Spectrummy Mummy

Asperger's, Allergies, and Adventures Abroad

Posts Tagged ‘humour

Bye, bye, balloon

with 4 comments

IMG_2806We’d gone to the mall to get balloons for Pudding’s party.  Spectrummy Daddy had another chore to do, so we divided the kids with the aim of meeting back at the balloon shop.  That was Spectrummy Daddy’s first mistake, because with no voice of reason, I happily purchased 28 helium balloons.  You read that right- 28 helium balloons.  And just one car, with four passengers.  I never was good at maths.

But before he got back with the sensible question of how we were going to get them home (I voted for Up style to float our car home), Pudding had

IMG_2844

spied a big Hello Kitty balloon, which just so happened to be wearing the same outfit as the Hello Kitty on her outfit.  With nobody to tell me otherwise, I knew it was meant to be.  I tied it to her Hello Kitty bag so it wouldn’t get lost on the way back to the car.

Spectrummy Daddy and Cubby returned after it was too late to do anything about the number of balloons.  There were so many that I got bored waiting for them to be filled, so I offered to take the kids back to the car while he waited for them.

Which also meant that he was the one who got to look like a clown as he walked through the mall.

We got to the car, I unlocked it and opened the trunk (boot).  Pudding deliberated putting her Hello Kitty in the front, and then I suppose decided that keeping it in the trunk/boot was a safer option, so she carefully laid it down in the trunk.

As I went to help, the car key in my hand stabbed Hello Kitty in the back of the head.  There was a loud pop, then we watched Hello Kitty fold into herself.  Laid out like that, it looked like a corpse in the car, taken out hitman style.  I imagine.

But Pudding didn’t go into hysterics- just calmly told me that we had to fix it.  She’ll make an awesome gangland boss one day.

If Spectrummy Daddy disliked carrying the balloons through the mall, he even less enjoyed trying to stuff 28 helium balloons into our sedan.  We all squashed in, and there was barely room to breathe, which was just as well because you know our voices would have come out like Mickey Mouse.  At least if we’d had an accident, there’d have been extra air bags.

Cubby, ever the master of understatement, pointed out that we had a balloon car now.

Later that day, I’d done my best to salvage the balloon with tape.  Cubby was sleeping, so I offered to stay at home while Spectrummy Daddy went to try a refill of helium.  Of course, it didn’t work.  I’d done far too good a job on my hit.

Spectrummy Daddy knew he couldn’t return home without it, so he tried to buy another.  But that was the last one of that kind.  They only had, of course, an EVEN BIGGER ONE.  So big, it has to have special weights put into the feet!

There was nothing he could do but buy it.  This massive Hello Kitty, bigger even than Pudding, who was the World’s Tallest 5 Year-Old, and hasn’t shrunk since turning six.

He had to walk all the way through the mall looking like Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, and feeling dodgy thanks to the trail of little girls who were suddenly trailing him.  It was, I’m told, worse than 28 balloons.

But he got home, and it was worth it.  This balloon is so big it ‘walks’ of its own accord.  We have to keep it in the safe haven so it can’t set off our alarm.

But big is beautiful- just ask the newest Tallest Six Year-Old On The Planet!

Advertisements

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

December 6, 2012 at 4:13 pm

The Germinator

with 4 comments

If I was a graphics queen, there’d be an image of a Phineas and Ferb germinator right here.  Sorry, all I’ve got is bad puns.

 

I haven’t done a Cubby is Funny post in a while.  Not because he is any less funny, but because there is a whole lot of other stuff going on that pushes it to the back of my mind.  And really, we all need the funny.  It needs to be right at the very front.  Life is just easier with a smile on your face.

Poor Cubby is ill right now.  He has a cough, runny nose, fever and tummy ache.  We’re waiting to go to the doctor in a couple of hours.  Meanwhile, he and I have taken the opportunity to just relax together.  Okay, I’ve taken the opportunity to relax.  He has bursts of hyperactivity, then gets foetal on the floor.  He is only one for cuddling on his terms (he gets that from me!) so I’m begging him to come to me like a needy girl does her bad boyfriend.  This doesn’t appeal to him at all.

