This comment was neither coerced nor prompted. I swear this is something never before heard from any child on the planet.
“Oh my gosh! The carpet looks beautiful!” I defy anyone to challenge that one. I think it was because I’d just vacuumed and the fibres of the carpet seemed mown like grass.
On a side note. A request for information from all dog lovers. Thatcher's tail is still blue from the sidewalk chalk. If anyone has any hints as to how we may return him to his pre-rainbow days, we should be most grateful.
I remember it quite well from a very long time ago. It happened many times which is one of the reasons that I remember it so well. My mother would finish whatever it was that she was making. She would present whatever it was to me and say “so what do you think?” I would think whatever I thought and I would say whatever I said but somehow it was always the wrong answer.
They say that we are destined to repeat the lives of our parents.
I pull off a few stray threads and microns of fluff from the newly finished cardigan, slip it on, even though it’s really for my daughter, and present myself to my spouse. “So what do you think?” He looks up from his computer screen. “Ooo very nice, it’s looks just like a suit of armour.” I pout and move into the hall where his first born son is also glued to a computer screen. “So……….what do you think?” “I think I’m gonna conquer dah world of Spore.” “Ah….no…..what do you think of this……the cardigan I’m wearing……..it’s new…….I made it.” He looks at me, all of me whilst he attempts to retrieve the word cardigan. He gives up and gives me a hug, which is probably better by far.
I skip across to my daughter, engrossed. “What do you think? It’s for you dear.” She pauses and lifts the needle sharp pencil from the paper. “For me?” “Yes, just your colour.” “Well if it fits you it ain’t gonna fit me is it!” “Oh I think it will. It’s a tad short of me but it will be perfect for you.” “Yur kiddin. Right?” “No, I wasn’t actually. Here try it on, it’s all nice and warm now.” “No point. I know it’s not gonna fit.” “Why? I mean how?” “Coz I already tried on all yur clothes and they’re too small.” “When did you…?” “Whilst you were out at the supermarket. The boys were fightin about who was gonna go up the laundry shute and who was gonna go down the laundry shute so I knew Dad would be too distracted to notice.” “!”
I trot over to my youngest son. “So……what do you think of the new cardigan?” He blinks at a distance of 12 paces. “I do not like dah knot.” “What knot?” “Dah knot jus dere.” I look down at the tiny knot, a cheat by the manufacturer who joined the yarn in the middle of a hank. Darn it! He sprints across on tippy toes for a hug. “Ooo that’s nice. All these free hugs.” “No. I not hug.” “No? Seemed like a hug to me.” “Test.” “Test what?” “I am test for dah soft.” He releases me with gentle pats, the kind of pat you give a cushion before you sit on it. “Oh! And?” “Pass.” “Pass as in ‘give it a miss’ or pass as in ‘passed the test for softness’?” “Check it out man!” He snuggles into my diaphragm to purr, as claws knead my rib cage.
There is no end to the variety of food that you can pop onto a popsicle stick. Many may ask..... ‘why would you want to put a snack on a stick?’ to which I would reply, ‘why wouldn’t everyone want to put their snack on a stick?’
A snack on a stick is the perfect solution to two major issues:- people who need to keep their fingers clean on pain of death and people who like to cook things to eat. It’s the neophobic OCD equivalent of ‘physician heal thyself,’ or so I like to think.
I would go as far as to predict that sometime in the not so distant future, a certain young man will come into his own as an entrepreneur. He'll set up as a sole trader in these unique snacks, unless someone else pinches his idea first. Even if someone else gets there before him, this will still be all well and good, as millions of people who currently suffer from digitalis will be relieved and set free.
I need to do a little research here, as thus far most snacks on sticks seem to be made of venison for some bizarre reason that I can’t quite fathom. Thereafter there are lollies [UK] and corn dogs [US] but otherwise there appears to a vast gaping hole in the market. We don’t plan to exploit this gap, rather we hope to plug all the little bleeding hearts and open mouths with delicious yumminess without risking dirt and damage to digits.
A while back we investigated snacks in cones, the cones that you usually use for ice-cream, which seemed like a cunning plan. However the texture of the average cone is not conducive to those who suffer from tactile defensiveness.
Another underlying issue is the difficulty some people have with physically holding either a stick or a cone. Some people cannot manage the pincher grip or if they can, do not have the physical strength to maintain the grip for very long. Other people have a grip that finds it hard to discriminate, such that the cone crumbles due to over-grasp. Either of these conditions can spell disaster to the potential snacker, although practice may help improve the situation.
I detect a certain level of incredulity creeping in here, so I shall repeat a tale of yesteryear for demonstration purposes. [mainly because I cannot find that particular posting]
Not so long back we had a young visitor for a play date. When it came to snack time I put out chocolate chip cookies for four children and a bowl of goldfish crackers for my son. The visitor was horrified that my youngest child was being discriminated against. I explained that he did not care for chocolate chip cookies, without any further details. At that time he could only eat ‘single’ foods, Goldfish crackers, raisins, Cheerios [with a spoon so that there would be no physical tactile contact, due to the dusty crusty nature of the average Cheerio, and no milk]
Our young friend knew that I was a liar, that all children, indeed, probably all people, love chocolate chip cookies. He took matters into his own hands, on the sly, and sacrificed one of his own cookies to offer it to my son. His subterfuge failed due to the ear splitting scream of horror that thundered from him as he ran from the room at top speed.
I can still remember the expression on that little boy’s sweet face, a combination of disbelief and supreme surprise. That kind of mystification has haunted many a child who has witnessed similar behaviour on occasions too numerous to mention. An early introduction to cognitive dissonance, where two accepted facts vie for the same ground. Now if that cookie had been mounted on a stick, who knows how much faster we might have arrived where we are now?
I examine them closely, just like my homegrown judges did. Save me from visual acuity!
They are all small, deliberately, as there is only so much clay and time that I can afford to throw away.
This is the only one I like.
All were thrown at the same time with the same clay. Fired in the kiln at the same time. Glazed in the same manner on the same day, yet each one of them is different from the other.
