I’ve become the person in traffic scowling at the other car with the loud bass. I crankily roll up my window and give them the stink eye. On top of that, I’ve become an avid fan of NPR, mostly Krista Tippet’sSpeaking of Faith.
This new love NRP/hate rap music trait could be a sign of old age. What can I say, I’ve hit the crest of youth and am now on the downhill side. I swear my boobs are sagging a tad bit more than they did a year ago, and I’m sure it’s rap music’s fault.
No, really, the only thing I have against other cars’ bass noise is that it hurts my ears. It makes me want get out of the car and eat rubber hoses off of the radiator, actually. It’s right up there with nails on a chalkboard for me.
And I wonder where my oldest son got his hearing sensitivity? Only, like everything else (including my fantastic looks) he inherited it to the Nth power.
Yesterday I was in the car, listening to Krista’s show. The featured show just so happened to be on autism. I almost didn’t listen to it. As you know, my personal perspective on some of these characteristics doesn’t line up with the autistic perspective.
To be completely honest with you, dear reader, I usually find myself frustrated to the point of anger when I hear the “other” side. I know it’s not politically correct to admit to that, so thank god this isn’t a political (or correct!) blog.
I don’t understand this about myself. I mean, you’d think after months of listening to NPR it would make me more sophisticated, right? Everyone’s voice on NRP is so calm and soothing, what’s there to get angry about?!?!
So I told myself I’ve grown as a person and will be able to listen to people speak of these characteristics as limiting without getting upset.
Hahahahahaha!
No.
I couldn’t listen to the entire show. I guess it’s like a Democrat listening to a Republican, or watching skanky reality TV shows: the differing perspectives spark anger and frustration. But here I am, talking about the show anyway, half heard. I’m kind of an awesome amateur journalist like that.
In the show, Krista mentions somewhere around 10% of people on the autistic spectrum show unusual gifts or abilities in music, math, etc. But, because of autistic characteristics (sensory issues, etc.), they are hindered from applying their gifts productively.
And this is where the fear gets me.
If I don’t teach Payton to handle his atypical characteristics in a typical fashion, he will be hindered from applying his gifts productively! It will be all my fault! The historical blaming the mother is COMPLETELY RIGHT, OMFG!
Tomorrow we’re renewing Payton’s IEP for next year and I planned to go back to letting nature take its own course and reduce his social skills work. What am I thinking?! Do you want him productive, Heather? Or crazy? Fuck Mother Nature, what does she know?!
Doubt feeds on fear. Or maybe fear feeds on doubt, I don’t know, it’s possible I’m getting in over my own philosophical head. But my point is that what once seemed clear and right for my son now seems murky and completely wrong.
The example on the show supporting this idea of hindered productivity was pianist Glenn Gould. Krista states he hated applause, being watched, dressing up for concerts, and shaking hands. She then says he quit publically performing at the age of 32.
Perhaps it’s unintentional, but listening to the show, it seemed to imply Gould stopped performing at a young age because of these “autistic” like characteristics. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It doesn’t really matter.
After he stopped public performances, Krista tells us Gould recorded (in a studio, alone) his most famous and best-selling classical album of all time.
My mind naturally wondered…
How was his gift hindered by his “autistic” characteristics? Didn’t he go on to do his most famous work? Wasn’t he then able to reach more people through the album than he ever could through public performance?
From my perspective, it appears as if everything worked out, as it should.
I fail to see how my son is limited by his unique characteristics, from these traits that set him apart from the typical, and for this specific example, how his sensory sensitivity hinders his gifts.
And maybe I can’t see it because he isn’t autistic, because he does dance this DSM IV-declared line between normal and abnormal.
Or maybe the label doesn’t matter at all and we should stop talking in terms of limitations and hindrance when it comes to these types of people. What is a personal limitation other than what we declare it to be?
Maybe my son isn’t and will not be limited in life by these characteristics because I do fail to see it. There’s that old saying “seeing is believing,” but for some reason I suspect the opposite may be just as true, if not truer.
Believing is seeing.
I believe he was given these unique characteristics because they are somehow meant to serve him in a positive way.
I find a way to extract myself from the mentality of fear and limitation that our mass media and society appears to feed on, almost to the point of gluttony in today’s information age. It’s sometimes overwhelming and not altogether easy to do so. I’m not perfect in it. I try, fall down, get up and try again. Repeat. Repeat.
But I practice believing good will come of these traits.
One day I know we’ll see it.
