“Mom, I have something to tell you that happened today.”

This is the after-school greeting that requires me to both gird my loins and maintain an air of tranquility at the same time. All before five o’clock, which just goes to show life isn’t fair. Confessions that follow such statements should really hold off until one glass of wine, but, what do you do?

“Some boy was making fun of me in the bathroom. He called me an idiot, a dummy, and a geek.”

I knew that was coming. Take it in, Heather. Breathe. Stay calm.

I’m not sure what it says that the process of taking it in, staying calm when finding out my son is being teased is pretty easy now. Does it mean I am one step closer to becoming a swami?  Or that my son has been picked on enough that it’s just becoming…nothing to get upset over again?

I’m walking a tightrope here, you know. I want to show my son that I care about what happens to him and that this isn’t the right way to treat people, but I don’t want to add dramatics to an already hurtful event. Also, it’s hard to teach your children a “eh, fuck you, too” societal attitude if your busy with histrionics.

The more I walk down this out-of-the-box mothering path, the more I realize the importance of teaching my quirky son how to mentally flick the bird to Them, with “Them” being define as the asshats of the world.

But in order for me to teach him how to not let them get to him, I have to learn how to not let them get to me. So basically I must learn to part the Red Sea, OMG, I’m a mother! With a protective bear inside of me! That has rabies! And I will eat your obnoxious young if they dare hurt my precious cub!

Breathe. Stay calm. Breathe.

“So this boy called you an idiot, a dummy, and a geek. Is that right, Payton?”

“Yes.”

“Are you dumb or an idiot?”

“No.”

“Absolutely not. I don’t know about you, but I question the intelligence of anyone who calls you dumb. Who’s really dumb here?”

“Yeah! Who’s the dumb one? Not me! Hahahaha!”

“And he called you a geek too?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you thank him for it?”

“Thank him?! No, why would I do that, he was mean!”

“Yes, he was, but did you know, Payton, that geeks usually grow up to be rich adults?”

“Really?”

I could see the spark of interest flame to life. He does love money.

“Oh yes. The richest man in the world was a computer geek as a kid.”

“Who?”

“Bill Gates. He’s the richest man in the whole world. Worth billions of dollars.”

“Billions?!”

His excitement charges the air around us.

“Yep, billions. He could probably spend every waking moment spending his money and still not spend it all before he dies, that’s how rich he is.”

Eyes grow bigger.

“How much money does he make per second?” Payton asked.

And because I am Swami Shake-Shake who looks for teaching moments everywhere, we figured out how much Bill Gates makes per second. And tada! Both a spiritual and mathematical lesson all in one.

We figured out an approximate number and Payton began jumping up and down in excitement for geeks.

“So Bill Gates was a geek, became the richest man in the world, and now he uses his money to help charities. I dunno, Payton, it sounds like geeks are pretty cool to me.”

“Yeah, they are!”

“High five for geeks!” I said, and held my hand up in the air.

“High five for geeks!” He high-fived back at me.

Next time someone calls him a geek, Payton said he’s going to thank them for it.

Maybe this is the right way to handle it. I certainly don’t want to have stuck in my mind that teasing and name-calling is something Payton will always have to deal with as a kid and I better teach him the right way to deal with it, because self-fulfilling prophecies and all that. I don’t want to create that reality.

But on the other hand, as a human, I can be objective enough to see how Payton stands out from others, and it’s not all because he inherited his mother’s good looks. I’ve volunteered enough at their school to know that other people’s kids are assholes. Wait, did I say assholes? I meant to say…yeah, I won’t put up false pretenses. I meant assholes. Some. Not all. I’ve seen enough at school to know how it goes.

So maybe it is better that I take a different approach than Mama Bear and teach him how to turn the hurtful words around.

At least until he’s an appropriate age that I can teach him how to flick the bird.

(I kid, I kid! Sort of.)

Alternative title: I Bet No One Encourages Me To Homeschool After This

Me: Okay, Payton, it’s time to practice your multiplication tables.

Payton: groan

Me: What was that? You said it’s your life’s deepest wish to scoop the litter box and clean your brother’s room before we practice multiplication? Fine by me!

Payton: Hey, I didn’t say that!

