Amazing Awards

"Vi" over at "Village Secrets" has very kindly passed on this beautifully scrolled award.

"Vi" coupled her award posting with an "amazing meme" of past conquests. In the interests of sexual freedom I'm inclined to do likewise, but for reasons of .......logic.........that I can't quite conjure up at this moment, I'll have to decline.

So first up is a blog that I have been reading for a long while although my google reader has messed up my devotion to the "Phantom Scribbler." Her posts are little rays of sunshine. Her post "How much is a million" should guarantee that you have a wistful expression for at least a few peaceful reflective moments.

Into every life.......now here is a blog that is not for the faint hearted. "Suzy" over at "Identity Crisis" takes my breath away with her posts. I never know how to respond. I am fortunate not to have shared or experienced any of the pain that she has, but I always come away knowing that as parents, our responsibility for our children's experiences cannot be taken too lightly. If you are feeling brave, then start at her post titled "Two for a nickel."

Another blog I enjoy very much is "Franky's" blog over at "Frankily yours." I'd like to say that great minds think alike, but clearly her brain functions are of a much higher order than my walnut sized one. A good spot to start to get a flavour of the true
Franky, might be here in her post titled "Me Likey " because we all need to support the green, and don't forget to check the sidebar which clearly says 'fiction / humour.' [except she appears to be missing a 'u,' clearly a typo oversight!

Then to "Rise out of me," for her thoughtful posts. I thought about posting this U-Tube video too, but I was too cowardly [of course!] so that would be a good place to start over here called "Cow." Actually that's a little fib on my part as it's really a wordless wednesday post but we choose not to follow the wordless rules! We have to have our little rebellions.

Also for "Melissa" at "red head Momma" A good place to start would be her post entitled "Lessons from a boy" because it shows what a long way all our children have come and how much we just can't but help celebrate.

Next would be "Angela" at "Memoirs of a chaotic Mommy." [does anyone realise how hard it is for me to write 'mommy' instead of 'mummy,' so next time I get it wrong, bear this failing in mind! So a good place to start for a little fun would be here at her brief post called "Oh me too!" especially if you like cats.

Number seven goes to "Fragile X." Although our 'labels' differ, we share many similar issues, although she manages with considerably more grace than I do. If you think you might enjoy some eye candy then you might like to start here with "this" post.

Cheers dearies

Give a little - homework strategies

There are two types of person on the planet, the typical and the atypical. The typical person, such as myself, ensures that everything is done ahead of time. The atypical person does everything at the last possible moment. The typical person has a list of tasks to accomplish and does the most horrid ones first, to get them out of the way. Atypical persons have their own bizarre set of rules that make no sense whatsoever.

With this in mind I have a rethink of the current homework policy, do it now, do it first, get it over and done with, because it is the most horrid. Next, the less horrible chores of making their packed lunch and choosing their clothes for the following day. Collectively, these three tasks consume every painful waking moment from the end of school until electronics time at 5:30 p.m. The lure or bribe, of electronics time, is the motivator. They must achieve electronics, so that I have thirty minutes to clear up and produce supper, otherwise the next two hour block of time before bed will be disrupted with dire consequences for all, especially me.

Many wise parents know that homework, after a long day of school is plain bad management. Everyone who returns from work or school, needs a little time to cool off, or chill as we Americans say.

This is why I know that I am frosty, frozen in the paralysis of my own way of doing things, a way that doesn’t work for my children. I examine the facts. Both my brother and my eldest daughter are so atypical as to be worthy of the title procrastinators. Burners of the mid night oil, they claim that it is only when they’re up to the wire that they win the race, due to the adrenalin rush.

Poppycock clearly.

The mere possibility that we shall fail to complete what we need to complete, within the designated time, is enough to give me palpitations. I must acknowledge the unwelcome truth, that I have morphed into a control freak of the worst order. How I envy those relaxed parents, the horizontal ones, who glide through their day and help their children surf to safety. How come I dipped out of the ‘surfing’ gene? When did I change from the ‘we’ll get there eventually’ type, into the ‘we’ve missed the boat’ type?

................

My daughter has gone to do her homework and then play, with her pal. Now is the ideal opportunity, with only two of them to manage.

I make my announcement as to the temporary rule change, that will be subject to change if it doesn’t work.

I watch them play whilst I riffle through their homework files. I read every page and clarify who is expected to do what, when and how? I ponder over the bits that are unclear, until they become clear. I determine that maybe, just maybe, I am now better prepared to single handedly guide them through their different homeworks.

I dither. Which would be worse or better? Constantly reminding them of the sands of time that are running out, so that homework time doesn’t arrive as a shock, or say nothing and let them enjoy their play time trouble free? When does constant reminding and reassuring become nagging? I decide to split the difference. Fist hour nothing. Second hour shows the visual timer on count down, not stapled to their bodies but over to the side, within radar range.

At five o’clock I haul them in. 30 minutes for homework and two chores.

He’s off to a flying start, head down with lots of rapid pencil movements. His little brother makes rooster noises but he is at least in position, at the table, pencil in hand. 3 work sheets later he’s off, charging up the stairs to gather clothes. This visual cue, the departure, sends his little brother into greater volume, rooster squalking mode, but his hand starts scribbling.

He returns and bowls into the kitchen, dumps his clothes vaguely in the designated area and starts the long business of choosing which squeezy yoghourt to favour for his lunch. The rooster changes to barking as the last ten minutes show in red. “I am be trick time!” he bellows as he flips it forward another 15 minutes. I ignore this deviation and haul him along for the next few lines. He hurls the pencil aside like a hot poker on the last period and catapaults upstairs with me close at his heels. He wrenches clothes from hangers, bundles them up and racing back downstairs. We leap around the kitchen lobbing foodstuffs into the general area of his lunch bag. As the last minute clicks off, both boys explode into the family room to pick up electronics.

I drag out the ledger, the heavy tome that I store in a zipped compartment of my brain just behind my right ear, to make my calculations. On the down side there is scappily completed homework, a wild assortment of random food items and mis-matched heaped clothes. On the upside we have skipped two hours of misery and have achieved, oh wonder of wonders, task completion. In the interests of fairness I have to weight the latter considerably. Overall, I would have to concede that this backwards result, falls on the positive outcome side of the book of life.

The bell rings.

I stagger to the door where my daughter stands with a face like a wet weekend. “I couldn’t do my homework coz I didn’t have any markers, cun you help me, pleazzzz, it’s gonna take forever.”

Rats! My scheme has failed. The evening routine is in tatters, as is the end of life as we know it.

I suspect we shall be on take out tonight. Positive reinforcement for mummies at least.

To be or not to be, that is probably the answer

We sit at the table to attempt homework.

The table lies in a wasteland, a sea of scrumbled papers, snapped pencils, broken nibs and chewed erasers.

At approximately three minute intervals one of them leaps off the chair, dives down the corridor and escapes out into the garden on a cat retrieving mission. He is oblivious to the rain, barefoot and determined. The hallway is covered with human and pet prints, of the kitty litter variety that harden to cement in minutes. The cat is also resolute, anything to remain outside in the rain so as to avoid the nightmare of homework time. I’m tempted to join him, the cat that is to say.

