How was your day?

It’s the same exchange that parents have all over the world, when it’s dark and the kids are asleep.

Ours takes place in the wee small hours of the night, morning really, when he comes home from work. Together, we put the nocturnal child back into his bed, again, tuck him in and put the door to, ajar.

“Well at least he’s really cheerful.”
“I’m glad someone is.”
“So how did it go?”
“He pulled down the shower curtain. I nearly brained myself trying to get it back up on the wall.”
“You should have left it. It helps if you’re taller.”
“Couldn’t. He was trampling all over it to get to the top shelf.”
“Ah the soap collection.”
“Indeed. He’s going to break his neck clambouring up that wall. He uses the soap dish as a foot hold.”
“Well that’s a positive thing.”
“Is it? Which bit? The climbing or the collection.”
“Er…..well…..both. I admit I wouldn’t have expected a soap fetish from the filthiest child on the planet but that’s all to the good surely?”
“I’ll remind you of that the next time you want to wash your hands.”
“Hmm….....maybe it’s a cunning plan to foil the hand washing campaign?”
"?"
"Well........?"
“He’s not that devious.”
“Are you sure? I certainly wouldn’t bank on it.”
“So.....if he’s graduated to ‘devious’ do we chastise or celebrate?”
"Passed with flying colours!"

Bi-lingual, it’s no excuse

The trouble with being a foreigner is that so much of what we say is incomprehensible.


Because the life of a foreigner is normal to the foreigner, the foreigner forgets that other people live different lives.

Take these two fairly ordinary statements, excuses in this particular instance.

For some reason everyone understands the first one but the second one causes no end of confusion. They are of equal weight around here. Both are common enough experiences in the great scheme of things. The statements are simple enough, but they convey a whole panoply of commonly shared human experience.

Sometimes.


1. Sorry I’m late but she broke her finger.
2. Sorry I’m late but he’s gone all nocturnal.

And sometimes not!

In the interests of scientific impartiality, I shall have to try them out again in England, when we nip home for a holiday. A good scientist never predicts outcomes prior to the test.

Verily, I shall be a foreigner on either shore.

Mexican Hat dance

I bimble around the garden muttering to myself as my youngest son sits in the shade in his underpants and a Mario baseball cap. He is busily occupied pushing playdough through the mesh table top, to form piles of neon spaghetti on the ground beneath. It's a tough work out for feeble little fingers, but the texture is no longer torture.

He is a study in concentration, oblivious to my presence. It is a rare sight indeed to see him sitting. I suspect that the same mesh pattern may be imprinted elsewhere upon his person, testament to his increasing powers of endurance. “It is so hot! We really shouldn’t be out in the sun you know.”
“I am not…..in dah sun,” he remarks, checking the dappled light through the foliage of the pergola.
“Hmm. I think I need a hat or something?”
“Big hat. Little cloves.”
It’s a valid point but I am way beyond the age where a bikini can be a realistic option.
“I swear it must be 100 degree out here!”
“No swear! Bad to be swear.”
“Oh that’s not swearing as such.”
“It is be dah figure of speech?”

I rip off the sweaty gardening gloves and step over to him. His minimalist approach to language and conversation is so often peppered with huge lumps of sophistication, if I were only paying attention.

Different Strokes for different folks

We survive the first 45 minutes of her being ill, but then she follows me around like a rash.

She reminds me that she is bored at 3 minute intervals. This is my ‘play with me, play with me, watch me, watch me,’ child, not that I’m assigning a role of predestination for any of my children.

Perish the thought!

Although brothers generally fall into the category of ‘pest,’ when they are at school, somehow their company is so much more appealing.

“But I’m real bored Mom.”
“I know dear, but I’m very busy. Why don’t you go and rest in your room.”
“But it’s not like you’re doin nothin.”
“Anything, dear, anything! As I said before, I have a great deal to do and the sooner I get it all done, the sooner I may have some free time. Why don’t you go and rest in your room and think of three things that you’d like to do when I’m finished.”
She sighs and deflates against the wall, “whatya doin then that’s more important than me an bein sick?” The tone of sarcasm isn’t lost on me, but I decide to ignore it. It would appear to be an abuse of power to out sarcasm a sarcastic 10 year old.
“Well right now I’m putting all the boys’ clothes back into the cupboard. I do it every day. It take about 20 minutes depending upon whether they accidentally tipped out the pyjamas too.”
“It sure is a big mess.”
“Hmmm.”

I fold, refold, stack shelves and re-hang T-shirts under her watchful eyes.

