Mind over matter

I take him outside with me and leave spouse to clean up inside. He sits on the gravel in a pout. It's not so much a punishment as merely keeping him out of the way whilst spouse labours and manges the other two. The gravel is entertainment for him whilst I continue to plant the flower bed. He is a sensitive little soul at the best of times but is quite content with the gravel. Whilst it would be entertaining for me to have him 'help,' to do an activity together, I know that dealing with soil [translation = dirt] is well out of his comfort zone.

My elderly neighbour ambles over for a chat. She's a Texan who doesn't mince her words.
“Gee hon, that's looking gor gee us!”
“Thanks!” I mumble. She doesn't press me for additional words, as she knows that the surgery has left me speech impaired, which gives her a distinct advantage.
“Oh god! Not that darned stuff agin! Remind me, let me see the packet. I know it works it just makes my flesh crawl. Bonemeal, that's it!” she pulls a face of disgust being of a vegetarian persuasion. Junior pricks up his ears and leaps to our side, “Bone meal! Bone meal? It is lunch?”
“No yur mother puts it on the plants to make em grow.”
“But what it is dah bone meal?”
“Don ask hon. It's bones that have bin all ground down into a powder!” I watch his eyes grow as large as saucers in his rigid body that leans backwards. His brain processes this information. A little electrical current courses through his body just before he vomits on the path.

He has a great gag reflex.


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How do I love thee?

Junior is going through a negative phase. It runs along the lines of 'Nobody loves me /I have no friends/ everybody hates me.' Our current campaign is to turn this around, accentuate the positive and eliminate this kind of spiral thought process. The tendency of many autistic children to drift towards depression is marked in statistical analysis.

I leave spouse in charge and dash to the shower. I'm not able to hear much because of the water, but as I stand on the toweling mat to dry myself off, I can hear voices outside in the hall: 'd'ya luf me?' Is that what he asked? Bless his little fragile ego! His speech delay makes him sound as if he has a mouth full of marbles. He is difficult to understand unless you're familiar with his tone and phraseology, which I am.

I can also make out his sister’s voice, mumbling something or other. His phrase is repeated at ten second intervals as I pull on socks and a cardi. I don't bother to brush my hair, just run my fingers through as I'm in a hurry. If I speed up I might just be in time to prompt her to make an appropriate verbal response, something to help repel his inner voice of doubt.

She is of such a kindly disposition towards her brothers, that I'm confident that she'll manage it on her own. Nonetheless I'd like to witness it. I poke the corner of the towel in my ear to dislodge the water and clarify my auditory channels.
I step towards the door and swing it open. I see her sitting astride his back make making small growling noises. Her little brother's words are suddenly clearer, easier to distinguish = 'geroff me!' he squalks.

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