Me: Oh, ok. Then we can start.  6×6 is?

Payton: 36!

Me: 7×6 is?

Payton: 42!

Me: 7×3 is?

Payton: Um. Um. Um. I can’t remember that one.

Me: Huh. Well, let’s see how we can make it easier to remember. How about this: 7 times 3, drinks on me!

Payton: What does that mean, “drinks on me”?

Me: You say “drinks on me” when you are buying everyone a round of drinks at a bar. And we know you have to be 21 to buy alcohol. So 7×3, drinks on me = 21!

He hasn’t missed that particular multiplication problem since.

No DNA test is needed to verify that is my boy.

For those of you who come to my blog for lighthearted humor over marital laundry rules or comebacks to anti-feminist Super Bowl commercials, I’m sorry, this post is not for you. Or maybe it is. Who am I to say you won’t click away from this entry without gaining something from it?

But as I sit down to write this, I’m thinking of the other moms of quirky kids who read my blog; all three or four of you. Or maybe there are more (I hope) of you lurking, which is FINE. (Although my blogging ego loves a comment so if you ever feel inspired to say hey, I’m out here too, go for it.)

I have no other way of connecting to other parents like me than here. Even though I live in a city with a greater area population of more than half a million people, it’s as if I am walking among foreigners, speaking a language they don’t understand.

If I spoke in terms of sensory integration disorder, pervasive development disorder, social impairment, Aspergers, disorder, dysfunction, disorder, disorder, I would speak a language recognized by many different support groups and networks where I live.

But since I speak of giftedness, creativity, multiple intelligences, higher meaning, introversion, and intuition, my words tumble to the ground, seen but not heard, and then swiftly erased by the herd as it stampedes around me.

Oh no, my alien dialect done spooked the herd!

I know there has to be other moms here like me, others I could relate to and share and vent with. But I think we’ve been trained by society to keep our mouths shut. The strange looks that imply you’re in denial, the blank look that says okaaaayyy, the heated disagreements with professionals, the number of times we have to defend our kid, only to do it again and again and again.

I rarely share my perspectives on raising a quirky kid to people in real life any more. Hell, I rarely share that my kid is somehow different than typical. I can’t share his uncommon gifts without appearing to brag. I can’t share his unique challenges without being put under the microscope.

I don’t suppose parents like me were ever really able to talk about these things much, though now with the hysteria over any deviation in childhood development, it feels harder. I wish I could go back and take away every discussion I had with a doctor about his out-of-control temper as a toddler, his hypersensitive hearing, his hypersensitive touch, his appearance of social withdrawal, his obsession with hot wheels/Thomas the Train/sharks/marine science. Would their ignorance be my bliss?

Even though I have learned all of those traits are characteristics of gifted children and have gained a new (and different) understanding of how those traits actually work together for the gifted child’s higher good, my hours and hours of research, my self-taught knowledge doesn’t matter. At least to professionals. All they see is what they are trained to see – disease and dysfunction.

I don’t want to defend again (and again and again) how my son doesn’t have Aspergers, or sensory integration, or ADHD, or what the fuck ever the media wants to obsess over that week.

There are a select few people in real life, maybe two or three, that I’ll share the special parenting challenges I face, bounce off my ideas, ask for advice, or even just vent to.

For the rest, I try to pretend to be your average parent.

I’ve learned most people aren’t open to alternative ideas that differ from conventional understanding. I should have clued in when pregnant and people discovered one way or another (okay, mostly because I was mouthy) that we weren’t planning to circumcise our son. It didn’t matter if I explained the thorough research we did before making the decision. It was still received with odd looks, even looks of disgust, the questions of why, he’ll look different than other boys, etc.

Oh, if they only knew how different he would turn out to be as a human being, his foreskin the very least of it.

So I continue building a reservoir inside myself. Hope springs eternal, so they say. For me, it springs internal. I retreat into myself, my home, and my select few people.

I slowly build a collection of books that support my beliefs so I can turn to them and remind myself yet again I am on the right path when the outside world tells me I’m not. Not that it matters to Them that I’ve done my research. That hasn’t changed. But it matters to me, so I do it. I read, collect, read again, collect some more.