“You can be?” asks the little one.
“I can? What can I be?”
“You can be my Hamburger Helper.”
“?”
“HAMBURBER HELPER!” he bellows for my benefit.
“What is a hamburger helper?”
“You don know?”
“No I don’t? I’ve seen it in the shops but I don’t really know what it’s for?”
“Dey are beed sell dem in the shops?”
“Yes.”
“I am not see dem. Where dey are?”
“Um….on the aisle with cake mixes I think.”
“What is it be?”
“What is what dear?”
“Cake mixes?”
“Er….well it’s sort of dried…..cake…..you mix it will eggs and stuff and bake a cake.”
“I am not want cake mixes, I am want Hamburger Helper.”
“Why?”
“Coz I am need dah help.”
“How is Hamburger Helper going to help you? You don’t eat hamburgers.”
“Oh…..”
“Oh what?”
“I fink I am meaning Homework Helper.”

I don’t think that comes in a box.

Wordy Wednesday – the Incredible 5 Point Scale

“Aha! No guessing required then?”
“Indeed. I thought I’d make it easy this week.”
“So how much is your commission?”
“Oodles upon oodles.”
“No link to Amazon?”
“You don’t need it, just some coloured paper, a black pen, cardboard and some sticky backed plastic?”
“Sticky backed what?”
“Laminater to you dearie.”
“And why exactly would I want one of these. I don’t have any autistic kids?”
“Well try it on yourself and if it works then you might have a go with the kiddie winkies.”
“Again, why?”
“Well maybe you have little kids that don’t have many words, or kids that lose their words when they get all het up.”
“The word "tantrum" does spring to mind.”
“Do you always know what’s upsetting them?”
“Sometimes is obvious but other times they’re wailing so much I just can’t figure it out.”
“Well that’s when this comes in handy.”
“How?”
“Quite often I can get really, really upset about something, I can feel the pressure building, breathe faster, heart racing, that sort of thing.”
“Me too.”
“We’re adults, we can usually recognize what’s happening to us, but children often don’t realize that they are heating up.”
“I suppose. But how would this help?”
“The idea is that you catch them as their emotions are rising. If you start with when they’re having a good day…”
“Or moment!”
“True! Then they can learn to associate feeling okie dokie with green, nice, calm and happy.”
“Okay.”
“Then you want to catch them when they’re just starting to get upset ‘yellow’ or already upset ‘orange’ but not when they’ve completely lost it and in the red zone.
“You know, that’s quite a useful skill to acquire for anyone. Bio rhythms. ”
“Indeed. Wish someone had introduced it to me when I was little. One of the things that I most like about this, is that I’m being active as a parent. Sometimes I can feel so helpless but this helps the communication. Even if they’ve lost their words they can still point at the right colour, the numbers helped for one of mine in particular.”
“I’m not sure about your colour scheme though. I often associate being in a rage with black or blinding white.”
“Adapt and survive, just figure out what works for you.”
“So you could probably adapt that to other things.”
“Right.”
“Like…one of mine has a tough time with our bedtime routine.”
“Really? Sounds like you’d be better off with "sequencing" and "social stories" for that one.”
“?”
“Another time, another post.”
“Could I use it when he gets in a tizzy about sharing?"
“Sure. Just about any tizzy you experience, it’s very flexible.”
“Yeah, so that might help get things under control.”
“I hope so. One of the most fabulous experiences I've had is helping them recognize what it feels like to be in a 5 and then gradually, gradually, gradually oozing back down to a green 1.”
"We Americans call that 'empowering.'"
"Hmm, for both of us!"
“Geez, I bet it took forever until they grasped the concept?”
“You would think so wouldn’t you, but actually they ‘got’ it straight away. It took some practice, but it certainly tapped into something that’s maybe innate in all of us.”
“Ooo a bit like those "colour me beautiful" things in the 80’s?”
“Don’t date yourself dearie.”
“So are you gonna tell me about the calming techniques?”
“Good grief no, that would take forever. You could write tomes just on that one subject.”
“Another time perhaps?”
“There are a zillion books out there on the subject already.”
“Could you recommend one?”
“Well it’s a bit tricky as there isn’t really a one size fits all version.”
“Wriggled out of that one well. See you then. Cheers dears!”
“Hey, don’t pinch my line!”
“O.k. How about, toodle pip!”
“See ya babe.”

An institutional diet

I pick up four pairs of socks and three unmatched singletons, evidence that I have no influence or control over the 7 children in my home.

I can count to seven.

Seven is indeed my favourite number but I cannot say with any degree of certainly why I have four additional children in my house? Did I double book myself twice? How has this come about?

I give up and commence snack creation for the masses as malnutrition is imminent. I have a basic knowledge of four of them, one typical, 3 autistic. The overall ratio is a challenge, but probably only for me. I calculate the probability and possibility that one or more additional children will still be present at supper time? Which one, or more, is likely to be forgotten about or subject to the delayed parent, who drowns in traffic and rain? Is there any food substance on the planet that five autistic children and two typical children all eat, preferably something that I already have on hand?

I have a 33.5 ounce catering carton of Goldfish Crackers. If push comes to shove, will any parent thank me for feeding their child four and a half ounces of Goldfish or shall I been condemned as a gluten wrecker? Is four and a half ounces of Goldfish enough to sustain life for a period of 4 to 5 hours? How many calories does the average active child require per hour anyway? Why do I not already know any of these things?

During the car journey from school, I managed to determine that 5 people can just about contemplate the challenge of drinking water in a strange home because they have soda free, juice free variety of autism, by personal preference. I have no Dr.Pepper, Sprite or Coke for my daughter’s pal, who is not impressed with the water option.

I learn, to my surprise, that American girls drink neither milk nor orange juice, even under exigent circumstances. Even more surprising, is the fact that American girls do not eat Goldfish Crackers because they are considered baby food, or in the alternative, that they ruin a diet. I am alarmed that a ten year old girl is knowledgeable, extremely knowledgeable, about diets at all.

“What it is be?” hollers my seven year old as we burst into the kitchen.
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!”
“What is what dear?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” bellows one.
“That stinky smell?” Children gather around the screamer and the source of the stink.
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” Chorus two.
“What is that thing anyways?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” creeps the mantra.
“It’s a bread maker. Where does that phrase come from? It’s nearly February.”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” Chant three
“A bread maker? Geez I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” Call four.
“Sure smells good. Is it ready yet? I think it comes from 'Olive the Other Reindeer' movie.”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” Shout five at an ever increasing volume.
“Another couple of minutes, you can see it on the display, the LED.” Little faces peer with interest through the little glass window at the billowy loaf.
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” They’re stuck, all of them.
“Can you eat it?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!”
“Most certainly, in just a few secs. What comes after stereo? If there’s five of them, it can’t be quadraphonic?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” They repeat.
“I don’t know, but it sure is loud. Can it be our snack?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” I’m used to 2 repeating a phrase. I have adapted to 4 children repeating a phrase, once a week, on a Friday afternoon. I incapable of adjusting to 5 children repeating the same phrase with the required immediacy. I glance at my ear plugs with longing.
“Of course.”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!” Despite the noise, folklore infiltrates my troubled mind: ‘sing out of season, get trouble without reason.’ It has a whole new significance.
“Why is it so……..hot? And why are they so loud?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!”
“Because it’s cooking and because there’s five of them. O.k. you can say that three more times and then I don’t want to hear it again. Deal?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!”
“You cook bread?”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!”
“Yes, or rather bake.”
“Christmas! Bah boogie home!”
“Times up guys. Time to choose another phrase.” I lift the bread out and envelop everyone in a cloud of steam. They all take a step backwards as I wield the bread knife and place a slice on each plate. The girls leap on the loot to take it to the table. We are all assembled, a jug, ice free awaits with tumblers. We eat the diet of cell mates, free of a chain gang, all seven on bread and water.

