Evening Walks

We have LOVED lockdown living!

I don’t know about you – but it’s everything my family enjoys.

Being encouraged, nay, FORCED to stay at home, relying on deliveries for sustenance? God yes.

As a stay at home mum, I am fully aware of how lucky I am. I know and appreciate how hard it is and has been for people, these have been very strange times.

But for my family of hermits, we have truly been living the summer of dreams.

I have, however, slipped in my parenting.

When Robbie is good, I tend to let things slide.

More time on the PC? Yeah, you’ve been good, why not? More Pringles? Yeah, why not. Want to make a fire with twigs? How holistic! Just don’t try it in the car again, darling.

This is starting to cause problems, as he has become overly dependent on the PC. Monday and Tuesday, he has had absolutely VILE meltdowns, over PC related issues (one of which culminated in a strategic fart from him through the bannister) and so it has been culled for a week.

Today, the first PC free day, Robbie has been an absolute DREAM.

We had to get a cab to go and get the car from the garage, and Robbie went into his little cash wallet (I asked to borrow a fiver – yes, I am cashless trash) and he handled the transaction with the driver. He refused to let me pay him back!

I will accept this. He owes me.

Tonight, we had the chance to go to the shops, just the two of us. We took the scooter and went to the local meadow, where we discussed how long dogs live and Robbie graciously saved me the backwash from his water bottle “to keep you hydrated Mummy.”

However, in the Co-op, things took a turn for the weird.

In an aisle, an unsuspecting patron, around my age, shops alone. Unaware of the embarrassment about to unfurl in her direction.

Robbie, my ex non-verbal child, clear as a flute played by a chorus of angels on a glorious spring day, says –

“Is that girl infected?”

I laugh in shock and say to the lady “at least he called you a girl”

Now, I meant that in the context of “he’s called me a lot worse,” but obviously she doesn’t know that, does she? So Robbie has implied she is diseased, and I have implied she is old.

She is good natured and laughs along, and we go our separate ways.

Robbie has found this whole interaction utterly gleeful, and we have a laugh over the names of cereals (I know, we’re weird).

Unsuspecting Patron re-enters his line of vision.

Again, the choir pipes up from its celestial rest –

“Is that that infected individual again?”

I react in horror, although this time worryingly, worryingly, not shock.

“Robbie!”

I see the lady go round the corner, but luckily, she has a big grin on her face. Grin, grimace? Let’s say grin, shall we?

To the busy, static queue, full of sweaty, potential Covid-carriers. With nothing to do, but listen.

Robbie is very interested in other countries at the moment.

He sees some German beer, and starts to question which countries make beer.

I volunteer that France is known for making wine.

He laughingly goes along with this, getting louder and louder.

People around us smile at the sweet appearing child, borderline interrogating his sweaty mother.

“Does Spain make wine?”

“Does Russia make wine?”

“Does Kazakstan make wine?”

Then, this

“Does Bangladesh make bombs?”

…

It becomes a bit of a blur at this point. I think I said “oh God”, and mentally scanned what YouTube videos he’s been watching lately.

How do I answer this? But more importantly as a parent…

How do I answer this in front on an audience?

Distraction, friends.

“Would you like to scan the shopping, Robbie?”

That cuts through the evil little git’s laugh. He knows. He knows something. He can see the panic in my eyes…

Half an hour later, home, eating a well-earned (note – earned, not deserved) lolly, all thoughts of foreign alcohol importation forgotten, all is well again.

Until tomorrow.

Robbie Observations – Bathtime

Featured

When I am not overloaded with tasks, I like to take the time to really enjoy my interactions and conversations with Robbie.

My mum likes to say that I have never got over the novelty of having my own children, and I do believe this is true. I still marvel at the sheer fact that he exists, and at his wonderful personality.

The case I am about to recount, however, is not one of those magical times.

Robbie and I decided to have a bath together. This is not a regular occurrence, as I like to have my baths fiery hot, and I cannot do that with the kids. It is culturally frowned upon to scald them.

I mentioned it to his dad and asked, “do you think Robbie is too old for us to have a bath together?”

“He’s not a neurotypical seven year old, it should be fine!” he confidently, and in hindsight, naively, replied. Living in daddy bliss.

Robbie gets in first, and I approach the bath.

“I can see your vagina.”

…

“Robbie, if we’re going to have a bath together, you will see it. Can you not look, please?”

“Ok. I won’t look and I’ll also try not to touch it.”

