Speak for yourself - I am not a conduit

I understand some of it.

Part of it is woolly terminology.

How can it be a bathroom if it only has a shower? Why is it called a sitting room when no-one sits there? Dining room is meaningless if ‘dining’ isn’t in your vocabulary. The situation is made worse by parents who do not use language consistently - where ‘corridor’ and ‘hall’ are used interchangeably, at random. How can it be a corri’door’ when there are no doors?

Then there’s the practical matter - we live in an open plan house, where a ‘room’ may have two and a bit walls, undefined, not delineated by any visual boundary, no doors bar entry.

Part of the problem is that the name of any room is unimportant anyway – off radar.
Why is the garage a garage, when it houses a car not a gar? What about the kitch, what is it? When you leave, does it become a kitchout? Isn’t every room a family room? If you share bunks why isn’t it a bedsroom? It can’t be a spare room or guest room, and a day bed is a contradiction in terms. Only the garden is easy – out-side, enclosed by a ten-foot fence, with locked gates.

When they were little they didn’t have the words to explain the confusion. Now they do, and I’m the one that’s confused. We need a map for our own home, but we keep plodding onwards and upwards.

***

I sit on the floor with my youngest son, a pair, while the respite worker, Ms. G, sits at the table in the dining room – she’s six, stride-lengths away. Conversation is encouraged by not obligatory. I start:-
“Why don’t you tell Ms. G what happened to your sister yesterday?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Can’t remember?”
“No. You tell er.”
“I think she’d rather it about it from you. It was only yesterday.”
“Yesterday is being a very long time ago for my type of peoples.”
“What about all that drama? Tell Ms. G. She’s listening.”
“Don’t know drama.”
“Yes you do – when I had to rush off to collect her from school and take her to the doctor and you stayed at home and were very good because you used your emergency crisis behavior.”
“Oh yeah.”
“So? Tell Ms. G what happened, how she hurt her finger?”
“I don’t know. I weren’t there.”
“But we told you all about it when we got home again. Ms. G wants to hear all about it, from you.”
I look at his dead pan face.
“SIGH..Basketball is a blood sport?”
“Not that bit, anyway, don’t tell me. Tell Ms. G. Remember what we talked about? Being polite. When someone’s in the same room, include them, address them directly.”
“But she ain’t in the same room.”

I look across expanse, from the open plan sitting room, to the open plan dining room where a silent Ms. G observes and grins at me.

Sometimes I’m tempted to run away and hide amongst the filing cabinets in dad’s home off’ence.’

Three Book Reviews

On Their Own, Creating and Independent Future for Your Adult Child with Learning Disabilities and ADHD by Anne Ford published by Newmarket Press



Siblings the autism spectrum through our eyes edited by Jane Johnson and Anne Van Rensselaer published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers.





Stand Up for Autism by Georgina J Derbyshire, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

1. On Their Own, Creating and Independent Future for Your Adult Child with Learning Disabilities and ADHD by Anne Ford published by Newmarket Press, also author of 'Laughing Allegra.'

Why would I read a book about young people with learning disabilities moving into adult independence when my children are autistic and young?

Because I want to get ahead of the curve and learn from people who have already been there and done it, and because I have a secret agenda; I want to know how they fixed things, skip to the end and learn how they lived happily ever after, but of course that's where I went wrong.

Usually I can tell early on if I'm going to enjoy a particular book. Something to do with the tone, writing style and general approach, invaluable information to let me know if we're on the same wavelength.

Anne shares an anecdote, that hits just the right chord. She was called to jury duty, along with eleven other people, where naturally enough, the conversation turned to the subject of learning disabilities - we all know someone etc. It's a beautiful description of the frustration and inability to communicate with public at large - not mental retardation, not autism, not ADD, not ADHD - it's like trying to nail down jello.

The same issues arise with learning disabilities as they do with other spectrum diagnoses, we have so much common ground.

This book helped me recalibrate and look forward in a practical manner, examine our options and keep a common sense approach to what might be manageable; a fine balance between optimism and realistic expectations.

I particularly enjoyed the chapter on the topic of motivation, especially when you mix in the raging hormones of teenagers, closely tied into the nightmare of self esteem. I can definitely see myself utilizing some of those strategies.

Ultimately this book is as deeply frustrating as it is satisfying.

Why?

Because everything we are currently doing with our children to prepare them for an independent life in the future, it what we must continue to do. It's the old adage, 'a marathon not a sprint.'

So, buy it, read it, and keep it on hand as a visual cue to represent the goalpost - let's hope our aim is good.


2.
Siblings - the autism spectrum through our eyes, edited by Jane Johnson and Anne Van Rensselaer, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

It’s divided into sections. Part I is for younger children and parents, and Part II is for teenagers and parents.

I thoroughly enjoyed 90% of this book - any less than that and I wouldn't write a review. It's a slim volume of 94 pages - not too daunting for young people to read and share with their friends. It is filled with the startling insight of youngsters with siblings on the spectrum.

They share their experiences with undoubted candor and display a degree of wisdom and compassion way beyond their years. Each speaks in their own distinct voice with anecdotes, and remarkable humor.

Some have strategies for coping and the common themes of embarrassment, frustration and love. They reluctantly accept the status quo, that their autistic sibling has the lion's share of parental attention - sobering.

The 10% I didn't enjoy?

You'll find it for yourself when you read it.

Not all siblings cope as well as others. I imagine this was an editorial decision. In some ways it detracts from the honest and positive outlook of this book, but it also serves as a stark contrast - those who learn, mature, grow in strength and develop a positive attitude, and those who struggle with inner demons and conflicts. Which is why I'm in two minds about it. If I were a sibling of an autistic person and read a book where everyone had learned to cope, but I was still struggling, it could be too daunting - 'how come they're doing o.k. and I'm not, there must be something wrong with me?' All the children and young people featured had difficult issues to adjust to, it wasn't easy, and they express common difficulties that we all share.

Not everyone has access to support groups, people similarly situated, or even internet forums, so what better way to find like minded people than in a book, in the privacy and security of your own home.

3.

Stand Up for Autism by Georgina J Derbyshire, published by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

So here's the deal. You must buy this book, BUT you must NOT read it.

First an aside and then an explanation.

Aside -

Georgina writes about her son Bobby who, as brief short-hand, has Asperger's Syndrome. Just writing those last two words has made 80% of people switch off, people whose children are sloshing around on some other point[s] on the spectrum - and that's a problem for me, so I must declare my bias.