One has a sharp shard from someone else’s explosion. One has two mysterious white spots from goodness knows where.
Three are on the pink side. Two are still pooish, brown and fatally dull. That leaves 4, only four and of that four, I only like one. How many bowls will I need to throw before I can make a set of four? It’s the kind of maths question that drove me quite dotty when I was small. Now I am big and I still have no answers.
On the other hand, some people's names just slot together like magic. A marriage made in heaven, or rather Ireland but lets not be picky. Happy Anniversary Anne and Ned!
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.
My teeny tiny tackle this week is to master international parcel mail. I purposely made the latest batch extra small and extra light so that I can use the flat rated, still hideously expensive, parcel rate.
I'll keep you posted as to my success.......or otherwise. I may need a guinea pig to practice on, someone trustworthy who can let me know that I effectively sent them a pile of broken china.
Don't forget to check out other "tacklers" as well as "Trish." You don't need to have a blog to join in, merely a postal address. Afterall Father's Day is the 21st of June both here and there, and quite possibly everywhere.
Come to think of it, what better guinea pig could I find than "crystal" afterall I'm sure she's the perfect match for the "farming life." I may not share her extraordinary insight, but we do share a "single handedness" and an awful lot of "laundry."
I have spent a fortune at that shop over the years. I used to be annoyed that everything came in multiples, however as whatever it was used annoy my boys intensely, it usually took several or many tries before we were even in with a chance.
In this particular instance I have his Occupational Therapist to thank. Now there's a woman with spectacular powers of persuasion!
And if you have a free mo, try out this test or better still persuade your small people to try it out. You can't be too careful.
I sometimes think that I missed my calling as an air traffic controller. So many of the campaigns around here are premised on the scaffolding of visual aids. They used to be mainly PEC’s, writ large but these days anything goes.
Not so long back I would send my little darlings to school with a whole collection of aide memoires, dangling from their back backs. From the Incredible 5 Point scale, to talismen, many and various, as well as other clues to help them cope. I do believe that they looked like Christmas trees out of season, all the year round. They needed them to be physically available, as visual and tactile work well together for some children, especially mine.
It’s all about helping them to express themselves, sometimes in a socially acceptable manner but now they all talk, they have trouble taking turns with their announcements and questions. Currently, they believe that the best way to get results is to shout. They have naturally adopted the ‘squeaky wheel’ policy, figured it out for themselves, with ear splitting results. It seems to be a case of ‘he who yells loudest’ will ping mum into action. Thus far, it’s working rather well as I dart around fulfilling the latest request.
However, I plan to retire from my post as ‘short order commando cook’ and implement yet another new campaign, roughly along the lines of ‘how to take turns.' I have yet to polish off the details.
I either need to print all the rules on a serviceable T-shirt and adopt it as my new uniform or alternatively make up a sandwich board to include the never ending list of ‘how to’s’, reminders and cues.
Pop on over and enter your "name" for a thoroughly free review of your blog.
In my next life I'm coming back as a sheepdog as I already have fabulous herding instincts.
The gene pool around here is a bit messy. My husband is the only lefty, so when the progeny started to appear I made sure that I had a watchful eye.
Would they be lefties?
Would they be righties?
I’d done my homework. I knew, some, of the issues that can arise if a natural lefty is forced in a contrary direction. Being the superior parent that I am, I soon noticed that writing implements were not a popular choice. There were many to chose from, always readily available.
I was prepared for children who write on walls and other inappropriate places. That’s just part and parcel for childhood. I was prepared. When no such event occurred, I concluded, obviously, that my children were far more exceptionally good than I had anticipated. Unexpectedly, I found myself yearn for a graffiti artist, one or two, but this development also failed to materialize. I concluded, logically, that my writing materials were just too dull to entice engagement. This inspired me to spend far too much money on vast quantities of far more interesting implements because some people are penny-wise and pound-foolish, especially when the local currency is dollars and cents.
There were other things of course, with hindsight.
I knew that I had American children and that therefore I must attempt to teach ball skills, not one of my strengths but duty called. My daughter was a natural, dog and bone. Throw the ball and the child became attached.
So easy.
The boys on the other hand, were quite another matter but I had to give them a sporting chance. I can still remember the look when I threw the ball, a large textured creature for ease of grasp, in a gentle upward curve towards the middle of the body, when it dropped like a stone at his feet and rolled away. It’s a cat ‘s disdain when you thrown a stick, “and your point is what exactly?”
So what is my point here, exactly?
My point is, that for me at least that I was so busy fiddling with the minutiae that I completely failed to take in the big picture. I’m still adjusting my lens to this day.
I have to admit that as a non dog lover, Thatcher has won me over. His behaviour is so predictable and he is so eminently trainable. He is even tempered and for a puppy, very quiet. For some while I believed that he was a dud because he did not bark, at all, ever. My knowledge of dogs is sadly limited to a handful of unpleasant first hand experiences with vicious guard dogs in South Africa, as well as the wee yipper that lives next door. Of all the things that I know about dogs, one thing for sure is that they bark.
It took some while for him to find his bark and when he finally did, it was so loud, deep and throaty that we all collectively jumped out of our skins. We now all know the occasions when he is likely to bark:- when a stranger enters the property, through the gate, not casual passers by, squirrels, but he’s learning not to, when someone treads on him by accident or when playing with his doggy or human pals.
Quite restrained for any member of our household.
With this in mind, our family enjoys our usual noisy dinner, together at the table one sunny Californian evening. Thatcher lies inert in his bed whilst we discuss fearful things. Who is fearful of what and when and why? It is a heated debate. Each person believes that their own fear is genuine and justifiable, whilst everyone else’s is ludicrous. There is very little common ground. It is probably the first time we have ever managed to be able to have such a discussion, since more usually the mere mention of the trigger word would produce mass meltdowns and abject hysteria.