What he will do is sit on the sofa with me to watch Phineas and Ferb.  As we watched Dr. Doofenshmirtz makes his latest evil -inator, I asked Cubby what kind of -inator he would make.

A Germinator.

I had to laugh.  Then I wondered, so…is this to take away all the germs that are making him sick?

“Yes…and then SHOOT them at people!”

He really is my boy, what with that sick sense of humour.  Watch out, Heinz Doofenshmirtz, you’ve got competition.

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

November 27, 2012 at 9:37 am

Rage Against the Latrine

with 12 comments

Okay, this post is not going to be for the more delicate amongst you.  I will completely absolve you if you skip this one.  I’m talking about potty-training, and truth be told,  I’d like to skip the whole ordeal too, but it seems to be part and parcel of parenting.

And you know this isn’t the first time I’ve sunk so low: try googling “pretzel potty” and see whose blog is the number one hit.  Yes, I make my family so proud!

So, not to be too specific, earlier this week Cubby did something on the potty that he had never done before.  Full disclosure, he did something on the floor near the potty, but it was close enough, and we celebrated, cleaned up, and celebrated some more.

Unlike his big sister, who is queen of positive reinforcement and seemed to potty train herself, Cubby is much more reluctant.  We were therefore delighted to take this next step.  Cubby likes himself some social praise, so I set to telling his teacher, our neighbors, grandparents on Skype etc.  If our paths haven’t crossed in the last week, be glad.  Be very glad.

So yesterday, he tells me he wants to go again.  Yay!  I tell him we have to upstairs to get him on the potty, because <you-know-what> goes in the potty.

No, Mummy, I don’t think that’s right.”

I think my head did that cartoon-swivel thing.  “<You-know-what> goes in the potty, not in your pants,” has been part of our echolaic background brainwashing since before he was born.  Pudding has said it approximately 17 times a day for the last three years.  She lives by that mantra.  He grew up to that soundtrack and adopted it for his own (in word, though not in deed).  It was even one of his first sentences!

There were many ways to handle this, and of course I chose the absolute worst- trying to outsmart him.

Me: Oh yeah, so where does it go then?

Cubby: In the diaper……that’s what they’re for, Mummy.

Wow.  Yes.  Now the big question is, how am I ever going to come up with a strategy for a kid who is already smarter than me?  I need help, if I’m ever to get him from can’t to the can.

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

June 8, 2012 at 11:03 am

The End

with 5 comments

There is something pretty sinister about disappearing from my blog for a week, only to emerge with a post entitled “The End.”  Anyway, we’d been in the Drakensberg mountains for a week.  For some kids on the spectrum, a change in routine can be hard for them to handle, but Pudding was spectacular for the entire week, which of course meant that her brother had to be the one acting out.  A week without internet access was quite isolating for me, but obviously something about the area suited her well.

In fact, she was doing so well throughout the week, that I began to get concerned about how she might react to returning home.  I had a couple of talks with her about the fact that her holidays were coming to an end, but she didn’t seem too perturbed.  Finally we got to Saturday: the day we were driving home.  I’d already packed her toys away, so Pudding was busying herself by drawing pictures in the condensation on the windows.

Before long, she became frustrated.  What she sees in her mind’s eye never translates well enough to paper, or glass in this case.  She so loves art and drawing, that her fine motor difficulties are at odds with her perfectionist tendencies.  Several times she drew something on the window, only to rub it away moments later.

Pudding: Mummy, help me!

Normally I love that she will actually ask for help instead of getting angry about something that is challenging.  Normally.  But not when it comes to drawing.  If she finds it hard to translate an image, it is even harder for me to decipher.  I’m neither an artist nor a visual thinker, so my efforts rarely turn out the way she wants.  A week earlier she’d been trying to draw a shower, or a series of showers for different people (Hello Kitty’s shower, Cubby’s shower, Jimmy’s shower) and it had taken a while to produce something satisfactory.  n the end I’d drawn a very similar shower with different colours to denote the ownership.  I was glad that I got there in the end, but it took repeated efforts.

On the morning of our departure, I didn’t have sufficient time to devote to the craft.  I hoped against hope that she would ask for something simple that I could easily reproduce.

Me: Okay, quickly- what would you like for me to draw?

Pudding: The End.

Oh.

