“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

Back in the good old days of yore, children played doctors and nurses. More often than not, the boys would be the doctors and the girls would be nurses. [translation = unless you were a big sister] The doctors would examine the victim, determine symptoms and then chop things off. Nurses were left to stitch up holes, apply bandages with non safety safety pins and then clean up the mess.

It is my contention that there are really only two types of people in the world, namely nurses and non nurses. Nurses are caring, sharing, kindly types where nothing is too much trouble. Non-nursing types get annoyed about the bodies messing up the family room. I mean, if you're ill, you go to bed to get better. [translation = so much tidier] If you're ill, you do not drip around the house getting in everyone's way. Illness should always be invisible or failing that, upstairs in bed, where one can be visited and tended too are regular intervals.

Although I am a picture of health myself, if I were ever unfortunate enough to be otherwise, I would do the decent thing and excuse myself. I fail to understand why this should be such a difficult concept to grasp. Ill = bed. I am aware that in these modern times, patients are encouraged to leave their beds and walk about a bit, keep everything moving as it were. [translation = empty the bed at the hospital, fast turn over and minimum insurance costs] But in the home environment for minor ailments, it is quite a different story. You need the patient static and out of the way, together with all their paraphanalia. [translation = used tissues, reading materials and bottles of over the counter medicaments]

I'd like to lay claim to other factors such as the visual cue of being both physically present and noticeably ill. The body, static, is the cue for my boys. Their father is draped on the sofa which means that every time he comes onto their radar, it prompts a whole slew of questions, the same questions, that he is too ill to answer.

“He is ill he is dead?”
“Not dead dear, just ill, a little under the weather.”
“He is hospital he is cemetery?”
“Ill dear, remember, he'll be as right as rain before you know it.” He stands to get a clearer view of the horizontal adult and prods him in the center of the chest with one perfectly placed index finger. There is no movement, just a gentle snore.
“He is dead when are not breathing?”
“That's right, no breathing means dead.”
“Ah! He no breathing!”
“He IS breathing, listen he's snoring his head off.”
“Snoring is breathing?”

“Yes.”
“Oh. No cemetery?”
“Correct.”
“What kind of ill is he being?”
“Just a few sniffles.” My son sniffs, practicing.
“Sniff is ill? Sniff is dead? I am being dead too?” This conversation, the same conversation, more or less, is beginning to spiral. We have had this conversation several times within the last hour. The intervals between this cyclical conversation are shorter. I step closer towards my son, “he's just a little off colour, nothing to worry about dear.” He looks at me with obvious distrust. I know that I'm missing something, but I'm not sure exactly what? For the moment, I don't know the cause but it will hopefully become clearer given time.

Since the children are on the floor, their Dad's bulk is in their sight line. If he were silent, he might be invisible, but the snoring keeps hyper-vigilant, sound sensitive people on their guard. For this moment, I decide that my inert husband is both a visual and aural mental health hazard and scoot him up to bed. This is the band-aid approach to the issue, until a more permanent solution can be determined. [translation = tidy but not "OCD"]

How would you advise a middle aged woman to dress for a day out, to a family friendly, outdoor, public event ? I'll make a suggestion and you tell me if I am right? Comfortable jeans, sludge coloured to disguise the stains that will be acquired during the 6 hour trip. Cotton socks and comfortable trainers. [translation = sneakers?] Short sleeved T-shirt to avoid the embarrassment of string straps leaving the shoulders and “exposing” more “flesh” than might be wise, even though the climate is warm. An open in the front, light cardigan for those air conditioned tents. Have I missed anything? Maybe a neon baseball cap to make myself more easily identifiable in a crowd. The underlying theme here, is comfort rather than fashion. What do you think? Will I do?

I thought I would do, but I didn't, 'do' that is to say. I had forgotten a few things. The first thing that I had forgotten, was that my boys' fine motor skills are now so advanced that they can undo “zips.” [translation = graduated with flying colours] My light cardigan has a zipper and two more zipper pockets, in the front. As we queued [translation = lined?] my boys discovered the zips and demonstrated their mastery of this new skill for twenty minutes. [translation = with matching sound effects, towit, 'zip, zip, zip.] There again, I accidentally transformed myself into a form of entertainment, which is no bad thing when waiting is on the cards. Fortunately, there were three of them, zips that is to say, so there were more than enough zips to go around. [translation = simultaneous sharing skills were avoided]

Whilst I would be the first to admit that my mother is right [translation = my arms are two inches too long, to be in proportion to the rest of me] this current habit is only making my bodily defect worse. I don't know quite how to describe this trend of hanging, [jelly legs] off each of my arms, to drag me down, now that they are 65 and 48 lbs respectively, but there again, that doesn't relate to clothing, unless I'm foolish enough to wear long sleeves. But I digress.

