys stick together.” Loyal to the end.
“Yes.”
“You’re my man! So you can’t like girls. Guys don’t like girls. Get it?” Them and us.
“What?”
“Look. We hate girls. Boys hate girls! Girls are stupid. Right?” Divide and conquer.
“Stupid?”
“Well, not stupid…..you can’t be friends with girls! You don’t like her really. She’s mean.” Tarzans and Amazons.
“Mean?”
“Yes. She’s mean. She’s a girl.” Pink, flowers, dolls.
‘Mean?”
“Yes. Tell me you don’t like her cos she’s mean. She’s a mean girl. She’s mean to you.” Puppy dogs tails.
“She not mean to me.”
”Well, maybe she’s isn’t mean, but she’s still a girl.” He coaxes camaraderie. I can see his swash and buckle.
“You no have sister.” An 'all boys' family.
“Oh well. It’s o.k. to love……er like your mom and your aunts and stuff but they’re not really girls, they’re like er….relatives and that’s different.” Girls cousins too.
“Different.”
“Yes. Moms are o.k. but everyone else is a girl and boys don’t like girls, that’s the rule!” Declare yourself!

The trigger word ‘rule,’ is the spark to activate his compass.
“But I like her and she is a girl and that’s fine wiv me. I like you. You are my friend but dat is a stoopid rule.”

This is why we try not to typecast and avoid

"little boxes"

like the plague. [translation = maybe I should go easy on the 'we do not say stoopid' campaign?]

Let them eat brioche!

I am faced with a moral dilemma of gargantuan proportions. [translation = as well as a minor etiquette issue] Tis the season of school wind down when invitations proliferate. Kindly folk at the school wish to offer thanks to their volunteers and show their appreciation for inadequate services rendered.



I find this a particularly delightful element of the American psyche. British people generally believe that they have a complete monopoly in the polite department, in both quality and quantity. Yet I do not ever remember experiencing such an outpouring of well wishes for minor services. [translation = although things may have changed in that last couple of decades]



One of my favourite authors, "Mr.Bill Bryson" has also remarked, much more eloquently upon these perceived differences.




I now find that in addition to the above, I, as well as all the other mother’s, have been invited to attend a ‘Mother’s Day Celebration’ in Junior’s class. I am led to believe that the sub-plot to this deal, is cake eating. I have two difficulties here. Firstly, following jaw surgery and an extravagant amount of elastic bands, I am unable to eat solid food. Secondly, even if I were able to eat solid food, ‘cake’ would not be high on my ‘preferred’ list of gastronomic delights. [translation = it would come directly after chocolate covered cockroaches] Whilst I am more than happy to bake cakes, decorate cakes and give cakes away, I cannot even recall when I last had occasion to force myself to consume the dratted stuff.











Cake by it’s very nature suffers from several fatal flaws. Now don't get all distracted here, as I know that the ghost of 'fruit cake' has descended upon my erstwhile little American pals. Perish the thought! [translation = for reasons that are still not entirely clear to me, just the words 'fruit cake' are a cause for gurgles of hilarity on this continent.] Ban the vision of fruit cake and replace with American cake e.g. 'white cake,' or pound cake, especially as the latter is available on both continents and is the same. For those who are not bakers, pound cake is not dollar cake here, as the 'pound' refers to weight, not the rate of exchange.



The first flaw, is that cake is sweet. This puts it in one of the highest categories of ‘loathsome.’ Additionally, cake is often smothered in a wide variety of sweet slime. [translation = frosting or icing, or sometimes both if you a truly unlucky] Slime of course takes the prime place on the ‘loathsome’ scale. [translation = slime and sweet combined, would trump the latter, so truly aversive as to be vomit inducing]



So what is a mother supposed to do in such situations? Refuse the invitation and avoid the whole issue? Attend, but refuse to eat the cake?


Tempted as I am by either or both solutions, I have to swallow my misgivings and attend anyway.


I sit on a chair the size of a Toadstool. To complicate matters still further, all my children are aware that I dislike cake. This particular son, favours chocolate cake with ganache, but never ventures from this preference.

