My oldest son talks less frequently than some other children, but he does “talk.”

When he was younger than he is now, people often saw fit to remark upon his early attempts at communication in a less than complimentary manner. Stutters and stammerers are used to such treatment. The struggles of speech production are rarely appreciated, merely mocked. Initially I was ill equipped to either retaliate or educate. I took solace in the lonely thought that “I knew otherwise.” I knew that his instincts were “keen.”

Empowerment is an annoying but popular word. As a natural born wimp from birth, at some moment on the journey I decided to adopt this approach for my own children, not the wimpy but the empowering. I would learn to speak up, not be mealy mouthed, challenge and stand tall, but I’m still practicing.

***

I launch into a monologue of the glories of one of our cats. His attractive appearance, skittishness and howling yeowl. I wax lyrical of his charms, more dog like than cat, more intelligent and delightful than the average feline.

My son takes a step towards me to look me straight in the midriff.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“It’s not nice to have favourites.”

Some people learn better than others.

I abandon the little one, his homework and his meltdown. I’m there in a nano second in response to the universal wail of “it was an accident!” Her face is shiny with tears and snot as she clutches her foot to her chest and blows on it. There is no sign of other more alarming bodily fluids. She is of course incomprehensible. I stroke her hair and wait for calm.

“I think I’ve got a tooth in my toe!”
“Are you sure? How did you manage that? Let me see.”
“No you’re gonna dig it out with tweezers or a needle or take me to the Emergency Room.”
“Maybe, but lets take a look first. No touching, promise!”

She relinquishes custody of the foot. I peer through bifocals. “It looks like a blood blister to me.”
“What’s a blood blister?”
“It’s a blister under the dermis. The skin isn’t broken.”
“Does it hurt?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
“Er…..no actually it doesn’t hurt.” I have a sudden urge to quote the little boy who cried wolf too frequently for other people’s sanity.
“Shall we go to the ER then Mom?”
I give her chapter and verse on blood blisters, with my best peeved tone, when I hear a “darn it! S’all sticky!” from behind the sofa. Her brother’s voice sparks something in my tiny brain, “why did you think it was a tooth, by the way?”
“Coz I accidentally kicked him in the face.” I dive over the back of the sofa where my son holds handfuls of Legos drenched in blood. He turns his face towards me to speak, “see dey’re all sticky!” he complains as blood bubbles with saliva over his red smeared cheeks, arms and nake.d torso. I scoop him up and dash to the bathroom amid howls of complaint, “hey! Put me up, I am drop my Legos!” I hose him down to check the source. “Ooo I think you lost your baby tooth. Do you feel o.k.? Does it hurt?”

“Er…..?”
“Sorry. Have you lost a tooth?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not lost, it’s on dah floor.”
“Do you feel o.k.?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Coz my Legos is be ruined!”
“Does it hurt?”
“Does what “hurt?”

I give him a hug as today has been filthy all round.

“Tell you what, leave the Legos with me. I’ll wash them. Go and play with something safe.”
“Legos are safe.”
“True. I know, go and play with Slinky.” He smiles a warm, gap toothed grin at the thought of his pet Skink and ambles off. I retrieve the baby tooth for posterity and clean the floor.

I take a moment to check on line to see whether my medical knowledge regarding blood blisters was my usual pile of gobbledegook. Wikepedia quotes me word for word. I conclude that the “Wikipedia” author and I, are either soul mates or fakes! Or maybe just blood brothers?

I scrub Legos and remember that blood is closely related to cement, chemically speaking. A small person arrives at my side. “What?”
“Pardon? What is what dear?”
“What about me?”
“What about you dear?”
“Er…….my homework.”
“Golly! I’m sorry, I forgot all about you and your homework. Let me just dry my hands a minute, wouldn’t like to torture you with dampness would we?” I am mid towel when another shriek of agony demands immediate attention, level 10 alert. I take the tea towel with me, a makeshift first aid kit cum talisman to ward off further evils. I skid to my son who continues to scream without words, spattered in blood, jumping up and down with an extra finger spurting red fountain arcs in the air. I grab his wrist as the rest of his body whip lashes and writhes.
“Bloody hell you pulled his tail off!”
“It was an accident! I love him sooo much!”