Instead of vibrators with beads and knobby shafts, I have a nightstand drawer devoted to print-outs and pamphlets and tidbits of information I’ve gleaned here and there on raising gifted kids. The contents literally spill over when I open it.

That drawer, my bookcase reaffirms my path and helps me carry on. These things are my rosary beads, this blog is my confessional, and my few confidants my ministers.

It is very much like a religion – faith is the only thing that gets me through.

Note: I have NO idea where this came from. I sat down to write a post on when to fire your doctor. And this came out instead. Weird, this little, insecure Heather. I seriously considered not letting her see the public light of day, because really, who is that voice?! Not me! Oh, no, no, no. I don’t have such self-pity moments! (ahem) But then I wonder, if I did let her out, would the light help her heal?

So I’m happy to report there will be a retest on the IQ exam. I’m glad I stuck my neck out and advocated for what I knew was right by my son.

The whole thing was both awesome and weird at the same time. We (meaning me and the people from administration that made my head want to explode) had a meeting yesterday about the retesting. But that isn’t the weird part. The weird part is those people did not have horns, a forked tail, nor warts on their chin!

Strange how face-to-face talk turns everyone human again. Though I admit I did use six cloves of garlic in my lunch recipe – you know, for precaution. Just in case they were vampires out for blood. Vampires are very in vogue now so you must be careful.

I had an hour’s notice about the meeting, which was totally fine since I’m Flex-A-Mom (with garlic!) and it actually worked in my favor since it limited the time I had to stress about being THAT MOM and meeting the very people whom I gave an Oscar-winning performance of THAT MOM to.

(Did I use ‘whom’ correctly? I can never remember and, frankly, I’m too lazy to look it up. Did I say too lazy? I meant too tipsy. Celebratory cocktails. And I’m lazy. Lazy and tipsy. With qualities like that, who needs a plan for the rest of her life?)

But everyone there was nice, polite, interested in hearing about Payton’s unique abilities, etc. Basically, it was awesome. I credit this transformation to Master Obi Wan, Neo from The Matrix, and meditation sessions.

As soon as the gifted department got the faxed letter from the pediatrician, they were ready to schedule the meeting to arrange the retesting, no problem. In the meeting, the lady (teacher? administrator? what do I call her?) asked if I had seen the letter from the doctor.

Do you mean the letter that the nurse told me would be about three sentences long, telling them the best time to administer an IQ test to my son? No, I didn’t see it.

(passes copy to me)

Letter says:

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah kaljajkl oreadfaj aijlkagjkkjbkadsfl blah blah alagi blah blah i don’t remember adioa4t kljdf 9j blach blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

Blah blah blah blah blahalajl jklf raoiuk blah blah blahoiaur bljoragoui kn blah blah blah oirfbjk ougrj hjjgu blah blah blah aoug blah blah blah touj blah blah blah blah HAS PERVASIVE DEVELOPMENTAL DELAYS blah blah blah.

Um, what the hell? No, he doesn’t. And what does that have to do with low blood sugar and cognitive function?

There may have been no horns, forked tails or warts coming into the meeting, but I certainly grew some right then and there. Doctor-patient conversations over concerns of a possible delay doesn’t translate into a diagnosis.

What do I even say about that other than you mother fucker.

I can’t even tell you what went down in that kick-ass phone call because, you know, HIPAA laws. Someone in this doctor-patient relationship has to follow them and obviously it has to be me.

Needless to say, this doctor is fired. I’m going to pick up the retraction letter and medical records today. I think I’ll bring some tree branches along with me in case I need to display, possibly some poop to throw too. Really get in touch with the Neanderthal vs. primate history.

And after this, I’m beginning to think a witch doctor may be the way to go.

I invite you to take a gander with me down Homework Lane and live an afternoon of my life helping my oldest son with his homework.

FACT OR OPINION

Directions: Read the following passage and use the information to complete the facts and opinions below.

My name is Ishai. I just came to America with my mother and father. In Israel, I lived in a kibbutz. In America, I live in a large city. Just my family lives in the our apartment. In Israel, all of the children lived together in the kibbutz. They were like my brothers and sisters. I miss them, but I like living in our apartment too. I think my daddy likes his new job. He smiles a lot now when he comes home. He tells us funny stories in Hebrew. That’s what we spoke in the kibbutz. I tell him that we are in America now. The he laughs and tries to tell the story in English

Directions: Write 3 statements of fact from the passage. Write 3 statements of opinion.

