There are many occasions in life when is next to impossible to do the right thing. If you are forced to act in a manner in which you would prefer not to, then it’s a good idea to find a method of keeping your cool.

Some people are naturally calm, unflappable, no matter what life throws at them. They are people that I greatly admire but other lesser mortals, such as myself, are more easily ruffled.

Around here, a frequent occasion pops up in the form of car travel. The car has long been an aversive experience for the boys, but they have developed their own coping mechanism, namely circular little ditties and noises that help calm them. These phrases are not calming to either the driver, nor other passengers. For long journeys we have different strategies but for short trips it’s merely a case of grin and bare it. It is essential to concentrate upon the art of driving, remain unflustered and resolute.

We drive to the restaurant, a party of seven, with the boys independently perseverating in their own unique ways.
“Shut up already!” bleats my daughter, sandwiched between the pair of them.
“Don’t worry dear, we’re nearly there, just tune it out.”
“But I can’t,” she wails.
“Just take yourself to your happy place and lock the door.”
“But I don’t have a happy place.”
“Everyone has a happy place you just have to find yours, remember?”
“I can’t think about anything with all this din, it’s torture.”
“I think your current happy place would be a barrel full of darling Webkinz, up to your neck in them, all soft and fluffy……muffling the sound. You just need to imagine pulling the lid down over your head, turn the key in the lock……or are you too old for Webkinz now?”
“I can’t I just can’t.”
“Hey…….Mom!”
“Yes dear?” Ooo a chink in the chain, a brief pause.
“Dya wanna know where is being my happy place?” This, though he didn’t appear to be listening, seemed to be tuned out.
“Ooo yes please!”
“Tribe.”
“Tribe?”
“In dah jungle wiv all my Spore friends.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Me!”
“Yes dear, where’s your happy place then?”
“Er…..my happy place is…….nest.”
“Ooo of course. How you love eggs still.”
“No……not eggs……..video games.”
“Sounds a bit uncomfortable and pokey to me!”
“Heaven mom, pure heaven!”

This could be yours:-

Don’t forget to add your name to the “list” and help spread the word for the giveaway.

p.s. should you happen to have a free mo about your person, you may wish to nip on over to “Kristina” at “Change.org” where you might want to consider signing the petition to encourage President Obama to fully fund IDEA as that would help make a lot of people very happy.

p.p.s. it is, of course, a very polite letter.

Cheers dears

One of the many advantages of two generations of children is that family stories are re-hashed and regurgitated. There are obstacles to be overcome with such story telling. If one generation of children grew up in England and the newer generation grow up in the States then there are a great many discrepancies between the two factions. Their experiences differ greatly.

This becomes all too apparent one night at the dinner table when rowdiness rules the roost. She turns to me and rolls her eyes over the din. She slumps back in her chair to observe her younger siblings raucous, unbridled and ever so ever so loud shenanigans. “Hey!” she bellows with large accompanying arm movements.
“Wot?”
“I want to tell you something.”
“Wot?”
“When I was little……about your age,” she adds as she glares at each one of them in turn, “I used to be loud too.” None of them says a word, either because they find it hard to imagine that their big sister was ever their age or because they are all different ages or because they cannot imagine her being loud or all three.
“One day mum went to meet her friend at a pub for lunch and I went too.”
“Pub! Pub? Wot is it being ‘a pub’?”
“A pub is where you go to drink.”
They look at her in confusion so I nudge and whisper “that probably wasn’t terribly helpful.”
“Right. A pub is where you go to eat, and drink alcohol, a bit like a restaurant or a diner.” Three pairs of eyes widen at the trigger word ‘alcohol.’
“You are drink alcohol when you was being a kid?”
“No I drank orange juice but that’s not the point. The point….” Her tale is cut short as the conversation is now stuck firmly in the mire of ‘just say no.’ They would only be slightly more shocked to hear that she drank rat poison. The din grows louder as they perseverate over the evils of drink but she reins them in to pursue her tale.
“ANYWAY!”
They pause and return their attention to their big sister. “Anyway, as I was saying……we were in the pub……eating…….and I was being very naughty.”
“Naughty?” they chorus.
“Yes…..so mum’s friend told me a secret.”
“A secret?”
“Yes…….mum’s friend told me that she used to have noisy naughty children too, just like me…….” She pauses to brilliant effect.
“So what do you think happened to her children, those noisy naughty children?” I am suddenly more than a little worried where this is going as I am the one who will have to deal with the fall out, probably for some considerable period of time, but she’s on a roll and there’s no stopping her now.
“Well……mum’s friend told me that her children were so naughty and noisy that she left them in the pub, went home and she never saw them again.”
“She losted her children?”
“Yes she did.”
“Yur kidding right?”
“Dat is way bad.”
“England” is evil!”
They scatter to the four winds before she has the chance to finish.
“Great! Did you have to tell them that?”
“They didn’t give me a chance to finish.”
“You know we’re going to “England” in less than two months?”
“So?”
“Well I was looking forward to the odd pub lunch here and there, maybe.”
“Do you think that’s going to be a problem? Just from what I said?”
“Believe you me, that little nugget of information is boring a hole into their brains to lodge there quite firmly until hell freezes over.”
“Better get some take out menus “then.”

