“Mom, I have something to tell you that happened today.”
This is the after-school greeting that requires me to both gird my loins and maintain an air of tranquility at the same time. All before five o’clock, which just goes to show life isn’t fair. Confessions that follow such statements should really hold off until one glass of wine, but, what do you do?
“Some boy was making fun of me in the bathroom. He called me an idiot, a dummy, and a geek.”
I knew that was coming. Take it in, Heather. Breathe. Stay calm.
I’m not sure what it says that the process of taking it in, staying calm when finding out my son is being teased is pretty easy now. Does it mean I am one step closer to becoming a swami? Or that my son has been picked on enough that it’s just becoming…nothing to get upset over again?
I’m walking a tightrope here, you know. I want to show my son that I care about what happens to him and that this isn’t the right way to treat people, but I don’t want to add dramatics to an already hurtful event. Also, it’s hard to teach your children a “eh, fuck you, too” societal attitude if your busy with histrionics.
The more I walk down this out-of-the-box mothering path, the more I realize the importance of teaching my quirky son how to mentally flick the bird to Them, with “Them” being define as the asshats of the world.
But in order for me to teach him how to not let them get to him, I have to learn how to not let them get to me. So basically I must learn to part the Red Sea, OMG, I’m a mother! With a protective bear inside of me! That has rabies! And I will eat your obnoxious young if they dare hurt my precious cub!
Breathe. Stay calm. Breathe.
“So this boy called you an idiot, a dummy, and a geek. Is that right, Payton?”
“Yes.”
“Are you dumb or an idiot?”
“No.”
“Absolutely not. I don’t know about you, but I question the intelligence of anyone who calls you dumb. Who’s really dumb here?”
“Yeah! Who’s the dumb one? Not me! Hahahaha!”
“And he called you a geek too?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you thank him for it?”
“Thank him?! No, why would I do that, he was mean!”
“Yes, he was, but did you know, Payton, that geeks usually grow up to be rich adults?”
“Really?”
I could see the spark of interest flame to life. He does love money.
“Oh yes. The richest man in the world was a computer geek as a kid.”
“Who?”
“Bill Gates. He’s the richest man in the whole world. Worth billions of dollars.”
“Billions?!”
His excitement charges the air around us.
“Yep, billions. He could probably spend every waking moment spending his money and still not spend it all before he dies, that’s how rich he is.”
Eyes grow bigger.
“How much money does he make per second?” Payton asked.
And because I am Swami Shake-Shake who looks for teaching moments everywhere, we figured out how much Bill Gates makes per second. And tada! Both a spiritual and mathematical lesson all in one.
We figured out an approximate number and Payton began jumping up and down in excitement for geeks.
“So Bill Gates was a geek, became the richest man in the world, and now he uses his money to help charities. I dunno, Payton, it sounds like geeks are pretty cool to me.”
“Yeah, they are!”
“High five for geeks!” I said, and held my hand up in the air.
“High five for geeks!” He high-fived back at me.
Next time someone calls him a geek, Payton said he’s going to thank them for it.
Maybe this is the right way to handle it. I certainly don’t want to have stuck in my mind that teasing and name-calling is something Payton will always have to deal with as a kid and I better teach him the right way to deal with it, because self-fulfilling prophecies and all that. I don’t want to create that reality.
But on the other hand, as a human, I can be objective enough to see how Payton stands out from others, and it’s not all because he inherited his mother’s good looks. I’ve volunteered enough at their school to know that other people’s kids are assholes. Wait, did I say assholes? I meant to say…yeah, I won’t put up false pretenses. I meant assholes. Some. Not all. I’ve seen enough at school to know how it goes.
So maybe it is better that I take a different approach than Mama Bear and teach him how to turn the hurtful words around.
At least until he’s an appropriate age that I can teach him how to flick the bird.
Alternative title: I Bet No One Encourages Me To Homeschool After This
Me: Okay, Payton, it’s time to practice your multiplication tables.
Payton: groan
Me: What was that? You said it’s your life’s deepest wish to scoop the litter box and clean your brother’s room before we practice multiplication? Fine by me!
Payton: Hey, I didn’t say that!
Me: Oh, ok. Then we can start. 6×6 is?
Payton: 36!
Me: 7×6 is?
Payton: 42!
Me: 7×3 is?
Payton: Um. Um. Um. I can’t remember that one.