We examine his cake offering. [translation = a muffin the size of Manhattan]
“It is dah big!”
“Indeed it is.”
“It is dah vanilla which is being dah white.” [translation = unnecessary, he is clearly bilingual]
“Too true.”
“Dah frostin is dah pink.”
“Quite so, the very worst colour in the entire universe.”
We continue to gaze at the confectionery piece. [translation = joint attention, a rare and truly under valued quality]
“I am finking.”
“You are? Thank you so much for telling me that! Can you tell me what you are thinking?”
“Dat maybe you are not liking to be eating dis.”
“You are such a thoughtful little chap. Thank you.”
Who would have guessed at the depth of his magnanimous nature? [translation = "Sally- Anne" can keep her dratted marbles]
“What we be doing about dis problem den?”
Self generated problem solving techniques! Be still my beating heart.
“Not a clue. A real toughy! Do you think we should throw ourselves on the floor and scream a bit?”
"No! Dat will not be dah helping. I fink we be needin dah compromise."
It's official, 'compromize' is now my favourite word, enough to allow a 'z' to take preference! What has happened to my child? Who has zapped him? What did they zap him with? [translation = undoubtedly self initiated]
“Maybe……maybe I am eating it for you?”
“Really! You’d do that for me?”
“It will be being dah new food for me I am finking.”
“I cannot believe your bravery, and all for me! Thank you.”



I watch him attempt tentative 'eating.' I resist the urge to nibble part of him and content myself with one hand entwined around his middle. He snuggled back onto my lap, his fingers tremble with the paper muffin case. [translation = tactile defensiveness people often hate the texture of paper, especially on highly sensitive little digits] I pull it off for him as he made his attempt and I don't want to tempt fate. The muffin rests on my palm, a plate.


The tip of his tongue edges out to brush the frosting. He remains like that for some moments before he slowly retracts his tongue. As he does so a little electric current courses through his body and mine, but for different reasons. I break off a piece of the crumb, tiny and hold it for him. We repeat the exercise.


He turns sideways to tuck himself under my chin and wipe his mucky mouth and face on my pristine white T-shirt.


That's it! I'm finished. [translation = done] Now I can die happy. [translation = all will be well]

Greater love hath no neophobic child, than to eat cake for his mum for Mother’s Day. [Or any other day come to think of it]

Hirsute pursuit

I spray her entire head with detangling matter and set about the task of turning a bird’s nest into a respectable head of hair.

This activity is far too close to the category of undoing knots, which is spouse’s department. Life is too short to undo knots. I refuse to undo "knots" I just snip them out. I am allergic to knots. Tangles are a subdivision of knots. I have long since delegated this category of tasks to spouse due to his superior skills, both fine motor and patience.

She has decided to let her hair grown long. I have not decided whether to permit this course of action, or not? I am still dithering on my proverbial fence, weighing up the pros and cons. My daughter is under the impression that she has a choice.

I wish to avoid the situation that I found myself in a decade ago with senior daughter. Yards of thick hair, a veritable rope to challenge Rapunzel. Too much for a teenager to manage. I didn’t have the time to teach her how to manage her ever burgeoning follicles, nor the patience. I recall evenings spent with organic free range brown shelled eggs, whisked into a poultice. A natural hair conditioner. Nothing out of a bottle for that one. Holistic and organic, before it was fashionable.

The result was scrambled eggs in a metre of hair, because the rinsing water was just a tad too warm. The hysteria, the tears, the cleaning the bath. The status of being the only person granted permission to snip fragments off the ends, a mere shaving, so as not to lose the ‘length.’ Never again.

“Tell you what, at the weekend I’ll teach you how to wash it, so that you don’t have any tangles. [translation = snarls]
“O.k. Daddy did it all wrong!” she moans. [translation = multitasking parents delegate different jobs]
“No, not really, it’s just that Daddy’s hair is very short, so he doesn’t know much about tangles.”
“Only ripping them out!” she snarls.

I brush gently with the occasional tweak and immediate apology. It’s time consuming, especially at this fraught time of the morning. I leave spouse to cope with the boys and guide her to another room, out of earshot from their screaming. [translation = put on your socks campaign] We sit quietly, brush, tweak and chat. Minutes pass. Quiet minutes, apart from the tweaking and squeaking. I’ll be short of time this weekend. Short of time then, short of time now. It helps me to remember that a decade ago, maybe I chose not to teach her big sister how to cope with her own hair, hard to say now, it was so long ago. [translation = one continent and several lifetimes]

It's so important to teach all of them 'life skills,' I really shouldn't show favouritism. Maybe I will be very busy this weekend. Maybe I won’t teach this one either. Surely that would still be fair, to someone?