The other unexpected quality of this garment, was that it was cuddly and “soft.” Two pairs of hands greatly appreciated this facet, such that I spent the remainder of the time being stroked, pummeled and kneaded, a bit like cats when they're getting themselves comfortable. [translation = "bread making"] But at least it kept them in place. What if I had made the mistake of wearing my other one, the one that feels like sand paper! I would have made myself a pariah and they'd have run away. Anyway, it was probably the nearest thing I'll get to a massage in the next decade, and it was free.

I do worry slightly as hands flurry over my chests in a public forum, not an attribute to be encouraged, but I notice that spouse gets the same treatment in confirmation of their anti sex “discrimination” policy.

I also forgot that jeans have pockets. I have yet to evaluate accurately which is more of an impediment to ambulation: a small pair of hairs in your back pockets or a small pair of hands in your front pockets? There again, I was indeed fortunate to only have one pair of additional hands at any one time. It's easy to see how front pockets help when you're trying to walk in time with your mother, your feet on hers with the pockets for balance and a firm purchase point. The white trainers were a mistake of course, but not a fatal one.

I'm seriously toying with the idea of throwing away all my T-shirt and replacing them with the modern skin tight version. It's not so much to update my image, more a means of prevention. If there's only enough room for my skin beneath the fabric, this might prove a deterrent to people sticking their heads in there, for fear of suffocation. I am gradually adjusting to the raspberry noises that they make on my skin on contact, therein proof positive of lip closure. This development has meant that the general public give me a wide berth, in the mistaken belief that I am flatulent person.

So as you can see, my wardrobe and fashion sense may be dire, but other people are making great strides in all kinds of “unlikely” directions.

I stagger back from the doctor's office where spouse is holding the fort. “So do you think we should explain to them why you're malfunctioning?”
“Malfunctioning! I'm just ill, that's all. I'll be as right as rain once the anti-biotics kick in.”
“That wouldn't be a very helpful explanation to them though, would it? You'd get yourself in no end of trouble explaining it like that, you'll need to re-phrase it.”
“Yes, you're right. Keep it simple. Any ideas?”
“You're always better at explaining than I am.”
“Oh, I don't know.”
Spouse gathers the troops so that I can preserve oxygen. I explain with a big smile on my face. I await questions, hoping that there won't be any………………….

“Why it is new? Why it not old?” sparks the literal one.
“Not 'new' dear, it's pneu – here let me write it down for you.”
“Pneu! That is the stoopid one. Silent 'n's are in 'gnat' and 'gnaw' and oh! That's right! You are not the bad one afterall. 'Pneu' is in 'pneumatic' too. You are not the big fat lying one! I am forgiving your stoopids.”
In confirmation he darts behind me, lifts my shirt to plant a kiss of compensation in the small of my back.

“You are ill? You are dead?” queries the anxious one.
“No, I'm not dead dear, just ill.”
“Not dead?”
“No. Not dead.”
“When you are dead den?”
His sister intervenes as I become short of breath,
“Remember, nobody dies until they're at least 90 and that's ages away.” What can I say? Ninety seemed like a good compromise at the time.
“19! 19? 19! iz not a big number. 19 is a small number. I hate it, it's bad, I don won you to be deaded.”
“Not 19, 90 you stewpid head, why don't you ever listen properly,” she bellows because this conversation seems to be upsetting for everyone.
I put one arm around her and pull her in close even though I should probably correct her.

“Now listen! Do you remember the blue tape?” I point the kitchen cabinet where handy reference photographs accumulate. It depicts the conclusion to this same debate six months ago when we experienced difficulties with ‘time and death.’
Since it is a recurring theme, I thought it best to keep handy.
It shows blue masking tape running from the kitchen to the stairs,
marked with numerals from 0 to 99.
It is a magic visual cure for this particular anxiety,
or at least it is for now.

Sometimes you just wish you'd never
started in the first place.
Maybe I should have avoided this whole
quagmire and stuck with 'malfunctioning.’

I dither for longer than is strictly necessary. I opt for the scrubbing brush rather than the carpet cleaner because it is quieter. I take one last look at them all before I leg it upstairs to the bedroom to eliminate, or at least diminish the paint, pooh, chocolate stains. These are not the kind of stains that improve or evaporate over time. Without the noisy carpet cleaner, I can hear whatever it is, that is happening downstairs whilst I am up because the walls and floor are made of paper. The friction of the brush bristles elicts beads of sweat. Inefficiency, housemaids knee and tennis elbow delay me. I return breathless seven minutes later.

They have broken the lock on the television and are occupied watching an advertisement. I lean against the door jam making an inventory of potential breakages and damage, during their unsupervised time.

I hear a nasal demand to 'buy whilst stocks last,' that two small people echo with perfection. My eyes drift to the screen; a handy dandy cleaning machine, that does not require parental or adult supervision during it's working cycle. I wait for a price but I'm distracted by the mantra circling the room, 'buy now while stocks last, buy now while stocks last, buy now while stocks last.' Each echo has a corresponding giggle. I am uncertain which bit is the funny bit?

