This post is from from my other blog here

I mean to write a movie review for the film with Rowan Atkinson, as Mr. Bean, a while back, because that’s when it first happened. In fact I would go so far as to suggest that Mr. Bean has a blanket effect, regardless of the movie title, regardless of the number of words, the nature of the plot, the complexity of the language. His body language, gestures and facial expressions ping directly into the psyche.

Whilst my daughter squirms in excruciating embarrassment, the kind where you have to squint your eyes and peer out from behind a pillow, the boys, my boys, are rolling on the floor squealing with delight, spurting tears of unadulterated laughter. They’re so loud and raucous that the script is buried.

Hence last night, those same noises shook my home as they watched "Meet Dave."

Don’t quote me here, but there is some combination of ‘boy,’ ‘social skills’ and developmental age that induces mass funny. I can’t tell you what that developmental age is, but it’s certainly worth experimentation.

First warning – some Tom and Jerry style violence that may cause consternation in some.
Second warning – the concept of a body being invading by small beings may provoke endless existential questions.
Third warning – guaranteed to invoke scripting.
One final word of advice. Do you remember visiting the zoo and trolling over to the monkey house? On one occasion there was a disturbance, feeding time perhaps, and the monkeys went wild leaping, gamboling and calling in a frenzied party animal style? Well that’s what it was like in our house, the best aerobic workout you could ask for which ensures a solid night’s sleep. Remove all breakables from the room in advance.

This post is from from my other blog here



"Single Sentence Movie Review."

Eddie Murphy, the icon for social skills training, what not to do, how and why, with too many giggles to count.

This post is from from my other blog here

The birthday date approaches with only two of us sporting coughs, colds and possibly flu. The sniffles snuffle through the family as I keep a close eye upon who may or may not be the next victim. I watch for sniffers and snufflers. I’m close at hand with the thermometer for any potential hot heads. I’m stuffed full of tissues ready to plug any leaks. When I hear a different one splutter I pounce, “ooo dear, it sounds as if you’ve caught his cold.”
“I am not be cold.”
“No I meant that you’ve caught his bugs, you’re ill, contaminated.”
“No! Not ill. I am need my birthday.”
“I know dear but you do seem to have a bit of a cough.”
“It not be cough, it be surplus extra borrowed airy in my mouth parts.”
“!”
“Yeah, he don bin borrow my air,” chimes in his older defender.
“Yeah,…….and now it done bin jump back out agin, it’s a jump air not a cough.”
“!”

This post is from from my other blog here





I first came across cornbread at the age of 35 when we first arrived in America and enjoyed a Thanksgiving feast with our pals.

Cornbread is a traditional accompaniment on this occasion but uncommon, relatively speaking, worldwide. Since I am, was, and always will be, a big bread fan, I was keen to sample this new type of unfamiliar fare. I was less keen to try the sweet potato pie but my pals were already aware that I am pudding averse. I would be more than happy to consume every morsel of bread whilst other’s poisoned themselves with sweeties.

As we gathered at the table, gave thanks and shared, I beamed around at my pals. I could already tell that this holiday, Thanksgiving, would become my favourite holiday. We began munching and chatting with bon homie until I took my first welcome bite of cornbread and promptly froze. My mouth was invaded with …….what was it? Cake! I had cake in my mouth and the remnants of gravy. Gravy and cake. Turkey and cake. This could not be. Whichever way I looked at it, this was the worst case of "cognitive dissonance" I had experienced in a long while.

I checked the faces of all the other pilgrims, some foreign, some native and some American. Everyone else was just fine and dandy, with no doodles and a few Yankees. I was perplexed. Could it be that I was the only person who realized that dessert was being consumed during the main course. Could it be that I had the dud, that all the other cornbreads were made of corn and I had the only cake? It seemed unlikely. I made sure that my expression registered ‘yum’ and resisted the urge to spit.

Thereafter I forswore cornbread, once experienced, forever changed. Another American pal advised me that I had been subjected to Jiffy which was not deemed to be authentic. Because I am also an open minded type of a person, I submitted to a second sampling several years later, because it was homemade, because it would be delicious, because it would be quite different from my first experience, although it wasn’t.

Thusly, I confirmed my first instinct, just so no, politely, to the cornbread.

Years have passed since that daunting first flush and second supping, when my son returns home from school. During his day at school, the last day before Thanksgiving, some awfully inspired person had the wherewithal to organize a thankful gift to the family in the presentation of a cornbread mix, beautifully and artistically presented I might add.

He presents it to me.

I peer for a closer look.

“We can……….make it…….together……for tomorrow?” I look into liquid eyes of gentle innocent enquiry.
“Er…..do you like cornbread?”
“I don know.”
“Ah…..well……I’m sure that we’ll squeeze it in somewhere,” I offer as I envisage my oven already overflowing with a turkey and "thirteen accompanying vegetables." The finely tuned countdown schedule, carefully honed over the last decade.

Maybe it’s time for a shake-up? What is the purpose of cooking thirteen different vegetables that no-one eats? How much better to serve cornbread and turkey, which should have a fair to middling chance of consumption?

So it’s probably true to say that some people have to endure a life time of eating humble pie, but I swear it’s still a lot better than cornbread.


Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go and investigate the scream, “O.k. bullet butt, come and get some!”

This post is from from my other blog here

She whispers because she is considerate and kind, “Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I don’t wannabe mean or nuthin……”
“Hmmm?”
“Have you noticed?”
“Noticed what dear?”
“Well he kinda smells…….funny.”
“Funny? What kind of funny?”
“You know.”
“Actually, I really don’t.”
“I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Have a go dear.”
“Well……..he always smells the same……but now……he smells…….he doesn’t smell like him.”
We look at him, both of us as he blinks beneath our stare, wide eyed innocence but with remarkably big ears, “you are fink I stink?”
“No, of course not dear.”
“No I never said you stink, honest.”
“What am I being den?”
I lean forward to sniff him, “don’t be smell me!” he protests with vehemence. “I want to see if it’s you that smells or possibly your clothes?”
“My cloves are not be smell.”
His older, semi silent brother adds his contribution, “he don smell of old Goldfish no more.”
Now whilst I’m not certain what an old Goldfish smells like, I can confirm that he doesn’t smell of baked cheesey crumbs any more, stale or "fresh."

This post is from from my other blog here




When I was pregnant with my second child, another girl, I enrolled in an aerobics instructor course. I did this because everyone told me that if I ever exercised, I would love it. I knew I would not love it, ever, so I took the course to prove that love would forever be absent.

When I was pregnant with my third child, I bought one of those new fangled runner’s strollers, so that I could run with my two smaller children, and prove to everyone that running was totally hateful, pointless and shrinks your stature as your legs wear out faster than nature intended.

When I was pregnant with my fourth child, my husband gave me a pottery wheel for our wedding anniversary, for some laudable reason best known to himself. I had never had anything to do with clay or pottery. He claimed that it would provide a static creative outlet, and anyway, he had enrolled in a pottery classes in England every year, for several years. The logic, as usual, escaped me, but I knuckled under and hunched myself over my ever increasing bump to make bowls, mass production style.

He was right. It was creative and I remained static but when that last baby finally arrived, I quickly discovered that it was impossible to spend 20 minutes in the garage alone with clay and leave three small children unsupervised. I also learned that after a day with three small children, I lacked the energy to go out into the garage at night when they were all asleep.

I decided that I needed another, non-child related activity, a cheap one that would provide a creative outlet. It had to be something that was indoors, small and something that could occupy one minute or three minutes, here and there, there and here. I opted for cake decorations, sugarpaste because it was a bit like mini sculpture. I would start small. I would practice. By the time the children reached school age maybe I could start a little business enterprise? Something that would not impact too greatly upon my maternal duties.



I had worried that I wouldn’t be able to ‘do’ boys. Boys were always a case of ‘boys will be boys.’ I had lots of experience in de-sensitizing boys. My first victim was my little brother. Given my parents traditionally conservative gene pool, it was my job to tackle the nurture ratio. My sister and I worked on him tirelessly, for over a decade, fashioning him into the perfect male for the modern woman. It was a startling success, until puberty, then all was sadly lost as he reverted to type, because ‘girls don’t like nice guys.’





As it turned out, I had worried needlessly. My boys were affectionate, demonstrative and cuddly. They were the most sensitive boys I had ever come across. They were sensitive to a pin drop, domestic appliances in general and had a horror un-domestic wild bears which some foolish people refer to as teddies. Who were these people that maligned boys so callously and stereotyped them with falsehood?

