This post is from from my other blog here
























I read and scribble in the margin of the “The Explosive Child.” Ordinarily written dialogue is helpful, but I find it hard to believe that any parent would speak to their child in such a manner. They all seem to get far too cross too soon. Either the average parent has very high expectations of their children, or maybe I have very low expectations of mine? Since I am generally in the minority, I conclude that the latter must be correct.

I am very much aware of the dual plank that parents need to tread: expect the most from your child and they will try and live up to your expectations, versus do not set unrealistic goals for your children or set the bar to high so that they do not experience continued failure. This particular plank beats me from both ends all too frequently.

What are often dual standards quickly become quadruple standards if you have a typical child in the mix, even if I ignore other family dynamics.


One simple example is as follows:- a parent calls from the kitchen to their child ‘turn off your game, wash your hands and come to the table for dinner.’ It’s an approximation not a quote. The child, for whatever reason[s], does not comply, an argument ensues and all is lost. It’s a very ordinary every day example of a situation that many parents experience often, but not me.

First of all this is a three step sequence, the parent asks the child to do three different things in succession, and we’re still working on two step sequences. The request is made verbally, their are no visual cues such as a schedule board, PECS or cards, to support the requests. Secondly, the parent speaks to the child from another room. Although I do this too, I know it doesn’t work. Thirdly, anything to do with the termination of electronics time, has a whole set of extra rules that must be applied sympathetically by the parent, or rather by me. Fourthly, washing hands is a 13 step sequence in and of itself! Fifthly, as with many families, the offer of food is not a positive incentive but an aggressive aversive and must be handled with due sensitivity.

A sensible person will ask ‘well why are you reading it then dimwit!’ or ‘have you changed their diagnosis without telling me?’ Well I’m reading it because it was recommended by someone I trust, and although their labels remain the same, there is such a huge overlap with other labels that it never hurts to widen the net and pick up a few tips from elsewhere. Does this mean that the book is useless? On the contrary I know I still have a great deal to learn. I am sure that this recommendation to me will prove useful in many respects. However, it does make me realize how far we are off the beaten track.

Maybe we need to take up hiking?

Perish the thought!

This post is from from my other blog here



























I skip out into the garage to find a nail. I have lots of nails. Some of them are hidden in the garage. Some are hidden at strategic points around the house, although nails suffer from the same problem as chocolate. Unlike the average squirrel, I frequently forget where I have hidden the nails or the chocolate. Spouse may be in England but his presence haunts me still. He is a man of very strong principles, especially when it comes to nails, hence my subterfuge.

When we lived in England he let me have my head when it came to nails, but in America things are very different. I am no longer permitted to stick nails in things ‘willy nilly,’ as he is apt to say. I accept that I was in part to blame for us losing our deposit on our rental house but I’m sure that the landlords miscounted. Even I know that 116 nail holes in a bathroom the size of a cupboard is a little excessive. As a snide aside, I should like to take this opportunity to point out to those said landlords, that anyone who fails to appreciate the joy of a three inch increase in height and volume of their one puny flower bed, with free organic matter, is no pal of mine! Cacti to them! But I digress.

Maybe I should explain further. In America, or rather in California, we are subject to earthquakes. This means that houses are generally not made of brick. Better to imagine the Japanese style of architecture, bamboo rods with rice paper, delicate and divine. Here however, instead of bamboo, they just use sticks. They hide the sticks under plaster, which they insist on calling ‘dry wall’ or ‘sheet rock’ for no particular reason that I can fathom. In order to hang anything on a wall, you first need to find the hidden sticks. In order to find the hidden sticks, you have to find the hidden tool in the garage which detects the whereabouts of the sticks. I kid you not!

Failure to attend to these important matters means that the hanging thing will fall down and smash, and you may well ‘tear’ your wall. What a country!

Spouse objects strongly to torn walls, it’s just one of his little foibles. In order to limit the number of torn walls, he fills the garage with wood screws and other useless electrical things that hide my store of nails. He really is that petty minded.

Sadly, it gets worse. Not only is my nail consumption rationed, he also bans random use of hammers. Personally I couldn’t care which hammer I use, they’re all the same to me, namely out of reach, practically on the ceiling. However, spouse insists that different hammers do different jobs, although it’s all a bit vague. Do I insist that one wooden spoon should be favoured over another in the kitchen? Of course not. Everyone is welcome to use my spoons be that as oars, "dibbers," drumsticks or cooking. Some people are just so picky.

