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 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.

Life is a personal story.

How are my own labels (aka beliefs) shaping it?

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 hate school
It makes me drool
Until I fill an entire pool.

The teachers drone on and on.
Oops, there go all my neurons.
I think I’ll eat this blue crayon.

Mom makes me go by the clock,
It doesn’t matter how much I squawk.
Now watch me do the Dead Man’s Walk.

“Sit still! Be quiet! Don’t think out loud.”
Gesh, I hate being part of the crowd.
It’s much more fun with your head in a cloud.

Way up there, it’s all so clear.
No one’s there to tease and jeer.
I do not hear the other kids sneer.

Tests! Too many tests.
Kids constantly assessed.
Methinks they are a bit obsessed.

With rules and money and pesky scores,
They turned school into such a snore.
I’d rather be down by the shore.

The waves, the shells, the warm salt air,
The sounds of the sea call me there.
It tells me I am Triton’s heir.

I came to Earth with a mission
And it’s not for me to follow tradition.
Though my mom will swear it’s for sedition.

But no, that’s not my life’s devotion.
I’m really here for the ocean.
To save it from our current notion.

Of waste and want and certain despair,
The ocean’s not a potty chair!
We cannot leave it in such disrepair.

That’s why I’m here, to show the way,
To live to see a better day.
(insert one more inspiring cliché)

But, ugh! That school, that place of drool
Sometimes sees me as a fool,
Because I don’t think much of rules.

School it seems is a one-way track
But watch my mom launch a ground attack
When they tell me to put non-fiction back.

So far I’ve received no standing ovation,
but they have offered up routine sedation.
Whatever. School won’t hamper my education.

School, education, it’s not the same.
For me, school is so very lame.
Nothing more than a waiting game.

But education on the other hand,
Is so fun and very grand.
That, dear one, is how a mind expands.

In spite of school, I will grow,
And no, not into a handsome psycho.
But who knows, I might show those mean kids some judo.

Really, I’ll be more than fine
But not before mom drinks a lot of wine.
So is the life, raising an Einstein.

How do you say “Torture fun for the whole family!” in French? I do worship French things so I think that would be a sophisticated euphemism for describing the social skills therapy we’ve been going to.

I had planned to share our experience on a week-by-week basis, embracing my philosophy of psychological nudity here on my blog. Being a Light-Bearer and all, I want other mothers like me to know all sides of this 18+ year path of raising a Way-Shower. But that weekly synopsis hasn’t happened for two reasons.

#1 We get home from therapy and I just want to drink. At 10:30 in the fucking morning.

#2 I haven’t been drinking lately (I do recognize the point where I could possibly rely on it too much) so instead I come home and promptly fall into a comatose state until selective amnesia takes affect and I forget the entire 45-minute session.

Since I’m 4 sessions behind, let me give you a sort of Cliff Notes version to my memoir, working title – Self-Imposed Sobriety When I Really Deserve To Be Drunk.

Session 1: Info gathering session. Internally grin as if eating Whole Foods-quality shit when son tells SLP how bored he is at school. SLP looks at me and responds, “This is where his teachers should be challenging him.” I hastily don my choir robes and await the preaching.  Internally break apart as son sobs and sobs when they talk about how he’s been teased at P.E.

Session 2: Spend entire 45 minutes trying to convince son to even step into SLP room while he says he can’t take the stress of talking about being teased, stays in the hall and then runs away if we try to approach him. SLP suggests I motivate him with a prize, as if we’re dealing with a true eight-year-old and not a 30-year-old trapped in an 8-year-old body.  Play along with her idea, shout treat offer down the hall to him only to have son reply, “I know you’re trying to trick me, Mom!” SLP looks to me for an answer to the unanswerable question, “What motivates him?”  What motivates a mule bent on non-cooperation? A cattle prod?

Session 3: Son actually steps into room (yay!) but tells me I’m wasting my money. SLP tries to keep things light by discussing making friends instead of the trauma of being repeatedly teased.  This works for 15 minutes before son breaks down again crying, because he’s doing the things she is saying he should do and the kids are still mean to him, he doesn’t understand why. I manage to swallow huge lump in my throat as I hear this through the door.