I distinctly remember a chum calling around to visit one day. On the kitchen counter, in my very small crampt kitchen, were a line of several icing projects in various stages of completion, cribs, flowers, a cornucopia. Because she was a chum, British, she was familiar with this kind of cake decoration, which is far less common in the States. She made an obvious observation:- “I just don’t get it? How can you possibly make things out of sugar with three small children in the house?”
“Oh you know, here and there, there and here.”
“No, I mean……it’s sugar…….the children?” I blinked as I thought. My daughter stole occasionally, but we had reached an understanding. I’d make an extra ‘thing’ for her to eat, as long as she didn’t mangle everything else. It worked. I thought of the boys, both of them. They had never shown any interest in any of the nauseatingly cute animal creations, nor the mini computer for their Dad’s birthday, nor the snake pit for their big sister. I had no explanation and even fewer clues.

I remembered idling at the table, when I was small and freckled and round, whilst my mother drank coffee with her pal once a week, on a Thursday, in the posh shop, whilst I stole sugar cubes with the stealth of the truly motivated. I would help choose the table, radar scanning, so that I could scour the sugar pots to ensure that I had the greatest feast available.

It was very curious.

I thought of all the many cakes I had fashioned, the preponderance of cribs because I belonged to a mum’s club, where mums were always having additional babies. There was a rota to provide meals to new mums. I made my standard chicken pot pie and a chocolate ganache cake with a crib on top, to celebrate the new arrival. All those cribs, white, pink, blue or pale lemon yellow for the indeterminate. How can you tell if ‘Taylor’ is a boy or a girl? But of course boys would not be interested in cribs or babies would they?

I thought of my older boy, his adoration of new borns and toddlers who toddled at a slightly shorter height than him. My adorably sweet and tender son, with six dimples who could read before he was three.

There were so many little moments, insignificant alone but that together, pushed us to one inevitable conclusion. Like at the party. Was it the house warming or a birthday, I forget now. A houseful of friends to cater for, fifty or more. The sort of gathering where we hope to socialize but know that busyness will over shadow the ability to chat. I knew that my time would be divided between food production and carrying one, or more, of the boys. To save time, repeated questions and clogged foot traffic, I hung a sheet paper above the door jam. My friend grinned, “Oh Maddy! Don’t you know the correct terminology? Can’t you bring yourself to write ‘restroom’?” she giggled as I hoiked up one sniveling boy and shifted his weight. He lifted his head, eyes drawn to new and delightful letters, “loo!” he pronounced. My friend’s expression changed, registered surprise with a tinge of shock and a tincture of horror, “did he…..can he……..he didn’t just read that did he?” I readjusted the wadded nappy bottom on my hip, uncomfortable in too many ways to list.

The cakes and decorations dwindled as our lives were impacted with a whole slew of new. Our time was spent traveling to therapists with unfamiliar agendas. But that was quite a while ago now, a while during which we all adjusted to a new reality.



Now, so many years later, I dust off icing bags and grab bags of sugar dust, I re-start an old project, cornucopias for Thanksgiving cakes. I make many, partly because I know that if I make 3 only one will survive, they’re so fragile. I end up making more than a dozen, because thankfully my house has been invaded by a bunch of thieves, determined to scupper my chances.

p.s. Just for the record, ironically, the first person to ever mention the word ‘autism’ out loud, was my brother!

This post is from from my other blog here




What relaxing position do you adopt to watch telly?








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.

This post is from from my other blog here













First and foremost I would like to point out that my idea of a kitchen angel is someone who visits the house, creates a delicious meal, does all the washing up and then disappears. If they would happen to include baby sitting services so that I am at least in with a fighting chance of eating a morsel, then that’s all to the good. This cheerful craft by comparison, comes in at a very poor second.

Let me just say at the outset, that when I was first given one of these creations as a gift, I was severely miffed, or rather, less than thrilled. Whilst I try not to look a gift horse in the mouth, at the same time, kitchen equipment never rates highly on my list of desirable. Strangely, these items are quite common in America, however I doubt whether they exist in Europe, except perhaps in the kitsch aisle. They would fall into the same category as "these."

Unlikely as it may seem, the foreigner who gave this to me, was unaware that it was made with tea towels, an oven glove and a face cloth. He was under the mis-apprehension that it was a traditional dollop of Americana, a Christmas decoration for the kitchen, but that’s just husband’s for you.

I have to admit I was tempted. How handy to have an emergency supply of such essentials for those days when the laundry is backed up and kitchen chaos reigns supreme. How fun to give my new American friends some traditional American gifts? How much better to demonstrate my assimilation into American culture?


I made half a dozen for my closest friends that they too would have an ally for their next domestic disaster. Would it surprise you to learn that my closest American pal packs up her kitchen angel with the rest of her Christmas decorations so that she can bring it out the next year? I suppose I should be grateful that she doesn’t keep it in the kitchen. I’m thinking of reporting her to the Bureau of Un-American Activities as her maverick behaviour proves that she’s really an alien.

However, I warmed to the idea of the kitchen angel because it indirectly provoked another gift, a little gem of an idea that has served me well for quite a few years. I noticed that my youngest son was quite partial to one red pot holder in particular. It has a fleecy red lining, soft and smooth. During my creative drive I would keep finding that this one pot holder kept disappearing. My son stole it to use as a hand protector and warming glove. At that time, he was still averse to the texture of paper.

One of the many difficulties that such people experience is an inability to open a paper wrapped gift, precisely because it is wrapped in paper which might as well be razor wire. Now I’ll admit that he wasn’t keen on presents either and was usually indifferent to the contents but that was nothing by comparison to the nightmare of tackling that paper barrier.

I can tell that you’re a little doubtful, but I have proof. I think we are one of the few families I know,who still have a nearly full stocking five days into the New Year. Why? Because the gifts are wrapped in paper, that most hateful of substances ever created by modern or ancient man. Now I have yet to check out whether ancient man’s papyrus or parchment paper has superior texture to our super smooth modern equivalent, but I’m open to ideas.

Meanwhile, the kitchen angel provoked another idea. Why not wrap all his presents in tea towels, preferably, old ratty soft tea towels only suitable for the rag bag? So that’s exactly what I did, with miraculous results. Of course all the gifts were still inferior but at least we didn’t have to wait until the New Year to make that discovery. So I would have to say, that when it comes to kitchen angels, maybe they do deserve a little soft cherished spot, in my psyche at least.


Since as there is no point in re-inventing the wheel, you can find sterling instructions for this project over "here," at "my craft book."

The only thing I would change is the note that's attached to her neck, which reads as follows:-

This post is from from my other blog here


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

Around this time of year, we make one of those ‘thanksgiving trees.’ For those unfamiliar with this American tradition, the children are given a tree with half a dozen leaves. They write on the leaves explaining what things, if any, they are thankful for. This simple, yet frightfully jolly good idea, appealed to my psyche. The reality however, was far from successful. One of my children had an aversion to the texture of paper. Both of them believed that all writing implements were tools of torture. I overcame the former objection by using foamies. The later was overcome but submitting myself to the role of scribe. All I needed then was to extricate suggestions. Most of the suggestions fell into the general category of ‘nuffink.’ When really pushed, or rather persuaded, they might manage ‘Thomas’ or Pachycephalosaurids, dependent upon which developmental stage they were at, by otherwise, it was an uphill struggle. I usually gave up after approximately seven minutes.

Every year they have managed more leaves. This year we made paper ones. This year they both wrote on the paper leaves themselves. We were still done in 7 minutes flat, but now they can tolerate 420 seconds of tedium. As I recap the glue I notice that my son has written an abbreviation on his leaf, an unfamiliar one.
“What does T P stand for dear?”
“Toilet paper.”
“You’re thankful for toilet paper? But you only use flushable wipes, very expensive flushable wipes I might add!”
“Yes.”
“So……why then?”
“It’s a joke stoopid!”
“!”
Ooo the irony.

This post is from from my other blog here

From back in the late Summer and into early Autumn


I dive into the house weighed down with several tones of groceries that will pre-cook in the car if I don’t off-load them before the school run. I have approximately 20 minutes to put away the shopping, clear the decks and prepare my brain.

As we only have cats, I worry unduly about the dog deposit on the lawn, as it’s evidence of a breach of security rather than an additional chore. I am in mid freezer pack when I glance out of the window to see half a dozen semi clad youthful persons, together with their cars and several miles of open sleeping bags strewn across the drive way. My daughter has returned from her latest camping expedition. Her pals are also tree hugger types, immune to skin cancer, tidiness and laundry. Bronzed flesh, string sandals, dark locks and lashes, all a flutter between the young men and women determined to jeopardize my school run dash because they are an in-betweeny generation; childless and without any other notable responsibility other than continued growth. How can I reverse out of the garage with a hundred square foot of personal detritus scattered all over the tarmac?