As I tip toe against the wall arms extended overhead, a little voice accosts me, “what for are you be do?” I roll back onto my heels to address the small person and explain the obvious. I pause and look at him. He is so rarely static and vertical at the same time. He stands with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. It is a curious stance for a child, patient, attentive and absorbent. It exactly matches that of my father.

I resist the temptation of sarcasm and remind myself that 'all opportunities are learning opportunities,' which is not one of my own nauseating phrases, but someone else's nauseating phrases.

I try to copy his speech pathologist to fire those synapses and connect those neural pathways. “What is this called dear?” Categories and word retrieval can be such hard work.
“Um it be nail.”
“Excellent! And what is this tool?”
“It be hammer.”
“Superb. What do you think I’m going to do with them?”
“I dun know.”
“Well I’m going to hang this up on the wall.”
“No……”
“No? Why not?”
“Coz you are be use dah wrong hammer?”
“What’s wrong with the hammer?”
“It is not be yours.”
“Your dad and me share dear.”
“No…..you are be use dah wimmins hammer.”
“What woman’s hammer?”
“Dah special one dat Dad is being buying for you.”

I’d forgotten all about that one.

Clearly my own neural pathways could do with a tune up.

This post is from from my other blog here
























After careful consideration I decide that their behaviour has been exceptional and that a treat is in order. I research our options before I collect them from school. What new culinary experience might best fit the bill? Where is noisy enough?

Aha!

I have another brilliant idea. Now would be the perfect time to try Kentucky Fried Chicken. Two of them eat chicken and I am fairly confident that chips will be available.

I make time to explain the plan. I ensure that I have everyone’s attention prior. I plant the word ‘fries’ in the second statement to pre-empt a meltdown. I emphasis the reward nature of the experience, as a certain amount of doubt is immediately apparent. My daughter is delighted. The boys check her out to see whether or not they should be delighted too. I remind them of our nauseating catch phrase, ‘new, different, exciting.’ They reluctantly decide that weak positive enthusiasm, is possibly the best option.

We spend copious amounts of time with shoes and toilets because I am distracted by finding the nearest restaurant location with the aid of the computer. I give up and attend to feet and bodily functions because I have the luxury of a GPS system in the car.

My children sit in the car for seven minutes fighting their car seat belts whilst I fight with the logic of the GPS, always a mystery. After my 27th attempt at typing in ‘Kentucky Fried Chicken’ I am just about ready to cut my fingertips off with a pair of secateurs.
“What is wrong with this stupid thing!” I squeak at no-one in particular.
“I’m sure it’s real near. I remember seeing it near somewhere.”
“Near yet ever so far at the same time!” I bleat. “I suppose we could just drive around and hope that we bump into it?”
“No bumping in car!”
“She din mean real bumping.”

I need a plan B and quite possibly a plan C. I long for spouse to return, the man with a compass in his head. “I thought you said we were going to the chicken place?”
“We are! Or rather we would be if I could find it.”
“Type it in again. Let me see.”
“There’s no point. I’ve already tried every possible feasible combination of location, city, keyword, place name and street. It doesn’t exist.”
“It does. I saw it say Main Street or something.”
“Main Street in Arizona, about 1679 miles away.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“Days!”
“But I’m hungry, I don’t think I can wait that long. Try again, let me help.”
“O.k. just to show you, here K-E-N-T-U-C-“
“Wait!”
“Wait what?”
“What are you typing?”
“Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
“Try KFC.”
“It’ll never pick up on that, it needs everything spelled out for it.”
“Jus try it mom.”
“Ah…..1.6 miles, that’s a bit more like it.”

We park on the curb side of the lot to narrow the chance of anyone being mown down before we manage to enter the establishment. As it turns out, we are unable to enter the establishment in any case. My youngest son is prostrate on the concrete by the entrance, quite a feat for the tactile defensive amongst us. I try and drag him away from the doors to avoid pedestrian traffic trampeling. Strangely he is compliant. We wait for words to return, but my daughter is ahead of the hunt, “he ain’t gonna go in there!”
“Why not?”
“Veggie tales.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a poster of Veggietales on the door.” The vomit sounds from my son confirm her accuracy.
“Vegetables are be poison!”
“Chips are made of potatoes, remember that potatoes are a vegetable?”
He sits bolt upright, reviews the poster whilst he sucks his fingers. He bobs to his toes and is in the double doors in a flash.