Rats to the “theory of mind!”

“I am be like!”
“Really! What do you like dear?”
“I bin dun like dah cream!”
Oh no! Don’t tell me ‘bin dun’ is back to haunt us again, one of this pre-emptory terms equivalent to ‘er.’ I look at my little neophobe and his 15 foods. Verily the child doth lie through his little wonky baby teeth.

“Indeed!”

Oddly enough he picks up on my tone of skepticism, as does his brother, who dives in to defend, encourage and elucidate.
“Yeah Mom we are have ice-cream in school today.”
“Ice-cream!”
So much for the ‘healthy food in school policy,’ that didn’t last a whisker.
“How come you had ice-cream?”
“Coz it was Tim’s birthday.”
“Ah.”
“It wuz a birthday treat.”
“Nice explaining dear. Surely he didn’t eat ice-cream?” I ask over his brother’s head in a need to determine the real truth of the matter.
“No….he don eat dah ice-cream.”
I thought as much!
“But he did eat dah cream!”
“What cream?”
“Dah cream dat woz on dah ice-cream!”
“Cream on ice-cream!” talk about overkill.
“Yeah an it was real cold, but he ate it anyways……he din scream at all neither but he did his shivery thing………he wuz real brave mom.”

I smile as I think. Is cream really a food or merely a condiment? Does anyone eat a whole bowl of cream? Can you count cream or would that be like counting mustard as a food?

I look at my boys. The retrieval of the words has the effect of making him relive the experience. I watch as the little one judders involuntarily at the memory and the big one puts a steadying arm around his bony little shoulders.

Bravery awards all round [and rats to the theory of mind.]

I drag all parties into the garden against their will on a mildly overcast day.

Ideal planting weather.

Other neighbours labour in their yards, whilst we play in our garden. The boys lie in the gravel and sing an old Carpenter’s song, or rather particular snippets that they perseverate upon:- ‘bring me a letter,’ ‘oh yeah,’ ‘Mr. po o o o o ost man.’ It is their task to remain within the confines of the garden for a minimum period of ten minutes, one tiny step in the direction of desensitization to ‘outside.’ The little talismen of Pokemons assist to distract and engage.

My daughter is an enthusiastic under gardener, keen to learn the ropes. We have before us an array of magnificent plants to plant, each in just the right spot.

“Shall I dig a hole for this big one?”
“Great idea, but where shall we dig the hole?”
‘Mr. po o o o o ost man.’
“What about there, in that bare bit.”
“That’s a good idea but I think you might find that white or bright flowers are better placed in the shady areas where they’ll draw the eye.”
“Mr. po o o o o ost man.”
“This purple thing?”
“I want to put the purple violets next to the mail box.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s drought tolerant, in full sun and the scent will be given off when the postman fiddles with the box.”
“Lucky mail man!”
“Bring me a letter.”
“O.k. how about this one, with the long bits?”
“We need to check the labels too, as some plants prefer sun and other’s need more shady areas.”
“Mr. po o o o o ost man.”
“What about this pink one?”
“Great but we need some sand to plant that one as we have clay soil.”
“Mr. po o o o o st man.”
“They’re very fussy these plants!”
“Hmm I suppose they are a bit.”
“Bring me a letter.”
“I like this one! It smells of…..bubblegum.”
“Bubblegum? The scented ones are good in spots where you’ll brush past them with your body, like the rose scented geranium. When they’re leaves are disturbed they release their perfume.”
“Bring me a letter.”
“I like the one around the door coz when they bring a parcel the smell comes in the house.”
“Oh I’m glad you noticed that. It’s like when the UPS guy comes through the front gate and sweeps past the Aquilegia, same thing. Jasmine round the door frame.”
“The Fedex guy always comes around the side.”
“Yes where the Honeysuckle is.”

At the sound of gravel crunching, my son sits up from his position to look over the fence at the visitor. “You are be love,” he murmours. The mailman jumps from his little delivery van and waves. Other neighbours stand and pause momentarily to hail him too, familiar and welcome. Late 50’s, a grandfather with a Santa Claus beard, pith helmet, regulation shorts and a heart break smile.