Don’t forget to add your name to the “list.”

I listen to a fascinating interview with “Robyn Stewart” on “Woman’s Hour” about the stresses and strains of living as an autistic adult in the UK. How the provision of services is dire. How small incidents of no apparent import can have a paralyzing effect on an autistic individual throughout adulthood.

The newly weds retire for the night. I prompt my children to say goodnight at 7:30 in the evening.
“G’night.”
“Geez you are night night time already?”
My youngest daughter blushes as she hugs her big sister.
“Dat’s it.”
“What’s it.”
“Dat is dah baddest fing I have ever bin hearded.”
“Heard dear, heard.” I see the signs. Fast speech, tense body, wringing hands, angry tone as he begins to fizz.
“I’m never gonna be a married.”
“How come?”
“I don like dat rule.”
“Which rule?”
“Dah sleeping for marrieds at 7:30.”
“Ah……well that’s because…….he Brazilian, nothing to do with being married. Dad and I are married and we’re wide awake.” Once he has latched onto an idea it can be difficult to resolve, distract or deflect.
“Unfortunately.”
“Er…..you are American marrieds or English marrieds?”
“Both.”
“What time is English marrieds are sleeping?”
“Depends?”
“What time is American marrieds are sleeping?”
“Oh American’s go to bed very early indeed. Most of them go at nine o’clock because they get up so early, just like you do come to think of it.” His hands clench the material on his trouser legs as he hones in.
“What time is Chinese marrieds are sleeping?”
“Well they’re 15 hours ahead of us in Beijing so it’s the middle of the afternoon for them.”
“What time is Australian marrieds are sleeping?” His increasing agitation continues to spiral.
“Well Australia is very big too, so it depends which bit of Australia you’re in.”
“Aghhhh! Where I am to be a married who is not ever be sleeping.”
“The land of the midnight sun dear. It would be perfect for you…..apart from the snow and ice of course.”
“Aghh dis is impossible.” It’s easy to identify the spark once he’s on fire. It is far more difficult to dampen down after ignition.
“Well you’re not likely to be getting married any time soon, so you don’t need to worry about it right now.”
“What about my childs?”
“What about your children? You don’t have any children yet either.”
“My childs will be like me?”
“Er……perhaps. You never can tell.”
“How are you not know any of deez fings?”
“Well………there are just so many mysteries…….we can’t know everything and we can’t predict the future.” Platitudes are rarely effective. I watch him begin to pogo on the spot with clenched fists and bared teeth because I lack logic, amongst other things.
“Tell you what though!”
“Wot!” he bellows on his last centimeter of string.
“When you marry you’ll be an adult and adults can follow any rules they like.” He exhales as he flops onto the floorboards in a heap, spent. Maybe, just maybe that’s enough. I wait as his eye lids flutter.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“How long until I am an adult?”
“About ten years, give or take.”
“Ten years! Dat is unbelievable!”
We begin the next spiral.

“Perseveration”
Definition:- Perseveration is the uncontrollable repetition of a particular response, such as a word, phrase, or gesture, despite the absence or cessation of a stimulus, usually caused by brain injury or other organic disorder.

