Fly Away

Because I am a closet genius I've have planned everything down to the last detail, to include all possible unexpecteds.

After two weeks of walking to or from school, I am confident that walking to breakfast will be a breeze. Because it will be a breeze, I have added some optional extras. The radio flyer carries a stack of overdue library books, a sack of dry cleaning and a pair of shoes to be re-heeled. Each one of these errands will be attempted. Whilst it is highly unlikely that we will manage to go into three different establishments on foot and complete each transaction, we shall try.

It's all about compromise. Initially I baulked at suggesting a compromise to a three year old but old parents must move with the times. Whilst I'm now in league with the school and the therapists when it comes to compromise, the years tick by with no discernible progress.

Ideally I would like to attempt these attempts prior to breakfast, so that I have some ammunition for task completion. However, imminent malnutrution means a reversal of fortunes. I conclude that with full tummy’s they may be more compliant in any event.

We hop, skip, and lurch in the general direction of the restaurant as I haul the radio flyer. With the radio flyer full, no-one can steal a free ride, even though they try. En route we practice useful phrases such as ‘please may I.’ We try adjusting volume control since the servers are unlikely to be wearing noise canceling ear muffs. My son volunteers to lug the radio flyer. I dither briefly, but concede, working on the theory that it might slow him down a mile or two, equalize the handicap, as in golf.

As the restaurant appears before us, he hurtles off at top speed, apparently unimpeded by the drag as the radio flyer jack knifes behind him. He veers to the right, to the car park and squares off it off in one of the painted car park spaces, neatly, straight and aligned next to the disabled permit spot. He steps back to admire his handiwork, hands on hips, back arched, contemplative.















“We can’t leave it over here dear. Lets pop it over there by the door where we can see it.”
He looks at me as if I am a traffic warden, which I suppose I am. His eyes widen as he goes from 0 to 10 in less than a second, throws himself on the tarmac and shrieks.

Now that I wasn't expecting.

The faces behind the panes of glass turn in our direction, a little light entertainment during breakfast for the patrons. I wait for him to subside in the hope that we can find some common ground, although preferably not in this particular parking spot.
“This spot is for cars dear, not radio flyers.”
“Why?”
“Um…..it’s only for vehicles that drive on roads.”
“Wheel chairs are not drive on roads.”
“How true…….it’s too small, it might be squished by a big car.”
“Why?”
“They might not see it,……it’s so small!”
“But it is red!” he screams.
“Maybe we could take it inside?” I muse to no-one in particular. In my mind’s eye I try and visualize squeezing 4 foot of red plastic into a crowded restaurant.
“Dat is stoopid! Yah cant take a vehicle into a restaurant.”
Why I am dogged by categories?
"Yah gotto compomize guys," announces my 8 year old as he surveys the deadlock.

I wasn't expecting that either!

"Compomize!" repeats his brother with a combination of outrage and disbelief.
"What a good idea! What would you suggest dear?" He ponders, rubs his chin in contemplation, but before we receive the decision of Solomon his little brother sparks into life, "I know!" he jumps to his feet, flips over the radio flyer and crawls underneath, a turtle in silence.

Well I certainly wasn't expecting that either!

Always expect the unexpecteds.






Today I am also over at Trusera with "Gift Horses."

A well beaten path

It happened again, banned from the dance class. No more 'Hip Hop' for us. It’s a well rehearsed scenario, but I’m a bit out of practice. Over the years we’ve had lots of practice, a whole slew of places where we found we were no longer welcome:- Kindermusik, Music Together, the YMCA, Challenger School, soccer, multi-sports, Stratford school, Jazzercize, Summer Day camps and many, many restaurants.

I should be used to it, but it’s been a while. To read more click "here."

Brotherly love - Dream on

“I am be like!”
“Really! What do you like dear?”
“I bin dun like dah cream!”
Oh no! Don’t tell me ‘bin dun’ is back to haunt us again, one of this pre-emptory terms equivalent to ‘er.’ I look at my little neophobe and his 15 foods. Verily the child doth lie through his little wonky baby teeth.

“Indeed!”

Oddly enough he picks up on my tone of skepticism, as does his brother, who dives in to defend, encourage and elucidate.
“Yeah Mom we are have ice-cream in school today.”
“Ice-cream!”
So much for the ‘healthy food in school policy,’ that didn’t last a whisker.
“How come you had ice-cream?”
“Coz it was Tim’s birthday.”
“Ah.”
“It wuz a birthday treat.”
“Nice explaining dear. Surely he didn’t eat ice-cream?” I ask over his brother's head in a need to determine the real truth of the matter.
“No….he don eat dah ice-cream.”
I thought as much!
“But he did eat dah cream!”
“What cream?”
“Dah cream dat woz on dah ice-cream!”
“Cream on ice-cream!” talk about overkill.
“Yeah an it was real cold, but he ate it anyways……he din scream at all neither but he did his shivery thing………he wuz real brave mom.”

I smile as I think. Is cream really a food or merely a condiment? Does anyone eat a whole bowl of cream? Can you count cream, or would that be like counting mustard as a food?

I look at my boys. The retrieval of the words has the effect of making him relive the experience. I watch as the little one judders involuntarily at the memory and the big one puts a steadying arm around his bony little shoulders.

Bravery awards all round [and rats to the theory of mind.]

House of cards

It has all gone to rack and ruin. We have endured several nights of sleep deprivation. I nip down at hourly intervals to replace my "ice-packs" and the boys keep sneaking out of bed to stare at the blank television screen and wait for morning and electronics time.

With their father "away" we have no back stop, no terminator to shoo them back into bed. It’s the life of the living dead.

I leave them all upstairs tucked in and stagger down to clean up before I expire.

I am swiftly up to my armpits in washing up when it begins:-

“Mom! Mom come quick!”
“What is it dear?”
“There’s a bug!”
“You’re not afraid of insects.”
“No but this is a termite.”
“A termite? How do you know it’s a termite?”
“Coz it’s bigger than an ant.”
“Where is it?”
“On the boys’ bedroom wall.”
“What were you doing in there! You’re supposed to be going to sleep.”
“I can’t go to sleep if we’re infested with termites! Come on, come and take a look.”

I return upstairs with her. At least it’s more imaginative than ‘a drink of water’ or ‘I think I’m going to be having a nightmare.’ I am ready to offer my expert opinion, calm nerves and generally ensure that everyone is asleep within the next thirty minutes before I blow a fuse.