“If I did that you’d be real mad at me, right?”
“Well it would depend upon why you’d messed up your closet?”
“It’s not fair, they get to trash their closet every day and you just clean it all up!”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s always the same, you treat em different.”
“You’re right, I do. Partly because you’re older and partly because there are some things that they find a lot more difficult than you do. Sometimes they need more help.”
“It stinks.”
“Now I have a question for you!”
“Really! What?”
“When you were really little, we had a closet just like this one. Half of it was toys and half of it was clothes. Every day I would try and put you to bed for your nap. Instead of taking a nap like every other toddler in the entire universe, you’d climb the closet shelves and chuck everything out. Then you’d strip your bed. Every day. Now why do you suppose you did that?”
“Geez, I have no idea! What did you do?”
“Every day after your non existent nap, I’d come up here and you’d be sitting in your devastated room with a mischevious grin on your face. I would be so cross with you. Daddy and I decided that we’d just leave mess and put you to bed at night without the bed clothes.”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“Well you wouldn’t, because some time during the evening, once Daddy was home, I’d zip up here and straighten it all out. It took ages but I just couldn’t put you to bed like that, it seemed too unkind.”
“Wow. How long did I do that for then?”
“Eternity.”
“What happened to stop it?”
“I gave up trying to get you to nap.”
“Why did I do that? It seems kinda weird.”
“Well, I think it’s because you didn’t have enough words to explain that you didn’t want to nap and probably more importantly, that you didn’t need a nap. You always were an energizer bunny.”

She slithers down the wall onto her hunkers, stares at the self portrait picture of her big sister. "Did she do weird stuff when she was little too?"
"Oh yes indeed. There's not a child on the planet that doesn't do "weird stuff" sometimes. The trick is to figure out the why? Once you know the 'why' it won't be weird any more."





















Post script:-

Take one Lilo and Stitch video

Extract Elvis

Add birthday present CD and "Mix"

Alternative "Junior production."

Cheers Debra!

0 – 60 diddly squat

Children thrive on routine or so they say.

We nay sayers decided to adopt a more modern approach to our children. None of those strictures for our little free spirits. We planned to copy our laid back, easy going Californians cousins. No mean feat for the average Brit, and we are terribly average.

Despite our best endeavours, it soon became apparent that laid back was more like flat out, or rather, flat out chaos and a great many horizontal meltdowns. We went over to the dark side, made schedules and schooled our children to follow them. Schedules and routine produced predictability, and a certain degree of calm, or maybe just less chaos. Before too long we slipped into the groove. Before too much later, we found that the walls of the groove had grown so high that we were scrabbling around in the hollow, unable to deviate right or left. The schedule became iron clad. There was no room for spontaneity as the timetable was rigidly enforced, indirectly, by the children themselves.


It infiltrates every second of our existence, the necessity to maintain sameness. I hear that this is quite common, indeed my good pal describes her life as a perpetually reliving the same day, day after day. Sometimes we get "bogged down" in the mire. It's hard to "escape" from the strictures of the schedule. There is no room for flexibility, merely crisis management.


Currently, our family experiences another peak in the "anxiety" roller coaster. It is exactly at such times, that it is imperative to maintain the routine.

Our routine is for me to arrive outside the boys’ classroom at least five minutes before the end of the school day. I wait. When they come out, we meet and greet, exchange pleasantries and wait for their sister to join us. It is important to remain in the same safe 10 yard area and wait. Sometimes we wait a long time, as she is usually the last to leave.

I have learned that it is unwise to be impatient, foolish to seek her out with the boys in tow. I cannot leave the boys behind to wait on their own because they cannot wait and they cannot wait on their own.

The seconds tick by as we wait. As they tick, so the anxiety increases, “where is she be?”
“She’ll be here any moment dear.”
“How many minutes? How many seconds. Is she be lost? Is she be selled?” He starts to suck his fingers and rock, small mewing noises get louder. I pull him onto my lap and he curls up small and tight. He slithers off and bolts. “We must be find her!” he yells as he charges off around the corner. I grab his brother and the backpacks as we scuttle off in hot pursuit.

It’s only 25 yards away but the court yard is crampt with a sea of bodies, parents and children and siblings and strollers. I spot him, dressed in red from head to foot outside her open class room door, blocking the way as he peers inside. Every face in the classroom is turned towards the little boy in the entrance way, crouched, mewling and swaying. Wounded in distress. I slip through the crowd to him and point out his sister, a long straight arm to guide vision with a rude finger at the end. He yelps with glee as I herd him away to a safe distance to join his brother. His brother is gone. “Agh! Where is he been?”

I spot him ambling away in the opposite direction. We gallop after him. I can already see the lure, a baby. We catch up just in time. He’s overtaken the mother, child and baby, to walk backwards in front of them whilst he asks questions to the mum but stares at the baby. I burble a torrent of compliments to the mum, child and baby. Yes, my nine year old is very fond of babies, all babies, and this is a particularly fine specimum of babydom, how could he resist?

Many parents have strong objections to large filthy children touching their purebred offspring, it’s quite natural. Luckily, we are in luck. The mum permits touching, cooing, smiles and pats, very tender gentle ones. I prompt goodbye greetings, as busy mums can only be hindered and detained for a short periods of time. It can never be long enough for my son to get his baby fix.

I turn around with a firm grasp on each boy as we stride back to the classroom. The class room is empty. “Oh no! Where is she be. We are be lost her! You and yur stoopid babies. It’s all yur fault.” The only reassurance that will work now is for him to see her, alive and well. Nothing else will placate him. The boys squabble as I haul them around the corner. They debate the merits of temporary relationships with strangers versus long term blood relations.

Animosity and anxiety vie for supremacy.