Note: I have more to say on this show, and another of Krista’s shows. But after two weeks of full-time hours under fluorescent light, the sunshine is calling my name.
The school called today, while I was at work. And I didn’t hear my phone.
Mah baaaabyyyyy needed me! And I was not reachable!
My first case of working mother guilt, which resulted in me eating 3 humongous brownies as soon as I got home. I put every coke addict in the world to shame, I inhaled those brownies so fast.
They called because Payton was having a complete emotional meltdown over the fact he had on the wrong size shorts. His dad accidentally grabbed his brother’s (identical except for size) shorts out of the dryer and gave them to Payton. Payton didn’t realize it either. The shorts are elastic waist (of course!) and he’s so skinny, so they fit just fine.
Except the pocket was shorter.
Oh my fucking god, did you hear that?
THE MOTHERFUCKING POCKET WAS SHORTER! STOP THE WORLD FROM SPINNING!
Since no one could reach me, they called Wally. Wally tried to call me (I’m closer to the school), but I still didn’t hear my phone.
(Hang on a sec. I need to eat another brownie.)
So Wally drove 45 minutes back to the house, then to the school, then 45 minutes back to work. All because someone’s pockets were shorter than he was used to.
It’s sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I mean, what the fuck, Heather? Tell the kid to deal, or you’ll find yourself with a male diva on your hands. Next he’ll demand imported water and eat only foie gras of the highest quality.
Except there is no dealing with it for him. The world does stop turning for him. Everything stops, shuts down, stands still until ALL IS MADE RIGHT.
Yesterday I pulled a working mother miracle and was able to have lunch with Payton at school. Underneath the lunchroom table were three small crackers, crushed up into crumbs.
Oh my fucking god, did you hear that?
MOTHERFUCKING CRUMBS UNDER THE TABLE!
He and I had to sit at a different table; he refused to eat there with three small bits of crumbs on the floor.
Now, it sounds as if I keep a house completely free of dirt, crumbs, and soap scum, and he isn’t used to the sight of imperfection, doesn’t it? Let me assure you, this is not so. In fact, there are rings in my toilets as I write this. There are brownie crumbs on the table.
I have NO IDEA why he channels Howard fucking Hughes at school. He certainly doesn’t object to having a goddamn dead bug collection in his room, various twigs he finds interesting, or rocks, or shells. Why the objection over a few crumbs?
And when I say objection, I mean he lodged a complaint with the lunchroom ladies, made them come over and inspect the crumbs on the floor, began his odd body movements when I dared suggest it wasn’t that bad. But a dead bug collection in his room, including dead roaches, a roly poly, and a luna moth? Totally fine.
I’m not mad at him for the shorts thing. I’m even breaking out of character and not worrying about what the school thinks, a year-end third grader having an emotional meltdown over the size of his pockets. Shit, y’all, this is just life while raising a highly creative individual. They do strange shit. It’s part of the package deal. You can’t have normalcy and a creative genius, that’s insane.
And insane is just what you’ll get should you try to force normalcy onto these types. Whether it’s you or them that’ll end up insane, well, who the hell knows.
What I do feel is sorry for Payton, but I don’t understand why. I feel sad for him that something seemingly so little as the depth of a pocket throws him so out of whack that he can’t take his tests, he can’t do anything but sit in the office and wait for his dad to bring him the shorts with the proper pocket depth.
Having written this, doesn’t it sound like a fabulous idea to stop his social skills work that deals with the expression of his emotions?
I think so too!
More on that & Son of a Thor later…
P.S. I just picked Payton up from school, he immediately related the AWFUL POCKET IN SHORTS story. When I asked what the big deal was with the shorts, he said the pockets were claustrophobic for his hands.
Since taking this second part-time job, life has hurled forward at warp speed. No time for thinking. No time for witty thoughts I could craft into a story. No time for anything than shower, cook, kids, work, laundry, clean, kids, laundry, cook, snooooorrre.
And I’m only working part-time. How do women do it and work full-time? I must be a sub-par American woman. I’m sure I’ll be getting an expulsion letter from the Federal Feminist Club any moment now.
Can I tell you how awesome it is pointing out to your kid how he is weird and turning off other kids with the weirdness? Sigh. Social skills therapy really sucks sometimes. He’s not bothered by it, as far as I can tell, but gah, I sure as hell am. I wonder if I should have done something five years ago to get him into some type of early intervention program. If I had, would I not have to have these conversations with him?
Did I make a mistake?
