Homework Strategies

The issue of homework comes to a head, as I knew it would. It is tangential to the subject at hand, as I sit in the psychiatrist’s office. We brainstorm the matter. This is both a comforting and disappointing exercise. It is comforting because it reassures me that the psychiatrist is down to earth. He is no fool. He demonstrates a masterful command of the all the hic-cups. He lists each strategy in turn, adjusted for the dynamics of three small children where two are autistic. At the same time, it is a disappointment because I have tried each an every one of them to no avail. The only one I have not technically tried, is the idea to bribe someone to come into my home and help one child with their homework. I have not tried this technique for the pure and simple reason that I cannot find a victim to bribe. He concludes, as I have done, that matters will improve given time.


At the same time, my daughter’s teacher offers the carrot of the ‘after school homework club’ for her. It’s on campus in the library which in America is called a media centre, because it houses materials other than books. This is a tremendous bonus. This means that I will only have two autistic children to coach through their homework. Only two wiggly squiggly squirming screamers. What a boon! There is of course, a down side.

The downside is that we will need to return to school one hour later to collect her. Returning to school means persuading the boys to get back into the hated car. It could take as much as an hour to achieve such persuasion at that time of the day, a thoroughly bad time of the day. I will not spend an hour with two wiggly squiggly squirming homework screamers. Instead I will spend an hour with two wiggly squiggly squirming screamers who will not get into the car AND no homework will be completed.

But there is an upside, a saving grace. When I eventually manage to return to the school, instead of having to remove the boys from the car and take them to the Media centre to collect her, I merely have to park the car at the allotted spot until they spot my arrival and send her out to me. Can you imagine how truly delightful it is to skip four entire transitions? Yes four! One to extract them from the car, one to get them into the media centre, then one out of the media centre and then one back into the car! Be still my beating heart!

…………

The car doors close on my snotty screamers. They have no shoes on, but they won’t need them to collect their sister. They do wear some clothes, just enough so that should anyone be unwise enough to sneak a peek, they will only be rewarded with the odd shoulder here and there and probably far too much thigh. They each clutch Pokemons in their clammy little hands, as the rule of ‘no toys in the car’ has been temporarily suspended. Toys in the car are basically missiles and projectiles to torment the chauffeur.

I turn on the CD and pray quietly. I remember just in the nick of time to go via the public library so that I can use the ‘hole in the wall,’ book drop facility, before I need to take out a mortgage to pay off the fines. I’ll pick up the ones I’ve reserved on line another day, a day when I am without children, dash inside the entrance to the shelf by the door, grab the pile for auto check out and skedaddle back to the car.

I hear my tummy grumble but I ignore it. I can feel that one side of my stomach lining is sticking to the other side. I notice the little orange light on the dashboard, which tells me that I have one and a half thimblefuls of petrol in the tank. I grab an emergency bottle of Ensure and glug it down. If we grind to a halt at least I will have enough energy to walk somewhere, possibly. I have some vague recall of drinking from ‘open containers’ whilst driving, or is that empty vessels? Now I shall be had up by the police for drinking and driving. I will sue Ensure and their cohorts because I really am an American. Why can’t they put more calories in their dinky little bottles?



I pull into the curbside at school, hop out of the car and assume the position and demeanour of a respectable mother. I lean back against the car as it rocks. Why aren’t cars sound proofed? I adopt a casual air just in case anyone is watching. I find it hard to maintain a casual air as my back bounces off the car at frequent intervals. How can I look innocent prior to the arrival of the Highway Patrol as they come to cart me away? Please will some come and lock me up? I see her head pop out of the media centre door followed quite quickly by the rest of her. She staggers towards me under the weight of two backpacks, the one she forgot on Friday and the substitute she took today. I hug her whilst we are still outside the car to protect her for the maelstrom inside the car. “How did you get on dear? What did you think of homework club? Did you manage to finish all your homework?”
“Er no.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What none of it?”
“Um …..no I didn’t do any of it.” Unfortunately I think aloud, “how can you be in a library for a whole hour and not get any of your homework done? What on earth were you doing in there?”
“Reading.”
It is testament to my ever weaker hold on reality that I have forgotten that some people go inside libraries and once there, they read.

A random number of ever moving aliens

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Awards

"tegdrib92" of the Brewer Family over at "And Miles to Go before we sleep," has oh so very kindly given me an award, the Wonder Woman Award.



Of course this is the perfect award for me because I am always 'wondering' or what American's call 'dithering,' or maybe the other way around? As I teeter on the edge of every fence I am now forced once again, to make a decision or two.

I suspect this is all part of some hideous plot, a twelve step programme to force me off the stile onto one side of the other. I may have to reveal my true identity as the unidentifiable "beast." I have confused the authorities by skipping the country and hiding out in the States.

First off, I would like to pass it on to "Chelle" over at "Soodz" because she is a far better foreigner and wonder woman than I could ever aspire to be.

Also for "linda" at "Are we there Yet" because working, indeed devoting herself to such a profession must be a true vocation, or possibly temporary insanity, as well as managing her family single handedly in a truly remarkable manner so that her daughter's creative talents have a worthwhile outlet.


Then to "flutter" over at "fluttercrafts" as her insight is refreshing and it's a great place to poke around for the unexpected. You never know, this little poke might be enough to make her fix her profile on her blog - I am the mistress of the sublte hint.

Cheers dearies

Ordinarily Extraordinary

I drive to school very slowly because I am very early. I am very early in order to secure the one spot on the road that I have identified as being the perfect spot. I am a season ahead of myself because I am exceptionally clever person too. I know that the spot in the scorching sun in October, will transform itself into the perfect spot as soon as the weather changes. To park under a tree in the shade now, will be one that drips with rain, in the future. I don't want to sign my own death warrant.

