SOOC Smiley Saturday

Sadly, things are not quite as cheerful here as they usually are:-

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Lost Cat
Unis = Tabby and Stripes
Red collar with heart shaped tag.

If found please call [408]............

I'm afraid there aren't many smiles around here today, but maybe if we keep looking......

Keep your fingers crossed for us.

The art of Persuasion

In an ideal world I would send my children off to school each day with a nutritious, organic, salt free, home made, preservative free, high fibre, low fat perfectly balanced lunch and snack. However, I don’t or rather I don’t live in an ideal world and I send my children to school with a bunch of junk. I send my little darlings to school with a bunch of junk on the off-chance that given a less than perfect setting, they may just eat a mouthful or maybe two. Lunch times are noisy and busy and over stimulating and just about everything is more interesting or testing than eating, which is pretty low down on their personal agendas.



Whilst neophobia has been banned from our lives following the 5 year food campaign, it is not a total success. With persuasion and patience he does indeed eat a full panoply of food at home, at dinner time but we are still spoon-feeding him, quite literally. The spoon-feeding will be faded but in the meantime we count are blessings and try not to count his ribs as the clothing campaign still flounders.




It is therefore with some suppressed giggle factor that I take on board the very wise words of another mum. Another mum has witnessed the true vileness of my children’s lunch when she happened, just by chance to be present during the cafeteria madness, otherwise known as luncheon at school. She is of course duly horrified by my indulgence but manages to speak in diplomatic tones since I am so clearly a charity case in need of her no doubt vastly superior nutritional advice.





“It’s just….you know……during STAR testing we want them to have the very best chance.”
“Yes you’re absolutely right.”
“Healthful snacks…..that’s what we recommend.”
“Quite, quite.”
“It’s just that he told me he packs his own……you might just want to check what he chooses.”
“I shall, I shall. I do, I do.”
“It’s great that he’s learned to be so independent.”
“You’re right, very true.”







“It’s a pity the trash cans are right next to the recycling cans.”
“Luckily they can all read very well. The icons are very helpful, eye catching.”
"It's not rocket science but every bit helps."
"You can be sure he'll make the right decision for him."

Cooking lessons with Chicken Little

Clearly it’s an exaggeration, but it’s the nearest I can get to convey the abject panic in the kitchen. Kitchen’s are fraught with dangers for the unwary and the ever so slightly paranoid. The motivation is clear and present, the desire to create something yummy but the overwhelming amount of angst that swirls around the kitchen soon have us both heading up the vortex.

This is primarily due to my own ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and feed the OCD beast within.

Throughout this exercise there is the underlying ghost of tactile defensiveness, the abhorrence of dirty hands. I think there may well be a smidge of this phenomenon in many of us. It’s the reaction we feel when the unexpected happens. We stroll along on our own sweet way, when out of nowhere we find something deeply offensive on our skin. The sensation is so vile that it shocks the conscience, enough to see your own hand in 3-D, ten times it’s normal size, pulsating and alien. It’s the same as being in a concrete car park with no leaf to act as a wipe, no grass to scrape it off, where your only option is to sacrifice your top or your trousers and remain half clad. It’s the preferable option. Slightly preferable to the temptation to chop off the appendage and run away because you forgot to pack your machete. Or at least that’s my interpretation of what I witness daily.