I worry a tad about the missing Pokemon and Webkinz collections, as they are essential homework tools and I cannot imagine to where they have disappeared, en masse, without warning. I worry a smidge that the bikes will rust as they lie abandoned over the newly fully functioning sprinkler heads, as I just haven’t squeezed in a dash to the garden today.

I worry a smatter that I haven’t even considered implementing a comprehensive ‘put your bikes away after use’ campaign. I assume this is because I am still too stunned to appreciate that cycling has become part of our daily routine. No longer allergic to ‘outside,’ now addicted to exercising by bike.

I worry, but not unduly, that I shall forget to go out and hunt down 7 abandoned banana skins somewhere in the garden. Although al fresco eating was the original plan, I never imagined it would spread to snacks.

I worry a jot or two, but not unduly that I shall not be able to think of an alternative supper now that the tomatoes have all been squished by over enthusiastic cyclists. I consider the tomato tromping, with bare feet, akin to a wine maker’s skill. An indication that the de-sensitization campaign for tactile defensiveness has been in part, generalized.

I believe it is entirely possible that I’ll just keel over, overwhelmed, out scheduled and de-campainged. They’ll find my inert body hours from now, stretched out on the floor from a stress induced heart attack brought on by ever mounting shock waves of ‘new.’ They’ll all be completely bewildered. But you’ll put them straight, right?


p.s. Obviously unnecessary, as it November so clearly I survived unscathed.

This post is from from my other blog here














We have had food fights around here for many a long year, a battle of wills I thought. As usual, as it turned out, I thought quite wrongly. It was not a battle of wills but something quite different indeed. It was neophobia, a fear of new foods. Once I discovered this mind changing fact, I changed my mind, my attitude and my approach.

At that time my young wee neophobe was very fond of the alphabet and numbers. He also had any number of hard and fast rules. One of his hard and fast rules was that he would only eat or drink from particular pieces of crockery, one bowl and one plastic cup. As a busy old mum, I found this most inconvenient as I was always challenged in the washing up department. If the particular bowl or cup were unavailable, soaking perhaps, or in the dish washer, he quite simply would not eat or drink until they reappeared.

Being of a somewhat laxidaisical frame of mind in the housework department, I recalled that in my own youth I was also fond of a particular bowl, one iwht a rabbit at the bottom. The bowl would be full of whatever, but bit by bit, spoonful by spoonful, ever so gradually, the tide would fall and the bunny, in all it’s gloriousness, would be revealed. With this recollection, I had yet another brilliant idea. I would fashion a bowl to tempt my neophobe to do likewise. It was genetic. It was bound to be a sure fired solution to the food problem. I played on his passion and exploited it ruthlessly.

Pottery is a time consuming business, but after a few weeks and several attempts, I eventually managed to produce a bowl with a tempting array of the alphabet on the rim and a semi icon on the bottom. On the bottom, under the food, were the letters ‘E M P T Y.’ How could anyone resist those adorable capitals, because as we all know, capitals are always especially adorable.

I presented the bowl, whilst empty to my youngest son and he was indeed delighted with the bowl, or rather the letters on the bowl. I permitted him to carry it around for a few days, clutched to his chest to familiarize himself with his new acquisition. He put dinosaurs in it, counted them in, counted them out. All was going spiffingly to plan.

One morning, inauguration morning, I filled the alphabet bowl with baby oatmeal, the gluten free, casein free variety of oatmeal that would clear out his little intestinal system, add no end of beneficial nutrition to his three only food diet and all would be well. I beamed at my beloved, soon to be no longer a neophobic son. He, on the other hand, did not look at me. He looked at his bowl, full of unaccustomed slime, but I had anticipated protest, I was used to the yelling, I knew he’d run away.

I did not know that he would upend the bowl and empty it. But I still have a lot to learn.

This post is from from my other blog here














We have had food fights around here for many a long year, a battle of wills I thought. As usual, as it turned out, I thought quite wrongly. It was not a battle of wills but something quite different indeed. It was neophobia, a fear of new foods. Once I discovered this mind changing fact, I changed my mind, my attitude and my approach.

At that time my young wee neophobe was very fond of the alphabet and numbers. He also had any number of hard and fast rules. One of his hard and fast rules was that he would only eat or drink from particular pieces of crockery, one bowl and one plastic cup. As a busy old mum, I found this most inconvenient as I was always challenged in the washing up department. If the particular bowl or cup were unavailable, soaking perhaps, or in the dish washer, he quite simply would not eat or drink until they reappeared.

Being of a somewhat laxidaisical frame of mind in the housework department, I recalled that in my own youth I was also fond of a particular bowl, one iwht a rabbit at the bottom. The bowl would be full of whatever, but bit by bit, spoonful by spoonful, ever so gradually, the tide would fall and the bunny, in all it’s gloriousness, would be revealed. With this recollection, I had yet another brilliant idea. I would fashion a bowl to tempt my neophobe to do likewise. It was genetic. It was bound to be a sure fired solution to the food problem. I played on his passion and exploited it ruthlessly.

Pottery is a time consuming business, but after a few weeks and several attempts, I eventually managed to produce a bowl with a tempting array of the alphabet on the rim and a semi icon on the bottom. On the bottom, under the food, were the letters ‘E M P T Y.’ How could anyone resist those adorable capitals, because as we all know, capitals are always especially adorable.

I presented the bowl, whilst empty to my youngest son and he was indeed delighted with the bowl, or rather the letters on the bowl. I permitted him to carry it around for a few days, clutched to his chest to familiarize himself with his new acquisition. He put dinosaurs in it, counted them in, counted them out. All was going spiffingly to plan.

One morning, inauguration morning, I filled the alphabet bowl with baby oatmeal, the gluten free, casein free variety of oatmeal that would clear out his little intestinal system, add no end of beneficial nutrition to his three only food diet and all would be well. I beamed at my beloved, soon to be no longer a neophobic son. He, on the other hand, did not look at me. He looked at his bowl, full of unaccustomed slime, but I had anticipated protest, I was used to the yelling, I knew he’d run away.

I did not know that he would upend the bowl and empty it. But I still have a lot to learn.

This post is from from my other blog here




“Agh! I am die!” he flops on the kitchen floor in a fine rendition of faint.
“What’s up dear?”
“I can be eating dah poison cakes.”
“Oh that’s o.k. they’re not for us.”
“I am not eating dah fruit cake?”
“No. They’re for the school and anyway they’re not fruit cakes.”
“You are be poison my school!”
“No, no, no. No poison, just little cakes for the bake sale to raise revenue.”
“Raise?”
“Um…..make money for the school. People pay money for the cakes and the money goes to the school.”
“People’s are be paying for poison? Dat is insane!”
“They’re not poison,er…..poisoned, just cake.”
“Cake wiv poison fruit.”
“Oh those are just decorations made out of sugar. They’re not real fruit per se…..not really real fruit.”
“Dey are real fruit cakes?”
“No. Americans are afraid of fruit cakes…..er…..I mean……American’s don’t like fruit cake and there is no fruit anyway.”
“Dey are leaf cakes?”
“It’s a leaf decorate not a real leaf.”
“Dey are apple cakes?”
“Decorations! Anyway, they’re really lemon cakes.”
“Lemons is fruits.” I put the icing bag down to take a closer look at Mr. Logic.
“The point is……..you don’t have to worry about them because you are not going to have to eat them.”
“Dey are not being my new food for dah day?”
“No.”
“Dey are sugar.”
“Yes.”
“I am like sugar?”
“Er……you like chocolate.”
“I am not like sugar?”
“Well…..I don’t think you’ve ever eaten sugar…..as such.”
“Maybe I am try to be eat dah sugar today as my new food?”
“I don’t think sugar counts as a food.”
“Maybe I can eat a sugar leaf coz I am a vegetarian?”
“Great idea, but no. I need all my leaves.”
“No leaf for me?”
“No. I don’t have enough.” I look at him. I dither. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I am saved from having to make a decision as he skips off on a project of his own. I stack the boxes on a tray on the table and start the mountain of sticky washing up, behind with the laundry, skipping homework, overdue with supper preparations and generally dilatory on all scheduled routines. My daughter appears as I pop individual cakes and biscuits into individual containers because of germs or some such nonsense designed to drive busy people barmy, “Mom when’s supper?”
“Ooo I’m not sure.”
“Whatur we havin?”
“Take a look and the board and tell me, I have absolutely no idea.”
“Ooo…..wotzat?”
“What’s what dear?”
“It says ‘new food.’”
“Does it? That’s not very helpful. I wonder what I was thinking?” I step away from the sink, dry my hands on my jeans and peer through spotty bifocals, “who wrote that anyway I wonder?”
“You din write it?”
“No. Where is he?”
“He’s in Nonna’s room. He’s pretending to be an ant.”
“Ah…..that’s alright then.”
“Is he supposed to be eatin candy before dinner?”
“No he most certainly is not.” I march to Nonna’s room, past the table with the cake boxes, with a glance back. The boxes have moved! I whiz on to intervene before his appetite dwindles too far to accept tonight’s offering, “what are you doing under there Sonny Jim!”
“I am being dah ant. I am being my ant in my ant nest.”
“What are you eating young man? Halloween candy?”
“I am not eat, I am nibble.”
“What are you nibbling?”
“Leafs. I am being dah leaf cutter ant.”