I am tired after several nights of inadequate sleep. I am relaxed after having thrown many pounds of clay all around my garage. My eyes travel ahead watching the road with care. I slow down when my eyes recognize danger. The danger takes the form of a small boy, who sits a few inches from the curb in a bright orange T-shirt, always my first choice of colour for small boys.

I slow down to a snail’s pace. I identify an adult close by wearing a dun coloured outfit, so that she blends in with her surroundings. I assume she is not the mother, because as we all know, mothers must wear primary coloured clothes or neon, so that they can be more quickly identified by their offspring, should they ever be mis-fortunate enough to be in a crowd. Even without the crowd, indeed, on an arid landscape that is flat as a pancake, a neon coloured 5 foot 6 size mother, can often prove to be quite invisible.

I crawl along the curb to confirm that the extraordinary sight is real, rather than a figment of my imagination. A small boy plays with dump trucks in the dirt, a full 12 long paces from the adult. I know that the adult must be both a marathon runner and a superb sprinter to allow for such a vast chasm of space to have developed between her and the child. The woman plants the edge of her sidewalk. She is about half way through a whole box of plants. I am an efficient plantswoman myself. That much work would take approximately 15 to 20 minutes, if you assume that she prepared the ground beforehand. I look more closely because the woman has a cast on her leg, which means that she must have a leash around the child that is secured to a six foot stake with a 4 inch padlock. I fail to see any of the evidence that my mind needs to witness. I drive on past, confused and befuddled.

How does she do that? What is her secret? I glance in the rear view mirror to check if it was a mirage. It isn’t. They are still there. They are still static, probably for as long as 4 minutes. I rack my brain for the elusive answer? Is there a pocket of extra strong gravity along that stretch of sidewalk? Has she filled his pockets with rocks? Were his sneaker made of lead? Is there a hidden force field or electric fence that I missed?

Of course! Why didn’t I think of that before? I reach the only logical conclusion possible. Obviously the woman has attached a roller skate to the bottom of her cast and the elastic around the child is the invisible variety.

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My dreamboat hauls in an empty catch

At the weekends, bloggers can be more honest and intimate, or maybe just silly, because there are so few of us.

I am given to understand that it is very important to engender self esteem in children, both boys and girls. Fostering their ambitions with the acknowledgment of genuine achievement, is a good path to tread. Where I come from 'false modesty' is the norm, a cultural blip. Ambition must be veiled and disguised unless you want to walk around with a neon arrow that reads 'big head,' for everyone to see. Now that I am old, I can see the middle road between the two, a much more comfortable path.

...........

I find it hard to believe that it is a commonly held belief that women, generally, lack this basic building block, or that their cement crumbles or that the bricks don’t fit together neatly. I, on the other hand, have oodles of the stuff, more than enough for my own purposes and certainly loads to share. It is because of this abundance that I feel it my bounden duty to pass some of it along.


Shall I tell you a little secret? I little dark ambition that I once clung to, like the wreck of the Hesperus?[Ref *]

Well, as you know, intermittently, I like to play with clay. It is great therapy, very physical. However I never make much progress or improve because I don't practice for long enough. Something or other will come crashing in on the great plan, so the great plan is shelved for another indefinite period of time.


Way back in time, my days of volunteer work had been suspended due to an overdose of duties closer to home. I had no income and no time within which to earn it. I knew that I was shrinking. I needed to ‘think big’ as we Americans say. I decided that everyone would learn to love Goldfish and their emblem, Goldfish Crackers. They would become associated with autism all over the world. Little fishies swimming free in the vast ocean of possibilities, rather than trapped in that stagnant little puzzle piece that all the grown up autistic people dislike. Everyone would accept autism as an ‘is.’ Peace, love and understanding would rule the world. Sharks would all be white and choose the vegetarian option. Killer whales would seek out krill and the lion would lie down with the lamb…….

I am a creature of habit, and inspired by my very favourite Goldfish crackers, I began to decorate my pots with fishies. Now we happen to live quite close to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.



One day whilst my children were busy vandalizing their merchandise in the shop, I happened to notice some terribly expensive wibbly wobbly pots for sale. So I thought to myself, as one sometimes does, 'my wibbly wobbly pots, are every bit as wibbly wobbly as theirs, and my fish are friendlier.' It was then that I happened upon an ambition, another brilliant plan. I would make my wibbly wobbly pots with their happy little fish and give them to the Monterey Bay Aquarium for them to sell. Any money that people were willing to part with, fools, would go straight into a Charitable foundation to support autistic people. Bingo! I had solved so many birds with one fish.





Of course, it never came to anything. I am nothing if not naïve and deluded. Brain lint. Many people benefit from day dreams, and I'm one of them. As a child my career ambition was Christmas tree climber and star shiner. This is probably a better career choice than the previous one, chimney sweep. It utilized the same skill set, but a step cleaner. Today I’m far more comfortable with realism and cynicism. It’s just one of those comfy little pipe dreams, mental meanderings that bring solace and calm to the often trouble minds of some parents, probably only one or two though.

post script - I did take a first preliminary step and contacted Pepperidge Farm about the matter. A feeble attempt to raise awareness.

I can't quote them directly, but the message I received by return could be roughly summarized as 'how much do you wish to donate to Pepperidge Farm Madam?'

That was enough evidence to convince me that I lacked any powers of persuasion, had no ability to communicate effectively and that my feet of clay had turned into cement.



[* Ref]
"WRECK OF THE HESPERUS"

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintery sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The Skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
for I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church bells ring,
Oh, say, what may it be?"
"Tis a fog-bell on a rock bound coast!" --
And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns;
Oh, say, what may it be?"
Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light.
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


More grumpiness over "here" on "alien - because I say so!"

Line up your ducks Old MacDonald

Sometimes you’re too close to it to notice.

The patently obvious is ignored by my radar.

The reports from school tell me important information that fill in some of the gaps, but I fail to note the duplication at home.

