The last slice of cake, the last slice of pie, the ice cream served in one bowl: at first, the ability to allocate my portions from theirs was part of their divine rights of parents, and I more or less accepted this. At five, my parents began permitting me to choose which dish was mine. The slices of cake were always disappointingly similarly sized, so this didn't change a lot, but I enjoyed the power.
I distinctly remember my dad sitting me down on the floor with a slice of cake and two plates. "Today's your turn to divide the cake, and I choose." I set a very small portion on one plate, and left 70% of the cake on another for myself. He began reaching, very slowly, for the larger plate, eyes locked on it, wordlessly explaining in no uncertain terms what was about to happen. I scowled, "Let me try again."
When Isaac was three and old enough to express his interest in cake, it was my duty as the six-year-old to divide the cake and let him select. Isaac was not the same sort of opponent as my parents. At first he could be tricked by putting the smaller portion near him, and after a few rounds of that he could be tricked by my pretending to hide the smaller portion from him and acting like it was somehow better. Just as they later did when the addition of Firefly lead to kickback and collusion dynamics, the divider was severely punished for such dishonest play. Rules emerged: plates had to be equally presented, divisions were final once the first person took a plate, choosers could only select a plate for themselves, and all games were discrete instances: debts incurred in one game couldn't be repaid in another.
It was a long while before Issac was ready to play as the divider, but one day my parents informed me he was. A long bar of brownies was placed on a plate, and my brother pulled off a small square from the end and put it on the second one. I grinned and reached for the larger one as my brothers face scrunched up in a scowl.
"That's not fair."
"It's the rules."
Isaac sighed, annoyed, "You're suppose to want the little one!"
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Eighths
When my brother was young he lacked the insight that other people were people too. When he hurt himself he caused himself physical pain which his body told him was bad. When he caused physical pain to others it did not hurt him. Thus, his mind never added up that it was bad.
This resulted in a two year old child who would grab a fist full of hair and pull it as hard as he could to get your attention. From a standpoint of a logical human who completely lacked empathy this was a very effective tactic: all his mind saw was the cause and effect that causing people pain would promptly get their attention. I understood that there would be strict penalties to hitting my brother, so I didn't, and so in my brother's perception there were no negative consequences to this action.
He and our dog, a very mild mannered part German Shepard part yellow lab, had the same favourite beanbag chair. This was a major source of inconvenience for Issac who frequently wished to remove the dog from the chair so he could use it. Issac would toddle up and begin kicking the dog, pulling on its ears, and yanking on its tail until she got up and left. The dog tried to express her dislike of this procedure politely by growling and snarling but my brother blew past these warnings for the same reasons he had no problem pulling my hair or hitting me. One day the dog simply decided to not put up with it anymore. She lept up and with a single paw the 60 pound dog swatted my two year old brother to the ground. She used the paw to hold him there and began gnawing on his hair, moving across his scalp like she might clean a puppy's fur. My brother howled and screamed but was unable to escape until the dog finished. At that point he lay bawling on the floor completely overwhelmed and baffled with what had just transpired. That was the day he learned that there were other things in the world which felt pain, that the rest of the creatures in the world were a little more than moving scenery. The dog served as his best friend well into my college years when it died.
This resulted in a two year old child who would grab a fist full of hair and pull it as hard as he could to get your attention. From a standpoint of a logical human who completely lacked empathy this was a very effective tactic: all his mind saw was the cause and effect that causing people pain would promptly get their attention. I understood that there would be strict penalties to hitting my brother, so I didn't, and so in my brother's perception there were no negative consequences to this action.