Inside I suppress a groan. Menu choices abound. Too much darned choice! There are enough different combinations to satisfy every family. The boys swing on the bars to help them assimilate the information. My daughter and I gaze at the board like goons.
“What do you think you would like dear?”
“I’m gonna have a burger an fries.”
“No, which chicken dish are you going to have?”
“I’m not gonna have chicken.”
“But that’s why we came here!” I squeak in exasperation. My sons falls off the bars in a heap, an ooof and a “I be have dah burger also.”
“What about the chicken!”

I give up and place our order. I read the options again and peer into the back to see if I can spot a knife and fork, or something else that might work like a knife or a fork. After another 10 days of liquid diet following dental carnage, I am doubtful of my ability to eat anything quite as solid as chicken. I dither whether or not to ask. I decide to pretend that I am an American and do what Americans do, I just need to watch them to see what how they manage this culinary feat. All three of my children play ‘rock, paper, scissors’ loudly, in the centre of the room, elevated on tall stools for maximum broadcasting.

“Hey Mom, they called yur name.”
“Did they? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, they called Maddison right?” I remember that I’m on the wrong continent and stomp over to the counter to collect numerous Styrofoam packages without a recycle label.

The children concur that the plastic free toy is inferior to the MacDonald’s equivalent. They agree that the burgers are not up to par with competitors. Chips are granted a paultry 7 out of ten, but consumption of calories continues in between the light banter. We are meltdown free and collectively as noisy as the other 26 people in the restaurant. Balance personified. I examine my food and wonder how best to tackle it? Biting is banned for 6 months. No tools are forthcoming. All around me people chew on drumsticks, gnaw on chicken wings, gulp down lumps of chicken breast and general show off.
“Why aren’t you eatin Mom? Don’t like the chicken after all?”
“I love the chicken, or rather I hope to love the chicken. I’m just not quite sure how to eat it.”
“Just pull a bit off, a bit sized piece.”
“Hmm.”
“You can do it. If you make it small enough you won’t need to chew, just swallow.”
“Hmm.”
“Go on. Give it a go.”
“But it’s all greasy, I’ll get my hands all slimy.” The boys look at me, dead in the eye, open mouthed with food falling, “sa finger lickin good.”

I think the sky is falling in!

This post is from from my other blog here














Many parents are prone to moan about all the things that their autistic child will never do. I am exceptionally good at moaning myself, in fact, I have far more to moan about because we have double trouble around here.




Although autism is a spectrum disorder, often there are common themes. One common theme that we suffer around here, is an ability to enjoy nature's wonders, or more specifically, natures wonder's if they happen to be outside. For as long as I can remember both of them have been "allergic" to outside. I have used every tric……available therapy and strategy to desensitize them to this common garden phenomenon will little success. Short of staking them to the broad beans poles, I’m out of ideas, although duct tape might be a kinder option for the tactile defensive amongst us. I’m tempted to dip into a modern day Grimm’s and lay a trail of M & M’s up the garden path but we already have enough "ant" problems around here.



Although I find few activities as therapeutic, I am in the minority of one in this household. It peeves my environmental conscience that my spouse has insisted on installing a lawn, which Americans strangely call sod. The amount of water, energy, weeding and titivating that it requires to survive is out of all proportion to it’s beneficial properties. Or so I thought.



***



I hear a clatter on the door and peek through the window to see my daughter chucking Poke Balls at the windows. She screams at her brothers from the garden, “hey guys, come on out here and play Pokemon in the long grass!” I march to the door to give her a piece of my mind regarding such vandalism but the boys slip out before me and hover on the step. “Look I got the grass types! Treeko, Tortera, Turtwig and Tropius!” The boys squeak with delight and thunder over towards their sister. I snatch the camera and sneak out on tippy toes.



