Me: Huh. Well, let’s see how we can make it easier to remember. How about this: 7 times 3, drinks on me!
Payton: What does that mean, “drinks on me”?
Me: You say “drinks on me” when you are buying everyone a round of drinks at a bar. And we know you have to be 21 to buy alcohol. So 7×3, drinks on me = 21!
He hasn’t missed that particular multiplication problem since.
There are details I left out in my last post. Details such as the IQ report stating my kid repeatedly asked for lunch and frequently stated he couldn’t work well when he was hungry. Yet they made him carry on.
I left out the details of my 30 minute conference call with the head of gifted programs and head of psych services because to repeat it makes my head explode. But I could sum it up by telling you we played 20 QUESTIONS THAT HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE POINT OF THE CALL.
I can only guess the game was a diversionary tactic meant to work on the weak-minded. However, with Obi Wan as my master, these mind tricks do not work on me.
They brought up things I’m not sure what they had to do with the hard but simple question of why they made a child to continue with an IQ exam when he clearly told them he was too hungry to do his best.
What should he have done instead? Flashed a neon sign and had synchronized swimmers spell it in out via underwater body contortions?
Right now I have a call into our pediatrician (per their request) to get a letter explaining how low blood sugar affects brain function, to explain Payton’s sensitivities to fluctuating glucose levels, they want the doctor to state how often he should eat, etc., blah, blah, blah.
Truthfully, I want to say fuck it.
Being THATMOM wears you down.
It’s a fine balancing act between advocating for what you know is right and being obnoxious. I don’t know that I pull it off.
I’m torn between trusting the Universe to line things up as they are supposed to be. Que sera sera! Embrace the spirit of John Lennon and let it be! Go with the flow, man, and be sure to wear some flowers in your hair!
There is a reason he didn’t get into the program and it’s for his best interest, even if I don’t know why yet.
It’s been three days and two phone calls to the nurse, the doctor’s office still hasn’t called me back. What is the Universe trying to tell me by that?
Am I being unreasonable about the unfairness of testing a child who is starving for lunch? Despite clear medical evidence proving the effects, am I THATMOM, the obnoxious one who thinks the sun rises and sets upon the ass of her special little Johnny?
At times like these, I just don’t know anymore. It’s hard to know when to push or pull or when to let the chips fall where they may.
How much do you fight for your child?
When do you say enough?
How much of the system stays the same because regular people like me throw up our hands in the face of asinine bureaucracy and complete lack of sense?
If I hushed my voice, am I failing my child? And other out-of-the-box children that may be like him?
In a perfect world, there would be a support group for parents who are raising sensitive kids. Something like Alcoholics Anonymous, except we would actually service alcohol (fine French wine, preferably) because we know. We know that sometimes a glass is needed to take the edge off. And when you’re raising a kid like this, you’re on the edge. A lot. Or maybe it’s just me.
The noise. The headaches. The clothes. The shoes. The pants. The smells. The specific brand of kleenex that won’t break out their face. The specific brand of laundry detergent that doesn’t irritate their skin. The food. The food additives.
I could write my own Eat This, Not That book for quirky kids. Feed him the wrong thing and I might as well write my own version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide while I’m at it. I would title it The Strange Case of Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard and Mutant Food Dye Monsters.
(Shit, y’all, even Mother Hubbard went the tavern to get white and red wine. I don’t care what they say, it wasn’t for that damn dog.)
Hoops, hoops, I’m constantly jumping through hoops. And 9 times out of ten, fine. I jump through hoops. I’m a mom, it’s what I do.
Then there’s that one time out of ten.
If I were to say I understand how people could live in communes and like it, I mean I understand. If I could find a commune of families with quirky kids who didn’t think there’s anything necessarily wrong with quirkiness, the door of the Outside World wouldn’t hit me in the ass.
I don’t care that I would have to commit to X number of hours working the commune garden. In fact, that would be another huge incentive – fresh, homegrown food! With no additives or dyes! And while I draw the line at child marriages (unless you feed my son yellow dye #5 or 6 and then, OMFG, make him someone else’s problem, marry him off now!), I would even entertain the idea of ugly hair styles and homely dresses if I could be with my people.
My people would remind me that I’m not crazy.
That one hoop, gah! It’s not even the hoop. It’s when people dismiss the hoop. These sensitivities aren’t there. Other kids aren’t like this. Why is yours? Prove it. Prove it. Prove it again. Neurotic mother. Neurotic mother who thinks her kid should have special treatment.