(In between session 3 and 4: Witness son meeting a middle-school age boy at neighbor’s house where he initiates a typical social conversation, if typical means 8-year-old discusses ideas on same intellectual level as a middle school student. Okay, not exactly on the same intellectual level. A middle-schooler knows almost as much as son, but not quite.)

Session 4: Two words become one – CLUSTERFUCK. See also words: SNAFU, FUBAR, and BOHICA (bend over, here it comes again).

And that concludes the Cliff Notes of my memoir, new working title – Can I Buy Xanax in Bulk?

Is Payton right that I’m wasting our money? I’m beginning to think so. The trauma of the playground teasing is too close to the surface for him. Even I wasn’t aware of the extent of the gaping wound left on him by the taunts, the name-calling, the rejection.

I knew he had been hurt by it. Who wouldn’t be?  But these invisible wounds, how do you know how deep they go? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? How did this happen on my watch – me, the vigilant, protective mother.

I try not to should on myself but it’s hard. I should have been more vigilant. I knew the teasing had been an issue. I should have made SURE it ended.

But I asked him. Many times! Specifically about how P.E. was going. He didn’t tell me. I should have a better relationship with him. I should be the type of mother he would tell.

I should. I should. I should.

I still don’t know how deep this invisible hurt goes. I do know he’s not ready to talk about and relive this.

When he is, we’ll go from there.  Until then, it’s summer and, my god, the kid deserves to relax.

This is your lucky week! I went through my drafts folder and found a ton of stuff I wrote but promptly forgot due to syphilis and never published. Or maybe I did publish it then took it down in a fit of paranoia, which is why it pays to subscribe to my blog. So I’m publishing (or republishing) this one, even though school is out and it isn’t exactly applicable. However, simply exchange “school” for “social skills therapy” and it becomes 100% relevant again.

What does this photo say to you?

Does it say….

A) Jesus, help me!

B) Are you the crazy one? Or am I? I’m just not sure!

C) Give me a drink!

D) What the fuck?

E)  I’m about to eat my weight in cheese-powdered snack mix.

If you guessed all of the above, you’re a winner!

You know how we parents joke about the mistakes we make with our kids and how they can send us the therapy bill when their older?

Pardon me, but I have some very French thoughts on that idea.

FUCK THAT SHIT.

You want to know who should be paying for whose future therapy bills?  Payton should pay for mine.

When I picked him up from school last week, there was yet another note from his teacher. I began to feel guilty for the destruction of all the rain forests, what with all of the notes Payton gets home from school.  That alone is probably responsible for the loss of 5 acres of rain forest somewhere in South America.

But don’t worry! I believe in going green so I’ll be repurposing these notes to use as wallpaper in MY PADDED CELL!

The note said Payton didn’t do much of any of his work.  Of course that’s what it said.  That’s what almost all of them say.

Payton usually tells on himself before I get the note.  His method of confession is, like himself, very unique.  His method is to run bat shit crazy, like a boy being chased by a pack of rabid hyenas, at the sight of me.  That’s how I know he’s gotten in trouble that day.   He comes out of the school doors, sees me waiting with his brother, and there he goes! Bat shit crazy run.

If they had an elementary track team, Payton would be their #1 star because all they’d have to do to get him to run fast as hell is to tell him he’s getting a note sent home from school and then point to me in the stands.

Honest to God, the people at school must think I beat him at home when he does things like this. Except he’s been known to run bat shit crazy from teachers like that too, so yay! I’m not the only child abuser.

As we were driving home, we were talking about the note and Payton was very mad. He flipped his lid that the teacher wrote he didn’t do much of any of his schoolwork.  He said he did some and he wanted to know why he wasn’t getting credit for the work he did do.

“Payton, teachers expect students to do all of their school work, not just some.  That’s their expectation.”

“What about Japanese?” he asked, as if we were discussing what to have for dinner.

Wait for it…

What the hell?  What does Japanese have to do with not completing his work?

I saw the mountain of school work that came home incomplete, and I tried to talk to him about what was going on, but then he spoke in what I swear is Tongues because his sentences made absolutely no sense to me.