“I’m only really scared of Black Widow Spiders, not other arachnids, just the Black Widows.” “Snot fair to pick on one spider!” “I’m think I’m afraid of pain, personal pain. I have a very low pain threshold.” “How can you say that when you’ve had four kids Mum? The only thing I’m afraid of is dolls.” “Dogs? You’re afraided of dogs?” “Not dogs! Dolls.” “I can understand that,” adds her husband, “I’m afraid of masks……creepy.” “Dey are not creepy. Seagulls are creep me out!” “Nuffin is scary excepting for death.” “It’s chaos of for me, that’s what I’m afraid of,” adds the head of the household although he addresses Thatcher, not the general company at the table. Thatcher lifts his nose as his ears prick up and tears out of the room, through the kitchen into the family room where he begins to bark, frantic. The boys canter off after him to see the cause of the commotion in the back garden. “What is it dear?” "A giant!" "A giant?" “Itza ball.” “What?” “He is being afraid of dah ball.” “He’s not afraid of balls! He’ll play catch for hours, he never gets tired out.” “No! He’s afraid of the ball.” “What ball? Which ball?” “Dah one…….dat did be came over dah fence.” “Oh……it’s great to have such good neighbours. You really need to be more careful where you throw them dear.” “No.” “No what?” I put down my knife and fork and go and do what I should have done in the first place. “See…….dat is not being our ball.” “My what a windfall!” “No……not a windfall……a ball fall.”
I have to admit that as a non dog lover, Thatcher has won me over. His behaviour is so predictable and he is so eminently trainable. He is even tempered and for a puppy, very quiet. For some while I believed that he was a dud because he did not bark, at all, ever. My knowledge of dogs is sadly limited to a handful of unpleasant first hand experiences with vicious guard dogs in South Africa, as well as the wee yipper that lives next door. Of all the things that I know about dogs, one thing for sure is that they bark.
It took some while for him to find his bark and when he finally did, it was so loud, deep and throaty that we all collectively jumped out of our skins. We now all know the occasions when he is likely to bark:- when a stranger enters the property, through the gate, not casual passers by, squirrels, but he’s learning not to, when someone treads on him by accident or when playing with his doggy or human pals.
Quite restrained for any member of our household.
With this in mind, our family enjoys our usual noisy dinner, together at the table one sunny Californian evening. Thatcher lies inert in his bed whilst we discuss fearful things. Who is fearful of what and when and why? It is a heated debate. Each person believes that their own fear is genuine and justifiable, whilst everyone else’s is ludicrous. There is very little common ground. It is probably the first time we have ever managed to be able to have such a discussion, since more usually the mere mention of the trigger word would produce mass meltdowns and abject hysteria.
“I’m only really scared of Black Widow Spiders, not other arachnids, just the Black Widows.” “Snot fair to pick on one spider!” “I’m think I’m afraid of pain, personal pain. I have a very low pain threshold.” “How can you say that when you’ve had four kids Mum? The only thing I’m afraid of is dolls.” “Dogs? You’re afraided of dogs?” “Not dogs! Dolls.” “I can understand that,” adds her husband, “I’m afraid of masks……creepy.” “Dey are not creepy. Seagulls are creep me out!” “Nuffin is scary excepting for death.” “It’s chaos of for me, that’s what I’m afraid of,” adds the head of the household although he addresses Thatcher, not the general company at the table. Thatcher lifts his nose as his ears prick up and tears out of the room, through the kitchen into the family room where he begins to bark, frantic. The boys canter off after him to see the cause of the commotion in the back garden. “What is it dear?” "A giant!" "A giant?" “Itza ball.” “What?” “He is being afraid of dah ball.” “He’s not afraid of balls! He’ll play catch for hours, he never gets tired out.” “No! He’s afraid of the ball.” “What ball? Which ball?” “Dah one…….dat did be came over dah fence.” “Oh……it’s great to have such good neighbours. You really need to be more careful where you throw them dear.” “No.” “No what?” I put down my knife and fork and go and do what I should have done in the first place. “See…….dat is not being our ball.” “My what a windfall!” “No……not a windfall……a ball fall.”
a] a dog who continued to drink from the "toilet?" b] a dog who has put himself up for adoption due to pet "abuse?" c] a new breed of dog, part dog, part peacock. [Please offer your suggestions] d] none of the above.
Answers.........
The top one is a picture of guitar strings before they were attached.
The second one is poor Thatcher after his beauty treatment. Maybe it will help them remember which "end" is "which?"
If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.
How to make paper flower pots from newspaper and then further exploit the enterprise.
This idea was originally from my chum "DJ Kirkby" on her post over "here" but I decided to steal it from her to provide her with the opportunity to sue me for copyright infringement. They're a litigious lot those Brits.
1. You will need a PVC pipe of the right diameter [small, medium, large] a cutting tool and some newspaper.
2. Chop the pipe to the desired height that you want your pot to be.
3. Turn the newspaper diagonally and fold in half for extra strength.
4. Fold over again to the same height as the pipe.
5. turn over the paper and roll the length of the strip around the pipe.
6. several time until you have a couple of inches of tail left.
7. fold upwards. 8. Tuck in the other end, squish it, to form the bottom.
9. tuck in the top tail between one of the folds.
10. Voila! Pots for free.
11. Make loads in advance ready to fill whenever you come across an errant seeding.
This was, necessarily, a joint family enterprise to take account of different people's skills and limitations. Those who were paper averse in the tactile defensiveness department relied upon the fine motor skills of their sister to help fashion the pots.
Then is was the boys' turn to identify the seedlings in the garden. It's easy enough to spot different coloured flowers but it's far more taxing to identify teeny tiny little green plants and to differentiate between them. However with a handy aide memoire clutched in their hot little puds, this too turned out to be easy peasy. Laminate both sides because you know it's going to get muddy and soggy.
N.B. make one for each child to avoid hic-cups.
Then all you have to do is wait a couple of weeks for the seedlings or cuttings to settle in.
After that teach the basic principles of capitalism to your socialists who pocket money is apparently deficient.
Then sit back and watch the competition clean up with baubles for the magpies amongst us.
