Whitterer on Autism

Knock, knock, knock - Magic Marker Monday

In the 87 degree heat, I net the school for a swim.

Lucky us!

I dither. Maybe I could read my book whilst they swim, but “Bill Bryson” eludes me. Those last 22 unfinished pages, have haunted me all summer long. I still have the book mark but not the dratted book.

Probably just as well, as there are already far too many distractions.

Nonna announces that she will retire to her room to rest, due to a combination of heart burn and leg cramps, two facts that she mentions in an off hand manner, over the shoulder, a mere after thought, but diabetics are like that.

After very little thought I grab the lap top, bound into the garden, open the pool safety cover and park myself on the edge.

Whilst the children swim, I research with a combination of brain burn and crampt cranium, as well as a slightly numb bum. I calculate the odds. If the lap top is splashed or drowned, will this provide sufficient grounds for my husband to divorce me, ignoring all other contributing factors?

In the house, Nonna knocks on the open window to attract my attention, just enough attention to startle. “There’s someone at the door Maddy!” she calls. I reply with hand signals, ‘no! can’t leave the children!’ She signals back ‘o.k never mind.’

The Pokemon swimmers are in full battle mode complete with volume. I shall wear them out, come what may. I strongly suspect that the more they swim, the more strong they become, so the more output is required to reach the original state of tiredness, but it’s just a theory.

After 90 minutes I have drawn no conclusive evidence for any one of my competing theories, as my attention is too fragmented. With the pool cover locked, I shower three small people, dry them and assist dressing. As I examine a split toe nail, the source of much weeping and wailing, I notice a shadow in the hall, a dim figure, an unfamiliar adult male person. I bark and shoo children away to the family room, the furthest away.

I step cautiously towards the hall. I realize that I should have adopted American sports after all. We must be the only family in the locale without a handy base ball bat. I do not recognize the blue T-shirt, jeans and white sneakers, nor the wide shoulders, thick neck and black hair with a glint of gel. I calculate our respective BMI, Blimp to Male Index. “Hello? May I help you?” He spins around to face me. Good grief, the painter from 3 weeks ago. “His Miz Maddy. I just come to check. To …er …..follow up.”
“Oh…..I see…..but…….”
“Yur mom let me in. I’m happy to wait, it’s o.k. I dun need to be nowhere. I liked chatting with you last time.”

I blink.

He must have been waiting…….an hour and a half, at least, in 87 degree heat, in the hall. Clearly I need to brush up on my hand signals. “Well come along into the kitchen then, I’d better make us a cup of tea. Um…..on second thoughts, you go ahead and put the kettle on, I just need to check something,” I beam.

I leg it over to Nonna’s room and take a peek. She lies on the bed in the darkened room, covered by a tropical print cotton sheet. Slightly tousled with open lips, her small frame is inert. A faint waft of eau de “Moustiques Mortes” and Tick Tacks. Her limp arm flops to the floor with her glasses directly by her finger tips on the carpet next an over turned coffee mug. A small dark treacly brown stain and not a breath of air in the fustering heat.

I see the elusive, unfinished “Bill Bryson” gently rise and fall on her chest.

Ahh tea!

Afterall it’s thirst quenching and very good for shock.

p.s. Yesterday I inadvertently used a phrase that’s common enough in England but may not translate well into American. What I meant to say was ‘unable to orchestrate a convivial social gathering in a Californian Winery’ not ‘couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery.’

My apologies.

Although free mo’s are in very short supply, please nip across and say hello at my “new blog,” if only to admire the technical genius of my first, nearly proper, blogroll. [make sure you leave your URL!]

Posted on August 24th, 2008.
Tagged : Bill Bryson, magic marker monday, strangers

15 Comments »

Comment of the week award

[Inspired by "Scribbit."]

This week goes to “Kathryn” from the “fritters family” from the very aptly named “Seeking Sanity,” for her comment on the post called “Well I Never” where she commented as follows:-

‘HAHAHA!!! I often catch myself telling the boys no for a reason that makes little sense. My boys must think I’m crazy! ;)’

because really, we’re all in the same club.

If you are currently reaching the end of your summer holidays and need a last quick dash to somewhere watery, you can check out her charming post “here,” called “The Rosy glow of summer,” although I have no idea what the ‘psf’ means?

And if you need a “visual” giggle, nip along to this “site.” Very topical what with the rain in England and the Olympics.

Additional giggles can be found over at “Jayne’s” site “Our Great Southern Land.” It’s quite odd really. Each of her posts are described as “Trivial History” together with the date, this may be accurate but it fails to capture the escapist element when I visit. Trivial just doesn’t do it justice. I hope you also enjoy it. Of course you can start anywhere, but this one is “current” and certainly tickled my funny bone, of which I have several, funny bones that is to say.