I don’t know, just as soon as I’m close to concluding yes, I made a mistake, I watch Payton have a long string of completely normal and typical social interactions. Advanced social interactions, really. Outside of school, of course. Because why would he do that at school?
That would actually make mom look less like a loon in denial! That would mean she wins! Can’t have that! So I’m going to sit here during this school assembly and do this body rocking thing that draws derisive looks from other kids.
I finally put 2 and 9,534,243 together and figured out these odd body movements Payton does is actually a physical expression of feelings he is having at the time. Certain feelings manifest in particular movements. Excitement is one movement, feelings of awkwardness/uncomfortableness around people is another, etc.
His therapist says he lacks self-awareness, not realizing how this looks to other people.
I wonder if he just doesn’t give a shit what others think.
This is the kid who questioned (and answered!) the meaning of life at 5, maybe 6 years old. Would ask questions about life after death. Entertains the idea of reality not being real.
I dunno, I guess what he lacks in superficial self-awareness he makes up for in a deeper level of awareness. Is that wrong? No, it’s certainly not. But it seems that superficial level of self-awareness, the one that makes us blend in with everyone else, looking or acting no different, is more valuable.
And hey, I’m not saying I’m above it.
This is the woman who lives in the suburbs in a house that looks just like every other house and mindlessly deals with the conformity, because when she begins to chafe at the neck from the suburban yoke and objects to it, it sends her into a tailspin of depression. She can’t escape it, so she goes along and pretends, quite successfully, we might add.
No, I am certainly not above playing the game of superficiality and being like everyone else. I, too, would like to avoid schizophrenia if possible.
So we’re trying to teach Payton more appropriate…what? Ways to blend in? To express his emotions. Yes, that’s it. It’s about channeling them properly, not about suppressing them. No, no it’s not. I hope.
How do we do that again, channeling, not suppressing?
We got the results of the second IQ test. Weeks ago, actually. I should have written about it sooner, but, you know, NEW JOB. Balance! Keeping nose above water!
Also, what do you say when you have insisted and insisted over and over again AND AGAIN that your child is gifted and that explains the odd and unusual behaviors? When you’ve spent hours caressing your raising gifted children books, worshiping them like the Talmud, practically making love to them in the dark, stormy nights.
And then the test scores come back telling you your kid is just AVERAGE.
OHMYGOD! THE ‘A’ WORD! Who do they think they are? Don’t they know I am a white yuppie with a Mac, and Mac-using white suburbanite yuppies LOVE to have gifted children? The fuck?! It’s a requirement to get into the country club!
Exactly what do I write about that? That my kid missed the gifted qualification by a mere point? That I’ve possibly been a fraud all these years?
Do I set forth all the ways IQ tests can’t measure all levels of giftedness, and in fact, are known to exclude the very children who go on to be imminent adults? Do I shore up my now shaky convictions that way?
At what point do they become excuses?
And there go all of my fantastical delusions, or what are called daydreams. Those ones where I opened up the exam results and saw AMAZINGLY HIGH IQ SCORE, and then did a little I TOLD YOU SO dance on the lunchroom tables.
They’re all gone, gone!
What kind of delusions am I to waste my time with now?
These things came together, along with the events with the pediatrician, almost back-to-back. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t stop and question some of the things the pediatrician both said and alluded to in our conversation.
…it is clear that the mother fully believes in alternative therapies for helping her child.
What I think the doctor was getting at was not about therapies per se, but about my alternative perspective. And he thinks I’m wrong.
He told me he has seen numerous children come through his office with PDD in his 10 years of practice. The implication was Payton is very much like the ones he has seen. In turn, I asked him how many gifted children had he seen come through his office in ten years. He ignored my question, so I assume zero.
But is Payton gifted?
We still can’t say yes, but we can’t yet say no.
It is clear the mother fully believes….
I don’t know what else there is, people, but my belief in him. What else am I to do?
For a child that walks in a shady forest, between the lands of Normal and Abnormal, what else will guide him than the light I shine on him?
I care not so much what I am to others as what I am to myself.
-Michel Eyquem de Montaigne
Welcome to another report in the Quirky Kid Dossier; a collection of posts where I prove I don’t know what the hell I’m doing raising an atypical kid. Then again, none of us parents know what we’re doing, typical kid or not, so we’re really one big happy family of ineptitude veiled in false bravado.
As long as we don’t let onto the kids we don’t know what we’re doing, they’ll never know, right? Fake it ’till you make it. To age 18. Or The Betty Ford Clinic, whichever comes first. (For me, it’s a toss up.)