Me: Ok, Payton, let’s start with the facts.

Payton: *blink blink**

Me: Payton? The facts? Let’s find three.

Payton: I don’t see any facts!

Hmmm, does he not understand what a fact is? They’ve been covering this concept for a couple of weeks now. Obviously he doesn’t belong in the gifted program if he can’t even remember what facts are! What am I doing, fighting for the retest?!

Me: You don’t know what facts are?

Payton: YES! I know what they are. There aren’t any in this story!

Me: How is that? I see facts in it.

Payton: There aren’t any facts because it’s a fiction story! Ishai isn’t a real person!

Me: *blink blink*

I then spit upon his honor and offended his principles when I suggested we pretend Ishai is a real person. I had to sacrifice a lamb at the stone altar in order to atone for my moral transgression, how dare I throw my honesty into the wind and think it’s okay to make up facts about people who don’t even exist.

What do you do when your kid can outsmart the curriculum at nine-years-old?

I called today to reconfirm my reservations at The Betty Ford Clinic. For the teenage years.

There are details I left out in my last post. Details such as the IQ report stating my kid repeatedly asked for lunch and frequently stated he couldn’t work well when he was hungry. Yet they made him carry on.

I left out the details of my 30 minute conference call with the head of gifted programs and head of psych services because to repeat it makes my head explode. But I could sum it up by telling you we played 20 QUESTIONS THAT HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE POINT OF THE CALL.

I can only guess the game was a diversionary tactic meant to work on the weak-minded. However, with Obi Wan as my master, these mind tricks do not work on me.

They brought up things I’m not sure what they had to do with the hard but simple question of why they made a child to continue with an IQ exam when he clearly told them he was too hungry to do his best.

What should he have done instead? Flashed a neon sign and had synchronized swimmers spell it in out via underwater body contortions?

Right now I have a call into our pediatrician (per their request) to get a letter explaining how low blood sugar affects brain function, to explain Payton’s sensitivities to fluctuating glucose levels, they want the doctor to state how often he should eat, etc., blah, blah, blah.

Truthfully, I want to say fuck it.

Being THAT MOM wears you down.

It’s a fine balancing act between advocating for what you know is right and being obnoxious. I don’t know that I pull it off.

I’m torn between trusting the Universe to line things up as they are supposed to be. Que sera sera! Embrace the spirit of John Lennon and let it be! Go with the flow, man, and be sure to wear some flowers in your hair!

There is a reason he didn’t get into the program and it’s for his best interest, even if I don’t know why yet.

It’s been three days and two phone calls to the nurse, the doctor’s office still hasn’t called me back. What is the Universe trying to tell me by that?

Am I being unreasonable about the unfairness of testing a child who is starving for lunch? Despite clear medical evidence proving the effects, am I THAT MOM, the obnoxious one who thinks the sun rises and sets upon the ass of her special little Johnny?

At times like these, I just don’t know anymore. It’s hard to know when to push or pull or when to let the chips fall where they may.

How much do you fight for your child?

When do you say enough?

How much of the system stays the same because regular people like me throw up our hands in the face of asinine bureaucracy and complete lack of sense?

If I hushed my voice, am I failing my child? And other out-of-the-box children that may be like him?

I just don’t know.

In a perfect world, there would be a support group for parents who are raising sensitive kids. Something like Alcoholics Anonymous, except we would actually service alcohol (fine French wine, preferably) because we know. We know that sometimes a glass is needed to take the edge off. And when you’re raising a kid like this, you’re on the edge. A lot. Or maybe it’s just me.

The noise. The headaches. The clothes. The shoes. The pants. The smells. The specific brand of kleenex that won’t break out their face. The specific brand of laundry detergent that doesn’t irritate their skin. The food. The food additives.

I could write my own Eat This, Not That book for quirky kids. Feed him the wrong thing and I might as well write my own version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide while I’m at it. I would title it The Strange Case of Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard and Mutant Food Dye Monsters.