This is another variation on “Perseveration” and how it can pan out in “adults,” maybe you might recognise a little bit of yourself, perhaps? A longish piece, but very worthwhile for a little personal insight.

To those who have grown weary of seeing the same title “England is evil,' every day, I have a suggestion? Take the first letter that matches the name of your own country, such as M for Mexico and couple it with another word such as Malevolent. There after, chant in threes 'Mexico is malevolent.' It would help if your accent differed significantly, and identifiably from your country of choice. Ideally this should be repeated during every idle moment as well as any number of minutes when you are concentrating on something, or frustrated, or distracted. The phase can also be used both publicly and privately. Continue in this fashion for the next 22 days. Ensure that you are in Mexico when you say it. Ensure that you find a good translator so that everyone is sure to understand you. Ensure that the pitch, timbre and volume of the words is loud enough, even if their hearing aid is turned off. For variety, it can also be sung to any number of different tunes on random shuffle. You do not have to be on holiday or in unfamiliar territory to complete this experiment, but it helps. Once you have completed each and every one of these steps, then you shall be better placed to point a finger.

I would be willing to lay a wager, that even if you changed Malevolent to Marvelous, nevertheless it would still numb your brain cells.

Would that all the world's woes were so tiny.

Non-verbal no longer, I am the luckiest mummy around.

Any takers?

Go on, indulge me, especially if you’re on one of those dratted ‘readers!’

Or maybe you might have an opinion about my future career prospects if we return to England? I’m thinking………exclusive importer and distributer of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers, or is that too self serving?

It’s nice to go away, but it’s lovely to be “home.”

I set about making a few vats of carrot juice, glug a gallon or two with a Centrum chaser. I shall remain healthy if it kills me. This provides enough energy to bake a dozen muffins with the left over pulp.

Small people perseverate on the usual matters with one new addition, “not a stork, it's an egg head!”

Ordinarily I would enquire into the source but I am far too grumpy.

It's probably something to do with storks and babies, and I am in no mood to commence a sex education lecture to a seven year old.

I swallow another couple of Advil as I can’t afford to be wiped out by Vicodin. In an ideal world I would opt for a pout but I can only just manage a glower, which I hope is enigmatic.

Spouse has abandoned us once again, back to England. I had anticipated a 'love, honour and obey in sickness' phase of marriage. Especially the 'obey' part. I had hoped to bask in his attention and affection after my latest visit to the dental surgeon. Unfortunately he has chosen the 'honour thy father and mother' option, as the threat of death and taxes, clearly trumps “dental implants.”

But I can still moan about it and exercise one of my more finely honed talents. I stagger around with an ice-pack clamped to my jaw and a similarly frosty exterior.

I consider adopting a martyred air, but it’s pointless unless you have an audience. My audience is tuned out, oblivious to my delicate disposition. We continue to charge about in the 90 degree heat and I am on underwear duty, which means that everyone must be wearing some. All other garments are optional, not that I am a minimalist, more of a defeatist.

An absent father means that this is an ideal time to make unreasonable demands and throw the rule book out. Everyone is determined to check whether or not the same rules apply that have applied since their birth.

“But why do I have to flush the loo?”
“No teef cleaning rule! Why I am bed now at clock eight?”
“Not a stork, it's an egg head!”

The troops are revolting and I have a hard time maintaining law and order with a clip board, pencil and grunting noises.

By bed time I am uncertain who is the most fatigued as we flop onto the sofa for story time.

“Shall we read to ourselves Mom?”
“@*&F^#>+ %*!”
“Do you mean yes? Jus nod yur head.”

I grab the clip board and write 'yes please.'

“Don be listen ta her! Not a stork, it's an egg head!”

I reach for the clip board again as I just have to know.
'do you know where that phrase comes from?'

She reads with care and then glances back at me.

“Have yah looked in the mirror today?”

If you laugh I swear I’ll stab you with a “spork.”

One of our most serious and all pervasive issues has been the matter of pretend play.

My son would often pretend to be a dinosaur and he was a very good mimic. As soon as I commented or guessed, “are you being a Triceratops?” he would collapse in a huge meltdown. I assumed it was because my guess was wrong and therefore very annoying.

