I kneel at his feet to tie shoe laces as he drips toothpaste froth on the top of my head. I should be taking this moment to teach him how to tie his own shoe laces. Maybe I’m teaching him to multi-task but I have my doubts. It can’t be multitasking if I’m the slave doing all the multis. I’m against slavery and child exploitation but a helping hand wouldn’t go amiss, several extra hands to be precise. Maybe I’m teaching him the art of delegation?

Behind me, my daughter lists her numerous concerns before my brain is able to process the information. It dawns on, all of a sudden, as these things so often do. Due to some parental oversight, she has reached the giddying age of 10 and get is ignorant of the rule. I waste no time in explaining it to her.
“It’s simple. Worry about the things that you can change or have influence over, ignore everything else.”
I glance up from the knotted laces to see whether or not she understands. She in turn glares back at me as if I have just crash landed from Mars. We are both distracted by the snorter, who slip streams minty from wrist to elbow. “Eeeow you are so gross!”
“I am not be gross! I am be clean!” He beams a toothy grin and lears towards her. “Hey haven’t you heard of personal space,” she pouts, “Mom tell him to stop teasing me!”
“Come along dear, can’t you see she’s upset, don’t be a pest.” As soon as I have said this, I realize several things simultaneously; that he does know that she’s upset, that he is aware that he is purposefully annoying her further, and that he is therefore a fully qualified member of the ‘annoying little brothers club.’

Hallelujah!

“Pest, pest, pest! Pesty, Pesty, Pesty! Pst, pst, pst!” he persists with glee. I grab her wrist to stop her swatting him, as I would prefer his fragile good humour to remain unchallenged.

Now all I have to do is figure out a way to curb his teasing tendencies, not that I’m worried of course.

We bimble back in the car with full tummies. My son conducts a conversation with someone who is invisible. He takes both roles, an impressive achievement for someone who can remain silent for 5 hours solid:- “which you prefer? Decepticon or autobot? I don’t know? Neither to do I?” This question and answer circuit, circles and fills every molecule of the car, when we happen to pass a particular sign. The visual cue pokes my youngest into action, “Jack in dah Box! Jack in dah Box! Jack in dah Box!” I glower and keep an eye on the speedometer. “Mom?
“Yes dear?”
“How many minutes until we get home?”
“I’m not sure. Here, lets turn on the GPS, we can bet on how inaccurate it is.”
“Ooo 9.6 miles. Darn it. That’s gonna take forever!”
“Apparently not! It will only take us 12 minutes, see, just next to the mileage there’s the time slot.”
“Oh yeah.”

As we crack along the motorway she chimes a countdown, copies the female robotic voice of the GPS:- “9.5 miles, 9.4 miles, 9.3 miles.” How many excruciating moments do I have to endure in this moving cage, preferably without crashing? I check the time slot, who would have thought that 9 minutes could be so painful. All three of my children continue to talk on their own circuit but of course there are four voices in total. I purse my lips, concentrate on the traffic and pray for safe deliverance.

As we reach the 3 mile point, the magic number for one child, he decides to switch over from “Jack in the Box” and join his sister in the count down, but his mimicry is far more accurate. He and the GPS woman could be twins. My older son notices that the mileage and time slot match, 3 miles and 3 minutes, a magical mystery that triggers his attention and kick starts his voice box into the same groove as his siblings. The triplets are in perfect harmony, two boys and the GPS woman. My daughter’s voice is very close but ever so slightly off. The effect is quadraphonic with one set of dodgy wiring. They are so loud I can hardly hear the GPS woman. We travel at a steady speed with the rhythmical chant of plain song. I am quite certain that my head will explode in the next 60 seconds amid the jungle drums. I can feel my foot pressure on the accelerator as we pull off the exit and reel around to the traffic lights.

We wait at the traffic lights, idling quietly, with static figures on the GPS. We pull off, without robotic verbal guidance at 25 mph in a residential area, different speed, different pace but the boys are able to chime in at the exact moment when 0.9 miles is announced. My brain is completely floored by this feat. If I was not already silent I would be struck dumb. As I hit the button for the garage door my daughter asks, “how do they do that Mom?”