N.B.B. This post is brought to you via the ability to enjoy outside play.
Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.
Just call me snap happy.
If you are with a child that abhors tools such as painting brushes and crayons, someone who MUST remain clean or the OCD will kick in then this is an ideal activity for their suppressed creativity.
All you need is a high sided tray or old cardboard box. Tape a clean sheet of paper to the bottom. Provide shallow dishes of preferred colour paint. Guide the child to plop a marble in the paint, swirl it around gently and then transfer the marble to the paper lined box. If you don't have the right sized / easily manipulable tweezers or tongs to transfer the soggy marble, help out with a teaspoon. The transfer is the challenge for us but once that marble hits the paper then the fun takes over.
This is also a good exercise for eye tracking, balance, challenging the mid-line or it won't roll and all that other good stuff.
Join in and don't forget to visit other participants.
My elder daughter struggles with the smoke billowed barbeque on Mother’s Day. Hot dogs for the wee ones, spicy ones for the adults along with a marinaded Tri Tip Steak, a foreign cut that we have yet to truly fathom.
She is a tour de force. Everything has been planned down to the finest detail to take account of each and everyone’s very personal accommodations. I’m ready to retire I am so impressed.
“There you go!” she beams, “the kiddie sausages are ready so tuck in guys!” “Agh! Don touch em! Don touch em! Don touch em!” “Why we are not be touch em! Dey are too hot?” “No eat dah safe chips. Don eat dah sausages made outta kiddies.”
It’s always so heart warming to see the children looking out for one another! Not so long back siblings weren’t even on the radar. Such a long short time ago.
In an ideal world I would send my children off to school each day with a nutritious, organic, salt free, home made, preservative free, high fibre, low fat perfectly balanced lunch and snack. However, I don’t or rather I don’t live in an ideal world and I send my children to school with a bunch of junk. I send my little darlings to school with a bunch of junk on the off-chance that given a less than perfect setting, they may just eat a mouthful or maybe two. Lunch times are noisy and busy and over stimulating and just about everything is more interesting or testing than eating, which is pretty low down on their personal agendas.
Whilst neophobia has been banned from our lives following the 5 year food campaign, it is not a total success. With persuasion and patience he does indeed eat a full panoply of food at home, at dinner time but we are still spoon-feeding him, quite literally. The spoon-feeding will be faded but in the meantime we count are blessings and try not to count his ribs as the clothing campaign still flounders.
It is therefore with some suppressed giggle factor that I take on board the very wise words of another mum. Another mum has witnessed the true vileness of my children’s lunch when she happened, just by chance to be present during the cafeteria madness, otherwise known as luncheon at school. She is of course duly horrified by my indulgence but manages to speak in diplomatic tones since I am so clearly a charity case in need of her no doubt vastly superior nutritional advice.
“It’s just….you know……during STAR testing we want them to have the very best chance.” “Yes you’re absolutely right.” “Healthful snacks…..that’s what we recommend.” “Quite, quite.” “It’s just that he told me he packs his own……you might just want to check what he chooses.” “I shall, I shall. I do, I do.” “It’s great that he’s learned to be so independent.” “You’re right, very true.”
“It’s a pity the trash cans are right next to the recycling cans.” “Luckily they can all read very well. The icons are very helpful, eye catching.” "It's not rocket science but every bit helps." "You can be sure he'll make the right decision for him."
Clearly it’s an exaggeration, but it’s the nearest I can get to convey the abject panic in the kitchen. Kitchen’s are fraught with dangers for the unwary and the ever so slightly paranoid. The motivation is clear and present, the desire to create something yummy but the overwhelming amount of angst that swirls around the kitchen soon have us both heading up the vortex.
This is primarily due to my own ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and feed the OCD beast within.
Throughout this exercise there is the underlying ghost of tactile defensiveness, the abhorrence of dirty hands. I think there may well be a smidge of this phenomenon in many of us. It’s the reaction we feel when the unexpected happens. We stroll along on our own sweet way, when out of nowhere we find something deeply offensive on our skin. The sensation is so vile that it shocks the conscience, enough to see your own hand in 3-D, ten times it’s normal size, pulsating and alien. It’s the same as being in a concrete car park with no leaf to act as a wipe, no grass to scrape it off, where your only option is to sacrifice your top or your trousers and remain half clad. It’s the preferable option. Slightly preferable to the temptation to chop off the appendage and run away because you forgot to pack your machete. Or at least that’s my interpretation of what I witness daily.
***
The oven farts as the temperature rises, “what is dat sound is being?” “Oh it’s just the stove coming up to 325. It sounds like it’s about to explode but it won’t.” “Itz gonna explode? Agh!” “No, no , no, it’s just a figure of speech. Lets go and crack the eggs, your favourite bit. Stand on the step but don’t wobble or fall off.” “I am fall off and be hurted myself?” “No, no, no. Here, concentrate on the eggs. Crack them on the post in the middle of the Cuisinart as it’s less messy but be careful you don’t cut yourself on the blade.” “I am gonna cut my fingers off?” “No, no, no. Here lets grease the pan shall we?” “Grease is dah disgustin. I don wan dah disgustin on my bread!” It may be only 72 degrees in my Californian kitchen but the beads of stress make it feel like a tinder box. At each and every step we meet with the unexpected or rather the ‘not thoroughly researched and prepared in advance.’ His progress in the art of chefdom is hampered greatly but the adult sized disposable gloves that hang like condoms from each finger. I am now deeply uncertain if this compromise really is an improvement on the alternative two minute hand washing ritual? As we spoon the mixture into the pan the whole kitchen looks like a war zone but his excitement is palpable. He smacks his lips with exaggerated anticipation and an air of mischief as a centimeter of tongue protrudes. “You’re not supposed to lick the spoons with the raw cake mixture these days or you might get Salmonella poisoning.” I look at his little furrowed brow. A child who has only eaten real food for about 6 months of his little life, and maybe a baker’s dozen of eggs. Do I really want to wipe out his digestive system with raw eggs? “I am gonna be poison?” His eyes are on stalks having navigated the total nightmare of his mother’s death trap clangers. “Tell you what?” “What?” “Let’s lick the spoon and see if you get ill?” He looks at the smeared spoon just beneath his nostrils with the captivating combination of cinnamon, vanilla and sugar as fortunately zuchinni appear to have been overwhelmed by the other ingredients. “Do you think it’s worth the risk?” I watch as he squirms and racks his taut and tangled insides, both brain and body. “The hospital’s only a hop, skip and a jump away if anything goes wrong……” After much dog panting, eye squeezing and hand wringing he pounces, envelops the spoon with his mouth as little shivers, fire cracker through his elastic spine. I count, silently, although I’m not quite sure what I’m expecting. “Dat is dah greatest Chef’s triumph….even better dan Elephant Ears.” “That good indeed!” “Yes my chocolate chip zucchini bread is being manners from heaven!”
