Static

 

My definitions and categories become looser with every advancing year, a very sloppy habit. It's probably just a survival mechanism on my part. Gone are the days where you encouraged your off spring to delicately dab at the corner of the mouth with a serviette. [translation = napkin] These days I'm satisfied if we can spend communal minutes in one room that happens to have the dining room table and food in it simultaneously.

I sit next to my son at the breakfast table, enfeebled by the 25 minute fruit fight. I'm not sure who has won. Technically, since the fruit is inside him, I should be able to claim victory. He sits cross legged and half naked on his furry red cushion. The chair is at a thirty five degree age to the table, about an eight inch span for his body to stretch. It's the left hand side of his body. This would be an appropriate stance in an old fashioned bar, with a pint at your side whilst you chatted to a friend opposite you. Or would be if you ignored the lower half of his body and the issue of underage drinking. A wide variety of comments come to mind, running along the lines of 'sit up straight,' elbow[s] off he table,' 'legs down,' and so on, but they stay in my head.


His spoon flaps from his floppy hand showering cereal over a 4 foot radius with every welcome mouthful. It is stunning just how difficult they make this simple operation. He is a suspension bridge from chair to table, but that's only to be expected if you have poor muscle tone, as so many autistic children do. [translation = poor core strength] His head is on one side, which helps keep the cereal inside, since his mouth is open as he attempts mastication. I wonder which is more important, to eat your cereal politely or be able to breathe at the same time? I cannot recall ever having eaten anything in a similar pose, even though I try really hard to remember what it was like to be little.

I think it's o.k. for the experienced diner to not orientate themselves towards their food, especially if you're doing something else at the same time, such as have a cordial conversation with your companion. But of course there is no talking and I wouldn't be the one to put additional pressures upon him at this junction. This is fine because eating and talking should be mutually exclusive tasks. But then he is not chatting, why would he? He is not an experienced or expert diner, he is but a mere amateur. He should have a big L tattooed on his forehead, 'caution learner eater, please keep a wide berth.'

How can you eat if you're not sufficiently interested to even look at your bowl, where the food is located? There again, how do you expect to eat anything if you have to think about holding a spoon and have no concentration? If you can't connect the spoon to the contents to the mouth, a triangle sequence, then starvation is likely. Clearly a species that doesn't eat efficiently is on the downward path. I think Darwin would have a lot to say about my son.

He is the picture of disinterest, he is merely refueling on something that isn't offensive. He is just sufficiently and minimally connected to the whole proceeding of breakfast, to eventually complete the operation. He is perfectly positioned for escape when the exercise is over or whenever his calorie count is sufficient, whichever happens first. When the 334th energy unit is registered, he'll drop the spoon and catapault off that chair to start anything that isn't in the category of eating. I watch the floppy spoon flap a bit, debating whether he's on the 300th calorie spoonful or the 335th?


The spoon clatters like a race bell, the chair tumbles over like starter blocks and he's off without a backward glance, victorious. I check my watch. Six minutes and thirty seconds to consume 335 calories, dry ones without milk. There again, it is also six minutes and thirty seconds of sitting. [translation = depending upon your definition of sitting, of course.}

 

 

I am generally of the opinion that my body is there to assist me in my daily occupations, but other than that, I don't tend to give it much thought. My body automatically does things that I want it to do without me having to exert any energy to achieve my aims. This is because I have an exceptionally clever body. I tend to forget that other people's bodies do not necessarily behave in a similar manner. Other bodies have parts that do not listen to the messages that their brain's command, they are recalcitrant, deaf, ineffectual or ignore important information.

I engage my son in a lecture. I explain carefully that the Eucalyptus oil that I have put on his chest, must not on any account, reach his eyes. There must be no chest hand eye contact. Soap is essential to prevent this cross contamination.
'Do you understand?' is repeated at twenty second intervals, re-inforcing, confirming, clarifying, checking in, anything to prevent the oil in the eye meltdown. It's automatic and formulaic but does not impede the inevitable. We used to put the drops of oil in the centre of his shoulder blades so that he couldn't accidentally brush it with his hand.