Today I want to think out loud about WTF Episodes. You know, those times your kid reacts very oddly to something seemingly benign and inconsequential, and you find yourself asking what the fuck?
What the fuck just happened?
What the fuck is going on in his head?
What the fuck is the big deal?
What the fuck do I do about this?
It’s not that typical kids don’t have WTF Episodes, of course they do. But I’m talking Quirky (unexpected! peculiar!) WTF Episodes. The kinds of things where you call your older sister (with older kids) for advice and she’s all WTF? too.
In fact, almost everyone you ask is like, WTF? And the ones who are really deep in their false bravado and offer advice, it usually blows up in your face because regular parenting tactics DO NOT WORK.
I want to share the most recent WTF Episode. We attended an art festival this weekend and since it was very sunny, we told the boys we should apply corrosive acid to their face. And by corrosive acid, I mean SPF 30 sunscreen.
But to Payton’s ears that meant corrosive acid. He got very upset. He strongly objected to having this applied to his face.
“We only wear sunscreen during the summer! It’s not summer yet! I can’t wear sunscreen! That’s for summer and the beach! It’s not summer!”
My first thought to this WTF moment…
Hmm, is this the end of my sanity? Is this moment the one that pushes me over the edge? Is this where I go the way of my great-grandmother, grandmother, and aunt and lose my mental shit? Or the way of my grandfather and become an alcoholic? I do have a strong genetic excuse.
Fortunately, I decide I’m still having fun with this whole “sane” charade and am not ready to give it up yet. So let’s clang a bell and chant together instead…
Omm. Omm.
Now it’s time for action. We are parents and we must fake it to keep up the pretense of authority over the little people!
I attempted the Respect My Authoritay approach.
“YOU WILL WEAR SUNSCREEN BECAUSE I SAY IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.”
My authority was not automatically respected. Apparently he doesn’t worship me as a false god and I have to earn his respect.
I decided the next course was to earn his respect by proving my will is stronger than his and exert it over him, goddamn it.
Oh, haha! Heather likes to play jokes on herself, just to test the limits of her sanity and alcohol consumption!
Drama escalates.
Payton retreats further away from me and my bottle of corrosive acid. I see the fight or flight materialize in his body language, in his face, his eyes. It is like watching a rabbit cornered by a predator; the rabid breathing, the tense body, the eyes full of confusion and desperation.
All because of sunscreen, people. Fucking sunscreen.
Why does this happen?
You know what? I don’t know.
Does it matter that I don’t understand how that happens? That I don’t know why little bitty things can be so traumatic to him, yet he will calmly discuss the idea that reality, including ourselves and everything we see, isn’t real. But his little (typical) brother has no objections to corrosive acid/sunscreen yet discussing the absence of reality scared the shit out of him and he cried for us to stop talking about it.
Can anyone figure that out? Would parent know how to handle such dichotomy? Let me tell you, that shit is not in parenting books.
The only thing I knew to do at that point was get on Payton’s level – the scientific level.
So I took it to a different level. I made shit up based loosely on facts. If mental health professionals can do it, why can’t I?
“The tilt of the earth’s axis are different….sun rays closer…inside all winter…skin not ready for this much sun…sunburn…blisters…on face…scars…gross watery blisters!…doesn’t it make sense to wear corrosive acid/sunscreen and prevent sunburn on your face?”
“Yes, mom, it does.”
And TADA! He acquiesced to my request to apply corrosive acid/sunscreen to his face.
Please, sit down and hold your applause. Just forget about applauding period.
I’m not telling this story to impress you with my mad parenting skillz, so please don’t compliment me on such. If you do, I will voodoo curse you with genital warts. I’m just a hop, skip and a jump over to New Orleans and I will go to a forreal voodoo shaman. Hex finger pinkie promise
I’m not that great. Truth told, I’m an average parent who automatically reaches for the stand-by option. Just do it! Authority! Because I said so! What is the big deal?!
Goddamn, I am such a slow learner. Why do I revert to these common tactics? Why can’t I relate to him the right way on the first try? Why do I forget I’m raising a scientific mind, who cares why this stupid little thing is traumatic, just reach him, for fuck’s sake, Heather!
But I get caught up in the sheer ridiculousness of the objection. I get angry, resentful. Why must I always jump through mental hoops? And over the stupidest things! Fine that I jump through them for the big, or even medium things. But fucking sunscreen, oh my god! Will it ever stop?