It’s cake actually, but that’s Americans for you.
Someone might be wondering where the other two were during this 30 minute marathon? That’s right! Electronics time was sacrificed in favour of cookery, although to be fair that probably added quite considerably to his angst.
My angst? Well I left out the fact that during this same period, with a cacophony of ‘electronic’s time’ musak, Mr. B was very kindly washing up in our very narrow galley kitchen. Mr. B, a Portuguese speaking Brazilian, had numerous questions regarding the English present tense imperfect. Thatcher had two accidents which needed attention, as puppy training can never be neglected. My daughter arrived home from work, hungry and determined to make cheese rolls in the very same kitchen. All conversational exchanges were fraught due to her waterlogged ears, a mild improvement upon water on the brain. It’s a miracle we all survived. And if that was you who kept phoning and leaving messages, then forgive me as I had the volume turned off.
p.s. I wrote that a week ago. I just thought you might be interested to know that he can now cook without using up a whole box of disposable gloves. I hope Mother Earth takes pity on environmental whores like me?
Here’s a "link" to the recipe we used for "Zucchini Bread" or rather Courgette Cake. We added a cup[ish] of chopped up mangled Walnuts and half a cup of chocolate chips. It’s very, very sweet.
Because I am forced to try these things out in advance to iron out any kinks, I can tell you that it works better with thicker skinned hot dogs and thinner pasta, [the link does specify thin pasta but I rarely read labels] anything that cooks more quickly. Whilst normally you would keep pasta a a rolling boil, for this a simmer and then a dunk in iced water works much better.
Now if that isn't the cheapest frugal children's meal around the bazaars at the moment I'll eat my hat, just please don't ask me to eat either the pasta or the hot dogs.
To finish it off a quick Bechamel or cheese sauce would be ideal, especially with a splash of blue food colouring for our swimmy friends. It that doesn't confuse your taste buds nothing will.
Last for those who cannot abide people who play with their food, instead you can just dress it up into a necklace for those more formal occasions.
Lastly, for my son who loves snails almost as much as I like slug pellets......
I cannot begin to describe how much fun my "little chef" and I had making these. Now eating them......well that's quite another matter. Apparently Molluscs are mouthwatering. Who knew?
Thank you "Megan" for giving us such a brilliant time.
If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.
Now surely this is something that everyone needs in their life, regardless of whether you're a gourmand or a cheez whiz kind of a cook. It's really a question of look the part and step into the role.
All you need is some stiff card, seleotape, scissors, measuring tape and five minutes.
Measure the diameter of the head that you wish to adorn and mark that length plus an inch onto the card. Try and find a large piece of old card to re-use rather than recycle.
Cut through the card to a two inch border that will form the head band.
Clip and then tape the headband to overlap one inch.
Reach through the inside and tape the lengths together to form a dome.
Done.
Go on, indulge your child's latest whim. Now that's what I call "positive reinforcement." When I think of how I had the nerve to ask the staff at Flames for one of their "disposable chef's hats," I can feel a blush! What can I say? Pushy Brits. Now that's something I'd never have been brave enough to do a few years ago. There again the real bravery award goes to someone willing to put something on his head!
Don't forget to check out other participants.
On a side note, if you are struggling to pay for therapy for your special needs child, if the insurance has dried up and tossed you to one side, if you ever think for one moment that the whole thing is completely hopeless, takes forever and wonder if you really are doing the right thing.......I'm here to tell you, or rather ask you, to remain hopeful.
There are some lovely people around my neighbourhood and this particular bunch refer to themselves as 'crafters.' The term 'crafter,' is I believe, peculiar to America, as elsewhere, such people just have 'hobbies.' There are all sorts of subtleties that pass way over my head, as I prefer to remain close to the ground like the low life that I truly am. That said they're a jolly and generous crowd, who welcome newcomers with interest and warmth.
As we age we become wise, or at least that is the theory. Personally I find that as I grow older, I become increasingly scatty, forgetful and what my son refers to as ‘random.’ I am prone to stereotype people, it's shorthand. It's one of my many faults but old dogs, mongrels, can still learn new things.
I find that I have learned new things and benefited greatly from attending three, consecutive, six week courses of puppy training. I only wish I’d completely the puppy training before I had the children. That said one of the things I learned, or rather had reinforced, is that many people dislike direct eye contact, far more than I had appreciated. It's not just autistic people, it's not just shy people, it's all sorts of people.
I had this demonstrated to me recently when I attended a curiously American event, a side walk sale. A rough translation of ‘side walk sale’ is when sellers and crafters park themselves outside the shop on the sidewalk together with their wares to sell to the general public, face to face. I am told by those who know about such things, that the general public like to meet the people who make the things that they buy, although I’m a bit doubtful myself.
Hence, here is a picture of the lovely ladies meeting and greeting. Off to the side I am also poised, carving bowls. I’m side ways on, head down, absorbed. It is a non threatening pose that can prove very useful when you encounter unfamiliar dogs to demonstrate that you’re not an aggressive Alpha and just want to play. If I was Joe Public or the man on the Clapham Omnibus, I might step over the occupied woman and take a peek but I’d have a hard time meeting the ever so friendly and enthusiastic ladies, head on. It would just be too intimidating. I would feel obliged to make conversation and praise their work, which I may not like. I am a bad liar and I would be exposed as such. If I liked their work, then that would be great, but then I should feel obliged to buy something and money is tight.