Habituation has set in, not particularly for them, but for us, the parents. We’re so used to the squalking, bleating and rooster noises that we hardly hear them any more. Ear plugs are unnecessary as we just tune out the ‘white noise’ of his mouth, as well as all the clicks, clucks, sucky and blowy noises.

They used to be irritants, now they are more of a semi musical accompaniment, a back drop or wall paper to our daily existence. I imagine, that if you were unfortunate enough to a secure the desk next to him in the classroom, you would have little chance of concentration. We need to address this.

Answer comes to me like a flash of lightening, because I am an American. The quickest solution is probably the best one. The strategic placement of a six inch strip of duct tape. Unfortunately we have to fall back on less immediate methods of assistance.

To understand just how all pervasive this noise machine is, I can give you a little snippet, as examples sometimes help. The noises take precedence over words. They’re easier to produce and require no thought. It’s usually a far more accurate response than searching around the word bank, identifying the right one and then verbalizing it, all of which is terribly time consuming. It is also very hard work. Even if you go to all the effort of finding a word or two and speaking them aloud, attempt articulation, the dim witted adult that you’re talking to, doesn’t get it. How frustrating is that? If adults fail to respond appropriately, or if you the child are under pressure, it’s much easier to just make noises. Part of the benefit of making those noises, a by product as it were, is that you actually feel better just by using them, like a little steam release valve of pent up emotion. The judicial use of squalking can actually aid word production, once the excess pressure is dissippated. Almost a win win position.


I need to remember, that when the rooster crows and nods his head towards the cereal box, although I know he wants me to open it, instead of obeying, I need to prompt or wait for him to find his words. This might seem unkind, but people in the general public are not going to make the same connections that I am able to make, especially if it’s not a box of Kellog’s cornflakes.

I think it’s difficult to understand this fizzling down to the lowest common denominator. If you can spell, write and know the meaning of ‘compromise,’ why would someone like that find it so difficult to ask a simple question like, ‘please can you pour some cereal into my bowl,’ or alternatively if that’s too difficult, skip the words and actually do the pouring yourself?

The answer to that question differs slightly for each of my sons, involves several different steps and theories, all of which would take far to long to explain here.

It’s enough to know that this is the nub of the problem from their perspective ‘too difficult but if I squalk I get results.’ This isn’t so very different from any other child's response in my humble opinion. The key for me, is to remember correct my own behavioural response. This old dog, must learn a new trick. I must not react like Pavlov’s dog.

And less of the 'old' thank you.

Slap on the head for the hand maiden

I trundle through the day with all the usual hic-cups, the known and the familiar.

“I am done.”
“Oh good. I’m glad you’re finished.”
“No! I am not done done, I am done.”

I look at him covered in dot to dot paint spots, a rare achievement for those battling with tactile defensiveness. I doubt if his tolerance will last much longer, especially as the paint begins to dry and flake and itch. For the moment he is still at the soggy stage of body painting, but it’s none the less impressive for that. The paints are easier to manage in this format, where fine motor skills are thin on the ground.

“Well are you finished or are you not finished.”
“I am not finished I am done.”

Well really! This pernicketiness over words is beyond the pale! Must he always be so American! I remind myself, again, how lucky I am to have ‘non-verbal,' autistic children, who choose to communicate with me verbally.

“Alright, fair enough. So you’re done. Shall I clear away and help you get cleaned up?” Tis truly a foolish woman, who offers a child a choice. This tenacious adherence to ‘done’ rather than ‘finish’ is so tedious. How can I take them all back home to England in December, if they insist on bellowing “I’m done” every five minutes? It will give my mother a fit of the vapours!



“No! I wan you to look at my done.”
“?” I am unaware what ‘done’ might look like. “Er which…..what ‘done’ do you want me to look at?”
“Dis done.”
“Which done?”
“Dis done on my tum…yes, on my tum. It be rhyme like dat.”

I look at his tummy. He extends it to it’s maximum capacity, no doubt to aid my bifocaled vision.

“See?” I look. I see brown paint on pallid skin.
“Um….?”
“It be done. I be mix.”
“What did you mix?”
“I mix dah red and dah blue and dah yellow and I bin done make done!”
“That’s called brown dear, not done.”
“Nooo. Not brown. Brown be dark like chocolate. Dis be light brown, dah tan or dah done which it dah light.”



“Oooo you mean ‘dun’!”
“Dun?”
“Yes, you’re absolutely right, it is dun coloured.”

I hear his father stumble in from the garage and turn to advise him of the turn in his son’s tertiary colour wheel, but he trips over something in the utility room and curses, “damn! I stepped on a lance!” My immediate thought, is the vision of several gallons of blood. My knight in shining armour has just fallen off his horse and impaled himself.

But of course I so rarely get these things right.

Whimsical investment

Parents of autistic children are vulnerable both to the hype of those who promote snake oil as a cure, as well as the demands of the children themselves. Some parents of autistic children have more money than sense, or certainly little sense, when it comes to money. In their favour, parents of autistic children readily admit their shortcomings – encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs, [C +] time table details of Thomas and his rabble, [D-] plot graph of the powers of Pokemon, [E for effort] Yukio qualities, [F--] just let me die now! This is how parental bias sneaks into the equation.

I grind the sleepy sand out of my eyes as I shuffle around the kitchen in my black fluff muffs, willing the life blood to flow back to my toes that I can avoid gangrene and digit removal. A small, bouncy fast moving person comes into focus. “What it is?’
“What is what dear?”
“What is what be rhyme?”
“Er what word do you want to rhyme?”
“Chocolate.” I knew that! I really knew that, or I could have guessed it. I think. What rhymes with chocolate? Anything that ends with ‘ate’ with two syllables before it.
“Perambulate!”
“Dat is not a word!” he bellows. Suddenly I am back in school and still failing.
“Dat is four! I am need two!”
“Well it's not four syllables, that's because your enunciation is ……..” I eliminate ‘crap’ and substitute ‘in need of assistance.’ “Chocolate has three syllables. Choc o late, just like Nonna says. It’s not ‘choc’ ‘late,’ two syllables as Americans say, nor ‘choc’ ‘lit’ as Brits say. Both of them are wrong. Nonnna is write, I mean right. Nonna knows best.”