I see her waiting outside the boys’ classroom in a state of confusion. I yell as I see her heels disappear around the corner as she returns to her own classroom. My son hangs on my arm, a dead weight, the child that cannot be hurried. I dither. Double back and cut her off at the pass or follow her around again? I shoulder two backpacks, secure my grip on the snotty hand, hoik the nine year old onto my hip and galumph back.

We stagger and stumble our way amid bleats and rooster crows of the truly desperate. I glimpse her again, just as she begins to retrace her steps but I lack enough oxygen to yell. The snotty one spots her too, slips from my grasp and careens over screaming her name at 50 decibels. I watch her turn, pause, tune in, align sight, open arms just in time to catch him as he collapses into her. A swoon, worthy of a Southern Belle. As we bring up the rear he has gained enough composure to machine peck kiss her inner wrist. He pants like a puppy, exhausted, “you are be alive!” he puffs.

Only just dearies, only just.

Interior Design 101 and EMT’s

We are fortunate indeed to live in the current era of casual living. Californians of course, do ‘casual’ so much better than any other people. As a general rule, Brits do not do 'casual' well. Whilst we excel at stiff and stuffy, casual is usually more of a character challenge.

An example may clarify the great divide. Let’s take the phenomenon of ‘the throw.’ For those less 'with it' than me, I can tell you that a ‘throw’ is a blanket, but more fashionable than a mere blanket. A blanket belongs on a bed, whereas a throw is draped casually over furniture in any room. It’s presence adds an air of casual.

Twenty years ago in England, there was no such thing as a throw. If you were exceptionally lucky there might have been an old car rug, tartan with a fringe. It remained folded neatly. It remained neatly folded unless you were unlucky enough to be ill and then be wrapped up in it’s itchy, scratchy fibres, swaddled to contain your contamination.























Hence today, we find that modern Californian homes usually house at least one throw. Our Californian home has several, four to be exact. They are neatly folded on the corner of the couch. These four replace the previous four, which were used so frequently as to become bald. Now I know that you may have a couple of criticisms to throw at me here, that the ‘folded’ disqualifies me from the casual. It may just be that you have never worn out a throw and have difficulty understanding how they could be threadbare in less than a year?

Well, although my throws are indeed throws, they also fall into a much more important category, namely ‘objet de déguisement.’ They help unqualified Californians blend in with their surroundings. How? I’m glad you asked that. Say someone comes to call and our home is in it’s usual state of filth and chaos. All I have to do is whip off the throws and drape them decorously over the spills and stains that adorn every room. Obviously, actively soggy patches have priority.

Additionally, and more importantly, they serve as EMT’s.







EMT’s?


The trouble is that we all have so much to learn and teach. Whilst we appear to have mastered gloves and sunglasses for the tactile defensive amongst us, other skills evade us. For instance, we are still actively working on ‘sitting.’ When we’re concentrating on such tasks other skills fall by the wayside. It's not easy to juggle gloves, sunglasses and sitting all at the same time.


But what about the EMT’s?







Emergency Modesty Throws my friend.
































Some small people do ‘casual’ even better than Californians?

And other small miracles

Our family lives in suburbia, or rather 5 sixths of us do.

California can be a deceptive State. People are familiar with the glories of San Francisco and the glitter of L.A. but the vastness is often missed. The greater part of the State is referred to as ‘wilderness.’ The ‘wild’ part of wilderness seems far more threatening than English countryside, tame, safe and comforting. This is where our ‘sixth’ spends the majority of her time, now that she is an adult and has choice. What else could I have expected from this 'save a whale,' 'hug a tree,' 'stroke a banana slug' kind of offspring? Although she is out in the wilds, modern technology keeps us connected through the telephone, although I would prefer her mobile to be nearer a cellular base station, or maybe just closer.

We talk late in the evening whilst small people slumber. We watch the same sunset, several hundreds of miles apart. She talks, I listen. I can hear the wind rush about her as she charges down a brush filled hill, rough terrain without a trail. She forges her own path as she talks and walks and weeps, the trials of youth, no longer trivial.















I learned that tears were a sign of weakness. I chose to teach a different lesson. Shed a tear, skip a gall stone.



Minutes tick by as the sun sets and darkness settles outside and in.

I remember my own tears on rare occasions. Dump the baggage, lighten the load.

My tears are rare because I know that they incapacitate me. They reduce me to an immobile soggy heap. This is the kind of multitasking that I cannot envisage.

To weep is to cease to function.

Weeping and talking, make a poor combination, too much gulping.

Weeping and walking! It’s out of the question.

Weeping, walking and talking?

In the dark?

She’s the closest thing to "Wonderwoman" that I’ve come across in this lifetime.

Indianna Jones – liberator from the white slave trade

We endure an existence of high anxiety, a peak in the bell curve as we await the trough that follows. It’s always like that around here, crashing waves before a period of calm.

I’d like to blame those people, but it’s not really their fault. How were they to know? It was a perfectly harmless sign stuck to the back of their car. They didn’t know that he reads everything and particularly favours orange signs. It was innocent enough ‘family sale here,’ and an arrow pointing towards their home. It just came at a bad moment, an anxious moment when he’s more vulnerable to triggers and spin off.