They stand on the grass. My youngest stuffs both his hands in his mouth and breaths noisily. His brother takes a nose dive onto the grass, fingers searching out Pokemon figures, expertly hidden by his sister. I have no stop watch but the moments tick by. I slip into a garden chair under the pergola, in the shade, chameleon that I am. Thank goodness for sludge coloured clothing. I watch two lie on their tummies flattening knee high grass with another one close by, debating, weighing up the odds. “I got Chicorita too!” she adds, with a huge grin on her face. He squeaks and dives, sold to the littlest Pokemon fan in San Jose. I try not to giggle or gasp, as maturation is a beautiful thing. They roll around on the grass just like they roll around on the gravel in the front.


















Hunger gets them in the end and they skitter back inside, but only after a considerable and unprecedented period of time. I skuttle in after them, way behind schedule with supper plans delayed. Everyone suffers from instant malnutrition as a crash around the kitchen trying to catch up. I can hardly wait to tell their dad, he’ll never believe it! I’m sure that’s why I take so many photographs, hard evidence for doubting Thomas types. I make pukey white pasta because it’s quick, because it’s a treat, a favourite, a celebration.


I sit at the table with my brood and beam at my dream team. My son whips off his T-shirt but I don’t mind, everything is right with the world. My younger son rubs himself on the arm of the carver chair, the cage to keep him in place, but I don’t care as everything is right with the world. The big one digs his caged fingernails into his neck! When the shrieking starts, I quickly realize that everything is not right with the world, what rash thoughts.
“I am be itch!”
“Me too aghhhhhhhh!”

Two new experiences in one day!

Grass!

Hives!

So is that reverse genetic engineering?

Mud pies to you my friend.




























Over the weekend I posted a couple of pieces to "Trusera," "Woof Louder Pavlov," and "The Green Eyed Monster" just in case you missed them.

Cheers dears

This post is from from my other blog here

I have been resentful of Americans for far longer than is strictly necessary. Foreigners often have a long list of complaints about their fellows but mine were quite narrowly tailored. I was jealous that everyone had family and friends for support, encouragement and far more importantly, baby sitting duties. I was so caught up in my own particular mire that I completely failed to notice some fundamentally simple principles.

To read more click "here."

This post is from from my other blog here
























Our household was a relatively quiet one when I was a child. My father would bark at us occasionally, more of a call to order, but on the whole, raised voices were frowned upon. Shouting was considered to be the manifestation of someone’s inability to express themselves in a more erudite manner.

To read more click "Here."

This post is from from my other blog here

"Joey's Mom" over at "Joey and Mom" tagged me for this 5 things meme, so I shall endeavour to give it my best shot!


5 things found in your bag:

I am a bag! Do we mean a handbag? I'll assume we do. Let me have a quick poke around. Ah. Ipod [with flat battery. ] Telephone [with flat battery] Purse with credit card and receipts but no actual money. [Just like the Queen!] Key fob heavy enough to tie round my ankles and drown in the nearest lake. Folded book with lots of scribbles. [The Explosive Child - I'll let you know if it's any good.] Retainer case [wish it wasn't pink!] Toothbrush and paste. Notebook and pen just in case. Dictaphone. [with flat battery]

Emergency supplies for the children =
Stop watch.
Nail clipper.
Safety pin.
Plasters.
Retractable tape measure.
Ever so slightly furry M & Ms

Oh it's supposed to be five?

5 favorite things in your room:

Bedroom?
1. Bed
2. Chair
3. Big cupboard
4. Wicker chair
5. Coffin

Ooo I missed the 'favourite' bit.

Favourite bits in Bedroom:-
1. Patchwork quilt I made as a teenager, ugly as sin but a testament to perseverance
2. Small Flower pot with biro inserted with fake purple flower attached - art work from smallish person
3. Pillow that is shaped like a inverted V, ancient and unavailable in the States. [It props me up when I read and is never used for nefarious purposes.]
4. Fluff Muffs commonly referred to as slippers
5. Sketch given to us by Nonna



5 things you have always wanted to do:

1. Learn to play the saxophone
2. Go abseiling again
3. Visit the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
4. Er

5. Um

5 things you are currently into:

Survival.

5 people you’d like to tag:

"Michelle" from "House of Lime"
"Mrs. G" from "Derfward Manor"
"Vi" from "Village Secrets"
"Angela" from "Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy"
"Bonbon Mamma" from "Is this what you do all day."