“Ah. Let me see. No. That’s definitely not a termite, it’s just a big ant.”
“How do you know?”
“Because termites are at least three times as big as that and they’re black.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, as apart from anything else termites don’t come upstairs until they’ve finished in the basement. Basement is an appetizer, ground floor is the soup, first floor is the main course and pudding is up in the attic, so they’ve got a long way to go until they get all the way up here.”

I hope that I sound confident and convincing. Where are all the scientists when you need them? Why is their father in England rather than waxing lyrical on the subject of wildlife? Is there no end to the duties I must perform? I’m tempted to go on line and drag “Andrea” to "buzz about" over here to earn her keep. Why don’t I have ‘instant messaging’ for such occasions? I check three pairs of liquid eyes to check whether all is well.

“Um…..is dah……are dey……are our house is be made of wood?”
“Yes indeed it is. We’re in California and all houses are made of wood here.”
“Why they are being made out of wood?”

It is bedtime, sleepy time, I am definitely sleepy even if nobody else is around here. I completely refuse to be tripped into the psychological minefield of ‘earthquakes.’
“They are made of wood because the Pilgrim father’s only had enough bricks for three houses on the Mayflower, otherwise they would have sunk.”
“Oh.”
“Termites are vegetarians?”
“Usually but they’re more than a bit partial to the odd housefly.”
“They are be eatin dah wood?”
“Only when they’re run out of houseflies and you know how many flies we have around here with all those useless holey bug screens. We have enough houseflies to keep them busy until Christmas…..at least.”
“You are know…..”
“I know…......what do I know?”
“If dah termites are eatin at dah bottom of dah house first….den……we are all be fallin down, poof, poof, poof!”

Snuggle down

I work on the theory that to knit in a frenzy should occupy hands and instill a quiet mind.

Thus far the theory proves less than satisfactory.

The boys lie on their tummies on the carpet creating Pokemon figures. My youngest daughter lounges on the sofa next to me with her feet in my lap and frequent warnings, “jus don’t poke me with those needles.” I’m almost sure I hear a whisper from those on the carpet, “don wanna spend dah afternoon in dah emergency room!” but maybe I’m mistaken?

My eldest daughter wanders in, “glad to see you with your feet up!” she beams as I adjust my "ice-pack." “What are you knitting? It looks like a…......…bone!”
“Looks lika bone, looks lika bone, looks lika bone,” whispers the carpet.
“Does it? I hadn’t noticed the shape.”
“I’m not surprised. What is that vile colour?”
“Er…......I think they call it ‘simply sage.’”
“Simply sage, simply sage, simply sage.”
“More like putrid neon vomit!”
“Putrid neon vomit! Putrid neon vomit! Putrid neon vomit!”
“Oh do be careful what you say dear!”

Three small pairs of eyes look up at their big sister.
“What will it be when it’s finished?”
“A cardigan.”
“Really? Who for?”
“For whom? For me actually. I think they call it a ‘snug’ out here.”
“A snug? Are you sure? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a snug before. Are you sure it’s not just a shawl? How will you wear something that’s shaped like a bone?”
“Well I’m not sure yet but the pattern is very intriguing.”

I nod in it’s direction. She picks it up to study.
“That is probably the most ugly garment I have ever seen.”
“Oh don’t say that. I just love this soft wool and this was the only pattern that wasn’t too ghastly.”
“I dread to think what the other choices were in that case.”
“What’s so special about this wool anyway?”
“Feel it! It’s so soft, like down and snuggly and…”
“Enough with the mush mother.”
She grabs a handful anyway, “ooo it is lovely and soft.”
“It will be perfect for Spring.”
“I think you’ve sort of already missed Spring, we’re already right into fry time.”
“Um"......true.”

The girls swan off to do something more interesting as I sew up the side seams and tie off the ends. I slip it on just to try it out.

“What do you think boys?”
No-one looks in my direction. I plonk myself down on the carpet, keeping my "neck" as long as possible and my "head" even further away.
“What do you think of my new green cardigan?"

They shuffle over a bit, slow moving lizards with tummy friction. Little fingers explore the wool, closely followed by the thump of two medicine ball heads, one on each hip.

“I am like yur smug.”

Curiosity slayed the feline

I set about making a few vats of carrot juice, glug a gallon or two with a Centrum chaser. I shall remain healthy if it kills me. This provides enough energy to bake a dozen muffins with the left over pulp.

Small people perseverate on the usual matters with one new addition, “not a stork, it’s an egg head!”

Ordinarily I would enquire into the source but I am far too grumpy.

It’s probably something to do with storks and babies, and I am in no mood to commence a sex education lecture to a seven year old.

I swallow another couple of Advil as I can't afford to be wiped out by Vicodin. In an ideal world I would opt for a pout but I can only just manage a glower, which I hope is enigmatic.

Spouse has abandoned us once again, back to England. I had anticipated a ‘love, honour and obey in sickness’ phase of marriage. Especially the ‘obey’ part. I had hoped to bask in his attention and affection after my latest visit to the dental surgeon. Unfortunately he has chosen the ‘honour thy father and mother’ option, as the threat of death and taxes, clearly trumps "dental implants."

But I can still moan about it and exercise one of my more finely honed talents. I stagger around with an ice-pack clamped to my jaw and a similarly frosty exterior.

I consider adopting a martyred air, but it's pointless unless you have an audience. My audience is tuned out, oblivious to my delicate disposition. We continue to charge about in the 90 degree heat and I am on underwear duty, which means that everyone must be wearing some. All other garments are optional, not that I am a minimalist, more of a defeatist.

An absent father means that this is an ideal time to make unreasonable demands and throw the rule book out. Everyone is determined to check whether or not the same rules apply that have applied since their birth.

“But why do I have to flush the loo?”
“No teef cleaning rule! Why I am bed now at clock eight?”
“Not a stork, it’s an egg head!”

The troops are revolting and I have a hard time maintaining law and order with a clip board, pencil and grunting noises.

By bed time I am uncertain who is the most fatigued as we flop onto the sofa for story time.

“Shall we read to ourselves Mom?”
“@*&F^#>+ %*!”
“Do you mean yes? Jus nod yur head.”

I grab the clip board and write ‘yes please.’

“Don be listen ta her! Not a stork, it’s an egg head!”

I reach for the clip board again as I just have to know.
‘do you know where that phrase comes from?’

She reads with care and then glances back at me.

“Have yah looked in the mirror today?”



