(What the actual fudge?! It’s been seconds, and already, I am bitterly, bitterly regretting this.)

I tentatively get in with him and sit down.

Now, us ladies know that you are not in your prime position whilst hunched over in a bath with another person, in a bathtub designed for lone bathing. I hope you, reader, will never have to endure what I heard next.

“I can see your long boobies.”

Great. Can’t wait for you to repeat that at school.

“What did you say?” (Now, I did not want to hear it again, I can only imagine that I asked this to give myself thinking time.)

… “I can see your boobies.”

So, even at the tender age of seven, Robbie senses that “long” boobies are not what any women desires. Or maybe he was trying to block out this experience, as was I.

“Come on, quick wash and you’re getting out, Robbie.”

“Why?!”

“Because you keep commenting on my body and I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry I keep commenting on your private boobies and your old vagina Mummy.”

Keep your privates, private people

Wham

Robbie has this thing he says.

He says, “I know everything Mummy.”

I say, “no child, you do not, which is why you have to go to school.”

To this he replies, “I do know everything, I just keep it a secret from the human eye.”

I tell him that no one knows everything, that we constantly learn throughout our lives. We evolve constantly, and that it is arrogant to think that anyone knows everything.

This ENRAGES him.

Do I continue to press the issue, or allow him to have his unhealthy opinion of his own intellect?

When a topic comes up that I KNOW he doesn’t know about, I try to surreptitiously question him, and he says “I don’t want to talk about it, just know that I know everything.”

So, we continue on, locked in this bizarre battle of wills. I battle internally to correct him, he battles externally to cut me off.

Robbie really likes Christmas, so the other morning in the car, he was listening to Christmas songs on my phone through Spotify.

A Christmas classic – Last Christmas by Wham came on, and I asked, “do you know who sings this, Robbie?”

“I do, I’m just keeping it a secret from the human eye, ok?”

Aha! This means he doesn’t! I am going to pour knowledge into his earhole whilst he is trapped in the car with me.

“It’s a man called George Michael who sings it.”

(Robbie is really into different countries, so I threw in a continental element for flavour.)

“He is from Greece, and he changed his name!”

(Robbie is also into destruction and calamity, so I sprinkled some disaster for taste.)

“Unfortunately, he’s dead now.”

Robbie absorbs this, thinking. I continue driving, pleased with my one-upmanship.

Until he utters the following…

“He died on Christmas Day in 2016.”

Both flabbergasted and honestly, gutted, I ask him how he knew that.

“I told you, I know everything. I just keep it a secret from the human eye.”

Career Goals for Kids

Faye has a doctor’s kit.

The end.

Not really, but I’m sure you can guess the general theme of what I am about to impart upon your innocent ears. Eyes, ears? Imagine I’m telling you.

If there isn’t a genre of horror called “Toddler Doctors”, then there should be.

I take a moment from the hellfire of parenting to sit and stare blankly into space. My current version of sleep.

I am rudely interrupted approximately 37 seconds in by Faye, who has ran over (why do toddlers run everywhere? Why must they create even more urgency and stress by running on their unsteady, demon legs?) and growls:

“Faye-Faye doctor.”

Yes, she calls herself Faye-Faye. We have done this to her, no wonder she’s pissed off.

“No Faye, Mummy’s busy.”

“Faye-Faye doctor.”

“Please Faye, I want to pretend to be dead for a moment.”

“FAYE-FAYE DOCTOR!”

“Fine, make it quick.”

Faye produces her stethoscope, which is wrapped vaguely around her neck. Not connected to her ears, the tiny fool.

This is the last laugh I have, as she places the plastic on my knee.

“Boom-boom, boom-boom.”

Satisfied with her findings, she withdraws and produces a tooth-mirror and a thermometer. Apparently, they are to be used simultaneously and firmly.

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh”

I feel the thermometer pressing against my eardrum and she forces the mirror towards the back of my throat.

Releasing me only as I start to see stars from lack of oxygen, Faye then moves onto the next step of her warped investigation.

She produces a reflex hammer and hits me on the nose.

“Ow!”

“Sorry Mummy”, she mutters darkly. “Faye-Faye doctor.”

After hitting me in various places with the hammer, none of which are designed to be hit, she brings out the pièce de résistance…

A scalpel.

Let’s take a moment here, shall we?

Who, in their infinite wisdom, deemed it appropriate to include a pretend scalpel in a child’s doctor’s kit?