I later learned that it wasn't the 'guess' that was wrong, it was the trigger word 'pretend.' Much later still, I learned that the word 'pretend' was offensive. It was offensive because he wasn't 'pretending.' As far as he was concerned, he 'was' whatever he was mimicking. He 'became' whatever he mimicked. A budding method actor.

………

It's the new wallpaper to my day. It doesn't really matter what the subject is, or what we might be talking about, everything is peppered with Chihuahua. I blame the friend, or more specifically, the mother of the friend that bought the dog. She has no idea what her new pet has done to my family, and let me tell you, it is not a pretty sight. Fortunately there are no sound effects, just dog talk.

“He is dah Christmas present?”
“Who is a Christmas present?”
“Dah Chihuahua?” It colours every conversation. He'll manage to squeeze it in to the most unlikely chat. “Would you like barbeque sauce or ketchup?”
“What do Chihuahua's like? I like what he likes.” It's a blatant lie and a figment of his imagination at the same time, quite a feat. I was never particularly keen on the breed in the first place, but they are rapidly descending into a puny pet peeve.

I try deflection. The subject is moot. “We can't get a dog until after Christmas. It's not fair to find a puppy and then leave him in kennels when we go to England.”
“Dey have Chihuahua's in England?”
“Yes but you can't bring a dog from England to the States….” I avoid the Rabies, customs and waiting period, period.
“Why?”
“Because…..English Chihuahua's don't understand American, it would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.” Oh how I love the Constitution!

I distract.

“Can you read that sign dear?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say dear?”
“Danger keep out.”
“That's why it's red, to tell you about the danger.”
“Dey have a big dangerous dog? Chihuahuas are not being dah dangerous.”

His sister joins in the debate. She has her own agenda. Perhaps she can muzzle him?
“We can't get a Chihuahua as they bark all the time.”
“Dey only have dah little bark.”
“They have sharp claws and they'll scratch yah when they jump on yah.”
“Dey do dah little jumps and I am big.”
“He'll lick yur face and bite ya.”
“No he will be dah good dog.”
“A lab would be better or a retriever. Now that's a real dawg.”
“I don wan a real dawg I wan a Chihuahua.”
“Anyways. They don't have Chihuahua's in America. You have to go to Mexico to buy Chihuahua's.”
“Mom I need to go to Mexico!”
“We're not goin to Mexico, we're going to England dummy. Mum tell him we're not going to Mexico. Tell him we're not gonna get a Chihuahua. Tell him we're gonna get a big dog.”
“We go Mexico before dinner?”

I fly away. I remember our one holiday to Mexico. It was based on the sound theory that we should visit Mexico, whilst we were here in the States. Once we returned to the UK, it would be a much longer and far more expensive holiday. It made perfect sense. It made perfect sense before we went. Mexico had been Americanized. It was just like America but with different accents and a milder climate. As it turned out, it was not just like America. They had no Goldfish, which was far more distressing that no seat belts in the cars.

Everything is a prompt, so I stop, prompting that is, in the remote hope that we can avoid this all pervasive subject.

He self initiates conversations, in a sly and circumnavigatious manner.
“You like em?”
“Like what dear?”
“Hot dogs?”
“Er, not really.”
“Hot dogs are like wieners.”
“Er, yes, little ones, so they are.”
“You can get wiener dogs.”
“Dachshunds dear.”
“Dachshunds are little dogs just like Chihuahuas.”

I wonder if we have time to stop by the travel agent before dinner? How much does it cost these days? One adult, one way to Mexico? I should pre-order the vegetarian option, a tofudog?

I am hounded on every front. There is no way out. I should start practicing commands like 'down boy!' Little traps await me around every corner, ready to pounce. Logical persuasive leaps abound.

He fingers the old one, the red collar with the bell and little name tag.
“We are recycle?”
“Um…..yes.”
“We are recycle dis?” He shoves the collar in my face.
“Well it's a cat collar really.”
“Chihuahua's are been having dah tiny necks just like dah cats.”
“Well….”
“It be save.”
“Er….”
“It be cheep, cheap, cheaper if we dun buy a new collar.”