If anyone can explain the purpose of the 178 pieces of spam that Askimet caught last night, I would be forever grateful?

Lastly, please pop over and enjoy a little ageism and sexism with me at my new blog the “Sandwiched Gene,” where I shall be nibbling from time to time.

Cheers dears

Posted on August 22nd, 2008.

4 Comments »

13 things to do as each day starts in 13 minutes

Thirteen Things about free advice

1. Finish dream.

2. Remove duct tape from eye lids.

3. Wake up between 5 and 6!

4. Drink vat of espresso in record time.

5. Sterilize “retainer.”

6. Clean teeth, a 2 minutes timed exercise under “fear.”

7. Save time. Multi-task. Clean teeth in shower.

8. Dress.

9. Skip make-up, apply Happy face of choice.

10. Shift into Cheerleader mode.

11. Adjust volume control

12. Last chance!

13. I’m Ready!

Posted on August 13th, 2008.

16 Comments »

Bolting [ England is evil 4]

It’s a common enough issue for many a parent. One moment they’re there, the next moment they’re gone, without so much as a puff of smoke. It is familiar territory for many a parent. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was some kind of warning or preamble:- “Hey mom! I’m just going to trot up to the top of that mountain o’er yonder to investigate the sparkly thing on the top. Catcha in 5!” Then they’d be the chance to intervene, deflect or distract. Perhaps they already know the IDD tactic that we parents employ? Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that an AWOL child produces an instantly insane parent. It’s a given.

Exceptionally good parents, such as myself, know that the only solution is constant supervision, never let your guard down, never assume anything. This is the relationship that me and my bolter have enjoyed ever since his legs started working in a vertical propulsion kind of way rather than a horizontal kind of kicking the air kind of way. I’ve had seven years to perfect the art of padlocking the bolter.

But of course there’s always jet lag.

We slumber, all of us in our second floor flat in the holiday let at the seaside in the pitch black of the silent hours. Their father is with his mother, on the other side of town. The click of the unfamiliar latch is the only clue as the door closes with a sigh. I stagger out into the hall. For some reason my brain clings to the false clue, the empty unworn shoes on the mat. I force my mind to the land of reason, where no-one around here ever wears shoes voluntarily. I hover, can I leave two children asleep and unsupervised? I grab the keys and lunge out the door, down the stairs to the front entrance with the even bigger lock that closes automatically as a safety device. I whip outside to the forecourt and parked cars and the empty road. There is no sign of him in any direction. I hop from one foot to the other, which way to go? How far could he get in five seconds, or is it ten seconds or maybe several life times? Horror stories, headlines and urban myths percolate through my last functioning brain cell.

Cell phone! Who should I phone?

I cross the road to check in both directions down the dip.

Nothing. I dash back strangely breathless with the deafening thud of my heart beat. Blood rushes through my ear drums. No! Waves! The beach. The sea. The water! I rush around the building to the side entrance to punch in the secret code to the gate. This is ridiculous, he’d never remember that code, alpha numeric. Did we even tell him the code? I should be looking somewhere else. Where else? I burst through the gate, over the concrete, up the steps to a vista of silver starry beach. My son lies face down drained of colour in the moonlight, slowly making sand angels with his arms and legs. I plop down next to him. I wait before I squeak. I put a hand on the small of his back and take a deep breath. This isn’t my bolter but his older brother. He rolls over lazily, “hi mom,” he beams. We return to the slumberers as we watch the moons together, the one in the sky and the one reflected on the water.

The sixth time he bolted in the same hour I had a sense of humour failure and decided to sit on him!

Well…..more like drag him into my bed and admit defeat. I’m sure I’m not the only one who adopts the parental padlock pretzel position?

I hope?

Posted on July 7th, 2008.

23 Comments »

Between a rock and a hard place [England is Evil 3]

I sally forth with 20 minutes reprieve, to the corner shop to buy my caffeine fix. My face is puce, windburn rather than sunburn, evidence of Summer’s existence in England. I leave my compulsive hand washer and the rest of the rabble in the tender care of their father.

My new skin tone clashes violently with the radio active rock emblazoned on my chicken chest, a wedding anniversary present. The gift is a Dichroic rock, a by-product devised by NASA. It flitters between an iridescent shade of lurid green and virulent neon pink. Co-incidentally, it’s arrival matches the children’s sudden interest in minerals, gem stones and fossils that appear to consume our every waking moment. Since we are on holiday and therefore technology free, we are rapidly growing an impressive library of books, pamphlets and brochures on the subject.

