We chat on the way to the supermarket in the car. It is a proper chat because it is not about Pokemon. Who ever thought that we would ever enjoy a casual chat! The casual chat has been instigated by me, because I wish to distract from the imminent torture of the supermarket. It’s a thoroughly delightful new tactic. The chat is also prompted by the Brain Quest Third Grade (3rd Edition). As they are about to enter 4th and 5th grades in the Fall it is obvious that they are both well below grade level academically. When they were little, the answers were easy but the words were difficult. Now the answers are elusive but the words flow much more freely. All too often I find that as one thing advances another recedes, it’s a trade off. I believe it’s quite common. You can see it in “John Elder Robison’s” book called “Look me in the Eye.” When John was little he had extraordinary talents but as an adult those skills were unavailable to him. The chat comes to an abrupt halt.
“Lets not talk about it any more.”
“Why dear?”
“Coz I don wanna talk about dah future.”
“How come?”
“Coz I worry about dah future.”
“What is there to worry about?”
“My babies.”
“What babies?”
“My children.”
“But you don’t have any children yet.”
“I know and I’m worried I’m not gonna have any.”
“Why won’t you have any?”
“Coz of dah married bit.”
“The married bit?”
“No-one’s gonna wanna marry me.”
“Oh no, you’re quite wrong there. I’m absolutely sure that there’s someone out there for you, just the right one.”
“But I can’t do it.”
“Er…..do what dear?”
“Dah slow dancing.”
“Slow dancing! I don’t think that’s very important. Not everyone likes to dance. Anyway, you’re so good at fast dancing and robot dancing. Lots of people like that too.”
“Dya think?”
“Indeed I do!”
“No…..dya think dat…….one day when I am all grown up dat I will be being……a…da, .a… da, …..a…da……”
“Be what dear? A dad?”
“Adorable?”

And don’t forget to add your name to the “book giveaway.”

Our daily route in our huge hire car on the tiny little roads in England on holiday. At least the new mantra has faded now we’re returned to the States.

Ooo the excitement!

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.

We all make associations all the time, where we connect one event or set of circumstances with another. I associate the arrival of Summer with sun burn, turning puce and spending many a happy hour peeling off strips of dead snake skin from my arms. I associate the holidays with Christmas pudding, hidden silver shillings to break teeth and a visit to the dentist. Some of the connections we make are faulty but they're hard to shift once they've been experiencing. We learn through our unique experiences.

Teaching autistic children can be difficult because their motivations differ so greatly from the average child. It is because of this that frequently we need to use motivators that many other parents disapprove of quite strongly. Most people are on board with giving a child a piece of candy for successfully conquering potty training at a young age, commonly under 5 years old. These same people are less convinced by giving an older child an M&M for putting on one sock, ineptly. I suspect that it's the back story that's missing.

To read more click “here.”

“Drinks stink! I wan water.” I am so pleased that my youngest child is able to demonstrate his new ability to express his displeasure in words, rather than having a hideous meltdown on the floor. The other five children at the table cover their ears and lean ever so slightly backwards in their chairs, the wave formation of ‘GOALLLLLL’ when you’re not attending a football match. This is the new goal, triple play dates on Friday afternoons. Lets work those social skills!

The new victims are fellow class mates but infinitely more verbal than the majority in my household. Although I am more than happy to moan about our spots on the spectrum, other people have entirely different, and yet similar spots to deal with. His big brother covers for him, “he's beed even louder at home!” The pals examine him and appear to agree that this is true. He may be very loud at school, but that's nothing by comparison with the comparative freedom of home, where ear plugs are ever ready and freely available.