“Hi guys! Got em all workin today huh!” My daughter examines him, trowel in hand. My older son grins at him, wordless. My youngest son jumps to his feet, “wait a minute, wait a minute, oooo yeah,” as nips over to peer at the name and address. “Dey are for you mom…….all of dem are for you.” I beam at my son and the postman as the garden gate clicks closed, on to the next house, the next family, the next welcome.

“I fink…….when I am growed up……I am be a mailman too.”

Rats to the “Theory of Mind.”

If you happen to find yourself with a few spare moments, please take a minute to watch this video.

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src=”http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=4118828456034835918&hl=en”
flashvars=”">Alternatively you can click on this “link.”

I drink coffee through as straw as instructed by the Dental Devils and sulk. Another visit to the dentist brings more bad news. Ten months after surgery we are still struggling. I am sorely tempted to clamp a bag of espresso to my hip and drink it intravenously, just to avoid all possible current and future mouth issues. However, I don’t want to tempt fate. It seems only a tiny step until I’ll be old enough to wear a colostomy bag instead, an area of fashion as yet untouched by Calvin Klein.

The word ‘dentist’ and all derivatives have been banned from the household. I refuse to allow my children to pick up negative vibes. They will have American attitudes towards dentistry if it kills me. Spouse and I will not whisper about the subject either, because our offspring have more finely attenuated hearing that the average owl. They absorb our body language and the instinctive shivers that pass between us. Their father’s facial expression needs no interpretation. When he clamps his hands over his mouth and screws up his eyes, all three small people wince in response.

I tried so hard to be jolly with the new pharmacist but we do not appear to enjoy the same sense of humour. This is probably just as well for other patients patronizing this establishment.

I toss back another couple of antibiotics as instructed by the dentist. This is a preamble to another fishing expedition for various assorted hardware, to include but not limited to, loose screws and lumps of cement. I am sadly disappointed with the dental community, not for their lack of dentistry skills but for their complete failure to comprehend Elephant jokes. What manner of medical professional is unfamiliar with such hilarity? Are they all childless or are they just foreign?
“Don’t worry,” he soothed, as I submitted to yet another x-ray to ensure that I am totally radioactive, if not magnetic.
“So you’re just looking for just those two things then?” I ask, an unnecessarily.
“Yes.”
“Just allow ten days for the infection to calm down?”
“That’s right. Everything will be just fine.”

For two pins I would just curl up under the desk and admit defeat. Take up permanent residence. In fact I would, but they don’t have an espresso machine.
“I’m sure we’ll find whatever they are, when we open you up. Very tiny.” I should probably ask an intelligent question, or maybe two? I should probably ask an intelligent medically question, but I can’t think of any, apart from ‘does it hurt?’ but I already know the answer. I am heartily sick of being the tiniest percentage of dental patients, I want a different spot on the bell curve.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just bad luck?” I beg.
“Good luck that we found it just in time!” It doesn’t feel lucky to me.
“Right. Let’s hope you just find those two then, and not any elephants?” I offer, as a means of dispersing the tension, although it may only be my own. The radiologist and the surgeon exchange meaningful glances. The radiologist steps closer. She has more qualifications after her name than would fit on the average business class envelope. She smiles to expose her birthright, a perfect line of pearly enamel tombstones. “You know,” she says tapping the x-ray, “an elephant would show up on this.” I examine her face to locate a smirk, spot a wink or some other tiny clue that we are on the same wavelength, as I don’t want to keep making the same mistake over and over again. Blank. I give up. I go home.

