Whitterer on Autism

16 ounce tub of Cream Cheese at room temperature
6 ounces of Graham crackers crushed
4 ounces of butter [salted]
16 ounces of milk chocolate

Method:-
Melt the chocolate
Melt the butter stir into the chocolate
Add the cream cheese and stir
Tip in the cracker crumbs and stir
Pour into an old ice cube tray lined with cling film / saran wrap.
Chill until cold
Turn out onto a plate and pull off the plastic.
Slice no wider than your pinky finger.

This is a chef’s original. It was supposed to be chocolate cheesecake but when I checked, we only had half the ingredients. Then I thought…..chocolate, crumbs, butter, cream cheese………… how bad can it be?
Yes he was completely speechless at first bite, but the victory dance that followed said it all.

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.

Today I am also over “here” at “5 Minutes for Special Needs Mums.”

I sometimes think that I missed my calling as an air traffic controller. So many of the campaigns around here are premised on the scaffolding of visual aids. They used to be mainly PEC’s, writ large but these days anything goes.

Not so long back I would send my little darlings to school with a whole collection of aide memoires, dangling from their back backs. From the Incredible 5 Point scale, to talismen, many and various, as well as other clues to help them cope. I do believe that they looked like Christmas trees out of season, all the year round. They needed them to be physically available, as visual and tactile work well together for some children, especially mine.

It’s all about helping them to express themselves, sometimes in a socially acceptable manner but now they all talk, they have trouble taking turns with their announcements and questions. Currently, they believe that the best way to get results is to shout. They have naturally adopted the ‘squeaky wheel’ policy, figured it out for themselves, with ear splitting results. It seems to be a case of ‘he who yells loudest’ will ping mum into action. Thus far, it’s working rather well as I dart around fulfilling the latest request.

However, I plan to retire from my post as ‘short order commando cook’ and implement yet another new campaign, roughly along the lines of ‘how to take turns.’ I have yet to polish off the details.

I either need to print all the rules on a serviceable T-shirt and adopt it as my new uniform or alternatively make up a sandwich board to include the never ending list of ‘how to’s’, reminders and cues.

Pop on over and enter your “name” for a thoroughly free review of your blog.

In my next life I’m coming back as a sheepdog as I already have fabulous herding instincts.

Lastly, coming soonishly = lucky numbers.

Any requests?

Cheers dears

For the longest time imaginable, we have been trying to extract reciprocal conversations with our boys. We started off small, but gradually as they grew and learned, more has been forthcoming. I can still remember the ‘game’ that we invented. Coloured paper coins had different letters on them:-
Q for question
S for statement
C for comment
P for praise
We gave them each half a dozen. They had to use them all up before they were permitted to escape. Escape was the reinforcing positive reward. Oh how stilted it all was. Oh how frustrating. Oh how many times I had to cut out more coins as they were crushed, screwed up and hurled.

They grasped the basics. They knew what was expected but it was hard. It was difficult. It was unrewarding for them, just one more chore to add to the never ending list. It’s only redeeming feature was that it was finite, the end was always in sight, completion and gone.

It’s been a long time a’coming but every so often I get the chance to sit back, feet up and listen to little unprompted chats.

“So whya cats better than dogs then?” she asks him at the dinner table as he hunkers in close proximity to his untouched meal.
“Coz dey are man’s best friend.”
“No, that’s dogs yah dipstick.”
“Oh man yah kill me.”
“What else?”
“Cats are meow.”
“Dogs bark louder.”
“Oh man yah kill me.”
“What else?”
“Cats run fast.”
“Dogs run faster.”
“Oh man yah kill me.”
On and on they go, again and again and again as the spaghetti congeals on the plate. How else could it possibly be? It’s not as if you should eat and talk at the same time, how rude would that be?

At bedtime my children exchange squawlks from their different rooms. My daughter prances back into their room dressed from head to foot in blue, for no apparent reason. Her youngest brother ignores everything as he reads his Garfield comic books, as the other two set to.
“Why you are blue now?”
“No reason. Night shortie.”
“Why you are call me shortie?”
“Coz you’re short, shorter than me.”
“Oright, night tallie.”
“Thanks.”
“You like tallie?”
“Sure. You’re gonna have to try a lot harder in the insult department shortie.”
“Oright. Night bluey.”
“Thanks.”
“You like bluey?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?’
“Oright then. Night butt head!”
He, who has not been listening, erupts from his bed, casts Garfield aside and launches into siren mode, “alert, alert, alert, inappropriate speech pattern, inappropriate speech pattern, inappropriate speech pattern!”

