So yesterday I had on my hippie pants and was all, listening with more than my ears, flower power, give hugs, not drugs. Well, people, you can give me some goddamn drugs now. Obviously I need it.
Is it me, or does there come a time (or twenty) when you just want to tell you kid to shut the hell up? Because that’s what I really want to do now and I wonder if that means there is something wrong with me.
I actually wrote yesterday’s post last week, when I was still feeling patient and loving and kind, and just didn’t get around to scheduling it until yesterday. Now, though, I swear if I hear one more stupid complaint about school, I’m going eat shit and die and everything else I swore I wouldn’t do until hell froze over.
How much is too much? I mean, I have a kid who will remain completely silent about being picked on and teased until it becomes so awful he pours it out to me in a torrent of tears. So when he comes home telling me he had a terrible day at school, can I really yawn at him and brush it aside, redirect him, not feed into it? He does have these transitional issues, and his best friend did move away so he’s feeling very lonely and isolated, and kids have already been picking on him.
On the other hand, just shut the hell up. Stop complaining about being cold, stop complaining about So-and-So in your class goofing off in class and not getting in trouble for it, stop complaining that you don’t like basketball or jump rope, or that you’ll be raising frogs as a class science project instead of breeding fish, stop looking for every single minor thing to complain about!
Do I play Mother Teresa? Or Dr. Phil?
I have no idea if I’m feeding into the negativity by being the place he can vent to. Am I perpetuating the problem? For the most part, he’s keeping all of his stress and anxiety to himself at school and doing what he’s supposed to do there. And that’s been the goal for oh-so-long between us, him, his teacher and speech teacher. This is what you call good social skills!!
Then as soon as he sees me, the vitriol comes out. Is this a good thing? Would I be confusing him when for so long we’ve taught him about “proper places and times to express our true feelings” and I then tell him to cut the whiny crap out? Which is what I said to him this morning, and so now I’m feeling like an A-class tool for telling him that. For fuck’s sake, THIS IS WHAT EVERYONE HAS WANTED HIM TO DO!
But I don’t want to get sucked into some negative reinforcing pattern.
Oh, these fine parenting lines we dance. No wonder we’re all insane.
To anyone who asks how he likes his new school, that’s Payton’s universal statement. The principal, his speech therapist, his hairdresser. Yes, even his hairdresser. His story is that he isn’t adjusting well because horrible things are happening.
“What horrible things?”
“Just horrible things. It’s horrible.”
Yes, thank you for the clearing that up, Payton.
But to our outside eyes, he is adjusting well. So unbelievably well. The fact that we’re on the 4th week of school and I haven’t filled your feed reader with posts riddled with anxiety and worry over my kid’s behavior at school speaks volumes. I’ve had (sit down for it!) NO requests for a conference since classes started, ohmygod.
Yet he persists with the story that it isn’t going well.
I talked with his speech teacher and she said she tried to convince him that things at school aren’t that bad. This is like trying to convince a cat to bark and not meow. No, Kitty, you don’t meow, you must bark. Now bark, damn it!
I had an email conversation with his principal. She obviously likes Payton a lot and even gave me her home number if I ever needed to talk to her. Of course, I’m no fool. I know she gave me her home number because Payton told her about my fantastic brownies and she wants some. It’s so obvious.
In the email, she said when Payton burst into her office (and now you know the reason for the email), he was searching for a reaction out of her, which she didn’t give. Also, the less we feed into his desire to convince us he is having bad days, the better.
Hmm. So when I perform a Japanese fan dance to express for Payton his negative feelings towards school, do you think that feeds into his desire?
Okay, really. I understand behavior modification. I’ve studied it and, while it has its merits, I always thought it fell short of what makes humans tick. After all, it’s about treating humans like we’re rats in a maze, responding positively to the smell of cheese and negatively to electric shock treatment.
This approach appears to work very well on conventional children. I have one of those kids, too. And yes, I can say the smell of chocolate-coated candies does well to motivate positive behaviors in him while the threat of electric shock treatment discourages negative behavior.
But as I’ve learned as I keep trudging along this quirky kid parenting path, FUCK CONVENTION.
“No one is listening to me at school!” he declares.
Hmm.
Sometimes I think we grown-ups forget to listen with more than just our ears. A child’s problems and struggles can seem so, well, childish. They are easy to wax over, not because we aren’t caring and loving adults, but because time has marched us away from childhood and we’ve lost that perspective.
As I listened to Payton’s side of the HORRIBLE SCHOOL story, he was so insistent that no one is listening to him.