I feel a little mean not tagging any chaps, but I'm not at all sure that I know any chaps who have a bag. If you are a chap and you do happen to have a bag, feel free to jump on in [don't forget to let me know! - you will of course thus confirm your European status.]

This post is from from my other blog here























[from a few weeks ago]




My children, like many others, have a tendency to repeat what they overhear, but a little more so. As a general rule, I try not use bad language and adopt the alternative mush currently available. My main objection to swearing is that it usually stems from an inability to express oneself more accurately, such as when I drop a hammer on my toe.


****


As Spring accosts us I have no option but to dig out lighter weight clothing and footwear. I conclude that last year’s flip flops are still a health hazard. Last year they were indeed a bargain but that’s part of the joy of living in America where they have special shops called ‘dollar stores.’ In case you are unfamiliar with this kind of a merchant, let me tell you that everything within their doors costs 50 pence, at current international exchange rates. So saying, this particular bargain with it’s ever so shiny soles, has proved to be my downfall. Almost once a day I am very close to being horizontal, not deliberately but entirely accidentally. Flip flop slip shod, is not the way to make progress fast. I cannot be doing with such gross inefficiency, vertical at all times is the only way forward.

I debate whether I should donate them to a charity store since they are still in mint condition, but I worry about the poor unfortunate who might be duped into a purchase and then suffer additional misfortune as they’re carted off to the Emergency Room. I cannot bring myself to put them in the rubbish either.

By the end of the day I have had far too many close shaves without the benefit of a razor. When I hear the garage door rattle into action everyone roars outside as I skip out to greet my spouse and trip head over heels into a heap. He slams the car door shut and rushes over to assist, “blimey arse over tit or what? Are you o.k.?” I sit up, not dazed or grazed but ever so slightly winded.
“What it is be?”
“What is what?”
“Arzovertit?”
“Oh….er….um…...it’s a………bird….see! Quick! Look over there! Gosh, what a shame, you just missed it.”

This post is from from my other blog here























Some parents have a difficult time with their autistic children, especially if those children have difficulties with speech.


The main difficulty that these parents have, if they’re like me, is when they are out and about without their speech delayed children,........ speaking.


I think it must be something to do with expectations. I expect to encounter difficulties with my children. I do not expect to encounter difficulties with grown up people who are neither autistic nor speech delayed.

Somehow or other, I expect that we will be able to understand each other.

***

I tackle the prescription refills first and take advantage of the automated prescription refill telephone system. I have a difficult time because the machine does not recognize an English accent. I have a difficult time because the machine’s ability to understand an English accent is further complicated by the Pokemon shrieks in the background. I expect the follow up telephone call from the pharmacy when they try to unscramble the message:-

“Sorry but we can’t refill your prescription.”
“Oh dear. What should I do then?”
“Phone your primary care physician.”
“But I already have. I phoned them before I phoned you.”
“Well I can’t refill a C1 drug.”
“C1?”
“It’s a controlled drug.”
“I know, that’s why I have a prescription, otherwise I’d just nip over to Target and pick some up off the shelf.”
“Yeah but this is a C1 controlled drug, you just can’t have a refill.”
“So how does one obtain a controlled C1 drug?”
“With a prescription.”
“?”

***

“How very uncivilized!”
“Uncivilized?”
“6:30 is such an ungodly hour of the day!”
“Well the boys are usually up at 5 or thereabouts, so I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty.”
“How far away will you have to drive her?”
“Only up to Palo Alto. At that time of the day they’ll be hardly any traffic. It’ll only take 20 minutes.”
“I seriously don’t understand why she has to be there so early in the morning! At the weekend! It’s unthinkable.”
“People get up much earlier in the morning out here.”
“Why?”
“Well for one thing it’s daylight, whereas it’s still dark as night in England.”
“You never used to be up so early in the morning.”
“I get up when it’s light.”
“Exactly! You’ve grown very peculiar in America.”

***

At 7:35 on a Sunday morning, I order breakfast for myself and the children.
“Would you like coffee with that?”
“No thank you.”
“Decaff?”
“No thanks.”
“Mimosa?”
“What is a Mimosa?”
“Champagne and orange juice.”
“Er…..no thank you.”
“You sure? They’re on special!”
“Really, no thank you.”
“O.k. jus thought it might help.”