This post is from from my other blog here

Initially both my boys were diagnosed as ‘non-verbal’ or having ‘significant speech delays’ dependent upon which expert we favoured. These days, they have lots of words and they choose to share them with us frequently. However, I think it would be fair to say that as often as not, this is not their preferred method of communication. When the pressure is on, they both revert to type and communicate by gesture, mimicry and a wide variety of noises, each of which have very specific meanings.

‘Noises’ are the most difficult things to describe, but I recognize each of them like speed dial tones as they are so familiar and ingrained into our family life. They convey an emotion more succinctly, accurate and immediately than words.

…….

I take him into the kitchen to show him. I tell him it is a surprise because this is one of the rare occasions when the ‘surprise’ will be met favourably. I warn him not to touch it, because it’s not dry yet, that it will take several days, until the weekend, to be dry enough to touch. I orient his body towards the counter and slip an arm around his shoulders to steady the pending explosion. With the other, I whip off the tea cloth to reveal his birthday cake decoration. Although he is static with the soles of both his feet on the ground, he still manages to pogo two feet in the air with flailing arms, and the noise. The noise is a cross between a whipped zipper, the sign off salute of a radio host and a pitch to shatter glass. He lowers his chin to the counter for a closer look before clutching my forearm with both his hands for a quick squeeze of appreciation and the lick of an affectionate puppy.

This post is from from my other blog here

Initially both my boys were diagnosed as ‘non-verbal’ or having ‘significant speech delays’ dependent upon which expert we favoured. These days, they have lots of words and they choose to share them with us frequently. However, I think it would be fair to say that as often as not, this is not their preferred method of communication. When the pressure is on, they both revert to type and communicate by gesture, mimicry and a wide variety of noises, each of which have very specific meanings.

‘Noises’ are the most difficult things to describe, but I recognize each of them like speed dial tones as they are so familiar and ingrained into our family life. They convey an emotion more succinctly, accurate and immediately than words.

…….

I take him into the kitchen to show him. I tell him it is a surprise because this is one of the rare occasions when the ‘surprise’ will be met favourably. I warn him not to touch it, because it’s not dry yet, that it will take several days, until the weekend, to be dry enough to touch. I orient his body towards the counter and slip an arm around his shoulders to steady the pending explosion. With the other, I whip off the tea cloth to reveal his birthday cake decoration. Although he is static with the soles of both his feet on the ground, he still manages to pogo two feet in the air with flailing arms, and the noise. The noise is a cross between a whipped zipper, the sign off salute of a radio host and a pitch to shatter glass. He lowers his chin to the counter for a closer look before clutching my forearm with both his hands for a quick squeeze of appreciation and the lick of an affectionate puppy.

This post is from from my other blog here





This is shut.







This is open.






This is in use.






I just thought I'd better let you know after all the "ick" comments yesterday!

This is one place that you can buy a "Nifty Recycling Aid" at "Stacks and Stacks." Mine was a gift. Beforehand, I used this.













I do have some words over at my other site, "Alien in a Foreign Field" called "The Invisible Hook."




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.

This post is from from my other blog here







*** Here's a teeny tiny project for those attempting to go green but still have cold feet.

Maybe this should be a 'guess what it is?' post instead?




O.k. so what is it?

Need a bigger clue?

O.k. so whilst you think about it, first a little back ground to explain the truly ironic nature of this tackle.

Several life times ago I was married to a different man and therefore enjoyed a relationship with a different mother in law. The house of my mother in law, was like none other. Even now, some two and a half decades later, I have never experienced a household such as that.

To say that the house was clean would be an atrocious understatement. Not only was it hygienically pristine, it was also ordered. Her whole house was immaculate. Not the immaculate of Homes and Gardens, but the kind of immaculate where screw heads were sanitized with a tooth brush. To say that it was tidy would be tantamount to a lie. For example, I slept in the spare room. The spare room housed spares, spares of everything. Each spare was lined up in the closet and when I say ‘lined up’ I mean you could take a ruler just to check that each item was exactly spaced within the available space. The twin bed spreads were hand crocheted, as were all the other bed spreads within the house,……but I digress.

One of the most staggering, heretofore never witnessed by any living breathing creature, was the kitchen. To enter the kitchen was unwise unless you wore sunglasses. Bear in mind that this was England, mid winter where the light twinkled once every 24 hours on a Wednesday when there is an R in the month. I would stand in the kitchen wearing my muffled feet on one single linoleum square in total awe as I watched my mother in law wash plastic bags in the sink and hang them up to dry so that they could later be re-used. I would remain static in part due to the three hounds of the Baskervilles that glowered in the hall ready to eviserate anyone who so much as dropped a hair follicle. I knew at the tender age of 18 that house-wifery was not the career choice for me.

Later as I sat on a freshly laundered and ironed towel on the sofa, drinking Evian water from a dazzling, lead crystal tumbler, I wondered if I would ever reach such exotic levels of exactitude?

So now, I know that I too have advanced to bag washing and recycling. Furthermore, I have been reduced to making a bag, or rather a bag dispenser, for my washed bags, because for some reason, few people are willing to re-use a used bag when there are also new bags available.

Thusly, the first thing to do, is to hide the box of new bags and instead display this handy dandy bag dispenser, stuffed to the brim with old or rather, newly washed bags for everyone to use.

Now whilst I'm sure you're clamouring for the 'how to' details, as luck would have it "Dioramarama" has step by step instructions over "here" which is just as well as I didn't capture the moment myself.

I would just add that the careful selection of the correct material or fabric is paramount if you wish to engender co-operation and participation by other family members. Forget colour co-ordinated, aim for soft, or better still, super soft, as we wouldn't wish to damage those little digits, now would we?

This post is from from my other blog here


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

It’s just another ordinary day. The sort of day that is really no different from any other day, except that it isn’t.

“Mum!”
“Yes dear?”
“I am need.”
“What do you need dear?”
“I am need……….make a few invention that is never been made before.”
“Oh……that could be a bit tricky. What did you have in mind?”
“Ingredients.”
“Ingredients?”
“Yes for my new drink or maybe soup?”
I look at my son who does not drink soup and to date only drinks water and chocolate milk, if it is exactly the right temperature.
“Ah. How can I help?”
“I am get a bowl for my new invention.” I glance at the clock, two minutes home from school, three minutes until we leave for therapy.
“Maybe we should do this later, after therapy?”
“No. Get me.”
“Get you what dear?”
“No I am be get myself.” He flies to the fridge, a domestic appliance that is not on his radar. He heaves open the door to peer and mutter, “now let me see…..ah yes! Dat is what I am be needing.” I watch as he grabs the gallon container of milk. I do not believe he has ever held a container of milk before. He removes the cap, demonstrating superb fine motor skills and a heretofore unknown enthusiasm as he sloshes a cupful or two into a very large soup bowl. The fridge remains open as he selects orange juice and does likewise. He does not drink orange juice nor has he ever held a carton before. I watch mesmerized as he flies back and forth from fridge to counter adding mustard, ketchup, chocolate sauce and mayonnaise. He uses no protection. He uses no tools to avoid physical contact with any of the substances.
“What it is?”
“Er……?”
“Dis fing dat I am using for my cook.”
“Mayonnaise dear.”
“Ooo dat is right, gotta love dah mayo.” Be still my beating heart. These are condiments that have been un-nameable and untouchable. He does not wear gloves. “I fink it is be needing dah one more fing.”
“Indeed,” I sputter blanched.
“Ah! I am be having dah whipped cream.” With the dexterity of the finest chef de patisserie he flicks off the top, inverts the can and sprays six inches of piped cream, a floating island of wonderfulness. “Carry!”
“Pardon?”
“Um…..you be carry it to dah table for dah decorations.” I lift the soup bowl and bear it towards the dining room table, in the centre for all to admire his creation. “I am be get dah latest fing.” He skitters across the room brandishing a jar of Maraschino cherries. I watch as his digits dive into the red syrup to retrieve a single stalk with a plump fruit to plop into the pillow of cream. He grins hugely at his feat, “an dat my fine friends, is dah perfick!” I feel a prick in the corner of my eye, because I know that eyes lie and my vision is untrustworthy. My brain is too wormy to manage coherent speech as his dad arrives to whisk them away to therapy. “Quick mom!”
“Er…….”
“I am need.”
“What do you need dear?”
“A container.”
“Why love?”
“I am be take my ingredient soup drink to therapy, for Janis, so she can be dah lucky taster.” I pour and slop the soup, snap on the lid and pass it over. As the garage door slams shut I pause, lean against the counter and consider. I may be the middle of the day but it is definitely the middle of the night, a dream, unreal and surreal. My daughter appears, “aren’t yah gonna clear up that disgustin muck Mom?” I look at the counter, covered in disgusting muck. It is definitely mucky and there is a void in the middle where the container once was. I touch the muck, just to check that it is really wet, that it is real and it is.