Sometimes I want the easy way out. And that’s when a padded cell sounds pretty damn enticing.
All mothers get overwhelmed. That’s not a new problem, and certainly I’m not special for it.
Much like my son, I seem to be able to handle the bigger obstacles that come with raising an quirky kid. I can even handle the medium ones pretty well. But those little odd obstacles? The seemingly benign and inconsequential ones? Oh no, not so well.
Seeing myself in my son, especially the less than desirable traits…I’ve yet to find anything else that helps my understanding than that right there. Empathy and compassion pour out and I feel that I can get my son.
What an extraordinary journey of discovery I am on, this raising a quirky kid.
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.
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.
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 have to say writing out your melodramatic shit and posting on a blog for the world to read must be the quickest way to get over yourself. Not only is it faster than traditional therapy, but cheaper too, which really puts the icing on this turd cake of an economy.
So, yeah. What do I say now?
Did you know I was shy as a child? Painfully so, I’m afraid, “afraid” being the operative word. I was scared of so many things and shyness was the cover story.
Yet now I’ll talk about my vagina on the internet, which should prove you can’t predict a person’s outcome by their childhood personalities, why the hell am I worried about Payton?
The end.
Right? Shouldn’t that be the Oprah light bulb moment when I connect my childhood predisposition to fear and realize I turned out okay, and am in fact very opposite to my childhood personality, now let’s all take a cleansing breath and skip along to a new, carefree life!
If only it were that easy. Is it harder than it use to be, to parent without so much fear? It seems to be growing worse. I could list three examples of how fear has clawed its way into the gut of this generation of parents, but I think the fact that we even need a movement (see Free Range Kids) to reclaim a sense of security speaks for itself.
That being said, I don’t know if we can fully escape the feeling. I’ve tried putting up a false bravado and thumbing my nose at it with arrogance and superiority. It doesn’t work.
I could burn incense, clang a bell and recite positive mantras about Payton over and over, trying to convince my subconscious that my conscious is right and it is wrong. Like a band-aid alone will heal a festering wound?
Maybe this fear thing is simply part of being human. I think all I can do is look at it for what it is.
What sent me into an emotional tailspin with the dwindling of Payton’s interest (gift?) wasn’t that I truly am some over-involved mother whose ego is tied to her son’s achievement. Hello? I’m a blogger and inherently self-absorbed, my ego is big enough on its own, thank you.
I was scared.
What would get the fear churning were imaginary conferences I would have with his future teachers. These weren’t well thought out fear fantasies. Just the vague idea of teachers and administrators asking tough questions about his odd behaviors and me no longer having the gifted card to pull.
That was enough to make me want to prostrate myself on the floor in total despair, getting up only to repress my fear in a glass or three of wine.
As if giftedness is so narrowly defined. Prodigiousness in one subject! Clear mastery in academics! Normal, but smarter, so much smarter!
Oh, what little value we give creative potential. Society wants proof. None of this odd behavior shit without explicit evidence of higher abilities, or else there’s probably something wrong with you!
And this is where I could put on the false bravado and attempt an air of superiority, as if I’m completely above that line of thinking. But let me tell you, the pretending is exhausting. I’m not above it. We’re all products of society, though some to a lesser degree than others. I suppose some are totally above society, but don’t we call those people schizophrenics?
Speaking of schizophrenia, I made the mistake of watching Revolutionary Road again on HBO this weekend. I know, I shouldn’t have, but I do love Kate Winslet. There’s another fear of mine: that I’m raising a child with a predisposition for schizophrenia. I mean, how the fuck do I balance the preservation of a creative mind with fitting in with society without turning him crazy?
See? The scary stories I tell myself?! And they are stories, just stories, not even real.
I have dear readers; readers who are thoughtful and caring (love all of you!) email me with studies or research on Aspergers, showing me the positive side of it. And yes, it’s interesting to hear what these people are doing in their field, how they are making tremendous contributions, etc., etc.
Maybe one day we’ll realize hey, there is this group of characteristics. And, wow, they are precursors to creativity and ingenuity! We don’t want to call this shit a disorder, a lifelong impairment, are we crazy?! We want to call this evolution, progress.
Instead of autism, how about we call if The Darwin Disposition or something? The Edison or Einstein Element? The Marie Curie Component? Because this group of characteristics is not new to the human race, it’s always been there. What’s new is how we think of it.
I cannot get my gut to agree with this medicalization of creative personalities. Frankly, I’m not sure which is actually disordered: kids like my son or our thinking. Seems to me our thinking is the one out of order since ‘dis’ means denoting a reversal, and we all know what order means.