She flashes the blade at me, devilment in her eye.

“Faye-Faye chop-chop.”

“No thank you, I’m better now Faye.”

“Faye-Faye chop-chop.”

“I’m ok thanks Faye. Good doctor.”

I confiscate her weapon.

“FAYE-FAYE CHOP-CHOP MUMMY!”

Thwarted, she grabs the ever-present and long-suffering kitten.

“FAYE-FAYE CHOP-CHOP BABY CAT!”

I cast around for something to use to battle her. Could I fashion holy water from that glass over there? No, if there was ever an unblessed house, ’tis this.

Making my decision, I snatch the cat and run to the kitchen, blocking her and her tiny demon fury.

Once the screams have died down, I put her doctor’s kit back together, ready to play with another day.

It’s nice to have career aspirations.

Bees

Have you ever had an imaginary friend?

When I was little, I used to pretend I was a member of the Famous Five, (replacing sappy Anne) and we used to have adventures in the garden.

When Robbie was little, he did not engage in imaginary play.

This is a common trait in autistic children – I remember buying a toy farm from Early Learning and spending copious amounts of time and money hand selecting posh animals to inhabit it. I was determined that he would mentally inhabit this plastic animal menagerie.

Unfortunately for me, Robbie’s passion was for trains. So I was bitterly disappointed when I saw him using the head-of-the-herd female cow as a tunnel for one of the underlings.

I digress.

Robbie came out of school about a month ago, cheerily greeted me and we started walking away.

I heard a buzzing sound, and upon a fleeting investigation, discovered that it came from him.

“Robbie? Why are you making buzzing noises?”

“Dudette, I’ve got my bees with me.”

I take a moment.

“What bees?”

“My pet bees, of course!”

Now, I know there has recently been a Minecraft update in which there are bees, (privileged info I know) and clearly it has captured Robbie’s imagination.

“How many pet bees do you have Robbie?”

“Seven thousand, four hundred and eighty six.”

I process this.

“Do they all have names?”

“They do, I’ll tell you later. They are cold, so I’m going to spawn them some coats with my mind. All done!”

Since their arrival, we have sadly lost a few to general weather conditions, but happily, the swarm has managed to multiply by five hundred!

We have added spawned-in imaginary beds to our home, gloves to keep their little bee-hands warm, and hats to protect against the elements.

I have been presented with my very own imaginary bee, called Cornelius, and Robbie lovingly gives them to special people when he is feeling particularly generous.

We are looking forward to the spring, when they can invisibly frolic over the lavender in the garden.

Yet another lesson in how I should never underestimate you, son.

Driving

Incase any of you weren’t aware … Robbie likes to control things.

Apparently it’s a typically autistic trait. Where the world around an autistic person can seem chaotic, having the control helps your autistic to feel secure.

I’d like to put this down to the autism, but to be fair, I think Robbie can see how scatty I am and he tries to keep me in check.

In the car, sitting in traffic, I momentarily removed my hand from the wheel to itch my face.

Robbie, from his seat next to me, (yes, of course he sits in the front) says in a deadpan voice: “You need to take the wheel more.”

“Robbie, I’m scratching my face. While we’re not moving. It’s fine.”

We start moving.

Silence.

“Why are you going at 33 miles per hour then?”

“What’s the speed limit on this road? I can’t see a sign.” (Re-reading this before I post, I saw that this could be taken as myself asking this. No, it’s the 7 year old.)

I take this moment to teach Robbie that if it is a residential road with streetlights, we can safely assume that it’s 30 miles per hour.

“Why are you going 33 miles per hour then?”

Yes, I got defensive.

“I’m not! It’s the angle you’re sitting at!”

Robbie cranes his neck, positively brimming with suspicion. I slightly brake, so as not to be caught. By him.

“No, you’re breaking the speed limit of 30 miles per hour. Daddy says you drive too fast because you always break the speed limit.”

I’m not proud of this next bit.

“Yeah? Well Daddy got actually CAUGHT speeding years ago! He got TOLD OFF BY THE POLICE! Mummy hasn’t!”

Robbie chews this over.

“Please don’t ever tell me that, ever, ever, again.”

We approach a roundabout. Robbie knows where we are going.

He leans over and puts my indicator on.

Lipstick

Robbie has taken a strong and keen interest in my appearance… As of this afternoon.

Walking home from school, Robbie popped his head in front of an unsuspecting mum walking from the other direction, and said to her “you look like a clone of my mummy.”