Pop!

Not so much savant, but some kind of uncannily savvy.

When we first arrived in California everything was fun, new and exciting. We knew that our new homeland was just like the one we left, apart from the accents. The main difference between England and America, apart from the accents, was that so many things were so hilarious. Everything was so funny. We were delighted with the stereotypes, confirmation of our prejudices. We saw them everywhere and oh how we laughed. The huge chap with the knee high white socks in open toed sandals, the plaid shorts down to his knees no less, the bigness of everything, oh what fun.

I wrote regularly to my family once a week, as the international telephone calls were too expensive. I told of our adventures in oh such a foreign land, the sprinklers that erupted to soak you unexpectedly, the six lane traffic in residential areas, the salads that were the size to feed a whole neighbourhood. My lightweight airmail letter contained a flimsy example of those mad cap Americans, a carefully folded paper toilet seat cover. What could be more hysterical? Oh what joy, but of course Brits always gravitate to scatological humour. The most joyous thing of all was that Americans didn’t realize how amusing they all were with all their funny little ways. They all thought they were perfectly normal!

We of course, knew differently.

Oh what a long time ago it all seems. As we’d wipe away the tears of mirth, it was difficult to fathom which was more funny, that Americans were funny or that they didn’t know how funny they were?

***

As we move out of Winter into Spring my son has difficulty transitioning to the changing seasons, or more specifically, the lighter clothing required when the temperature reaches the 90s. Although it’s already May, he is still clad in fleece trousers and several long sleeved T-shirts. These days I let him be. In previous years I dictated clothing. I stopped dictating short trousers when I found I was unable to prevent him from moving the shorts down to cover his ankles regardless of whatever else was exposed as a by-product.

I rush after him first thing in the morning as he squeals towards the toilet. I remember those funny toilet seat covers. I watch him sit gingerly, with caution and a grimace on his face, even though the seat has been sanitized and dried to meet his exacting standards of hygiene. As I watch and wait, I notice something else.
“Ooo you’re wearing shorts today!”
“Yes I am be brave!” Shortly thereafter, the waistband is up and so are his snowy white socks. “Are those your shorts dear? They look a bit big.”
“Dey are not big, dey are long!” I beam at the two inch gap between the hemline of his shorts and the cuff of his socks.

To end, I might remind myself of learning curves. I can tell you that the first time the police came to call at our house I was delighted. Imagine! At last I would have the chance to tell everyone at home that the Sheriff had visited. I was tempted to exaggerate, to mention a non existence horse, but I relented and instead I regaled them with graphic descriptions of the very shiny Sheriff’s badge. What a jolly jape! Could it really to be true, a real Sheriff just like in all the Westerns. What a hoot! How hysterically funny, the guy was such a wag. The second time he came to call it somehow wasn’t quite so amusing, although it was hard to take the chap seriously with his funny hat and handlebar moustache. The third time he came to call on the same day, I could tell that he was less than amused, although I couldn’t see his eyes behind the flashy sunglasses. I wondered if the gun in his holster might not be made of plastic?

In case you are a foreigner, I should warn you that if you call the emergency services willy nilly, such behaviour is considered to be:-
1. a nuisance
2. the offence of wasting police time
3. A financial fine will follow

I am no longer laughing.

Here are my last 3 moans on Trusera:-

“Chickens and Eggs”

“The Cost of Autism”

“Bad Teeth”

“Angela” over at “Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy” has tagged me for this ‘Your life in 6 words” meme. Hers is much more pleasant than mine.

However, as if that wasn’t enough, she also added an extremely helpful note about derivation and pronunciation, as follows:-

‘What is a meme?!

A meme has been explained to me in two ways:

1. Meme–pronounced ‘mem’, a memory
2. Meme–rhymes with ‘theme’, a theme where I am tagged to answer questions about ‘me’ or myself…’

Now isn’t that illuminating? If that has been a test I’d have scored zero, or naught as I would prefer to refer to it.