There is a mass exodus from the table due to inadequate snack provision. The girls depart upstairs to leave me with four little boys.
“What's your name again?” asks Master Muffet.
“Madeline.”
“Yeah right. So did you know?”
“Know what dear?”
“You house is infested with Brown Recluses.”
“?”
I have no clue to what he eludes. We're not particularly recluse and the 'brown' evades me completely. “Brown what dear?”
“Brown Recluses. They're everywhere.”
“Really? Show me.”
I follow him into the family room but he stops dead in his tracks. His body bars the way to whatever it is, whilst he regales me with certain pertinent facts which I appear to be in need of.
“Do you know?”
“Do I know what dear?”
“Brown Recluses can bite you in the jugular and then you will die.”
“Really. That's very interesting. I didn't know that. Can you show me what you want to show me?”
“Sure. Look. It's here, under the magnets, don't touch it though. He’ll bite you in the jugular and you’ll be dead in minutes.”
I lift the magnets to see a small, light brown spider. “Ah, so a Brown Recluse is a spider.”
“Yeah and they're killers. If they bite you on the jugular, which is here on your neck, then you will die. My auntie has them in her house too. My auntie has Black Widow Spiders too and they are even more deadly.”
He continues in this vein without pause for breath. My knowledge of spiders is limited, as I am currently still stuck on Pokemon, easing into Yu-gio. I back my way gently into the kitchen and the laptop so that I can check out Recluse Browns. Mr. Muffet is approximately three inches away from me and continues to talk. I am unable to detect whether he is breathing at the same time, but I assume that he must be, otherwise he would have keeled over long ago. Interestingly, he is very keen that my eyeballs and thus my attention, should be on his eye balls whilst he talks. He is a very small child but I find myself shrinking beneath his penetrating and unblinking gaze. Very soon I shall be backed into the tiniest corner, stuck in a display cabinet and secured in place with a pin through my abdomen, a very poor specimen.

I am unable to deflect him. I troll through my lexicon, to recall if or when your child ever starts to 'go off' on their favourite subject, it is permissible to set limits without necessarily damaging their psyche. At the same time, if this is a Brown Recluse and if it has the qualities that he describes, then I might need to abandon ship or at least take all the children off the premises.

The internet, the link to sanity, tells me that this is an urban myth, there are no Brown Recluse Spiders anywhere around here, or at least no colonies. The occasional one might turn up, traveling like a hitch hiker from another State, but they haven't taken up residence. As soon as Mr. Muffet sees the website on the screen, he covers his ears to tell me that it is all lies. This tips me off that someone else has tried the same tactic. So often logic and facts are so much more calming that general platitudes, but not in this instance.

Now Mr. Muffet is agitated and anxious and this is my fault. I have no idea if it's OCD but I do know unhappiness when I see it. It is a familiar well worn path and I know that I need to head him off at the path before something unpleasant occurs. I let the words fall from his mouth in an unending stream until the flow slows to a more tranquil pace. The eye contact has been missing for a few minutes, but now it returns.

I strike during the calm. “Tell you what, you can talk for another three minutes then it's going to be my turn to talk about what I like.” He barely misses a beat as I set the timer on the counter, “er ….whadaya like…ta talk about?”
I think. This is a child who is very nearly as disinterested in food as my own son. I would guess, without supporting evidence, that he is not a neophobe. My neophobe son eats 13 foods. If you eat more than 20 foods you are just a picky eater. I bet he eats 21 foods. I know that the 5 foods that he requested for snack time were unavailable. He had polished off all the purple and red Goldfish crackers, leaving the other colours untouched. No alternatives were
acceptable.
“I like to talk about ………brocolli.” He blinks a couple of times before a shiver courses through his body from hair follicle to toe nail. “I'm done!” He turns on he heel and leaves. Victory and defeat for both of us.

As always, it is just after I have announced my intention to teach “sex education” as and when needed, that the need arises.

They are in the midst of a debate.

“Don't be stoopid! No-one has four penise.s!”
“Cows do! They do so!”
“That's an udder. Anyways, cows are girls.”
“Milk is cow urine?”
“No.”
“What is chocolate milk being den?”
“It doesn't come out of the cow with chocolate. They put that in after.”
“Cow milk is make you ill?”
“Sure some people,” she says in an off hand manner. I hover. Has the need passed? The laundry crisis needs my attention. I decide to pay no heed, as he hasn't drunk milk for approximately 4 years.