Silent munching reigns for a few moments……before they start, again.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells………”




New post up on "Alien."

Superbowl Sunday, it's certainly not cricket

“Go Pirates!”
“Not ‘pirates’ dear, ‘Patriots.’”
“Oh yeah.”
“Go Gians!”
“Giants dear.”
“At least they’re impartial.”
"Do we have to watch this?"
"Yes, the whole of America is watching this, it's part of your......cultural heritage."
"Yes.....your annual chance to feel at one with your fellow country....persons."
"So which one is which?"
"Er....I'm not sure."
"Hush a minute. Let's listen to what the compere has to say."
"Compere? I don't think....."
"Hush!"
"What did he say?"
"Don't know, couldn't understand a word of it."
"I know, lets put the subtitles on, see if that helps."
"Good idea."
"It's basically just rugby but slower right?"
"No, not really. Actually, not at all. Rugby is for men!"
"Did you actually say that out loud?"
"I did."
"Oh I forgot you used to be a rugger....er.....play rugby."
"When are we gonna have snacks?"
"Hush it's hardly even started yet."
"Who are you rootin for?"
"I don't know yet. I'm going to wait until we see them."
"Why?"
"I choose by colour."
"Blue is beed my favourite."
"Hmmm o.k. well in that case I vote for the white chaps with the red numbers."
"Vote?"
"Giants for mom then."
"Dah Nu England Patriots are be mine."
"Do they come from New England?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"If the Patriots are from New England, where are the Giants from?"
"Nu York."
"Really?"
"Yes dat is why that are beed called dah Nu York Giants."
"Ah. You have been paying attention."
"Are they playing in New York? Where is the Superbowl stadium anyway?"
"Er...it Glendale."
"How many Glendales are there? You know how it is out here, they'll be dozens of them. Which State, exactly?"
"It be exactly in Arizona."
"Oh that bit."
"Not 'bit,' it be 'State.'"
"Why is it dark?"
"Because it's in Arizona."
"Fair enough."
"Hey dat looks like a Transformer!"
"Ooo yes, how strange."
"Shiny, shiny, shiny."
"Why are they lying down?"
"He hurt himself, look!"
"What are we supposed to be singing?"
"I don't know. They don't seem to be chanting anything."
"Why not?"
"I've no idea."
"What be 'chant'?"
"Songs, singing."
"Dey are been done singing."
"No not the National Anthem.....other.....singing?"
"No singing, it be football."
"What I don't understand is how anyone can have a party and pay attention?"
"Well it is three hours."
"Three hours? Are you quite sure?"
"Yes."
"Good grief, they must be awfully fit to be able to run around for three hours."
"They are......but they don't actually run around for the whole three hours."
"What do they do for the rest of the time?"
"Lie down and be hurted."
"Hmmm."

.............

"I'll just put the kettle on for a pot of tea whilst Tom Petty's playing. I thought they had Cheerleaders at half time?"
"Budweiser, Budweiser, Budweiser."
"When are we havin our traditional snacks?"
"What are traditional snacks?"
"I don't know."
"Do mushroom turnovers and Vegetable Shu Mai count?"
"Must do. Bought them at Trader Joes."
"Keep it down Dad, I'm tryin ta fink here."
"Ooo! I wonder if that's where the term 'time out' originated from?"
"Maybe?"
"They should make it part of the Citizen's Examination."
"What?"
"How do you play American football? If you can't tell us then you can't be a citizen."
"We'd be deported."
"Maybe we should have a party next year?"
"I don't think anyone would come."
"We should invite an American, some Americans. Someone who can tell us what's going on."
"Then they'll definitely not come."
"We are be Americans!"

Well, in spirit, maybe? At least they won't grow up to be rugger buggas! Perhaps I mean rutabagas?






























We hope to do better next year, we parents that is to say.

New post up on "Alien."

Tag, you are all it!

Delightful "Angela" over at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy" decided to be a little devil, belie her name and challenge me to this meme.

1) Answer the questions below
2) Take each answer and type it into Photobucket
3) Take a picture from the first page of results copy the html code.
4) You can’t copy the persons answers who posted this before you!


1. The age you will be on your next birthday:




2. A place you’d like to travel:




3. Your favorite place:



4. Your favorite object:



5. Your favorite food:



6. Your favorite animal:



7. Your favorite color:



8. The town in which you were born:



9. The town you live in:



10. The name of your pet:



AND



11. The first name of your love:



12. Your nickname:



13. Your middle name:



14. Your last name:



AND



OR THE NEAREST I CAN GET IF I SKIP THE HYPHEN


15. A bad habit of yours:



16. Your first job:



I was only 14 but we believe in sending the youth of today out early.

17. Your grandmother’s name:



AND



18. Your favorite book:



So there you go, not as tricky as I thought it was going to be. I'll not tag anyone but if anyone has a go, let me know. I also know that there are a lot of moaning minnies around complaining that they have nothing to write about.......you know who you are!

Cheers dearies

Daft as a brush

Only half an hour to go until she is collected for her promised return sleepover. Her excitement fizzes from her ears. The minutes tick by slowly. I contemplate the prospect of dinner in a restaurant or a diner, as it will be cheaper with one less and easier to manage if their father comes home in time. It would make a nice treat for us too, possibly. She is packed and ready with enough stuffed animals to restock a zoo.

I step away from her and the window to answer the phone.
“Hello.”
“Oh hello Natalie there’s been a change. Somethings come up.” I decide not to be annoyed that she can’t remember my name.
“Oh dear.”
“I have to take my other daughter to the hospital for tests, so I can’t have her over here tonight. It’s in Stanford.”
“Oh dear, they’ll be so disappointed.” I peek back at my daughter with her nose to the pane of glass. How am I ever going to explain? What on earth can I do to make it up to her?
“Yes I know, so I thought if you could have the sleepover at your house then the girls can be together.”
“Well….yes …..I suppose……… that might be for the best.”
“Great, we’re in the car, should be there in a few minutes.”
“Oh….well…..what time will you be able to pick her up tomorrow?”
“3.”
“3?”
“Yeah when we’re back from the hospital.”
“Right, I see……”
“Maybe her dad could pick her up…..earlier?”
“No, he’s working.”
“Ah.”
“So we’ll do the sleepover back here at our house another week.”
“Right. See you soon. Bye.”

I replace the receiver.