He pouts, doubtful but drawn by the inevitable truth of a superlative and peerless grandmother.

“Nonna say it be three?’
“She does.” I lie without thought, as Nonna and I have never discussed syllables in detail.
“What it is?”
“What is what?” Are we really still here?
“Perambulate?”
“Ah well, 'ambulate' comes from the Latin, which means walk or movement forward and ‘per’ means before……. so you, push the ‘thing’ before you as you walk and the ‘thing’ is the pram which is…….like a pushchair….um...a stroller.” Beam me up now. I know not what I do or say and Latin is old and mold and I am being dumbfounded by a six year old!
“You are being dah dumbass!” I know! Don’t you think I already know that? How come your tiny brain is so huge? Why do you care? Do not taunt me with your speech delay! What I wouldn’t do with a mere fraction of your brain capacity!
“Where it is?” Please, please, please!
“Where is what dear?”
“Fing?”
“Fing? Er thing? What thing?”
“Dah fing dat you said in dah perambulate?”
“Um?” He summarizes for me, so I can get back on track, pick up the thread and hang myself with it.
“You have dah ‘per,’ you have dah ‘ambulate’ but you have lost dah ‘fing’” I have lost more than a thing dear. I decide that surrender is my best option, that or deflection, “hang on a minute, I have something to show you!”


I run off to the spare room to retrieve the Rhyming Dictionary that I bought as a present for a pal. I kept it because I discovered that she already had several vastly superior volumes. My paltry offering was an embarrassment. I dash back.

“Do you know what this is lovey?” He reads the title. He knows the first word but not the second. Is it a good idea for a child such as him, to become familiar with the second word? I hesitate. I am already out of my depth, maybe I am giving him the opportunity to drown me? Do I give him the Keys to the Kingdom or open Pandora’s Box?



I glance at the clock, 6:03 a.m. It is far too early in the morning for me to be able to calculate the odds. I quickly run cons through my mind. He will be frustrated and overwhelmed. There will be a slew of negatives associated with failure. He’ll kick it, rip it, chuck it or bite it. There will be snot and tears and meltdowns. We will start a new day under a big black thundercloud that will haunt us all day.

This perspective has to be balanced against the potential for……fun? It will not be fun, it will be a disaster, a disaster that I will have engineered myself. Take any 100 opportunities for fun and 99% of them are sure to induce misery due to faulty miscalculation by the parent.

I must acknowledge that I am habituated to the negative. No matter how many times I push the enveloppe it always results in a stamp. I need to get up at 5 so I can be awake at 6 and stop these knee jerk reactions. I need to function as an adult and make better calculated positive decisions. Spontaneity has died as I am too scared to deal with the fall out, I merely respond. I am the B actor. I wait for the star to initiate and follow my best guess. Even my best guess is usually several miles off from the true target.

He is nearly 7. How would the average 7 year old react? Is there an average 7 year old on the planet?

I err on the side of self help, keep the faith and begin to explain. His eyes widen. Hyperlexia is often the heightened ability to read words. It does not always carry the ability to understand them.


The print is tiny, but that could be the dusty bifocals. The average book that he’s familiar with, is printed in font size 24, this on the other hand, is minute. I watch his sliver of filthy fingernail guide his eyes along the list, his feeble lip closure sounds out the syllables. “What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“What be dah rhyme wiv ‘gold’?” All my children shout out the usual offerings. Collectively we cover most of the bases.

“Let’s check. Let’s see what the dictionary says?” I cross reference and leaf through the delicate pages. I read them all out to him. He is especially taken with ‘twofold, threefold, fourfold,’ and their ilk, but I’m inclined to favour the release of the stranglehold and relinquish my toehold of control.


New post up on "alien."

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Awards - well more awards really

"Linda" over at "Are We there Yet" was kind enough to give me this "Community Blogger" award.

I'm mystified [just for a change] why she picked me as my blogging is so frazzled lately that I feel far less than worthy.


That aside, I can think of some other bloggers who are worthy.

There's one blog I visit that worries me sorely. It worries me mainly because our "thought" processes are often so similar. I don't think you should be allowed to drive an aeroplane and have those kind of thoughts at the same time. [I deliberately write 'drive' because I know that will be very annoying.] It's so fun to push someone else's buttons just because you can, so nip along to "White Noise" and write an "annoying comment," as we all need something to perseverate about.

Another good spot to poke about, lurk and read would be "Pendullum" over at "Dribbling Wit." The title tells you all you need to know, that an the nom de plume will send you swinging back and forth, hopefully in a gentle manner.

Then there's "Carol" over at "Shrinkwrappedscream" who is an incredible community blogger. A fairly new one for me, but great fun and well worth the visit.

Cheers dearies

Do little hicky

A bonus, for "Kev" and his "Clan"

We embrace, spoon style as he’s rather twitchy. Tickly and prickly. He pecks the inside of my elbow like a machine gun. I reach out an arm to enclose another one because it appears that everyone is in a touchy feely kind of a mood. The infection proves contagious as the last one snuggles into the huddle. I am lucky to have exceptionally long arms, the kind that poke out two inches from every cuff ever designed. They giggle in a piggle, with far too many sucky and gurgley noises because we don’t need any words. They burst apart at the same immeasurable second as an invisible message passes between them. They hare off on tippy toes, blundering hither and thither with whoops of glee, so miserable are we. I glance down at my arm.

Damn!

How am I gong to explain that love bite?