(Shit, y’all, even Mother Hubbard went the tavern to get white and red wine. I don’t care what they say, it wasn’t for that damn dog.)

Hoops, hoops, I’m constantly jumping through hoops. And 9 times out of ten, fine. I jump through hoops. I’m a mom, it’s what I do.

Then there’s that one time out of ten.

If I were to say I understand how people could live in communes and like it, I mean I understand. If I could find a commune of families with quirky kids who didn’t think there’s anything necessarily wrong with quirkiness, the door of the Outside World wouldn’t hit me in the ass.

I don’t care that I would have to commit to X number of hours working the commune garden. In fact, that would be another huge incentive – fresh, homegrown food! With no additives or dyes! And while I draw the line at child marriages (unless you feed my son yellow dye #5 or 6 and then, OMFG, make him someone else’s problem, marry him off now!), I would even entertain the idea of ugly hair styles and homely dresses if I could be with my people.

My people would remind me that I’m not crazy.

That one hoop, gah! It’s not even the hoop. It’s when people dismiss the hoop. These sensitivities aren’t there. Other kids aren’t like this. Why is yours? Prove it. Prove it. Prove it again. Neurotic mother. Neurotic mother who thinks her kid should have special treatment.

Okay, so I don’t know that’s what they are thinking. That’s what I think they are thinking.

But here I am, yet again, proving I’m not insane regarding my child. Would you care to know what issue I am required to prove this time?

That a hungry child can not perform well on a test.

What an audacious theory of mine! A child can’t perform well on a test when he/she is starving for lunch, how did I come up with a radical hypothesis?!

I’ll tell it to you straight, people. I deny my kids food and then surprise them with pop quizzes on long division just to see if it affects their thinking ability.

It’s what neurotic mothers do for fun.

note: I’m not having to prove this to classroom teachers. I’m required to prove this to psychologists regarding IQ tests.

It’s Monday and I have been around people of the male gender almost constantly for nine days straight.  Someone please help de-testosterone my body by sending estrogen, perhaps a little Premarin. Though I would prefer bio-identical hormones over pregnant horse piss, beggars can’t be choosers.

I swear to God, if there is one thing about men that could make me turn lesbian it’s the length of time they spend in the bathroom.

As a result of such non-stop exposure to skid marks, ball-scratching and burping, my brain is somewhat mushy. It’s difficult for me to form coherent much less witty thoughts.

However, I did hear on the radio the other day that consumer inflation has remained steady over the past 25 years, if you exclude food and energy prices.

So for those of us who do not need to eat and live in a cave lit by pine torches and still get from tribe meeting to tribe meeting via a horse, we are doing great!

Don’t you love good news?!

Now for a bit of bad news. Girl Scout cookies are out, if you didn’t know already. Personally I’m bombarded with requests to buy them every where I go but perhaps you have escaped the stalkers. Lucky you.

What I find perplexing is how excited people get when the cookies come out. Have these people tasted the cookies? They aren’t good. I know because I guilted myself into buying a box of Samoas from a friend’s daughter and ate the entire box. I kept eating one after another, waiting for that moment of gastronomic bliss, for the flavor to explode in my mouth, because surely this is what gets people excited about these cookies?

It never happened. Unless you count the taste of cheap chocolate as gastronomic bliss, which I don’t.

I wonder, the next time I’m asked to buy cookies from a Troop sitting outside of Wal-Mart’s doors, can I be completely honest and tell them I don’t want to buy the cookies because they taste like crap?

Next year when I’m asked by friends to buy cookies from their daughters, can I tell them I don’t want to because they taste like crap?

How do you escape the Girl Scout Cookie trap?!?

I think the reason people get excited about Girl Scout cookies is because they can’t escape the trap and in order to preserve their ego, they convince themselves they want the cookies.

I’m determined to escape the trap next year. If only I knew how…

I remember promising drunk Mardi Gras blogging. Apparently I’m a liar. But an authentic one! How could I drunk Mardi Gras blog when I didn’t get drunk at Mardi Gras.

What? What is this Mardi Gras blasphemy?