His powers of persuasion are unleashed. He crouches on the floor on all fours.
“You like me?”
“Of course I like you dear, I love you.”
“I am cute?”
“Very cute.”
“I am a lovely little guy?”
“Of course!” That’s so odd. I’m not permitted to call him little any more.
“You see my bootiful eyes?” He blinks to wet the deep brown pools.
“How could I not?”
“You see? I am be……I am pretend…….I am an adorable Chihuahua.” Pretend! Hallelujah! He said it! He said it out loud! I was here, I heard him and there is no meltdown. A new all time first.

But it’s not the last we hear about puppies. There is always another line, paragraph and chapter. Puppy talk dogs our days.

I need a campaign or an escape route or an 'off' switch. I think I'll start by buying a dog house, a little kennel that I can hide in, with optional drawbridge.

The next day following his playdate, he accosts me in the kitchen.
“You are dah dumbass?” Well really!
“I beg your pardon!”
“Oopsie. I sorry. You are dah stoopid?” Good grief! I'm not sure if this is supposed to be a improvement. I wait. I prompt, and dangle a treat, against my better judgment.
“Yes dear?” I do not snarl. I am obedient and stay put.
“Why you say it a Chihuahua?” he yips.
“Um….your friend's puppy, that little dog…..well it is a Chihuahua,” I avoid barking.
“No!” he woofs. I listen to His Master’s voice and beg for more information.
“Yes?” I am at heel without the restraint of a choke collar.
“No. You got it wrong.”
“Really!”
“Yes. On my playdate……”
“Ahuh?”
“..his mum bin…….”
“Yes…?”
“She be…” I wait. Prompts and encouragement can only take you so far. Sometimes you just have to wait for them to retrieve, regroup and restate.
“His mum din bin say dat …..he's a Pomeranian,” he says with perfect diction without slobbering.
“Ah.”

You know, some parents can be a real handicap. I adopt a hangdog expression and I slink away, with my tail between my legs.

New post up over on “alien.”

I am reassured when I read that “other families” are noisy too. I know that there are lots of quiet families too, but it's the noisy ones that give me peace of mind.

We endure a forty minute journey in the car, ironically, to the Humane Society. My daughter sits calmly in the centre back seat, a brother on each side. It is her misfortune in life to be the central divider. Her arms are folded across her chest as she looks out of the window and comments to me on the various points of interest that she sees. “Look mom, do you see that balloon thing?” she bellows but in a mild tone. She has no option but to yell because the amount of noise emanating from her brothers is strong competition.

“Why do boys like bunnies? Why do boys like bunnies? Why do boys like bunnies?” he chants in his robot voice. As usual, I have no idea where he has found this gem. I keep an eye on the GPS map on the dash board as the woman's voice that provides verbal directions is too quiet to hear. A least I know that my son is coping her voice, even though I still can't identify the source of the new phrase.

“Internet! Internet! Internet!” he blasts before reverting to the original phrase. I need to install an ‘off’ switch in this child. His older brother talks in a Pokemon voice and plays out a Pokemon scene, the same scene, the same discourse, the same exchange for the entire journey. Without his medication he has reverted to monosyllabic and echolalic and ever so happy. I'm not sure which one of us is more delighted, him or me? He is no longer irritated by his little brother's motor mouth. Once again he finds him a source of camaraderie and amusement. Even his distinctive laugh has returned, the one that sounds like the Flamingos in Alice in Wonderland. The Flamingos turned croquet mallets with that infectious giggle. I lack his generous spirit.