He and our dog, a very mild mannered part German Shepard part yellow lab, had the same favourite beanbag chair. This was a major source of inconvenience for Issac who frequently wished to remove the dog from the chair so he could use it. Issac would toddle up and begin kicking the dog, pulling on its ears, and yanking on its tail until she got up and left. The dog tried to express her dislike of this procedure politely by growling and snarling but my brother blew past these warnings for the same reasons he had no problem pulling my hair or hitting me. One day the dog simply decided to not put up with it anymore. She lept up and with a single paw the 60 pound dog swatted my two year old brother to the ground. She used the paw to hold him there and began gnawing on his hair, moving across his scalp like she might clean a puppy's fur. My brother howled and screamed but was unable to escape until the dog finished. At that point he lay bawling on the floor completely overwhelmed and baffled with what had just transpired. That was the day he learned that there were other things in the world which felt pain, that the rest of the creatures in the world were a little more than moving scenery. The dog served as his best friend well into my college years when it died.
***
Brown on one side, black with white spots on the other. I was wrapped from head to toe in this blanket with a portion of it looped up over my head like a hood. My mother lay in a large bed and next to her was a small bedside table with white sanitary plastic walls around the top.
"You want to see him?" my maternal grandmother asked.
"Mmm!" I said, extending both arms in a y above me as my way of asking to be picked up.
She picked me up and now I could see over the edge of the hospital crib. There was something small ugly and pink in it. "See?" grandma asked, "there he is!"
"Mom says we'll be best friends for our whole lives," I recited.
"That's right," grandma said.
"How long before we can play T-ball and tag?"
Grandma laughed a little, "not so long, but you'll have to be patient."
As it turned out my brother needed significantly more patience than anybody had anticipated. Even after he started preschool a firetruck or an ambulance driving within earshot would cause him to dissolve in a fit of tears on the floor from sensory overload. Any game which involved coordination was almost entirely out of the question, as a matter of fact his motor skills were so poor that my dad use to give him candy to practice playing catch with him in the back yard. When this failed to provide results he was sent to physical therapy.
Perhaps it was because my parents were at that age too busy for me or perhaps its because I have always been an attention whore but I remember being terribly jealous of my brother for getting to go to physical therapy. In my eyes it seemed like my brother randomly recieved the undivided attention of an adult for several hours a week for doing mind-numbingly easy tasks. Sometimes the therapist would meet us at a park and I would be told to go play while they worked, but sometimes I was permitted to stay and watch quietly. I remember watching him being handed playing cards back and forth and them discussing them. I remember them not even throwing and catching a ball but sitting down and rolling it back and forth to each other. Once or twice being I was permitted to play too. I blew through all the games, only to find that doing so did not result in candy or being lavished with praise and that it made my brother cranky and jealous of my progress. Once I went with my dad to pick him up from physical therapy and I remember being green with envy. Everywhere as far as I could see were giant balls to play on and large foam structures to climb on like at gymnastics class. It looked like the ultimate playground. My brother wandered out looking very tired.
"He did a great job today," the therapist said.
"That's great," my dad said, "Issac, you can choose what we have for dinner tonight."
"Pick soup!" I said as I ran up to the nearest foam toy and begin climbing on it.
"Now Pika," my dad said, "your brother worked very hard today and its his...Pika! Pika get down from there! You're not allowed up there!"
It all seemed so horrendously unfair.
"You want to see him?" my maternal grandmother asked.
"Mmm!" I said, extending both arms in a y above me as my way of asking to be picked up.
She picked me up and now I could see over the edge of the hospital crib. There was something small ugly and pink in it. "See?" grandma asked, "there he is!"
"Mom says we'll be best friends for our whole lives," I recited.
"That's right," grandma said.
"How long before we can play T-ball and tag?"
Grandma laughed a little, "not so long, but you'll have to be patient."
As it turned out my brother needed significantly more patience than anybody had anticipated. Even after he started preschool a firetruck or an ambulance driving within earshot would cause him to dissolve in a fit of tears on the floor from sensory overload. Any game which involved coordination was almost entirely out of the question, as a matter of fact his motor skills were so poor that my dad use to give him candy to practice playing catch with him in the back yard. When this failed to provide results he was sent to physical therapy.