If you laugh I swear I'll stab you with a "spork."

Adults only

I listen from afar, but not too far.

Having completed my lecture upon the topic of ‘responsibility for pre-teens leads inevitably to more mature benefits,’ I ear wig.

I hear her speak to her brothers in an English accent, “come along now boys, it’s time to eat your snacks. Come and sit down at the table now.”

Why is that so familiar? Unnatural, the ever so slightly unhinged cheerleader type, but a foreigner.

E gad!

Do I really sound that nauseating? That horrible sing songy sugary toned voice? Such upbeat jolly tones make my toes curl. I should be gagged!

The boys ignore her, as raisins and pretzels are not a preferred snack.

“Come on along boys, you need to eat up if you’re going to grow big and strong and healthy!”

I’m sure I’ve never said that. Surely I’ve never said that? Just shoot me now.

They protest in response:-

“Jus stoppit already!”
“Stop what?”
"Bein all....er.....poshish?"
"Yeah why for you are bin all Englishish?"
"I'm not! Here, come and sit down."
"Yur doing it agin."
"Doing what, exactly?"
“Bein all …….er……..Momish.”

Oh dear. It must be true then.

“I’m not bein Momish, I’m bein grown up.”

Thank heavens they’ve provoked her into losing the English accent.

“There yah go! Now jus sit nicely on the chair an we can chat together whilst we eat.”
“Nooo chat!”
“Nooo sit!”
“Oh come on you guys, you can do it. So tell me…....whatdaya wanna be when ya grow up?”
“Er........adultish.”






























Just in case you are a little behind, there are three new posts [over the weekend] on "Trusera" that may benefit from your critical talents, even if you have a big behind come to think of it!

The Wart Doctor

My daughter enjoys a play date at someone else’s house. The boys and I wait in the waiting room. We are always the last appointment of the day, a huge consideration for the doctor. His daughter, now an adult, is also on the spectrum. He is patient, gives choices, speaks simply and clearly. He is swift and gently firm. I expect he is similarly professional with all his patients, but I can’t help feeling that he gives a little more with mine.

We are alone. The sniveling heap is curled up on my lap, turtle style, all 72 pounds of him. I stroke his back and try not to count his xylophone vertebrae. His little brother does his best rendition of ‘waiting.’ He knows what is to follow. The screams may not be as loud as his own, but he’s not used to the competition. His coping mechanism is to sit briefly on the wooden bench and then fall off onto the carpet covered concrete floor. He does this about four times in every minute, with an accompanying ‘ooof!’ We take our proprioceptive input where we may. The oral fixations are in full flood too. He slips two fingers in and out of his mouth, interspersed with raspberry noises and ‘where is the bathroom! where is the bathroom! where is the bathroom!’ This ritual speeds up the longer we wait, but he remains in the room so I am more than satisfied. I am in the habit of giving them free reign when it comes to coping mechanisms, as then I can learn, then I may be able to modify and adapt.

The outer door opens and a woman with three children enter. Each sits down in silence. One reads a book, one plays with electronics and the little one, the toddler sits on her mother’s lap. My lapster doesn’t look up. The little sucker continues and pays no heed to the other people, as he’s already on sensory overload.

Mercifully the nurse comes to call his name.

As I stand the other mother steps towards me to touch me lightly on the upper arm, “you know, I watch a show called Supernanny. She’s British too. You know, it might help.” She smiles at me in a knowing manner.

Help with what I wonder?



today I am also over here at "Trusera" with a piece about "Speech Delays."

Or in the alternative "One Man's Meat - play dates for autistic children."

Awards for friendship and bannana yummies

I have been remiss of late as real life has interfered with blogging. So now as I sit quietly, nay silently on the sofa with an ice-pack tied nappy style around my jaw, a bottle of germ killers, liquid centrum and a crate of Ensure, I thought I would catch up with a little bloggy housekeeping.


"Miss Nelson" over at "Meaningful Outcomes" was kind enough to give me this Banana with yummies award. Thank you "Miss Nelson!" As it turns out this banana award is turning into more of a boomerang, flying across the blogosphere with ferocious speed. As a result I feel the urgent need to pass it on again before it starts to rot as nobody likes a rotten banana, although ripe one's do go rather well in smoothies. I'll keep it brief as the Vicadom might wipe me out.

It is therefore my pleasure to hand it over to a few of my favourite arty types:-

"LouCeel"
"Karen" at "Art in the Garage."








"Robin" from "Around the Island" has mistaken for someone else entirely, poor wee soul. This delightful little award seems to have become attached to my blog as Robin's more of a half full type, where as I'm more of a half empty type, or possibly down to the last few driplets that are probably a week old and grown fur.

But I'm more than happy to pass on some furriness.


First to "Angela" at "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy."

"Blissful Mama" at "Mum Keeping Sane." [Or It's All Okay] depending upon our mood!

Also to "Casdok" over at "Mother of Shrek." She may be taking a little time out but there is still lots to read and learn in the meanwhile.

Then to "Michelle" at "House of Lime," who definitely has the best day trips.


When I think of smoothies, I also think of "Velma" doesn't that just sound like velvet, reallll smooth. "Velma" is over at "New England Mamas" and despite the distance we share a common experience.

As we all need a little support and encouragement from time to time.









Since I am trying to play catch up after far too much 'real life' I would also like to thank "Kittymamma" over at "Okasaneko Chronicles" for this fabulous award.


Maybe "The Domestic Goddess" could do with a little pick me up, rather than the constant 'cleaning up!

Then to "Chelle" at "Soodz" as she is always upbeat and calm, something I aspire to achieve on a good day with a fair wind behind me.

Then to "Beth" from "Fragile X" as I have nothing but admiration for people who struggle with the old B & W blog, and she always brings a smile to my face, even if I don't reveal my teeth.

Also to "Rachel" from "prevent autism prevention."

With a smidge more catch up I would also like to thank "Angela" from "Jack's Blog" for being so kind as to give me the 'excellent award' which I am delighted to receive. I have been most remiss in my thank you's and I apologise if I have inadvertently caused anyone a blob of angst or hurt feelings. I am merely a tad overwhelmed on occasions.



Oh course there are a zillion or more blogs that should be dubbed with the excellent award but here are a few of my favourites:

"Kristina" over at "Autism Vox."

"Kevin" who writes over at "Left Brain Right Brain."

"Bev" over at "Asperger Square 8."


"Estee" over at "Joy of autism."