I racked my brains.  Was she referring to the end of her vacation, in which case some suitcases and a car might depict her commission.  Or, picking up on her inflection, does she really mean for me to draw The End?  And what in the universe would that look like?  Why is my five-year-old an existentialist?

After a few seconds of looking like a goldfish, I thought of a solution.  This wasn’t so different from Hello Kitty’s shower.

Me: Okay, but you have to tell me- what colour is The End?

Her turn to be the goldfish.  What was I doing talking about colours when we were drawing with our fingers?  In fact, she still hasn’t answered me, and she let me go about my business of getting our things together.  I’m not fool enough to think this is over yet, but I do have a reprieve.  At least until she comes up with a colour for me.

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

February 7, 2012 at 9:00 am

Swimming in the Rain

with 5 comments

I like the weather here.  It is warm, intense, and dramatic- just like Pudding.  On Sunday we were in the pool, as we have been most days since she started to swim.  After some time, Cubby tired and Daddy took him upstairs for a nap.  We stayed in the pool, and after a little while, the weather suddenly changed, as it is wont to do here.  The blue skies turned grey.  There was a good chance there would be a storm, as there are most days here in the summer.  The African Storm is much more ferocious than any I’ve witnessed before, but they tend to blow over quite quickly.

It takes pretty dramatic weather to get Pudding out of the pool.  In fact, even with loud claps of thunder, and lightning illuminating the sky, Pudding would just keep wallowing in the pool if I didn’t reinforce bribe her to get out of there.  I felt the first drops of rain, and mentioned this to Pudding.  She wasn’t buying it.

Me: Yes, look, it is raining now.

Pudding: No!  No!  Not raining yet!

The drops get bigger, until she can no longer deny it.

Pudding: Look, Mummy, look at the rain on the pool.

Me: Yes, shall we get out now?

Pudding: No.  Mummy, we need a [sic] umbrella!

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

January 16, 2012 at 3:25 pm

Flat Pack

with 12 comments

A marriage has to deal with many challenges.  Couples who live an expat life away from their support systems have larger difficulties to face.  And special needs parents?  I’m sure you’ve read the scary statistics by now.  These things, however, pale into comparison with the largest threat to my marriage: flat pack furniture.  All the problems converge in one messy Sunday afternoon.  And the worst of it is, it is usually my fault.  Just don’t tell the husband that.

I hate flat pack furniture.  Yet somehow, wherever in the world we live, I’ll suddenly find a need for, say, a desk.  The next thing I know, we’re flat packing.  In an ideal world, of course, we’d be buying expensive hand-crafted well-made furniture.  But here we are, lining the pockets of Swedish stockholders.  Somehow, I forget what a threat this stuff is, and I go ahead and purchase it.  If I thought about it, I’d recognize that the computer/TV/clothes can go on the floor, and that would be a whole lot easier.

So, yes, my fault.  We needed something to put the TV on.  While our house is furnished by the US Government (thank you, Uncle Sam) they didn’t provide something for the TV, and we didn’t bring one.  We found one we could afford, forgetting the fact that we pay the price in other ways.  After getting Cubby to take a nap, and providing a tactile activity to occupy Pudding, Spectrummy Daddy got to work…and there is our first problem.

Rambo with a drill.

You see, in our marriage, we don’t go it alone.  We share our problems or difficulties and find a way to work through them together.  But flat pack furniture comes into the house, and the husband goes all Rambo.  He makes it clear he is working alone.  Sigh.  I busy myself as I hear a fair amount of groaning and cursing.  At some point, he will go to get an electric drill, and this is when I transform into the unhelpful nagging wife.  There shouldn’t be any need for a drill, I think.  I’ll go and pester him to find out what is going on.

What the heck is this? And why is it left over?

I’ll find Rambo at the scene of a massacre.  There are dowels, screws, and those things that I don’t know the name of, but are the bane of my furniture fixing life.  Bits of wood everywhere.  At this point, Rambo has given up on the instructions.  He has given up on the suggested tools, and is looking for something like “wood nails” or “drill bits.”  Eek.  I decide he needs help.