So my life in six words would be this:-

‘Rambunctious, rowdy, revelry, raising unruly renegades.’

So now I need to tag six people?

Six it is. Watch out next six commenters, you’ll be in the hot seat.

So first up is “Joker” from “Musings of a Lurcher.” I imagine that this might prove to be a more interesting perspective than some, and you’re allowed to let the peeps do the writing for you.

Then to “Niksmom” at “Maternal Instincts.” Since her instincts, maternal or otherwise, are infinitely more sound than mine, I’m sure she’ll whip this one out before we can all shout ‘lovies!’

Also to “Furiousball” over at “In my diatribe,” where no doubt his fiendish brain will startle us all once again. Maybe it might merit some lyrics or a musical accompaniment?

Sadly we’ll have to skip over Bad Mommy as without blog, we are without public contact, but private works fine for me.

Then to “Kristina”…….oh no, my Latin is rusty, I never progressed much further than amo, amas, amat! I’ll never understand her six words. Mind you, she might use six Greek words instead which would be even worse. No wonder it’s impossible to spell paediatrician out here. There again the average qwerty keyboard should foil her!

Then we have “Karen” over at “Art in the Garage.” Now that might work well for us visual learners as she might treat us to a collage of her six words, but with the forthcoming exhibition she may be a little pressed for time.

Ooo dear, can’t do Farmwifetwo as she has abandoned blogging in favour of more cerebral pastimes with a dollop or two or hard graft in the real world.

Aha! Then we have “Your Vegan Mom” This is a very handy spot indeed for those who have special diets. The recipes are easy to follow and she’s very patient with idiots who require the odd translation here and there.

Come on people! It’s only six words. In summary, please refrain from using foreign terms, namely the Queen’s English, so that there be universal comprehension.

My bad!

Well wouldn’t you just know it! Just as I’m mid ‘catch up’ “Angela” comes pootling around to give me this “Gratitude with Attitude Award,” what a nerve! It’s all a plot to demonstrate my ever growing inefficiency and ineptitude.

She’s kind enough to point us in the direction of the originator:

Gratitude With Attitude: Changing My World, One Attitude at a Time

And the post that started it all:

“I have finally done it…..gotten on board with all the wonderful awards out here in the blogasphere. Yep thats right I have created one of my own. The all powerful… Gratitude With Attitude award. Oh, come on, you know you want it! (LOL) I am so Thankful for all of you who visit regularly, even when I am irregular. :::laughing now::: I appreciate you all so much! I love hearing about your Gratitude and I love that some of you have carried a Grateful theme to your own blogs! I love that you understand being Thankful is not about a passive attitude. It’s about learning. It’s about seeing things different, having new eyes! Gratitude is about keeping that happy positive outlook on life…even when things don’t go the way we want them to. It is not about giving in, lying down or accepting everybody else’s rules it’s about making your own rules! Doing what you do with a happy grateful attitude keeping the “sour” to yourself. Gratitude IS Attitude!”

I’m delighted if a little bemused that I should be a recipient. I thought I’d already made my position abundantly clear on the issue of autism, that when it comes to moaning I am supreme on the topic. That said, I’m more than happy to pass it along to those who share differing perspectives with lots of attitude.

I would pop along and visit “Susan Senator” or maybe dip into her “book” again as there’s a woman that’s in it for the long haul.

The first time I came across “Mom and her 26 children” I nearly died of heart failure. Fortunately for me, matters have improved since then. As far as I’m concerned and around here, dyslexia rules K.O.

Maybe I’d go along and visit “Estee” or poke about in the “Autism Acceptance Project.”

I know that these are all our ‘old’ favourites, but if you need a dose of ‘attitude’ then I know that I’d be happy to pootle along to “MOM- Not Otherwise Specified,” especially now that the “meltdowns” are almost gone as I’d hate a “frosty” reception.