Fact is often stranger than fiction

I drive within the 25 mph speed limit.


I watch a willowy woman glide along the sidewalk with yards of flowing hair. Her Afghan hounds sweep along at her side. I chuckle because I love clichés especially ones you can see.

“Ooo looky!” he cries. I look but I do not see.
“What is it lovey?”
“It is dah ball on dah top of dah flag!” I see no flag, no pole and no ball. “Lovely,” I acknowledge because this is to be encouraged.
“Oh mum! Look at that!” I immediately see the guy with the sandwich board jumping up and down on the edge of the sidewalk.
“Er…..look,” he sputters. I look. I have no clue. “It…it…..it.. nevermind, ya missed it anyways.” I always miss his. I never have any idea what his might be. It’s the delay, or rather the speech delay. It catches us both out every time. His radar is tuned to a different map.


“Ooo look mum!” I follow her gaze to the trail of the plane in the sky, the pale blue sky and the squirrely white tail.
“Er…..look!” I look. Nothing? “Er….random.” ‘Random’ roughly translates to ‘whatever,’ which roughly translates to defeat, the white flag of surrender in a game that he can never win. It makes me sad and happy at the same time. Happy that he can let it go, avoid the meltdown of frustration. Sad because no matter how hard he tries, and he tries very hard, his word retrieval system is slower than he would wish.
“Looky, looky, looky!” cooes his little brother as a large truck pulls up beside us.
“Pirelli, your favourite what a treat.” He grins from ear to ear, cocks his head to one side so that he may more thoroughly enjoy the lettering in the shiny hub cap.
“Um…..look!” I look. I have no clue. This is the same street that we drive along every day. There is nothing remarkable to remark upon, apart from the sandwich guy and the lady with the Afghans and the plane that we have already made remarks upon, all duly noted.

“What can you see dear?”
“Um….never mind you missed it.” We are stationary at the lights. I keep looking to see if something might be moving away, whether I still might catch it. He tries again. “Er look.” I look. I look for clues. I see nothing that he might find of note.
“Er…..it is……four people…….they are be………two ...emerald..camels.” We are nowhere near a zoo. The circus has not come to town. My head flips to right and left to see if any of those words match anything I can see with my own eyes, or if any of the words are approximately near to something that vaguely resembles something that I can see with my own eyes. I know it is something emerald because he can never remember the word green.

“Good grief!”

I see four people walking along in a line, a veritable chain gang without links. They shuffle slowly along a backdrop of tall cypress trees. They flit in and out of focus like zebra passing through brush. Each pair of people has a huge dark green blanket covering the couple. What a gem!

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Just Desserts

I take a break at the natural point between the main course and pudding. Their howls of protest are still deafening from 10 paces away in the kitchen. I can feel my shell like ears curl up into tight little rosebuds, soundproof ones.

I crouch in front of the grill to watch the blackberry and apple crumble gently brown and bubble. I am at just the right height to look over and see the devastation under the dining room table. The meatballs are crushed like grapes in a vat. The homemade, organic tomato sauce has been spattered a mighty distance. The Spanish rice is just so much confetti. I do no look forward to clean up and washing that same 10 feet patch of floorboards for the fifth time in one day. This is balanced out by an absence of laundry, as they are all semi clad. The tomato sauce forms interesting henna like tattoos on their bodies. The flecks of Herbs de Provence and finely chopped onions in their hair, may prove more of a challenge.

I turn my eyes back to the grill and escape into dreamland. I anticipate the day when some youthful doe eyed person asks me the secret of success. I will turn my misty wise old eyes to gaze upon the countenance of the innocent and say……...”rats, I’ve burnt it.” I yank out the oven shelf and pick off the little black bits. For a moment I’m tempted to just shove the whole thing down the garbage disposal unit and save myself the bother of another set of dirty china and cutlery. I stir the custard and hope to disguise my error by drowning the pudding.

Maybe it’s because of spouse’s enthusiasm. Maybe it’s because they helped make it. Maybe it’s because for once the stars are aligned in my favour, but whatever it is, two of the three little ones, eat with gusto. I am too stunned to comment when they do their usual ‘marks out of ten’ exercise. The pudding is awarded 10 out of 10 by one, 54 out of 54 by another and stinks like Jamba Juice by another.

I note with some alarm that blackberry and apple are beginning to superimpose their presence over the previous course. I would venture to suggest, that the only things that stain worse that tomatoes are blackberries. This pudding turns out to be finger food, which increases my sense of alarm. I sit poised on the edge of my chair. I await the words that will come several seconds after bodily movement. The bodies will fly from the vicinity of the chairs and just after that, there might be a chorus of “I’m done.” By the time “I’m done,” comes, if it comes, they will be half way through the kitchen spreading purple slime like Octopus ink. I’m tempted to jump on them with a sheet sized baby wipe, but as they haven’t been invented yet. I make do with tea towel. One tea towel only covers one quarter of one child. The other two escape scott free, whooping with glee.

I sit on the floor with the one that didn’t get away and dab at him ineffectually. I need soap, warm water and a wishing well to return him to his usual paleness. He licks the various part of his anatomy that happen to be handy. He beams at me. “I like it!”
“I can tell dear.”
“I am my favourite colour,” he tells me, sociable little chap that he has become. I pick at his hair and wonder where to start?
“I am a lil mischief,” he grins conspiratorially.
I smile and muss the hair that is beyond redemption.
“I am a lil monkey,” he adds and the retrieval system kicks in.
“I am dah cooker, dah good……cook.”
“Indeed you are.” Spouse steps away from the table having succeeded in scraping his bowl to remove the last vestige of the pattern. “Well that was a hit, quite a coup, a really successful and positive outcome.” He beams at us as we sit on the kitchen floor. I can see the contrast between his white teeth and purple, beetle juice lips.
“What?” he asks, noting that something is amiss, but not what is amiss.
“Look at this place! Look at them!”
“Oh,”……. “sort of glass half full kind of a thing?”
“Yes. Precisely!”
“Well that all depends upon how you measure success. What was that ditty they learned at Summer School?”
“From Ms. O?”
“Yes.”
“That’s no good. It doesn’t work unless you can fake an American accent.” I look at him. He looks at me. Neither of us can fake an American accent. He prompts his son, the one on the floor the colour of purple. We still keep doing this, asking them direct questions. Whereas once upon a time we would be completely ignored. Direct contact, calming prior to asking the question, using simple language, an interesting tone and an animated voice. Ducking the meltdowns. Again, and again, and again. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month until we were counting in years with very little result, even less success, twice.