And "Susan Senator" at "All Families are not alike."



As part of my housekeeping assignment I would like to include "Mel" from "Random Thoughts," who tagged me with a meme about the 10 reasons why I blog. I only wish that there were ten reasons "Mel"!

Firstly I blog because I like to keep track of my family. If I write it down and make it public then I find this tempers my opinion considerably, especially 24 hours or more later. After things have percolated a while I can usually take a more positive perspective.

Secondly, I have a small hope to reach other families who are similarly situated. I'm not sure if it's a 'safety in numbers' viewpoint or a wish for cameraderie, but it's probably a combination of the two.


The third reason is a greater hope, a less realistic one, that Joe Blow or the guy on the Clapham Omnibus will take a moment to think. Then just maybe, they might think a little differently. [Although I think Casdok's already got that covered.]

So I tag "Marita" from "Stuff with Thing."


"Jocelyn" from "O Mighty Crisis."

Also I'd like to know why "Meno" at "Menosblog" does what she does.

"Mr. Bloggerific" at "Your Packaging Sucks."

And "Furiousball" at "In my Diatribe" but I suspect he just can't help himself as he seems to have a finger in every pie.

Now I find that another meme has winged it's way towards me, a book meme by "M" from "American Presidents Blog," an area in which I find myself woefully ill - informed. Why me? More public humiliation! The rules are as follows:-

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

So my nearest book, hot back from the dental chair is "The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, A Memoir," by Bill Bryson which I would thoroughly recommend if you are need of distraction from a set of torture tools brutally mangling your jaw and teeth - can't get much better a recommendation really.

"They even suggested that nuclear devices could be used to alter the Earth's weather by adjusting the amount of dust in the atmosphere, forever banishing winters from the northern United States and sending them permanently to the Soviet Union instead. Almost in passing, Teller proposed that we might use the Moon as a giant target for testing warheads. The blasts would be visible through binoculars from Earth and would provide wholesome entertainment for millions."

How very apt!

I tag "Steve Memphis"
"Bob" at "when your only tool is a hammer"
as it shouldn't be too onerous, I hope.

Now I shall go and pay off the baby sitter and replace my ice pack. Humble apologies for any hic-cups in this post but I'm only function with half a brain cell.































Today I am also over at "Trusera" with "Slice and dice - midlines and autism."

Goldilocks – pure hell

Around this neck of the woods I am the sole arbiter of banned words.

The list grows daily, a collection of unpleasant name calling and insults, but that’s probably to be expected when a speech delay becomes less so.

As their limited diets expand alongside their word count, they are dogged in their search for the most apt description of
flatulence.

My son is only to happy to be dubbed ‘Stinkfly’ to align his bodily functions with his love of Ben 10. He is not insulted by this nickname, it’s more of a badge of honour.

Meanwhile I enjoy a brief shower. Oh to be clean! I pay dearly for yet another error in judgment. In a moment of weakness I agreed to buy the very expensive shampoo and conditioner. I should have negotiated with the hairdresser, told her that I was quite happy with whatever happened to be on offer at Target. Instead I opted for escape and a hole in my cheque book. Debates can be time consuming if you also wish to remain polite. I wasn’t sold on the ‘you of all people deserve it,’ message, it was more a case of ’23 minutes to get across town to collect children’ imperative.















I should have stuck to my ‘don’t buy a bottle of anything that isn’t already upside down’ rule. Thus I fight with goop that won’t co-operate. The dispenser fails, so I rip of the top and commence CPR. I am rewarded with a handful of slime. It is immediately apparent that I have accidentally purchased some kind of medicinal liniment as the stench is unimaginable. I flip over the bottle to examine the list of ingredients. Without the bifocals I am unable to decipher small print that covers every available space.




















I wash my hair and recall ‘it lasts forever, you only need to use a blob the size of a pea.’ I slap on another handful and curse. My eyes sting. Who on earth manufactures such a shampoo these days? All those rabbits tortured for nothing. I become aware that I seem to have "deep heat" on my face, surely every pore is about to spontaneously combust. The meager suds slip down my body to attack other regions. I’m tempted to check for burn marks but I lack "bendygirl’s" skills.’ I dither about ‘return policies’ but prefer not to outline my objections. How many other innocents have this experience? I conclude that American hair washers never wash their hair in the shower with this product, it’s a strictly salon, horizontal expose. Hence forward, I shall only shower in pure rainwater. How toxic is rainwater these days? Maybe I need to move to a different State where precipitation rates are higher? I wonder which State has the highest daily rate of rainfall and the most liberal views on public nudity?



I pull on a pair of sludge coloured trousers and a ratty old shirt of a similar hue. Maybe I should have bought some new clothes instead? Probably cheaper too. I stagger downstairs with an air of John Wayne. My son awaits me at the foot of the stairs, "dat's a great colour on you mom!" I examine him closely for any hint of sarcasm.

None.

This is several light years away from earlier "compliments" like 'I love yur red eyes.' Strangely, it is every bit as disconcerting.

"Thank you dear, I like your brown T-shirt too."
"Now we are be matchin twins."
Identical.

I grab the "shoehorn" and commence the new, improved 9 minute "shodding" campaign. I assume the position of supplicant and kneel before the first pair of tippy toe feet, head bowed in focus. “Eeeooow!” he snorts falling back onto the carpet and rolling away, “dat is dah worstest Stinkfly ever.”

Better make that 9 hour shodding campaign, with a fair wind behind me.

A "bath in beer" may be my only option.

Moving on swiftly - Fort Knox

We return home en masse, mid-day and sweltering, to hear a voice on the telephone shouting “"Natalie!" Are yah there?”

The answering machine flashes.

Six messages.

“Hey Mom pick up the phone already!”

Surely not! I thought we'd "sorted" this all out! I drop six bags full of groceries on the floor and dither.
“Here, I’ll do it!” she offers, which cattle prods me into action, “yes, hello, Madeline here, how can I help?”
“Where were yah? I’ve bin callin all morning!”
“Er food shopping.” Why did I say that?
“D’ya have Jay’s address?”
“Um…..….Jay Jones, Jay Smith or Jay Higginbottom?”
“I dunno their last name.”
“Oh….er……”
“She went for a sleepover to Jay’s last night. I gotta go pick er up now.”
“Ah….well……..I…”
“She’s the little kid with the ratty hair, glasses and goofy teeth.” I run this description through my lexicon of Jays. “Oh…..would that be Higginbottom perhaps?”
“I dunno.”
“Let me see. I don’t know the address exactly but I can give you driving directions to their home or the telephone number.”
“Number.”