“Dogs eat trees, dogs eat glass, dogs eat metal.” He pants afterwards, in dog mode. His brother hoots with laughter and repeats the phrase sotto voce before returning to the Pokemon spiel. “Look Mom, there's a car with a dent in it. Do you think it was in an accident?”
“Could be,” I answer as non specifically as I can muster.
“Dogs eat pens, dogs eat pans, dogs eat poops.” Cackles of laughter reverberate around the car. I wonder how long we will have to endure the dog stage of development?
“Ooo look, there's another one that was in an accident, the side is all bashed in.”
“Dogs eat pebbles, dogs eat rocks, dogs eat boulders.”
“They call that a side swipe I think.”
“Dogs eat mountains, dogs eat twigs, dogs eat sticks, woof, woof, woof.” Every so often, his older brother repeats his little brother's words. Sometimes it's echolalic, sometimes he's just giggly. They enjoy a very exclusive brand of humour.
“What do they call it when the back is all smooshed?”
“Dogs eat grass, dogs eat green, dogs eat fields.” Perhaps I should just install volume control?
“Rear ended.”
“Dogs eat men, dogs eat wimmins, dogs eat…..dogs don't eat kids.”
“What about the front smash?”
“Dogs eat bottles, dogs eat glasses, dogs eat spectacles.”
“Er bonnet bashed?”
“Dogs eat shoes, dogs eat newspapers, dogs eat machines.”
“That must be the English, what's the American?”
“Dogs eat Italians, dogs eat Frenchians, dogs eat Germ mans.”
“Um fender bender or humped hood.”
“Dogs eat cars, dogs eat bicycles, dogs eat rockets, woof, woof, woof.”
“Are you sure, that doesn't sound quite right?”
“Dogs eat galaxies, dogs eat clouds, dogs eat worms.” Nothing sounds quite right at the moment, least of all my own brain.

My eyes flick between the rear view mirror and the GPS screen. I need to concentrate so that I don't miss the exit. I'm not particularly bothered about taking longer to arrive, but I am particularly bothered about spending any additional seconds confined in this moving torture chamber. I long to drive a black taxi cab, the kind from London, where you can pull up a soundproof screen between the driver and the passengers.

I glance back at my daughter. She seems calm. I think she is calm. I decide to check. “Are you alright dear?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well with the noise and all?”
“Oh yeah sure.”
“It doesn't bother you?”
“Er no. Does it bother you?”
“Well,” I veer to the right a little.
“Are you asking my advice?”
“Er yes, I think I must be?” I admit to my 9 year old daughter.
“Well you just need to shut your eyes and blot it all out, think about other things, peaceful things.” She pauses, “I spose that's kinda tricky if yur drivin.” I love how she flips between English and American.

I swing into the car park and the last free spot. I take a deep breath, a full lungful, enough to sustain through the next step of our sequence. My mind races through all the pitfalls that the next hour holds for us. Will we succeed or will we have to beat a hasty retreat? My youngest son bellows, “d'you know dah one fing dat a dog can't eat?”

We all look at him. It appears to be a genuine question and he has everyone's attention. “A dog cannot be eating his own tongue coz den he will not be able to woof.”

My car is stationery. The rubber wheels are parked on the concrete. My car jiggles as the occupants giggle.

“Can can, can you do the can can, if you can then I can,” he sings as he spins, interspersed with Pokemon noises, a surreal combination at the best of times.

I find it more difficult than usual to concentrate.

Whilst I have long been a fan of dear Ludwig, this modern version can be intensely annoying after a few hours. I hope that this “perseveration” will make him oblivious, as we have company.

The play date victim is a sweet natured, tolerant, typically developing girl.

The girls play.

The boys spin.

This faultless visitor has one minor idiosyncrasy that is of minute concern. Every sentence she utters is accompanied by the phrase 'Ohmygod.' I know that it is the verbal equivalent of 'er,' 'um' or 'actually,' but it is disconcerting for elderly foreigners who are set in their ways, such as myself.

After her last visit, it took a great deal of time to stop the boys from adding this ‘word’ to their vocabulary bank. Their version 'oh my gosh' sounds distinctly fake, but in a pool of fake, one more drop makes no difference, or so I like to think.

All too often, like Pavlov and his pooches, we make associations, one thing becomes inextricably linked with another. You smell freshly baked bread and you suddenly feel hungry. Your cell phone rings and you immediately answer it, even though you are conducting a conversation with another real human being, face to face. You see blood, you feel faint. You see Dad on the driveway, you say “hello Dad.” You see Jane on the playground, you say “hello Omygod.”

In the 95 degree heat, I need clothes of gossamer but slightly less revealing. I set the thermostat to 80 in the family room and leave the rest of the house to roast. For two pins I'd abandon the 'you must remain dressed at all times' campaign, but we must maintain standards, or rather, I must. It would never do to be starkers in my own home, as that isn't the kind of modeling I'm cut out for. After 12 years in the country, I admit that I need to go on the 'how your air conditioning works' course. I squirt myself with a water bottle and pay attention.