So humour me? With whom would you feel more comfortable and why?
Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.
It’s day celebrated the world over, although often on different days but in American it is celebrated on the second Sunday in May. People’s ideas about how to celebrate differ greatly in perspective. Some people differ greatly in perspective from the mainstream. These people have their own insight, sometimes their own ideas and other times I suspect, gleaned from other people.
“They’re going to surprise you Mum, so pretend to be surprised.” “Right. Thanks for the warning.”
“It’s gonna be your perfect day Mom. Yur gonna rest and we’re gonna be perfect little angels……even the boys.” “How delightful.”
“So ……you’re gonna spend the whole day in bed…….restin…….alone? Why would anyone wanna do dat?” “Who indeed?”
“I’m still gonna be the king of cats all the time on Mother’s Day……but maybe……you can be dah Queen.”
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It's the simple things in life as they say, but as Mother's Day approaches in the US so does the trial.
It’s cruel to be kind really although it does smack of self interest. Mother’s Day is such a difficult concept to grasp for some.
Under normal circumstances a spouse can rally to the cause, but some spouses work for Start Up Companies, which roughly translates to indentured servitude for those not in the know. Therefore the task falls to me, the mother, to engineer my own celebration.
Some might ask ‘why bother?’ and I’d be inclined to agree but strangely, when the great day dawns inordinate amounts of stress and anxiety follow from not adhering to some arbitrary social norm. There are few things that are quite as pitiful as small people who experience a vague notion of failure because no-one thought to kick their executive function into gear well in advance.
Personally, I favour the hand made with loving care kind of a gift rather than the bankrupt and broken allowance kind of a present, but somehow the latter would be so much easier.
The simplest option would be to make a greeting card or maybe a picture, however both these options generally involve the use of paper, scissors and other irascible tools such as crayons, otherwise referred to hereonafter as weapons of torture, which rather defeats the purpose of the exercise. It’s like saying, ‘oh look mother’s day is a few weeks away, howabout you take off your shoes and walk over this handy bed of nails that I prepared earlier?’ That kind of love I can do without.
No. As often as not we work with what we’re given in the hope of achieving success. These days my children will willingly go outside into the garden and take some interest in the contents. Fortunately, you don’t need scissors to snap off a stalk and there are so many flowers to choose from. Home grown, home made and still hopeful.
Meanwhile if you’d like a secret message in a ‘word search puzzle’ bowl, just let me know.
“Don’t use toilet paper to dry your hands dear it’s wasteful.” “Wot I dry my hands?” “The towel! Right there! Where is always is. I’m sure someone’s eating the loo rolls we use so many.” “Yeah.” “Yes? Someone’s eating toilet paper?” “Yes.” “Who? Who is eating toilet paper?” “Thatcher.” “!”
****
“Mom?” “Yes dear?” “Can I have electronics now.” “Sorry dear, you know the rule.” I see his bottom lip quiver but of course I cannot speak falsely. “I know, why don’t you go and see Daddy? See what he says?” He toddles off pale and wan and skinny to ask, whilst I clean up after five hours of vomiting, headaches and baths, but at least he’s vertical again. I pop the next load of laundry on as he appears behind me, “so what did Daddy say luvvy?” “He says I can be havin electronics coz……..just this once on account of you had a real shitty day.” “!”
***
My daughter arrives home with Thatcher after his ‘walk.’ We discuss his new habit of eating toilet paper as he collapses on a heap on the floor, tummy exposed, legs akimbo with exhaustion. My younger son dives on him for a cuddle. “I checked with the vet,” she offers, to keep me up to speed. “And.” “He has no idea, but it’s not good. As for his other ailments he’s quite fine.” “Yuck! Dat is gross!” yells the cuddler as he leaps to his feet. “What’s the matter dear?” “He doesn’t use toilet paper.” “Who doesn’t use toilet paper?” “Thatcher.” “No….that’s because he’s a boy or rather that’s because he’s a dog. He merely eats the darned stuff.” “I am never touching the private parts of a dog again!” “!” I guide him towards the bathroom for the next clean up, “you probably need to be more careful where you put yourself when cuddling.” “I’m gonna stick to the end dat licks.”
This is a difficult topic for me because I do not consider myself to be a political junkie. If anything my politics are more of the green variety. That said I'm only to happy to get on my soap box when it comes to my feminist aspirations, however those opinions are not born out in reality. It's not easy to be a feminist when you're married and a stay at home parent.
I was thinking about how my feminist values had petered out recently when I listened to a snippet of a radio interview where a journalist said that her husband came first, before her children. Her point was in part that when women became mother's they switched roles from partner to obsessive women thoroughly absorbed in raising their children to the exclusion of all other aspects of life.
Whether or not this is true is debatable, but it made me think.
It made me think about how we didn't exactly plan to have four children neither did we plan to have two differently abled children, autistic boys.
Whilst I was busy perseverating about life the universe and everything else in-between updating PEC boards and snipping itchy labels out of new summer clothes, I also caught a snippet of a television programme that my daughter was watching. The programme was about autistic twins, women in the 50's. It took account of their lives following the death of their parents and then their sole supporting sister. Savants indeed, but life skills and survival in the big bad world proved to be a trial.
The word 'institution' was whispered. The equivalent of Social Services came on the case. The possibilities of respite care, supportive services and day centres for both the family and the women. Common sense made the light of day. There were positive possibilities and a willingness to make it happen.
And that's when it dawned on me, because I'm sometimes a bit slow on the uptake. Regardless of the politics, feminist or otherwise, that's my job. Whilst I have "many""responsibilities" and "aspirations," we created these children and brought them into the world. Our job is to do the very best we can, like all other parents, to ensure that our children have the best chance at life and all it's possibilities.