No doubt, another restful and blissful night awaits.

We are nocturnal, again. I trundle through days and nights with attrition, neither asleep nor awake, merely treading water as I wait for the phase to pass. I adopt my own coping mechanism, a constant stream of espresso interspersed with pots of tea, as there’s nothing like a full bladder to keep you on your mark. Bloated but vertical, will just have to do.

As I wait outside the classroom with my youngest son for the others to join us, I am reminded of the steady stenographer. She would sit in the courtroom with her neatly crossed ankles below her tidy legs, encased in a pencil skirt, nursing a soft little pot belly of womanhood on her lap. Still as a statue, palms down. The only movement came from her curved fingers as the tips followed the words of all the parties present. Her neutral face was calm, open and expressionless.

I pay my son no heed as he is huge and eight and discretely inappropriate and waiting is always tough. He nestles into my body, not so much from the cold but for protection from other more ethereal attacks. His moans are sotto voce, the suppression expression of the frustration of waiting, whilst his fingers tap my tummy.
“It doesn’t hurt to me!” he bellows at 50 decibels as volume control is work in progress. All around the school yard, faces turn towards us with one accord on cue. Maybe a hundred pairs of black bee sunglasses stare blankly through the watery piercing sunlight, in the chill of the afternoon.
“Oh good. It doesn’t hurt me either dear.”
“Mom?” he continues.
“Yes dear?”
“Are yah fat or pregnant?”

More magic, than marker

Hosted by “Tracy” at “Mother May I,” but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

During the course of the holidays, my children discover how to parachute, or more accurately, test which toys can fly and those which cannot.

This is scientifically tested from the top of the stairs where the toys are hurled into the air, bounce off the ceiling and crash down on innocent victims below. It proves to be thoroughly hilarious entertainment for a good half hour. On conclusion of the half hour, they realize a serious flaw in the game plan, namely, the ten foot Christmas tree in the flight path. After a quick check, several items appear to be adrift, including a highly prized DS game, a one inch, thin, grey, plastic square. The meltdown that ensures is more or less inevitable. Whilst it would be perfectly possible to disassemble a 10 foot Christmas tree to hunt for the treasure, with my current responsibilities I am both unable and unwilling to compromise in this manner.

This more or less guarantees an hour of perseverating angst every day, first thing in the morning. The daily dose of angst almost persuades me to comply, but the time simply isn’t available. Arguably, an hour spent sequencing my son through the series of events that led up to this disaster would be better spent hunting through the needles, with hindsight, but I lack the energy.

Sadly, my efficiency levels are so low that we fail to take down the Christmas tree and other decorations on Twelfth Night. However, we are prompted into action with the dawning of the recycling visitation, which promises to arrive on Tuesday. With the children back at school on Monday, my elder daughter, Nonna and I take on the task in shifts. We each work independently in different parts of the house in an attempt to remove every trace prior to the end of the school day. Although the boys are generally oblivious to the décor, for some reason the strip down phase causes no end of grief and anxiety. Far better to remove all evidence in one fell swoop, the swift, slight of hand of magicians.

As I lift, roll and stash each decoration, my mind is free to reflect. Thatcher’s arrival has made several significant impacts upon my children. Thatcher is at the chewing stage of puppy-hood, which means that just about everything is fair game. It’s a daily game. Anything on the ground becomes fodder. Anything on the sofa or other surfaces above ground, is off limits. We have a mounting pile of evidence or our mistakes:- shoes, books and toys. None of these things are of value or worth protecting. A few prized items are worth the effort:- Webkinz, Pokemons and electronics paraphanalia. I foresee that before too long, the whole household itinerary will have been culled in this manner.

After lunch I haul out the tree into the roadway ready for collection, leaving a trail of green, prickly needles. The needle sweep up is also time consuming, several sack loads end up stacked next to the other debris and recycling materials. This leaves me just enough time to walk Thatcher before the school run.

Thatcher is keen to mark the dead tree. I am equally as keen that his offering should be elsewhere. Tree collection is hazardous enough an occupation without the added contributions of every household pet in the street. I distract and entertain as we lollop along the road with each house displaying still further green temptations.