It's a problem for me because one of my dearest friends has such a child herself. I was there when he was diagnosed, not in the same room, but there in spirit, after-wards and forever after. She has a much tougher time than me because the disability is invisible. People see what they want to see - a mouthy, know it all kid, who doesn't have any problems that wouldn't be sorted out by a quick kick up the butt, or different, better parents - it's divisive, even in the autism community itself.

And yet, because it's a spectrum, no matter where you're located on the continuum, common factors are there to a greater or lesser degree as a child develops, skips over some milestones, regresses to pick up a milestone they 'should' have mastered several years ago, leaps ahead to stranglehold a goal they shouldn't reach for another decade, and so it goes on, fast forward and rewind over the same scattered hurdles.

And now for the explanation - why you can't read it, yet.

Wait until the mail carrier arrives, peek inside to check it's the right book, not some other book you also ordered at the same time. Once you're sure it's this one, re-seal the envelope or package and run to your bedroom. Pick up the stack of books that you are currently reading or about to read and stick the envelope at the bottom of the pile and forget all about it. Allow several inches of dust to accumulate - that's the easy part for me - and wait.

You may have to wait a week, a month or a year, but you will know when your designated reading time has arrived. That time will be when you've just experienced an exceptionally bad day, part of which may be attributable to some element of autism, probably an exacerbating factor, to an already dis-functional day. When the day comes you have my express permission to lock yourself into your bedroom - sadly that probably has to be at night time when [hopefully] everyone is asleep - and then you're allowed to read it. It will be one of those nights when you'd like to escape into your favorite genre but don't really have the stomach for it. You're tempted to read some more research to see if there is some hint somewhere that might improve your families situation, but you're too tired to concentrate and anyway, you've had quite enough of everything including autism for today. So, now you get the chance to read something which makes you feel less lonely, inadequate and pathetic, because there's someone out there, Georgina, who also has similar experiences. Do you really want to read another self serving memoir about the misery of autism - no thank you very much - so instead you can enjoy a brief snippet of someone else's life with the added benefit of a huge dollop of humor.

It's short, 140 pages.

Too short.

But that's exactly why you have to save it and savor it.

I'd also like to know who did the art work as my copy doesn't say.

So I made a quick check - what are the top ten "New York Times Bestsellers" in non-fiction? See for yourself "here," - an interesting spread but I don't notice any humor.

Humor, for me at least, should be in everyone's top ten. Don't get me wrong, I love Jessica Kingsley Publishers, my life line to sanity for many a long year, but if I could get my hands on Georgina, I'd surely wring her neck. I'd certainly give her a piece of my mind. I'd tell her she'd wimped out. She should be on the New York Times Best Seller list. Basically my unsolicited and unwelcome advice, after the fact, would be that Georgina should have held out – found an agent, someone who could hoik the manuscript to a big publisher, steal a huge advance and then sit back and watch copies of her book fly off the little shelf next to the Tic Tacs, chewing gum, batteries and cheapy, tempting toys, opposite the checkout, in every chain of grocery store, worldwide, translated into every language on the planet.

Medicine that won't go down

It’s a common phenomenon for many of us with children on the spectrum – those pesky fine and gross motor skills, with a dash of scattered sequencing and a dollop of mis-matched motivation – a recipe for disaster if ever I heard one.

They come to the fore every mealtime to taunt and tangle with us. Although we persevere with cutlery my children insist that everything is finger food. Let’s be honest here, how many other parents, cooks and nutritionists also have to factor in ‘splash, spill and ping,’ distance into their calculations? But they keep getting bigger, so something must be reaching their intestines, one way or another. Just lately, it’s ‘another,’ because although they don’t conform to the conventional, they’re nothing if not inventive.

So if you find your dry Cheerios just refuse to co-operate with a fiddly spoon - this might prove to be a good alternative.









Sorry it's been so quite around here lately but it's a bit fraught with "Nonna."

Check mate - Fire breathing dragons?

I lean over him to help with the tricky zipper on his back pack, “so are you ready to play Draughts now that you’ve finished your homework and packed lunch?”
“Ugh!”
“What’s up?”
He shoves past me to dive to the sink, faucet on full flow, “jus a second coz I need water before I die from the smell.” He glugs several gallons before he’s ready to come up for air.
“What smell?” I ask as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
“Ugh! I can’t breathe!”
“Are you alright!”
“I fink I’m gonna faint.”
“Faint? Do you know what that word means?”
“Yes, it’s like dying but only temporary.”
“!”
“Aghhh!”
“Give me a minute, I need to close the seal on the snack bag before we start, don’t want it to go soft.”
“It is being your snack?”
“Yes.”
“What is it being? It’s being worse dan peanut butter poison.”
“The smell? Oh it’s Bombay mix, an Indian snack, I’ve not been able to eat it for…….years! I don’t think you’ll like it though as it’s pretty hot and spicy. ”
“You’re gonna be eatin with it ….again?”
“Yes, it’s my favorite treat now that my teeth are finally fixed.”
“O.k. but don draught on me.”
“Do you mean breathe?”
“Dat’s dah English?”
“Er…yes I suppose so.”
“Don’t Draught on me when we play Checkers.”
“!”

An experiment

It is a well documented phenomenon:-

a youthful individual has a mishap on the play-ground and the autistic child nearby laughs.

Remember that one?

We could of course go into lengthy explanations as to why this should be so, sometimes, with some children – how some emotions, or rather the expression of those emotions, can flip over to their exact opposite – a trip switch.

Frequently, these explanations don’t ring true. This is usually for one of two reasons.

The first reason is when the speaker uses too much jargon, so the listener falls asleep from boredom, not that they were very interested in the first place.

The second, because the explanation is too simplistic, just not good enough to be convincing.

Anyone you know still need convincing?

Here’s my version of convincing.

A small autistic child is depressed – bear with me here, I know few people believe depression is possible in a child – a credibility gap - but it really is true.

So, where were we?