Perhaps it was because my parents were at that age too busy for me or perhaps its because I have always been an attention whore but I remember being terribly jealous of my brother for getting to go to physical therapy. In my eyes it seemed like my brother randomly recieved the undivided attention of an adult for several hours a week for doing mind-numbingly easy tasks. Sometimes the therapist would meet us at a park and I would be told to go play while they worked, but sometimes I was permitted to stay and watch quietly. I remember watching him being handed playing cards back and forth and them discussing them. I remember them not even throwing and catching a ball but sitting down and rolling it back and forth to each other. Once or twice being I was permitted to play too. I blew through all the games, only to find that doing so did not result in candy or being lavished with praise and that it made my brother cranky and jealous of my progress. Once I went with my dad to pick him up from physical therapy and I remember being green with envy. Everywhere as far as I could see were giant balls to play on and large foam structures to climb on like at gymnastics class. It looked like the ultimate playground. My brother wandered out looking very tired.
"He did a great job today," the therapist said.
"That's great," my dad said, "Issac, you can choose what we have for dinner tonight."
"Pick soup!" I said as I ran up to the nearest foam toy and begin climbing on it.
"Now Pika," my dad said, "your brother worked very hard today and its his...Pika! Pika get down from there! You're not allowed up there!"
It all seemed so horrendously unfair.
***
"Now," my mother asked my brother as they sat on the floor with a poster of faces and a pile of candy. "Which of these faces is the annoyed face?"
It is a good thing one of my brother's greatest difficulties was non-verbal communication because I didn't do a whole lot to contain my eye-rolling.
It is a good thing one of my brother's greatest difficulties was non-verbal communication because I didn't do a whole lot to contain my eye-rolling.
***
"One eigff of..."
"Eighth," my mother corrected.
"Uh-huh."
"You must work to say all the letters in the words Pika."
I continued to draw on the piece of paper in front of me.
"Pika, are you listening to me? You never use to speak like this. You have gotten lazy recently with your speech. You are copying Issac."
As the days passed my mother found me more stubbornly lazy...and so I found myself sitting in the first day of speech therapy. I was terribly excited. I knew that my brother came here for an hour or so each week to recieve the undivided attention of an adult and then be treated to ice cream by our parents. It seemed that I was finally getting in on this scam too.
The therapist's name was Mrs. Buss. I remember thinking that a funny name for a speech therapist as none of her patients would be able to call her by name until they didn't need her anymore.
We talked for a little bit as she studied the way I spoke, when finally she held up a diagram and said "Now," said Mrs. Buss, "what fraction of the pie is shaded?"
"Three out of eight."
"And how else might you say that?"
"Not five out of eight."
Mrs. Buss was not amused. "Say three eighths."
I frowned. I had carefully learned to dance around hard 's' sounds and 'th's around strangers as I was aware that I would frequently say them inaccurately and I found the new lisp embarassing. As a side note, who decided that lisp should have a hard 's' in it? This seems about the equivalent of making the word "mute" in sign language require a verbal component to it.
The rest of the hour dragged on. Mrs. Buss had sheets of sentances littered with difficult words to say. It was not tiring of itself, but the humiliation of knowing that this sort of thing should be a cakewalk wore on me. For the first time I began to understand what a complete asshole I was for belittling how difficult my brother's physical therapy tasks were.
"Eighths," Mrs. Buss said.
"Eigffs."
"Eighth," my mother corrected.
"Uh-huh."
"You must work to say all the letters in the words Pika."
I continued to draw on the piece of paper in front of me.
"Pika, are you listening to me? You never use to speak like this. You have gotten lazy recently with your speech. You are copying Issac."
As the days passed my mother found me more stubbornly lazy...and so I found myself sitting in the first day of speech therapy. I was terribly excited. I knew that my brother came here for an hour or so each week to recieve the undivided attention of an adult and then be treated to ice cream by our parents. It seemed that I was finally getting in on this scam too.
The therapist's name was Mrs. Buss. I remember thinking that a funny name for a speech therapist as none of her patients would be able to call her by name until they didn't need her anymore.
We talked for a little bit as she studied the way I spoke, when finally she held up a diagram and said "Now," said Mrs. Buss, "what fraction of the pie is shaded?"