Hell, maybe those kids who reject and tease Payton because he is different are actually the ones with a social disorder. To me that is just as possible, if not more so, than my son being the one.
Who is actually out of order, disordered, in reversal of social order? The kid(s) who wants to do his own thing and explore his imagination or the kid(s) who ridicule and maliciously target the kids who aren’t like them? If we’re going to explore the meaning of social disorder, what the fuck?
But no, those kids are just kids being kids, and my kid is the strange one. And so he’s been targeted, and he is sensitive to even the slightest teasing, subsequently overreacts to it, TADA! There’s proof that he has some level of social impairment.
He doesn’t like mean kids, and since kids are just kids, there are lot of them. So he has very few friends and TADA! More proof of social impairment: the inability to make friends.
(There again, another concept I myself am not above because I get caught up worrying and biting my nails over his lack of friends. Why can’t I accept it? Hell, I don’t have copious amounts of friends. Do I just enjoy having insane thoughts?)
I could jump and down on my soap box and write to remind myself ALL DAY. There are also so many other thoughts, ideas that I wanted to talk about…
They say most gifted kids level out by 4th grade. It’s happening to my son! Why is this? Is this my fault? Or the school, because, as we’ve seen, the system does nothing to support and nurture their gifts. But ultimately that’s my fault too because I sent him to that school. OMG, forget the fear game, let’s play the MOMMY GUILT game instead.
…but my posts like this have a way of taking on a life of their own. Sort of like all those fear fantasies, they just take on a life if I let them.
While in the middle of writing this, Payton was beside me, investigating things with his microscope. I went to his room to look for his boxes of prepared slides and guess what I found way in the back of his supply cabinet.
I’m not even joking.
Not just any label maker, but a PERSONAL label maker. And I found it in the exact moment I was reworking my concepts and fears of labels and disorders.
God has a weird way of talking to me. But I’m listening anyway.
I hope you’ll excuse this detour from my usual flippancy. I know a blogger is supposed to keep within their brand and not confuse their reader – readers need to know what to expect when they come to your site! But really, isn’t that mentality an insult to your intelligence? And shit, people, I don’t do drugs, prescription or illicit, so my feelings aren’t repressed, this stuff must get out of me.
As I sit here writing this, Payton and Wally are in his room, disassembling his saltwater tank. His fish and invertebrates are going back to the store to find new homes.
His bookcase full of marine science books have sat practically untouched for…I don’t know exactly. Four months? Longer? I’ve been pretending it isn’t happening so I can’t for certain.
Last week, Payton and I worked at the aquarium, possibly for the last time. He says he doesn’t want to do it anymore, and while we worked, I could tell he was just going through the motions.
When I ask him about teaching in his old kindergarten class during their week of marine biology, he says he doesn’t want to.
(Over-involved mommy gasping for air here! I can’t breathe! Can’t breathe!)
It may sound silly and trivial. But it seems my marine science boy wonder is slowly fading, right underneath my nose. For reasons I can’t put into words, I want to cry.
I know. I know children’s interests come and go, wax and wane, just shut up, Heather. This is normal. Did I really expect him to keep his passion, his drive, his intense love of the ocean from the age of 4 until the day he died?
I don’t know, maybe I did.
I was so envious (in a good way) of him: To utterly love a subject, to be so damn good at it, so effortlessly and organically. To come alive the way the ocean made him come alive – oh yes, I envied that. I needed it also; to see this boy who stayed quiet and withdrawn in so many other ways transform into a vivacious little soul.
So yes, I hoped probably more than usual that it would stay with him, always. Through my writings about Payton and the ocean, I don’t think I’ve conveyed the true depth of the connection. It was something you had to see with your own eyes.
Or was it only my own eyes, tinged by rose-colored glasses?
Dare I admit that I possibly held onto his gift in marine science, grasped it tightly as a defense against those who test him for this, that, or another: Aspergers, PDD-NOS, ADHD, whatever.
More than possibly. That I have done. It was my talisman against the PhD boogeyman. It was my proof that his odd behaviors and characteristics were part of giftedness, not a disorder.
By god, LOOK at this talent! It’s awesome! Inspiring! Near photographic memory! Such dedication! So promising!
I’m honest enough with myself to know this “proof” of giftedness was just as much for me as it was for the boogeyman, if not more. I don’t know whether it was right or wrong to hold onto it so, but parenting an eccentric child when society expects us to produce plastic-molded children, I needed a beacon of light. Raising a child who falls in a gray area between “normal” and “abnormal,” his unmistakable talent was my lighthouse as I floated through the fog.