So far the social stories are a failure but it’s a work in progress.


It’s a little embarrassing right now, but my Rhino hide serves me well. It’s only been the last few days.

I go to school to collect them.

My youngest son bursts from the classroom to prostrate himself at my feet, face covered with the palm of his hands to yell at 50 decibels “don’t sell me Mom. Pleazzzz don’t sell me.”



Yes, it’s well and truly stuck, even though the original sign didn’t specify which member of the family would be sold.

I prompt him of course, because it helps him remember. His face is in the dirt and his eyes are covered, but his ears are exposed, so I hum the first few notes like a secret code. I don’t understand the magic, I only know it works. Maybe it’s like the marching songs of soldiers entering battle, energizing? He explodes back onto his feet to a rousing chant, the theme tune from Indianna Jones, his personal salvation. A non lethal weapon from torment. He spins off in a revelry, arms wide, head back to salute his freedom in song. It’s like the Hallelujah Chorus that lifts the spirit and crushes the psychological deamons.

Even little people get to be superheroes sometimes.

Hip hop what?

I watch my youngest son swirl on the hard wood floors.

My daughter watches him too.

So much pent up energy.

His motor mouth spouts a monologue of unfamiliar words.

“You’re going to wear yourself out with all that break dancing sonny Jim!” I say to his gyrating form.
“Break dancing?" she giggles, "what’s break dancing Mom?”
“Er…..sort of…..throw yourself about a lot kind of dancing.”
“Never heard of it, anyways, he’s rappin whilst he hip hops.”
“Indeed, is that what they call it these days?”

Verily, I must get a bit more with it.

Prickly pairs

After a long career in the Navy, my parents decided to buy a house and remain in one place.

It was a three story terraced Victorian house and I loved it before the ink was dry on the contract. At the back of the house, leading to the tiny strip garden, was what my mother called ‘the conservatory.’

The conservatory was a four foot square arrangement of glass and wooden shelves, an entrance way or exit, a distance of three paces. The previous owners has neglected to remove some of their plants from this area, predominantly "cacti." They were a dull grey, with lots of prickles but otherwise quite unremarkable, apart from the single startling iridescent "bloom" stuck on the side like an afterthought. I stroked it to make sure that it wasn’t plastic, as the 1970’s were the heyday of fake flowers. Although my mother was keen to clear the place out, the cacti were reprieved.

Her delegation of duties had me hooked on responsibility.

I was immediately derelict in my duties as I trudged off to boarding school. I certainly would never have survived without water for three months, but cacti are so much more forgiving. They thrive on neglect. My arrival home was their rainy season when I would drown them with attention for a couple of weeks.

“Wear my gardening gloves,” my mother would advise, but I was of the filthy species of child. They were too big for pudgy little hands, far easier to dive in with naked digits. The huge prickles were easy to avoid. They broadcast their dangers. It was the little fuzzy ones that were my downfall. Their deceptive fur would burrow little barbs into the flesh to leave hairy fingertips. Easy to see but impossible to remove with stubby nails.























All these years later, it seems that both my girls have the same filthy gene, the ‘climb a tree,’ ‘dig a hole,’ ‘am I really plastered in chocolate?’ gene. My eldest son is graduating to the same genetic heights but climbing is still a struggle, as co-ordination of body parts is a challenge. We should all have been born with a coating of Teflon.

My youngest son on the other hand, lives life with as little use of his hands as is humanly possible. Tactile defensiveness, or how things feel, means that he will go to great lengths to avoid touching anything. He tucks his hands in pockets or armpits, clasps them behind his back out of danger or protects his fingertips in his mouth. They are all default positions for hypervigilant people.

We have been in this particular groove since the beginning. I might call it desensitization but it still looks like torture from his perspective. Time and maturation have helped but it’s a predictable path. In earlier times we worked to persuade him to write in shaving foam with his finger, buried plastic dinosaurs in sand, sunk Thomas in a washing up bowl full of suds, hid Pokemon in playdough and used any number of other devious means to tempt those fingertips into our tactile world. We should not discount the psychological cost of such treatment. How does the average three year old feel when you pour cement over their precious security blanket? For me, to witness his terror was offset by his determination and instinct to rescue despite the personal pain. It's a question of balance and I think I was off kilter.






















These days he’s more malleable and sometimes he surprises us with his bravery. He’s also learned to adopt his own safety strategies to help him cope with the onslaught. We own more woolen, cotton and disposable gloves than any other family in a five mile radius of our home. He’s more willing to use tools, even though they’re difficult to manipulate because it means that he is saved from the agony of touching something worse.

They’re nothing if not inventive, children that is to say.

“I am need!” he squeals at no-one in particular.
“What do you need dear?”
“More.”
“More what?”
“More armour.”
“Armour?”
“Yes I have be one but I be need more nine.”
“Nine what?”
“Nine armours.”
























It's always best to expect the "unexpected."

Ahem, run that past me again?

It may sound unkind but I would have to say that my mother was a health hazard.