My youngest son, “Mr. 17 foods,” is experimenting with different cereals. He has also spent the last few days quoting huge chunks of “Green Eggs and Ham.” I am uncertain whether there is a connection or not? I am confident that his consumption of ham or eggs of any hue, are still many light years away.

His older brother is closeted in the bathroom. His little brother approaches the bathroom bearing one Alpha-bit in a perfect pincher grip. There is a very large Cheshire Cat grin pinned to his countenance and his eyebrows flicker like Grocho Marx.

“Hello der!” he beams. “Would you like to try one?” He waves the Alpha-bit before his brother's face. This would be a particularly nauseous kind of sugary pap, with no discernible nutritional value whatsoever.
“I'm busy! Get out man.” My ‘non-verbal’ 8 year old has been transformed. He sits on the toilet defending his privacy, now that acknowledges that he needs some, privacy that is to say. I have yet to adjust to his new speech. I am unfamiliar with many of the hip phrases that he trots out with ease. I need to research who he is keeping company with? Where has he learned all these easy pat phrases from? Why has his mid-Atlantic accent turned all hip hop? I need to attend a hip hop crash course for fossils.

“Try one, you will like it, you will see!” His voice is light, enticing, a tease.
“No way. Go away man. Can’t yur see I’m busy!” Usually it is all of us trying to persuade him to eat. It is so bizarre to watch him try and be the persuader.
“Try it, try it and you will see!”
“Oh man! What is wrong with you! What kinda crazy talk are yah doin?”

He skips, hops and dances before his trapped brother like a marionette on speed.
“Would you like it here or dere?” he fizzles and extends his body, slow motion, into an exaggerated sign post in the direction of the table.
“You are crazy man! Give me a break dude.” I am inclined to concur. This scene is entirely the wrong way around.

The girls appear just as the trapee is making his escape from the tiny bathroom. His little brother is like a darting mosquito, taunting his victim as he hovers and flits, still clutching the single Alpha-bit. The girls giggle, both boys become aware that they have an audience. He grabs a second Alpha-bit in the other hand. Both arms wave around, “would you like dem in a house? Would you like dem wiv a mouse?” The girls giggle. He continues, relentless, without mercy, spurred on by the girls.
“Can you stop with the “motor mouth” already!” He slaps his forehead in exasperation, “o.k. den!” His tormentor pops one Alpha-bit into the open mouth and one into his own mouth. Both boys shriek, but for different reasons. Both girls shriek in surprise. Everyone blinks at the same time to chorus 'ohmygod!' for many different reasons.

So this, my fine friends, is what we in the trade, mean by negative reinforcement.

I feel like a pedestrian in the middle of dodgem cars.
“I can hear my own bones!” he splutters and stretches like an athlete.

The other one bellows, “In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!” My mantra singer. This is interspersed with the many lines of Dr.Seuss that he has committed to memory, especially the Green Eggs and Ham volume. Whilst I dither whether on not to buy ear protectors for either or both of the boys, it occurs to me that I may be in greater need myself, as the ear plugs just aren't up to the job any more.

Motor mouth continues relentlessly. His big brother complains, “you are just so annoying. You are so loud. You're driving me crazy with all your “motor mouth talk.” Mom, he's bothering me.” This stream of words seems to be a replacement for pouncing and throttling the breath out of him. I consider this to be an all round improvement all round, in a carousel kind of a way. “Red alert, red alert, red alert,” chortles the little one. “Mom, he's driving me crazy!”

“I know dear, I'll just finish making the sandwiches and then we can fill up his mouth with bread.” I do a double take. Did I really say that out loud? “I mean I'll find his vibrating spoon in a minute.” My son looks at me with wonky eye brows, deliberates a while and then announces, “don't worry mom, I'm gonna deal with him for you,” and marches to towards the family room, the source of the incessant chatter. I drop the knife in the sink and hare on after him.