As we reach the end of our circuit I see the huge recycling trucks approach the house. Thatcher is not keen on large noisy things. I hover, uncertain whether to continue his exposure or let him off the hook after 69 minutes of traffic? He cowers at my ankles, tail between his legs as we near the house. Suddenly, he makes a mad dash for the tree, his muzzle buried deep in the pines. I wonder if he has found a stray Christmas decoration, a choking hazard. On the command to drop, he does so without a qualm. There on the black rough tarmac is a small, thin, grey plastic square.

I wonder if plastic smells? I wonder if the plastic smells of my son?

I wait until completion of the school run, and the shock waves of despair at our denuded home to subside. I wait until the ebb tide, when spirits are low but even.
“Hey guys?” No-one has any interested in any more words, their daily allowance fully expended after a strenuous first day back at school.
“Guess what I found today?”
Floppy people display disinterest, their body language says it all.
“Guess what…..Thatcher found today?”
Bleary eyes blink with just the tiniest hint of something approximating interest.
“Look!” I hold up the tiny, grey, one inch square between thumb and forefinger with a white contrast wall behind. Gasps of genuine delight, amazement and joy chorus from every corner of the room.
“Did he really find it Mom? Where did he find it?”
“Fatcher found it?”
“Fatcher is being dah….………twuly……….. awesome one!”

Autism comes in many forms and affects everyone differently. One aspect is the volume of speech, if and when “speech” is available.

My younger son is loud when he speaks words and loud when he stims. The only time he is not loud is when echolalia takes over, in which case his volume matches what he has heard and repeats. Recently, he has learned the concept of whispering, the concept only, while he practices the practice. The effort involved is quite extraordinary and takes a great deal of heavy breathing and body contortions, but as yet, to very little effect.

My older son is generally inaudible, sotto voce. Sometimes he starts off well but the end of his sentence withers, until it peters out.

The arrival of our new pet makes for some very interesting developments. Everyone is keen to communicate with Thatcher, the dog, mainly by barking. This logic is lost on the dog. To date, Thatcher has not uttered a single note, barring the odd whimper, a dose of severe hic-cups and a squeal of surprise when he crossed paths with a cat.

Most of the commands for dog training are simple, sometimes with accompanying hand gestures. In principle, all of us should use the same words and gestures. Remarkably, everyone is willing to try, and try, and try again, many, many times without so much as a minor meltdown in the face of continued failure and frustration.

The squeaks, screams and squeals from my son frighten Thatcher. Suddenly my son begins to learn consequences for behaviour that has been unable to control. He doesn’t want to frighten Thatcher. He sees him cower and shiver. He now appreciates the causal affect. Previously he has been oblivious or possibly merely unmotivated.

Meanwhile the sainted Thatcher puts up with us, his new family. I suspect that some time soon the Humane Society will come to call. Since neither child is able to “pronounce” the digraph “th,” Thatcher is the only dog in America to be repeatedly spat upon, as the boys struggle with uncooperative tongues. Fortunately, Thatcher is not similarly limited. His tongue just laps it all up.

With the festive season over, you may find like me, that your home has been transformed into Santa’s Grotto, toys strewn over every available surface. If that is the case, then it might see a little odd to create yet more mayhem, but occasionally it is sometimes best to admit defeat and go with the flow.

You will need:-
Felt squares
Glue
Sharpie Permanent pens
A picture from your offspring
The temporary loan of your offspring’s finger

Examine the creature that your child has drawn to determine which, if any, are the most important features.

Match the colours as best you may.

Draw around your child’s finger tip splayed on a firm surface to ensure a good fit.

Allow space for 3-D and seam.

Once completed and the glue has dried your child now has a custom made introduction to the Thumb Wrestling Federation.

I kid you not.

This project was for one of my sons, that one who does not suffer from tactile defensiveness. Generally speaking, crafts of any kind do not interest either of them. In this particular instance, he was motivated by the “Thumb Wrestling Federation.” He came up with this idea all by himself. He was so motivated that after a few initial outburst of frustration he understood that his describing words were not up to the task, hence, oh wonder of wonders, he was persuaded to draw and colour the image rattling around in his head. This project required several gallons of patience because I knew that his drawing wasn’t an exact match to what he envisioned. Perfection is king around here and hence he was able to verbally correct my errors, bigger, smaller, longer and so on.

All in all, he was satisfied with the results.

On completion he was ready, willing and able to commence “thumb wrestling.” Whilst this might seem a little aggressive, for people with poor hand strength, weak finger isolation and poor motor control, I suspect we need not be overly worried. More importantly, this is a perfectly pleasant way of personal and intimate interaction. Who would have thought that he’d come up with his own social skills exercise. Yippee!