I demonstrate that he has not been singled out for this treatment, I too have been anointed, look as the glistening smear in the hollow of my collar bone! See, me too? We can do it, both contaminated. We both benefit from the ability to breathe more easily. It is not a conspiracy, it is a good thing. He is mollified by the fact that we share the same fate, but this doesn't prevent his finger tips from seeking out the spot. Each time I whisk him off to the bathroom where we model hand washing. The spot is a magnet to those finger tips, he can't help himself.

I turn my attention to the other two, so that he's without a finger guardian angel. I have no other option when school is 20 minutes away and everyone is naked.

In the family room I negotiate socks, feet and shoes, all of which are proving problematical with junior. He squalks and flaps as I prompt and persuade. At the table a scream of agony erupts from senior, followed by the thunder of naked feet pounding towards the bathroom, gallons of water and unco-operative soap. I nip round to check progress. He stands at the sink naked and soggy, huge saucer eyes of concern peer out anxiously beneath a hank of hair.
"My fingers did it again, but I got em, I washed em good, I am o.k. now," he explains with triumph.

He returns to the table and his breakfast cereal which is still only half eaten as his progress is delayed my his unco-operative hands. He takes the initiative and sits on his hands. He stares at his cereal bowl. He casts a glance at each hand, under control under each thigh. It dawns on him that whilst the wandering hands are secure, it is also difficult to eat cereal without their assistance, 'darn it!' He shakes his head and releases one hand, the right one, reluctantly. The spoon makes contact with the bowl's contents, but the bowl is traveling. Against his better instincts he allows the left hand to come out too, to help steady the bowl. Once his mouth is full and munching, the right hand is also occupied with spoon control, but the left one is left free to practice devilment. The drips of milk run down his naked chest which invite the left hand to investigate. The finger tips trace the milk drops, without permission, "ah!" he screams and scrambles off his chair to repeat the hand washing exercise, self initiated, self correcting.
He reappears from the bathroom, breathless and exasperated.
"How are you doing dear?"
"Well," he sighs, weary from yet another 50 yard dash when the asthma is in full swing, "you know, it not my fault. I think it is the bad hand, it won't do as I say, it won't listen to me any more." He stomps his foot to emphasize the point, a couple of nano seconds off.
"You know what?" I ask, wait, and count to fifteen.
"What?" horray he got there!
"I don't think it is a bad hand."
"Not bad?"
"No. It's the milk, the milk drips."
"The milk drips are bad?"
"The milk drips make the hand move, it's not the hand's fault, it's the milk's." He doesn't comment, which isn't particularly surprising, as it sounds pretty odd to me too. I should really be having this conversation once I am awake, not at 7:20 in the morning.

I continue to help junior with his flying shoes, whilst senior returns to the table for the next cereal episode. After much persuasion, junior is shod and we commence the teeth cleaning torture session. I check on senior. He is seated at the dining room table, it itself a triumph of accomplishment, as he has achieved a static status. Being static whilst wielding a spoon with liquid should encourage a positive outcome.

When I return again, I find him wrapped in a blanket, several blankets in fact, forming an igloo. His head and right arm pop out of the top. There is no sign of the left arm swaddled beneath the depths. A triangle of spilled milk spreads down the front of the igloo where he chest would have been. I pick up the serviettes [translation = napkins] and stuff them back into the drawer, who needs a square foot of fabric when you get much better results with a two six foot squares of hefty material to weigh down an inhibit tresspassers?

 

 

I reconsider my ban on straws. [translation = drinking straws] They are no longer permitted to drink every drink [translation = beverage] with a straw regardless of temperature or content. No longer will I need to explain that although they are drinking hot chocolate that a straw is compulsory, not bizarre. Enough of this lip closure hogwash. [translation = jaw muscle strengthening technique] I am single handedly responsible for three life times worth of disposable plastic straws. Admittedly as yet, they are short life spans, but threatening to be terminated prematurely. I need gain control of this environmental crime.