What is commonly referred to as ‘dry mouth’ in the States, would more accurately be described as glue mouth. I pout at my son as he demonstrates his vastly superior lip closure, him of the speech delayed camp.
“You are dah suck again?”
“I am.”
“I am dah suck too. See?” he slurps, just to show off. “You can be do dat too?” he taunts. I temper my reply, “well no actually. As it happens I’m having a hard time getting to the bottom of the mug.” I try and remove the sneary tone from my voice.
“Ooo, you are dah dribble.” I dab my chin and demonstrate my perfect mastery of etiquette and table manners.
“Ooo, not dah mouth. Dah mouth is being clean.” I examine the napkin. It is clean, not a coffee stain of dampness. I suppress swear words and dash off to the mirror in the bathroom because my nose is still numb and lies to me frequently. Footfalls follow me at high speed. Oh for a bit of privacy! I peer into the mirror. My son inserts himself between me and the mirror, so that we can both look at my reflection, although not admiringly. Oh the joy of joint attention!
“See! You are dah snot!” I grab a handful of toilet paper and dab gently, as nerve endings are thoroughly unreliable around here.
“Don be sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I respond far to quickly and in the wrong tone.
“Soon you are not dah snot. Soon you are dah big sucker.”
Whilst it sounds like an insult, it’s really a rallying cry, a supportive gesture. Yet another demonstration of the heartless, soulless autism that we know and love so well. Rats to the “Theory of Mind.”

Ain’t that the truth.

The names have not been changed to protect the anonymity of the players.

“Stop it Nicholas!” he barks at a sandy haired little boy. My boys look at Nicholas and stop doing what they are doing.
“Not like that! Here do it this way. Are you listening to me?” Nicholas isn’t listening. My boys are listening. They are both unusually quiet, uncommonly still.
“Geez you’re so dumb sometimes. Squeeze the red button why dontcha?” Nicholas doesn’t squeeze the red button. Nicholas’ Dad helps Nicholas’ thumb squeeze the red button, “there. See? That’s how you do it.”

“Ouch!” squeaks Nicholas. Two additional ‘ouches’ echo, but Nicholas’ Dad doesn’t notice. I think I dislike Nicholas’ Dad, but say nothing. I say nothing because one of my sons is wrapped around my ankles and I’m carrying a six and a half year old, the epitomy of an over protective and incompetent parent. We wait. It will be our turn soon. I remind myself that we all have bad days. I would not like anyone to closely observe one of our bad days. I remind myself that we are enjoying an exceptionally good day. Lucky us!

I am surprised that my boys are waiting so patiently. I am also surprised that they appear to be watching with close care and intense attention.

One of my boys learns by observation. He will watch whilst somebody else does a task. He’ll watch again, and again, and again, until he’s ready. When he’s ready he will make his first attempt. He rarely gets it right the first time. No-one is allowed to help him. He will scream uproariously with each attempt until he finally masters the new skill.

We watch and learn.

“Give me that,” snaps Dad, as he wrestles the controls from Nicholas. Nicholas pulls a face, so do my boys. “Enough with the attitude!” snarls Nicholas’ dad. I shift the weight on my hip a little as Nicholas looks at me with a clear blue gaze. I smile a bit, then I remember that my teeth are no longer off limits. I flash him my enamel with a glint of retainer. He smiles back. “Pay attention Nicholas or you’ll never learn anything.” His head snaps back to his dad. “Don’t’ you know it’s rude to stare at…. er……. people!” I glance away because I suspect that I am blushing or blanching.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“I am stare at people?”
“Oh no, I don’t think you ever stare at people, at least not that I’ve noticed.”
“I am rude?”
“No, not rude.”
“We are have a turn?”
“Yes, we shall soon.”

I think perhaps Nicholas’ dad overhears us.

“Come on Nicholas. Lets give these guys a turn, you’re no good at it anyway.” Nicholas’ dad pulls Nicholas from the seat and moves off to another exhibit. My son unravels himself from my feet and tiptoes cautiously onto the empty, warm seat. My other son slowly and gently slithers down from my hip and steps tentatively towards the same seat. It is very quiet. Their two little bottoms shuffle a bit to make room for each other.
“O.k. let see if we can get this thing to work,” I offer, seeing as how I am a poor teacher in the technology department. Two little faces turn towards me. They are not smiling even though they now have the opportunity to exploit their time and enjoy the activity that they have waited for so patiently.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Nicholas’ dad is naughty.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

By other parents, such as myself have committed greater “crimes.”

How do you spread a little luck and rats to the “theory of mind?”

