Marti Leimbach
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Dinner conversations at my house
 
Nicholas is teaching himself Arabic and insists we go to Dubai. We haven’t managed this yet, but we did take him to a middle eastern restaurant off the Edgeware Road in London last week where he spoke in Arabic to the waiter.

We were a little surprised to discover the waiter understood him and that all the sounds out of his mouth were actually words. We are still delighted at the fact he can speak English, so the notion that he was really learning Arabic came as a shock. He teaches himself by means of a Google translator program that allows him to educate himself one word at a time or type in a short phrase that is translated. Heaven knows how he then learns how to pronounce the words, but I guess he has because the waiter understood him. Our absolute neglect of his new-found talent with Arabic may qualify us as truly deadbeat parents, but I guess his perseverance despite a wholesale lack of support means that he’s learned to be resourceful as well as extremely versatile with languages.

Not that he is entirely out of the woods on the autism front. Far from it. He goes around asking people what religion they are (thanks to the requisite religious education classes he gets in school) and, at dinner, cools his chicken one piece at a time by means of a hand-held electric fan next to his fork. The other night he explained we needed to take Virgin Air to Dubai right away. People do it everyday, he said.

Our daughter, Imo, who is now 13, doesn’t want to use her fork in her left hand. I don’t really care what hand she uses it in, but her father does, so she goaded him in the way that only a teenage daughter can. “Say, Dad, what hand are you supposed to hold the fan with at the table?”

It annoys her so much that Nick gets away with such things. And who can blame her, really? I’m not sure exactly what is going on with her. Though she smiles a lot and is the same good company she’s always been, I notice that since becoming a teenager she only wears black.

“Can’t you wear, you know, another colour?” I asked her once.

“No way,” she replied. “It’s black until they come up with a darker shade.”

At dinner I felt a similar unsettling attitude. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she told us, “to go anywhere in which we are dependent on HIM for translation.”

She is also in some kind of all-out war against my recent change to what I refer to as an “anti-cancer diet.” I realize that many are just as bored as my family by the notion of such a diet, so I’ll make it brief. Think vegetables and fruit and every grain under the sun as long as it isn’t made into bread or crackers or something you might like to eat. No meat. No animal fat. No booze, no sugar, no fun at all. Oh, I should mention now there is no actual cancer. That is, I don’t have cancer. This is a preventative diet.

At dinner, Imo said, "We are eating chicken but you are eating....what is that anyway? Spinach soup?"

"It's actually very filling." I said. "I can't even finish it."

"Oh my God. You can't finish spinach soup?"

"Well, it's not just spinach. It had ginger and onions and....uh...kale."

"If you want to lose weight, mom, just take up smoking," sid Nick. Apparently, this is what he learned at school during an anti-smoking lecture. The only thing, I might add.

"I'm not trying to lose weight, I'm just --"

"Anorexic," said Imogen. "I'm the teenage daughter and you're anorexic"

"When are we going to Dubai? Can I bring my cooling fan to Dubai?"

This was just the beginning. Conversations in my household run along the same insane lines pretty much all the time. I’m sure this isn’t normal but we get to laugh a lot before disappearing into our separate obsessions (mine with books and horses and anti-cancer diets, Nick’s with Arabic, Imogen with her art and her friends, Alastair with cycling and work – and still I have no idea exactly what he does). I’m not sure if everyone these days is similarly obsessed. One day they’ll find the obsession gene and people like us won’t survive a second trimester, but meanwhile, we are enjoying ourselves.
 
Tuesday, February 26, 2008 | 16:55:41
Comment by Judy
 
Isn't it amazing what these kids can teach themselves and how resourceful they are on the net. My grandson one day played 'In My Room' by the Beach Boys...in four part harmony. Never had a lesson, and my son did not even know that M. had ever even HEARD the song...and he had never done much else with his keyboard that was recognizable...
 
Monday, March 24, 2008 | 11:57:53
Comment by Petra
 
I soooo enjoyed your description of dinner, Imo and black - which hand to hold the fan in, etc., I have immediately sent it on to some other 'younger siblings' of children with autism - I am sure they all feel similarly and I do hope that Imo gets a chance to mix with other sibs who are in the same boat... regards Petra
 
Tuesday, June 10, 2008 | 10:56:01
Comment by angel
 
My dear friend. I am sitting her chuckling. I can just hear her saying this about you as you eat your...."soup". If she is anything like you, and I believe she is....i'm just chuckling. Joshua has been talking about you and is excited that we are going to "Marti's house" when we go for the walk a thon in two weeks. That place will forever be your house. I'm impressed with Nic and his Arbaic! Bravo!!!! I love the color black as well...wish I could say because I have this hidden "goth" in me, but really....it's just slimming...and if I could tolorate spinich I would eat an ice cream sandwich in your honor! Have a great week!
 
Tuesday, June 10, 2008 | 13:54:45
Comment by Marti
 
Please forgive me -- I seem to have forgotten to take the "hide" button off these comments. Finally, all is revealed. I am so soorrrrry!!!
 
Monday, June 23, 2008 | 15:39:27
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