OCD

Some of us will occasionally admit to a grain or two of OCD, but for some people, sometimes, it can be paralyzing.

On a lighter note, I noticed that parents such as myself, long for their non-verbal children to speak – when or if they eventually do, I still don’t understand them.

***

I find wads of sticky tape balled up and stuck to the wooden jam of the pocket door – nasty lethal finger choppers.

I seek out the culprit.

“Why is their sticky tape all over the door dear?”
“S’not sticky tape. It’s Scotch tape.”
“Right. So why is there Scotch tape all over the door?”
“S’not all over the door, s’jus a small ball.”
“Right…So…why is it there? Were you trying to lock the door?”
“Er…no.”
“It’s very important to tell the truth you know. The reason I don’t allow locked doors is…because of…er…um…earthquakes, right?”
“Right.”
“So why?”
“To stop my ears.”
“Stop your ears from what?”
“From the door jam bang.”

***

Although sometimes, I think he’s teasing me.

“Mom!”
“Yes dear?”
“All the peoples in dis program are ….calm…..mediums.”
“Are they? What is a calm medium?”
“Itsa…itsa…Ker…media.”
“Um…try again?”
“I know…they’re all Canadians!”
“Canadians? Are you sure?”
“Er…no… they’re all…?”
“Yes?”
“Comedians!”


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Cart me off to the funny farm

I take my BRAT's [*] to celebrate Nonna's unBirthday at Chilli's, a delightfully noisy and sticky establishment.

Both boys lack any muscle function and lie splayed on the empty benches. I park one on my lap and clamp the other to my side.

As they are now quite large children, I have the distinct impression that I resemble a Ventriloquist, but that's paranoia for you. A group of young persons giggle and whisper behind their hands, wrapped in the public eye of exposure and embarrassment in equal proportions. “Dey are be rude?” he enquires.
“Make a U-turn if possible!” bellows his brother, fortunately muffled by the bundle of fleece jackets tucked under my other arm.
“Not really, they're just at that stage.”
“Wot stage?”
“Make a U-turn if possible!”
“Try and use your indoor voice dear! Er the stage when…….you are the centre of the universe.”
“Wot?”
“Nevermind……they're not being rude, just……private.”
“You are say it rude to be whisper.”
“Make a U-turn if possible!”
“Quiet inside voice lovie. Er…..there's different kinds of whispering……ooo look the thingummy is buzzing, our table must be ready.” Perhaps we should all try and whisper?

Our party of five lumbers in the general direction of the table with only a few false starts and stumbles. Nonna fumbles for her glasses so I offer to read it aloud.

“Pardon! What you say?” she asks in her thick Italian accent. I detect that her hearing aides are also adrift.

The server appears for our drinks order. My eldest son makes a valiant attempt. I wait until she's left, “well done dear, very polite indeed. Next time shall we speak a bit louder so that she can hear you better in this noisy place?” He grins hugely, so grown up.

“What is dis?” asks Nonna pointing at a menu description. I guide her hand to the picture, “ah! I see.”

By the time the server returns, we have our choices ready, so does my youngest son who bellows “I want chocolate milk and fries please!” An extreme event for a neophobic! The server leans back from the blast but manages a smile.

Orders placed, server departed, I reach over to him, “great job young man! Maybe you can try and use your indoor voice next time?”
“You said louder..er….er……louder!”
“Yes I know I did. Louder for him, quieter for you.”
“You say no whisper!”
“I know but….” I am interrupted by the arrival of a group of servers at the next booth, who break into an even louder “happy birthday chorus.” Both the boys clamp their hands over their ears. My sons look at me, accusingly. They slip under the table to engage in their brand new interest, lumps of chewing gum. Ideally I should like them to sit on their hands. Alternatively, I would just like them to sit, preferably on the chairs.

The food arrives in a timely fashion. “What is dis?” asks Nonna tapping her country fried steak with her knife.
“Steak.”
“What you say?”
“It's steak,” I add, slightly louder with precise diction and enunciation.
“Pardon.”
“Country fried steak.”
“Again please, I can't hear you properly.”
“ S…t…e…a…k,” I spell.
“Pardon me, again?”
STEAK!” I yell, turning ever so slightly puce in the face. The boys look at me, eyes like saucers, frozen. I hear him whisper “she is mad?”

Maybe I am, or very soon will be.

[*] Beautifully Rambunctious Autistic Tribe
Rats to you Mr. Savage.

Here is another blog that’s newish to me that you might enjoy, “The Funny Farm.” Need somewhere to start? How about here on her post called
Love me some Bean,”
coz you know I’m a little biased. Don’t forget to say hello to her!

In addition, here’s another new favourite that’s really an old favourite before I lost all my bookmarks called “Send Chocolate.” If this IS new to you then you might like to start here on her insightful post called “What I learned.” If that’s not community spirited then I don’t know what is!

There again, I think I could do a lot worse that sign myself up for “Julie’s” “camp.” I wonder if they have a height limit?

What was that?

Age limit?

Ooo you big rudey!

Cheers dears


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Complementary abilities and word retrieval

I drive the boys home, a pal and my son, the very verbal and the not so much so.

A match made in heaven.

They are as different as chalk and cheese but they share the same label.

They have little in common yet they are a perfect foil for one another. Mine is a head taller yet a year younger, but I’m not really interested in chronology or inches. I watch them in the corner of the rear view mirror. My son examines the inside of his pal's ear, the one closest to him, both pal and ear, that is to say.

“Your ear……” he fizzles out.
“What about my ear?” he asks looking straight ahead. My son sticks his finger tip in his friend's ear, tentatively.
“Don't do that, you'll make me deaf and then I won't be able to hear ever again,” he responds factually, without reproach.
“Oh.”
“You know you should never put your fingers in your ears, it's bad to put your fingers in your ears, even if it's really noisy you should never put your fingers in your ears,” he explains with authority.
“Oh.”
“You see these bits? These bits of your “ear” here?”
“Dey are be calllllled 'lobes.'”
“Yeah, right. If you take your lobes and stuff em in your ear holes, that's dangerous too. It could stop you from hearing forever. You shouldn't do it o.k. or you'll go deaf.”
“Oh.”
“So don't do it right? Don't stick your fingers in your ears or you'll bust the bit inside and then you'll be deaf for ever and ever.”
“Dah inside is being dah 'drum.'”
“Yeah, that's right. So don't bust it.”
“Oh.”
“Do you know what else happens if you bust your ears?”
“No.”
“You'll fall over coz you'll break the balance bit in your ear.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, you have this thing in your ear, like when you spin round and round and it kindof makes you dizzy, you'll break that bit and then you'll fall over all the time.”
“Dat is be dah cochlea, curly. It be looks like a snail.”
“Yeah, like that guy next door in 4th Grade, he's got a cochlea implant.”

A car honks close by. Both boys cover their ears with their palms in the same instant and duck in unison.

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