I know. Please don’t tell. I could never live it down. In fact, I may be barred from our private, elitist balcony if the truth got out and I would have to whore my balcony privileges back through multitudes of chocolate chip cookies given to Wally’s boss.

I guess hitting the very beginning edge of middle age is already taking its toll on me. Five straight days of Mardi Gras parades and I barely got a buzz. I acted all responsible and crap. I don’t think this bodes well for the future. I must need a fun intervention. You may all get together and plan it, preferably one that includes absconding me to a tropical island with sexy, topless cabana boys and fruity alcoholic drinks in pineapples.

On top of the “responsible drinker” role I am now playing, Wally is on vacation this week. That means I’m also playing “dutiful wife” who initiates stimulating adult conversations during our six hours of alone time while the kids are in school. So far we have discussed…

Amendments to one of our sons’ IEPs

Selling our house in the worst housing market in decades

Painting our bedroom

The awesomeness of Le Creuset

Aaaaannnnnddd that’s about it. What the hell do you talk about after almost 17 years together?

It’s like we don’t know how to break out of Parent Mode and back into Couple Mode in just six hours. The half-life of uranium is something like 704 million years, people, and if you’ve ever seen a playroom after 8 kids eat red-iced birthday cake, you know children are more unstable and destructive than uranium. So I’m thinking somewhere around 2.3 billion years are needed to reclaim half of your identity as a couple.

Summary: We are screwed.

Each time we’ve asked one another what we want to do with our six hours of freedom (times 3 days), the conversations rapidly deteriorates into mouth breathing and nose picking. And when I say rapidly, I mean instantly.

And I’m sure many of you are thinking SEX. HAVE SEX, DUH, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

It seems logical, doesn’t it? No kids = mad monkey sex

But come on. SEVENTEEN YEARS, PEOPLE. Seriously. Three months shy of it. And after that long, we’ve done it here and there, we’ve done it everywhere, every way. It’s great, it’s fun. And then what?

It may not be cool to admit that in our mid- to late thirties  sex isn’t the end all be all of our relationship, but there it is. (Remember: I’m an authentic liar) We enjoy it, sure. But damned if we want to run around our house naked for six straight hours, pretending to be a lust-crazed, co-dependent couple who just can’t get enough of each other.

Believe me, we can get enough of each other.

We’re down to our last 6 hours alone tomorrow (Friday), and with us visiting the library twice already, shuttling me to and from the chiropractor and subsequent back spasms, clearly we’ve used up all of our fun ideas.

I have a post-Mardi Gras party question and I hope you people can help me out.

Can you Febreeze your hair? Because, goddamn, mine smells like a bar.

P.S. I’m old. Bar smell bothers me now. Bad. I wanted to use my mittens as some sort of face mask so I wouldn’t smell the cigarette smoke. I tried to do it on the sly, holding my mittens up to my nose and breath deeply through them, but I think all the twenty-something guys at the bar noticed because no one tried to pick me up. I can’t imagine any other reason they wouldn’t try to pick me up. Except the crows feet. Or the stray gray hair. And possibly a wedding ring.

I took some great blog-worthy photos and I had really awesome and hilarious punchlines to go with them, but now I’m (mostly) sober and I totally can’t remember what they were. But let’s pretend anyway!

(IMAGINE DARK BAR PHOTO HERE)

Oh, bahahahahaha! Hahahaha! Watch out, I Can Haz a Cheeseburger, Heather is so funny with her photo captions!

I know! Good times, y’all, good times.

And look at this one!

(IMAGINARY PHOTO)

I can’t believe I did that!

Guess what? 14 years ago today Wally and I got engaged.

Also, my boss discovered some really deep philosophical writings in the woman’s bathroom in the one of the bars. I don’t remember exactly how it went? Something about dog poo and dandruff. It was MIND BLOWING.  She took a picture of it, and believe you me, you and I will have a serious discussion about this profound spiritual statement.

I know you can’t wait.

But for now, I’m going to bed. I’m not even spellchecking or editing this. (yaaawwnnnnn!) Tomorrow is Joe Cain Sunday, which is almost as big at Fat Tuesday around here. Drinking on a Sunday. I still can’t get over that.

Until next time! Which will probably be tomorrow. Because this Mardi Gras blogging has to be organic.