She looked at me and failed to be offended at the dry shampood desert of my hair, laughed and said “I’ll take that!”

It’s ok, it made me very awkward too. You did well, you lovely lady.

In the chemist, Robbie says to me “let me see your lips.” I oblige, and he damns them with the words, “hmm, not beautiful.”

I laugh, willing to play along. I have no life, “how should I make them beautiful Robbie?”

Robbie then spends the next ten minutes going through every garish shade of lipstick available to him. Obviously, OBVIOUSLY, the one he settles on is the one I was eyeing with dread. And yes, ‘luckily’ it was the last one.

Thus concludes the tale of how I am at home at 4pm on a Thursday evening, adorned in my new lipstick and lip liner, contrasting wonderfully with the face of exhaustion, possibly some vitamin deficiency and fatigue. Now, now, apparently, my lips are beautiful.

Potato Pressure

The difference a day at school makes!

This evening, I was in the kitchen peeling potatoes, and I hear a kerfuffle at the baby gate to the kitchen. I hear Robbie saying to Faye “get back you vicious beast” (my words!!) and “only adults allowed out here.” With that parting shot, he slips through and joins me.

I bravely held a potato whilst he (shakily and scarily) peeled it, all the while chattering away:

“I’m not talking to Keira (his TA at school) ever again.”

“Robbie, you said this earlier. You have to tell me why.”

“I can’t remember. Trying to remember is blowing up my imagination. Can you stop making all that noise peeling so that I can think please?”

I, and my starchy hands, wait. Robbie stands against the fridge with his eyes closed.

“She stopped me running away.”

“Do you think she was bad to stop you running away?”

“No.”

“Well then, this is unreasonable. Where were you trying to go?”

“Nowhere. I was just trying to be a runaway. Get it? Runaway. Like a runaway train.”

Picks up my blood pressure monitor on the side – the byproduct of some delightful genetics.

“Are you going to take your blood pressure?”

(I didn’t even know he knew about this)

“I’ve done it, shall we do yours? It doesn’t hurt.”

“But I’m not fat.”

“Do I look fat then?”

He actually looks at me.

“NO! You look wonderful. Your butt looks wonderful too!”

Brio

And thus, half term is finished.

You will be thrilled to know that we survived!

However, Robbie appears to have become a fully-fledged career hermit.

His dedication to staying indoors is admirable. The desire to go outside has waned into non-existence, and no amount of bribery (financial or otherwise) has been successful.

We were playing Brio trains in his room last night, and he likes to sometimes narrate as he plays. I can only imagine he has picked this up from adults ‘narrating’ as he played when he was small to try and get him to speak, although now… He uses this skill to enact disasters.

Confused? Let me elaborate.

“Oh no, a crash!”

(Me, half engaged but really I’m scrolling idly through Facebook – be present for your children Gemma, be present) “Oh dear! Is everybody ok, or were there any casualities?”

“What are casualties?”

“Injuries.”

“Oh. Nobody is ok. It was the greatest disaster in Brio history.”

“OH! That’s… Nice, son.”

“57 people died.”

“I see.”

This cheery game ended abruptly when I took this photo of him, which angered the beast so much that he shut me in his room.

The scene of the Brio rail disaster 2019

Back to school tomorrow and apparently even he is looking forward to it!

Have a great evening

Absences

Evening all

These past few weeks have been pretty stressful, hence the cyber silence.

In short, Faye has been the easy kid… Which should suggest how stressful it’s been in here.

We’ve had A LOT of school avoidance from Robbie.

Tears, anger, refusal, laying in bed looking depressed… It’s been strange and challenging.

Then we had a breakthrough.

His dad and I met with one of his teachers, and she gave us some new visuals to use with Robbie. These allow him to make a choice and feel more “in control” of his feelings. Thankfully, they seem to be having a positive effect. Small steps… Early days.

I have had it suggested to me many times before, in different scenarios, “why don’t you just make him?” Or a favourite – “if it was my kid, I’d just force him in.”

Let me tell you why I cannot do this.

If I force Robbie to do something against his will, I escalate an already fraught situation. He then can become a danger to himself and others. He can run, lash out, or become so emotionally distressed that I won’t be able to bring him down for a long time.

Sometimes, parenting Robbie can be a daily version of “talking him off the ledge.”

I think we’re getting back on an even keel now – luckily it’s half term, so hopefully we can hit the reset button.