Okay, so I don’t know that’s what they are thinking. That’s what I think they are thinking.
But here I am, yet again, proving I’m not insane regarding my child. Would you care to know what issue I am required to prove this time?
That a hungry child can not perform well on a test.
What an audacious theory of mine! A child can’t perform well on a test when he/she is starving for lunch, how did I come up with a radical hypothesis?!
I’ll tell it to you straight, people. I deny my kids food and then surprise them with pop quizzes on long division just to see if it affects their thinking ability.
It’s what neurotic mothers do for fun.
note: I’m not having to prove this to classroom teachers. I’m required to prove this to psychologists regarding IQ tests.
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.
And it’s not my bra, though I am wearing one of my older, when I was skinnier 34 bras, just to see if I could comfortably wear them again. I sorta of can, so yay me. A cottage cheese & strawberry breakfast may not taste as good as cinnamon rolls, but it’s worth it. I guess.
.
.
.
Okay, I’m sitting here, playing with my cuticles, trying to work up the nerve to actually say it. Should I say it? Do I actually put this on the internet, where they say Google is forever.
(Is it me, or do you find that little catch line about Google annoying too? I swear there’s no originality left in the world.)
I don’t want my words typed here to come back and hurt someone in the future, someone I love so very much. You know, when he is old enough to get on the internet unsupervised and perhaps google himself. Holy shit, what am I doing? I should shut this blog down immediately. Or never let him on the Net unsupervised, even when he’s 30.
But really, I need to work this out because it’s bothering me. Couldn’t I just do it in a private journal though? No, I can’t. Because I need outside input, I need to hear your voice too, for whatever co-dependent reasons.
And maybe I’m crazy, but there’s just something about putting certain issues “out there” to make me own them more, force me to work through it until I come out on the other side.
If you’ve read this far, you’re probably preparing yourself for some dramatic confession, such as I can’t bake bread to save my life, even in a fucking bread machine. Wally is the one who has to do the homemade bread thing. That’s totally true. Now that I’ve confessed that dirty homemaker secret, what this post is really about it is going to seem very anti-climatic. I apologize now.
Sometimes I think Payton is weird.
And I don’t mean in that cute, brainy weird way. And I don’t mean that sometimes I’m the only one who understands how his mind works, that’s not weird, people, I’m just fucking awesome way either.
I mean sometimes I see Payton the way other people (kids) see him and understand how/why he could be socially rejected. That kind of weird way.
Shit fuck, people, I’m not blind. Sure my vision may be colored with infinite love, and thank God for that, but I’m not stupid either. I see these things and I find myself at times thinking involuntarily, gosh, he’s so weird.
And just to soothe my mommy guilt, let me go ahead and add the disclaimer that sometimes his weirdness is that cute, brainy, gonna-change-the-world-someday kind of weirdness. And I love it.
But the times it isn’t, I wish I didn’t have that involuntary reaction. But I see now the doors of individuality closing as he gets older. What was toddlerhood antics was then early childhood quirkiness and is now fading into tween weirdness. I feel the doorway of acceptance getting narrower. I hate that I’m falling for it too.
Why does it make me so uncomfortable? Why, damn it? Am I too normal, buying into the status quo more than I care to admit to myself? Maybe. Choosing an alternative path in raising Payton (meaning not the standard path of diagnosis/medication) is probably the most unconventional thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Look at my life; graduated high school, went to college, immediately got married after graduation, had babies after appropriate number of years of marriage, stay at home with the kids, play the good wife who doles out blow jobs at appropriate intervals, bake cookies, make homemade goodies for school parties, volunteer with the PTA. I drive a mini-van for fuck’s sake. A WHITE one, to top if off.
I? Am not weird.
So as I’ve been thinking about this, I thought maybe I need to dabble my life’s paint brush in the palate of weirdness. Turn up my own weird factor, so to speak.
Maybe I should dye my hair pink? Gack, I can’t do that. Maybe paint my toe nails black instead. Ugh, that’s just unfashionably ugly, in my opinion. Trade my mini-van in for a sports car. Wait, that’s what Wally is supposed to do in a couple of years when he begins his mid-life crisis.
I don’t even fucking know how to start uping the weird factor for myself. How in the hell am I going to get more comfortable having a weird kid if I can’t even dye my hair pink? Shit fuck again.