I decide that I am yet "again," completely out of my depth. I take a large onion, carrot and some celery from the fridge. I know now, that there are far too many things that I don’t know and probably don’t wish to know. I start chopping, supper for six. Would I forget an over night appointment for one of my children in a hospital? I conclude that although this might be unlikely, there have been many chaotic times in my own life. It is indeed entirely possible. An executive decision filters through my walnut sized brain. I am more than happy for the girls’ friendship to blossom. Hence forward it will blossom within the confines of my own home, my own personal comfort zone. I may not have much control, but oddly enough, I enjoy far more knowns than unknowns.

Sassy award

"Angela" over at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy" has very kindly awarded me with this award for being sassy. Being an American kind of a person, she has of course failed to define the term 'sassy,' but I have learned to accept this kind of slip shod approach to the English language. [it is one of the many crosses I have to bear]

That aside, I can give it my best guess.


First of all I'd like to hand this over to "Heffalump and DMo" at "A Daily Dose of Mischief." If this is a new blog to you then I would recommend that you start "here" where you can gain great insight into the flavour of their blog, in "Deep thoughts by T." I hope to try and pin point specific posts now, as often if my timing is off, I may fail to capture what it is that I like so much about a particular blog.


Then to "Secret Agent Mama," who has more sass than the average blogger or should that be 'sauce'? She is also staggeringly prolific, a particularly annoying habit as it messes up my google reader. I'm happy to overlook this niggle and offer you one of her many candid "quips," the kind that can perk you up in the middle of the day, pierce the odd brain cell and recharge the batteries. So if in doubt start "here" and tell me that her "little drop of sunshine" doesn't cheer you up?

You could do yourself a favour and nip over to visit "Mood Swing Mommy" at "Am I going Mad or Am I Just a Mommy." Apart from anything else, this will give you the perfect opportunity to learn whether or not you suffer from a rarely recognised condition known at 'blogstipation.' Now this is a great summary post to see if you are a good match for her "is there a pill for this."


Another good place to visit is Michelle over at "The House of Lime." If you're new to this one too, a good place to start would be this posting about......er....how can I translate this one? Basically, when you write a blog post it may be better to use only a few acronyms, otherwise half the people who read won't understand what you're writing about [that would be me of course] and the other half will be annoyed. This post certainly seems sassy to me called "LOL with apologies to Lynne Truss on the 23rd of January."

Another woman who has more sass and sauce that is probably decent, is "Julie Pippert" over at "The Artful Flower" also known as a highly apt phrase for us around here. Her blogging and technical prowess is fairly terrifying, but her words can often cut to the quick. A good spot to start off would be a great soft spot over here titled "Hissy fit."

Another sassy mum and her ever creative brood hang out at "Are we there yet." My pal "Linda" rarely loses her sense of fun and we can all delight in Amanda's art work. To see them both at work I'd recommend this little "gem."

Lastly, because seven is my favourite number, I would point you in the direction of "Are you Local" where "Vi" keeps us guessing, especially with this post title "7 things I approve of" which should prove a great introduction I hope.

Cheers dearies

Ooo an addendum, just because I came across this post and couldn't resist. My pal over at "Blogtagonist" from "Blogs are Stupid" wrote this fabulous post that should resonate with lots of people and hopefully provide a little inspiration for anyone who might be beginning to flag. Take a moment to read "Sassy is as sassy does."

Small World - dib, dib, dib

Silicon Valley in the Bay Area covers a lot of miles, but maybe not as many I think.

It suddenly dawns on me that I know the child that she’s talking about.

I suppress my startle reflex and continue to listen. He’s a welcome new member to the Den but 'so obviously autistic, not to just those in the know.' As a special needs mum herself, she is in the know. She is the ideal person to be the leader of the pack. With careful and diplomatic guidance,she smooths his path, anticipates hic-cups and ever ready to intervene if an when required.

She describes his behaviour with funny anecdotes, much as I would myself. His impact on the Den can be bumpy, but he’s a delightful child and the troop is small and accommodating.

I become uncomfortable as the easy jargon, our shorthand, slips out. So many people are aware of the subtle "nuances" of language, value laden and so often crass. I have avoided the issue of Cub Scouts, just as I have avoided Brownies. I have a strong bias against any single sexed activity that cloisters a child, which stems from my boarding school experience. I am more especially biased against Scouts, at least in "America," due solely and unreasonably, due to the attitude towards the gay community. "Baden-Powell" may have been a prisoner of the times in which he lived, where attitudes to homosexuality were criminal but we now live in the twenty first century, or so I am led to "believe."

This is a child I have known for four years. A special child in a special class of four children, each with one personal special aide and a teacher for the group. An intensive class, for intensive people. Small people are non-verbal with the kind of behaviour that many rarely see, or wish to know about.

The air in the room was always palpable. A half day class where every minute was exploited to the full. I have no idea what happened in the afternoon when the children went home and the teacher and staff were left to regroup for the next day. Their dedication, professionalism and stamina, was beyond anything I had ever witnessed.

He is a regular visitor, a welcome one. He can walk and talk and play and be. I would not have described him as being ‘obviously autistic,’ but this is probably because my categorization of autistic and otherwise, have blurred and blended over the years. I see a boy with a ready laugh who enjoys the company of my boys, much the way that they enjoy his. I see a joker, a charmer and most importantly, a friend.

As parents of autistic children we are often guided, ‘this child would be a good match for yours, more verbal, a more appropriate role model, better social skills, more patient, more mature………’ but do you know what? If we’re really lucky, much like other parents, our children make their own friends and their own choices. Around here, friendship truly is an unexpected gift.

So we can either lump it or like it.





New post up on "Alien."

I love to read, old baggage that I am

This is the name of the reading programme in our school, 'I love to read.' This is also my ticket to access to the children in the classroom, an extremely valuable one.

I spend part of the day practicing my spiel, as I am unnaturally intimidated by an audience of under tens, who should never be underestimated.

I dither. What would be my best pitch? I adopt my usual scientific approach to such matters. I shall appeal to the average child? Should that be mean, mode or modal? Maybe I should go for the lowest common denominator? Who or what is the lowest common denominator? I give up, as I have no staying power and the scientific gene has always been under-developed.


I commence my beauty routine prior my public appearance. I begin by dressing complete with Cat in the Hat Stoker hat. I finish with a slick of lip balm, to the eyebrows that defy gravity. Done!

I molder along to the school. This is never going to work.

I make a start, “hello girls and boys.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see my daughter shrink in a cringe. Her body language makes it clear to me that I have already made a faux pas although I have no idea what I have done, or not done for that matter?

I administer stickers and hand out prizes. Encourage those who are not participating and praise those who are. I have a need to promote my own personal agenda:- catch the fallers before they fail. I conclude with the bit that they’ve been waiting for. I know shameless self promotion when I see it, but I can't resist as I am exceptionally proud of my brother's achievements.

