Whitterer on Autism

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.”

Promotion from serf!

Today I am also over at “5 Minutes for Special Needs Mummies.”

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.

Tomorrow on Mummy’s day in the USA I shall be over at “5 minutes for Special Needs Moms.”

Cheers dears

“Wot are your pirate parts?”
“?”

*****

“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.”

Please go and check out other participants over “here” at “Diary of a Goldfish.”

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.”
“!”

Now that my fine friends is what we call ironic.

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……

Cheers dears

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.

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.

“Aghhhh it is being a “floater!”

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.