This boy doesn’t come and say, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can I have a snack?”

He blasts into the room, acting as if he’s dying and says, “I HAVE LOW BLOOD SUGAR!”  Because, stupid me, I took the time to explain to him how food converts to sugar in our blood and if we get too hungry, blood sugar gets too low it can cause headaches, stress, etc.  And, oh my god, once you give that kid a scientific explanation you can forget ever hearing laymen terms again.

When he’s around my mind is in constant interpretation mode, trying to fit pieces of a Japanese puzzle together, rearranging his sentences so they make sense in the English structure of speech, and deciphering his scientific meaning.

And this is where the payment owed for Weight Watchers comes in.  I’m an emotional eater.  I get stressed or upset and, goddamn it,I need chocolate!  And wine!  And salty stuff!  And anything with cheese powdered coating should legally be considered crack.  Doritos, cheese Pringles, cheese Chex mix.  It’s all crack and I eat it like a crack whore in rehab.

And now the Wii Fit is going to give me hell about it tomorrow morning.  I’m adding that to my list of things to discuss with my future therapist.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if Albert Einstein’s mom had a blog way back then?  Because people may think raising the next generation’s mastermind is like all fucking awesome and people trip over themselves as they fight to be the one to throw rose petals upon your red carpet and place you on the same alter as the Virgin Mary, but they would be wrong.

The truth is there isn’t much in the way of accolades from others (except for you dear, dear blog readers and close friends, and really, you’ve been my salvation many times over. I thank you.).  It’s more in the way of stink eyes and the polite, sympathetic nods people give the mentally deranged.

(Speaking of Mary, don’t tell me people didn’t think she was mentally deranged. Can you imagine the looks she got when she went around telling people her son was the Messiah?  I think I have it rough when my 8-year-old is teaching tangible marine facts to 12th graders and yet adults still question his abilities.  At least I don’t run the risk of getting stoned.  Well, at least not with rocks.)

Sometimes little geniuses can be total assholes, though.  I pride myself on raising non-asshole children, and it seems like there’s something about pride and sin or the like, but I don’t subscribe to that creed.  Instead, I subscribe to the eat crow and like it creed.

Today Payton came home with an F on his daily conduct.

Despite the kick-ass stories I may tell you on this blog about Payton and his awesomeness, he’s sometimes such an ass that I can’t believe I actually have a part in raising him.

Today he thumped a classmate on the head with a marker, refused to do his reading work, was disrespectful to the teacher, and spit on the floor.

When I asked why he spit on the floor, he was very specific and said he wasn’t spitting, but drooling out of boredom.

How in the hell am I supposed to keep a straight face to that answer? Honestly.

Then I grilled him about hitting the classmate on the head.

Payton’s reasoning for thumping him on the head was because the boy called him a name, so then I lit into a high-volume lecture of ignoring other people, who cares what they say, I HAVE 26.5 YEARS EXPERIENCE ON YOU AND FORGET THAT at 35, EVEN I’D HAVE A HARD TIME BEING CALLED A NAME, THIS IS WHAT GOOD PARENTS LECTURE ABOUT!

And then?  Payton broke down, sobbing gut-wrenching tears, telling me he can’t take it anymore.

“You can’t take what?” I asked.

“Being called names!”

“When are you being called names?”

“At P.E.!”

Payton tells me all the names he’s being called, and at this point, I’m all fuck what good parents are supposed to lecture about.  Who has time to worry what “good” parents do when your child is sobbing his heart out on your shoulder, asking you, “Why do I keep getting picked on when I try to stay away from them?” and then you have to deal with your own water works because JUST RIP MY HEART OUT, DANCE THE CHA-CHA ALL OVER IT, THEN PUT IT THROUGH A MEAT GRINDER AND SERVE IT UP AS STEAK TARTAR, OH MY GOD!

I can’t even see straight.

Tomorrow morning, Mama and Papa Bear are on a mission. I have a hankering to roast me up some turdlet stew.  I don’t really care whose ass gets swept up in my turdlet hunt.

Don’t try to stop me.