With my human eyes, I see a kid getting all of his work completed and making good grades. With my human ears, I hear a kid dramatizing the little school problems that I see with my human eyes. With my human brain, I think this kid likes negative attention and we must break the cycle.
“Payton, you say you aren’t adjusting well to school. Can you tell me more about that?”
“I’m not! It’s horrible!”
Ahh, more clarity through a broken record. I love it!
“But tell me exactly why you think it’s horrible.”
“It’s cold, there’s too much work!”
“Uh huh. And what else?”
“The new school, the new classrooms, the new teachers, the new kids. Everything is new!”
Ah-ha. Now I’m beginning to see. These “problems with transition” and “struggles with change” that are common in gifted kids (or Asperger’s kids, whichever you want to call them. Is there a difference except in your mind?), that’s what we’re dealing with, at least at the surface. And that’s what these particular explanations for their unusual behavior are – surface answers meant to sound clear and bona fide, yet really answer nothing at all.
What’s underneath the surface of psychological mumbo-jumbo is what’s underneath everything in life – feelings. It’s not the change or transition itself that is the problem, but the anxiety beneath it. These other little things (i.e. classroom temperature) that Payton is using as the plot in his story of horrible days, are they just a cover story?
“So you don’t think you’re adjusting well because of the changes?”
“Yes!”
“And do the changes make you feel stressed and anxious on the inside?”
“YES!”
Finally some clarity. This is not about outside appearances. He is trying to tell us something more, something deeper.
I’m here, sweetie boy. I’m listening to your story.
Thanks to my latest love, Netflix, I am now streaming The Medicated Child, and let me tell you, I am drunk on my superior ability to parent a quirky child.
Hold on, that may actually be the Smirnoff vodka I’m drunk on and not my superiority.
Is it me, or do you find it a strange coincidence that I watch The Medicated Child and then find myself needing to self-medicate with vodka? It’s like the medical establishment wants us to be sick. There’s a conspiracy somewhere in there involving subliminal messages and profits, I’m sure of it.
Now, if you haven’t heard of this movie, or you are a complete dumb ass, it’s about medicating children. Obviously. I think most were medicated for mood disorders, though when you watch a documentary while drinking extra-strength cocktails, it’s hard to remember every detail. They should add that to the federal warnings for the movie.
Warning: Drinking extra-strength cocktails while watching this film may cause short-term memory loss. So take lithium instead.
On a related side note, I just Googled lithium to make sure my memory is actually correct and this is used to treat bipolar. Look, it’s been mumbleteen years since college and these things get murky. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE ALCOHOL. Only the passage of time and re-prioritizing the mental filing cabinets. I may not remember psychotropic drug uses from college, but I do remember to pay my mortgage, which is saying a lot in our society.
So anyway, I Googled lithium for bipolar and this is what I found on WedMD.
Lithium for Bipolar Disorder
Lithium has been used for years for bipolar disorder. Find out what to expect if you’re taking lithium.
Bipolar Disorders and Anticonvulsants
Anticonvulsants were originally used to treat seizures. Find out how they can help bipolar disorder too.
Antipsychotic Drugs for Bipolar
Did you know that some people with bipolar disorder get long-term help from antipsychotic medications? Learn more here.
Calcium Channel Blockers for Bipolar Mania
Here’s where to learn why doctors sometimes prescribe these blood pressure drugs for bipolar mania.
Benzodiazepines for Bipolar Disorder
For short-term relief of manic symptoms, benzodiazepines can be very helpful. Here’s where to to learn where, when, and how they are used.
And this medication list goes on and on with seven other drugs, and how, if you go through your nose to get to your ass, it will help bipolar. So why don’t they just add this one too?
The fuck? Do these medical professionals even know what they are doing with meds? Blood pressure medication to treat a mental disease. At this point I’m not sure which of us should be on the couch and which behind the desk, though it leans more towards us on the couch since Listerine invented (as in completely made up!) “chronic halitosis” as a medical condition and consumers started buying it right and left because we thought we needed a cure. From a MADE UP medical condition. Now, who’s the crazy one?
At one point in the film was a family with a four-year-old girl diagnosed with bipolar. They showed a clip of this little girl hitting at her father. And he cowered from her.
He shrunk in his shoulders and cowered. From a four-year-old.
Isn’t this where you grab their little wrist, look dead into their little eyes with your RED LASER BEAMS OF GOD-LIKE WRATH and tell that little shit YOU. DO. NOT. HIT. MOMMY. (Or Daddy.) Because that’s what we did and guess what? Our toddlers stopped trying to hit us.
But let’s give this family the special consideration they’re due. You might cower from your four-year-old too if she, like this little girl, told the shrink she would cut off mommy and daddy’s head.