I could always go along and tease “Kim” over at “Kim Stagliano” as it’s always fun to interrupt her creative muse and manuscript writing, or is that re-writing by now?

Lastly, I would have to recommend “Mother of Shrek.” For the time being “Casdok” has abandoned her blog and her role as mother as I believe she’s swanned off to the Seychelles to enjoy a cocktail and a pedicure of the neon green variety.

No?

I am mis-informed?

You’re right, she’s actually working away to sort out the next tremendous transition for her son, but her blog is still there for your entertainment, but don’t look at the rude bits as I certainly would never endorse such a “thing.”

Perish the thought! I’ll stop now as the NPR pledge break is rattling my brain so I need to escape from the kitchen.

Ooo dear, now that’s bad! I’ve just noticed that they’re all mummies and I’ve ignored all the daddies. I promise to make amends next time.

Cheers dearies

Without wishing to blow my own strumpet, I would admit that I have 47 years of experience with men.

Since 49% of the world’s population are male, I have found them difficult to avoid.   After many a long year locked up in a convent, for now all to obvious reasons, I found that I was a little short in the feminine wiles department.  As everyone knows, all of life’s important life skills may be gleaned from a good book.  Thusly I modeled my behaviour upon the more simpering characters found in Jane Austen’s novels.   Although I practiced dutifully, dropping freshly ironed lace handerchieves and the like, on the whole, I found the whole exercise less than successful.  Indeed as I look back, I see these early steps as a foreshadowing of my future life as a laundry victim.

During the intervening years I enjoyed a variety of interesting but fatally flawed relationships.  It took me longer than most to realize, that I was the fatal flaw.   I adopted a new modus operandum, plain speaking.  Things improved almost immediately.

These days I ensure that all interested parties are aware of forthcoming events prior to their arrival.  I am more than happy to facilitate communication by coping off A4 sheets of paper, announcing that my birthday is arriving on such a such date and plastering it all over the house.  Such wanton self promotion is an irritation to my personal psyche but is preferable to the third party misery caused by an oversight.

And it is always an oversight.

***

I do a little victory dance in the kitchen as visual accompaniment to my question, “what day is it tomorrow?”
“Pancake day!”
“Yes. What else?”

I adopt a more enthusiastic dance, more of an Irish Jig.

“Jumpy day?”
“I’m not jumping I’m dancing! Good guess. It’s Saturday today. Try again.”

I wiggle and wriggle, my version of Hip Hop wearing my best happy face.

“Er Sunday!”
“Yes! What else?”

I shimmy along the floor boards, a cross between punk rocker and demented chicken.

“Er……….21 days til dah praying mantis is borned!”

I glare at the tick down chart and block their view to that particular visual cue. I gyrate a little more whilst avoiding dizziness as I’m running out of dances, “yes, but what else?”
“Er it is my birthday soon?”
“Good one, but not for another 24 days. What else?”

I’m down to waltz and ballroom dancing.
“Er 32 days until summer holidays!”

I slither over to the other side of the room to block their view to the other tick down chart, and attempt belly dance, “true, but what else!”

I invert my arms from the elbow, to point at me.

“Er…..it is ……..red day?” they offer with a certain degree of uncertainty.

I pout. Here I am doing my very best to help them out, give them 24 hours warning and I am met with a brick wall. Perhaps there are too many visual cues or just the wrong ones? Maybe I should write ‘MOTHER’ on my forehead? Where is my black sharpie pen anyway? “Mothers day! It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow! Right?”
“No.”
“No? Oh, is it next week?” I nip over to the calendar to check if I’m being a bit previous, “hmm, yes, I think it is, see, look here?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Er……….maybe it is being a surprise day………tomorrow.”

Pretty much of a surprise day today!

Some bloggers have sitemeters. Some bloggers check their sitemeters to see who is searching what subject, if they are brave. Occasionally I am brave and check. What follows are three pieces upon subjects that three people researched via google.