But in punishment for such an arbitrary rule change on my part, I now have to endure the sight of them missing their mouths on regular occasions. Additionally, the increase in laundry is another punishment to the rule changer.

I mean! How can you miss your mouth? It's not as if it relocates itself somewhere else about your person without warning? It's a permanent fixture. If it were there this morning, it is likely to still be there later in the same day. Possibly, if you're very lucky, it will still be there the next day, and every other one thereafter.

Toddlers and others with 'Learner' plates, are permitted to have a few accidents, but those of us advanced beyond the age of five, should accept that this is a given.

I blame speech therapy myself, all this multitasking isn't good for children such as mine. They can talk, they can drink, but not both at the same time; it's too distracting, too confusing. It they continue to try to talk and drink at the same time surely they'll all drown? There again, if they keep missing their mouths and filling their laps instead, perhaps I am worrying unduly.

There is no hidden agenda, your cake hole [translation = mouth] is in the middle of your face. There is no conspiracy theory here. What is the problem? Why are you making such difficulties for yourselves?

I am exasperated to the point of wrath, driven to an early grave: "here lieth a woman buried beneath a multitude of failed campaigns, and far to many plastic straws that are non biodegradable.'

I stomp away from the table to make a quick cup of coffee to restore my sanity. The coffee gurgles. My body moves on automatic pilot, a smooth, efficient flow of movement. I grab the carton from the fridge, line up the cup, but my brain fails to register as I miss and pour the milk into the sink.

 

 

My mother sent us a little gift; some playing cards for junior daughter and some handkerchieves for me. Junior daughter liked the cards but was intrigued by the hankies. She uses tissues [translation = Kleenex] although not often enough. She likes the little embroidered flowers on the corner. She's seen handkerchieves in the Beatrix Potter books. The boys cluster round but quickly declare that they're 'boring,' which is understandable since they are devoid of trains or Pokemons.

"Why is it called that?"
"Because a 'kerchief' is a cloth that you cover your head with but a handkerchief is a cloth that your hands can use instead."
"You cover your hands with it?"
"No, not exactly" I didn't explain that very well. I make a second attempt. "If it were a 'neckerchief' you'd wear it around your neck." That doesn't really help much.
"What do you do with it?" she asks.
"You blow your nose on it when you have a cold."
"Eeoow! Gross!" [translation = a term used almost exclusively by young female Californian persons, who should know better, as they have a much wider vocabulary available to them to display displeasure in it's many forms. I have never heard a boy use this expression in quite the same manner.]
"You can dry your tears too."
"Oh." Better. Perhaps I can recover some lost ground. "Then what do you do with it?"
"You tuck it in the cuff of your sleeve."
"Eeoow! Gross!" [addendum to translation = must always be accompanied by 'eeoow' and appropriate body language of the squirming variety.]
"Or you can put it in your pocket if you prefer."
"I know, I know" chimes in senior son, "Bin, trash, garbage, rubbish!"
"Actually no, you don't throw it away, you wash it."
"It is washed?"
"Yes."
"Why?" This is going to be harder than I thought.
"Because then, when it's clean and dry, you can use it all over again."
Nobody answers. They look at one another. I used to have a section of my underwear drawer full of crisp, white, ironed hankies. None of them have a similar drawer. I am at a loss for words [translation = stumped.] Junior daughter helps me out, by summarizing thusly;
"So," she pauses to collect her thoughts, "you have a nice pretty handkerchief which you put snot on and then stuff it in your sleeve next to your skin?"
"Yes."
"But, but, but………I know!" says senior son. "It should be big and red like a…..like a……..like a blanket."
"Pardon?"

"Wait, wait, wait……..I show you," he plunders off without further explanation. He returns with the Tale of Benjamin Bunny which was also given to him by his maternal Grandmother. He turns to page 16 where there is a picture of Peter Rabbit wrapped in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"That's a much better idea,' his sister comments.
"Me too," adds the little one.