We return from school in full metldown mode following another stressful bout of STAR testing. With homework awaiting us as well as any number of chores to be completed in a tight three hours I see trouble ahead. I am behind with just about everything as efficiency standards have dropped quite markedly of late.
Once inside I cannot decide where to start but luckily someone prompts me.
“I am "cook.” “Are you? Well it is nearly 90. I don’t mind if you want to take your shirt off dear.” “No!” “No?” “No ……I am be cook today.” “What are you cook? Er…..I mean……..you want to cook something?” “Yes.” “Really?" To be honest I am not keen as a hot pulsating oven is the very last thing we need at the moment. That said, some opportunities are too good to miss. "What do you want to cook?” “Somefink in dis book I am having here.” “Ooo that looks nice.” “Do we have it?” “Do we have what dear?” “A chef’s white hat?” “No……but you don’t need a chef’s hat to cook…..and……I can make you one later after you’ve cooked something. Do you plan to eat what you cook?” “Yes I am gonna be an eater and a chefer today.” “Lummy. Two for the price of one.” “So am be read dah book.” “Good oh. Which one would you like to make?” “Sugar cookies.” “We don’t have any confectioners sugar.” “Chocolate crinkle cookies.” “No chocolate.” “Chocolate ice-cream cake!” “We don’t have any cocoa nor ice-cream. Maybe we should go to the shops and buy all the things we need?” As I murmour this out loud I have visions of the already squished schedule exploding with yet another, particularly arduous, chore. “No! Ah……elephant ears.” “!” “I am make dem elephant ears.” “Pardon?” “Elephant ears.” I peer over his shoulder at the book. “Oh Palmiers.” "Palmies is dah English?" "European." “Not palmies European,...... earies.....American.” "!"
As such, I feel obliged to add a wee giveaway, not gently used, but slightly trashed due to constant usage, namely "Just Take A Bite."
I believe I have read every book on the market ranging from picky eaters to real neophobes and this was the only one that worked for us. If you know of someone who might benefit from a healthy dollop of sanity, probably a parent, then send them on over to enter and win. It's an expensive investment that was well worth it for us and I would hope to be able to help someone else through this torrid time. It doesn't 'cure' neophobes, but it does offer a change of perspective and approach.
Thank you for pointing out that the clothes campaign still falters. One baby step at a time methinks.
If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.
Many thanks to the kindly anonymous bod that added yesterday's post to Stumbleupon. If I knew who you were......
A step by step guide to making your own peg bag or laundry hamper or toy tidy, it's that versatile! Reduce, recycle, re-use and go green all at the same time.
Level of difficulty = easy peasy
This is best made from sturdy material such as corduroy, canvas or heavy linen. Alternatively, use up anything you have hanging around including old clothes that are no longer wearable. Use a plastic hanger because then when it’s hanging up outside in the weather it won’t rust.
Cut out the shape, large or small depending upon how many mountains of laundry you tackle in the average day.
Look at your hand, if you are the one who will be pegging out the clothes and compare it’s size to the bowls in your kitchen. Use the right size bowl to draw a circle in the upper centre of the front of the bag with taylor’s chalk, or any other chalk come to think of it. [*] Keep it on the high side so that you can reach into the bag, as if you put it too low all the pegs will fall out.
Sew around the hole with bias binding.
Since bias binding is hideously expensive and comes in a really titchy packets, you can make your own either contrasting or of the same material. All you have to do is cut a strip diagonally [the bias] across the warp of the fabric. [or possibly weft?] Bias binding is stretchy and therefore more forgiving when you attach it.
Bind off the neck [top] similarly to prevent fraying.
French seam outside edge and reinforce the ‘shoulders’ and base seam if you plan to use a lot of pegs, as if they’re wooden they get much heavier when they’re wet.
Lastly insert the hanger through the hole.[*] Make sure that the hanger will also fit through the hole first before you attach the bias binding.
These natty little bags are also very handy for camping unless you want to sleep in a nest of Pokemon. They also double as laundry hampers. You can hang them on the back of your child’s bedroom door to encourage independence. If you use them for either of the previous purposes then it’s a good idea to add an open-able flap at the bottom of the bag for quick release.
I have tried doing this with old favourite t-shirts but the results are a bit too stretchy with far too much give, however, I think it’s perfectly feasible to make the bag out of a plain white fabric and then attach a large front square of the stretchy T-shirt as an appliqué decoration.
And if anyone gives me a tissue box cover or a peg bag for Mother's Day I shall be extremely miffed.........unless it's been made with tender loving care from smaller people with bigger souls.
Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.
Just call me snap happy.
Of course I only have myself to blame on that very noisy morning of extreme busyness. When I am in the vortex of extreme busyness I revert to type and my brain returns to it’s earliest functions, basic. It’s one of those mornings where everyone appears to be in flight, high speed rockets without traffic control, and so loud that synapses freeze over, numb. I look at the pile of books purchased from Scholastic in support of the school fundraiser and wonder if I will ever witness anyone calmly absorbed in a book? I was so sure that book on body parts would entertain someone, maybe more than one. As always, I am wrong.
My youngest son flits between the two downstairs bathrooms with the toilet plungers firmly in his grasp, one in each hand as we have temporarily regressed to the stick stage of development. It is a common symptom of stress and anxiety. If I had a talisman of my own, I’m q uite sure I would take a grip myself. Meanwhile his older brother chortles to his newly homemade, first ever time, aeroplane paper model as he soars from room to room making brrrring noises, eyes glued to the flightless contraption in his hand, way above his head as he crashes into every obstacle that stands in the way of his feet and movement. If your eyes are on high, then your legs are on the down low and the net result is a tangle. My youngest daughter charges up and down the stairs winding up the dog to fever pitch. Although Thatcher doesn’t bark, he is big, big and hairy and much too large to travel and 25 mph in narrow confines. My elder daughter continues her enterprise with the ancient sewing machine at the dining room table in the centre of the house. The sewing machine that she uses was the first ever manufactured in American and hence the engine in motion rattles the floorboards that travel the length of the house. Their father is nowhere to be seen, quite wisely in my opinion. For one pin, I would happily jump ship myself.