This is the fourth topic:-

Now there’s a curious search. I can see why people would visit me to find evidence that “British people have bad teeth.” I would be eminently qualified in that department. But why search about bad teeth AND autism? Still, I suppose it makes a welcome change from searching any subject with the addition of “not autism,” so I’ll stop moaning.

Bad teeth might be an area of concern, if a little vague. Some scientific types are concerned about mercury and the incidence of autism. Some parents and scientists suggest that there is a connection between “mercury tooth fillings and autism.” These are weighty matters for many.

Other people worry about more mundane matters,

to read on click “here.”

People have many differing perspectives when it comes to the matter of autism. Some people celebrate their differences. Others take a different view. Many adopt a “neurodiverse” approach, whilst some others have genuine “complaints.” I would sadly have to show my true colours and align my allegiances with latter.

To read more, click “here.”

I wash up and chat to their father in the kitchen at twilight when a small person appears, just before we take them all up to bed.
“Why?”
“Why what dear?”
“Why you are not?”
“Why are we not what?”
“Why you are not be wear dah pyjamas at night.”

I gulp to aid oxygen flow to my brain but spouse sniggers “because we’re British. British people don’t wear pyjamas. Pyjamas are for wimps. People from an island race never wear pyjamas.”

I am tempted to stamp on his foot or duct tape his mouth permanently closed. Where does he get this stuff from?
“Why?”
“Which bit dear?”
“Racing Island? It is be a game?”
“No, England is an island and race means……a type of people, English people, Italian people, American people……people who belong to a particular land mass.” Why did I say ‘land mass’ to a child with a speech delay?
“Island people are not wear pyjamas?”
“Er well…..”
“Exactly so,” spouts the terminator.
“Why?”
“Because island people swim a lot. You swim better if you don’t wear pyjamas.”
“Island people are be swim at night?”
“Frequently.”
“Why?”
“Just in case of fire. It there’s a fire, the best place to be is in the sea, in water.”

Not the OCD feed!

Why is he so trigger happy?

Both menfolk pause, reflective. “I am be not be wear dah pyjamas either.”
“Why?”
“Coz of dah label.”
Label? We’re completely label free around here.
“What label?”
“It be say ‘flame able!’ I am not wanna burn my butt in bed.”

I am also broadcasting on “Trusera” today with “Chickens and Eggs.”

I abandon the little one, his homework and his meltdown. I’m there in a nano second in response to the universal wail of “it was an accident!” Her face is shiny with tears and snot as she clutches her foot to her chest and blows on it. There is no sign of other more alarming bodily fluids. She is of course incomprehensible. I stroke her hair and wait for calm.

“I think I’ve got a tooth in my toe!”
“Are you sure? How did you manage that? Let me see.”
“No you’re gonna dig it out with tweezers or a needle or take me to the Emergency Room.”
“Maybe, but lets take a look first. No touching, promise!”

She relinquishes custody of the foot. I peer through bifocals. “It looks like a blood blister to me.”
“What’s a blood blister?”
“It’s a blister under the dermis. The skin isn’t broken.”
“Does it hurt?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
“Er…..no actually it doesn’t hurt.” I have a sudden urge to quote the little boy who cried wolf too frequently for other people’s sanity.
“Shall we go to the ER then Mom?”
I give her chapter and verse on blood blisters, with my best peeved tone, when I hear a “darn it! S’all sticky!” from behind the sofa. Her brother’s voice sparks something in my tiny brain, “why did you think it was a tooth, by the way?”
“Coz I accidentally kicked him in the face.” I dive over the back of the sofa where my son holds handfuls of Legos drenched in blood. He turns his face towards me to speak, “see dey’re all sticky!” he complains as blood bubbles with saliva over his red smeared cheeks, arms and nake.d torso. I scoop him up and dash to the bathroom amid howls of complaint, “hey! Put me up, I am drop my Legos!” I hose him down to check the source. “Ooo I think you lost your baby tooth. Do you feel o.k.? Does it hurt?”