It seems we are agreed, the board of management have reached a consensus of opinion; we are now an exclusively Kleenex household.

 

 

 

Speech therapy, if you pay attention, has an on effect on your life style. Ordinary little things, take on a panoply of different inferences. You find yourself behaving in a strange manner that defies rational explanation. [translation = at least if you are talking to Joe Blow {Sub translation = the man on the Clapham Omnibus}]

For instance, I don't know if you've noticed if your child is able to whistle? [translation = if he/she is, I'm sure you've noticed {sub translation = if he /she isn't able to, then you should count your lucky stars}]

Blowing and whistling are skills that are acquired as you develop jaw muscles, amongst other things. The opposite of blowing, is the more advanced skill of 'sucking.' Now, I wouldn't go as far to say that we've mastered 'sucking' but we're well on the way. The lip closure is a bit haphazard, but the motivational part is overcoming the aversion part, which is a plus. [translation = if you have no motivation to suck [or blow] for that matter, you are not going to get anywhere fast] For the moment, sucking on a straw works because of the positive reinforcer of something pleasant tasting coming into your mouth.

However, it appears that all this concentration on 'sucking' is all very well but we have neglected this skill's partner, namely 'blowing.' I vaguely remember practicing blowing during the summer, but as with most things that I start doing, I stopped doing it when something else cropped up that also needed my attention. 'Blowing' was fine in the summer, as blowing, if you're not very good at it, can be a messy business. Naked in the sunshine blowing bubbles, or trying to, was o.k. with me. The boys both failed miserably with this task, but at least they were willing to try, whereas the previous summer they were not similarly inclined; blow bubbles? Why would we want to do that exactly? Could you explain the purpose of blowing bubbles? What is the gain for us in blowing bubbles? Just don't get it. You want us to blow bubbles? Well run along and leave us alone with our Pokemons and trains, you blow the bubbles if you find it so entertaining.


The plan, as suggested by his teacher, is to incorporate candles into every meal time. Every meal time with be like a birthday occasion with a small lit candle for them to blow out. Seems like an innocent enough suggestion. Doesn't it? I'm a bit wary about fire, flames, burning and a skill set that's not equipped to cope with such a phenomenon.

So are we going to huff and puff and blow those flames out? No, no, no, much to simple. Instead we're going to learn breath control so that we can bend the flame into a horizontal position without extinguishing the flame. Right. That's apart from the problem of what food stuff to insert the candle into. The suggestion is to use muffins, but muffins five times a day, does seem like a high price to pay in exchange for breath control. A bowl of Goldfish aren't up to the job, [translation = like shifting sand they do not provide a stable base for a potential fire hazard.] I envisage sinkage problems with the chocolate pudding, a slice of bread isn't thick enough. What else? Bananas! Of course! That should do the trick. [translation = work]

As always, good timing is an essential element to the success of the overall plan. I wait until hunger is at it's zenith, fiddle about in the kitchen, matches near to hand, ready to present his prize of the 6 year old equivalent of bananes flambe. Since by 5:30 we are in darkness, and the lights are dimmed, my entrance is spectacular. [translation = an arresting figure]




I approach the dining room table where three small people await sustenance. I find that only one is remaining.
"Oh mom, it's not my birthday until Friday, whadayathinkyr doin?" I look around in the gloom for the other two. I find them hiding under the table with the table cloth yanked down for extra protection. One huge pair of eyes greets me, the other pair is covered with a plate, "don't burn me, I am the good one."
"Why you are stabbing my banana, he is dah good one." [translation = another miserable failure]

 

 

He sniffs and sniffs and sniffs and sniffs. It is all to no avail as his nose trickles. I watch him, my face set. He is seven years old. I don't know which is worse, a nose that runs continuously with it's accompanying sniff with no further ameliorative action, or the occasional ameliorative action, which consists of wiping the offending appendage off on his sleeve, from elbow to cuff, or worse still, on whatever else is near to hand, be that carpet, the sofa or my thigh.