But me? That’s when I’d say, “Not if I cut yours off first.”
It’s probably politically incorrect to talk back and scare your kids like that. Attachment parents might lynch me if they found out my ideas. You should hug your children and affirm their unlimited power in the world instead!
Like other people say, though, all’s fair in love and war. And mind games.
I’ve seen this work. Child tries to mess with your head, you mess back with theirs, and it’s like two negatives create a positive! You can’t argue with math, people. It’s the only pure form of truth.
Isn’t it necessary to be smarter than our toddler? Isn’t that the entire point of parenting – to lord over smaller people? What is the fun in having kids if I can’t play God for 18 years and scare the shit out of them with my power?
And here I am, drunk on my superiority again. Or maybe on the third extra-strength cocktail.
I watch temper tantrums unfold on this film, as a kid’s meds wore off, and think, huh, Payton’s tantrums were way worse than that. Did my son have tantrums in need of drug intervention, only he was my first child and I was too ignorant to know better?
I hear another mom of a bipolar child talk of how her child tries to injure herself, banging her head against the wall.
Mine did that, too. I had forgotten he did, but the memory came rushing back, so sharp and clear that I swear my mind now sees in HD.
I saw my sweet, chubby one-year-old baby become so INCREDIBLY ANGRY that he would bang his head repeatedly on the floor. I probably I caused this INCREDIBLE ANGER by committing terrible crimes against him, such as giving him a blue sippy cup instead of a red.
And woe to the heavens should he be in the den when INCREDIBLE ANGER struck.
CARPET! IS FOR PUSSIES!
He would then crawl over to the hard kitchen floor to hurt himself. He would use the metal exterior door once he learned to walk full-time. I stopped him, of course. Of course! This was my beautiful, chubby baby that I adored more than my own life. Of course I stopped him from hurting himself on purpose.
So I wrapped my arms around him and tried to soothe and comfort him, only to have him scream even harder, if it was possible. (It was.)
I mentioned this to his pediatrician at the time. “Oh, he’s trying to get your reaction. He won’t do it hard enough to hurt himself.”
So next time I did what any good behavior modifier would do and ignored it. No response! No negative or positive reinforcement! I know how to play this psychology-ordained mind game!
That time Payton banged so hard that he gave himself a horrible goose egg on his forehead.
It was then I began to realize medical professionals don’t always know what they are talking about.
And sometimes, neither do I.
This path I am on, raising an atypical kid without medical intervention, is it any less of an experiment than a concoction of eight different pills? I’m not going to tell how old Payton was before he finally stopped trying to bang his head when he was angry. To name that age in public would be to add a piece of evidence to the Heather, You’re Child REALLY Needed Help file. And that’s just one example of the different types of atypical behavior we’ve dealt with.
Aren’t I playing a crapshoot too?
Do any of us parents know until it’s too late?
It seems as if I did bet the right hand. My son is both mentally and physically healthy. But I really have no way of knowing how it will all turn out until the end.
God, I am SUCH a blog asshole. Last week I wrote that post about NPR with a note at the end that I had more to say about it. And then I didn’t say it. See, blog asshole.
I can explain, though! It went something like this…
Sunday/Monday – Parker terribly sick with high fever/sore throat virus.
Tuesday – Heather sick with a sort of bad but short-lived stomach virus.
Tuesday afternoon/Wednesday – called to pick Payton up from school. He comes down with horrible high fever/sore throat virus.
Thursday/Friday – Heather sick with horrible high fever/sore throat virus.
I said something on Facebook about everyone being sick and no one cared about the scourge plaguing our house, so I assumed no one would care over here. But, I suppose if I posted something about blue jeans on FB, like an old school friend of mine, 17 people would care about that.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with people.
And on that note, let’s get down to this second point I wanted to make about Krista Tippet’s show on autism. Because it ties in neatly with this question of what the fuck is wrong with people.
(Did I just drop the F Bomb in reference to the sophisticated, tranquil-voiced NPR. Oh my fucking god, I did. Is that even legal? Will I and my crassness be banned from listening to NPR now? And where would that leave me? Getting my news from Jon Stewart & Stephen Colbert. Which I already do.)
Krista brings up in the show how some autistic kids identify with the characters of Dr. Spock and Data from Star Trek and The Next Generation. (For the love of God, I don’t want to offend Trekkies and get hate mail because I didn’t distinguish between the two.)
As an example, I guess of the common characteristics between Aspies and Spock, they played a sound bite from one of the movies. I will try to summarize it quickly as possible.