By some stroke of genius, we also mined a true ‘find,’ a touchstone indeed, in the form of a lump of Quartz with it’s own little bag labeled ‘worry stone.’ It might as well have been carved in granite, chiseled in marble as a miraculous ‘cure’ for the OCD amongst us. I have a whole new respect for cheesy seaside shops. He quotes directly from the accompanying leaflet:- ‘an excellent channeller for healing, dispels negativity,’ which it most certainly does! A closet Indigo child perchance! Proof positive of the power of mind over body, as long as we remember to bring the lodestone along.

His ability to absorb and regurgitate facts, is exactly matched by my own shortcomings, my inability to do likewise. Hence, I have had the forethought to write ‘Dichroic’ on my left hand. I also have the gift of second sight, a veritable Nostradamus but even more scientific, reliable to a statistical significance of plus or minus 3, or 7 on a really good day. I know that some stranger will ask me, ‘what is that thing glowing on your rib cage?’ and I shall be dumbstruck, wordless and brainless in response.

I keep up a cracking pace along the path, bent horizontal into the force 9 gale. I see evidence of seagull carnage on the path. Only the feathers remain, swirling against a wall long after the urban fox has departed. I have yet another reason to be thankful that I’m alone and have escaped the trigger of death and all other matters related to a tenuous life span.

Strangely, once in the coffee shop, no-one asks about the rock, either because it is barely dawn or alternatively because the glow is smothered by several thick layers of waterproof clothing, customary attire for those on a beach holiday.

Fortunately the weather means that I am propelled back to the flat at warp speed with the coffee still piping hot, all ready for the next barrage of questions from the boys. Inside the gloom I prepare myself mentally for the vast diversity of instant explanations of all things English to include ‘the purpose of clotted cream’ and ‘the true nature of a cornet.’ How come I am suddenly the resident expert on all things English, a role for which I am woefully ill equipped. Sadly, I am poorly prepared for my daughter’s surprise question as she peers over her book, with a nest of bed head hair “what does ‘cleavage’ mean?” I look at the book, ‘A concise guide to rocks and minerals,’ and her gaping nightie neckline. I blink and think as she continues, “ I get the ‘name,’ ‘hardness,’ ‘specific gravity’ and ‘lustre’ even though they spelt ‘luster’ wrong on the chart but what’s cleavage?” Vast chasms of ignorance play with my brain. How many times am I destined to be exposed as an idiot before first light? Parenthood is so unfair on the middle aged. What use is my encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs now, assuming that information was still available and not already written over by miscellaneous facts and figures about Thomas, only to be subsumed by Pokemon details? “It must be something to do with…..splitability, how easy or difficult it is to shatter it.” I run away into the kitchen where I can wrack my thesaurus for a proper substitute for ‘splitability,’ wash my hands prior to breakfast and scrub off the ink as my youngest son pounces on me, “no!”
“No what? I mean……er….”
“I am mean stop, do not be wash yur hands.”
“Why? I’m just about to make breakfast.”
“You are not need to be wash yur hands now.”
“Why? Er breakfast……!” I seem to be caught in my own loop.
He uncurls his index finger to jab me in the chest, “because nuffin bad is happen. Now you are be have yur worry stone.”

Posted on July 6th, 2008.

17 Comments »

May the force be with you too

In the salon I hand over the gift voucher with glee. An hour of frivolous indulgence should never be squandered. I leave with two parts of my scraggy anatomy spruced up to meet American standards of womanliness. I anticipate that the manicure should remain immaculate for the next twenty minutes during the drive home.

As I drive I calculate which mode to adopt on arrival? Guilty of the crime of ‘absent without leave,’ I shall be soundly punished one way or another. Maybe the sulky, silent treatment? Maybe mountainous meltdowns? It’s the price to be paid for such selfish skullduggery at the weekend. Whilst many a parent returns home to be welcomed with open arms, other parents need to be a bit more savvy.

On previous occasions I made the mistake of bringing home treats, due to a combination of gratitude for the time off and a hefty dose of guilt for being so grateful in the first place. For some reason, I had temporarily forgotten that most treats are in fact torture, but I learned from my error. Whilst it’s tempting to try for a hug, that too is subject to negotiation. There’s nothing like unexpected physical contact to really ruin someone’s day. I decide to play it by ear.

As I step through the door my ears are assaulted by a loud combination of someone playing the recorder, another one making rooster noises in protest, a third is buried head down in cushions and an aerated father has an air of exasperation.

“Oh good! You’re home! How did you get on?” We ignore our children, exchange glances. I permit him to note my sparkly finger nails.
“Ooo very………clean.”
Whilst it wasn’t the adjective I was looking for, it was a good try under the noisy circumstances. The rooster ceases to crow and gasps instead, open mouthed, a picture of awe struck, “you are be touch?”
“Pardon dear?”
“You are be touch me wiv your magic fingers!” I swear he’s as sharp eyed as an eagle.