I am well aware that my face reads disdain and disapproval but I am unable to prevent those muscles settling into that well worn groove, as I steel myself for the inevitable, dithering between intervention to prevent the crime or watching the fulfillment of the offence, dishcloth at the ready. Last time he had a cold, a few months back, we wrote out a sequence of steps to deal with runny noses. Since he is a visual learner, we used the equivalent [translation = dumbed down, of Carol Grey's Social stories] Most children need a little guidance in this department, but autistic child need very specific help.

If this was a preferred activity such as playing with a computer game, not much help or assistance would be required, but basic hygeine, bodily functions and self care don't really make it to their radar screen. It is important to avoid the 'but why?' scenario when dealing with these basic functions, because any rational explanation you can come up with, is also ineffective. e.g. 'because you need to be clean' -'but why?' "Isn't it uncomfortable having your face all messy like that?"
"Messy? No, it not messy, it fine!' Take it from me, you're just not going to be able to come up with a satisfactory reason as to why they should comply, at least not for my lot. We won't even touch on the 'do it for me, do it to make me happy/ proud/ pleased' as that line of reasoning is doomed before the words have even been formed.

Now he's so much bigger, I swear that if it wasn't for the asthma, I'd stuff a couple of tissues [translation = Kleenex] up his nostrils, like people with frequent nosebleeds do.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. I wait and seethe, but he is blissfully unaware of my presence. He looks up from his work as his back arches and shoulders rise to his ears in one supreme effort at stemming the flow, but failing. He slips of his chair muttering, 'is not workin." He blunders off in the direction of the bathroom. He re-emerges with a fistful of tissues [translation = Kleenex] and honks in a fairly efficient fashion, "das better," he murmours moving back towards the table, letting the soiled wads fall to the ground. Only one stomp towards the table and he back tracks an additional stomp, "oopsie, I forgot that one." He scoops the paper from the ground on his third attempt, bimbles back to the bathroom, clanks open the pedal bin and approximates a lob, whereby most of it ends up in situ. He saunters back past me, giving me a casual glance, "your face is broken."




Shattered more like.

 

 

[translation = blame somebody else]

I hide the teapot in the cooker [translation = stove] as the cleaners are on their way on a Monday morning. Their scrupulousness is appreciated in all quarters of my household, with the exception of the teapot. The teapot is off limits, my personal dark little secret. I do not want it sparklingly clean and pristine. It makes better tea if it is stained the colour of mahogany, but this is not a message that is easy to translate in this country. [translation = my Spanish is limited to Dora's exploits and my French is rusty] Therefore, taking the line of least resistance I have resorted to deception. Of course autistic children, we are told, generally are incapable of deception, they are too literal.






On return from school with the offspring, I release the teapot from it's hidey hole and pop the kettle on the hob. [translation = tea kettle on the flames] A shadow addresses me,
"What you do?"
"Me? Oh nothing."
"No. You do sompfink. What you do?" Is this the same child that would not utter a syllable for four, sometime five hours?
"Just getting the teapot ready for a cup of tea."
"What that fing is called again?"
"This thing? Or that thing?"
"Bowf fings?" I have early intervention mechanism to thank for this tirade.
"This is the oven and this is the teapot."
"Oh right, yes." It's not that his vocabulary is limited, it is merely that the words are mis-filed, so he's unable to retrieve them at will. It's like having a dictionary, which is no use to you if you can't spell a little bit in the first place.
"Why you cook da teapot?"
"I didn't," I answer truthfully. He puts a tentative finger on the oven door in confirmation. [translation = no-one believes me]
"It is cold. You not cook it den?"
"That's right."
"Why oven den?" Why this sudden interest in teapots and cookers? Who am I to be cross examined by a seven year old about my relationship with a teapot? What business is it of his anyway? [translation = patience on low ebb]
"No reason," I add nonchalantly.
""No reason.'? What reason? I mean, er, why you put da teapot in the oven if you not cook it?" Really! What is wrong with the child, can't he just let it be?
"Well, if you must know, I put it in the oven to hide it. The oven is a very good place for hiding things."
"Good for hiding. Good for cooking. Good for two things. Dat's good." At last he seems satisfied although I suspect the whole exercise was merely a ruse to delay starting jobs. [translation = chores and homework]