“So……who has brothers or sisters?” Nearly all the hands shoot into the air.
“Who likes to write or read stories?” Nearly two thirds.
“Who likes to go exploring, camping and adventures?” Almost everyone.
“Well I have a baby brother, a rather boring one. He used to be a writer and then one day he decided to do something more exciting. He and his best friend went on adventure. His best friend was Australian. Who is your best friend? Would you like to go on an adventure with your best friend? They were just like you guys, friends for years and years. They packed their bags and walk 3000 kilometers through China. After a year of walking, they stopped walking and wrote a book, here it is, "The Long March." This is the Chinese one, this is the English one and here is the picture book full of photographs of where they went and who they met. The point is……….you can do anything you want to do if you really, really try.”

I look at the 4th Graders. I await a smirk from the sophisticated. None. They all look back at me as if I have told them a fairy tale. I distribute the books, the reality, and point out some of the "pictures" that I think might appeal to smallish people.

When the bell rings I have difficulty extracting the "books" for the next class.


I try the same version on my boys’ class, a combination second and third grade special education class with only 11 delightful students.
“Hi guys!” I announce loudly with overly wide arm gestures. I see several smiles.
“So……who has brothers or sisters?” Some hands respond. My boys do not.
“Who likes to write or read stories?” One and not mine.
“Who likes to go exploring, camping and adventures?” A few, just more than two. I know at least two people who loathe such a prospect. I tell them about my brother and pass out the books. The visual is a hit. Horray! They ask lots of questions. “What kind of camera did he use?”
“?”
“What’s 3000 km in miles?”
“?”
“How heavy are the sticks?”
“?”
“Is that an REI tent?”
“?”
My boys are lured in. They’ve seen all the materials before, boring. Other children’s interest peaks theirs. I gather my materials to leave.


He comes up to me at the end, the pan faced, somber child. “I’m gonna write a book when I’m an adult,” he announces to my hat. I watch his lips move as he counts the stripes silently.
“Are you? How wonderful. What will it be about?”
“Praying Mantis.”
“Fabulous. Will you sign me a copy when you’re finished and I'm an old woman?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
"You're already an old woman and I've not written it yet."
"Er....true."
“But I’ll use my rubber stamp that’ll be a perfect forgery if you like?”
“I do!”

I like very much indeed.

Truthful Tuesday – the sin of pride

“Actually I’m going out to Target today to grab a few things.”
“Grab? I hope you’re going to pay for them first. What an odd way to describe a shopping trip, very uncouth.”
“Mmm I hadn’t noticed that had slipped into usage around here.”
“So what are you planning to buy?”
“Presents, probably Transformers and a table cloth.”
“That’s hardly a trip, two things.”
“Believe me, two things will be a miracle, if we can manage it.”
“Ah you’re taking the boys with you then?”
“I am.”
“No-one of has a birthday for ages though?”
“It’s for a friend’s birthday party, which makes it even more challenging.”
“Really. Why?”
“Because the birthday boy likes the same stuff as my boys, namely Transformers, so I have to buy something that they like for some one else. That’s tough for any child.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
“You haven’t managed to instill generosity into them yet?”
“Actually, they’re naturally generous.”
“Doesn’t sound like it to me.”
“Well this is a special scenario. Buy your favourite thing and give it to someone else.”
“Hmm. I can’t think why you’re buying a tablecloth.”
“To cover the table.”
“Don’t be fascetious, you know what I mean.”
“Actually I don’t really. Why shouldn’t I buy another table cloth?”
“Another? Do you mean you already have one?”
“I have lots.”
“Lots? I hope you’re not using best linen for every day use?”
“I have one or two that are ‘best,’ but I have loads that are everyday kind.”
“How extraordinary. You do surprise me.”
“Why is that so surprising?”
“Well, with your lot…….I mean……..what’s the point?”
“The point is to slow the spillage. It’s like putting a huge towel on the table to minimize the fall out.”
“Ooo dear. How vile. What an unpleasant picture you paint.”
“Really? Isn’t that what most people use them for, to minimize the mess, catch the crumbs and spills.”
“Yes, but even so. It’s more important as a decorative feature, to dress the table, make it look attractive.”
“Good point. That’s a handy by-product.”
“Surely you don’t think that they appreciate a beautifully dressed table? Are they that sophisticated?”
“I have no idea, but I’m sure they appreciate not being dosed by a glass of water that spins out of control.”
“Oh dear. You know you forget!”
“I do?”
“Yes. I’ve seen them eating. In a restaurant...... that time.”
“Oh yes, I had forgotten. So?”
“Well I remember it as clear as day.”
“?”
“Mayhem, absolute mayhem. The whole thing was ghastly enough to give me indigestion.”
“Hmm, it can be a little overwhelming if you’re not used to it.”
“I wouldn’t care to get used to it.”
“That was over a year ago. We’ve been practicing since then, every weekend.”
“Practicing? How do you ‘practice’ going to a restaurant? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s just as it sounds.”
“How grueling. It always reminds me of……..”
“What?”
“Oh you know……….”
“Those Chimpanzees and the tea party?”
“No, no, no…..er let me see……stop teasing me I can't think straight.”
“Clowns throwing cream pies?”
“Stop it! No…..er. I know! The Mad Hatter’s Tea party?”
“?”
“You know, everyone constantly on the move and someone falls asleep in the middle of the table.”
“Ah, yes he was emotionally exhausted after trying to eat those fries with the little black flecks on them.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve never heard a child scream so loudly. So embarrassing. Everyone looking at us as if we’d been sticking pins in him.”
“Were they?”
“Were they what?”
“Were they looking at us?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Not really. I was to busy trying to persuade him to get out from under the table.”
“Oh dear yes. I’ve never experienced anything like it. What possessed you to choose such a noisy restaurant?”
“Easier to blend in.”
“What? Oh I see what you mean. I just kept quiet.”
“You! Quiet?”
“Yes.”
“Actually you were quite quiet if I remember correctly. Why was that?”
“You know, the truth is, you were so busy with them all and I just wanted to help but I had no idea what to do? I suppose I just don’t know them well enough but it made me feel so helpless and useless. I just wanted to ease the situation, calm the chaos but…......”
“Oh I’m so sorry. I didn’t really notice at the time.”
“You know me. I’m happy to roll my sleeves up and muck in with the rest of you, but I found I was just out of my depth. I’ve never been in that situation before when everyone is looking at you, mouths open, tut tutting……..it was horrible……….it made me feel quiet tearful and I knew that wouldn’t help anyone.”
“Don’t worry. It really doesn’t bother me much any more.”
“Really?”
“Really. People can think what they think. I can’t make anyone think differently from how they do. We’ll just keep practicing regardless.”
“Really? Do you really mean that?”
“Yes I do. Actually I’ll tell you a secret. A confession if you will. Four years ago it was torture, a marathon but only, or rather partly, because I let myself get upset. I wanted them to be quiet, or quietish, just for an hour whilst we were there. Talk about deluded.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You see by my forties I was already set in my public persona. How to behave. I was just too self conscious, or embarrassed if you will. I was o.k. doing what I do in private without anyone looking, but in public I was too embarrassed to do the things that worked, because I knew they’d look odd, or rather even more odd. Too much of a dent to my dignity.”
“Such as?”
“Well when he dives under the table you can’t use the ordinary kinds of discipline that people expect, because they simply don’t work. I basically didn’t want to get under the table with him, calm him down, perhaps use the Incredible Five Point Scale, practice breathing, perhaps a bit of shoulder massage, all the stuff I’m quite happy to do at home.”
“Blimey.”
“I was making the situation worse. The children expected me to behave in a certain way. I was, and still am, their scaffolding, and in public I just bailed on them. It’s no wonder it was all so dreadful, but the ‘dreadful’ was really all in my own head.”
“Hmm.”
“I basically caved to public opinion. I allowed a bunch of strangers to dictate my own behaviour. I’d be angry that people thought they were just spoilt and badly behaved. It took me a while to realize what I was doing and why I was doing it.”
“Hmm. What then?”
“I just decided to do in public what I was doing at home, the magic of consistency. It wasn’t an over-night turn around, but gradually I found we were all moving in the right direction."
"Geez it takes such a long time."
"Yes but they say that 'pride comes before a fall.' I'd fallen into a huge pit, entirely of my own making."
"Tough."
"By the by."
"What?"
"I don't think anyone really notices if you dive under the table. Most people are too busy with their own business anyway. With hindsight, I think I must have had a massive ego to think that anyone would have been the least bit interested."
"Do you know.......now I come to think of it.....apart from that one time with you.........I can't remember when I last saw someone under a table in a restaurant, if ever?"
"Well there you go then!"