Ah yes, a small sad person comes to you; they’ve been encouraged to express their emotions, not bottle them all up. The small sad person has acquired words, lots of them. The delivery is often a bit dicky but it’s still a vast improvement. The listener must be patient as the child gains confidence, builds up to the moment. They cannot be hurried. Use prompts judiciously. There may be several false starts and sputters. There can be many ways of expressing hurt feelings, feelings of self-loathing and poor self esteem - many parents are familiar with these too. 'Negative talk' is another common phenomenon in autism. Because they are children, the terminology may differ from adult versions on the same subject. The listener must adjust to age appropriateness, calibrate carefully, tune in to any special areas of need. It’s a serious business for us, as we wallow in his ‘cat phase,’ of development, no jokes allows. We must step into their shoes, see the world from their perspective, their sensitivities. Under no circumstances should the child’s concerns be trivialized, dismissed or belittled, no matter what. Sincerity and an open mind are essential elements of being a coach to the sufferer in their time of need, so that when that sweet innocent appears before me, lifts his fragile chin and turns his pale liquid eyes towards mine, fear, pain and suffering etched into the tiny creases at the corners, beneath a curtain of silky dye cut hair and parts those soft cherubic lips to announce:-

“I’m …..I’m …bad….real bad…..really, really bad...I’m as bad…..as bad ……as bad as a pile of dog poo!”

Don’t you dare laugh.

Contractions can be tricky

I nip upstairs to check progress, or lack there of. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, without stitches, surrounded by every shirt he owns, piled up on the carpet in heaps the size of earthworks, as well as his brother’s, a solid mass, indistinguishable, an impenetrable mountain range. But that’s only in my mind, an exaggeration, really there’s only half a dozen. It’s a metaphorical mountain and a distraction to the main event. The main event is to have my son dressed and sequenced through his daily routine in time for the school bus. However, this goal may be hijacked by other competing campaigns: self-care, personal responsibility, natural consequences for actions. I dither. I estimate that on a good day, without any other distractions or pressures, it would be possible to put one, maybe two shirts back on their hangers and into the closet, but that has to be balanced against the amount of time expended on a task that’s unlikely to be completed, could well result in major upsets and quite possibly destroy any possible of the first goal – ready of the bus. Speech and communication has always been the priority, reduce frustration, enhance understanding, but they’re bigger now, in a different place, way further along the road, and someone keeps moving the goalposts. In the midst of my indecision, he speaks.

‘It ate my shirt.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He holds a tan colored top in one hand, blinking at the design on the front.
‘It ate my shirt.’
‘What are you saying.’
He flaps it towards me, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake distracted by his feet trampling the other clean shirts strewn across the room.
‘It ate my shirt.’
‘Who……or what ate your shirt?’
It’s almost a dance now as he travels around the perimeter waving the shirt.
‘It ate my shirt.’
‘That’s what I thought you said. Doesn’t look like it to me. You’re saying that this shirt, ate your other shirt, or shirts, or what?’
He stops for a moment, still, static and startled, as something clicks into place. He looks at the shirt and then at me.
‘Oh no, I meant…….it’s her shirt…..it ain’t my shirt.’
‘Fabulous. That’s much better.’
So stunned by the percolation of the missing ‘n,’ I leave stuffy shirts for another day. [diction]

Notable Quotes and a quickie

My daughter to her little brothers:

‘You guys are just impossible!’
‘No! We’re not guys! He’s a cat and I’m an "Uglyworm."’

My son - after a long, tortuous and circular argument:

‘I am Mister Understood.’

At breakfast, before I am truly awake:

‘You may wish to get some more cereal from the garage, the choice is a bit lean.’ He doesn’t move but continues to stare at the cupboard. I watch him and try again, with far too many words, ‘I’m sure there’s some new packets out there, pretty thin pickings in here.’ He remains rooted to the spot as he slopes into a 65 degree angle with his cheeks sucked in, although its unlikely to make him any skinnier.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend

We survive the drama of the ripped hang-nail and a micro bead of blood. His wounded hand hides in his pulled down sleeve for protection, as his other hand crushes the blood flow.
“Which are you be likin betterer?”
“What’s my choice?”
“Anna….annanem….ammanemoni!”
“Anemones, the flowers?”
“Dey are be lookin like flowers but they are being dah sea creatures.”
“Oh. Of course you’re right, Anemones are animals.”
“So?”
“Hmm?”
“Which are you likin betterer?”
“Anemones or what, what am I choosing between?”
“Nude….nude…. Nudibranchs.”
“Fancy you remembering Nudibranchs! The enemy of all free thinking Anemones.”
“They are predators.”
“So I’m choosing between Anemones and Nudibranchs?”
“Right.”
“I think I prefer Anemones to Nudibranchs.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Coz then you are on the right side.”
“The right side of what?”
“You’re one of the good guys.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Why am I one of the good guys?”
“Coz Nudibranchs are dah enemy, predators.”
“Anemones are beautiful. Did you know they’re called the flowers of the sea? Such lovely colors. I can see why you like them. You’ve always had a fondness for flowers.”
“!”
“You still love flowers, right?”
“I love Daisy flowers but I like Anemones because they’re invertebrates and…..”
“Yes?”
His face glowers as he growls, Boris Karloff style, “ and they’ve vicious carnivores,”.
“!”
He releases the grip on his hand so that the fingers can wiggle free from the fabric. He examines the damage to the digit closely, without the use of a microscope,
“and if they lose a tentacle, they can grow a new one.”

Children with Special Needs

I shall be diplomatic now because this isn’t my story to tell.

My son, the birthday boy and host is busy, occupied, as we order our drinks in the restaurant. His friend makes two strenuous attempts to request a beverage from the server. His voice is as clear as a bell and quite as piercing, but the message has failed to penetrate. I intervene:- “yes he’d like half Pepsi and half Sprite please?”
The server is perplexed and distracted as he mines for information. From a distance we look like any other party of 12. Close up, it’s different. It takes a different format in each child. Collectively it can be disconcerting. It’s as if we each have three heads, fluent in Swahili.
“Er?”
“Can you do that? Mix Pepsi and Sprite in the same glass please?”
“Er….well…..um?” Throughout our exchange, our young friend repeats his request in a loop of ever increasing frustration, since my translation appears equally as useless.
“Do you think that would be ok.?” I ask as I try to arrest the server’s attention.
“Is he er…..does he…….is he…….does he have…..special needs?”
“Yes Sprite and Pepsi, mixed in the same glass please, special order.”
“Right.” He disappears without a murmur, to return shortly afterwards. We go round the table for the food order, until we reach our same young friend, “chicken nuggets please and no fries.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“No fries.”
“It comes with fries. Would you like fries or one of these other choices, see at the bottom of the page?” Persists the server.
“No fries.”
“Would you like something else?”
“No, no fries.”
“You don’t want fries?”
Our young friend turns to me for full on eye contact, the faulty conduit, gives up on the server, to explain what should not need any further explanation. With an electrically charged tone of voice that carries over 10 tables in the noisy restaurant, “don’t give me fries, don’t give me anything with potato products or I’ll vomit.”
The server flinches, stabs himself in nose with his pen - a gasp and a laugh of relief as he skuttles off to the kitchen with mirth. My daughter watches him leave without initial comment, until she is quite certain he is out of ear-shot, “I never thought you need good listening skills to be a server.”
“It a much more highly skilled job than most people realize, at least if you want to do it well.”
“I wouldna believed it if I hadna heard it for myself.”