I oblige.

I think I prefer my new role as Yellow Pages substitute. Who'd have thought that Anglo Americans could seek shelter in a castle? I consider myself to have escaped quite lightly.

Poor Higginbottoms.

Occupational Therapy - No Flying!

Since this is autism Awareness month I thought I'd take the opportunity to rant about the lack of medical insurance coverage for services for autistic people. I could point you towards Michael Moore's film "Sicko" as a good starting point. If you're not American then the terms, 'out of network' are meaningless. But if I tell you that being 'in network' doesn't work either, then that would only add to your confusion.

How much does it cost to send two children to occupational therapy twice a week, for four and a half years? I'd tell you but I can only count up to seven, even on a good day.

Is it a good investment? It depends upon your perspective, I suppose. My perspective shows me that instead of 'ground dwellers' I now have 'aerial artistes.'

No longer the patter of tiny tippy toes, instead we have earth shattering quakes and crash landings.



































































For the moment I am happy to observe their acrobatics. Soon we shall commence yet another campaign but I need to work on my 'words' prior to commencement.


Thus far I am failing miserably. "Get down from there this instant!" doesn't cut it, as they're already very good at the 'getting down' bit.

"What on earth are you doing up there!" is a pointless rhetorical statement that sends us down a blind alley about planets.

"What are you thinking of!" may just illicit a straightforward answer.

No. I shall bide my time and not let my mouth run away with me. This time I shall be sure that the words match the situation. No more nauseating little ditties to haunt the next 5 years or more.

Trade off

We gallop to the restaurant at a cracking pace.

Because it is morning, my son has a full word bank available to him. He talks non-stop, coherently if you ignore the stutters and stammers, which I barely notice as I'm riveted to his message.

My daughter is shifty, “he’s doin it again Mom. Everyone’s lookin at us.” Of course the street is devoid of foot passengers, as the cars whiz by on a Sunday. Her little brother doesn’t talk, nervous of the traffic, ruffled by the wind, anxious about the passage of time, destinations and whether the fries will be too hot to eat for a few minutes, a few very long minutes.

We have already practiced what we will do when the fries arrive and they are too hot. We spent a riotous 20 minutes at home where I demonstrated all his usual ‘behaviours’ when this obstacle occurs. I wasn’t as loud as him but seeing your mother roll around on the ground in protest, uttering all too familiar scripts, can sometimes touch your funny bone and release some of the pent up tension.

He’s ready to try and that’s all that I could wish for.

“Mom! Get him to stop!” her head whips around to check who is watching. I watch my son chat. Quite often when one thing is going exceptionally well, other things fall by the way side. For right now, speech flows, communication bubbles but his bodily co-ordination is barely hanging together. I find I have a growing interest in Lilo and Stitch which makes a refreshing change from Pokemon as today's topic. I may just have to bury yet another of my prejudices against supposedly harmless cartoons.

It is quite miraculous that he has managed to remain vertical at all as his loose limbed form tumbles, bumbles and circles at high speed on tippy toes. His knees keep tangling, his feet keep snagging. Two skinny boot-lace legs dangling in the breeze. Somehow or other we continue to move in the general direction of the restaurant. He must be traveling at least four times the distance from the rest of us. I am struck by the fact that I would find this feat, dancing and chatting, completely impossible.

But it’s not that which bothers her. She’s bothered by his arms. His shoulders are hunched by his ears, arms are bent at the elbow, slightly extended with the hands crossed in space. He maintains this rigid formation without effort. It’s a very common stance both here and elsewhere. For some of us it’s a classic. It is as if his body belongs to a third party, someone who choreographs movement, remotely, at long distance, with a weak, intermittent signal. I'm tempted to scoop him up before he falls flat on his face, to have that beaming face close to mine. The only part of him that seems to be under control is his head, where his facial expression is also a classic, happiness.

Tinker, Tailor, Postman…..I Spy

I drag all parties into the garden against their will on a mildly overcast day.

Ideal planting weather.

Other neighbours labour in their yards, whilst we play in our garden. The boys lie in the gravel and sing an old Carpenter’s song, or rather particular snippets that they perseverate upon:- ‘bring me a letter,’ ‘oh yeah,’ ‘Mr. po o o o o ost man.’ It is their task to remain within the confines of the garden for a minimum period of ten minutes, one tiny step in the direction of desensitization to 'outside.' The little talismen of Pokemons assist to distract and engage.

My daughter is an enthusiastic under gardener, keen to learn the ropes. We have before us an array of magnificent plants to plant, each in just the right spot.

“Shall I dig a hole for this big one?”
“Great idea, but where shall we dig the hole?”
‘Mr. po o o o o ost man.’
“What about there, in that bare bit.”
“That’s a good idea but I think you might find that white or bright flowers are better placed in the shady areas where they’ll draw the eye.”
"Mr. po o o o o ost man."
"This purple thing?"
“I want to put the purple violets next to the mail box.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s drought tolerant, in full sun and the scent will be given off when the postman fiddles with the box.”
“Lucky mail man!”
“Bring me a letter.”
“O.k. how about this one, with the long bits?”
“We need to check the labels too, as some plants prefer sun and other’s need more shady areas.”
"Mr. po o o o o ost man."
“What about this pink one?”
“Great but we need some sand to plant that one as we have clay soil.”
"Mr. po o o o o st man."
“They’re very fussy these plants!”
“Hmm I suppose they are a bit.”
"Bring me a letter."
“I like this one! It smells of…..bubblegum.”
“Bubblegum? The scented ones are good in spots where you’ll brush past them with your body, like the rose scented geranium. When they’re leaves are disturbed they release their perfume.”
“Bring me a letter.”
“I like the one around the door coz when they bring a parcel the smell comes in the house.”
“Oh I’m glad you noticed that. It’s like when the UPS guy comes through the front gate and sweeps past the Aquilegia, same thing. Jasmine round the door frame.”
“The Fedex guy always comes around the side.”
“Yes where the Honeysuckle is.”

At the sound of gravel crunching, my son sits up from his position to look over the fence at the visitor. “You are be love,” he murmours. The mailman jumps from his little delivery van and waves. Other neighbours stand and pause momentarily to hail him too, familiar and welcome. Late 50’s, a grandfather with a Santa Claus beard, pith helmet, regulation shorts and a heart break smile.