Now that black marble of doubt has begun clanking and banging against all the white marbles of assurance I’ve managed to collect over the past five years. Maybe all I’ve done is create the most fantastical ruse for myself.
At Christmas, Payton’s departing hugs for family…I won’t describe what he physically did, but it was really odd. I laughed it off at the time and said, “Oh, it’s the French in him!” But really. Who does that? A nine-year-old should know at least semi-appropriate good-byes!
His hypersensitive hearing seems to be growing worse recently, not better. He flat out refuses to attempt indoor P.E., and certain pitches throw him into immediate fits of pain. He can’t flush our toilet at home without covering his ears and running out of the bathroom. He screams in pain if I happen to close the garage door before he is inside the house.
(Should I even admit these things? Do I take out my talisman and shake it at the boogeyman, ward off the evil? I don’t know.)
He has made no new friends this school year. His one friend, the one who protects him and helps smooth his way through social situations, moves away this summer.
(More gasping for air. The fear! The fear he’ll be ostracized and all alone! Who will help protect him from bullies? No one! How awesome am I to make up stories I don’t even know will happen just so I can scare myself!)
I never told you Payton was tested a year ago and didn’t qualify as “gifted.” At least how it’s defined by the school, if you put stock in that. Which I don’t. Not completely. But I am a socialized creature, so there is part of me that does, however small and far back in my mind. He’ll be tested again this month. Why does it make me nervous?
(If he doesn’t get in again, it’s like double proof you’ve been wrong, Heather. And now you don’t have this marine science thing to fall back on! How will you explain his transition issues, his hearing issues…hell, any of his issues?! The school will think you’re crazy, delusional. Maybe you are!)
His exact IQ remains a mystery and I plan to keep it that way, partly because I personally give less and less credit to the medical establishment. And I don’t believe an IQ test can be a true measure of ability. And partly because I’m afraid of being proved wrong.
Funny how one black ball clanking around changes how I play the game, what I look for, what comes into focus.
It’s perspective, it’s all perspective. It’s done unto you as you believe! Perspective! I remind myself.
It’s not like he’s become stupid or anything. His grades are his best ever. He bugs the piss out of me to learn to speak Russian. I guess I need to hunt down someone for private lessons. No baseball or karate for him, thank you very much. It’s Russian and robotics, ha! In many ways he continues to demonstrate his uniqueness.
I think of all the ways Payton has changed me permanently; not just as a mother, but as a human walking this plane. Even if he never comes back to his intense love for marine science, I will never see the ocean the same again. I will never think of sharks the way I did before, I will not abuse the planet the way I did. I cannot look at the water and not be overwhelmed with a sense of love and wonder, all because of him.
I need to remember this is okay too. Whatever he does, marine science wonder or ditch digger, it’s OKAY.
I need to remember the goal is not acronyms behind a name, or a certain number on an IQ test, or accolades from your chosen field, or even imaginary boogeymen.
Nor should the goal be a plastic-molded life.
Isn’t the goal happiness and joy? And the freedom to explore what that means for you?
He is a happy kid.
I suppose my place is to give him the freedom to explore what that means.
Comments are closed, not because I don’t value your input but because I’m not finished. 1239 words are enough for now, no?
Apparently I’ve become the laughing stock of electronic nerds throughout my city.
See, I’m on a top-secret mission. To find tiny vibrating pager motors. You remember pagers, right? Those things they used way back in the 1980′s, even early 1990′s to alert you that you needed to stop and use a pay phone to call your office.
It’s almost like this top-secret mission is actually an archeological dig.
I found the motors online, but I wanted to see if I could find them locally (the mad scientist is impatient.) So I called a few electronic-type stores to see if they carried them.
“Yes, do you carry vibrating pager motors?”
“Um, what?”
“Vibrating pager motors, do you sell them?”
snort, giggle, laugh “No, we don’t.”
That happened twice just yesterday. I’m not mentioning the reactions I got last week from other stores.
What’s so funny? Is it a woman asking for a vibrating motor, as if I need to repair a sex toy? Because it’s just ridiculous to think a woman married for over 13 years with two kids uses a sex toy enough to break the damn thing. Besides, if after 13 years your man still hasn’t figured out how to satisfy you without the regular use of electronics, your last concern is a vibrating pager motor. Or maybe it should be your first concern? I don’t know.