These days we have a one in three chance of eliciting a response. “What did she used to say to you?”
“Yah git wat yah git and you don frow a fit.” Hallelujah!

Verily, there are owls in America too.

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Handicap down

Overall, it is grossly unfair. Here I am with a perfect command of the English language, second to none, surrounded by little foreigners.

I am always precise in my use of language and yet they consistently and deliberately beat me over the head with the occasional slip up. If that wasn’t enough to contend with, they also have a nasty habit of expecting me to be able to instantly translate whatever it is that they’re wittering on about. I can only conclude that I have failed to teach them the Marquis of Queensbury’s, 'rules of engagement,' in sufficient detail.

Without naming names, I think it’s fair to say that some parents are a bit slow on the uptake. The trajectory of learning curves, differ greatly one from another, but overall, after many years of practice, some of us are doomed to repeat the same errors.

All too frequently I find that my mastery of the English language, although perfect of course, has a few dents. Similarly, sometimes it is better not to listen too closely to my children. Sometimes it is better to merely absorb. My children on the other hand, often listen far too closely. One word can often trip them up. Some children listen in lumps. A whole sentence, regardless of the number and detail of the specific words, means something else, if they hear it often enough. When you call to your children – “George, Fred, Harry, come inside now and wash your hands, it’s nearly six o’clock,” this equals ‘dinner time.’


But we soldier on.........

“What on earth are you on about now?” I splutter, which is probably about the most confusing question I could have come up with.
“Earf! Earf? EARF? Where else I am being? I am always being on dah earf. I am not dah pilot, um, dah astronaut. I am dah boy!” he announces with a tone of outrage which I cannot help but sympathise with.
"Indeed you are, sorry about that."
“But I am need!”
“What do you need dear?”
“I need my heart.”
“?”
“Dere, dere, dere. It is very tiny. I be need it. I be need it now!” I peer at the little nub of eraser that has been lopped off the poor benighted pencil. A little red heart imprinted on the surface.
“Fine.” I fail to see the problem. He starts screaming at me because I am not recognizing the problem. The screams are followed by a series of rooster noises, followed by growls and then mere barking, as he gradually cools down, gains composure and the use of his words. He sighs at my ineptitude.
“Looky, looky, looky.” I obey, but I still can’t see it.
“It is wetty!” he bellows, a blast of air strong enough to dry it with one puff.
“Ah. I see.” I should make him do it himself, but I decide to compromise. We share a sheet of kitchen paper and dab at the soggy heart in a brave manner.
“There. Your heart is all dry dear. What are you going to do with it now?”
“I bin dun give to my friend who is liking dah little things.”
“Ooo really. And what do you call your friend?”
"I bin dun call her!"
"Oh, not call, I mean what is her name?"
He glances to right and left, to check for lurking ear wiggers. I prepare to absorb rather than listen.

“She……is bin name….Shaye…….and she..sells sea shells on the sea shore...and she is dun bin my married.”

The words may be all wrong, but the message needs no translation.


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Eureka! Pavlov’s dog

I hear him shriek, grab a pristine bath towel and fly to the family room.

“Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea!”

His delivery of this message is in ‘motor mouth,’ robot mode. I dive onto the carpet next to him, a curled nak.ed prawn. I place the towel in position and seek further information.

“Does your tummy hurt lovey?”
“Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea!” I place a palm on his stomach and bring an ear closer to see if there’s any gurgling.
“Coldie, coldie, coldie,” he squeaks.
I feel his forehead for a fever.
“Coldie, coldie, coldie,” he squalks. I think perhaps my hands are cold rather than he is hot, but maybe not? I run his diet through my inventory checker in case I have inadvertently poisoned him. This seems so unlikely as my little neophobe is still stuck on 17 foods. It is next to impossible to imagine that he might have added poison to his diet without me noticing. There again, if you only eat 17 things, perhaps number 18 would be poisonous whatever it was, just for sheer shock value of novelty?


“What it is?”
“What is what dear?” I nibble my lip.
“Er……dah ‘Eureka’?”
“Um Eureka means…..sort of….. ‘wow, look what I’ve discovered,’ sort of a thing, or it’s a place in Northern California, and probably elsewhere come to think of it.” I wonder where else it is, as a huge burp erupts from my son.
“Oopsie. Sorry my body.” Excellent instant response. Hallelujah!
“Ooo what good manners you have dear.”
“Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea!” his delivery is ‘sing song’ mode. I am uncertain if this is a good sign or a bad sign? Has delierum set in?

“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dah ‘diarrhea’?”
“You mean you don’t have diarrhea?”
“I don know?”
“What don’t you know?” Somehow that didn’t come out quite right.
“I don know if I am have dah diarrhea beCOZ I don know what dah diarrhea is being!”
“What do you think it is being….er……I mean….what do you think ‘diarrhea’ is?”

“I fink it is 3.”
“3? Do you mean three syllables?”
“Yes. ‘Dye’ ‘a’ ‘rea’…..see….three!”
I now have 48 hours to remove this word from his lexicon before the start of school.
“It is dah perfect.”
“You think!” I have news for you matey! If you think you’re going to go around repeating this you’ve got another thing coming!
“It is be my new song.” Not on your nelly!
“Maybe we can make a new song, a better son, the best song.” I wonder if he can detect the desperation in my voice.