We go through our school routine of snacks, making packed lunches and getting clothes ready for the following day. It's so difficult to decide in which precise order to do these things in, as if you don't have sufficient motivation in front of you, then there is no human way of dragging them forward to the goal of task completion. [translation = getting things done.]

As I settle them down to homework at the table, with the promise of stories and supper to follow, a general protest ensues. There appear to be far too many arguments against completing homework in this next 30 minute section of the day; additional nutrition required for optimal brain function, a little light television in advance, to relax the mind and let the body wind down, social interaction needed with the felines of the household to ensure bonding and minimizing dysfunctional behaviour.




I look at them all and their feeble excuses in exasperation, when senior son adds his two pennarth [transation = 2 cents] "I cant do mine cos I lef it at school today." It's late, we're behind schedule [translation = our timetable] and my energy reserves are low. I decide that we can play catch up tomorrow instead, where the therapy commitments are lighter, where there are a greater number of minutes available to prompt them through it all. I make my decree and they all scamper or lumber, off to pursue other, infinitely more preferable activities.
I return to the kitchen to start preparing supper for the masses. I jiggle the steeping tea pot. Should be ready by now? I switch on the cooker and yell to warn the children of the impending noisy explosion that indicates that the pilot light is functioning. I hope that the cleaners won't comment on the absence of the teapot after 5 years, as I wouldn't like to hurt their feelings. Hopefully they'll just assume that I've switched to coffee, converted to the American mode. Perhaps they'll think that I've adopted the filthy American habit with tea instead, where you only use a tea-bag in a cup, poke it with a teaspoon and fish it out with a special pair of tweezers?






The boom of the oven that follows as it ignites, still startles me, but this is nothing to the shriek of agony that comes seconds later. Senior son erupts into the kitchen and stares in horror at the oven, eyes on stalks, palms covering his mouth, "Oh no! What you do? You are in such big trouble. I tell Mrs. Loper it was you! You are da naughty one! You cooked my homework."

 

 

 

 

 

The baby sitter [translation = Respite Care] arrives promptly at 6:00 p.m. [translation = always] I resist the temptation to kiss her feet and greet her cordially. She attends to the herd whilst I attend to other outstanding matters. [translation = laundry of course] 95 minutes later she seeks me out. [translation = extracts me from seven hampers of laundry]
"Aren't you goin yet?"
"Er nearly. I've only got this last lot to fold."
"I thought you said you were going Christmas shopping?" [translation = holiday shopping] I pull a face. [translation = allergic to shopping of any kind]
"I am. I just don't know where to go and I don't know what to buy?"
"Well yur not gonna find anything much if you stay here!" I concede the wisdom of her words, bid farewell to small people and skuttle out of the house on an aimless mission. [translation = doomed to failure]
I return home 90 minutes later with long trousers for the boys and one gift for senior daughter which she probably doesn't need or want. [translation = a person who has taken minimalism to an extreme, even for a Brit] The sitter glances at my carriers. [translation = bags]


"Spose ya didn't have that long after all that time ya wasted." She gives me a look that tells me that I am a failure in the shopping department. She updates me of occurrences during my absence. [translation = none, they all fell fast asleep as soon as the garage door closed.] We sign forms and I bid her farewell.