Here is problem #2.  There is a decidedly male/female division as to the notion of helping.  For him, it would be bringing a cool beverage and keeping everyone (including me) far away.  Instead, I like to say things like, “This just doesn’t look right”  and, “You shouldn’t have done that.”  There will be more swearing.  I’ll go to the discarded instruction manual and try to make sense of it.  The problem is, I’m just not  a visual thinker.  In order to flog these things to as many gullible souls as the flat pack empire stretches, they use pictures instead of words.  Worse than that, they are 3D.  I don’t do dimensions.

Eventually, I’ll decide to just do whatever I’m told.  We’ll try to put a piece on, and it will jut out, or just not line up.  Rambo will kick at something, and I’ll be glad we don’t have a pet.  We’ll take the whole thing apart and start again.  One of us will question the decision to go through this again, and wonder whose fault it is this time.  I’ll keep quiet about the fact that it is my fault, even though we both know my silence speaks volumes.

Cubby wakes up from his nap.  Not content to just add his own whines and shrieks to the mix, he has to find the most annoying toy we own, and

caterpillar cacophany

bring it right there next to Rambo’s exploding head.  This time it was a game I call The Very Annoying Caterpillar.  I bought it because it game with tongs for practicing fine motor skills, but both kids just like to press the button to make the stupid thing dance to the most irritating carnival muzak, and place the little balls in every corner of every room in the house.  And outdoors too, for good measure.  If I attempt to turn the thing off, or take it away, he will add screaming to the cacophony.

I’ll go to make dinner, pretending not to notice the sigh of relief as I leave the room.  I must leave him with sound advice, however, because upon my return the construction is going much better.  Eventually the whole thing will be finished, and I’ll stifle the urge to ask about the leftover screws, preferring to let the worry of them fester in my too-full brain.  Rambo will leave, and a mild-mannered diplomat will take his place.  An unsupervised Pudding has made her way into the games cupboard, and emptied it off its contents.  Because it is all too fresh, I’ll think twice before voicing my desire to have a piece of furniture to store that stuff properly.

In the end, we have a new TV stand.  And a marriage still in tact.  Which is just as well, because I wouldn’t want any of this furniture in the divorce settlement.

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

October 18, 2011 at 2:28 pm

amuse-bouche

with 9 comments

Our family finds it quite easy to see the funny side of life. It helps when Pudding and Cubby are frequently hilarious. My Facebook page features one of their gems almost every day, in fact, unless I manage to write them down, I forget half of the spectacular things they come out with . A little humour keeps us on an even keel, and encourages us to keep going on during tough times. But in our house, it has become even more than that.

The kids adore being silly, though strangely, Cubby hates to be called silly, and feels the need to assert that he is funny instead. They love it when we laugh, and once they find something that makes us giggle, they keep going with it. I’ve spent a lot of time with Pudding trying to get her to engage, so I love this role-reversal.  It develops both her communication and social skills, and all I have to do is enjoy it.

What often happens, is that one of the kids will do something that makes us giggle, then the other will try it, and then they up the ante to get funnier and funnier. It turns into a kind of competition for our amusement. On these days, I’m so grateful that they are siblings. They can spur each other on in a way that we as parents could never do, and all we have to do is sit back and laugh.

I’m not doing a great job of explaining their interactions, so here is an example from this weekend to illustrate my point.  Spectrummy Daddy had made a Tex-Mex feast for lunch.  The kids were eating tortillas, and they thought their bite marks made interesting shapes.

Pudding: That’s a moon!

Cubby: That’s not a moon, it’s a circle.

Pudding: It’s not a circle, it’s a ‘O’.

Cubby: It’s not a ‘O” it’s a ‘J’.

Pudding: It’s Hello Kitty.

Cubby: It’s a kangaroo.

And just when you think the bite-shaped tortilla can’t become any more surreal…

Pudding: It’s a petrol station!

Where do you go from there?  Well, if you’re Cubby, you take a small piece of the tortilla, place it on your knee, and say, “Mummy, I’ve got  a band-aid on my boo-boo.”

Who could help but not laugh?  This is a kind of family therapy, of the very best kind.

This post was written for S-O-S Best of the Best Edition 11.

https://i0.wp.com/sos-research-blog.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/BoB11.png

Written by Spectrummy Mummy

October 13, 2011 at 7:44 pm