“Hi guys! Got em all workin today huh!” My daughter examines him, trowel in hand. My older son grins at him, wordless. My youngest son jumps to his feet, “wait a minute, wait a minute, oooo yeah,” as nips over to peer at the name and address. “Dey are for you mom…….all of dem are for you.” I beam at my son and the postman as the garden gate clicks closed, on to the next house, the next family, the next welcome.

“I fink…….when I am growed up……I am be a mailman too.”

Rats to the "Theory of Mind."
























If you happen to find yourself with a few spare moments, please take a minute to watch this video.






Alternatively you can click on this "link."

Safe landing for the space cadet

The friendship between my youngest daughter and her pal has a dire effect on my family’s well being, or rather my "own sanity."

My eldest daughter, an impartial third party, takes me in hand. After a year in Mozambique, her negotiating skills are finely honed. As she has spent her teenage years in America, she is also far more clued into the locals.

“So what are you saying? Do you think this woman is the wicked witch of the west or merely a "space cadet?”

“Um…..the latter.”

“O.k. so you’ve got to stop pussy footing around and lay down the law.”

“I never get the chance!” I bleat.

“You’ve got the grab the bull by the horns, make the time and have it out with her.”

“It’s easier said than done.”

“I bet she’s got not idea that you feel like this.”

“You think?”





























“Well if you talked to her you’d find out wouldn’t you. She probably hasn’t got a clue what a pain in the ass this all is. I bet she hasn’t got a clue about autism either.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it. You never used to be such a wimp.”

“I’m not a wimp! I’m just…….exhausted.”

“Hardly surprising with all those hoops you’ve been leaping through!”

“I suppose I just don’t want to mess it up. It just takes to much energy to carve out some more time to think about it properly.”

“There’s nothing to think about. It’s a no brainer mum. Next time she comes, drag her into the house and talk to her, explain it to her, no-one on the planet is going to be that dense.”

“You think?”

“You don’t have to be mean about it. The boys have a routine, without it there’s chaos. Yes to playdates but pre-arranged, no more ambushes and no more sleep overs. Play dates are a privilege remember?”

“Are they?”

“Yes. They always were for me! Do your homework, do your chores, behave well and the reward is the playdate.”

“Is that how it works?”

“Worked for me. Those were your rules and we stuck to them for all the years I was growing up!”

“Ah and look how great you turned out! But it’s just not practical. How can I have a private conversation with her when there are five children roaring around the house unsupervised. Would you consider looking after them for me perhaps?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Include the kids. Let them see that this is how adults behave, they talk about things and figure out a solution.”

“Good grief! How did I ever produce such a clever woman as you?”

“So you’ll do it?”

“I shall.”



I did.








Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Positive Reinforcement."

Also with another post called "Speech Delays."

The current exchange rate

My eldest daughter takes up residence and dusts off the sands of Mozambique.

“What on earth are you doing Mother?”
“Oh you know, it’s the usual seasonal problem.”
“What?”
“Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, ant invasion.”
“What is that stuff?”
“Ant killer.”
”You can’t just powder the garden like that, it looks like a snow storm, you’ll poison someone.”
“Only the ants and myself, no-one else goes out there.”
“Have you checked the label? There must be some natural repellent you can use instead, something environmentally friendly. Why don’t you ever check labels?”
“Er because usually I just hurl things in the trolly, scoot to the check out and hope for the best.”
“You’re hopeless!”
“Hmm probably, I haven’t had time to …..look for alternatives.”
“I research it for you, before you wipe us all out.”

***

"What on earth are you doing?"
"I'm drying his wieners so that I can leave them out to reach room temperature by the time he comes home from school."
"No! I can see that! I mean why are you using kitchen paper to dry them?"
"Because he won't eat them if they're wet, and by the way they're called paper towels out here."
"I don't care what you call them, they're a waste of precious resources, squandering trees willy nilly on a whim."
"These are not "whimsical wieners," they are part of a very carefully orchestrated desensitization campaign."
"They're vile. Why don't you buy Tofu dogs instead, at least they're vegetarian."
"I will, as soon as I've used up these ones over the next few days. There again, since they're going to end up in the garbage disposal unit in any event, I could just skip that stage."
"I think I'll put duct tape over the garbage disposal unit."
"Why?"
"To help you to remember "not to use" it."
"Yes I do seem to have an awful lot to remember all of a sudden."


***

“Ooo what’s happened to the coffee maker?”
“I turned it off. It was on stand by. Everything in this house seems to be on stand by. More energy is used by domestic appliances on "standby" in America than a full day on the National Grid back home. It’ll only take a couple of minutes to warm up.”
“But my body needs a vat of caffeine right now!”
“You’re so impatient.”
“Must be old age.”
“You’ve been Americanized.”
“Too true.”

***

“I have to get some new slippers today. These ones are falling apart, they’re a health hazard.”
“You could knit yourself some new ones, that would save money and literally make a smaller environmental footprint!”
“I can’t knit a pair in a day! At least not if I also want to get anything else done.”
“It’s all a matter of priorities. It would do you good to sit down for a whole day and it would save using the car for another pointless trip.”
“I could walk to the shops!”
“You could, that’s a good option. It’s a question of examining every decision to get the best environmental outcome.”
“I don’t know if I have enough energy or brain power to factor in another variable into the current decision making process.”
“That’s why I’m here to help! It’s simply a matter of changing how you think about things.”
“Just remember that my brain is small, old and worn out already.”

***

“I also have to get some of that laundry put away today. You can hardly move for laundry hampers.”
“Ah I was meaning to say, maybe I could rig up a clothes line for you in the garden. That tumble drier is on non-stop.”
“Yes but with the wet beds and all, it’s difficult to keep up.”
“Well it’s your decision of course but think of all the energy you’ll save, not to mention money.”
I look at my 26 year old daughter. I am tempted to make a sarcastic comment about going down to the creek with my laundry and a stone to do the washing, but of course that is precisely what she has been doing for a year in Mozambique.
“But if I dry them outside they’ll all fade in the sun and far more importantly they’ll be crispy, then I won’t be able to get anyone dressed and no-one will want to go to bed.”
“It could be part of your desensitization campaign surely?”
“Maybe.” It's quite frightening to realize that she sounds just like me, standing on my soapbox, perhaps a decade ago.

