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.
It’s not even 8:30 in the morning and already I’ve heard the words “Mom!” or “Hey, Mom,” 253,000 times.
Please, just don’t talk to me for one hour. That’s all, ONE HOUR!
Do you see this poor quality picture that, really, no blogger in their right mind should post on their blog because every successful blogger is an expert photographer.
Those are my kids, playing the new Lego Harry Potter game. But I insist everyone call it The Video Game that Must Not Be Named.
I swear to you, if I have to answer ONE MORE QUESTION about Harry Potter, I am going to do something drastic, like find Jesus or something. And I love Harry Potter. LOVE IT. Probably in the same disturbing way grown women love Twilight, which I hate in equal proportion.
Actually, that’s not a fair comparison, because I’m not forgetting myself and lusting after teenage boys, regardless of their supernatural power. No, if anything I find Snape attractive. What’s not to find sexually stimulating? He’s an ADULT, for one. And he’s half evil, half good. I’m convinced it’s within my feminine powers to bring Snape completely over from the Dark Side.
So, Snape = hot, independent and challenging. Edward or…fuck, what’s the other guy’s name = co-dependent and potentially abusive, which is not hot at all.
But now my Harry Potter love is dying a slow, tragic death due to the torturous game called ASK MOMMY 150 QUESTIONS IN A MINUTE.
“Hey, Mom, why does Ron’s rat blah blah blah blah.”
“Mom, did you know that Harry’s spell blah blah blah blah?”
“Hey, Mom, look what happens when I explode this with a spell!”
“Mom, which book does Ron’s rat turn into a person?”
“Hey, Mom, what is Ron’s rat’s person’s name?”
“Mom, can I make pumpkins fly?!”
“Hey, Mom, can I meet the dog, Fang?”
“Mom……blah blah blah.”
“Hey, Mom, …..blah.”
“Mom…..”
“Hey, Mom…..”
“Mom….”
“Hey, Mom….”
“Mom…”
I don’t know what techniques Lord Voldemort used to torture information out of Ollivander the Wand Maker, but he certainly would have benefited from lessons with my kids.
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.
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.
“Mom,” Parker called, “I have to bring in 24 Easter eggs filled with candy for our egg hunt at school! And it can’t be chocolate or have peanuts.”
Oh, the rope of restrictions! It burns! It burns! Takes it off! Takes it OFF! Aggghhh!
Okay, look. I’ve done my Easter basket shopping already. I’ve picked through and searched the available Easter candy. Excluding chocolate and peanuts, I know exactly what’s left.
Candy with artificial dyes.
No way. I’m not buying it.
Sure, Parker isn’t affected as severely as his brother by the dyes. Instead of YELLOW DYE POLTERGEIST MONSTER, Parker becomes more annoying than usual, but still within the realm of typical annoying behavior. For monkeys on crack.
But we’re talking principle here too. If I keep buying this junk, they’ll keep using these dyes, which, by the way, are made from things like coal and tar…basically from industrial wastes.
So when you bite into that cute YELLOW Peep, just think that marshmallow chick is part industrial waste. YUM!
Me: Hmm, we’ll have to come up with something other than candy to put in the eggs.
(And with no Whole Foods nearby, I guess it means toxic plastic toys from China that will only get thrown in a landfill, leaving a Sasquatch-sized carbon footprint. There is no winning this school egg hunt game.)
Parker: But! It says wrapped candy RIGHT HERE. (points to note from teacher)
Me: And that means candy with artificial dyes. No. We’ll come up with something else.
Payton: Like spinach! Fill the eggs with spinach!
Me: Haha! That’s funny. We’ll fill them with spinach! Or squares of toilet paper!
Payton: Hahaha, even funnier!
Parker: Noooooooooooo! The teacher said to put wrapped candy in the eggs!
Me: Sorry, no dye candy.
Parker: But it’s the RULES!
Me: Who made the rule?
Parker: I dunno, Mr. Principal, probably.
a gleeful look comes into my eyes
Me: Then we will breaktherules.
Parker: Horror! Catastrophe! Will be sucked into the black hole of Hades if I don’t follow the rules! We must follow the Easter Egg Candy rules!
Jesus Christ, I’m raising a goody-goody rule-follower.
Where did I go wrong?
And what can I put in these damn eggs? Suggestions, please?
“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?
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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