“I am need!” he bellows at his usual 50 decibels. I pay heed at the sudden urgency and loudness of his demand.
“What do you need dear?”
“I am need a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a” I don't let him finish but whisk him away as only an astute mother can. After his experience in the “vomiting” department, I am swift and pre-emptive. There's no time to mess about, so I whip off his pants and trousers to park him on the loo in the blink of an eye. I lean against the door jam self satisfied that once again I have saved the day and possibly a heap of laundry.
“Wot?”
“Pardon dear?”
“WOT?” he bellows since clearly I didn't hear him properly the first time. Why do I keep making that same mistake I wonder?
“What to you mean “what' dear?”
“Wot I am do here?”
“What you normally do there dear. Do you need your privacy or something?”
“No I am need a…. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Yes I know that's why I've brought you here, quickly, before it's too late.”
“It is too late?”
“Is what too late dear?” Or do I mean 'too late for what?'
“It is too late for a….a….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“I hope not. I hope we're just in time.”
“Dey are in dah bathroom?”
“Er….. are what in the bathroom?”
“Dah….er….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“Any minute now I expect.” We pause. We wait. We wait some more. I have the distinct impression that I am waiting for something different to whatever he might be waiting for.
“What are you waiting for dear?” How can he wait at all?
“I am wait for dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Well maybe you're alright after all?”
“No. Dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a is not here.” I look at his expectant face although I am now uncertain what he is expecting?
“Is your tummy o.k.? Do you have an ache?”
“No.” I'm not sure which he means but he looks perfectly fine.
“Is it safe to get you dressed again do you think?”
“I dun know? Um… dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a be come if I am dressed?”
“No we want the diarrhea to come whilst you're sitting there.”
“I don't want diarrhea!” he shrieks.
“No, I know it's not nice is it?” He looks at me blankly even though strictly speaking is was more of a rhetorical question. I watch him blink, open mouthed, deep in thought.
“NO! Not diarrhea! I did not be say dat. I said…..er….dah book dat you be write fings in.” A book? A book that you write in? What is he on about now for goodness sake?
“I need dah book…….write every day…..you are start wiv 'dear.'”
“Dear Diary?”
“Yes.”
“You want a diary to write in?”
“Yes.”

Clearly I have a potential 'man of letters' on my hands, or maybe just on my mind?

I wonder what possible insight I might glean from sneaking a peek in a seven year old's personal diary, but of course only bad mothers do that?

Some unsophisticated parents inadvertently form causal behavioural links within their children. The bell rings and Pavlov’s dog salivates. The bathwater splashes and my youngest son runs at the speed of light, screaming like a banshee.

Once these associations have been formed, it can be very difficult to unlink them. Repeated exposure in tiny, but ever increasing increments, can eventually be successful.

Even now, his first response is always a protest, but that may just be because the suggestion of a bath is also a transition. He is hard wired to resist transitions.

In this particular instance I have no option. I remove him from the scene of devastation and plop him in a bath of warm water. He's too exhausted to resist. I leave his father in charge of the other two and the clean up operation after junior's spectacular, technical vomit performance. I should like to pull rank and claim that I am the mistress of delegation, but it truth it’s more that he is a better team player than me.

Junior lies in the water semi inert. I park myself on the bidet, the closest point of contact and wait for him to calm down. For many children, an upset stomach is often caused by eating something that has disagreed with them. In this particular child, a neophobic one with a diet of 17 foods, I know that nothing new or dodgy could possibility have entered his system, either deliberately or accidentally. I must mine for details and turn the situation to my advantage.

His silence is entirely predictable as 'ill' usually means that his body has to concentrate on other things, rather than speech. After a while, his feet start to show interest, as toes are so much safer than fingers. He taps the different surfaces, tentatively, especially as he has to ensure that his head remains above the water line, cannot get wet. After a thorough preliminary investigation, it is safe for his fingers. His fingers repeat all the taps that his feet have just made. “Dis is hot, dis is hotter and dis is dah hottest,” he announces with reference to the faucet fitting. His eyes travel back to mine, a ‘check in’ that allows me to bask in a brief moment of joint attention and referencing back. “I like because it is dah smooth too.” For the first time in four years I forgive my spouse for spending a fortune on European bathroom fittings.