Perspective taking – Nice but dim

I remember the festive season when I was small; my family confined together in cozy home with condensation on the window panes. My mother’s expression was one of displeasure with large blotches of annoyance – a message without any other clues. Being clueless, she added words – “why don’t you play in your room!”
“O.k.”
Lots more toys up there.
“What do you think your bedroom is for?”
Sleep?
“Do you think you might do something to help?” Helping seemed like a good idea; I considered myself to be a helpful sort of a child. Given the choice between unhelpful and helpful, I’d definitely opt for helpful; who’d choose the negative? I thought, quite wrongly, that my beaming smile was an indication of willingness and readiness. I should have probably added words to match my demeanor, something like, ‘yes, here I am, awaiting orders.’
“Open your eyes!”
They were already, so I blinked, just to make sure.
“Look at this place! Look at the mess!”

I looked.

There were my toys, quite a lot of them. My little brother’s toys were scattered without any noticeable order – very messy. There was my teenage sister’s paraphernalia; boring stuff with very little entertainment value. My Dad’s papers, books, stamps, albums and equipment were neatly arranged on a small collapsible table, poised in front of his winged backed chair. Next to it was my mother’s winged backed chair, because they were a pair. On and around her chair were masses of bags and boxes, with a side table at arm’s reach. Every surface was piled high with knitting, embroidery, darning, mending, many books on a wide variety of topics, all open, not even stacked – a veritable mountain of mess.
“Shall I tidy it?”
“Yes you will!”
I stood alone in the room for a moment, pondering my mother’s lair. What, if anything, could be squished into something else? It was just as I was jamming the knitting into the basket that my mother returned and squeaked, “mind!” but I was ahead of her, I had no intention of impaling myself on the needles. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Tidying.”
She shooed me away as you would a chicken, flighty creatures renowned for their small brains. “For the last time!”
Last time?
“Will you pick up your toys?”
My toys?
Well why didn’t you just say so in the first place and I might have acquiesced to your unreasonable demand, I’m nothing if not helpful.

It’s my turn now because I’m the mum. I often misjudge - forget. Sometimes it takes me a couple of attempts. It’s usually just when I’m about to blow my stack with exasperation that I remember.

There’s a lot to be said for specificity and logic.

There’s none so queer as folks [idioms]

He accosts me in the kitchen, burbling, the same phrase over and over.
“It’s not good dear. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. It’s sounds as if you have a mouthful of marbles.” He skips the next repeat, cups the palm of his hand before he spits out a large green stone, heart shaped, spittle covered, “does ‘my heart’s in my mouth’ be meaning ‘I’m in love’?”
“Yes, it does. Why? Are you in love with someone?”
“No…..it doesn’t work - I wuz just checkin.”
“!”

Without pausing for breath he’s off on another tangent.

“Ooo dats bad.”
“What’s bad dear?”
“Dat white stuff in yur hairs.”
“Ah, yes it exploded – I was lucky not to get burned.”
“Yuck it smells even badderer.”
“Yes, acrid charring is never pleasant.”
“Ooo dere is being dandruff all over your body.”
“I think I may as well give up and change, maybe shower.”
“Dere is being snow all over the kitchens – it is being like a winter wonderland!”
“You would never think that three exploding Chestnuts could do quite so much damage really.”
“Armageddon……..but smellier.”
“!”
I step to one side to retrieve the dust buster as my daughter skitters into the kitchen to whisper to her little brother, although not quietly enough:-

“Cun you remember what Mom said she’s cookin tonight for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Well? What’s she cookin then?”
“Bad.”
“No. What’s it’s name? Chest Nut what? If I ask again she’ll have my guts for garters.”
“No. Not guts. I seened it wiv my eyes.”
“So what is it then?”
“Smashed to smithereens.....dah brains of small dead creatures.”

Quotes – speech delays and diction

“Can we watch dah ceptions?”
“Deceptions? What’s that about? I don’t’ think I’ve ever heard of that before?”
“Yes you know.”
“I don’t, honest. Do you mean Deceptocons, from the Transformer thingummy do dah?”
“Nope.”
“He’s right mom. You let us watch it yesterday.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“Sure you do. You remember.”
“I don’t, honest.”
“It’s dah cartoon with dah yellow people.”
“Yellow people?”
“Yeah. We watched it with Dad.”
“Really? Hey Mike?”
“Hmm?”
“What did you watch yesterday with the children?”
“Telly.”
“Yes, I know, but which programme?”
“Er…?”
“It had yellow people in it. Something from Animal Planet or National Geographic?”
“Er….”
“Something medical maybe…..jaundice?”
“Er….”
“You didn’t let them watch House did you?”
“No! Never. Ooo! I know!”
“Hmm?”
“The Simpsons.”
“!”

Greater than the sum - Bird Brain

It’s the usual rigmarole, or rather it isn’t - a variation on a theme. I’ve not visited the Bird shop for a couple of years, so I am quite delighted on Christmas Day. The boys went there, with their Dad. It was as much an exercise in perspective taking as gift buying, more or less one and the same, although Dad footed the bill - the value of money is still a work in progress.

It’s a whole 24 hours later and there they all are, the most extraordinary collection of peculiar shaped items - gift wrapped. I’d understand if each one was the same as it’s fellows, uniform in shape, or size, but they’re not. If I had chosen something three foot long, the shape of a lollipop, I’d remember what was inside. Nor could I forget something heavy, like an upside down umbrella. There aren’t many things that are shaped like a triangle, metallic – but that’s just me. Me? I’m an expert at recognizing objects, just by the feel, renowned for my x-ray vision. It’s a big event, a huge step forward, so I make the most of it. The genuine surprise and delight is easy – the joy of giving and receiving – but the first niggles of distress are present. My ‘what could it possibly be?’ as I squeeze the package, provokes anguish. I’ve not had the practice. A rhetorical question translates to the third degree – the stress of forgetfulness. I back off but it’s already too late - set the ball in motion. Body squirms and hair wrenching are only the beginning.

I was taught the social norms until they became effortless, the gracious words of thanks, the smile that didn’t travel to the eyes. The drill - easy. Since then I’ve learned compassion – the crow’s feet don’t lie.