And it’s not even the intellectual weirdness, because I get that. It’s the public weirdness. I don’t get that.
A few weeks ago I was reading on Yahoo an article about what famous women every day women (like you and me) would want to trade places with for 24 hours. I don’t remember who was number one, but I do remember the top picks were Beyoncé and Angelina Jolie.
I guess American women just want to have a chance to screw Brad Pitt, because within 24 hours you must sleep and look who you get to sleep with if you pick Angelina Jolie.
And this is where I realized maybe I am a little weird. Because as I began reading this article, before they got to the list of famous women we’d all want to trade places with, I’d already began forming my own list of who I’d want to trade places with:
Jane Goodall
Mother Teresa (you know, alive, not dead)
Terry Irwin
Michelle Obama
Then I read the winners. I can’t even begin to comprehend the masses, what the hell is wrong with people, you shallow, flaky nitwits?
So I guess compared to the average woman, I am a little weird. On the inside. Where I can keep it hidden.
But I don’t feel like it’s enough. I need to be weirder. Or maybe I need to be more comfortable with public displays of weirdness. I’m not sure.
How do I go about doing that?
(Please pardon any and all typos. I’m sure there are plenty because I’m not rereading this one. It’s not one of those I can go back through and edit. It’s just raw writing straight from my stream of consciousness.)
Because it provides ample opportunity for me to have meaningful conversations with my children, such as explaining to my youngest son why a boy’s p*nis stands up. And then he pulls down his pants, as if I needed a visual aid to understand exactly what he meant by a p*nis standing up.
Anyone know where I can have my retinas amputated?
I just broke up a second fight over the Wii and it’s not even 8 am.
Also before 8 am, I had a second meaningful conversation with my youngest son about armpit hair. This one got very heated. Apparently someone in our house thinks I have hairy armpits and Daddy doesn’t have armpit hair at all and then was all aghast when I explained that my armpits aren’t hairy, just stubbly, but Daddy had armpit hair long enough I could probably braid it into cornrows.
These two conversations may be proof positive of what happens to the brain if you let your children play too much Wii. Luckily I read on Yahoo yesterday that video game designer is one of the hot, high-paying jobs in this terrible economy, so fuck it.
It’s been an entire day of our brains leaking through our orifices and straight into the LCD screen of our TV. Where did you think the “liquid” in LCD comes from?
Daddy is now home. His armpit was inspected. Youngest son has now declared that I should let my armpit hair grow out like daddy’s. My European dreams are coming true at last.
Cookies have been baked. Chicken has been roasted, all while my children continue to replenish the ‘L’ in the LCD. Yes, my apron has been dirtied, but even so, it was looking oh-so-good on my new 5 pound thinner figure. Too bad those cookies are going to shoot that to hell and back.
An editor told me Christmas was irrelevant in an essay on spring cleaning. Men. Having something I’ve written hacked to death and words like “irrelevant” used to describe my opening paragraph does nothing for my ego. I had to eat 3 cookies just to compensate and prove to myself I can do something right and I haven’t even opened his edits yet. God help me when I do, there is only a half of a bottle of merlot to be found in my house.
I actually used my cookies in a cover letter for a job I applied for today. No shit, I did and the job had nothing to do with baking cookies. They wanted applicants to answer in the cover letter what was the most challenging aspect of your previous experiences, and it’s not like I could say thinking up new hiding places for the asshole bean counter’s glasses and coming up with new evil cackles as co-workers experienced my wrath of immaturity.
So I told them my biggest challenge was avoiding being kidnapped by co-workers who demanded my secret gourmet cookie recipe as the ransom because my secret recipe cookies are that good. Either they’ll think I’m a fucking genius coming up with such an answer and they’ll hire me, paying top dollar, which in that case, they’re my kind of people. Or they’ll think I’m a fucking lunatic, and in that case, they don’t deserve my genius or my cookies.
Wow, I’m really obsessed with my cookies today. It must be all the jobs I’m not getting offers on. Or interviews. Or even reject letters. And sending in an essay to my editor who never fails to reply back with tons of cross-outs, highlights and words that I have to look up in the dictionary.
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.
Favorite quote for now
Be careful when you cast out your demons that you don't throw away the best of yourself.
-Friedrich Nietzche
To be normal is the ideal aim of the unsuccessful.
Carl Jung
Entries (RSS)