Spock, Kirk, and Dr. Bones are around a campfire, and Spock suggests they sing campfire songs because he read somewhere it is a human tradition. Kirk gets very excited and suggests Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Spock doesn’t know it, but Kirk tells him not to worry, it’s easy and they will cue him in when to start.
Dr. Bones & Kirk begin the staggered stanza singing of the song. (I don’t know about you, but that drives me INSANE. I can never ever keep within my own verse with someone else singing two verses ahead of me.)
Spock does not jump in when cued. Kirk gets upset and wants to know why Spock didn’t join in.
“I was trying to understand the meaning of the words.”
Kirk has an apoplectic fit, telling Spock there is no meaning to the words, you JUST SING THEM, for Pete’s sake!
Do you see what I mean? The hell with this Spock/autism thing, what the fuck is wrong with Captain Kirk? And don’t try to tell me there is nothing wrong with him. THERE IS.
I find LOADS of meaning in Row, Row, Row Your Boat.
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream.
Please, all the other Vulcans who read my blog, let’s stand together on this. Tell me you see the deep spiritual meaning between the lines too.
Maybe it was just a less than stellar choice of example by Ms. Tippet, but I FAIL TO SEE what’s autistic-like about his behavior.
Putting my positive perspective aside for a few moments, I actually do understand the parallel they are attempting to draw between Spock and autistic children.
Do you think I don’t know? This is the mother who receives wooden hugs from her oldest son 90% of the time, among other seemingly detached behaviors I won’t list here.
I get the analogy.
But from my perspective and life experiences, it’s quite ridiculous and shallow to focus on that aspect of my son and gnash it around in my teeth long enough to make something out of it.
His emotions are there and they are expressed, just differently.
When he discovers something new about an insect and then he sees me after school, he literally jumps up and down in excitement to share his discovery with me.
The deep passion he feels for conservation, for land preservation, for animal protection.
And this is not an uncommon theme in Aspie kids – for their deep interest to be in insects, animals, nature, etc. In fact, I recently met one whose interest is also marine science.
With oil endlessly spewing into our Gulf, now invading our wetlands, our pelicans, their nesting grounds, with dolphins washing ashore, dead and coated in oil, with turtles gasping for air as rescuers pull oil out of their nostrils, what do you think this planet needs?
More people who just sing along with everyone else?
Or those who stop and look for deeper meaning?
This is no disorder. This is Mother Nature righting herself.
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.
Last Friday was Field Day at the boys’ school. Two hours each of Go-Fish, bouncy houses and terrible carnival-type food. Ages seven and nine now, Payton & Parker don’t need me there. They run off and leave me as soon as we get to the field. I’m simply there to hold their drinks, trinkets, and sand art jars. This is perfect because just the other day my arms and hands were telling me how very bored they were. Thanks goodness I had children so I would have random shit to hold for approximately 18 years!
So while I stood around like some kind of humanoid storage facility, I chatted with other moms who also resembled humanoid storage facilities. I was introduced to another 3rd grade mom and I have such awesome social skills that I couldn’t remember her name 30 seconds later. But this nameless mom said something I found very interesting….
“Isn’t it funny how the kids will be friends with one person this week, or for a month, and then someone else will be their best friend the next week? Kids are just so funny that way!”
They are?
They do?
Is this what “normal” kids do to friends? Shit, and they think my kid is weird? That’s rich.
Neither of my boys do that, even my very typical Parker, so maybe it’s girls? Or the future generation of shallow backstabbers?
I think of Parker and his favorite playmate. He’s been the favorite since they were, I don’t know, three? Four? When they were placed in separate 1st grade classes (after pre-K & kindergarten together) I thought surely Parker would move on to another “best” friend. He’s just so social, after all.
Not so, though he does have other more casual friendships. They still play together every day at P.E. and Parker is very worried they won’t have class or P.E. together next year.
I think of Payton and his one best friend. They’ve been close for three years now. Of course, Payton is my kid who could possibly be called “socially delayed,” but shit, the other kids flutter friend to friend, week to week. I don’t know, it seems my kid actually knows more about quality of friendship over quantity. Who’s delayed again?
I’m in between Parker’s field day time slot and Payton’s, waiting in Payton’s classroom as they prepare to go outside.
I don’t know what it is, but every time I come into Payton’s classroom there are three girls who gravitate towards me. Maybe it’s my hair. Or my cookies. Do I permanently smell like home-baked cookies? I can’t figure out why I’m like a magnet to these girls. I don’t think I exude liking for other people’s kids.
Of course, Payton’s best friend is in this group. We shall give her the blog name Macy.