They stand face to face, much too close, nostrils flaring.
“Listen here you!”
“Red alert, red alert, red alert.”
“Why do you keep saying that? You are so annoying!”
“In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!”
“Can you just shut up already!”
“Red alert, red alert, red alert.”
“I've had enough of you for one day. You've been doing this all morning! Right!” He marches back into the kitchen, opens the correct drawer, rummages around in the back and whips out the vibrating spoon. Seconds later, in a smooth and seamless transition, he presents himself to his tormentor. “Here motor mouth, stick this in and chew it!”
“Eeow, that's gross, eeow, that's gross, eeow, that's gross.” He summits nonetheless.

We wait. Soon, all we can hear is the buzz of the spoon and the purr of the air conditioning. A cool breeze sweeps through the house and peace reigns for a few moments.

And in my other “life”…….

[Pre-holiday]

We drive home after school.
“I love bananas. I love bananas. I love bananas,” he chants in the seat directly behind mine.  This is his latest quote.  He has quoted it continuously for the last 16 minutes, the minutes, short ones, that it has taken us to get from his class room door , to the car.  At least it is truthful, as bananas are one of his seventeen foods.  [translation = neophobic.]
“Are we going to my playdate?” she shouts over the din.
“Are we going to my playdate?” echoes her other brother.  She sits between the two of them, sandwiched.
“I love bananas. I love bananas. I love bananas,” he continues.
“Mom, can you make him shut up, I can’t think straight!”
“Think straight!” echoes the other.
“MOM!” she bellows, “DO SOMETHING!”
“DO SOMETHING!” he echoes.
I focus on driving safely from point A to point B.  [translation = and people moan about cell phone users!]
He changes his tune without warning or preamble, “ oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!  oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Déjà vu!” echoes the other one.
“What is wrong with you two!  Are you bein ghosts or summat!”  I silently decide that my psyche is happier with the ‘banana’ ditty, but I say nothing as I  pull up to the lights.  We idle at the traffic stop.   [translation = traffic lights on red]  A car is next to us, all stars and stripes.  [translation = patriotic]  I debate whether turning the radio on will make things better or worse?  [translation = louder or quieter]
“Oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!  oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Déjà vu!” repeats his brother.
“Stop it already!” she screams at one.
“Already,” he repeats, so she gives him the same treatment, with no discernible impact.
“Nearly home dear, not for much longer now.”
“Longer now.” I hear my own voice and tone waft back at me.
“Tell me about your day, dear, just try and shut it out, ignore it, let it drift over you.”
“Over you.”
“Oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!  oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Er, we had, we had assembly,” she struggles to remain focused, tuned in but shut out.
“Great!  What happened?  Any awards?”
“Oooo wooo, déjà vu! oooo wooo, déjà vu!  oooo wooo, déjà vu!”
“Déjà vu!” repeats his brother.
“We er, sang songs, Star Spangled Banner and er…..a couple of other ones.”
“I actually know that one.  We had to learn it for our Citizen’s Exam.  Shall we sing it now, together, loudly?”
We sing together as the lights turn to green.  I sincerely hope that my mother never overhears such treason on my part.  [translation = she’ll put me up for adoption]
“There we go dear, thanks for singing with me.  Certainly did the trick don’t you think?” I ask rhetorically.  “You know I always muddle those two, the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful,” I add for no particular reason.
We pull into the driveway to park.  As I open the doors, Junior springs from the car singing  “America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!”
His brother falls out of the car after him, several stanza’s and steps behind him, “shining sea!”
How on earth am I going to fade this before we fly back to the UK?  Will two weeks be enough?  I debate whether a long distance phone call to remind my mother of the meaning of perseveration and echolalia, might assist?  The thought of talking to my mother on the phone on this topic, whilst my son sings in the background, is enough to help me decide against it.  I do not wish to have a discussion about his “American accent,” frightful or otherwise.    I couldn’t care what kind of an accent he has, now that he has words at all.

*”Jerusalem” is a patriotic song sung in England.  It is approximately the ‘same’ in tenor, and isn’t the ‘God Save the Queen.’
Jerusalem

Written by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green
And was the holy lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen

And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills
And was Jerusalem builded there
Among those dark Satanic mills

Bring me my bow (my bow) of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
Bring me my spears o’clouds unfold
Bring me my chariot of fire

I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my (my) sword sleep in hand
‘Til we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land
‘Til we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land