Its like a blip that doesn’t fit. If you show me the toe nail of Pachyderm, I can visualize the whole elephant. If I show my boys a minute fraction of an obscure Pokemon, a barely visible fragment of the Lego logo, their response is immediate and 100% accurate – visual acuity at it’s finest, but other things are quite baffling. If its excruciating for the outsider, how much worse for the insider? But I remember how much I’ve always hated game shows and quiz nights – finger on the buzzer – hide under the table. It’s the pressure, the need to perform, but within a given time frame.

It’s a complex tangle, as with many children, where different issues compete but it’s difficult to determine which one[s] dominate. I could mention specifics but they’d be different for every child. Here, there’s the fingers that don’t function as he would wish, an irritation that escalates frustration, difficult to ignore. He knows that he should remember, but it’s just out of reach. Everyone is looking, waiting, expectant. The position of power should help – he’s above me – but that only helps with conventional people.

He’s also acquired some notions, nebulous little hazy things, on the periphery, slightly out of focus. Social conventions that have been off radar until recently, things that most of us take for granted as - so ingrained. Deconstruction and translation of the conventions - explain and demonstrate in a meaningful manner - impossible in these few minutes.

It’s what my chum calls the ‘disproportionality’ of the incident. Her ledger would illustrate the imbalance – on one side there would be ‘the subject gives a gift to his mother for the first time, voluntarily’ – on the other side of the ledger would be a very long list of ‘issues’ that might interfere or affect the experiment. She would weight or rank each issue, but no matter their number or severity, none, singularly or collectively should result in an outburst. An outburst would be deemed disproportional. It makes me a little sad that she can sum it up so dispassionately, so dismissive.

So we compromise – a little paper rip so that he can peek inside while my eyes are averted, so he can capture recall, but it’s not enough; only when he can see the whole thing does the penny drop – failure stares him in the face.

We are both exhausted by the emotional explosion. Only a few minutes, but super charged. If we were ‘out,’ the situation would be exacerbated – socially inappropriate always requires public comment – but what do they know? But we’re not ‘out,’ we’re ‘in,’ and what do I know? Probably even less. All I do know is that this simple common place event should bring pleasure. Instead he’s robbed of the moment, the joy stolen, replaced with a slew of stress. Hobbled by the miniscule hic-cups of the every day.

We should expect them, we should be able to deal with them but so often we fall short - always expect the unexpected - which is why we’re off guard on down time. It’s home, it’s safe, or it should be.

I take him and the bird feeder out into the garden – change of scene, change of pace, chance to breathe – on a chilly bright day with a clear blue sky. Barely have I shut the door when he’s off, “look mom!” He bounds across the asphalt, over 50 yards away on a quest as he hurls himself down on the concrete, bare chested. I gallop after him, “what is it dear?”
“S’on it’s back. See dah legs? Its a lady bug.”

Fools Seldom Differ

I’m not a great fan of ‘teachable moments,’ or rather I am in theory, it’s just the practice that’s time consuming and such hard work.

I learned my lesson a very long time ago. I think it’s basically a male thing, but I could be wrong. One wrong thing you can do, especially if you happen to be female, is to bounce into the room and sing “Ta dah! What do you think?” This is a universal invitation to disappointment. The response could be any one of the following: ‘I didn’t know you could sing / are you going to finish the rest of the song now / you really shouldn’t bounce like that wearing high heels.’

No.

To flounce out in a huff is childish. Far better to give a hint, or a clue, or better still, a plain explanation. “Hi! Do you like my new frock, the one that I’m wearing right now?” Care should also be taken in other more vague areas. Instead of asking ‘do you like my hair this way’ it’s better to ask ‘do you like my new hair cut / dye job / hair style.’ In effect, there should be as little wriggle room as possible. In fact, in some cases, it’s better to feed the line, “I’m sure you like my new shoes as much as I do.”

Some may feel that this kind of extracted and contrived compliment isn’t worth the spittle of production, and I would be inclined to agree with you. Part of the problem is that in ordinary every day life, this kind of thing crops up all the time. Far better to equip our children with a rudimentary arsenal, for protection.

That of course, takes practice.[*]

One of the many funny things about autism, if you don’t happen to be autistic yourself, is that some fundamentals remain the same. I’m not saying that they don’t grow and change, more that some major underpinnings are always present. You would think that most people with half a wit, parents such as myself, would know this. And yet over and over again, I forget. While my children have a good vocabulary, [now] there are little holes in the lexicon, bits and bobs that just aren’t important enough to file away for future reference.

“Hey guys! What do you think of my new ear-rings? See here….my ears?”
“Ear…….rings?”
“Yes, look at my ears. See these things hanging from the little hole?”
“Dey are not rings. Dey are being fish….fish……hooks with dangly bits.”
“Do you like the dangly bits?”
“Is is an ellipse.”
“Yes I suppose they, are sort of.”
“It is browny beetle colored.”
“I thought they were honey colored?”
“No honey is being golden. Dat is not being golden.”
“Right. So do you like them then?”
“I fink it is sight pleasing but are brain hurting.”
“Ah.”
“I fink it is bad to put sharp things in your body parts.”
“Hmm. Right. Fair enough.”
“But it’s o.k. mum!”
“Is it? Why?”
“Coz peoples are likin and dislikin different things.”
“!” There’s nothing like having your inadequate ditties quoted back at you.
“Any ways……”
“Hmm?”
“Dey are not be rings.”
“Yes you already said that…..you explained that they’re really hooks.”
“No but…..?”
“But what dear?”
“Um…….not plural.”
“Plural?”
“It is only being singular.”
“Dang! Where’s the other one gone then!”

[*] for future reference, for anyone that doesn’t already know, when you’re presented with the new thing for comment, the response ‘how much did it cost?’ it's always wrong.

Compliments are Anathema – Misery loves company

Children come in all shapes and sizes, as do parenting guides. One of the cardinal rules of parenting is to praise a child for a job well done. Fortunately this is a natural instinctive rule that matches the facial expression of delight and possibly a hand flourish or a hug. It all fits together perfectly, or rather it does for many parents.

Other parents need to learn to suppress the facial flicker, so that no hint of pleasure registers. Dead pan is hard to achieve and takes a great deal of practice. Sitting on hands is highly recommended to stop them from leaping out and behaving in a completely predictable yet thoroughly inappropriate manner.

Perhaps you have experienced this too with your child?

Perhaps you haven’t?