***

The oven farts as the temperature rises, “what is dat sound is being?”
“Oh it’s just the stove coming up to 325. It sounds like it’s about to explode but it won’t.”
“Itz gonna explode? Agh!”
“No, no , no, it’s just a figure of speech. Lets go and crack the eggs, your favourite bit. Stand on the step but don’t wobble or fall off.”
“I am fall off and be hurted myself?”
“No, no, no. Here, concentrate on the eggs. Crack them on the post in the middle of the Cuisinart as it’s less messy but be careful you don’t cut yourself on the blade.”
“I am gonna cut my fingers off?”
“No, no, no. Here lets grease the pan shall we?”
“Grease is dah disgustin. I don wan dah disgustin on my bread!”
It may be only 72 degrees in my Californian kitchen but the beads of stress make it feel like a tinder box. At each and every step we meet with the unexpected or rather the ‘not thoroughly researched and prepared in advance.’ His progress in the art of chefdom is hampered greatly but the adult sized disposable gloves that hang like condoms from each finger. I am now deeply uncertain if this compromise really is an improvement on the alternative two minute hand washing ritual?
As we spoon the mixture into the pan the whole kitchen looks like a war zone but his excitement is palpable. He smacks his lips with exaggerated anticipation and an air of mischief as a centimeter of tongue protrudes.
“You’re not supposed to lick the spoons with the raw cake mixture these days or you might get Salmonella poisoning.” I look at his little furrowed brow. A child who has only eaten real food for about 6 months of his little life, and maybe a baker’s dozen of eggs. Do I really want to wipe out his digestive system with raw eggs?
“I am gonna be poison?”
His eyes are on stalks having navigated the total nightmare of his mother’s death trap clangers. “Tell you what?”
“What?”
“Let’s lick the spoon and see if you get ill?” He looks at the smeared spoon just beneath his nostrils with the captivating combination of cinnamon, vanilla and sugar as fortunately zuchinni appear to have been overwhelmed by the other ingredients. “Do you think it’s worth the risk?” I watch as he squirms and racks his taut and tangled insides, both brain and body. “The hospital’s only a hop, skip and a jump away if anything goes wrong……” After much dog panting, eye squeezing and hand wringing he pounces, envelops the spoon with his mouth as little shivers, fire cracker through his elastic spine. I count, silently, although I’m not quite sure what I’m expecting. “Dat is dah greatest Chef’s triumph….even better dan Elephant Ears.”
“That good indeed!”
“Yes my chocolate chip zucchini bread is being manners from heaven!”

It’s cake actually, but that’s Americans for you.

Someone might be wondering where the other two were during this 30 minute marathon? That’s right! Electronics time was sacrificed in favour of cookery, although to be fair that probably added quite considerably to his angst.

My angst? Well I left out the fact that during this same period, with a cacophony of ‘electronic’s time’ musak, Mr. B was very kindly washing up in our very narrow galley kitchen. Mr. B, a Portuguese speaking Brazilian, had numerous questions regarding the English present tense imperfect. Thatcher had two accidents which needed attention, as puppy training can never be neglected. My daughter arrived home from work, hungry and determined to make cheese rolls in the very same kitchen. All conversational exchanges were fraught due to her waterlogged ears, a mild improvement upon water on the brain. It’s a miracle we all survived. And if that was you who kept phoning and leaving messages, then forgive me as I had the volume turned off.

p.s. I wrote that a week ago. I just thought you might be interested to know that he can now cook without using up a whole box of disposable gloves. I hope Mother Earth takes pity on environmental whores like me?

Here’s a "link" to the recipe we used for "Zucchini Bread" or rather Courgette Cake. We added a cup[ish] of chopped up mangled Walnuts and half a cup of chocolate chips. It’s very, very sweet.

Moluscs with slime on the side

This also tied in with "Works for Me Wednesdays" the "Frugal" Edition.

I actually stole this from "Scribbit" who borrowed it from "Plum Pudding."






Because I am forced to try these things out in advance to iron out any kinks, I can tell you that it works better with thicker skinned hot dogs and thinner pasta, [the link does specify thin pasta but I rarely read labels] anything that cooks more quickly. Whilst normally you would keep pasta a a rolling boil, for this a simmer and then a dunk in iced water works much better.

Now if that isn't the cheapest frugal children's meal around the bazaars at the moment I'll eat my hat, just please don't ask me to eat either the pasta or the hot dogs.





To finish it off a quick Bechamel or cheese sauce would be ideal, especially with a splash of blue food colouring for our swimmy friends. It that doesn't confuse your taste buds nothing will.

Last for those who cannot abide people who play with their food, instead you can just dress it up into a necklace for those more formal occasions.



Lastly, for my son who loves snails almost as much as I like slug pellets......










I cannot begin to describe how much fun my "little chef" and I had making these. Now eating them......well that's quite another matter. Apparently Molluscs are mouthwatering. Who knew?

Thank you "Megan" for giving us such a brilliant time.






If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

How to make a chef's hat

Now surely this is something that everyone needs in their life, regardless of whether you're a gourmand or a cheez whiz kind of a cook. It's really a question of look the part and step into the role.

All you need is some stiff card, seleotape, scissors, measuring tape and five minutes.

Measure the diameter of the head that you wish to adorn and mark that length plus an inch onto the card. Try and find a large piece of old card to re-use rather than recycle.




Cut through the card to a two inch border that will form the head band.




Clip and then tape the headband to overlap one inch.




Reach through the inside and tape the lengths together to form a dome.



Done.