As soon as I find a seat in his room, I’m overwhelmed by Payton and his scientific questions. As usual. He sees me, throws his hands in the air, yells “MOM!” and then shoves a nonfiction book in my face. This is how he greets me nine times out of ten. (Just so you know, the tenth time is a very unexcited and distracted “hi. Apparently if I’m not good for shoving a book in my face, I’m not that important.”)
With Parker, it’s “Mama!” and smiles and sweet, little boy hugs. But with Payton, it’s “Mom!” with hands in the air (sometimes jumping is included), science book in the face, and serious queries only.
Friday’s question was whether you pronounce the Tachina Fly as ta-key-na or ta-chi-na.
Payton asks this as if I automatically know the answer. Because I am God and have all the answers. One day he will realize he’s smarter than me and that I’m not God. *tremble*
No, actually, I’m quite honest with him when I don’t know the answer, which is frequent with the type of questions he asks. I want Payton to know the joy of the pursuit of knowledge, and so I make not knowing the answer perfectly acceptable. This works out great too, because I’m kind of lazy and faking it takes up energy. Why bother? Luckily, Payton has such an inborn enthusiasm to learn that I need do very little to encourage him to find the answers himself.
I told him I didn’t know the correct way to pronounce it.
“Let’s look it up on dictionary.com,” he said.
I turn to the classroom computer. And then recoil in horror.
It’s a PC. The hell. Do I dare sully my Mac fingers by touching it? Could I cross contaminate my Mac if I do? Not to mention the school password to get onto the internet, which I don’t have.
“Dictionary.com is probably blocked anyway,” one of my groupie girls says.
“How about we look it up in a regular dictionary,” I suggested.
This is met with a blank look by all three girls and Payton.
“You know, A BOOK DICTIONARY?” I said.
“Oh, yeah.” Payton says, as if lowering himself to a substandard way of life.
“I know,” I respond dramatically (with my hands in the air, I wonder where Payton gets it), “it’s like we’re living in 1972!”
Two of the three girls look at me as if they are trying to figure out whether I am funny or mentally unbalanced. They *think* I just made a joke, but aren’t sure.
On the other hand, Macy is having a big belly laugh. She totally gets the joke.
This is why I LOVE MACY SO MUCH. The fact that she is a child-model has nothing to do with it. Okay, so her cuteness did help me overcome my dislike of OPKs (other people’s kids), but only a little. Her prettiness is like icing on the cake of an utterly wonderful soul.
There are so many things I could say about Macy. I could tell you how she gently tries to help Payton through his emotional crises at school. I could tell you the number of times she has stood up for him when other kids were making fun of him. How she helps ease him into social situations. How she thinks Payton is the COOLEST kid ever (obviously she is of superior intelligence.) How she begs her mother to give us their trash (to recycle, of course.) Or how she saved up pop tops to help one of Payton’s charities.
I could tell you those things and more and still not convey how special she is to us.
On Wednesday, Macy is moving to another state.
We are going to miss her so much.
I’m trying not to dwell that Payton is losing his only friend.
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
After talking with the family, it is clear that the mother fully believes in alternative therapies for helping her child.
Can I get a hell to the yes? You damn right I do.
That excerpt is (or shall I say was, now that I’ve gotten my hands on it) in Payton’s medical records, written by the pediatrician who disclosed to his school that he has Pervasive Development Disorder WHEN HE DOESN’T.
I have no idea what the pediatrician meant by “alternative therapies.” It’s not like we’re having an Indian mystic remove negative energy from Payton’s Shih Tzu. Or is it Chakra? Hell, I don’t know, I don’t keep up with that stuff.
I guess removing artificial dyes from Payton’s diet constitutes “alternative therapies” in this doctor’s mind. I can’t think what else he could be referring to. After all, I’m not stupid. I didn’t tell the man about the chicken sacrifices we make during the waxing of the Wolf moon nor how we channel the spirit of Nostradamus on Saturday nights.
I only told him about the artificial dye thing.
That right there, people, should be your first clue of when to fire a doctor. Changing over to a more natural diet is “alternative therapies?” If they won’t acknowledge that WHAT WE EAT AFFECTS OUR MINDS AND BODIES, then they aren’t worth the paper their M.D. is printed on.
I am professionally concerned the child is not receiving needed therapies due to the mother’s beliefs.
Because my readers are such awesome people, I realize some of you may not be fluent in DUMB ASSHOLE. Let me translate.
This jerk off is saying my son isn’t getting help because of me.
This is one of those statements where you totally want to say I WON’T DIGNIFY THAT WITH A RESPONSE! You say that right after you stab the motherfucker in the nuts with your salad fork.
And then you fire them.
But not before you rub your son’s IEP in his face.
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.
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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