It's enough to make me seriously consider nipping out to the shops to buy it there and then. Am I an advertisers dream or a challenged cleaner? I debate whether the shoe and sock nightmare is worth the effort, when the voice of doom cuts through my calculations, “you can't buy it, it will be too noisy, they'll never stand for it, you'll never be able to actually use it!” I look at my 9 year old daughter, the voice of sanity.

I grab a screwdriver and start poking the lock on the television door as junior starts up, “we go buy dah machine for dah cleaning?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Er, it costs too many dollars,” I lie. He disappears and I hear a crash with an accompanying ‘oopsie.’ He reappears with something behind his back, a surprise no doubt. “Here you go!” he announces brandishing the dust-buster in my direction with a cheesy grin, “you can be using dis little noo noo instead.” Great problem solving, such consideration! “Der you go, now you can go and be playing upstairs wiv it where it won’t be hurting my ears.”

She exhales and runs her fingers through her hair with exasperation as my son scampers off after another brief exchange. The current campaign is to reinforce every attempt at verbalizing. [translation = amongst other campaigns] At this stage, I do not correct as often as I will in the future. [translation = if all goes according to plan] For the moment we want those words to keep coming and the main method to ensure this is to 'engage and exchange' on each and every occasion that they make an attempt. [translation = interruptions are permitted regardless of what conversation you might be interrupting] I apologise to my pal who has yet to complete a sentence of her own. [translation = boys are winning the race of 'how many words per half hour,' although they have the advantage, because there are two of them and only one of her] I apologise for administering to them and ignoring her. [translation = she won't come again]

“Oh I just don't know how you do it?” she sighs. I double check? Synapses snap and I connect.
“I have no choice at the moment. I don't do it to help them, I do it to save money!” [translation = Scottish genes]
“Oh don't joke!”
“No seriously. What's the point in paying a professional once a week if you don't practice the rest of the week? [Translation = the other 112 waking hours] I am merely protecting my investment of hard cash, making sure that it grows. [translation = preferably compound interest]

“You're such a dumbass sometimes!” [translation = twit] In the family room I hear the echo, 'yur such a dumbass, 'yur such a dumbass, 'yur such a dumbass.”
“@#$&*! Did they just hear me?”
“Yes.” [translation = sort of. In this case it's echolalia, when they repeat {like a tape recorder} what they have heard even though they were not listening and are often completely engaged in something else, like setting off a sound sensor or motion detector]
“Geez I'm sorry! How long is gonna take you to undo that one?” [translation = remove less desirable phrases from their repetoire]
“Don't know, it may have just passed through, they don't always stick.” [translation = some favourite phrases become stuck because they like them so much. They become little mantras that won't be dislodged. Often then disappear for no apparent reason and are replaced by a newer more preferred phrase]

We both turn towards the family room to hear “@#$&*!,@#$&*!,@#$&*!” [translation = bloody hell!]

One of the many stumpers with autistic children, can be their tendency to take whatever is said or written, literally. It's only when you have a couple of autistic children in tow that you begin to realize just how many idioms we use in every day life. For me, this has only recently presented itself as a problem [translation = challenge] due to their speech delays. Before, I was lucky to have any response to anything spoken, now I am paralyzed into unraveling any number of common phrases instantaneously.

“I've been on my feet all day,” becomes a bone of contention – oops there's another one.
• “On your feet? You are on your feet? You can do hand stands instead?” Always so helpful!

• “Why don't you just put your feet up and rest for a while?”
“Up? Up? Put feet up where? The ceiling it is too high! I am da little guy.”

• “I'll be with you in just a minute.” O.k. there's no point in going into the time travel aspects of children's lives as they all suffer from that one.

• “No it's not a back pack because I wear it on my front.” That way it doesn't bump you and it's easier to get access to the contents, especially if zips are a challenge.

• “Just scrub your fingernails with a brush before dinner.”
“Why it finger 'nail?' Why nail? It is not a nail, it is soft and thin. Why brush? Brush is for hair, brush is for teef.” It makes you try to double check everything you say before you say it, but even then, more often than not you still get it wrong.

• “How many times do I have to tell you!”
“Tell me three times. Three is my favourite number.”

• “I'm not sick and tired of his singing because I'm not, not sick, but I am tired of his singing but not sick.”

• “I going to keep my eye on you.”
“Agh! I don't want it, keep it in your head, don't touch me wiv it.”

• “Of course you don't have to, just bare it in mind.”
“Bear! Bear? There is a bear in my head?”

The simplest of statements becomes a mine field; “not twelve eggs, half a dozen will do.”
“Which box is da doz? Why we no have da Baker’s dozen. Baker’s are my uvver favourite because 13 is having a 3 also!”

Am I complaining? Why would I complain? Three years ago I had two children who were diagnosed as non-verbal, amongst other things, now I have a couple of brain teasers to keep me on my toes. [translation = or should that be 'to keep me guessing?]

From a long time ago