For this particular kind of a child, acknowledgement of a job well done is a trigger to destruction. Before the first word has left my lips the picture is trashed, the Lego is hurled, the Magnetix are squished.

Initially it’s counter intuitive.

There can be many reasons for such behavior and sometimes knowing why can help. For some children it’s a question of realizing that they are growing in competence, which also means less reliance on a parent. This realization is scary. Often it is more complex or more simple. If you are unable to fathom the true reasons for their abhorrence of praise then it is wise to keep our own counsel. Here, we admitted defeat a long, long time ago but to praise two children and effectively ignore another, is extremely difficult.

I appreciate that this is a bit of a niche issue.

Somehow it just doesn’t seem right to force a child, or anyone for that matter, to accept unwelcome praise but looking ahead I knew that a time would come when someone would praise him. He’d be at work, in one of those little cubbies when the boss would walk in: “great job on that report Mac!” And what would follow? A tirade? I didn’t like to imagine any further; rightly or not I decided to plow ahead anyway.

I picked my attack time with care.

The best time to attack children is when their defenses are low. Mine are usually most malleable just before sleep, at bed time. My first attempts were miserable failures and effectively destroyed the peaceful night time routine I’d been engineering since their birth. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he allowed me to sow a few seeds of praise. Three small descriptive words about his character which were not false but not self acknowledged. That shaky start was over seven years ago. Gradually the list of words has grown, as has he. It’s quite a lengthy list now. I take care to keep it in the right order as the wrong order also provokes meltdowns. Every once in a while I make a proposal for a new candidate to be added to the list but it has to be appropriate.

Like many autistic people, their receptive language, [what they understand,] is so much greater than their expressive language, [what they’re able to spit out.] Over the summer months we had so many visitors, guests and bodies around the place that my son began to shine. The ‘meet and greet’ was less prompted and stilted. He delighted in sharing his toys, showing off and generally engaging everyone with his antics.

So I wait until darkness because eye contact is often the kiss of death to anything new.
“I was thinking…..”
Silence.
“I was thinking…….”
Silence.
“I was thinking maybe we could add a new word to our special time?”
“Wot?”
“Guess?”
“Er…..?”
“It begins with E.”
“Enormous.”
“Ah well yes you are getting big but I wouldn’t describe you as enormous just yet.”
“Electric.”
“Hmm also true. I didn’t think of that one either but have another go.”
“Er……Elephantine?”
“How about we steer away from the physical and move into personal qualities, like kindness?”
“Kindness don’t begin wiv an E.”
“So true, so true, but I can’t think of anything beginning with E that isn’t the word I’ve already thought of without giving the game away.”
“Equatic!”
“Aquatic starts with an A, but close.”
“How about……ENTERTAINING! What do you think? You’ve been so great with all of the playdates and so friendly and helpful……all the people who have been coming and going……”
“Yeah………I love havin company over.”
“Great!”
“Hey mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“How about a C word?”
“Which C word would you like?”
“Companyable.”

And that’s the first time he’s come up with his own label – self taught, self initialized and possibly selfless.

Works for me.

Should you have a free mo, you could always nip along and say 'hi de ho' to a new blogger called "Rachel" at "Strange and Beautiful." I shall be a bit busy myself as "Nonna" is back.

Cheers dears

"I before E, except after C"

"I before E, except after C" and a few other exceptions. There's quite a few exceptions actually and unless you're good at remembering lists then maybe a visual might help better......

The 'e' will only hang from the branch of the 'W' as the 'i' would fall off because seeing is believing around here.





........well for some people at least.

Autism – back to basics

I think it’s time for a good old moan; a grumble on the topic of impairment to joint attention, one of the hallmarks of autism, a pivotal skill that’s adrift, so the experts tell me. The trouble is, when it comes to parenting an autistic child we are often advised to ‘trust our instincts.’ It is my experience that this is basically wrong, or perhaps more accurately, that my instincts are wrong. Lets just look at three of the basics. They’re universal, so I’m told. The power of speech is helpful but not essential.

First up:-

I am the parent. You are the child and we gave you a name. You have learned your name, so I call you, either because you’re hiding or you’re busy doing something, “Freddy, where are you?” You, Freddy, do not reply. It may be that you’re replying in your head but no words are coming out of your mouth. If you, Freddy, have no words, you could always just pop your head out of your room and wave, acknowledge that you heard me, aware that I’m searching for you – but of course you don’t. I don’t know what you do about this, but I take on both roles, my own as parent, and yours, as Freddy. I have an entire conversation with myself, speaking both roles:-
“Freddy, where are you?” “I’m here mum!” I wander round the house calling out these two lines until eventually, if I’m lucky, I’ll trip over Freddy and hopefully not hurt him in the process. It’s been like that for years.

Second:-

Pointing. Yes, I know it’s rude, but everyone does it when they’re little. Parents do it too, we actually teach our little ones to point, to be rude, because we’re a bit short sighted. Teach them how to point and then scrap that, it’s rude, un-teach pointing. What a pointless exercise, unless of course they don’t point in the first place. An expert will draw a parents attention to this deficit:- “he doesn’t point, had you noticed?”
“Of course I’ve noticed, it’s just that he’s an exceptionally polite child, must come from having British parents.”

But of course it wasn’t.

Why is pointing important anyway? Because it smacks of joint attention, a shared experience; it’s absence is a red flag.

Third and last, my personal favorite:-

Hand leading. Again we don’t need words. I am not a big scary bear, I’m just a big lumpy parent, hand extended, soft and warm and inviting. It translates to ‘come with me.’ When a child makes this gesture to someone else, it has the same meaning. The underlying message is the key, again, it’s that element of joint attention, a skill that we are all supposed to have, innately, and yet it’s not there. It has to be taught. Each one of them has to be taught each skill, discretely, practiced and then generalized into all given or possible situations.

It is the absence of these three, amongst other things, that still catches me out even after all this time. I forget that they’re not there. I forget to remind them and to practice because if they’re not practiced, they’re lost. It’s not just like riding a bicycle, but much more difficult.

Too much of a tirade?

Possibly.

Why mention it then?

I suppose because it’s IEP time, triennial in fact. Suddenly we’re presented with another whole host of deficits, negatives, holes, and shortcomings, all in black and white, with graphs and statistics as back up.