I plop onto the sofa and examine the list of some 600 programmes of entertainment waiting for me on the TIVO since my last visit. [translation = oh lucky woman] I determine which murder I wish to be party to, and how much dismemberment I can cope with? [translation = whodunits] I crack open another tub of peanuts. [translation = 1lb {sub translation = short 4 ounces as a pound is only 16 ounces out here. I blame the illiterate Pilgrim fathers] I can't believe I've managed to munch my way through all 'four packs for the price of one' purchase, already. [translation = rats to the braces]
I am in mid munch when I hear foot falls on high. [translation = rats, I thought it was too good to be true] It's not the skippy one or the bumpy one. I leap from my seat to turn the power off the telly. [translation = just in time to avoid vision of fatal stabbing with a pen]
"Hi mom," she sidles.
"Hello dear, I thought you were asleep?"
"I was, but then I heard you come home." [translation = her bedroom is above the garage door = no chance of a secret life style] She smiles at me, sweetly before asking
"Is the sofa stinky?" [translation = she's seen the towels that I'm sitting on, post senior son's stomach eruption.]
"It's a bit steamy, but otherwise quite fresh." She steps onto it gingerly and snuggles in to my body, arranging my arms just so.
"So," she adds casually, "did yah get any presents for me?" [translation = rats, I forgot she has her birthday before Christmas{sub translation = failed motherhood 101 again]


"Er not exactly," I haver. She bounced off the couch and pounces on the bags. [translation = the 'typical sibs' are always short changed {sub translation = the normal brothers and sisters are neglected}]
"What! Clothes! Trousers for the boys! What about my presents?"
"Tomorrow, definitely tomorrow, if he's well enough to go to school that is." She slumps back beside me and we listen to the tumble drier tumbling and the washing machine washing as I try and find an excuse.
"Y'know you shouldn't be eating peanuts," she scowls helping herself to a couple with dextrous finger tips.
"You're getting me muddled with Daddy, he's the one on the diet."
"You're the one with the wonky teeth." [translation = no flies on her {sub translation = rumbled by the perceptive child}]
"Isnit quiet," she half whispers.
"You're right, that's what it's like when you're all asleep."
"I like it!"
"Me too. Would you like me to read you a story?" I reach over to the teetering stack of books on the trunk, but she doesn't answer immediately. I wait, my thumbnail riffling the corners. I stroke her matted hair as she nestles.
"Nope. I'm o.k. jus like this."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Translation = No autism today thank you]


It's decided then! We're not having autism around here today. [translation = this neck of the woods] Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm just not in the mood for it, so it's cancelled, autism that is to say. This is a mindset that suits me just fine for today, [translation = this is a preferable perspective] as I have far too much to do, to be messing around with autism. Whilst they're at school, we'll put autism on pause. [translation = freeze frame]





Now, where shall I start? [translation = inertia, too much to do producing an inability to make a start] So much to, do and not enough time to do it in. [translation = lethargy] I know, now that I've finished sterilizing the house, [translation = obsessive cleanliness] I can move onto more cerebral exercises, such as putting all the books into alphabetical order. [translation = meets the need to organize, such as to gain a finger hold of control which induces calm] Or should I sort them by size, divide them into hard backs and paper backs, by subject? [ translation = more order more control, becoming distracted by minutiae, losing sight of the end product] Perhaps I should just wipe them all down first?[translation = displacement activity rather than doing what you should be doing. {sub translation = prevarication}] Mind you, I don't know if they'll all fit on the shelves in any event? [translation = ideation, inability to foresee the end] I know, I'll sort them into piles first. [translation = inability to sequence, prioritize to produce a positive outcome] I should probably wear rubber gloves and some soapy water. [translation = tactile defensiveness]



Perhaps I should have a snack first before I make a start? I peer in the fridge = yuk! [translation = prevarication and oral defensiveness] I'll turn the volume down on the telephone so that I don't get interrupted. [translation = inducing isolation, reinforcing lack of ability to socialize, aural sensitivity disrupting thought processes] Ooo I hope I have enough time, don't want to make a start and then have to dash off? [translation = anxiety inducing, need for task completion and perfection or no attempt will be made at all. Anxiety without foundation, this is a house with at least one clock in every room of the house]








No! You're absolutely wrong. In my experience apples always fall many miles away from the tree. [translation = just as well my catching skills are marginally better than my underarm throw]