Help with what I wonder? The Highway Patrol or Child Protective Services?

***

He head buts my calf, “Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“Why for I am be? Meeoooow!”
“You’re being a cat.”
“No. Only part of me is being dah cat.”
“Which parts of you are a cat?”
“Dah noisy part and dah cuddly part.”

It's as if they all speak for foreign language, except for the imaginative little liar!

Or should that be the thief with the camera!

This post is from from my other blog here
























Definition
wal·lop (wlp) Informal
v. wal·loped, wal·lop·ing, wal·lops

1. To beat soundly; thrash.
2. To strike with a hard blow.
3. To defeat thoroughly.




To be a parent is to be ever vigilant, or rather, there is some combination of parental supervision and child development that will ensure that the fledgling eventually reaches adulthood. The trick, is to know what that combination might be?

Many parents curl themselves into a question mark, hook their fingers through their babies’ and guide their first tentative steps. Some parents remain in this unnatural position for more years than is commonplace. These parents deserve a special label, neurotic or over protective come to mind.

Every so often, these parents need a reality check.

When my first daughter was born I admit that I was over protective but she was my first baby. When my second daughter was born many years later, it was like a first baby all over again, even though she was second. By the time the boys arrived in rapid succession, I was already stuck in a groove, not to say rut.

As it turned out, it was just as well.

Whilst my daughter was swinging from the rafters and climbing up the outside of the staircase, the boys were in an entirely different place. I was wary, because I had been warned that ‘girls are different from boys.’ The trouble was that my boys were also so very different from each other. Girls and monkey bars, girls in trees, girls caked in mud, this I could handle. Boys and super clean, boys and no appetite, boys and sound super sensitivity……..well it made no sense at all.

I figured out my own logical conclusions, if the girls were loud, energetic and brave, then it was just as likely that the boys would be quiet, lethargic and…….cautious.

I knew that they couldn’t be autistic because everyone knows that they are ‘cold.’ Mine were affectionate, very affectionate, more affectionate than most. I would stand in the park with a little Koala bear on each hip. I'd watch the other children in the Mum’s Club gambol about. Mine clung to me as if their lives depended upon it. I didn’t know anything about the calming benefits of deep proprioceptive input in times of stress. I squished my boys and shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

So what if they didn’t talk much, boys often talk later than girls don’t they? If they could correct my pronunciation of Parasaurolophus, surely everything must be fine?

So much to learn.

I slumber in the wee small hours of the morning, extra vigilant, as I am alone in the double bed. When I hear the crash next door I charge along the corridor cursing the floor plan and the distance to their door. Where are the spare bath towels for blood staunching? What is his current weight in pounds for drug administration? Where are the car keys? Can I take them all to the Emergency room in pyjamas? As I bang it open my son squeaks in surprise, a prodigy of possibilities. I see an overturned scratching post, the twitching tail of the cat, cowering under the bed and a boy with eyes like saucers.

Wallop.














Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "One thing - the unbiased truth."

Or something lighter over at "Alien."

This post is from from my other blog here


























My children grow older and bigger in the cosmopolitan, open minded bliss of Silicon Valley in California. We are so used to our children that on the whole we bimble along our trajectory with only the occasional blip. Public blips usually cause me more concern that private blips. In public there is always a dilemma, should I explain and excuse, or be evasive? I feel uncomfortable announcing to perfect strangers that my boys are autistic, especially if the children are there to overhear. I wondered sometimes if this was because I was ashamed or embarrassed or both? Even now, as I think back, I believe the underlying truth was far different from such social trifles.

The difficulty was the need to protect the person that you told. When you tell someone something that they are not expecting to hear, you put them at an unnecessary disadvantage. It always sounds like an accusation, like they’re the type to drown kittens in a sack. Pardon! The implication is that the audience is incapable of understanding an unfamiliar 'invisible' disability. So often it seems unfair to dump this information on people without prior warning. My initial attempts were blunders, inept and clumsy. No wonder people reacted so unpredictably, deer in the spotlight. So often I misread a situation but that’s over protective mothers for you.

A few years ago, my eldest son had very few words at his disposal. On the whole, he had little interest in people.