Or is it the fact that someone is even looking for pager parts in this age of smart phones that I’m being laughed at?
Whatever, though. Laugh away, electronic nerds, I have a bigger and smarter nerd in my pocket. These tiny vibrating motors are for my son who has taken a sudden interest in robotics. He wants to build his own robots. He’s also begun asking questions about dark matter. Solar panels are on his list of required materials too.
So let’s see…dark matter + tiny motors + solar panels + robots= we’ll see who’s laughing in a few years.
Please pardon me while my son and I go practice our maniacal laugh.
Tell me, would you let your kid wear shorts to school when it’s 40 degrees outside, raining, and will get no warmer than 50?
Maybe my Canadian readers shouldn’t answer that because you hear 50 degrees and think, oh, summer! But down here on the gulf coast where our pits stay sweaty 10 months out the year, that’s cold weather.
Well, I did. I let my kid wear shorts to school today. I expect to be honored as Mother of the Year by the school at any moment.
Truthfully, I didn’t let him wear shorts. I actually forced Payton to wear pants at first, and OH MY GOD, I’M A FUCKING MONSTER.
Dressing for school this morning went a little something like this:
walks into hall and sees son pulling on shorts in his room
“Payton, you are NOT wearing shorts today. It is cold. It will be raining today. Pants.”
“Why, you conniving bitch, you have created an early winter just to torture me!”
“What can I say, your father watched football last night and I got bored, so I conspired with Mother Nature to make your life hell. Now wear pants!”
“I can’t believe I have such an abusive mother! No one cares about me!”
tosses pants from closet to bed for son to put on
“These pants are itchy! They don’t feel right! You have lined them with burlap just to make me suffer!”
“You ungrateful turd! I search high and low for pants that will cause the most discomfort. I drive all over town, to dozens of different stores, just to find pants with the highest capacity of inducing agony.”
“You hate me, Mother!”
“How did you guess?”
Okay, so maybe dressing this morning didn’t go exactly like that. For one thing, I don’t allow my children to cuss. When they start paying taxes they may do so, but not until then.
However, I do drive all over the universe, looking for pants to Payton’s specifications: no zippers, no buttons, all elastic-waist, soft material. That was easy when he was in toddler clothes, more challenging when he was in 4-7 sizes, but downright impossible now that he is in boys sizes 8-20. I break down and pay $25/pair for school pants from Lands’ End because they are the only place I can find them.
And this is the thanks I get.
So the ungrateful turd sentiment isn’t false, I just didn’t say it out loud.
I get a call from the school 10 minutes after I dropped the boys off – with PANTS ON. Payton is in tears from the discomfort of the pants. THE SAME STYLE PANTS HE WORE LAST YEAR, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, ONLY ONE SIZE BIGGER.
My mind begins quickly turning over possible reactions. No one tells you motherhood requires you make many insignificant yet important decisions in less than 15 seconds.
That’s just too damn bad, it’s cold, it’s wet, he wore these same style pants last year, goddamn it, I will win this battle of wills!
But Payton isn’t the type who cries to manipulate people. Not when he can just outsmart and outlast them instead. If he’s crying, he’s truly upset.
But, but! It’s cold! And good mothers dress their children accordingly! What will people think?! Besides, not everything can always go his way.
But what about his sensory issues? I can’t know how he feels, and it is real for him.
Sigh
So I caved and took a pair of shorts up to him. HOWEVER, I made him swap his short sleeve shirt for a long sleeve shirt, and OH MY GOD, I’M A FUCKING MONSTER!
“Why do I have to wear a long sleeve shirt?!”
“Because it’s cold and I’m letting you wear shorts, just wear the long sleeve shirt, okay?”
“But I don’t want to!”
restrains self from pulling out hair because it’s the same goddamn shirt style, same goddamn soft material I ordered from the same goddamn company, only in long sleeves!
“Look, son, let’s compromise. I’m giving you the shorts, you wear the long sleeves, I won’t put ground glass in the casserole tonight, mkay?”
“Well, when you put it like that, I’ll wear it.”
Of course I didn’t really threaten the ground glass, but I did have to butt heads with him to get him to compromise on the long sleeve shirt. The same damn shirt, just with 8 inches more fabric.
I don’t know how I stay sane.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a 2 pm Twitter party scheduled with Mother Nature. Look for hashtags #naturalconsequenceisthebestteacher or #mysonisfreezinghisballsoff,Ihope. Feel free to join in.
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
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