Wordy Wednesday - Warts and All

I listen in, shameless ear-wigging. It’s a treat for me, to hear my son volunteer information, engage in what might be described as social communication. Social communication is generally the fluff of human exchange, unnecessary, but we all do it anyway. Many would say that our lives are richer as a result. This kind of fluff is generally not the kind of chat that autistic children or adults engage in. I now understand that it’s purposeless.

For years and years we have endured silence or meltdowns or functional language. Functional language is used to communicate one’s needs. When babies first start to communicate, often they use single word commands such as ‘juice’ or ‘milk.’ Parents encourage their children to tack on additional words, depending upon their own priorities such as ‘please.’ Gradually, small sentences emerge, three words, and later more. The average child can use single words in a social context, ‘look! Star!’ This is social communication. The child is seeking the joint attention of someone else, inviting the someone else to share, it is not functional. My autistic children never did this, not as toddlers nor when they were older. They do now, occasionally, but it’s just one of the many things that I can’t take for granted.

Some children will never communicate verbally. Some children will, eventually. Many will achieve functional language because it has a purpose. Some, may surprise me by indulging in fluffy talk. Fluffy talk is hard to define but you know it when you see it or hear it.

The easiest kind of fluffy talk to recognize, is complements. I say something nice about you and you thank me or offer a complement in return, completely purposeless, for some people.

The best kind of fluffy talk sprouts into a conversation, an exchange of words, where each person takes a turn. Clever people call this reciprocal exchange. It’s the exchange bit that’s pivotal. If I make a statement or ask a question, and no-one responds then I might not bother to do it again. Some people, the really desperate kind of people, count the number of exchanges. They may start with just one exchange, a statement and a response. Sometimes the number of exchanges increases. It may even increase sufficiently for me to be able to categorize it as a conversation, a fluffy one with no purpose.

Six years ago I could not have imagined that there would ever be any fluffy talk around here.

“What you fink my worsted day is be?”
“Monday?”
“No.”
“Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Coz of therapy?”
“No.”
“But I thought you hated double therapy on Wednesday afternoons?”
“Yeah, but I am hate other fings morer.”
“What’s worse than double therapy?”
“Dah wart doctor!”

Nearly nine years for fluffy talk to emerge. I sincerely hope that other people have the chance to be lucky and fluffy too.



New Post up of "Alien."

If you had trouble loading or commenting on this blog, try my new, loads like a dream duplicate blog "Whittterer On Autism."

Nip it in the bud

Some parents are vigilant when it comes to the care of their children. Other parents are a little bit more haphazard.

I mean well and resolve to do better next time, but I’m also aware of the road to hell.

As often as not, I’m paddling along in steady state when someone snaps an oar to send us eddying off into the foam. Whilst I’ve never been brave enough to try white water rafting, I’m confident that I’d drown before the boat left the shore.

Some children shun band aides. They tough it out. Other children require immediate medical attention for microscopic injuries and a full panoply of emergency services. The range of reactions to injuries, minor and major, run the gamut.

My youngest son falls into the microdot school of injuries. Every minor infraction induces howls of wailing. It’s the ‘on-off’ button that’s at fault here, as there is no degree of gradation. A stake through the heart or poke with a dull darning needle, the net effect is the same, deafening.

As he has grown older, he has developed his own coping mechanism, independently. The solution for any injury is to put the offending member under running water. The magical properties of water suit me just fine, and I have no care for the rise in the utility bills as a consequence.

Sometimes, such as in school or in class, running water is not freely available. As a result, he has developed an alternative strategy for such situations. In school he will lick or suck the injury.

On an ordinary Tuesday he suffers some minor wound to his thumb whilst at school, in the morning. By the time I collect him from school in the afternoon, a note from his teacher explains that he has experienced a tough day, due to the thumb. Once home, within the confines of the house, I am able to track him down. This is an important step, one to be carefully orchestrated. If I had attempted to check the thumb whilst he was still at school, he would have run away and hidden. The hiding spots at home are so much more manageable.

I find him under his bed, muttering, “I am a lizard. I am dah ugly. I am dah most hideous boy on dah planet.” Somehow, the negative talk is an element that pains me more than the injury itself. Derogatory terms of self loathing are pernicious and damaging. Their persistence is daunting. I don’t try and persuade him with words, but hold his ankles and ease him out for a cuddle. He tucks his hands in his armpits, out of view.

We talk about his day, or rather I talk about his day, whilst he mutters self abusive words. I hope that my words will distract him. They don’t. It’s like a game of poker, bluff and disguise. I could ask him to show me his hands, but we both know that he won’t. I could do with a dollop of logic to help me through the negotiation but the other two are down stairs unsupervised, I need to speed up.

I slide my hands along his forearms, grip and whip out his hands to lay them flat on his thighs. His right hand looks like a boxer’s mitt, swollen and red. The skin is crazed, raised and angry. “Don look at it!” he wails. “I am a lizard. I am dah ugly. I am dah most hideous boy on dah planet.” The left side of his face and cheek are going the same route from the constant exposure to the wet trail from his thumb. The repetition many hundreds of times a minute throughout the day, a reaction to a tiny hurt in the morning, has brought about this result. I don’t believe that he has much in the way of vanity. His opinions on beauty are more in the nature of balance, uniformity and an absence of imperfection.

I think back to my mis-spent youth as a thumb sucker and the many means of torture used to make me normal. I remember the black leather thumb covering, with the wrist strap and the buckle. I suspect that they are no longer available, I hope. The guilt associated with this pleasure habit was long lasting, but ineffective, besides, his motivations are different.

He is right handed. The whole arm hangs uselessly throughout the afternoon and evening as if paralyzed. His left hand can’t compensate. It is an extreme solution but a logical one. I’ve seen this performance from both the boys over the years. The hurt foot means they resort to a crawl on hands and knees, effective and no longer surprising. I wait until bed time to offer assistance, when he is calmer and possibly more compliant.