Lucky Janis!






p.s. If anyone doubts the dedication of therapists, I am happy to report that since Janis is such a jolly good egg, she did indeed sip the concoction. Her assessment was whilst it was not exactly to her taste it was a thoroughly powerful brew. Yeah Janis!

This post is from from my other blog here

I have to whisper, because you know I wouldn’t like to jinx it, but I wanted to share something with you, the week just past, because this is the weekend when we can share secrets, if we share them very quietly, so that you know who doesn’t get wind of it.

Here’s a few things:-
1. California shrimp sushi rolls
2. Pot stickers one shrimp one pork
3. Fish sticks, peas, corn, mashed potatoes and one micro dot of tomato sauce
4. Home made [white] bread
5. Egg and potato curry with coconut milk carrots, onions and celery
6. bread and butter pudding with marmalade [a bit like French toast]
7. wed – 10/12/08 chicken corn enchiladas, peas, sloppy joes with lentils and tomatoes, spinach nuggets
8. thur – golden carrots, mashed potato, sausage, tomato sauce, sorrel
9. Fri – white fish fillets [breadcrumbed], red chard, rosemary potato chips, salad, avocado sushi rolls
10. Sat – wholewheat pizza with pepperoni, mozzarella and spinach, bean burrito……….

……these are some of the things that entered my son’s mouth and were swallowed, only a teaspoonful of each one of course, but I suspect, although it’s too soon to say with any certainty, that I may have lost my neophobe, possibly. They remained in his digestive system. The screams were more habit than painful, you know, the lowest common denominator, if in doubt ‘yell your head off,’ but he stayed in his chair. As he chewed, sort of, he examined his biceps waiting for them to grow, which they surely are? All in all, I think we are entering an entirely new phase of life, growth and change. To date none of the ‘new foods’ has rated anything higher than a 3 out of 10. Most are zero, or minus infinity, but all the same……..what do you think? He’s nearly 8. We’ve been at this for five years. Is it really possible? Is that how long it takes for some people? Every day exposure for 365 days times five? To desensitize them? So now I’m wondering, maybe, just maybe, in the future, say in…….what?......five years, perhaps food might be a source of pleasure? Am I jinxing him? Am I getting ahead of myself? Will I have to delete this tomorrow? Oooo pushy parents! In the meantime, please send emergency supplies of toilet paper, urgent!

This post is from from my other blog here



Available from "Jessica Kingsley Publishers" and "Amazon UK."

To save you time and money I shall cut to the chase so that you can determine if this book would benefit you or someone you know. Consider the three following questions carefully:- firstly, are you now or have you ever been a parent? Secondly, do you believe that you are an average parent, one well within the bell curve rather than on either end of the extreme? Thirdly, during the period of parenthood, if you were or are one, did you ever clean your kitchen floor more than once a week?

If so, this book will definitely help your children, and may even help you as a parent, vicariously.

I love this book. It is a no nonsense down to earth approach to helping children learn and grow through play, specifically messy play. Ms. Beckerleg is an experienced mother, and teacher of special needs children. The book is divided into helpful chapters that address areas of need common to many of our children such as ‘sensory stimulation, language and communication, social development and motor skills.’

To be frank, I could have done with this book about 6 years ago. Instead I had to trundle about on my own, adapting mainstream guides to suit my own particular children. Because one of my children is a sensory ‘seeker’ and another is an ‘avoider,’ especially when the tactile defensiveness issue is dominant, I would have welcomed any additional tips and tricks. Anyone who is already familiar with sensory diets will also be familiar with many of the suggestions in Ms.Beckerleg’s book but there are lots of additional useful suggestions and ideas. I also like her chapter on ‘Things to remember.’ This in part addresses what can occur when you have a group of children with differing needs. Her students were in the classroom, mine are all at home with me. Her ‘real life’ anecdotes and examples are heartwarming and hopeful, and we can all do with a dose of that.

Don't worry, the exchange rate is laughable at the moment and if you ever need any translations, just give me a tinkle.
Cheers dears

This post is from from my other blog here


Outstanding = late, not particularly wonderful
Egg Nests
One and a half pounds of Duchesse potatoes
4 eggs [if you’re feeding four people or have two very hungry people]
That's from the recipe book, not terribly helpful? Let me fill you in on how to make the "Duchesse" Potatoes.
Don’t forget to pre-heat the oven to gas mark 7 / 425 degrees F
People the potatoes, cut into equal sized pieces so that they’ll all cook evenly. Simmer until tender in boiling, lightly salted water [remember = simmer to glimmer, boil to spoil!] Drain the potatoes. Add gloibule of butter and a slosh of milk. Mash together until smooth. It should have a soft consistency. [do not whiz in magimix/Cuisinarte, there are no shortcuts] Spoon the potato into four oven proof dishes. [or do as the recipe says and find a forcing bag with a no.10 star nozzle and pipe into the individual bowls……maybe you have more time than I do and like doing extra washing up?] Break eggs carefully so as not to break the yolk. Make a well in the centre of each potato bowl and gently sploop one egg into each. Place butter shaving on each yolk and place in the oven. The recipe calls for baking for 10 – 15 minutes, but with my oven it’s more like 7 minutes or the eggs will turn in to tyre rubber, so experiment because you probably don’t want runny whites either = yuk! If you are also washing up averse, you can build little mountains of mashed potato on a sheet of parchment paper placed on a baking sheet, then make little wells for the eggs, add the eggs as above and bake. After baking you can lift off each little mountain with a fish slice [if you have a thick enough bottom!] without breaking the egg, and toss the paper!

Because they are dishless / bowless they cook faster too.










Peculiar but tasty "Naans"
Four and a quarter cups of bread flour
3 tsp of salt
3 tsp of fast acting dried yeast
1 and three quarter cups of water
Tip into bread machine on ‘dough’ setting for a couple of hours or knead together by hand [not recommended] or toss into mixer to churn.
If you’re doing this by hand, set aside covered with a damp cloth to rise [double in size] and repeat [once.]
Meanwhile make yummy stuff to put in the middle of your Naans as this may encourage people to take a bite on the promise of something more interesting inside.







One pretty safe bet is to sauté a medium sized, finely chopped onion. Leave it in the pan with a heap of garlic and olive oil until it caramelized.

Use lots of flour to stop yourself and your dough becoming one. Divide the dough into four. Divide each fourth into two equal sized pieces. Persuade each piece into an oval shape. Place a quarter of the onion mixture in the centre, spread it out to leave an inch margin and squish the two ovals together around the outer edges. Place all four ovals on a baking tray, cover with damp towel, leave in warm place to double in size.

Heat the griddle / hot plate / frying pan to 425 degrees. Put one teaspoonful of olive oil on the hot plate and wipe over the entire surface with a wad of kitchen paper [do not burn finger tips] Plop Naan onto hot plate an leave it there for 2 to three minutes on one side before you flip it over and cook the other side. Do not poke it, leave it to cook. Lift off onto a warm plate, cover with the tea towel and cook the other naans in turn.

Other fillings that work well =
A bunch of chopped sautéed green onions / scallions
Finely chopped Coriander [cilantro]
A cupful of raisins previously plumped in boiling water, mixed with desiccated coconut and a tablespoonful of chutney or pickle

If you put the Naans in the oven instead of the hot plate, then they puff up like rugby balls, which means that you will now have to eat something that is the same size as your head. This is useful information because if you eat a whole flat Naan because you were good and cooked it on the griddle, then once it is inside your tummy it will then expand to something the size of a rugby ball – you have been warned.

