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.

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.

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

Percentages

This isn’t a funny one.

If you’re here for a funny one, I wouldn’t bother. Go and find some memes.

The reasons are two-fold.

1 – this week has been stressful for Robbie… Therefore, also for myself.

2 – neither of my kids have done anything funny this week.

I’ve spoken to them about this. I think it’s only fair that we are all very clear on what we expect from each other as family members. I didn’t have kids for all the ‘nurturing’… I wanted a constant source of entertainment.

At the beginning of the week, a kid in a different class to Robbie took his glasses and hit him at playtime. Something similar happened the next day.

Before you worry (lovingly!) it is in hand and being dealt with. I don’t think it was personally aimed at Robbie – and remember, he does attend a special needs school. Things like this will happen.

But as ever, with Robbie… There is a reaction.

It took him until Thursday morning, when he wouldn’t get out of bed. Normally when he wakes up, he bounds or sneaks out of bed looking to slake his unquenchable thirst for technology.

I went in to rouse him and he lay there staring into space. The more I tried to encourage him to leave the bed, the more he burrowed. He looked downright depressed.

Robbie has this thing of being unable to always identify what’s actually upsetting him. So, when he descended the stairs, he informed me, in tears, that he “hated” me “0.02%” for making him always log off the PC.

“Robbie, do you mean when I generally tell you that you have to come off, in order to continue living your life?”

“… Yes.”

Robbie… in the place he hates me the least

There was more to this, but I let him stay off with me on Thursday.

It felt nice, like an illicit cosy day together. I printed him off a worksheet to practice his letter formation and felt like a good mummy, looking after my child’s mental health. Putting his emotional needs above the constraints and expectations of society.

I should have known it would bite me in the arse.

Friday… Refusal.

There were threats, pleading, bribery… From him.

After some telephone assistance from his teacher, he went to school in his own clothes, “for comfort Mummy!”

He now seems to be back on an even keel emotionally, but we will see if anything else happens.

So there you have it. A common factor of Autism is the struggle to identify one’s own feelings. As a parent, if your child can’t tell you what’s wrong, you have to ‘play detective’ and try to work it out for yourself.

We are all still learning.

I will learn with you Robbie.

Presents

“Look in my bag, I’ve got a present for you!”

Robbie has just come out of school, sing-songing at me happily.

I open his bag, imagining what will be inside. A picture? Some of his work that he’s brought home to show me?

Nah. I pull out a clear plastic wrapper from his Mr Kipling lunchtime cake.

“Robbie? This is rubbish from your lunch box.”

“Don’t call him rubbish, Dudette. This is Trash Boat.”

And just like that, Trash Boat was born.

Trash Boat enjoys quiet evenings and floating idly in a dimly lit bath, all the while being verbally caressed with whispers from his all-powerful creator.

“Be careful Trash Boat. Don’t hit that iceberg. I don’t want you to sink like the RMS Titanic.”

Is this a glimpse of my Christmas presents yet to come? Am I living out a warped, recycling-focused version of The Christmas Carol?

Last night, Robbie came out from school clutching an orange shoe box. Apparently, he was taken with it and wanted to bring it home.

“I’m going to call him Boxy. He will live with us in our house.”

Later on, I hear Robbie (scarily) chuckle and say to Boxy, “Boxy, I’ll never forget about you!”

On top of everything else that caring for two children entails, I have suddenly become responsible for the welfare and happiness of an empty shoe box.

PS – I just checked on Robbie in bed, he is snuggled up with Boxy under the covers with him.

Someone, save me!

Observations

From a young age, Robbie has liked to observe.

At nursery, he would take himself away from the group and watch his peers. He did this silently.

We miss those days.

As he ages, Robbie has begun to verbalise his observations publicy, and often loudly.

Last night, we went to a Disability Swimming Session at a local swimming baths. It is a wonderful resource, and one that’s not widely known. A great, if slightly frantic, time was had by all. As we walked to the changing rooms, we were (respectfully) trapped behind a lady walking in front of us.

Robbie loudly and clearly ‘observed’, “what a heavy Grandma!”

We are delighted that Robbie’s speech is becoming so eloquent.

As we left his school the other day, we walked past a mum wearing a niqab. Robbie ‘observed’, “I think that lady is from China.”

(I have this compulsion where I am forced to see these exchanges through. I can’t bring myself to shush him, so I freestyle and see where it goes. I try to educate on the spot.)

“Why do you think that lady is from China, Robbie?”

“Because she is dressed SOOO STRANGELY!”

Bugger.

One of the many qualities that I LOVE about this kid is his observational skills. He says things without spite and he is completely unaware of agenda.

We, as of yet, haven’t discussed race with Robbie. We very much like him seeing the world and experiencing people through his own eyes, rather than the blinkers and stereotypes of society. If you ask Robbie what colour his skin is, he will tell you it is “peach.”

This leads us to our final ‘observation’ for today.

Whilst in Specsavers with his dad, Robbie was sitting on a chair. An Unsuspecting Man came and sat on the other side of where Robbie was. Robbie glanced at him, and moved to his dad’s lap.

He leaned in and whispered to his dad “why is that guy’s face brown?”

This is an odd one for Robbie – he has always mixed with children and people of all different cultures – I can only assume that it just dawned on him that this man looked different to him.

His dad explained, “people have all different colour skin Robbie. We’re just born like that.” Robbie listened, and said “oh, right!”

Unsuspecting Man goes in. Has appointment. Comes back out, thinking all is right in his world. Ready to rejoin the high street and continue his day.