That aside, she had many worthy talents including considerable skills as a dressmaker. Inevitably, we, her children, would fall victim to the strange ritual of trying on the half made garment full of pins and tacks and bits of greaseproof paper. I would stand on the carpet with my mother crouched at my feet as I followed her instructions to turn slowly in circles, to see if the hem was level. Her actual words were incomprehensible, muffled by a mouthful of pins, pointy side inwards. This is how I learned my ‘rotation whilst static’ skills, assisted by advanced toe creeping, but it was a perilous existence.

We would sit of a family evening, glued to the telly, whilst my mother busied herself with some project. At some unpredictable moment she would leap from her chair and announce “oh no! I’ve lost my needle / pin / scissors / other lethal weapon.” I was never quite sure how to react to these proclamations. They were often accompanied by an additional command such as “don’t move! or stay right where you are! or aren’t you going to help! or it could be anywhere!’ I suspected that she kept a catapault in her pocket for maximum carnage.


Quite often I find that it is little pokes from the past that help me remember how different a child’s perspective can be from an adult's.

These days, I am very much aware that dangerous ‘triggers’ lurk around every corner for the unwary but I never know what form the latest edition will take.















My son and daughter enjoy the latest craze, Webkinz, just like their forebears of Gonks, Trolls and my pukey little ponies. It's a phase and a culmination of painfully acquired skills:- do your chores, earn your pocket money, save it for three weeks and a Webkinz can be yours for the squandering.

My youngest son is less keen, interested, willing to be wooed but cautious.

“I am be figured,” he bellows at my elbow.
“Really, um…..why…….what have you figured dear?”
“I am be figured it out! Dat is a figure of speech.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Do you like figures of speech?”
“No but I be figured it out anyways.”
“What have you figured out.”
“Dat dey are not cacti.”
“What isn’t a cactus?”
“Cacti! Cacti! Cacti! It be double, it be Latins.”
“Ah……so who are not cacti?” I am already out of my depth and mired several yards into the bog.
“Porcupines.”
“Yes, porcupines are animals not plants.”
“Dey are spikey. Hedgehogs is spikey too.”
“Yes they are. They’re both spikey and they’re both animals.”
“Mammals!”
“Oh dear, yes they are.” I’m stuck, up to my neck in it and sinking fast.
“But dey are not cacti.”
“So true, so true.”
“So I am bin touch dem. I am be brave.”
“What are you going to touch?”
“Dah Webkinz which are not real spikes.”

What a Purl!

I would hate to criticize my mother in law in a public forum but sometimes you just have to tell it how it is.

I have traced it back to her!

I don’t know why I didn’t connect the dots before. You see, she is solely responsible for the twiddle gene. Her son has it and so do all his children. I on the other hand, not being related by blood, am free of the twiddle gene. I often think that if had the twiddle gene too, then it wouldn’t be quite so annoying. As it is, I don’t, so it is, annoying that is to say.


They all do it, the foot tapping, hair twiddling, flicky fingers, nibbling and the like. These are the kinds of people who make teachers yell, ‘sit on your hands!’ More unfortunate types are twacked with a ruler.

Then there are the ear lobe pullers, the people who suck air through their teeth and the women and girls who do that thing with long hair that has no name but ought to have one.


Who can ignore the chin rubbers and beard strokers? I’m very agin the jostling change in your pocket types. I cannot stand the rhythmical drumming of fingertips on the table top boffins, the fluff pluckers and the throat clearers. The rockers are pretty annoying too, swaying forwards onto tippy toes and then rolling back onto heels guys, gearing up for speech. I’m convinced that Restless Leg Syndrome should fit in there somewhere.

Due to my never ending thirst for knowledge, I have conducted scientifically controlled experiment to determine the cause of these behaviours. 9 times out of ten, when you ask someone ‘why are you doing that incredibly annoying thing?’ the most common response is ‘what? or I’m not doing anything!’ Bizarre as it may seem, they are oblivious to their behaviour and more importantly, it’s effect on their audience.

They’re all variations on a theme, be they displacement activities, coping mechanisms or an aid to concentration. No matter how you choose to label them, they all fall into the chasmic category of annoying. If you are unfortunate enough to belong to a family of twiddlers, what might you do to relieve the stress of such an existence, lighten the burden? This is a question I have often asked myself. No amount of kooshes and fiddlesticks will placate them.

I asked myself this question again, as I waited seven minutes outside the school for the boys. My daughter sat in the back seat with her mild fever and a twiddling fingers. The offensive digits played with the electronic window button, up and down, and up and down…..for 420 excruciating seconds. I tried to distract her with conversation but she never missed a beat. I tried and work out what it was that was so annoying? Was it the noise? Not an offensive noise really and quite quiet. Repetitive but rhythmical. Would it have be more annoying if she’d did missed a beat. Why?

I should have acted sooner, probably about twenty years ago.

























Back then, we’d sit on the sofa together, the Chesterfield. We’d talk about the future, or rather, I’d talk and he’d twiddle. As the months rolled on, the sofa grew bald, buttonless and saggy. Sadly, the male of the species was fatally flawed. If only I paid more attention. If only I’d known that we would produce a whole twoop of twiddlers to taunt me. As I said my wedding vows I sealed my own fate. As we packed to move out to the States, the sofa was just so much collateral damage. Oh woe is me, cursed by this twiddle riddle, pure innocent that I am.