I had taken him to the park for his daily constitutional although he still considered it to be some kind of punishment by an over bearing parent. We were alone on a Spring day in an empty park. We practiced vestibular stimulation, or rather the torture of swinging in a swing. He might not have been capable of speech but in the meantime he would learn to pump a swing, or at least that was the long term plan.

I was pre-occupied, searching for a different word, something other than ‘pump’ that would convey ‘pumping,’ when we saw a couple walking up the hill towards us in the distance. My son scrambled off the swing and blundered towards them. I watched, stunned that he appeared to want to engage with anyone at all. I couldn’t hear his words at first, but he was definitely talking to them with wild enthusiasm.

They came closer and closer up the path as my son walked backwards in front of them, barely able to remain upright. He quick stepped faster and faster as their pace increased. I watched mesmerized. As they passed me, I stepped forward, not to listen but to stop him from disappearing in the opposite direction. I beamed at the man who wore a puzzled expression. I beamed at his partner with the mannerism of someone in a cloud of flies. I quickened my step to catch my son’s arm and guide him away with an idiot grin plastered to my face, incapable of speech as I was so delighted. Six steps further on, the man paused and turned, “you should teach him not to talk to strangers!” he admonished in a tone that I found difficult to fathom.

Civic duty? Surely nothing is as important as child safety? Strangely, a couple of decades ago, I might just have plucked up the courage to say the very same thing.

This post is from from my other blog here

























“Hey mum, I found this empty CD case for Vivaldi. I can’t get the tune out of my head. Do you know where the CD is?”

I turn my peeved faced upon my eldest daughter. They’re all the same, completely useless. Whatever it is could be pinned to the end of their noses and they still wouldn’t see a thing.

‘Thing’ blindness.

I’m sure it’s genetic.

“Yes it’s in the office, right hand side on top of the drawers, somewhere in the stack of some 100 or more CD’s. None of them are in their cases.”
“?”
“They’ve all been digitized by your Dad.”
“?”
“It should be ‘digitalized’ don’t you think rather than digitized? Wouldn’t like to be fingered.”
“?”
“The word root! Digit. Finger! Never mind. Anyway don’t ask me anything else about digitization as that’s well out of my league.”
“I don’t think I asked you anything about digitization.”


***


“But I’ve already looked! I can’t find it anywhere!”
“Actually I do remember seeing that somewhere…….somewhere odd…….I thought at the time, ‘I wonder what that’s doing there?’ but I had armfuls of laundry at the time.”
“Well …..where were you when you saw it?”
“Funny, I was just about to ask the same thing of you!”


***


“Where it is?”
“Where is what dear?”
“Er…..my…..egg.”
“Which egg?”
“Er…..dah special white egg wiv dah green spots.”
“Ah, it’s on the side there, but don’t touch it as the glue hasn’t dried yet.”
“Dah glue is still wetted!”
“I know, outrageous isn’t it. Remember, 24 hours to dry.”
“How many?”
“How many eggs or how many spots dear?”
“How many seconds in 24 hours?”


***


“Where?”
“Where what? I mean…..what are you looking for dear?”
“Um…..I am lost……er…..I am losted my thing?”
“Which thing?”
“Dah thing which is being my favourite.”
“Which particular favourite?”
“It is small and red and is buttons and chain and it is being new with my allowance.”
“?”
“Bakugan! Thanks mom.”
“My pleasure, I'm sure.”




Clones indeed!



Today I am also over "here" at "Trusera" with "Charity begins at Home."

This post is from from my other blog here























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

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

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

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

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

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















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

Now that I wasn't expecting.

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

I wasn't expecting that either!

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

Well I certainly wasn't expecting that either!

Always expect the unexpecteds.






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

This post is from from my other blog here

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

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

This post is from from my other blog here























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

“Indeed!”

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

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

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

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

This post is from from my other blog here


























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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This post is from from my other blog here
























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

Thus far the theory proves less than satisfactory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am like yur smug.”

This post is from from my other blog here
























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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She reads with care and then glances back at me.

“Have yah looked in the mirror today?”



























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

This post is from from my other blog here

I listen from afar, but not too far.

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

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

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

E gad!

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

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

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

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

They protest in response:-

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

Oh dear. It must be true then.

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

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

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






























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