"Three out of eight."
"And how else might you say that?"
"Not five out of eight."
Mrs. Buss was not amused. "Say three eighths."
I frowned. I had carefully learned to dance around hard 's' sounds and 'th's around strangers as I was aware that I would frequently say them inaccurately and I found the new lisp embarassing. As a side note, who decided that lisp should have a hard 's' in it? This seems about the equivalent of making the word "mute" in sign language require a verbal component to it.
The rest of the hour dragged on. Mrs. Buss had sheets of sentances littered with difficult words to say. It was not tiring of itself, but the humiliation of knowing that this sort of thing should be a cakewalk wore on me. For the first time I began to understand what a complete asshole I was for belittling how difficult my brother's physical therapy tasks were.
"Eighths," Mrs. Buss said.
"Eigffs."
***
Gilby's standing in the kitchen making himself a meal and so am I. Truth be told, its the only time we see each other normally. We don't have a lot in common to discuss otherwise.
"I've got no problem," he said, "With autistic people just so long as they work and overcome it."
"So, basically, you have no problem with autistic people who aren't autistic?"
"No, they can still have problems, but they have to be trying, and they have to improve. If that happens, well they're just doing their best..."
"And how will you know how far these people have come?"
"I've got no problem," he said, "With autistic people just so long as they work and overcome it."
"So, basically, you have no problem with autistic people who aren't autistic?"
"No, they can still have problems, but they have to be trying, and they have to improve. If that happens, well they're just doing their best..."
"And how will you know how far these people have come?"
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Que Sera Sera
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
I hadn't heard that song in so long I couldn't even remember where I knew it. The Spanish made me at first think it was from Spanish class in high school. I remember Mr R (God, he was so nice to me, and I can't even remember his name. Apologies Mr. R.) saying it from time to time and me privately rolling my eyes. I was always more of the philosophy that I'll make whatever I need to happen happen, that just sitting back and taking life as it came was for people who didn't know how to take control of things and get things done.
Come on, I'd be pretty hard pressed to believe that any of us aren't idiots now, let alone when we were in high school.
Anyway...it still didn't fit. I can remember most of the songs we sang in high school (I have an odd habit of remembering anything which rhymes..."but look at our brother the youngest one / my arm's still a wing cause my shirt wasn't done" from our class play in first grade. If only the translation of kinematic constraints into linear algebra rhymed.)
Anyway, it wasn't from high school.
When I was five my brother Isaac was two. At that time my parents and many doctors were concerned he would never be well enough to attend normal school. He would cry for hours if he heard an ambulance or a fire truck. His motor skills were poor and he was developing slowly. I had no idea. Mommy and Daddy as they were then, had told me before he was born that new babies required a lot of patience and would not be like "the big kids." To be honest, it wasn't until we were both a lot older that I realized there was anything different about my brother at all. I thought all babies were just like him.
What I did know though was that Mom and Dad just didn't have time for the both of us. My parents had planned for enough time to take care of two normal children but my brother's needs were vast and pressing.
Even very simple tasks had been made very complicated between my brother's extreme sensitivity and the well-meant advice of doctors. My mother would lay my brother down for a nap, roll him over like the doctors said to, and he'd wake up, crying. Calming my hysterical brother was a reasonable timesink, and when he finally fell asleep my mom would roll him over as instructed and the system would start again. This process would continue for hours.
Most of my memories from that age in my home are of sitting on the couch at the foot of the stairs and waiting for Mom to come back downstairs so I could use paints or do whatever it was that I wasn't permitted to do without adult supervision.
Eventually my parents decided to start sending me to my maternal Grandma's house. I haven't any idea how often it was, time at that age worked something like this.
1) how long until christmas
2) how long until my birthday
It was probably a few days a week.
Anyway, Grandma was pretty nice to me. I ate a lot of Spaghetti-O's and I learned about how microwaves heat things non-uniformly. I used a small object like an artist's pallet to measure spaghetti...and then would just throw more in the pot anyway because I thought it was never enough. I drank juice out of plastic cups with animals on them that came off the side a little to form the handles.