Now where did I leave my knitting?

























Clickety click!

Out of time

I suspect that I am stuck in a time warp circa 1970. I think hard, as I need to assess if I need to recalibrate. Under what possible circumstances would my parents have taken me to the European equivalent of Build a Bear with 50 bucks in my hot little hand? They would have had to have won the Lotto! Someone must have had a near death experience! Maybe my birthday and I had behaved like an angel for 365 days! They all seem equally unlikely.

I move forward a couple of decades and re-examine the circumstances under which I would have taken my first child to such an establishment? Single parents are often short of cash. It would definitely have been a special treat or over compensation for guilt, another fringe benefit of single parenthood. I ignore the issues of the exchange rate and twenty years of inflation.

The thinking has failed to provide me with a solution.

I look at my daughter, the epitome of pleading. She was invited to a play date, which has now morphed into a visit to Build a Bear. A parental contribution was necessary last time for such an expensive treat. No-one should be expected to fork out the cash for two children for such a jaunt. I am reluctant to repeat the exercise within the same month.

























“It’s very simple dear, we can’t afford it.”
“But we’re rich!”
“Yes we are. We have a house, food on the table, we can pay the bills, but $50 is too much for an afternoons entertainment.” I try not to make comparisons. It seems little enough by comparison to 50 minutes of speech therapy. I don't belong to the 'treat all your children the same' club any more, not for a long time.
“$50? But I need money for the movies and snacks too.
"Movies? I thought you were going to Build A Bear?"
"And a movie."
"All in one afternoon.........it was supposed to be just a play date."
"You said I could go! I can use my allowance if you like.”
“That doesn’t even come close dear.”
“Use your credit card.”
“Credit cards……” I decide not to disappear down a blind alley. “Your dad’s been in England for two weeks. Two weeks of not working. Two weeks without pay. So not only is there no money coming in, he also had to pay for an expensive flight, hire a car and live there for two weeks.”
“What about the money in the bank?” I had forgotten how simple life is when you are young.

I grow weary of being out smarted and out manoeuvred by ten year olds. I want her to experience a little bit of what other people consider ‘normal’ but I’m unwilling to shoulder the practical fall out. How can I equate 45 minutes of occupational therapy for two with an afternoon of frolick for one at a fraction of the cost? What is really necessary and what is extravagance?

At ten years old, I might have gone tadpoling, fished for pollywogs with an old jam jar. I’d have had some squashed sandwiches wrapped in tin foil. It would have been fun.

When my oldest daughter was ten, we would have done the same thing, but with a bigger picnic. It would have been fun.

I lift a coffee mug to my lips but resist, as a thimbleful more will make me tremble. I glance over the neatly stacked piles of Pokemon trading cards on the windowsill, at the roiling clouds through the window. I am ill equipped to tutor smallish children but I’m way out of my depth with the next developmental stage of growth. I watch the first spike of lightening whip out from the clouds and count, waiting for the clap of thunder in my brain.

Fading

This is the last topic of three:-
1. "Sequencing"
2. "Association"
3. "Fading"

To read more click “here.”

Associations

We all make associations all the time, where we connect one event or set of circumstances with another. I associate the arrival of Summer with sun burn, turning puce and spending many a happy hour peeling off strips of dead snake skin from my arms. I associate the holidays with Christmas pudding, hidden silver shillings to break teeth and a visit to the dentist. Some of the connections we make are faulty but they’re hard to shift once they’ve been experiencing. We learn through our unique experiences.

Teaching autistic children can be difficult because their motivations differ so greatly from the average child. It is because of this that frequently we need to use motivators that many other parents disapprove of quite strongly. Most people are on board with giving a child a piece of candy for successfully conquering potty training at a young age, commonly under 5 years old. These same people are less convinced by giving an older child an M&M for putting on one sock, ineptly. I suspect that it’s the back story that’s missing.

To read more click "here."

Sequencing, association and fading – how’s your learning curve?

These are the last three subjects that I’ll be tackling on Trusera. Initially I just wanted to discuss fading, which is a huge hurdle for our family, but then I found that would be too difficult without touching on the other two first.

Sequencing is simple for most of us. Others find ‘doing things in the right order,’ a Herculean challenge.

Lets take an every day example, such as hand washing. I quickly discover that when I break the task down into it’s separate parts, there are 13 single steps to hand washing and they need to be done in the right order to achieve an approximation of cleanliness. If I take my chocolatey hands to the bathroom and dry them on the towel first, I will fail to achieve the desired result. Additionally, if I start all over again from scratch and eventually get to step 13 to dry my now clean hands, I find that the towel is all covered in chocolate. This is not a good result.

To read more click "here."