“So …….I was thinking.”
“Wot?”
“Why are you ill?”
“I dun know.”
“Maybe it's all the licking you've been doing recently?” His open eyes match his open mouth, as he concentrates.

You may be familiar with the oral fixation stage of development in babies. They mouth everything, nothing is safe, everything is covered with drool. Some babies skip this stage completely, or do it later, sometimes much later. Some little people with oral defensiveness, avoid almost all textures and tastes. These are often the same little people that skip the 'mouthing' stage. When such a person begins to lick things, a parent, or at least some feeble minded parents, might be tempted to turn a blind eye. Some feeble minded parents, who secretly delight in this mis-timed development, believe that it may be socially inappropriate but a delayed development is infinitely better than no development at all. It would appear that blind eyes result in tummy upsets.

“Can you remember what you've licked today dear?”
“Um…..no.”
“'No' you haven't licked anything or 'no' you don't remember what you licked?”
“2.”
“O.k. lets start with when you woke up. What did you lick when you woke up?”
“Dah mirror. I play snailses.”
“Lovely! Good remembering.”
“I licked it until is was cleaned.”
“Great!” I debate what bacteria might be on the surface of double mirrored doors in a bedroom, or at least the first four feet from carpet to tongue height? He sits in the bath water. Each arm extended. He mimicks the diving surfacing motion of a dolphin with each hand until the dolphins’ noses collide in the centre. As they crash he grins with satisfaction. He shares his success with me as his eyes meet mine. He repeats the diving in a ceaseless loop of perfection because OCD tendencies are stronger than other tendencies. If the dolphins mis-time their aquatics he curses, “barnacles! barnacles! barnacles!” and begins again, but the eye contact is more rare and precious than any metal on the planet. Barnacles, can be a difficult swear word to pronounce. Every time he swears incorrectly, he changes to his alternative, “fishpaste! fishpaste! fishpaste!” which of course is also difficult to pronounce. It must be frustrating, not to be able to swear to your own high standards.
“What did you lick next, when you came downstairs perhaps?”
“Er……I be licked dah window.”
“Ah.”
“But I stopped.”
“Why did you stop.”
“It be freeze my tongue. I like lick dah warm fings.”
“Ah, lovely. What next?”
“I be finded a warm fing.”
“What warm thing did you find?”
“Ella.”
“Oh! You licked your sister?”
“Yes. But then I bited her coz she said 'no lick me!' and she be dah shout and dah loud and she hurted my ears wiv dah noise.”
“Oh dear!”
“She…… be taste nice and……..salty.”
“Well if you eat your sister you won’t be a vegetarian any more,” I tell the child who doesn’t eat vegetables.
“What I am be?”
“You’ll be a canni……er…..um…. a carnivore, or maybe just an omnivore.” Om, om, om.

One step forward, two steps back. I suspect cross contamination shortly.

Post script – after five baths in five hours, after five further incidents of illness, someone submitted to having a wet head. Oddly enough, I now seem to have inadvertently linked ‘baths’ to ‘cure all.’ Baths made him feel better, not well but better, cleaner, more relaxed. So it appears that we have no further need for the medical profession. There again, it is far more time consuming to bathe than to provide a Bandaid, and not quite so portable. Come to think of it, excessive bathing might feed into the OCD cleanliness nightmare. Maybe I should just stop thinking.

I am happy to swim in the wake of at the slowest little life boat in the convoy, doggy paddle of course. Woof!

“Let me out, let me out, let me out!” he yells as we beetle along the freeway at 65 mph.

“Don't be so stoopid, Mom's drivin yur nit wit, you'll be smooshed like a peach, road rash.”

He continues to flail, buck and kick much as he did in the old days.