This post is from from my other blog here











Learning the error of your ways
From a few weeks back in the summer

On the third week they break a third vase, although I miss the magic moment to identify exactly which one committed the crime. I am excessively annoyed. The vase was cheap and cheerful, of no intrinsic value, but the mess, glass, foul water and dead flowers exacerbates my already frazzled nerves. As in all things, I adhere to the principal of three:- one vase in use, one in the closet and one in transit, just like knickers. Now I am vaseless which is a mild improvement on knickerless. How can this dastardly state of affairs have come to pass? I hear the dulcet tones of our Irish ABA guru waft through the ether, ‘what incident immediately preceded the event in question?’

What indeed?

The tantalizing question that haunts so many of us. There must be a logical answer, although even an illogical one would do for the time being.

Three weeks ago? Three weeks ago? What could it possibly be? Probably about that time, was the time that my youngest decided that his body needed exercise, regular exercise, frequently. He would hurtle out of the house chanting in time with his self imposed exercise regime, to fly around the garden on his bike, three circuits before flinging his bike aside and hurling his body back indoors. I began to recognize the signs, faster speech, many nonsense words, cycles of ever speedier ditties before they burst like an ant hill to catapault him into the garden. Self regulation is all very well but why does it have to involve such destruction? Neither of them has ever volunteered to enter the garden until this summer.

I stare at the double glass doors, willing my brain to function. Once a week I collect the organic vegetable box along with a bunch of flowers. Once a week I take the old dead flowers and stick them outside until time permits me to visit the compost heap. Once a week I snip the elastic and drop the new fresh flowers in a different vase, not exactly tastefully arranged. It frees up a moment to clear a shelf in the fridge and shove ten pounds of organic vegetables in to chill. The same routine for about five years. What has gone so horribly wrong? Their dad appears by my side to note the latest dollop of carnage, “geez, I’d I thought you’d have stopped it by now.”
“Me? Stopped it? And how exactly do you think I should magic that one?”
“Stop dumping those vases in the doorway to trip over.”
“!”

This post is from from my other blog here

My son has never used the phone willingly. During the last few years we have made strenuous efforts to help him talk to familiar relatives on the phone, but to date our success has been limited. During this same period we have tried to de-sensitize both of them to the horror of headphones, but with similarly disappointing results. We have tried any number of strategies such as using the ‘speaker’ function, but all to no avail. Overall there appears to be general disinterest in talking to an invisible person somewhere out in the ether.

It is an irksome overhang of past deamons to me, as during their initial evaluations neither was able to name or identify a telephone, a microscope nor any number of everyday household items. It was a sharp pang of reality injected into my cotton wool world.

When the phone rings I find myself instantly deluged in words from a very fast speaking young woman. It’s a monologue of reasons why she must speak to my son. She talks as if she has already made a list of reasons why I might refuse and has come up with her own counter arguments in advance. As she rattles them off, I wander through the house to seek him out, since I am unable to get a word in edgeways. When I find him I shield the voice piece, attract his attention, wait for his attention and explain, “your friend Felicity is on the phone, she wants to speak to you,” and hold out the receiver to him near his right hand. He takes the phone in a limp hand, slithers off the bed to perch like a three legged stool on the carpet, “hi Felicity, it’s me,” he says with a casual air that matches his liquefied body as he rolls over, a cat in the sunshine. I hover for a few minutes but it seems impolite to remain and ear wig. As I leave, I note that she uses a great many words and he uses one or two in response, at lengthy intervals.

I check on his progress every five minutes or so, mainly to prevent the telephone being abandoned in some random place never to see the light of day again. He wanders from room to room, loose limbed and all a gangle.

We crash in the corridor but his hands are empty. “Where’s the phone dear?” There is no response as I canter after him on the alert for lonely phones. “Did you have a nice chat with Felicity?” He keeps moving either deep in other thoughts or determined to maintain a new privacy. As I bob and weave in his wake we collide with his father who is equally interest in this new development, as well as concerned for the welfare of all electronic devices in the house. He nabs him by the shoulders, even though his legs keep moving, a cartoon caricature of a fully wound toy “so……..how was Felicity?”
“I dunno.”
“Well you’ve been talking to her for nearly half an hour, what did you have to talk about?”
“Nuffink.”
I am suddenly aware that we appear to be putting the poor child through the third degree, or what appears to be the third degree but is really only the first degree of a new form of communication.

We smile, wise adults and release him. The innocence of youth, loves young dream, the shadow of the future…….. As usual we are off radar. He calls after him, the retreating speed walker, “maybe you should wine and dine her?” he sniggers. I beam with fondness as my son replies over his shoulder, without missing a beat, “Felicity’s not a whiner.”

This post is from from my other blog here

Thirteen Things about organizing a scavenger hunt

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This is a great activity for those rainy days when everyone has a surfeit of excess unexpended energy. The idea is to leave a series of connected clues from one place to another, but inside the house whilst the weather makes ‘outdoors’ impracticable.

1. First, select your child’s favourite, or second favourite toy and hide it. The second favourite is ideal for the child that has strong objections to their first favourite being held captive. The idea is to ensure motivation but not mental torture and angst from kidnapping. The advantage of using a toy that they already prefer rather than something new, is that quite often the ‘new’ is not attractive nor motivating, or if it is initially attractive and motivating whilst it is unknown, once it is found, it will be a big disappointment and not match their expectations resulting in stressful meltdowns. This is a game that we want to be successful for everyone. If their first experience is fun then we are more likely to be able to repeat it.

2. Take a different coloured sheet of paper for each participating child.
3. Walk from room to room with a clip board and pencil.
4. Identify items that each particular child is likely to latch onto, for instance our six foot wooden toy trunk is more or less invisible to the boys but the jagged two in crack in the wall, just above the baseboard in the corner of the room behind the sofa, is of infinite interest.

6. Determine your start point, preferably somewhere open and central.
7. Ensure that all children go to their first personal clue in opposite directions to avoid trampling.
8. The first clue must be obvious to ensure that inertia is overcome and that they will start to move in the general direction of the first clue.
9. Write the clue or draw an icon, tear off the strip of paper and tape it to the floor at the start point.

10. Although my children love numbers, for this particular game I don’t number the clues. This way they are unaware of the fact that one child has 40 clues, another has 15 and the last has only six, to take account of their differing skills and abilities.

Pitfalls to avoid
11. Accidentally coming across the wrong clue out of sequence.
12. Using ‘blind spot’ words. E.g. although my children know the names for different rooms in theory, they’re not a high priority and are there are difficult to recall on spec. Far better to use an icon to indicate the correct room, such as a toilet for the bathroom or a table for the dining room or a couch for the sitting room.
13. Whatever number of clues you determine is appropriate for your children, for their first attempt, halve that number, to give them a better chance of success.

Cheers dears

This post is from from my other blog here

This post is from from my other blog here










My American children’s development is severely hampered by my own foreigness. There are still so many things that I do not understand about America such as why it is not possible to buy a single fitted twin sheet in Target as they are always sold in sets with pillowcases and flat sheets, why a six ounce packet of Goldfish costs $3.99 but 33 ounces costs $5.99, and why in November, when the skies are devoid of birds, and seeds won’t be planted for another four months, suburban gardens are decorated with a surfeit of scarecrows.

For the most part, I put these conundrums to the back of my mind, and set about blending in instead.

Part of blending in requires one to own a broom, similar in design but with a complete set of bristles. In an attempt to maintain my green principles, this bedraggled broom is this week’s tackle victim.

You will need the following:

A bedraggled broom
Bale of straw [keep the wires]
Wire cutters
Duct tape
3 foot of bamboo cane or other stick for the arms
Old children’s clothes
Old gloves
Four large elastic bands
Three pipe cleaners
White and black foamy sheets for eyes
Glue

Tape the bamboo cane across the broom handle crosswise to form arms



Tape the raw ends with duct tape to prevent possible eye damage




Dress the scarecrow and stuff with straw






Use the wire to form a loop under the clothing from neck through the crotch to stop the scarecrow slithering down






Tie off the wrists and ankles with elastic bands to keep the straw in place
Stuff the gloves with straw and attach to the wrists with bands or duct tape
Cut circles of foamies to form eyes
Tuck curves of pipe-cleaners for mouth and eyebrows into the straw







Obviously one must be mentally prepared for the inevitable questions from enquiring young minds, such as the underlying purpose of scaring crows? All birds or just crows? The psychological susceptibility of crows versus other bird life and wild life?

On completion ensure that you do not use a mallet or hammer to poound the scarecrow into the ground, or alternatively, wait until there are no witnesses to note the vicious assault and battery upon the poor defenseless creature.