Robbie jumps up from his seat, eyes shining as bright as two pennies, (inexplicably) thrilled, waves and points, “it’s him, hi Brown Guy! “HI BROWN GUY!”

Silence. Robbie’s outburst acted as a pistol shot. Never has a store on a Saturday morning been so quiet.

His dad crossed his fingers, closed his eyes, and prayed for the gods to smite him. Alas, no, he had to deal with this…

“I’m so sorry, he’s never said anything like this before!”

The liar.

First Week Back

I see water.

The drought has ended.

We are going back to school.

I say we, I’m not. Robbie is. But I am going back to “no, you can’t play PC before school” and “you can do/have/sacrifice anything you want AFTER school”.

Don’t misunderstand me – I adore having him at home with me. However, there are only so many ‘fun’ activities that both he and I can stomach. The house begins to resemble a battleground, littered with the detrius of our patience and goodwill.

Robbie attends a fantastic SEN school, and there are small classes with a high staff ratio. I can’t speak highly enough of it. All kids should have this ratio of staff to teachers – special needs or not.

Monday – new teacher, mostly new class. A lot of his old classmates have come up with him, so he is pretty happy. He has the same playmates to wax lyrical about the Titanic with.

Tuesday – Robbie came out in a foul mood because his teachers had tried to make him eat the marginally healthier part of his packed lunch before the chocolate. I know, I know. He is very unreasonable at times. Sorry teachers. He’s your problem now. I’ve done my time until half term.

On Wednesday, he came home with a reading book in his bag. We haven’t had a reading book sent home before, this was another parental box almost ticked! I responsibly caged Faye in her cot and handed her the monstrous, light-up unicorn pillow.

I did used to give her books to read, but she kept eating the spine of them and now she has to be supervised.

So now she gets a padded, colour-changing light.

Robbie and I got in his bed, and I took a moment to savour this. Ahhh, the shared experience we were about to enjoy! The gold star of parenting – the nightly reading book.

Our eyes alight with anticipation… We started to read….

Silence.

The book in Robbie’s book bag was very simplistic for his reading level.

He stared at it, silently.

“Robbie? Shall we read the book?”

Silence.

“Robbie? What’s wrong?” (I could see what was wrong, I don’t know why I asked this).

He turned to me with a cold fury, and said, “I’m not reading that book. It’s too short and too easy. It’s just a bunch of pages. I hate that book. I want to sell it.”

I agonised about what to write in the reading journal. Whatever I prepared in my head sounded rude… So I did what any reasonable parent would do… I let the 6 year old take the blame.

I copied out what Robbie said.

The next evening, I fearfully opened his bag.

His teachers (thankfully!) had taken on board his (slightly threatening) message. The new reading book was much more “appropriate” for him (his words). God help us.

There you have it. The threat of book trafficking was enough. His demands had been met. The day had been saved.

It’s said not to give in to terrorism… But in this case, I’m glad.

We’ve now got into a pattern of reading his school reading book in the car

Faye

Faye is unlike any 1 year old I’ve encountered before.

She is wild, untamed, unfettered, sometimes loving, all-times determined. She is my electric baby.

Faye’s tantrums are unreal. She throws things, tips things over. She tries to pull her high chair ontop of herself so that she can then cry about it. All of this – with not a single tear in sight. She is terrifying.

This photo is not a true representation of Faye’s personality. It is a photo of lies.

I have never met such a vibrant and forceful individual. She both fascinates and scares me.

I attempted a baby dance class with her on Monday evening. She was the youngest there, and more than happy to show off her dance moves that she’s learned from Word Party on Netflix. When the session started, the warm-up was too slow for her. I could hear the ‘moan’ building. I watched her beady eyes scout the room looking for devilment. It showed itself by her completely ignoring the session, running around, grabbing the floor mats and throwing them, as the rest of the class studiously ignored her behaviour. I had to remove her. Not from my life… Just from the group. We will try again next week.

Robbie’s relationship with Faye is complex. He is frequently irritated by her attempts to engage with him, however, if someone else becomes irritated with her, he is quick to tell them off.

I have caught sweet moments between them. As ever, Robbie doesn’t like people knowing how he thinks or feels about a situation, so I catch him off guard ruffling her hair, or cuddling her when she gets upset. This morning, she hurt her hand, and I heard him quietly ask, “Faye, are you ok?”

On the other hand, on the way home today, Robbie rode his scooter and jumped off of it, sending it straight into the pram… With Faye trapped inside. “I just wanted it to crash.” Great.

I’m trying to teach Robbie the language of talking to Faye. If he is in a receptive mood, I will walk Robbie through how to best engage with Faye in a certain situation. He is starting to draw on this.

Faye ADORES her big brother. Today, she is wearing his Sad Creeper top (which he allowed!) and she is desperate to be friends with him. It is both beautiful and heart-breaking.

Faye at her first dance class, before the possession took over

Threads

Robbie making some “crazy poses for you to take a picture of!”

After asking for “a few more weeks off”, Robbie eventually accepted his fate and got out of bed this morning. The key to tricky school mornings is to sweep him along in the routine, bit by bit, so that by the time he realises what’s happening, he has already come to terms with the fact that he’s going in.

I bought him this gorgeous book called “Threads” by Torill Kove. I highly recommend it! It’s about how we are all linked with threads of love as we move through life.

We read it for the first time yesterday, and Robbie ran to the window to look outside and “see the threads.”

This morning, Robbie sat and read the book to himself. I asked, “Robbie, what are the threads?” He said “they are how we are all connected through love. I’m connected to you and Daddy.”

“Erm, what about Faye?”

“Only when she’s good. When she’s bad, the thread bounds off through the cosmos.”