“No fanks. It is dah perfect one. Dah 3, dah 3, dah 3.”

He’s right of course, when you listen to the syllables of the whole sentence, it is a unique chorus, a refrain that I shall have to retrain.

You make me smile awards

Well the weekend is here and "Casdok" over at "Mother of Shrek," as kind enough to send me this lovely little award for lying to my children on my blog. Because of that, I intend to find other bloggers who lie to their children and then give them this award too to assuage my own guilt.




Change of plan - it appears that I can't find anyone else who is guilty of my crime, so instead I'll be handing this out to people who made me smile this weekend.

Firstly to this little "gem" I love it! Everyone must go and look at the best award in the world ever. O.k. maybe not must but it's still lovely and worth a peek, even though I am a little biased, but with a title like "inthebowl," it has to be a keeper.

Then to "Diary of a goldfish" as awesome cooking and creative cakes should always be celebrated, and of course there's that fishy thing going on too. Dalek's indeed - my giddy aunt!

Lastly, because who can resist the "title bar!" and the "photos" make me realise that some people really are living life.

Cheers dearies

Puppy Love – howl at the moon

One of our most serious and all pervasive issues has been the matter of pretend play.

My son would often pretend to be a dinosaur and he was a very good mimic. As soon as I commented or guessed, “are you being a Triceratops?” he would collapse in a huge meltdown. I assumed it was because my guess was wrong and therefore very annoying.

I later learned that it wasn’t the ‘guess’ that was wrong, it was the trigger word ‘pretend.’ Much later still, I learned that the word ‘pretend’ was offensive. It was offensive because he wasn’t ‘pretending.’ As far as he was concerned, he ‘was’ whatever he was mimicking. He ‘became’ whatever he mimicked. A budding method actor.

………

It’s the new wallpaper to my day. It doesn’t really matter what the subject is, or what we might be talking about, everything is peppered with Chihuahua. I blame the friend, or more specifically, the mother of the friend that bought the dog. She has no idea what her new pet has done to my family, and let me tell you, it is not a pretty sight. Fortunately there are no sound effects, just dog talk.

“He is dah Christmas present?”
“Who is a Christmas present?”
“Dah Chihuahua?” It colours every conversation. He’ll manage to squeeze it in to the most unlikely chat. “Would you like barbeque sauce or ketchup?”
“What do Chihuahua’s like? I like what he likes.” It’s a blatant lie and a figment of his imagination at the same time, quite a feat. I was never particularly keen on the breed in the first place, but they are rapidly descending into a puny pet peeve.

I try deflection. The subject is moot. “We can’t get a dog until after Christmas. It’s not fair to find a puppy and then leave him in kennels when we go to England.”
“Dey have Chihuahua’s in England?”
“Yes but you can’t bring a dog from England to the States….” I avoid the Rabies, customs and waiting period, period.
“Why?”
“Because…..English Chihuahua’s don’t understand American, it would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.” Oh how I love the Constitution!

I distract.

“Can you read that sign dear?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say dear?”
“Danger keep out.”
“That’s why it’s red, to tell you about the danger.”
“Dey have a big dangerous dog? Chihuahuas are not being dah dangerous.”

His sister joins in the debate. She has her own agenda. Perhaps she can muzzle him?
“We can’t get a Chihuahua as they bark all the time.”
“Dey only have dah little bark.”
“They have sharp claws and they’ll scratch yah when they jump on yah.”
“Dey do dah little jumps and I am big.”
“He’ll lick yur face and bite ya.”
“No he will be dah good dog.”
“A lab would be better or a retriever. Now that’s a real dawg.”
“I don wan a real dawg I wan a Chihuahua.”
“Anyways. They don’t have Chihuahua’s in America. You have to go to Mexico to buy Chihuahua’s.”
“Mom I need to go to Mexico!”
“We’re not goin to Mexico, we’re going to England dummy. Mum tell him we’re not going to Mexico. Tell him we’re not gonna get a Chihuahua. Tell him we’re gonna get a big dog.”
“We go Mexico before dinner?”

I fly away. I remember our one holiday to Mexico. It was based on the sound theory that we should visit Mexico, whilst we were here in the States. Once we returned to the UK, it would be a much longer and far more expensive holiday. It made perfect sense. It made perfect sense before we went. Mexico had been Americanized. It was just like America but with different accents and a milder climate. As it turned out, it was not just like America. They had no Goldfish, which was far more distressing that no seat belts in the cars.

Everything is a prompt, so I stop, prompting that is, in the remote hope that we can avoid this all pervasive subject.

He self initiates conversations, in a sly and circumnavigatious manner.
“You like em?”
“Like what dear?”
“Hot dogs?”
“Er, not really.”
“Hot dogs are like wieners.”
“Er, yes, little ones, so they are.”
“You can get wiener dogs.”
“Dachshunds dear.”
“Dachshunds are little dogs just like Chihuahuas.”

I wonder if we have time to stop by the travel agent before dinner? How much does it cost these days? One adult, one way to Mexico? I should pre-order the vegetarian option, a tofudog?


I am hounded on every front. There is no way out. I should start practicing commands like ‘down boy!’ Little traps await me around every corner, ready to pounce. Logical persuasive leaps abound.

He fingers the old one, the red collar with the bell and little name tag.
“We are recycle?”
“Um…..yes.”
“We are recycle dis?” He shoves the collar in my face.
“Well it’s a cat collar really.”
“Chihuahua’s are been having dah tiny necks just like dah cats.”
“Well….”
“It be save.”
“Er….”
“It be cheep, cheap, cheaper if we dun buy a new collar.”