My Mother-in-Law is Italian, but lives in England for her sins. She came to visit one Summer for a few weeks. Of course all grandmothers are biased, but her delight in ‘my’ children, was balm upon my worried soul. [translation = pre-diagnoses] I’m sure that Italians have their own set of cultural norms and expectations, but they differ greatly from the British version. My children could be swinging from the chandeliers and Nonna would be there cheering them on.

Few people had the patience to try and engage my son but Nonna was relentless. The bond between them shone. I could explain this phenomenon with reference to her animated face, arresting hand gestures, non-American accent, or her demonstrative nature, but such a clinical approach fails to capture the magic.

One day, we went to the beach at Santa Cruz. I had carefully assembled a large pic-nic in advance, to cater to everyone’s foibles. At that time my son had a reasonable vocabulary but rarely spoke. When he did speak his only topic was Thomas the Tank Engine. He was also hyperlexic, but was in the process of losing that skill.

Nonna has many skills. One of her more annoying ones, is her affinity with wild life. From insects [translation = bugs] to elephants and everything in-between, Nonna is their champion. They are drawn to her by some invisible thread. Dr. Doolittle is as nought beside this woman.

Hence, when everyone had abandoned the pic-nic fare, since it is impossible to nail children down in sand, Nonna began to throw the left overs into the sky for the seagulls benefit. Within seconds we were a scene from Hitchcock. Spouse sighed and clucked, as he tried to chase the birds away. I turned my attentions to the criminal modeling inappropriate behaviour to my children, “now listen! Nonna is very naughty to feed the birds.” [translation = "flying vermin"] Nonna pulled a face, as well she might, in league with her grandchildren in a common conspiracy. She pulled him close for a snuggle, but he wriggled free to protest……….

“No! Nonna is not naughty. Nonna is good and kind!”
We all turned to look at him. It was the longest voluntary sentence he had ever uttered.

This son - defender of the gene pool and super hero to all other ‘lesser’ “beings.”

During the holiday season, I find I am reflective. At that time of year there’s a tendency to think of ‘home’ and absent family. It can be a generational thing because you remember yourself as a child, the people around you at that time, when you look at your own children. Relatives long past, cluster in your mind. How times have changed? But the shadows of their underlying character would have adapted. What sounds pompous and stuffy, only disguises the message. The crisp exterior shell of people who lived in a different era merely hides the hardships, wars and heart ache the experienced.

[An ‘old school perspective’ – to be read with a perfect BBC male accent of someone of advancing years] A monocle, pocket watch and cane may help visual learners.

Now as we all know, people who claim to have low ‘self esteem’ are really just attention seeking whiners. However, there is modern school of thought that suggests that ‘self image’ may influence significant factors such as ultimate educational status and income bracket, or ‘how they turn out in the end.’ I know it’s a bit racy, but there is a possibility that such psychobabble may have a kernel of common sense at the bottom of it.

Whilst I wouldn’t describe myself as right wing, I certainly think that if a pat on the back and a ‘jolly good show!’ would make a difference to the little blighters, then I’m all for it. Anything that would prevent them being a burden on the State would have my endosement. I’m not saying that I hold with ‘empty praise,’ mind you. I think even those autistic types would see through that. You would have to tailor your ‘praise’ better than that if you want it to stick, if you want it to make a difference, a positive difference.

I know it’s quite rash, this kind of ‘positive thinking’ kind of malarkey, but I don’t think it would be too onerous or time consuming. I mean you wouldn’t have to go all mad and gaga like the colonials do, no, no, no, don’t overdo it, but the timely appropriate word, might make all the difference. You don’t have to be all sloppy and sentimental about it. Perish the thought!……..

…..I come back to the here and now as a piece of puzzle hits me in the forehead accompanied but a scream of frustration; “you are not doing dah good listening when I am doing dah good talking wiv my words!”
How true, how true. I just tuned out for a
moment there.
It is a very big puzzle afterall.