“What is yur problem?” she asks in the vernacular.
“It be dirt,” he mutters , in a secret tone.
“What's dirty?”
“Dah window,” he whispers. I can see them in the rear view mirror. I can't work out why he should this share this information in such a furtive manner.
“Ooo that's not dirt, that's bird poop.”
“Bird poop?”
“Yeah, sure, it's not dirt it's just a lil ole drop a bird poop.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why dere is bird poop on dah car?”
“Er geez I don know. Bird flies. Bird poops. Happens to hit the car I guess.”
A brief silence follows.
“Birds are do poop and be fly too?” I do not like the way this conversation develops. It is already very difficult for his bottom to make contact with the toilet seat. I do not wish to provide him with further ammunition.
“Don't worry dear, we'll clean it up when we get home. It is on the outside of the window afterall.”
“Of course!” he snorts.
“Of course what dear?”
“Stoopid.”
“Pardon!”
“Stoopid!” he yells a little louder this time, just in case I didn't catch it the first time. Can someone save me from myself!
“I meant, 'what' is stoopid?”
“You coz dah birds are not fly in dah car, dey are fly in dah sky.” I ignore the mental gymnastics of my tiny bird brain and concentrate on driving.
“Stop dah car! You need be clean it now!”
“We'll be home in a jiffy! I'll clean it then.” We pull into the driveway and crawl into the garage. He's out in a trice with his usual fight or flight response. The others tumble after him. We immediately experience a traffic jam in the garage, two try to get in to the house and one tries to get back out. “I need it. I need it. I need it!” he squalks at them as he wades his way past them, battling upstream. Each hand holds a little white flag. Closer inspection shows that the flags are Wet Wipes as he attacks the car window with a flourish of fury. So much for tactile defensiveness or is there merely OCD gone mad?
“Oh thank you dear, that is so helpful. What a great job you're doing! I was going to do that in just a moment.”
“Das o.k. Your brain is old and mold. You are forget.” It’s the kind of back handed compliment you’d expect from a Brit.
“Oh….I…er…”
“And……..you be er… old and mold turtle.”
“Turtle? I didn’t know tortoises were forgetful? Do you mean elephant?”
“Nooo. Elephants do good remember. Turtles are be slow.” Oh dear, in more ways than one I fear.

In my defense, I should like to point out that there is a fine line between truth and accuracy.

He always protests at first, that's just what he does. When in doubt stall at the first hurdle.  He fends me off with an arrow head in a neat pincher grip as I swoop in on my prey.  As soon as we make bodily contact he starts wailing as I lift him off his feet, flailing, “I am be kill you wiv my fing!” he announces.  “What thing?”  I ask casually, knowing that he refers to the half inch plastic squidgey arrow head.  I carry him fireman style over one shoulder floppy and co-operative despite the noise.  Once he is in the bath he will be as happy as a clam, it’s just the same old transition resistance.   Mr. Clean, or squeaky to his friends has an in-built resistance to everything.   “Dis fing dat I am having in my hand.”  He stabs me gently in the back to demonstrate it's magical powers of persuasion.
“Ah, and what is it called?  Do you know what it is?”  He sounds more adenoidal with every advancing step up the stair case to the bath, but that's probably because it's hard to breathe when you're bobbing along upside down and trying to hold a conversation at the same time.  “Yes!” he hisses breathily whilst slurping back the accumulated drool, because lip closure is another ongoing campaign.
“Well, what is it then?”
“It is not dah arrowhead.”
“Oh.  Really?  What is it then?”
“It is dah magic fing dat makes dah bath water beed disappear.”  I step into the bathroom and deposit him upright on his feet in the room of devastation.  Piles of soggy towels and clothes are everywhere, along with a few trails of bubbles and a more than waterlogged spouse.  “Oh!”  he says, standing up from his kneeling position on the bathmat.  A cloth dangles from his hand as he wipes the grime of the tide,  “I thought I'd already done him!  Did I miss him somehow?”
His son steps gingerly towards the bath as the last drops of water gurgle down the hole.  “Agh!  It is be worked!”  he stares at the arrowhead and then back to the empty bath.  “Oh no, now I be dah dirty little mucky puppy.  I need be dah clean and shiny one.  Stoopid arrow.”  He hurls it aside in disgust.