He whimpers in bed, left hand cradling the injured one. Real tears course over his face, a damp patch either side of his head on the pillow. I explain the strategy with care, ensuring that the last word I use is ‘cream.’ ‘Cream,’ is unfortunately one of his trigger words and my face is far too close to his when he shrieks and dives for cover.

I use his brother, a neutral party in the next bed. “What are dey?” he asks as I dangle one from each of my hands. “I don’t know, you tell me? Do they look familiar?”
“Er yes……dey are be gloves?”
“You’re right! But whose gloves do you think they are?”
“Er……..dey are Mario’s gloves? DAY ARE MARIO’S GLOVES! WOO HOO!” He can’t fake his reaction and the message filters through the six foot of muffled bed coverings to his little brother. His head pops out to see the white cotton gloves, eyes on stalks, the power of auto suggestion. “Are dey Mario’s gloves?”
“No really, they’re mine. I wear them at night when my hands hurt sometimes.” He pauses. I dangle. “May be…..maybe you are be a good sharer wiv me?”
“Oh I don’t know about that. They’re very special gloves. You might lose them?”
“No.”
“O.k. here the deal.”
“Wot?”
“Cream first then gloves.” His hands fly to cover his mouth with the puffed out cheeks of those on the cusp of explosion. We spend several more minutes in silent negotiation and hot air exchange, huffs, puffs and sighs. He extends his arms, squeezes his eyes tight shut and submits to a slathering. His convulsions of revulsion are genuine, cold, sticky and abhorrent. “Now for the gloves!” We dither with digits, finger isolation and fabric until each hand is encased, protected and ready to submit to healing during the night. His hands lie on top of the duvet cover quivering and twitching, alien and isolated, traitors. A rigid little packet of nerve endings.

I check on him later, before I go to bed myself. He maintains the same position, a soldier on duty, his body vigilant, the gloves still in place, a statue of resignation. Supreme being that I most surely am, I have any number of talents, but even if I were 7 rather than 47, I would be incapable of lying immobile for 10 hours, asleep or awake.

For other people, it’s the only option.

Awards - Blog friend forever

"Angela aka Andie" over at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy" very kindly gave me this award.




This award is "presented to awesome blog owners who keep their readers excited about their posts. Their blog posts are interesting and worth reading and keep their readers looking forward to each and every post."


How delightful is that? We have experienced a great deal of transatlantic drama of late and I note that I even appear to have mislaid the ability to type, so I'll keep it short of sweet for today whilst I play catch up and work out which continent I'm on.


If you're an artsy type with an eye for beauty then I would recommend that you visit "David Mcmahon" over at "authorblog." I don't know if he would describe himself as artsy, but many of his pictures certainly are, such as this one " a note to follow sew." This old sewing machine, very similar to my own which is battered rather than an antique, makes me grin. He may be able to whip up a fantastic photo but I'm still struggling with my Box Brownie.


There are a lot of bloggers around or fail to take account of foreign readers. An immediate candidate for this would be the "anti-wife" especially in this post "here" which left me quite speechless with fear. What some people put in their mouths is really quite beyond me.

Another place for a good giggle is over at "Jazz" at "Haphazard life." "Here" she has a go at a few pet peeves, don't be put off by the Christmas label, it's still very a funny post labeled as if you need any further proof of how far behind I am!

Clearly we are slithering down the slippery arty slope, in which case it only seems fair to point you in the direction of "Organized Doodles" where you can enjoy a giggle and revel in someone else's creativity, or should that be jealousy? [mine not his I hasten to add] A good spot to start to see if this is a good match for you would be over here in his post titled "grand prize." Why? Because if you're already that talented AND willing to share that talent with someone else, then you'd certainly get my vote for friendship beyond the usual.

Now "Ellen McDermott" over at "Keynoter" enjoys a certain amount of drama in her household as we can see in this post about her family in "beam me up Scotty." But she also falls into the artsy club, a positive tour de force as you can see over here in her post entitle 'Phaffin around' which for foreign readers actually means 'messing or kidding' around. Now that's an art medium we could all have a go at.

As I beetle about the blogosphere I also visit "BetteJo" over at "Bettejosbeadcreations." Creative indeed and generous to a fault, I'd recommend that you start here at her post entitled "10 things," although I really like the "multicoloured ball" explosion too!

Here is one that I've recommended before for obvious reasons, "The Ironic Catholic" always hits the right note for me, but if you're of a cautious persuasion then this joke should still win you over from the dark side, titled "As Minnesota bottoms out."

Then just in case anyone is in need of a baby fix [there are some people like that on the planet] let me be the first to introduce you to "Glorious Gloria" over at "feebeeglee."

Cheers dearies

Mwah Awards

"Michelle" over at "Scribbit" was kind enough to grant me this Mwah Award.

As some of you may already know "Scribbit" lives in Alaska, the frozen wastes, for her crimes. Although she is happy to tout the many benefits of her "Lifestyle" we know that it's all lies, or possibly just delusional. As we American's know, sadly, a few persons are required to man the outpost in Alaska, all of it, and it is the lot of poor "Scribbit" that she is condemned to eek out her existence with her family of snowpersons. Is it any wonder that the poor woman finds relief via blogging to the outside world. We hear you "Michelle" even if the lines are frozen.

Dear "Michelle" is also a technically challenged person like myself but I must give credit where it's due. I could no more fashion an igloo than crochet a rug, yet she has tirelessly toiled away to make an igloo of just the right height. From the photographs that she sometimes posts, the interior is remarkably well appointed with strategically placed focal features, like the fishing hole, ergonomically designed by her own fair hands.

Of course she spends most of her time, when not fishing and patching the igloo, engaged in the highly strenuous task of maintaining the snow men from Alaska to civilization. It is important to note that without the advantages of DSL, poor Michelle has to drape her dial up cable over miles of lines of snowmen to stop it dangling and kinking.








As all we American's also know, Alaskans speak a different language from us, we well tutored Americans.

Nobody really knows what it is, but luckily nobody really cares either, except occasionally, as now, when they send there lovely little awards out without the benefit of translations.

Try as I might, and believe me I have struggled hard, I have been unable to come up with even an approximate translation for MWAH.

Initially I assumed she meant 'Mountainous, Wet And Huge,' but that sounds vaguely rude and the use of 'mountainous' and 'huge' in the same sentence would constitute overkill. "Michelle" is a tall lass, and my common sense tells me that willowly statured women don't generally refer to smaller people as 'huge,' although I might just be an optical illusion.

I put my thinking cap on and spoke it aloud. It sounds, phonetically, as if you've just trod on the cat's tail, inadvertently of course. Why would frozen "Michelle" wish to send me the sound of a broken cat's tail? Well they're funny those little Alaskans, who can comprehend their icy musings?


I'm a little reluctant to pass on broken cat's tails to anyone. What would they think? My credibility as an American would be forever tarnished, lover of the planet, castigator of cats! Not a happy combination.