You would think with the ambient noise level that I would be deaf to the cries of death throes, but we parents are well practices in the art of recognition.
I skate in my socks to the bathroom at warp speed where my son stands before the mirror still clutching the toilet plungers with his nose one inch away from the mirror. I check the toilet behind him. "Empty." I take a deep breath, since my initial fear is all clear.
“I am "contaminated?” “I don’t think so.” “I am have dah swine flu?” “Never. It’s just a little speck in your eye love.”
So this is just to say that this is not a book to be avoided if you also suffer from OCD tendencies, rather it is a very useful teaching tool and funny to boot.
I would just like to point out that our toilet plungers are, by necessity, the two cleanest toilet plungers in Christendom, due to a surfeit of consumer mis-use.
Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.
Just call me snap happy.
Of course I only have myself to blame on that very noisy morning of extreme busyness. When I am in the vortex of extreme busyness I revert to type and my brain returns to it’s earliest functions, basic. It’s one of those mornings where everyone appears to be in flight, high speed rockets without traffic control, and so loud that synapses freeze over, numb. I look at the pile of books purchased from Scholastic in support of the school fundraiser and wonder if I will ever witness anyone calmly absorbed in a book? I was so sure that book on body parts would entertain someone, maybe more than one. As always, I am wrong.
My youngest son flits between the two downstairs bathrooms with the toilet plungers firmly in his grasp, one in each hand as we have temporarily regressed to the stick stage of development. It is a common symptom of stress and anxiety. If I had a talisman of my own, I’m q uite sure I would take a grip myself. Meanwhile his older brother chortles to his newly homemade, first ever time, aeroplane paper model as he soars from room to room making brrrring noises, eyes glued to the flightless contraption in his hand, way above his head as he crashes into every obstacle that stands in the way of his feet and movement. If your eyes are on high, then your legs are on the down low and the net result is a tangle. My youngest daughter charges up and down the stairs winding up the dog to fever pitch. Although Thatcher doesn’t bark, he is big, big and hairy and much too large to travel and 25 mph in narrow confines. My elder daughter continues her enterprise with the ancient sewing machine at the dining room table in the centre of the house. The sewing machine that she uses was the first ever manufactured in American and hence the engine in motion rattles the floorboards that travel the length of the house. Their father is nowhere to be seen, quite wisely in my opinion. For one pin, I would happily jump ship myself.
You would think with the ambient noise level that I would be deaf to the cries of death throes, but we parents are well practices in the art of recognition.
I skate in my socks to the bathroom at warp speed where my son stands before the mirror still clutching the toilet plungers with his nose one inch away from the mirror. I check the toilet behind him. "Empty." I take a deep breath, since my initial fear is all clear.
“I am "contaminated?” “I don’t think so.” “I am have dah swine flu?” “Never. It’s just a little speck in your eye love.”
So this is just to say that this is not a book to be avoided if you also suffer from OCD tendencies, rather it is a very useful teaching tool and funny to boot.
I would just like to point out that our toilet plungers are, by necessity, the two cleanest toilet plungers in Christendom, due to a surfeit of consumer mis-use.
We have being doing "that" little trick in our family for as long as I can remember, although admittedly the memory is a bit shaky these days.
So today is the day that we draw the winner for the "giveaway." It should have been the first of May and the end of Autism Awareness Month, but real life ran away with me.
I did plan to use the randomizer but tempest fugit so I trusted the job to "Old Faithful." To be honest we practiced a LOT first, as chance, random and 'lap of the gods' are all matters of great angst. In fact when I think of the time we spent practicing, I could probably have learned how to use the randomizer and saved myself hours. Glad his sister was on hand to translate my appalling hand-writing!
So the winner is "Susie" at "Susies Homemade." If you can trust me with your postal address I shall send it right off to you on Monday.
Meanwhile I've been working on my calligraphy. I favour English Roundhand myself, no big surprises there, so if you have one of those names that is never available when it comes to monogrammes, just let me know.
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Many positive, happy and optimistic people enjoy sharing their triumphs with others and like to list the many things that they are truly and genuinely grateful for. Other people, miserable, cynical pessimists, have to try a lot harder. It’s a jolly short list.
1. I am grateful for the opportunity to further beautify my garden with the addition of small fencing to edge the flower beds. Additionally, although it only reaches as high as Thatcher’s ankles we are confident that it will serve as a visual reminder and barrier. Hopefully the strawberries will remain in the earth. Should this campaign fail we are quite certain that baths for Mr. Muddy will prove a more aversive reinforcement.
2. I am grateful for the many useless coupons from the supermarket which reflect the ever increasing amount of fodder that I purchase to keep my family’s tummies full. If anyone has need for vouchers for Preparation H, just let me know.
3. I am delighted at the new phrase that perseverates throughout our house at 50 decibels and 30 minutes duration:- "I'm gonna be dah fattest guy in dah world ever." As yet we have not noticed any physical evidence of additional flesh over his skinny little chicken chest, but otherwise remain hopeful. This is the power of positive thinking
3. I am truly grateful for my son’s bravery, when he dumped a whole carton of ant powder on the single insect under the table in the garden. We are even more delighted that the ants have decided to re-group and camp out in the dining room instead. This provides the perfect business opportunity as grateful families the world over benefit from our new money making enterprise to re-stock ant farms on Etsy.
Let me say first, that that table is nearly as old as I am. The chairs are more rickety so we bought half a dozen sturdier versions to supplement. American chairs that mingle quite happily with their South African cousins. They're a mis-match like just about everything else around here. We have enjoyed living in this house for nearly 10 years now, so we know all of it's pitfalls.
It was baby proofed for a while but our efforts were never foolproof with our particular set of children. There were no substitutes for constant supervision. Nonetheless our children have survived and indeed flourish, but it never pays to be too complacent.
Just as we come to believe that we have seen everything and know all things that are knowable, a plaintive voice will squeal, "mom! Can you get me outta here?"
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