Go on, indulge your child's latest whim. Now that's what I call "positive reinforcement." When I think of how I had the nerve to ask the staff at Flames for one of their "disposable chef's hats," I can feel a blush! What can I say? Pushy Brits. Now that's something I'd never have been brave enough to do a few years ago. There again the real bravery award goes to someone willing to put something on his head!






Don't forget to check out other participants.

On a side note, if you are struggling to pay for therapy for your special needs child, if the insurance has dried up and tossed you to one side, if you ever think for one moment that the whole thing is completely hopeless, takes forever and wonder if you really are doing the right thing.......I'm here to tell you, or rather ask you, to remain hopeful.

Old dogs and new tricks

There are some lovely people around my neighbourhood and this particular bunch refer to themselves as 'crafters.' The term 'crafter,' is I believe, peculiar to America, as elsewhere, such people just have 'hobbies.' There are all sorts of subtleties that pass way over my head, as I prefer to remain close to the ground like the low life that I truly am. That said they're a jolly and generous crowd, who welcome newcomers with interest and warmth.


As we age we become wise, or at least that is the theory. Personally I find that as I grow older, I become increasingly scatty, forgetful and what my son refers to as ‘random.’ I am prone to stereotype people, it's shorthand. It's one of my many faults but old dogs, mongrels, can still learn new things.

I find that I have learned new things and benefited greatly from attending three, consecutive, six week courses of puppy training. I only wish I’d completely the puppy training before I had the children. That said one of the things I learned, or rather had reinforced, is that many people dislike direct eye contact, far more than I had appreciated. It's not just autistic people, it's not just shy people, it's all sorts of people.

I had this demonstrated to me recently when I attended a curiously American event, a side walk sale. A rough translation of ‘side walk sale’ is when sellers and crafters park themselves outside the shop on the sidewalk together with their wares to sell to the general public, face to face. I am told by those who know about such things, that the general public like to meet the people who make the things that they buy, although I’m a bit doubtful myself.

Hence, here is a picture of the lovely ladies meeting and greeting. Off to the side I am also poised, carving bowls. I’m side ways on, head down, absorbed. It is a non threatening pose that can prove very useful when you encounter unfamiliar dogs to demonstrate that you’re not an aggressive Alpha and just want to play. If I was Joe Public or the man on the Clapham Omnibus, I might step over the occupied woman and take a peek but I’d have a hard time meeting the ever so friendly and enthusiastic ladies, head on. It would just be too intimidating. I would feel obliged to make conversation and praise their work, which I may not like. I am a bad liar and I would be exposed as such. If I liked their work, then that would be great, but then I should feel obliged to buy something and money is tight.

So humour me? With whom would you feel more comfortable and why?

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

Mother’s Day

It’s day celebrated the world over, although often on different days but in American it is celebrated on the second Sunday in May. People’s ideas about how to celebrate differ greatly in perspective. Some people differ greatly in perspective from the mainstream. These people have their own insight, sometimes their own ideas and other times I suspect, gleaned from other people.

“They’re going to surprise you Mum, so pretend to be surprised.”
“Right. Thanks for the warning.”

“It’s gonna be your perfect day Mom. Yur gonna rest and we’re gonna be perfect little angels……even the boys.”
“How delightful.”

“So ……you’re gonna spend the whole day in bed…….restin…….alone? Why would anyone wanna do dat?”
“Who indeed?”

“I’m still gonna be the king of cats all the time on Mother’s Day……but maybe……you can be dah Queen.”

Promotion from serf!



Today I am also over at "5 Minutes for Special Needs Mummies."

Mother's Day preparations

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It's the simple things in life as they say, but as Mother's Day approaches in the US so does the trial.

It’s cruel to be kind really although it does smack of self interest. Mother’s Day is such a difficult concept to grasp for some.

Under normal circumstances a spouse can rally to the cause, but some spouses work for Start Up Companies, which roughly translates to indentured servitude for those not in the know. Therefore the task falls to me, the mother, to engineer my own celebration.

Some might ask ‘why bother?’ and I’d be inclined to agree but strangely, when the great day dawns inordinate amounts of stress and anxiety follow from not adhering to some arbitrary social norm. There are few things that are quite as pitiful as small people who experience a vague notion of failure because no-one thought to kick their executive function into gear well in advance.

Personally, I favour the hand made with loving care kind of a gift rather than the bankrupt and broken allowance kind of a present, but somehow the latter would be so much easier.

The simplest option would be to make a greeting card or maybe a picture, however both these options generally involve the use of paper, scissors and other irascible tools such as crayons, otherwise referred to hereonafter as weapons of torture, which rather defeats the purpose of the exercise. It’s like saying, ‘oh look mother’s day is a few weeks away, howabout you take off your shoes and walk over this handy bed of nails that I prepared earlier?’ That kind of love I can do without.