Alex Barton

"was fortunate. My father was in the Navy which meant that we never had to endure any one school for very long, as there was always another posting hanging in the wings to bring relief. The crunch came with boarding school where my education was stabilized from 11 until I was 18. Like many marginalized children, not in the ‘in crowd,’ I made it to adulthood relatively unscathed. That was all back in the bad old days when people were more narrow minded, ancient history. These days people are more enlightened, open minded and accepting of differences great and small. We enjoy an 'inclusive' mentality and marginalize the judgmental tendencies.

Other people are far less fortunate than me. Their experiences defy comprehension.

Today I learned of a young man who was ostracized publicly, his name is "Alex Barton." This little chap is definitely small but he is neither round nor freckled. He looks perfect. He is perfect. He is the perfect fit for his loving family. Sadly, he is not a perfect fit for some of his peers, primarily his teacher who orchestrated his ousting and planted stigma in the young minds of many. I learn that other "autistic people" have had similar experiences. Many others are flabbergasted at such behaviour.

Strangely, or rather coincidentally, a pal sent me this quote yesterday:-

"Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me." Mathew 25:33-40.

Another chum sent me this e-mail. She is no longer small and round, and I grew up to be much bigger than I ever imagined.

Tequila and Salt


This should probably be taped to your bathroom mirror where one could read it every day.

You may not realize it, but it's 100% true.

1. There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.
4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.
5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.
6. You mean the world to someone.
7. You are special and unique.
8. Someone that you don't even know exists loves you.
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you take another look.
11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.

So...........

If you are a loving friend, send this to everyone, including the one that sent it to you.
If you get it back, then they really do love you. If life hands you Lemons, skip the lemonade,
ask for Tequila and Salt and call me over!

Best wishes from me and mine to all the Bartons.

Here are another couple of links to blogs of a more erudite nature on the same subject.

"Left Brain Right Brain"

and

"Action for Autism."

Many thanks to "Bev" for pointing us all in the right direction and to "Niks Mom" as we all gather together.

Alex might benefit from going to "Adam's" school, where inclusion is a positive goal that many more of our children should enjoy.

"Drive mom Crazy" also gives as an adults perspective.

"Abfh" posts on this today too, as well as providing a very handy telephone number "here" in case you're not the writing type.

Here are some more jolly good links that we may be able to pass around the blogosphere:-



http://whittereronautism.com/2008/05/alex-barton/
http://leftbrainrightbrain.co.uk/?p=834
http://actionforautism.co.uk/2008/05/24/alex-is-cool/
http://aspergersquare8.blogspot.com/2008/05/not-special-support-alex-barton.html
http://maternal-instincts.blogspot.com/2008/05/alex-barton-deserves-better.html
http://joyofautism.blogspot.com/2008/05/autistic-kindergarten-student-gets.html
http://drivemomcrazy.com/?p=379
http://autisticbfh.blogspot.com/2008/05/st-lucie-county-schools-vote-wendy.html
http://lastcrazyhorn.wordpress.com/2008/05/25/the-golden-rule/
http://www.cogitamusblog.com/2008/05/someone-explain.html
http://www.drumsnwhistles.com/2008/05/25/voting-the-autistic-kid-off-the-island/
http://stopthinkautism.blogspot.com/2008/05/im-not-special.html
http://www.alongthespectrum.com/2008/05/and-a-new-goat/
http://qw88nb88.wordpress.com/2008/05/25/mend-the-link/
http://www.foggyrock.com/Blog/ViewAllBlogReplies/274
http://thediaperheads-kellyfamily.blogspot.com/2008/05/make-stand-this-is-maddening.html
http://memoirsofachaoticmommy.blogspot.com/2008/05/this-makes-me-so-angry.html
http://joeyandymom.blogspot.com/2008/05/alex-barton.html
http://rettdevil.blogspot.com/2008/05/yes-alex-you-are-special-good-kind.html
http://asansouthwestohio.blogspot.com/2008/05/autistic-student-abused-in-st-lucie.html
http://livsjourney.blogspot.com/2008/05/kindergarden-reality-shows.html
http://bigwhitehat.com/?p=420
http://ballastexistenz.autistics.org/?p=538
http://aspie-editorial.blog-city.com/in_support_of_alex_barton__family.htm
http://beingammey.wordpress.com/2008/05/25/this-is-wrong/
http://www.cre8buzz.com/anthill/?p=519
http://autisticnation.typepad.com/thinking_in_metaphors/
http://wolfsden.wordpress.com/2008/05/25/5-year-old-voted-out-of-class/
http://jonathanturley.org/2008/05/25/teacher-accused-of-public-humiliation-of-five-year-old-autistic-child/
http://golyndon.wordpress.com/2008/05/24/teacher-lets-morningside-students-vote-out-classmate-5/
http://retiredwaif.com/2008/05/25/democracy-in-action/
http://adsoofmelk.wordpress.com/2008/05/25/very-bad-socialization/
http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/255136
http://disstud.blogspot.com/2008/05/hang-in-there-alex-barton-and-your.html

Or you could pop along to my jolly good pal "Last Crazy Horn" as see her sterling work in situ at "Odd One Out."

P.s. We've been battling asthma over here with the boys, so I've not been as vigilant as I should have been. If we've missed you out drop me an e-mail / leave a comment / post a link.