“I’m sorry dear, what were you saying?”
“I was being dah good one. I was telling him dat he was being dah good one too. I was doing my nice complimenting.”
“Really! I’m very impressed.”
Did I manage reciprocal? Does that qualify? It was almost appropriate!
“Could you do it again dear, because I missed it?”
Well that was nearly timely, only a hint of hesitation on my part.

“Hmm. O.k. I will. But dis time you must be dah good listening.”
“O.k. Deal! Ready?” Come on, speed up, pay attention woman!

He marches over to his brother, hunkers down, places his nose three inches away from his sibling’s face to tell him, “you are done a great job! I like it when you are dah helping bruvver.” Great specificity. Couldn’t have done it better myself.
“Yur welcum!” Great reciprocity. Spot on my son!

At least someone’s ‘getting it.’

Many autistic children have difficulty interpreting someone’s mood from the way their facial features arrange themselves, my boys are no exception to this general rule. Now that they can speak and use their words occasionally they will ask a pertinent question such ‘are you mad?’ [translation = angry] Curiously this isn’t generally because I am wearing an angry face. [translation = perish the thought that my cheerleader face might slip]

No, it’s much more important than that. I think it’s because they either recognize that they have transgressed [translation = made a less than perfect choice] and or that they have concerns as to how I, their mother, might feel about that behaviour. [translation = rats to the theory of mind] [ref – see previous post]

I know that there are a great many children who have similar difficulties without the label that my children have. You’ll see them on the playground at recess. Some poor benighted child takes a tumble and another child laughs. The child who laughs isn’t necessarily playing with the one that falls down. He may be entirely unconnected with the other group at play, he just notices the fall. He has a visceral reaction what he observes but his synapses direction him to the wrong response because his ‘pity/concern’ category is either misfiled or under developed. The reaction most readily retrievable is the ‘laugh’ response.

You doubt me? I do too. But if you examine your own behaviour, very occasionally someone will tell you something and all you can come up with is ‘the nervous laugh.’ [translation = except Brits who are never nervous and always have the stiff upper lips firmly in place] It’s the same underlying principal for us all. We know we ought to react, not quite sure how, and we leak a giggle instead. [translation = with the exception of Brits who refuse to react to anything without prior permission in triplicate]

He practices his facial expressions in front of the mirror. It’s o.k. if I observe this child, the littlest one, as he doesn’t have strong feelings about me watching him occasionally. It’s the other one that explodes with outrage if he catches me watching him. [translation = it must feel like spying whilst you’re experimenting with something new, in private, until you are comfortable enough to permit a public audience] For a long time senior son refused to look at photographs of people’s faces, it was one of the many triggers for a major meltdown, along with teddy bears amongst other things. If you are a child then it is quite remarkable for an adult to realize just how many teddy bears there are in a child’s life, but you learn this very rapidly as your child identifies every single one of them, wherever you happen to come across them, and demonstrates that he has correctly managed to find even the most obscure ones, by melting down in a catastrophic tantrum.

This kind of behaviour makes even the simplest of task outside your own teddy bear free zone house, a game of chance. [translation = a crap shoot / shute?]
It might seem a little grim, but it was a vast improvement on the period just prior to that, when the word ‘teddy’ wasn’t in his non-verbal filing system. Curiously, Pachycephalosaurs and all his relatives, were neatly catalogued for easy and frequent use. I can tell you with confidence that in everyday life, you are likely to come across at least 100 teddies for every one non specific dinosaur, it’s a statistical fact. [translation = do not challenge me, I know I am right from evidence I the field]

I attempt reinforcement with junior and his mirror, “that’s a very happy face you have there!”
“It’s not a happy face, it’s a straight line, see!” I look. His mouth is straight, a tight line but his eyes are cartoons of surprise. “Perhaps you are surprised?”
“No, I try surprise. That’s too difficult for me.”
“So what face do you have now?”
“I don know. A happy face with a straight line mouth.” I watch him part his lips, reveal his teeth as if to check for lipstick, then purse them closed again. He snaps them open and shut again, watching the effect.
Another curious aspect of this discomfort with images of the human face, is that mirrors, [translation = not that we have many of them] were avoided. Senior son would try and cover them up, obscure them, so that he wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of himself. The shock of seeing himself unexpectedly always produced a meltdown. Translation = an assault of surprise] In the summer when panes of glass shifted their aspect in the sun, they too became substitute mirrors, but it took me a long time to work out his sudden aversion to doors and windows.