“Er…..?”
“Sorry. Have you lost a tooth?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not lost, it’s on dah floor.”
“Do you feel o.k.?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Coz my Legos is be ruined!”
“Does it hurt?”
“Does what “hurt?”

I give him a hug as today has been filthy all round.

“Tell you what, leave the Legos with me. I’ll wash them. Go and play with something safe.”
“Legos are safe.”
“True. I know, go and play with Slinky.” He smiles a warm, gap toothed grin at the thought of his pet Skink and ambles off. I retrieve the baby tooth for posterity and clean the floor.

I take a moment to check on line to see whether my medical knowledge regarding blood blisters was my usual pile of gobbledegook. Wikepedia quotes me word for word. I conclude that the “Wikipedia” author and I, are either soul mates or fakes! Or maybe just blood brothers?

I scrub Legos and remember that blood is closely related to cement, chemically speaking. A small person arrives at my side. “What?”
“Pardon? What is what dear?”
“What about me?”
“What about you dear?”
“Er…….my homework.”
“Golly! I’m sorry, I forgot all about you and your homework. Let me just dry my hands a minute, wouldn’t like to torture you with dampness would we?” I am mid towel when another shriek of agony demands immediate attention, level 10 alert. I take the tea towel with me, a makeshift first aid kit cum talisman to ward off further evils. I skid to my son who continues to scream without words, spattered in blood, jumping up and down with an extra finger spurting red fountain arcs in the air. I grab his wrist as the rest of his body whip lashes and writhes.
“Bloody hell you pulled his tail off!”
“It was an accident! I love him sooo much!”

Rats to the “theory of mind!”

“Ohmygod” comes to visit for a play date.

It is some while since she has graced our family with her presence. Prior to the drive home from school I take the girls aside to remind them of the frequent aural agony of traveling with the boys. I stress the short nature of the journey, both in time and miles.

During the 7 minute drive to the accompaniment of Hanna Montana, sung with great gusto the boys cover their ears in the back of the car.

On arrival home, the children stampede into the house.
“Geez what is that godamawful stink!”
“Chicken Jalfrezi…..a very, very mild curry.”
“How come you eat Asian food?”
“Well “Chicken Tikka Marsala” is said to be our National dish these days. I expect you can probably smell the garlic though.”
“Yuk! Garlic is for Nazis.”
I have no terms of reference with which to comment, so I say nothing.
“Are we gonna eat that?”
“We shall, for supper, but I think you’ll be back with your own family by then.”
“Aw can’t I stay for supper?”
“I don’t think that’s in the plan.”
“What plan?”
“Er….your parents’ plan.”
“How do you know what their plan is?”
“Um……I don’t…….I’m just……..thinking ahead.” I’m not entirely who I’m trying to convince.
“Can I have a snack?”
“Yes, would you like Satsumas, pretzels or carrots and dip.”
“Can I have a cookie?”
I smile, “I don’t think your mum would allow cookies before dinner.”
“She would.”
I’m not convinced but opt for the truth, “sorry, we’re a cookie free zone at the moment.”
“No cookies!”
“I’m afraid not. I need to pop out to the shops.”
“How can you not have cookies?”
I assume this to be rhetorical and move on.
“Would you like a drink with it? Milk or water?”
“Water? Milk? Geez dontcha have any soda?” She steps towards the fridge to swing open the door, “what is all that stuff?” I look over her shoulder at ‘stuff,’ to try and determine what, if anything, might be odd?
“Which stuff?”
“The green stuff. Is that English food?”
I look at the bok choy, leeks and spinach.
“Er not particularly I don’t think.”
“Is that why he passes wind all the godamned time?”
Such a euphemism catches me off guard, especially from this particular quarter, “quite possibly, I suppose.”
“You oughta give em American food, that’ll fix him.”
“Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.”
“How come you talk so funny?”
“I expect it’s the accent.”

I hope!

Post Script:-

This piece is fictitious, or rather a compendium of Friday afternoon play dates.

I think the trick is to avoid cooking whilst we have visitors as few Americans appreciate British Cuisine, let alone the residents!