Grandma brought me along shopping and sometimes asked me what I thought when she needed to choose between two objects. Green was my favourite color at that time. By the time I was in grade school the majority of Grandma's interior decorations were green. She still drives a toothpaste green Toyota.
Every night Grandma would sing to me before I went to sleep. They were old and familiar songs to her, I know "how much is that doggy in the window" was actually a pop hit when she was young, but these are songs which have been mostly forgotten with time. They were certainly novel to me.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother "what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
My mother answered me
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
When I grew up, and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart "what lies ahead?
Will we have sunshine? Will we have rainbows?"
My sweetheart turned and said
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Now I have children of my own
They ask me "mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
I answer tenderly
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Really, its not a bad philosophy for life.
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
I hadn't heard that song in so long I couldn't even remember where I knew it. The Spanish made me at first think it was from Spanish class in high school. I remember Mr R (God, he was so nice to me, and I can't even remember his name. Apologies Mr. R.) saying it from time to time and me privately rolling my eyes. I was always more of the philosophy that I'll make whatever I need to happen happen, that just sitting back and taking life as it came was for people who didn't know how to take control of things and get things done.
Come on, I'd be pretty hard pressed to believe that any of us aren't idiots now, let alone when we were in high school.
Anyway...it still didn't fit. I can remember most of the songs we sang in high school (I have an odd habit of remembering anything which rhymes..."but look at our brother the youngest one / my arm's still a wing cause my shirt wasn't done" from our class play in first grade. If only the translation of kinematic constraints into linear algebra rhymed.)
Anyway, it wasn't from high school.
When I was five my brother Isaac was two. At that time my parents and many doctors were concerned he would never be well enough to attend normal school. He would cry for hours if he heard an ambulance or a fire truck. His motor skills were poor and he was developing slowly. I had no idea. Mommy and Daddy as they were then, had told me before he was born that new babies required a lot of patience and would not be like "the big kids." To be honest, it wasn't until we were both a lot older that I realized there was anything different about my brother at all. I thought all babies were just like him.
What I did know though was that Mom and Dad just didn't have time for the both of us. My parents had planned for enough time to take care of two normal children but my brother's needs were vast and pressing.
Even very simple tasks had been made very complicated between my brother's extreme sensitivity and the well-meant advice of doctors. My mother would lay my brother down for a nap, roll him over like the doctors said to, and he'd wake up, crying. Calming my hysterical brother was a reasonable timesink, and when he finally fell asleep my mom would roll him over as instructed and the system would start again. This process would continue for hours.
Most of my memories from that age in my home are of sitting on the couch at the foot of the stairs and waiting for Mom to come back downstairs so I could use paints or do whatever it was that I wasn't permitted to do without adult supervision.
Eventually my parents decided to start sending me to my maternal Grandma's house. I haven't any idea how often it was, time at that age worked something like this.
1) how long until christmas
2) how long until my birthday
It was probably a few days a week.
Anyway, Grandma was pretty nice to me. I ate a lot of Spaghetti-O's and I learned about how microwaves heat things non-uniformly. I used a small object like an artist's pallet to measure spaghetti...and then would just throw more in the pot anyway because I thought it was never enough. I drank juice out of plastic cups with animals on them that came off the side a little to form the handles.
Grandma brought me along shopping and sometimes asked me what I thought when she needed to choose between two objects. Green was my favourite color at that time. By the time I was in grade school the majority of Grandma's interior decorations were green. She still drives a toothpaste green Toyota.
Every night Grandma would sing to me before I went to sleep. They were old and familiar songs to her, I know "how much is that doggy in the window" was actually a pop hit when she was young, but these are songs which have been mostly forgotten with time. They were certainly novel to me.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother "what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
My mother answered me
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
When I grew up, and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart "what lies ahead?
Will we have sunshine? Will we have rainbows?"
My sweetheart turned and said
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Now I have children of my own
They ask me "mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
I answer tenderly
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Really, its not a bad philosophy for life.
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