***

“What’s all that paper scattered around?”
“Those are the things that I absolutely must do today.”
“Such as?”
“I have to go somewhere to photocopy those forms as ours isn’t working. I have to sort out that foreign bank account too.”
“Ooo look at that! You won the Premium Bonds! Pity it's not the lottery out here.”
“I know but I have to write to them to get them to re-issue the prize as it’s out of date.”
“You should do that first! It’s a priority.”
“Yes but I have to get them to send it to me here in the States, which may be against the rules. Then I have to send it back to pay it into my British Bank account, it’ll take forever.”
“Pay it in here instead.”
“Then I’ll have to pay a fee to have it exchanged into dollars rather than pounds.”
“Still fifty pounds, is fifty pounds!”
“True. Come to think of it, fifty pounds is $100 dollars!”

Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Development is Child's Play,"

and also celebrating my other life over "here" in "California Dreaming."

Rabid over rabbits

Americans would describe my current mood as ‘pissed.’ This actually means that I am drunk. I would say that I am pissed off, which means that I am annoyed, or ever so slightly dejected. As much as I try, I am unable to extract myself and my family from the continuing influence of another family.

After the "Easter debacle" we enjoy a trouble free week, as my daughter is unwell and stays at home for a few days. We are resolute, no more shenanigans.

On returning home after her first day back at school, I discover that she is in mourning for the loss of her friendship with pal. Pal now enjoys a relationship with a boy, her seventeenth boyfriend. Her date book is now full, with no time left over for my daughter. I sympathise with her loss, whilst secretly enjoying our easy escape. I explain that sadly, this is so often the way with many girls but that she should not be down-hearted. If she is a true friend, she will be patient and understanding, wait for the boyfriend to move on and her pal’s loyalty to return.

I think this is one of the few times that I am genuinely pleased that ten year olds date. I dither whether to test her sophistication?
“So is it a lovie dovie kissy kind of relationship?”
“Oh nooo! That comes later.”
I’m tempted to ask how many decades later, but I don’t want to push my luck.

When the weekend rolls around again, we are ready for family peace, or if not exactly peace, then our piece of family time.

All in all, we seem well placed, as I accidentally find the Easter chocolates that bought a month ago, a week after Easter has already past. It’s almost worthwhile digging them up again from their new hidey hole in the garage, rather than keeping them until next year. A little celebration, to mark our good fortune.

I debate whether to embark upon the tidy toys marathon or to leave it until after the bike ride in the park, when the telephone rings. The pals chat on the phone whilst we adults exchange worried glances. Both my sons dart around the house like energizer bunnies. I’m used to Mr. Speedy and his mosquito tendencies but I am disconcerted that his older brother seems to be on a similar trend. “When?”
“When what dear?’
“When are we go on our "bikes"?”
“15 minutes. Shall we set the timer?”
“Dere is no such fing as the Easter bunny?”
“True but don’t go telling any other little children just yet.”
“It is be 15 minutes?”
“Lets go and find the timer together.”
“Does the Easter bunny have a timer?”
“No he has a calendar.”
“You are say 50 minutes or 15 minutes?”
“15.”
“He has an old calendar?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I fink he has a timer.”
“I fink his timer is needed dah new batteries.” My daughter’s demands come thick and fast, but we hold firm, “Daddy and I will talk about it first, tell her you’ll phone back in five minutes.”
I drag the boys out of the garage for the umpteenth time, unable to enrapture them with the passage of time on the timer. “We’ll put our shoes on later dears.” I don’t think I’ve ever known them to be so keen to retrieve their hated shoes.

“Dumb, dumb, dumb!”
“No mean words dear.”
“Dumb is not be mean.”
“Er….well ……what does it mean?”
“It is be mean not be talking.”
“Oh that kind of dumb.”
“Yes dah Easter bunny is be dumb.”
“Do you mean dumb ‘stupid’ or dumb ‘not talking’?”
“’Dumb’ not talking.”
“Yes you’re right, the Easter Bunny doesn’t talk.”

Maybe pal should come with us on the bike ride to circumnavigate the possibility of sleepovers and whose house to have a play date? We could deliver her home so that she’s not stranded with us indefinitely. Better a few hours in the afternoon at the weekend rather than endless disruptions during the week. We debate back and forth, anticipating potholes and pitfalls until we manage to come up with a plan.
“Dah Easter bunny…….he got it wrong.”
“He did? What did he get wrong?”
“It is be a secret.”
“How about you girls go on your scooters and the boys go on their bikes?”
“Brill! That would be awesome.” We exchange adult glances, surely this is the fairest option?
“Better go and phone her then. Do you have the number?” We hear a knocking on the window, and there she is, "pal" has arrived during our five minutes debating time. There is no sign of her deliverer. The girls embrace and exchange breathy information, “I waited in all morning but he didn’t call.”
“Some people are so unreliable,” she sympathizes.

I think I can be relied upon to rip the phone from the wall some time pretty darned soon. I track down the boys in the garage to uncover a secret before I forget. They pogo on the concrete with their hands behind their backs in a dry leaf pile of chocolate wrappers. “He is be come two times dis year!”
“I am liking dah dumb bunny!”

I want to ask.......but I refrain.

We have lift off!

One of the many delights of living in California, is the weather. The seasonal changes are detectable for those paying attention, but the subject of weather is not a daily topic of conversation as it is in other countries.

Some while back, before the boys had been diagnosed, our family was expanding but the house was not. On one particularly blissful day I advised my spouse that if he did not make the spare room cum office habitable, I would make his existence less blissful. He in turn advised me, that nothing on this earth or the next, would ever make the room livable. At this impasse, we made a rash decision, we would find a bigger house to fit our bigger family.

We spent many weeks looking at mansions and not at our bank balance.

We subsequently decided that we would stay put and extend the building capacity with an extension.

Of all the many properties that we viewed, one had an outstanding feature called a ‘whole house extractor fan.’ It is a deceptive term, so if you are not familiar with it, I will attempt a non technical description for you. Firstly you need to visualize a Boeing 747. Take off one of the propellers and stick it [along with some hardware of some kind or another] in your roof space. Attach securely to something that isn’t going to fall off or down. Cut a couple of little holes at either end of your roof, the gable ends. Cut another hole in the centre of your ceiling in the middle of the house. Connect string, sorry, wire, from the propeller to a switch below, somewhere well out of the way, such as a closet. The idea is, that when you turn it on, the propeller whirs away and sucks all the hot air out of your house and swooshes it outside to help heat up everybody else’s houses in the nearby vicinity. This means that with luck you won’t have to turn your air conditioning on at all, or at least for less time.