His powers of persuasion are unleashed. He crouches on the floor on all fours.
“You like me?”
“Of course I like you dear, I love you.”
“I am cute?”
“Very cute.”
"I am a lovely little guy?"
"Of course!" That's so odd. I'm not permitted to call him little any more.
“You see my bootiful eyes?” He blinks to wet the deep brown pools.
“How could I not?”
“You see? I am be……I am pretend…….I am an adorable Chihuahua.” Pretend! Hallelujah! He said it! He said it out loud! I was here, I heard him and there is no meltdown. A new all time first.

But it's not the last we hear about puppies. There is always another line, paragraph and chapter. Puppy talk dogs our days.

I need a campaign or an escape route or an ‘off’ switch. I think I’ll start by buying a dog house, a little kennel that I can hide in, with optional drawbridge.


The next day following his playdate, he accosts me in the kitchen.
“You are dah dumbass?” Well really!
“I beg your pardon!”
“Oopsie. I sorry. You are dah stoopid?” Good grief! I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a improvement. I wait. I prompt, and dangle a treat, against my better judgment.
“Yes dear?” I do not snarl. I am obedient and stay put.
“Why you say it a Chihuahua?” he yips.
“Um….your friend’s puppy, that little dog…..well it is a Chihuahua,” I avoid barking.
“No!” he woofs. I listen to His Master's voice and beg for more information.
“Yes?” I am at heel without the restraint of a choke collar.
“No. You got it wrong."
"Really!"
"Yes. On my playdate......"
"Ahuh?"
"..his mum bin......."
"Yes...?"
"She be..." I wait. Prompts and encouragement can only take you so far. Sometimes you just have to wait for them to retrieve, regroup and restate.
"His mum din bin say dat .....he’s a Pomeranian,” he says with perfect diction without slobbering.
"Ah."

You know, some parents can be a real handicap. I adopt a hangdog expression and I slink away, with my tail between my legs.


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Picture this!

I am plagued so I adopt a siege mentality.

I absolutely refuse to make any decisions about anything before they go to school. Children are children, which means that they can recognize weakness. I am at my weakest first thing in the morning, and so that of course, is the time that they leap on their poor hapless prey.

“Mom can we do Year Book?”
“Um?” This question has no meaning for me at all. It is an American thing. It’s an American thing that I avoided with my older daughter, which means that I have no previous experience to fall back on. I thought that the Yearbook, was a book of photographs of every child in the class, produced in the year of their graduation. It is a memento and often has amusing notes printed within. This is wrong. This is not correct. I know it is not correct because my daughter is only nine and so has another 9 years of school before she graduates and has her photograph in the Year book.

“Which you are like?”
“Um?”
“Omnitrix, Heat Blast or Four Arms?”
What language is he speaking? He dashes away and returns with some plastic figurines, prizes from school. He shoves their nasty hard limbs far too close to my glasses for me to be able to focus. I stab at an answer.

“That one!”
“Four Arms?”
“Er…yes.”
“Ah! You are like coz he has red,” he sighs, as if I have cheated somehow. Somehow I think I may have, cheated, that is.

I trot off to the screamer in the family room. He is on a circuit. He runs around the L-shaped sectional, jumps onto the toy trunk and flops in to a bean bag, before leaping up and starting again. Round and around he goes, screaming all the way and yet never missing a step. I have no idea what has set him off. I lean on the door jam and wait. I count. I count his circuits. He is growing bigger and stronger. I should hook him up to a couple of wires and he could power the tumble drier single handedly, or double leggedly. It takes longer for him to tire but eventually, 12, his flop stops.



I approach Mr. Snotty but I don’t touch his sweaty form because I know that all his nerve endings are still exposed. A touch is the equivalent of an electric cattle prod and I don’t want to spark him off again.

“Can you tell me?”
“Er….I fink I can’t do it.”
I wait.

“I mean I fink I can tell you but I fink I can’t do it.”
“Do what? What is the ‘it’ that you can’t do?”
“I can’t do shower.”
“Shower?”
“Dad is saying I am being having a shower.”

Oh yes. That’s right. I remember now. We decided that instead of enduring our finely honed 40 minute morning routine, we would squeeze in another step. We wise parents decided that it was much too difficult to only have the eldest child take a daily shower. Instead, genius step, we would shower them all. We are all an absolute shower.

“Well….you’re really mucky now!”
“I am not muck I am sog.”
“So, if you’re already soggy, a little bit more water won’t hurt much.”

I try and think of a lure.
Just like all parents, I need a little bribery.
I bait my hook.
“Tell you what?”
“Wot?”
“You can use the powder puff afterwards.”
“Yur powder puff?”
“Yes.”

He’s gone, flash! Like a streak of lightening, he streaks without his pyjamas up to the shower. I clean the flasher until he is sparklingly clean.

I rub him dry with a soft towel in a fog of talcumn powder as he ponces his body with the puff.

“Pouf! Pouf! Pouf eee!” He is as white as a ghost.
“I am dust. I am fluff. I am laugh!” The bathroom is a cloud.
“I am not sog. I am soooooo smooooov!”
I dress him for speed and send him on his way.

He is the sweetest smelling child that the school photographer will greet today, if a little dusty.



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Wordy Wednesday

Spelling b....b....b.....bounce.

How do you get ready for the spelling test? Mine write out flashcards at school to help the process. It's the American way.

When they bring them home. We have to learn them, but how? Dull, dull, dull.

We cheat. We spread them out on the carpet and bounce on the tramplene. We pretend it's a game. I call out a word and they dive to retrieve the right card. They read it aloud from the card, which of course is even more cheating, because we're sneaky like that.

Now my eye sight is poor. I'd have a hard time bouncing up and down and trying to recognise a card right down there on the carpet, not necessarily the right way up. I'd have an even harder time if the cards looked like this.

It's not hieroglyphics nor wingdings.
GIVE

















MADE

















HAVE


















SAME
















FINE