Ensure that you have solid arguments in rebuttal to the dual accusations of bird abuse and scarecrow sabotage. Be wise to the aggravated charge of 'hate crime.'

This post is from from my other blog here


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

A few years ago I discovered that I have trouble remembering things, this was the post-it era. It coincided with a rash of small children with copious demands. Like many parents with three children under the age of three, it was a challenge to my working memory. There were so many additional things to remember, things like ‘did he nurse last on the left or the right?’ There were also lots of quick tricks to memorize too, to make remembering easier, such as moving my wedding band to the left hand or right hand after nursing. This handy trick failed due to puffy fingers and an inability to remember whether to start on the side to correspond with the wedding band on the left hand or whether left meant finished and I needed to move the baby and the ring to the right. As I say, it was largely a working memory capacity issue, that along with a large dollop of fatigue, agedness and far too much grumpiness at my own shortcomings.

It was slightly later that the aforementioned perfect post-it note system also failed. I planted my post-it notes on the fridge, the largest space available in my kitchen, where I spent the majority of my time. Some fiend objected to the apparent randomness of the post-its. I would stagger into the kitchen to take note of my next ‘to do’ and find that they had all been colour co-ordinated, lined up horizontally and vertically. Certain coloured post-its would have disappeared completely. I would find them in scrumples in corners of the kitchen, hurled in abandonment. It took me a long time to figure out why such wanton vandalism had taken over. Often the notes that were singled our for destruction were written in cursive. They caused the most angst. Abbreviations were also considered cheating. Shopping lists with food items would disappear without trace. Did he eat them? I somehow doubt it. It was quite infuriating at the time. Not only did have a dodgy memory bank but someone was making regular raids, surreptitious heists on the sanity vault.

But of course that was a long time ago.








Our lives enter a new phase of precision.

This post is from from my other blog here

I terminate my scientifically conducted discrete trial early, due to a distinct lack of co-operation by the subject. It’s one of those prompt and response experiments. No matter what I try, it makes no difference. My daughter spins her wheels and hovers, observant but without interference. For now he is syllable free, silent. I, on the other hand, am exhausted, worn down and defeated. I’ve had just about enough of these glass half full, nauseatingly optimistic, count your blessings types……I should know better of course.

I remember sitting in on a speech therapy session, when silence descended. When silence descended I was like a squirrel on the edge of my branch, twitching, waiting to witness the magic trick, to learn what the magic trick was, ready to implement the magic trick myself. After 45 minutes of prompting, jokes, cuing, distracting, silliness and encouragement, we left, still in silence, without the knowledge of the magic trick. The magic trick did not exist. It was a salutary lesson, but only for me.

I let him drift off on his own so that I complete my notes on yet another failed campaign and 32 minutes of mute. 32 minutes of mime and mimic. Sequencing and prepositions are a trial for us all. I add my notes to the A4 arch lever Ring binder where I house many similar aborted or failed experiments spanning copious years of defeat. I return the binder to the cupboard with it’s fellows, all equally as shoddy. As I shut the door I hear odd noises from the spare bedroom. I step closer to ear wig as I need to know who is talking, and who is talking about what.

“O.k.! Yah listin?” she bellows in earnest. “So when I poke here, then you fart. Got it! Yah ready!” I crack open the door, just a sliver so that see what my ears are reluctant to comprehend. I catch him nodding his head with great enthusiasm. She prods the centre of his forehead, ringing doorbell style. He responds immediately with raspberry noises from his mouth. They both fall about on the carpet cackling, “agin, agin, agin!” he pleads as he wipes away the tears.

Now why didn’t I think of that?

This post is from from my other blog here













[From a few weeks back]

I drip around the house nursing my cold and a handful of tissues, a nose like Rudolph and skin like red sandpaper. My children are well, all of them, with far too much energy.

I print out ten pages of Polygons so that we can address a homework problem in a calm and value free manner, both regular and irregular. I restrict my other duties to sterilizing anything that they might touch. Purell soap and Clorox wipes vie for supremacy. I refuse to permit my eldest daughter to take Britons’ germs to Australia or contaminate the other passengers on the 23 hour flight.

My son, the filthy one, is the source of great irritation as he dresses and undresses, many, many times. Gradually, he tries on every clothing combination available in his wardrobe. My other son is less irritating but far noisier as he chants “picta dey, picta dey, picta dey,” in a ceaseless mantra.

Fortunately my ears are as clogged as my nose and brain. Everything is irritating as I grump my way through the day, grouchy and crotchety, unlike other [LINK TO JACK RILEY] more sanguine mothers. Through the fug of my fog it occurs to me that his behaviour is unusual. He has never shown any interest in clothes, clothing or fashion, whilst his little brother has an entirely different set of motivations that perseverate upon texture.

I decide to investigate further.

“What are you doing dear?” I watch him pose before the mirror as he flips between nonchalant, cool and strut. He has each of them down to a tee. His sister steps across to adjust his collar and cuffs.
“What are you doing dear?”
“Oh I’m just tidying him up some. There you go! Perfect!” Three small people look at me expectantly.

Joint attention rules! But I am still clueless.
“Um…..very nice dear. You do look smart, er…..sharp……er…..hansom?”
“He looks awesome Mom.”
“Indeed, awesomely awesome I’m sure.”
“Perfect for Picture Day!”
“Ah!”


This is what happens to foolish parents who persist in typecasting their children despite the mountainous evidence to the contrary.

This post is from from my other blog here





Many parents share a common goal, something along the lines of, 'please let my child reach the age of majority and live a happy healthy life.'

Others, more ambitious parents, a few of them, focus on the "details."


"Food and fun"

If ever there were two words that don’t go together, then these two would be my first choice. I should have the picky eater logo tattooed on my forehead. I swear I have read every book ever published on the subject, or if not ‘swear’ as I have a tendency to exaggerate, then certainly a great many.

You see I am the mother of a neophobe, a person who eats less than 20 foods.

What does this mean?

Well……when did you last see a child [or adult?] who had a meltdown at the prospect of eating an ice-cream, or a chocolate chip cookie, or chocolate or candy……? Do those children exist? Yes, they surely do.

The first step towards helping your child expand their diet is to relinquish control. Control must be passed to the child without reservations, although hesitation and doubt is permitted.

The second step in any successful de-sensitization plan is to extinguish the connection between ‘food’ and ‘eating.’ This is where ‘food is fun’ comes into it’s own.

For many people ‘food’ is fearful because it has to be eaten. Therefore, if you do not have to eat it, there is the possibility of extracting fun. Once fun has been extracted, by fair means or foul, food is no longer the enemy. When food is no longer the enemy there is the hopeful possibility that additional consumption might become a reality.

I can see ‘doubt’ writ large, but I can promise you that this approach will help make meal times less traumatic. There may not be very much more eating, but less trauma is definitely worth fighting for.

So where to start?

This will depend upon your child and you are the one that knows them best.

I can catalogue an endless campaign of ways to play with your food, some that will be familiar and others that are a little more obscure, but the ability to touch the food with hands should never be under-estimated. The inability to hold a utensil can be put on the back burner.

Bear in mind that the food, whichever you choose, may look horrible, smell disgusting, feel abhorrent and sound revolting when it is cut or squished. This is because food involves ALL of our senses.

I could write more, several volumes in fact, but I shall leave you with a selection of photographs that suggest a few of the endless possibilities available to us and our children, on their journey to accepting that food is our friend and starvation must be staved.























































Addendum:-

My good pal "Kristina" from "Autism Vox" suggested we pass this on to any interested parties...........


Hi "Kristina,"

This is Josh Levy, Managing Editor of "Change.org," a social action blog network that just launched more than 12 blogs last month covering issues such as global warming, homelessness, and genocide. (You can see the full list here: "www.change.org"/causes).

I wanted to get in touch because we're preparing to launch an autism blog next month and I was hoping you might know of someone that would be good for the position.

We're looking for someone who is knowledgeable, passionate about the issue, and who can blog like a pro. The position is part-time and paid ($1000/mo).

I've pasted a job description below. I'd really appreciate it if you would consider forwarding it to anyone you think might be interested. We'd also love it if you would consider posting a short announcement on your blog; we're trying to reach out to as many people in the autism activism community as possible and I'm hoping this is something your readers might be interested in.

Thanks so much for the help!

Josh Levy
Managing Editor

This post is from from my other blog here

Thirteen Things about recycled Thanksgiving decor

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!