We all begin to adjust to our “new arrival” in our own individual ways. In the aftermath of the festive season there is a more than usual amount of messiness around. I warn everyone that things left about are likely to be chewed, or if they’re very unlucky, eaten. As usual, no-one pays any heed. I list a lengthy record of similar occurrences that they have each directly experienced with other people’s dogs in the recent and not so recent past. My list and the repeats of my list, sound like my own silent solo. A scratched record.

I prepare mentally for the first casualty. Which child victim? Which precious toy? I don’t need to wait long.

I gallop at the first scream of agony.

In the family room I find my son knelt on the floor before the dog with his hands under his muzzle, “dwop it “Fatcher!”
“Use a firm voice dear,” I encourage.
“Dwop it Fatcher!”
“Maybe he doesn’t recognise his name? You could try the ‘th‘ sound?”
“Dwop it f f th thatcher!”

Thatcher reluctantly drops the package of sharp plastic corners, part of a prized Christmas present. He slips the packet into the back of his pyjama bottoms, out of sight, so that both hands are free to pet and praise the dog for his amazing feat of obedience. Perfectly sequenced steps. Seamless ideation. We chorus good dog. My son chortles deliciously as Thatcher licks his ears and neck. He expresses no concern or anger at the ruined toy.

Lesson learned.

“He dun bin choke on dat bad fing!”

His sole concern is the welfare of the dog.

Several lessons learned.

Below is a picture of yet more advanced social skills. My son and Thatcher curl up for a cat nap, which may not be of any great significance. Only the real baby sleeps. However, if I also consider the fact that this is 15 minutes into the sacred ‘electronics’ time, half way through his precious half an hour, then this would seem infinitely preferable and maybe a teeny tiny bit admirable, but there, I’m letting my bias show.

As his little brother said:-

“Finally! Someone who likes fire hydrants as much as me.”

It’s probably a Garfield quote.

Don’t forget to nip along and say ‘hi de ho’ to “Michelle’s” family over at “Full Soul Ahead,” and see if you might be able to “help out” with her post called “A Service Dog For Riley.”

Autism with speech delay can be a source of great frustration and annoyance, primarily for the speaker.

So many words are difficult to pronounce that an approximation becomes the norm until musculature matures with practice and time. If it wasn’t already annoying enough to deal with such daily challenges, every so often someone arbitrarily changes the rules. For instance, there is one particular word, one of many, that causes no end of angst, namely ‘evening.’ We know what evening means. We have a vague notion about when it occurs but it is virtually impossible to pronounce. We have learned to accept that for the time being ‘ eve nin,’ is more than good enough.

But once a year during the month of December, some foolish people refer to a particular reference point, namely ‘Christmas Eve.’ ‘Christmas’ we get, but ‘eve,’ although easier to say, is a shackle, one that causes no end of frustration. It falls into a category of many other words, words that are more than two syllables and familiar. If you are used to saying ‘Massachusetts’ with ease and flair, it is very difficult to stop yourself from pronouncing the last syllable, as suddenly the last syllable is surplus to requirements. You should try it some time if you doubt me, Massachu hold your ‘setts,’ Mississip and hold the ‘pi,’ the Marquis of Queensbur and hold the ‘y.’ It’s so grossly unfair. For some reason our brains and tongues refuse to stop, as the last sound is irresistible. Hence we experience a great deal of pain with the word ‘eve’ which keeps running into ‘eve nin’ or pops out as ‘eva’ when the brakes are rammed on really hard.

For current purposes we shall gloss over the competing issue, the time bomb, that declares that a whole day cannot be an ‘eve.’

As Christmas Eve approaches, I think it would be aesthetically pleasing to lie. To explain that my darling son came to me on that precious night, as the candles flicker in the warmth of twilight, to articulate the word ‘eve’ into my shell like ear, a gift like none other and we all lived happily ever after…….or some such nonsense. The truth however, is far less neat and tidy. This time next year, or maybe the year after, I’m confident that he will continue to grow and these difficulties will lessen, but for the time being we are left with the current exchange rate, daily, that goes a bit like this:-

“Ooo I am love!”
“Yes I know you love Christmas dear.”
“When is Eva…..? Shucks darnit!”
“Lets look at the chart together and you can tick off another day.”

Quite soon Eva will be gone from his repetoire. I think I almost miss her already.