'When in doubt,… panic!'

This idiom is a local one, coined by my Dad.

The words are well lodged in my brain, down deep and entrenched. The White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland is my twin. When you see a woman running around in circles, flapping her hands and repeating 'oh dear me,' that in fact would be me, or rather it would be, if I had allowed the idiom to rule my response. Instead I ignore it, stomp on it and resolve to vanquish it forever.

I haven’t always been a nervous type, despite this early introduction to the concept. Nor would I describe myself with that delightful term ‘laid back.’ I’m somewhere in the middle, or at least I used to be, until I found I was surrounded by children and outnumbered.

I tell you this, because it becomes clear to me, that whilst I may or may not be the source of my son's OCD tendencies, I should nonetheless, have the power to help him.

I receive sage advice from other people in the trenches regarding OCD. I remind myself that this is familiar territory. The difference is just that this is a different version from the one I'm used to. I’m used to a three or four year old’s version. That version was his little brother. I need to dig up and brush off those strategies to apply them to his older brother.

In the meantime, I resolve that whilst I may not be able to help him immediately, I can work on my own attitude.

During the course of the average day I am 25% annoyed, 25% irritated, 10% cross, 10% frustrated, 10% dithering, 9% grumpy, 5% confused, 5% switched off, and 1% falling about with hysterical laughter. This little glimmer, lights up the whole day and makes the other percentages dissolve. I believe this to be a fairly typical, moaning Minnie, British type.

That said, I have also noticed that as we simmer, bubble and boil during the average day, it's like existing in a high octane tank. Any stray spark is enough to ignite the whole caboodle. They are so volatile. What triggers a meltdown this minute may be of no consequence on a different day or a different time. As a result I am hypervigilant too, waiting for the shoe to drop, or rather be hurled across the room. Lets face it, shoes are torture for some people.

I spend my waking hours chanting 'om' in my brain. I string together a whole slew of lies, 'you can do this, I know you can,' 'remember to breath, this is easy,' 'concentrate, don't lose it now,' ‘try, try, try again.’

The words I say to myself are generally the same words that I say to my children, which is convenient but a little patronizing.

When that moment comes, as it so often does, instead of spontaneous combustion, I find I drift and rise into a state of balmy calm. The petty irritations and annoyances bleed away. I am almost weightless. I am left clear headed and untroubled. I can suddenly see that everything really is fine and that all is well. I becomes easy to make the right decision, to prioritize and cope with whatever it is this time.

It is a very reassuring ability to have acquired. The first time I felt this response viscerally, was when I lost one of them in a park. The family we were with, were in a state of panic, bless them. Not me, not externally. Rushing around like a headless chicken wouldn’t help. There was an emergency broadcast system, why not use it and lock the place down? It sounds so cold blooded and maybe it is? Same as when the house caught fire. What to save? Why the children of course and then start the hosepipe once I heard the fire brigade were on their way. I could list any number of ordinary domestic and family disasters over the years. What do you do if an acquaintance sits on your chest and tries to strangle you? Well yelling isn’t possible and she’s almost double your body weight. Tickle her of course.

A clear head, that’s what you need, and when you need it, there it is.

I’ve had my fair share of days of being a blubbering heap on my own kitchen floor, incapable and incompetent but when that next feather floats down, the little chip or straw tips the balance, we have no option but to cope. I don’t care if it’s adrenalin or laughter, it’s always enough to part the foggy clouds.

Now, what I need to do, is to artificially import that attitude to the other 99% of my day.

I wonder if there is a 'step by step' guide on-line? I'm sure I can find something to download.

Maybe I'll upload instead?

Easy peasy!

For a glimpse of “not coping with OCD” and “general grumpiness” you can visit “here.”