We’re reminded because we need to stay on track, not become complacent – yes we’re parents but we’re supposed to be dragoons, always forging ahead. I become swept up with the urgency as the grains in the timer escape and drift away. Wipe out those negatives, re-train, re-teach, reinforce, so much so that I’m apt to forget the bonuses, those freebies that are of no great import, except to us. It reminds me of "John Elder Robinson," how he learned to conform and yet lost so many of the superb abilities he had as a child, an alternative view that he’s been unable to recapture.

Yet it happened again today.

It happens most days one way or another, something that pulls me up short because I forget that they think so differently from me. Today as I reached over the sofa towards him, hand extended, called his name, beckoned with the other arm, he responded. He leapt onto the sofa and hung upside down over the back to examine my hand from underneath; an upside down aerial view. Silent. He moved each digit, an engineer checking the joints, fully functional, no creaks. He traced the lines on my palms and whorls on my fingertips, “mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I cun see yur DNA.”

How to stop autistic children from scripting

Scripting in autism can be defined variously but generally refers to the ability to repeat phrases or single words many times over. The words and phrases are often copied but can also be self generated. Scripting is generally considered to be an impairment that requires intervention and is usually paired with the word ‘fading.’ Scripting and echolalia often come hand in hand which is why so many of the phrases are easily recognizable as they’re delivered with accurate mimicry. A three year old who scripts Boris Karloff may be the source of amusement, but with an older child, public opinion is less forgiving.

Scripting serves many different functions for a child; it can be calming and self-organizing, a bit like white noise. Frequently the child is not aware that he or she is scripting, which makes it far more difficult to stop or reduce the behavior.

Scripting is generally deemed to be socially unacceptable, which is why it receives so much attention, disproportionately so in my opinion. If someone hums a tune, or whistles quietly in public, no-one is likely to turn a hair, but most of us will notice someone who appears to talk to themselves - a big red flag. If that person repeats the same word or phrase, you can more or less guarantee that everyone’s attention is arrested. I would hope that it is this aspect that concerns most people, how to let the autistic person continue with their daily doings, without being gawped at? I suspect that in another decade, given the arrival of the blue tooth, such behavior will become less and less noticeable.

The negative elements of scripting are well documented elsewhere, as are the many techniques to help fade this behavior, so would prefer to posit an alternative perspective. Although scripting can be irritating for the audience, or parent in my particular case, it does have a number of positive elements that don’t receive much attention.

If a child is non-verbal or has a significant speech delay, repeating the same word of phrase is basically practice. It may sound like a scratch on a record, but all those repeats add up. It may not be that practice makes perfect, but it certainly helps articulation. They also function as a prompt; if you can recall the starting phrase like: ‘once upon a time,’ ‘this guy walked into the room,’ ‘there was an Irishman, an Englishman and a Welshman,’ - then the rest of the story can flow.

The scripts around here are many and various, they change over time and often become longer and more complicated.

[please note that ‘bing, bing, bing,’ refers to BBC America where swear words and other rude references are bleaped]

***

Following the triennial I.E.P. certain pertinent facts grab my attention. Forget the academics, it’s those all elusive social skills that need nailing. Mastery is the difference between potential budding relationships and isolation – if not mastery, at least a move in the right direction. We collude and conspire for some considerable period thereafter, before the latest campaign evolves. Although he often thinks kindly thoughts, he rarely if ever voices them, aloud. He’s a taciturn kind of a guy. At other times, he volunteers information that some people would prefer not to hear, because he’s a truthful kind of a guy. Generally he’s on the periphery rather than in the center of the fray.

We adopt a two-pronged approach after lengthy discussions on tactics – rewards for speaking up in a positive manner and even greater rewards for refraining from saying negative things out loud. We practice modeling at home, all those everyday situations, examples, clues about what is expected and when.

On day one we experience three incidents where thought is put into action. He avoids telling another child how feeble and inferior her artistic creation turned out. He catches a boy as he trips to prevent the fall. He offers voluntary praise to a youngster for his sterling academic efforts.

It’s a veritable triumph. This kind of thing usually takes weeks, months, forever, a lifetime before we ever see anything. Three deeds equate to 3 M&M’s, as positive bribery is reinforcing initially.

The following day we repeat the exercise, this time at the dinner table where we are all gathered to hear of his exploits. He makes a start, after a little coaxing.

“Well I can fink of one thing that I am doing.”

“Wonderful! Tell us more!”

“There was this guy.”

“What was his name?” interjects his father.

“Dunno but he was a medium sized kind of a kid.”

He never knows anyone’s name, grade or class, “he had this rock.”

“A rock! Oh no. What did he do?”

“He was, he was, he was gonna hit this small sized kid on the bing!”

“On the bing? It’s o.k., you can say the rude word.”

“On the butt!”

“And what did you do?”

“I told him, ‘listen up buddy, don’t you hit him on the bing, bing, bing or I’ll go and tell the yard duty lady.’” He uses his most jocular tone, a good tactic when dealing with unknown rock thugs. So much of it is scripts, but it gives him flow and rhythm and confidence.

“And what did he say?”

“He jus said ‘duh’ and he hit hisself on the forehead.” He demonstrates the gesture, just in case any of us were in any doubt.

To everyone’s surprise, he recounts ten additional incidents of his intervening heroism, tales of daring do, most involving rocks, with one exception, one involving ropes.

“So this medium sized guy in a grey sweater, he has these lil kids tied up to a pole at recess.”

His credibility begins to wane,

“What did he tie them up with?”

“Rope.”

“Rope? Where would you get rope at school?” He sister leaps to his defense, “jump ropes mom, he’s telling the truth, you can tie people to trees with the jump ropes.” I do not find this fact particularly helpful, but the detail of the ‘grey sweater’ gives weight to the guise of truth.

“And what did you do?”

“I said to this guy…. ‘hey buddy, listen up……untie those kids or I’m gonna have to report yah to the Principal.’”

“You seem to have turned into a superhero overnight dear.”

“Yeah.”

“And did you tell the Principal?”

“No, I ain’t no tattle tail.”

“!”

“And there’s another one.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, this big guy was peeking at the girls’ restroom.”

“Peeking?”

He demonstrates the act of peeking, such that we can be in no doubt as to his meaning.

“Really. And what did you do?”

“I said to him I said, ‘listen up buddy, don’t you go being all bing, bing, bing.’”

“Did you use a rude word?”

“No I jus wanted him to know about the rudeness.”

“!”

“And there’s another one.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, this guy called me a ‘bing, bing, bing.’”

“What word did he use?”

“Dickhead.”

“!”

“Yeah.”

“And what did you do?”

“I said ‘yeah, that’s right, I’m a bing, bing, bing.’”