Junior lets his chin drop to his chest, despondent, “I never get it right!” he sighs. If I knew what he was attempting to mimic, I might be able to help him. Hopefully whatever emotion he is trying to convey, won’t require me to role play ‘smiling,’ because if I smile and reveal my braces, this might be detrimental to his comprehension. [translation = negative reinforcement]

His older brother has made a lot of progress in the last three and a half years. The innocuous smiley faces that he encounters daily are no longer abhorrent. He advanced to cartoon faces over a year ago, but only if they were line drawings, black and white. We pushed him forward to accept colour versions, and gradually, minutely, stepped into the world of photographic faces. It’s not something that he enjoys but the main purpose would to prevent the heart failure he experienced, whenever such an image jumped out and accosted him. Mirrors are no longer an object of fear, he can tolerate their existence, can choose not to look into them rather than expressing his displeasure in a sociably unacceptable manner.

I turn my attention back to junior as his manipulates his bottom jaw with the assistance of his hands, as he doesn’t have a great deal of muscle strength in that area.
“What are you trying to do dear?”
“I happy? I sad? I mad? I surprised? What I am?” Seems more like curiousity than anything else to me.
“I think you’re happy. Are you practicing a happy face?”
“No. I practice my face. It is the lips or the chin that makes the smile?” A reasonable enquiry under the circumstances, but I hope that he doesn’t delve too much further, as I haven’t passed human anatomy 101.
“It’s the lips dear?” He pouts, purses and preens, testing out the hypothesis.
“You know?….. it not dah lips, it’s dah muscles that are moving the lips underneaf dah skin.”

Ah! I stand corrected, as usual.

[translation = swearing promotes connectivity in a common goal] Yes, my boys are autistic and the speech delays are a little taxing, [translation = tough on aged brain cells] but as they grow and change they make me catch my breath. [translation = steam up the bifocals.]

I take my chest infection downstairs in the small wee hours of the morning so that at least one of us can attempt to sleep so as to have the chance to cope better later in the day. I sleep fitfully until soft footfalls wake me in the darkness. The light flicks on to a chorus of gasped surprises. Somebody snaps it back off again and approaches in the gloom. I am uncertain if I’ve failed to fall asleep or whether I am just waking up? A conversation ensues that I am not party too. [translation = I play dead]

“I fink she is asleep.”
“No! Don poke her eyes!”
“Oops sorry. Sorry mum.”
“She cant hear you. She is asleep dumbass.”
“Don call me dumbass. Dumbass is a bad word, we don use bad words in dis famly.”
“Oops sorry!”
“It is morning?”
“Yes.”
“Why it dark den?”
“I don know.”
“Why is mummy in the sleeping then, if it is da morning?”
“Because she is ill, dumbass.”
“Don call me dumbass or I will tell mummy on you.”
“Don tell mummy, she is asleep, she cant hear you anyways dumbass.”

Silence falls but I feel the sofa ease as two small figures snuggle up.
“What was dat?”
“I don know. It’s a pokey thing.”
“Oh no, you have squished the glasses. Are they broked?”
“No, I don fink so. It was a accident.”
“You dumbass, now mummy will be not be able to see anyfink.”
“Oops sorry.”
“Shall we have a sleep over?” [translation = voluntary initiation of positive social interaction?]
“Das a great idea.” [translation = acknowledgment of common goal, complimentary, appropriate and perhaps acceptance that he actually has a brother!]
“We can have a sleep over if it is morning? Is it morning?”
“I don know. It’s dark. I think maybe it is nighttime afterall.”
“Yes, you’re right. It is nighttime and we can be having a sleepover.” [translation = a desirable social event - perhaps?]
“Shall we have a sleep over wiv mummy too?”
“Yes.”
“We shall ask her?”
“No dumbass, she’s asleep. Oops sorry.”

We enjoy a ’sleep over’ together for the next forty five minutes until 6:50.