No. As often as not we work with what we’re given in the hope of achieving success. These days my children will willingly go outside into the garden and take some interest in the contents. Fortunately, you don’t need scissors to snap off a stalk and there are so many flowers to choose from. Home grown, home made and still hopeful.

Meanwhile if you’d like a secret message in a ‘word search puzzle’ bowl, just let me know.










Tomorrow on Mummy's day in the USA I shall be over at "5 minutes for Special Needs Moms."

Cheers dears

Notable quotes

“Wot are your pirate parts?”
“?”

*****

“Don’t use toilet paper to dry your hands dear it’s wasteful.”
“Wot I dry my hands?”
“The towel! Right there! Where is always is. I’m sure someone’s eating the loo rolls we use so many.”
“Yeah.”
“Yes? Someone’s eating toilet paper?”
“Yes.”
“Who? Who is eating toilet paper?”
“Thatcher.”
“!”

****

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Can I have electronics now.”
“Sorry dear, you know the rule.” I see his bottom lip quiver but of course I cannot speak falsely. “I know, why don’t you go and see Daddy? See what he says?” He toddles off pale and wan and skinny to ask, whilst I clean up after five hours of vomiting, headaches and baths, but at least he’s vertical again. I pop the next load of laundry on as he appears behind me, “so what did Daddy say luvvy?”
“He says I can be havin electronics coz……..just this once on account of you had a real shitty day.”
“!”

***

My daughter arrives home with Thatcher after his ‘walk.’ We discuss his new habit of eating toilet paper as he collapses on a heap on the floor, tummy exposed, legs akimbo with exhaustion. My younger son dives on him for a cuddle.
“I checked with the vet,” she offers, to keep me up to speed.
“And.”
“He has no idea, but it’s not good. As for his other ailments he’s quite fine.”
“Yuck! Dat is gross!” yells the cuddler as he leaps to his feet.
“What’s the matter dear?”
“He doesn’t use toilet paper.”
“Who doesn’t use toilet paper?”
“Thatcher.”
“No….that’s because he’s a boy or rather that’s because he’s a dog. He merely eats the darned stuff.”
“I am never touching the private parts of a dog again!”
“!”
I guide him towards the bathroom for the next clean up, “you probably need to be more careful where you put yourself when cuddling.”
“I’m gonna stick to the end dat licks.”

Blogging Against Disablism

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Please go and check out other participants over "here" at "Diary of a Goldfish."

This is a difficult topic for me because I do not consider myself to be a political junkie. If anything my politics are more of the green
variety. That said I'm only to happy to get on my soap box when it comes to my feminist aspirations, however those opinions are not born out in reality. It's not easy to be a feminist when you're married and a stay at home parent.

I was thinking about how my feminist values had petered out recently when I listened to a snippet of a radio interview where a journalist said that her husband came first, before her children. Her point was in part that when women became mother's they switched roles from partner to obsessive women thoroughly absorbed in raising their children to the exclusion of all other aspects of life.

Whether or not this is true is debatable, but it made me think.

It made me think about how we didn't exactly plan to have four children neither did we plan to have two differently abled children, autistic boys.

Whilst I was busy perseverating about life the universe and everything else in-between updating PEC boards and snipping itchy labels out of new summer clothes, I also caught a snippet of a television programme that my daughter was watching. The programme was about autistic twins, women in the 50's. It took account of their lives following the death of their parents and then their sole supporting sister. Savants indeed, but life skills and survival in the big bad world proved to be a trial.

The word 'institution' was whispered. The equivalent of Social Services came on the case. The possibilities of respite care, supportive services and day centres for both the family and the women. Common sense made the light of day. There were positive possibilities and a willingness to make it happen.

And that's when it dawned on me, because I'm sometimes a bit slow on the uptake. Regardless of the politics, feminist or otherwise, that's my job. Whilst I have "many" "responsibilities" and "aspirations," we created these children and brought them into the world. Our job is to do the very best we can, like all other parents, to ensure that our children have the best chance at life and all it's possibilities.

Toil and trouble

We return from school in full metldown mode following another stressful bout of STAR testing. With homework awaiting us as well as any number of chores to be completed in a tight three hours I see trouble ahead. I am behind with just about everything as efficiency standards have dropped quite markedly of late.

Once inside I cannot decide where to start but luckily someone prompts me.