"Here" is a link explaining why some people choose to "homeschool" from "Mrs.C."

A chain reaction

Whenever I was feeling gloomy as a child my mother would tell me to go and do something nice for someone else. It was this advice and several other bits, that made me secure in the knowledge that she was completely barmy. At that time I was unaware of ‘displacement’ activities, and ‘self therapy’ was an alien concept. I think of my barmy old mum as I receive an international telephone call from my chum, the one with the charmed and perfect life:-

“Come on Maddy, tell me all your woes so that I can feel less mopey.”
“Ooo where to start! Shall I tell you about my ghastly gum remodeling escape or the root canal that I had instead accidentally?”

Later in the day, when the painkillers start to wear off and I become more mopey, I telephone my American pal, the one with more woes than is fair for any one person to shoulder. Hers are the kind of woes that can’t be fixed, ameliorated or obliterated. Perfect teeth so no need for dental insurance. Her expenses aren’t for autism therapies but for health issues. A perfect family and yet a life time of unwarranted misery.

“Hello there! I haven’t spoken to you for ages. How are you doing?”
“Oh you know me, nothing to complain about apart from funeral pyre of medical bills.”
“Shall I nip round with a box of matches?”
“No house insurance dearie. That’s the kind of help I could do without.”

Who do you need to phone?

Oiling the wheels

I already know that the process will involve squeaks, so I pick my time. I hope to keeps the screams of agony to a minimum but you just can’t be too careful with this kind of thing. I wait until the boys are engrossed in electronics time and then coax her to the table. I don’t know how it got in there and neither does she, but some how or other, the bubble gum shall be removed from the tresses. Ice cubes have proved a failure so now it’s onto olive oil and picking. She doesn’t believe my promises after the previous debacle with ice and I’ve noticed that all the scissors from the kitchen drawer have disappeared. The offer of a new hair style was shunned. This is definitely one of those chores that I would prefer to delegate to her father.

I make soothing noises as I massage the sticky mess, messages of reassurance with few real words but still she whimpers in anticipation of pain or pending baldness. I hear the scrape of a chair in the hall, quickly followed by another clatter. Over her shoulder I see two boys move in slow motion. One adopts the marine on manovres approach, on his tummy, the hand over hand crawl. The other is in a sitting position, his back towards us as his feet propel him in our direction, very, very, slowly. They take up position under the table in silence. Their sister squeaks, shudders and snivels. The big brother takes the universal protective stance of flat fingers over eyes and thumbs in ears. The little brother takes the alternative protective stance of thumbs in eye balls and index fingers in ear holes. They wait in silence. Every few minutes one of them bends down to peck a kiss on her feet. Precious electronics time minutes ebb away, as they stick to their vigil of solidarity.

Preservative free

She leans against the fridge and the weekly menu plan which is blank. The dictates of the organic weekly vegetable box rules the roost for everyone except junior.

“Soooooo what are we having for supper?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Er….what are you cooking then?”
“Bacon.”
"Bacon it poison! I am be having brown rice and chocolate pudding!"
“We’re having bacon!” she beams.
“Not necessarily it’s just that today is the sell by date.”
“What?”
“Well if I cook it now it will keep for another few days without going off.”
“What’s in the other pan?”
“Greens, or it will be greens when the oil’s hot.”
“Green what?”
"Green is be poison! I am be having brown rice and chocolate pudding!"
“Er…..either Curly Kale or spinach.”
“Which?”
“Whichever bunch is less yellow.”
“Yellow?”
“Which has the floppier stalks?”
“Floppy?”
“Hmm, the Kale wins by a whisker.”
“We’re having curly kale and bacon?”
“Probably not. Kale and something.”
“What’s the something?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“How can you be cooking yet not know what we’re going to eat?”
“Well, sometimes it’s like that. I’m waiting for inspiration.”

Her father walks in to drape himself on the kitchen counter, but that’s jet lag for you.

“Is there any inspiration in the fridge?” she queries in a tentative tone.
“I hope so. Have a peek and give me a hint.”
“What about this cheese? Ooo no it’s all yucky.”
"Cheese is for mouses!"
My! His categorization skills are coming on a treat, or is that prejudices?
“We can scrape that off.”
“Eeow no.”

Her father remains silent as his eye lids droop.

“What’s this?”
“Hmm looks like……they used to be…..mushrooms.”
“What are they now?”
“Petrified, I mean dried. Chuck em over.”
“Must I?”
“It’ll be fine. You’re a great help.”
Her father crumples a little further.
“What else dear?”
“Well there’s this box of……something or other.”
“Ah, left over rice, perfect.”
"Rice is be mine!"
“So? What’s it gonna be?”
“I’m still debating. What else is there in the fridge?”
“But you’ve got a pot on every burner now. Surely you must be cookin something?”

An unwelcome murmur comes forth from the unfortunate time traveler, “I’ll never moan about airline food again.”
“Yes, there’s nothing like fresh organic produce to stimulate creativity!”
“Sounds like a dose of swamp fever to me.”

I can see into the future. It’ll be a different kind of fever, of the cabin variety and I’ll throw away the key.