There are however, a few minor details that may not be immediately apparent. Californian houses, in earthquake land, are made of plaster and bits of wood. The theory is, that when the house falls down around your ears you’ll be buried in matchsticks rather than bricks. The down side to this feat of engineering is that if you drop a pin, the sound echoes throughout the property. Hence, when you flick the switch on your WHEF you definitely have the impression that the whole house is about to take off and surge into space like an escaping balloon. Everything rattles and shakes and the noise is death defying.

Generally speaking you would turn the device on at bed time, to cool it down ready for sleep.

We are currently in the month of April and I know that you are wondering why this seasonal topic is on my mind? It is on my mind because it takes a great deal of time for my little chaps to adjust to the experience of the WHEF.

When the thermometer hit's the 90's, tempers are frayed, we are bathed in sweat and that would be the time to flick the switch to earthquake mode. Far better to start early, daily. It's yet another desensitization campaign. If we start now, by the time the mercury is rising we should be well on the way to cooling off.

We start off with a new social story which immediately puts them on notice that something is afoot. We examine the switch in the cupboard. We peer up at the grill in the ceiling. They both criticise the builder for installing the grill skew whiff, something that I had previously overlooked. We spend far too much time bogged down in definitions and better alternatives which range from 'vacuum' to 'blower.'

The boys decide that the best place to be during the trial run, is outside the house. This is a quite remarkable decision bearing in mind that they have been "allergic" to outside for as long as I can remember. This is probably the very last thing that I could possibly have anticipated. I open the door to watch them leave the safe place and walk willingly into what was previously the 'unsafe place.' They scamper over to the perimeter fence, the furthest possible distance from the house. This wasn't quite what I had in mind, not really a long term solution although an excellent coping strategy. They cover their ears with the palms of their hands, resigned to the inevitable, "O.k. mom!" he bellows, "go turn on the rattleshake!"

A stride in an entirely new direction.

I better go and count how many steps there are from the fence to the house and calculate the number of days to reach a less safe harbour.

The Food Police

I am a great believer in ‘isms.’

They fit neatly into my own prejudice and bias.

You could say, ‘by their isms, shall ye know them.’ For me, the world of food, was my own political platform, running a close second to my eco warrior existence.

I'm reminded of this when I watch a programme on BBC America, which mentions the words "aduki bean." I immediately lose the thread of the story and whiz back in time to when I was a real cook that ate real food.

I was a follower of the ‘your body is a temple’ institute for the ever so slightly deranged. Those were the days where Miso soup and home made flapjacks were the order of the day. No salt, no sugar, no harmful fats. If it didn’t have the word ‘whole’ in it, then it would never pass over the threshold into the house of pure. My kitchen was filled with bean sprouters and home made yoghourt fermenting on a pilot light. Just say 'no' to the contamination of British youth. I had one perfect daughter on the perfect diet.

My idea of fast food and a culinary treat would have been a handful of dried apricots, almonds or a smattering of yoghourt coated peanuts and raisins, knocked back with a glass of Lassi. Convenience food was a banana. No food was too obscure not to be tried at least once. Bombay mix and Tamari sesame seeds, quinoa and couscous, anything to tickle those taste buds. Health food store heaven.

Then, a couple of decades later, the other lot came along to rattle my silver cage and shatter my glass house. It was about the same time that I fell of my pedestal with a splat. The purity of the nutrients that my children imbibed, were of an entirely different order. My holier than thou attitudes were swept aside with one hearty tug to the table cloth and the whole food pyramid came tumbling down. After I’d swept up, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was dealing with food issues of an entirely different magnitude. The magnetic force of my culinary skills turned to rust and plans to dust. My ivory tower had been vanquished by neophobes, the most mighty of conquerors for the average middle aged mum.

It is with a heavy heart that I follow the occupational therapist's advice. My youngest son is to be introduced to meat, in the form of little hot dog sausages. Flavourles and textureless. We have ploughed through social stories, all leading up to this momentous moment. I ensure that they are room temperature to give him the best possible chance of success. They glisten in the bowl. They do not look particularly appetizing but I am assured that this is the first step in the long road towards 'hot dogs on the 4th of July.'






















The desensitization campaign commences.

"Are you ready dear?"
"Yes."
"So we're going to look at it first with our eyes. Can you use your good describing words for me?"
"It is be brown and huge and it is being a wiener."
"Excellent! How about we smell it now? What does it smell of dear?"
"It be smell like poison!"
"Hmm. How about you lick it now."
"NO!"
"Um o.k. how about you just touch it with your finger instead."
"I am have dah M & M if I touch?"
"Yes. Touching it would be very brave indeed!"
He extends a tremulous finger tip, the baby finger, the least sensitive of all his digits. I watch, silent as I don't want to jinx him. As his finger tip makes contact he lets rip with a blood curdling howl and a 30 mph exit screaming "my wiener is wet!"

Maybe I should revise the campaign date? 4th July 2009 perhaps?

Everyone's a critic

Snippets collected over a few days:-

"What are you doing Mother?"
Mother?
"Um...knitting dear."
"And what exactly are you knitting?"
"Socks.....for you."
"But it's Summer. You bought that wool ages ago and you're only getting around to it now, when it's nearly 80 degrees outside?"
"Well yes I do seem to have got a little behind."
"I'll say!"
"Never mind they'll do for next year."
"I don't know if I'll like that colour next year. I'll be a year older, more sophisticated, you know."

Don't bet on it dearie.

"Mommmmmm!"
"Yes dear?"
"Which you are like?"
"Um.....?"
"Dis card or dat card. Which one is be dah winner?"
"Um.....?"
"In dah battle."
"Er......?"
"Choose!"
"The red one."
"Huh! No, you lose I win."
"Good for you dear."
"I know coz you are always choose dah red."

I need to be less predictable.

"Are you tired dear?"
"No."
"You look sleepy. Wasn't that a yawn?"
"No.....it's just dat.....my eyelids are be heavy and my mouth......is been need oxygen."

You and me both dearie.

"Why are you phoning love?"
"Because I haven't spoken to you person to person for three days now."
"Two and a half."
"Pardon?"
"Thursday! Now it's Saturday or will be soon."
"Um.......?"
"You're 8 hours ahead of us. It's three in the morning here."
"Sorry.......I'll call again later."

Now there's a mistake I haven't made in a long while.