“I am "cook.”
“Are you? Well it is nearly 90. I don’t mind if you want to take your shirt off dear.”
“No!”
“No?”
“No ……I am be cook today.”
“What are you cook? Er…..I mean……..you want to cook something?”
“Yes.”
“Really?" To be honest I am not keen as a hot pulsating oven is the very last thing we need at the moment. That said, some opportunities are too good to miss. "What do you want to cook?”
“Somefink in dis book I am having here.”
“Ooo that looks nice.”
“Do we have it?”
“Do we have what dear?”
“A chef’s white hat?”
“No……but you don’t need a chef’s hat to cook…..and……I can make you one later after you’ve cooked something. Do you plan to eat what you cook?”
“Yes I am gonna be an eater and a chefer today.”
“Lummy. Two for the price of one.”
“So am be read dah book.”
“Good oh. Which one would you like to make?”
“Sugar cookies.”
“We don’t have any confectioners sugar.”
“Chocolate crinkle cookies.”
“No chocolate.”
“Chocolate ice-cream cake!”
“We don’t have any cocoa nor ice-cream. Maybe we should go to the shops and buy all the things we need?” As I murmour this out loud I have visions of the already squished schedule exploding with yet another, particularly arduous, chore.
“No! Ah……elephant ears.”
“!”
“I am make dem elephant ears.”
“Pardon?”
“Elephant ears.” I peer over his shoulder at the book.
“Oh Palmiers.”
"Palmies is dah English?"
"European."
“Not palmies European,...... earies.....American.”
"!"

From Neophobe to Chef in under 6 months

Now that my fine friends is what we call ironic.

As such, I feel obliged to add a wee giveaway, not gently used, but slightly trashed due to constant usage, namely "Just Take A Bite."

I believe I have read every book on the market ranging from picky eaters to real neophobes and this was the only one that worked for us. If you know of someone who might benefit from a healthy dollop of sanity, probably a parent, then send them on over to enter and win. It's an expensive investment that was well worth it for us and I would hope to be able to help someone else through this torrid time. It doesn't 'cure' neophobes, but it does offer a change of perspective and approach.




Thank you for pointing out that the clothes campaign still falters. One baby step at a time methinks.







If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

Many thanks to the kindly anonymous bod that added yesterday's post to Stumbleupon. If I knew who you were......

Cheers dears

Got you pegged

A step by step guide to making your own peg bag or laundry hamper or toy tidy, it's that versatile! Reduce, recycle, re-use and go green all at the same time.

Level of difficulty = easy peasy

This is best made from sturdy material such as corduroy, canvas or heavy linen. Alternatively, use up anything you have hanging around including old clothes that are no longer wearable. Use a plastic hanger because then when it’s hanging up outside in the weather it won’t rust.




Cut out the shape, large or small depending upon how many mountains of laundry you tackle in the average day.





Look at your hand, if you are the one who will be pegging out the clothes and compare it’s size to the bowls in your kitchen. Use the right size bowl to draw a circle in the upper centre of the front of the bag with taylor’s chalk, or any other chalk come to think of it. [*] Keep it on the high side so that you can reach into the bag, as if you put it too low all the pegs will fall out.





Sew around the hole with bias binding.



Since bias binding is hideously expensive and comes in a really titchy packets, you can make your own either contrasting or of the same material. All you have to do is cut a strip diagonally [the bias] across the warp of the fabric. [or possibly weft?] Bias binding is stretchy and therefore more forgiving when you attach it.



Bind off the neck [top] similarly to prevent fraying.

French seam outside edge and reinforce the ‘shoulders’ and base seam if you plan to use a lot of pegs, as if they’re wooden they get much heavier when they’re wet.

Lastly insert the hanger through the hole.[*] Make sure that the hanger will also fit through the hole first before you attach the bias binding.

These natty little bags are also very handy for camping unless you want to sleep in a nest of Pokemon. They also double as laundry hampers. You can hang them on the back of your child’s bedroom door to encourage independence. If you use them for either of the previous purposes then it’s a good idea to add an open-able flap at the bottom of the bag for quick release.



I have tried doing this with old favourite t-shirts but the results are a bit too stretchy with far too much give, however, I think it’s perfectly feasible to make the bag out of a plain white fabric and then attach a large front square of the stretchy T-shirt as an appliqué decoration.











And if anyone gives me a tissue box cover or a peg bag for Mother's Day I shall be extremely miffed.........unless it's been made with tender loving care from smaller people with bigger souls.