We stumble into the building tripping over ourselves in our haste, a rambling, rabble of ragamuffins. They disperse in three different directions but I remain calm because no-one can actually escape. One single entrance, that is also the sole exit, is balm to a woman such as myself.

I allow them to let off puffs of steam. their excitement whirs a while. After about twenty minutes, they have expended enough energy to risk entering one of the smaller enclosures. We battle with unco-operative doors. I remind them all about the need to sanitize their hands between each cat stroking session. They are perfectly happy to submit to the hand washing in order to maintain the health of the cats and kittens. The greater good. A man enters the same enclosure. My children are still louder than many, as they lack volume control. “Geez! Aren't the kids back at school yet?” I'm uncertain if this is rhetorical, a joke or both? I smile towards him.

Another woman enters the small enclosure. A member of staff. “Wow we have a lot of kids here today. Are you on a field trip?” she asks my daughter. She answers, a little non-plussed, “er…..no. We're just visiting.”
“You know, you guys might like an older kitty, like that big one over there, the brown one,” their eyes follow her finger to the cage where the man crouches before his favoured choice. His head flips towards us and then snaps back to the bars.
“Kids should be in school,” mutters the man, as he talks to the cage and strokes the paw that pokes through the wires.
“Schoolie, Schoolie, Schoolie,” chants my youngest in his high pitched, baby voice tone, a mode he adopts specifically for communication with cats. He skips around the small room reading all the names pinned to the cages. The woman watches him buzz and read. I know that she's trying to figure him out. Is he really reading all those names? Why does he sound so weird? She says nothing, just watches. My older son is in ecstasy surrounded by cats. He whole body roils a la Mr. Bean and his mouth tic is so loud and frequent, that everyone thinks that he has a serious attack of hic-cups.

“In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!” The man glances across at my son. His words are out of context with everything. His little perseveration phrase is indicative of his state of happiness. There is no such thing as a peer group for him. His lack of social skills may have inadvertently given him an opener with the man.
“Are you a fan? What's your team?” My son continues to spin, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his own personal bear hug. He starts to meow but I consider this to be an improvement on the barking, mainly because it is quieter. Also, because we are surrounded by cats. They might be unduly alarmed if they were given the false impression that a stray dog had gained entry.

The staff member keeps an eye on him as she opens each cage to administer food to her charges. The man asks permission to remove the cat of his choice for a cuddle. The staff member obliges. The large man sits in the small chair and strokes the chocolate coloured fur with a tender touch. “He's one hellava guy,” he murmours to the furry face with the slit eyes of adoration. He doesn't appear to notice as “hellava guy,” echoes through the air several times. He continues to stroke his preferred cat but lets a proprietary eye rove over my children. He speaks to the employee, “we came to see Molly yesterday.” He nods towards the cat. “This is the second day we've come to visit her,” he adds but this time he tells all of us, everyone in the room, even though there are few listeners in his audience.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, stayin alive, stayin alive,” sings my little one.

I catch the woman employee looking at me. I smile. She looks at the boys and then back at me. “Big family!”
“Yes. It's an in service day at school,” I explain unnecessarily.
“No school today. No school today. No school today.” Her eye catches mine, again. She's cautious, “are they…….” her eyes flick to the man and back to me, “they like cats,” she smiles.
“Indeed they do,” I smile back. Both our smiles broaden as she watches my boys with warmth.

“I'm probably gonna adopt her today,” adds the man with a hint of desperation. “I didn't have time to do all the paper work last night.”
“He certainly is a lovely cat,” I say to his bowed head on the top of a body that appears to diminish before my eyes, curling around the cat, shrinking.
“We just came to get some flea medicine,” offers my daughter with a little flicker of concern. “We already have two cats, our own cats.”
“You came all the way here just for that?” he snaps , perplexed, relieved and too loudly.
“Well….. and to see the kitties of course. It's a treat!” she adds by way of explanation. I watch the man unwind, arms soften, grip loosen and face open. Molly runs her front paws up his chest and her head nudges his chin.

A match.

There is also my other “life” that is driving me completely batty “too.”