What else? Modern Wimmin Are Harridans would seem to hit the mark around here, but not very helpful when it comes to passing on such an award, since it would appear that I'm the only qualified candidate.

Anything else? My World's Always Home, sounds more like a life sentence in a padded cell and again, not useful in the passing on department.

Not so easy you see! May Wisdom Abide Here! sounds too much like wishful thinking than reality.

Rather than tease "Michelle" any more, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she makes reference to those air kisses that those celebrity type women are so famous for. Since I wouldn't wish to air kiss my women friends as that's just not my style, it seems like a prime opportunity to kiss some men from afar, safe in the knowledge that I shall be protected from their better halves by the security of the blogosphere.

First, to my first male pal "Jerry" at "My Autistic Boy and Other Adventures in Fatherhood." I should, once again, point out that the ravashingly beautiful woman featured in the top right hand corner of his old site is not "Jerry" himself, but rather his lovely wife "Kim." Did we ever have some confusion to start off with!

Then to "Hammer" at "when your only tol is a hammer." This charming gent has nipped off on holiday with his wife, so whilst he's away, I would point you in the direction of this post entitled "Minor Cultural Differences" because it would appear that if you move around from one State to another you might experience some of the confusion that we foreigners experience.

Also to "Dan" from "Dan's Blah Blah Blog." Dan promised to picking up his blogging responsibilities but is sadly lagging behind a bit. I can't direct you to a specific post as his archives seem to have mysteriously disappeared.......I smell a book in the offing.


Another blog that I would cautious recommend would be "Pointless Drivel" where "Mr. Fabulous" himself sees fit to share his strongly worded opinions with us. In order to avoid the shock value of his more colourful pieces with accompanying language, I would respectfully suggest that you start here with his posting called "A couple of Convos" which means 'conversation' in American.


"White Noise and Random Thoughts" has a great posting up, well for me at least. His post entitled "Hope Its" has given me my free fall hit that should last me out for the next few weeks and prevent me from leaping off the nearest cliff. Now if he's really in Antarctica, which I somehow doubt, he should have a great deal in common with Michelle.


Then there's "Furiousball" the super multi-talented music techy over at "In My Diatribe." Personally I have my doubts about this chap, it just seems so unlikely that he can not only play an instrument [or several] and teach this art to other people .......and be a techy? But fact is so often stranger than fiction. What miffed me more than anything else is that people, bloggers' are always sending him things, gifts of cookies and other goodies. A good place to start if you're a new visitor would be this post called "Zapped" because it is a good introduction to the complexity of our lives.


Then there's "Raj" over at "Radio Active Jam." A good place to start if you're either into puzzle or have the geek gene would be his post called "puzzleage." Yet another guy that receives gifts!



"Mr. Bloggerific" deserves more than a mention, but I'm reluctant to do him again as I've only just done him.........?........maybe I should rephrase? Anyway, over at "Your Packaging Sucks" he has a slightly rude post of the vagaries of the weather, which would seem appropriate to poor Scribbit. It's called "It's a cold night for alligators."


Next to "Steve" from "Steve's Nude Memphis Blog." Definitely have to be careful around this one as Steve has a tendency to blog both in the Nude and often rudely. Hence, just to be on the safe side, I would ever so politely direct your attention to this post titled "Reow" which is more apt than I could have wished for.

I shall be most interested to see what these gentlemen do with their award and who the lucky recipients might be, so let me know chaps?

Cheers dears

My mother, the magician

She has always been a very talented woman but most of her talents were securely hidden under several artful and impenetratable bushels. Some of her more mysterious talents were those associated with butter.

Butter didn’t particularly affect my very youthful life because in South Africa it tasted quite foul. In England however, it altered it’s genetic make up, to become the ideal toping for warm crumpets, scones and other delectibles.

Butter has some rather odd qualities such as the ability remove stuck things. Like most children, I was all to frequently stuck in something or had something stuck on me. Butter was the solution.

As children, it was our purpose in life to make our mother’s life as miserable as possible with our constant and unreasonable demands. We plagued her with questions of the ‘when is dinner / I’m starving’ variety, at 3 minute intervals for the hour prior to the allotted time. If we were persistent, and we usually were, exasperation would take over and we were given the opportunity to ‘ruin our appetites’ with a ‘spot of bread and butter.’

It would be at this juncture, with hindsight, that I find myself apologetic to my mother. Her capitulation failed to bring about the desired peace and tranquility that she so richly deserved, as she laboured in the kitchen to produce a nutritious and attractive meal for all five of us, every day, from our birthdays until we eventually left home as adults. I would poke about the well ordered fridge.
“Mummeee! Where’s the butter? I can’t find it anywhere!”
“Second shelf down, at the back on the right.”
“Where? It’s not there I can’t see it?”
“The other right.”
“No, there’s just a big um dish thing.”
“Under the dish thing.”
“Mummy….”
“Really!” she would spit in frustration as she’d bustle about and lay her hand directly on the invisible butter, slam the fridge door and slap the butter container on the corner edge of the kitchen table.
“Mum. Where’s the bread?”
“In the bread bin where it always is.”
“Where’ the bread bin?”
“Where it always is, on the boiler.”
“I can’t see it.”
“Move the cereal packets, it right behind there.” I would then fight with the lid, and the wrapping. If I was lucky it would be a ready sliced loaf, if unlucky …….
“Where’s the bread knife?”
“In the knife drawer.”
“Don’t use that one dear, use the brown handled one.” I would then attempt to carve off a lump of bread, without biting off the tip of my tongue that protruded with concentration.
“Do use a bread board dear, you’ll ruin the table.” So it would go on , step after step, and painful step. Because my mother would always be busy, sometimes I would become distracted myself. I would peel off the crust of the lump of bread and then ball up the soft sponge into dough balls. This was one of my more disgusting habits gleaned from one of my more ‘unsavoury acquaintances.’ I had many.
“How disgusting! Don’t do that. Just spread it with butter and be done! Don’t forget to use the butter knife, I don’t want lots of little crumbs in the butter dish.” I would try hard to oblige but a pat of butter is always an impenetrable brick to a child. I would carve off great lumps of potential coronaries and squash them in the all too yielding bread which would tear and mangle under my heavy handed torment.
“Good grief child. What are you doing to that poor bread? Give it here!” she would sigh. I would cogitate upon my crimes unto baked goods, sad but oh so true. She would whip the equipment away from me and demonstrate the required skill. Swift and rapid movements made corrugated slivers of butter that glanced over the surface of the bread. It was miraculous.

I would attempt smiling in return, a cross between guilt, gratitude and awe. My mother the Dairy Queen. This was proof positive that I had indeed been found under a Gooseberry bush. There was no common gene pool. Her tanned skinned. My freckled, beet red, sunburn. Her coiffed coils, my rats tails. Her skills, my ineptitude. He breaks the spell as I lean in supervision mode by the kitchen counter, “what you are do mum?” I blink.
“Just thinking dear.”
“What you are think mum?” Good grief! When was the last time any male of the species asked a female person that question? I watch him slather a pre-cut slice of bread with lashings of room temperature butter in our Californian home, with a quick slick to his tongue.
“I think maybe it skipped a generation you little magician you!”