The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others' comments. It’s easy, and fun! Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

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You will need:
One pumpkin
One empty, clean orange juice jug
Template
One overhead projector film
Washable pen
Sharpie
Scissors
Large piece of waster paper or newspaper
An exacto knife
A cleaver
Chopping board
Sandpaper
Feathers, glue and glitter of your choice
A captivating activity
A thankful of patience

Whilst it might be fun to do this craft with your children, due to the prevalence of lethal weapons, it may be better to prepare all the parts in advance for them to decorate and assemble.

1. Take a large piece of paper and outline a tail feather shape.


[this is last years with the feathers already attached which makes it easier to see]

Alternatively, make outlines of your children’s hands in advance to add the personal touch. You can use more than one tail/ hand print if your children and their hands are very small, as stumpy tailed turkeys are not popular.

2. Cut the ‘film’ to match, set aside to decorate with children.

3. Split the juice carton in two, vertically, with an exacto knife. Take care to keep the handle part separate to form the neck and head.



4. Cut the two side panels into wing shapes

5. Fashion a neck and head out of the handle hook.





6. Mark the ‘face’ with a sharpie or leave this step to a child that likes to draw faces.

7. Take the sandpaper and remove all sharp snags from the pieces.

8. Take the washable pen and mark four cuts on the pumpkin, neck and tail at the ‘front/back/ top.



9. Mark two wing cuts at a semi vertical angle.







10. Take the cleaver and cut into the markings.



11. Insert each piece to check whether you have a good fit so that smaller hands than yours can easily push the pieces into the holes. If not, take time to enlarge the holes now before their pieces are decorated. Remove all lethal weapons from the visual scene.

12. On completion, gather children into a large open area with all decorating supplies available in duplicate. Forewarn children that glue takes time to dry, that they are at stage one and that stage two, assembly, will be later. It is now essential to minimize the use of glue. Glue use is exponentially related to drying time. Put visual timer in prominent position out of the line of fire of escaping glue, to illustrate that the passage of time is indeed despicably slow.

13. After the decorating stage, dig out the captivating activity, otherwise known as the ‘kill time whilst glue dries’ activity. Do not attempt clean up at this time. This time must be devoted to the captivating activity in another room during the glue drying. Now you will discover whether your captivating activity time is closely matched to your glue drying time. Do not attempt to speed up the process by use of the microwave or a hairdryer, as both these options are deemed cruel and unusual punishment to turkeys.

After approximately 30 minutes, assuming that you gained control of glue usage earlier, the turkey parts should be dry enough to handle. You will now learn if your choice of ‘captivating alternative activity’ was sufficiently captivating or too captivating. You will already know if it was insufficiently captivating, as you will be doing your captivating activity alone. If your activity was too captivating your children will continue the new activity. On no account will they now leave that activity to return to the previous activity to complete the turkeys. On the 57th occasion that someone asks ‘why?’ resist the fowl urge to shout ‘because it’s fun!’

Time to wattle off and recharge the patience battery!

This post is from from my other blog here

This post is from from my other blog here




The perfect post award is hosted by Lindsay at "Suburban Turmoil" and Kimberley at "Petroville."





These days most people have at least heard of autism. The subject seems to be in the news media every day and there are always those stories of Autistic Savants with their staggeringly unique talents. Otherwise, the news tends to be of the ‘one off good time touchy feely’ type of story or the ‘gloom, doom and despondency’ woefulness that shoots fear into the hearts of the general public.

The every day kind of autism, doesn’t get quite as much attention as it is not considered ‘newsworthy.’ That said, there are any number of families all over the world who live with the day to day nature of special needs and autism. Most of these tales cover the tiny huge experiences that are of no great consequence to the world at large but are of pivotal significance to those in their orbit.

One such tiny huge tale was written by “NiksMom” over at “Maternal Instincts – Flying by the seat of my pants.” “NiksMom” isn’t whizzing around in her undies, but rather keeping it all together in her trousers, as illustrated by her posting called “Taking Root, Taking Wing,” for which she receives October’s Perfect Post award, in recognition of what most parents of special needs children attempt to achieve, hopeful growth and inspiration to others, I hope.


So don't be shy. Maybe during November you'll also read something that you might nominate for the Perfect Post Award =

The perfect post award is hosted by Lindsay at "Suburban Turmoil" and Kimberley at "Petroville."

This post is from from my other blog here


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

Once a year, we take our children to the school fund raiser. For those unfamiliar with the American system of public education, the wealthiest Country of the Western civilized nations usually falls short of funds to the tune of many thousands of dollars. The fund raisers, several throughout the year, serve to finance several programmes for the children to enjoy. Some support fringe benefits such as science camps, others add enrichment projects such as arts, music and sports.

Hence our family trots out in support of this event. Each year it becomes easier. This year we go in two shifts to accommodate those who desire to walk from dawn to dusk, and those would prefer to take a step or two in the right direction.

When the boys and I arrive, the public address system is audible two blocks away. The crowds have died down and hundreds of people move around the playing field in laps.

We are able to register and take care of paperwork in the open play ground, well staffed by cheerful, helpful volunteers. The boys are each handed a Walkathon T-shirt for the event, our first hurdle. Since we are the last to arrive, the only shirts left are the small size. Although they are both quite happy to be without clothes for a far higher percentage of time that then average child, they are both suddenly attacked by a blast of unexpected social decorum,

....“but……I cant be take my shirt off!”
“Yes you can. I’ll help you. Then we can put the Walkathon T-shirt on instead, then you’ll be the same as everyone else.”
“But……everyone will be seeing my….my…..my bare…..bareness!”
I beat the word ‘irony’ to the back of my brain and wrestle with shirts as both boys twist themselves about like corkscrews, their arms and legs wrapped around like elastic. It is a feigned and yet uncannily realistic rendition of truly false modesty. The screwed up facial expressions are overkill. On completion neither is particularly bothered by the new skin tight garment with bare midriff.

I edge them up onto the sports field and peer around for their dad and sister. I yell into my cell phone in an attempt to make contact. A pal taps me on the arm to communicate something officious and important. Both boys adopt this as their cue for take off. As they scamper away in opposite directions, my eyes follow them until they’re forced to focus snap back to my chum. Lost in the crowd in seconds.

Even though I can’t decipher any apart from the public address system, it seems like the best way to attempt contact. As I press ‘end call’ on my phone, I remember that he’s networked all the phones into our home phone answering system. Typical.

I seek out the usual hidey holes, those furthest distance from the hub bub, the toilets, the edge of the play ground, the play centre on the far field. Although they wear a distinctive shade of day glow yellow shirts, on this particular occasion, so does every other child in the school. I spot my elder son walking laps backwards to face the current object of his affections, a charming and lively fifth grader. I assume, or rather hope, that her feminine wiles will entertain him for the remainder of the lap and continue my quest for the little one.

Where on earth could he be?

By chance I find my daughter and husband, neither have seen him.

We are running out of options. “I wonder if he’s dashed back to the car to escape?” I mutter over the din of the microphone announcements. My elder son appears after completing his lap, still walking backwards but mercifully vertical. I pounce on him before he veers off, “have you seen your brother?” He points in the vague direction of……….nothing in particular. “Where dear?” We all strain our eyes to decipher, search the sea of bodies, whittle out the rogue when I hear a familiar voice come bellowing out over the public address system, “America rules! England stinks!”

This post is from from my other blog here

This post is from from my other blog here







“What is that smell Maddy? Is it your perfume?”
“Yes. I put it on especially, as I knew you were coming.”
“Ah, no time for a shower then?”
“Hmm one of those days, you know me so well.”
“What’s it called?”
“I’m not sure. It’s some hooch my Mum gave me for Christmas.”
“Do you have the bottle?”
“Yes, but I’ve lost the cap and there isn’t a label.”
“Perhaps we could guess. I know it smells……..oddly familiar?”
“Nothing smells like the original on me. My mum used to wear Blue Grass. I loved it on her. She gave me some as a gift when I was a teenager. I thought I was sooo grown up, but after a few minutes there was this horrible stink. It’s didn’t agree with my body chemistry, smelled more like gnat’s piss.”
“Gnats piss, gnat’s piss, gnat’s piss.”
“Whoops!”
“Oh dear. He’s been so quiet I forgot he was there for a moment.”
“Likewise.”
“Not much gets past him does it! I know, how about we all think of a name for your Mummy’s perfume?’
“Hmm that’s a good idea? You guess first then?”
“Ooo let me think a moment Maddy….how about....... Maddy Mystique.”
“Ooo I like that. That one definitely gets my vote! Now lets see if I can think of anything better………Muck de Madeleine.”
“Not quite the essence we’re looking for.”
“What about you dear? Do you want to have a guess? Can you think of a name for my perfume?”
“Er……Hoochy Mamma.”
“!”