“You used the rude word?”

“No, I used the ‘bing, bing, bing.’”

“!”

I begin to feel dizzy with the speed of his delivery - conversations of this type are more rare than hen’s teeth. So animated, so jovial, centre stage and frolicking in the limelight – cheeky little monkey. This is positively unprecedented.

“And dis is the last one.”

“Last one?”

“Yeah, it was recess and this medium sized kid had a rock and he was gonna throw it at the Principal.”

“The Principal?” The skeptics amongst us exchanges glances – either he’s forgotten the boy that cried wolf or he’s had a personality transplant without our knowledge – which is more unlikely?

“Yeah.”

“And what did you do?”

“I stood in front of him with my body and went ‘hey dude, get a load of this!’ and then I made my funny face.”

“And what did he do?”

“He walked away.”

“Did anybody else see this?”

“Sure there was loads of kids – it was recess.”

“Savior of the Principal! Did the Principal see you do this?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say anything to you……for saving her?”

“Yes. She gave me two gold cards to go into the raffle for the ‘Student in the Spotlight’ this month.”

“Do you have the gold cards?”

“No she put em in the raffle.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What a truly spectacular day you’ve had. That’s earned you 12 M & M’s.”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna get a whole packet I fink.”

“We shall all enjoy watching you earn them, since you’ll be home, because it will be Saturday.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow? No School?”

“That’s right, you’ll have to be a superhero at home. Won’t that be fun.”

“You ….you…..you…. got any spare rocks around this joint?”

This may come across as a fairly standard family conversation, nothing out of the ordinary, how would I know, I have no point of comparison? But around here, it’s heart stomping.

Why would I share this, now that they’re so much older? Isn’t it too private? Perhaps, maybe it is. All I know is the numbers of google searches that bring people to my site. The search is a variation on a theme – ‘how to stop autistic kids from scripting’ – it might be an idea to re-think that one – it’s not all negative, it can be a springboard.

So….was it true or was it false? I don’t know and I actually don’t care. Six years ago I would never have dreamed of such a conversation. What if he is prone to a little exaggeration? It’s all in the mind afterall. What really is the difference between a rock, a pebble and a wee nubby chip of gravel anyway! It’s all about scale or do I mean perspective?

p.s. I came across this site called “love to know” – autism. They have an empathy quiz. It's about half way down on the "left margin." I’m not suggesting you take it yourself because as a seasoned Cosmopolitan quiz taker myself [several life times ago,] I think we all know how to fudge the answers to get the right result. That said, it may just be that there’s someone new in your life who is really trying to make an effort to get to know your children and family, so this would be a gentle introduction in 10 quick questions without the intimidation. For me, as a parent of autistic children, I feel I have a duty to tread gently when it comes to the mainstream. It’s easy to forget how different our world is from other people’s. We’re unlikely to win over public opinion with a battering ram – our greatest asset is our children themselves, who they are, as individuals.

Some mother’s do ave em

It was one of those ‘time stood still moments.’ Perhaps fifty adults and maybe 30 children, all assembled on the day of my daughter’s wedding. Everything had been prepared in advance and I’d practiced my brief speech, in my formal role as ‘mother of the bride.’ Because I am an anal retentive type, I had already taken account of every possible eventuality, everything except that one.



After a few words to the adults, it was time to include the children, as speeches are especially boring for youngsters. So I called them, all the children. Invited them to join their parents for a few seconds, and of course they all did so, little obedient lambs, except one, the black sheep of the family. I had him in my sites, clearly. I could see him as he froze in response to my call, caught in the act, deer in the headlights, an immobile statue of exaggeration. No one else on the planet could hold that pose, a caricature of startled innocence. It wasn’t disobedience; but bewilderment, pure and complicated. “Parent!” I repeated as he blinked wide-eyed. His arm bent stiffly at the elbow to point to his own chest, in the universal gesture of ‘are you talking to me?’

“Yes! Where are your parents?” I yelled as my arms beckoned, huge flappy waves as everyone waited in the blistering 90 degree heat. I stood next to his father on the single step, waiting. I watched him percolate as he searched around to retrieve the lost word – what was that word again? ‘Parent’?



I saw when it stuck him, a little sharp dart of recall, a small convulsion of conviction that sparked him into movement as he skittered over to my side, a cheesy grin of recognition because progenitor elastic had snapped him back.



Next time I’ll prepare more carefully, save myself a lot of bother – one little rustle of the packet from 50 miles away will set him running - the power of Goldfish crackers still reigns supreme.





Meanwhile.......tis the season for.....? Something or other. We're pretty much buried in Thanksgiving for now, shortly to be followed by a whole slew of birthdays, "Nonna's" arrival before we bump into the Holiday season. That said, despite all the busyness it maybe worthwhile to pause amid the fray and spare a thought for those "abroad" Maybe you're in need of some "festive cards" especially if your own children eschew such materials as glitter, glue and paper. I'll make no bones about it, I plan to pass them off as our own - or maybe not. Even if you're fully supplied with cards, it might be that you can spare a little something as a donation, a freebie, with no pay-off? I hear that there are some people like that, who give freely without any desire for a quid quo pro, although I we wouldn't know anything about that around here. If you think that might be something that tweaks your funny bone, then nip along and say "hi de ho" to "Cordelia," and her chums.

Hole in one

I watch him hit Bukugan balls across the kitchen floor with a plastic light saber with quite an alarming degree of accuracy.
“How many balls are there in bill birds?”
“I have no idea. Is this one of your new jokes luvvy?”
“No. I’m askin. How many balls are there in bill birds?”
“I don’t think I know what a bill bird is?”
“Bill birds is dah English game which is being called Pool properly.”
“Ah! You mean billiards!”
“O.k.”
“Super. Glad we sorted that one out then.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“How many balls is there?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know, I’m not really very sporty.”
“Sporty?”
“Yes, Billiards is an Olympic sport…..isn’t it? I was never any good at Trivial Pursuits.”
“S’not trivial, its importint!”
“!”
“Itsa game not a sport.”
“Oh, well you’re the American so you would probably know best.”
“So how many?”
“Like I said, I don’t know……I can look it up if you like?”
“No, jus look in your head.”
“Pardon?”
“Can’t you see it?”
“Where?”
“In yur head. I can see it in my head.”
“Oh, like in my mind’s eye………no I still can’t see it. Can you?”
“Of course.”
“How many then?”
“I can be seeing 15 in dah triangle thingy.”
“Can you really?”
“Yes. Wot do you see?”
“A headache.”