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.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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?

Listerine for Bipolar Disorder
Listerine was used for years as a floor cleaner and cure for gonorrhea. Find out how it can stop masturbation, which is the root of bipolar disorder.

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.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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.

Claustrophobic pockets.

Well, duh, now it’s all clear!

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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?

_____________________________________________________________

Two hours earlier

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.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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 break the rules.

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?

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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.

(I kid, I kid! Sort of.)

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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.

No DNA test is needed to verify that is my boy.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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 THAT MOM 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 THAT MOM, 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 just don’t know.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

So, yeah. What do I say now?

Did you know I was shy as a child? Painfully so, I’m afraid, “afraid” being the operative word. I was scared of so many things and shyness was the cover story.

Yet now I’ll talk about my vagina on the internet, which should prove you can’t predict a person’s outcome by their childhood personalities, why the hell am I worried about Payton?

The end.

Right? Shouldn’t that be the Oprah light bulb moment when I connect my childhood predisposition to fear and realize I turned out okay, and am in fact very opposite to my childhood personality, now let’s all take a cleansing breath and skip along to a new, carefree life!

If only it were that easy. Is it harder than it use to be, to parent without so much fear? It seems to be growing worse. I could list three examples of how fear has clawed its way into the gut of this generation of parents, but I think the fact that we even need a movement (see Free Range Kids) to reclaim a sense of security speaks for itself.

That being said, I don’t know if we can fully escape the feeling. I’ve tried putting up a false bravado and thumbing my nose at it with arrogance and superiority. It doesn’t work.

I could burn incense, clang a bell and recite positive mantras about Payton over and over, trying to convince my subconscious that my conscious is right and it is wrong. Like a band-aid alone will heal a festering wound?

Maybe this fear thing is simply part of being human. I think all I can do is look at it for what it is.

What sent me into an emotional tailspin with the dwindling of Payton’s interest (gift?) wasn’t that I truly am some over-involved mother whose ego is tied to her son’s achievement. Hello? I’m a blogger and inherently self-absorbed, my ego is big enough on its own, thank you.

I was scared.

What would get the fear churning were imaginary conferences I would have with his future teachers. These weren’t well thought out fear fantasies. Just the vague idea of teachers and administrators asking tough questions about his odd behaviors and me no longer having the gifted card to pull.

That was enough to make me want to prostrate myself on the floor in total despair, getting up only to repress my fear in a glass or three of wine.

As if giftedness is so narrowly defined. Prodigiousness in one subject! Clear mastery in academics! Normal, but smarter, so much smarter!

Oh, what little value we give creative potential. Society wants proof. None of this odd behavior shit without explicit evidence of higher abilities, or else there’s probably something wrong with you!

And this is where I could put on the false bravado and attempt an air of superiority, as if I’m completely above that line of thinking. But let me tell you, the pretending is exhausting. I’m not above it. We’re all products of society, though some to a lesser degree than others. I suppose some are totally above society, but don’t we call those people schizophrenics?

Speaking of schizophrenia, I made the mistake of watching Revolutionary Road again on HBO this weekend. I know, I shouldn’t have, but I do love Kate Winslet. There’s another fear of mine: that I’m raising a child with a predisposition for schizophrenia. I mean, how the fuck do I balance the preservation of a creative mind with fitting in with society without turning him crazy?

See? The scary stories I tell myself?! And they are stories, just stories, not even real.

I have dear readers; readers who are thoughtful and caring (love all of you!) email me with studies or research on Aspergers, showing me the positive side of it. And yes, it’s interesting to hear what these people are doing in their field, how they are making tremendous contributions, etc., etc.

Maybe one day we’ll realize hey, there is this group of characteristics. And, wow, they are precursors to creativity and ingenuity! We don’t want to call this shit a disorder, a lifelong impairment, are we crazy?! We want to call this evolution, progress.

Instead of autism, how about we call if The Darwin Disposition or something? The Edison or Einstein Element? The Marie Curie Component? Because this group of characteristics is not new to the human race, it’s always been there. What’s new is how we think of it.

I cannot get my gut to agree with this medicalization of creative personalities. Frankly, I’m not sure which is actually disordered: kids like my son or our thinking. Seems to me our thinking is the one out of order since ‘dis’ means denoting a reversal, and we all know what order means.

Hell, maybe those kids who reject and tease Payton because he is different are actually the ones with a social disorder. To me that is just as possible, if not more so, than my son being the one.

Who is actually out of order, disordered, in reversal of social order? The kid(s) who wants to do his own thing and explore his imagination or the kid(s) who ridicule and maliciously target the kids who aren’t like them? If we’re going to explore the meaning of social disorder, what the fuck?

But no, those kids are just kids being kids, and my kid is the strange one. And so he’s been targeted, and he is sensitive to even the slightest teasing, subsequently overreacts to it, TADA! There’s proof that he has some level of social impairment.

He doesn’t like mean kids, and since kids are just kids, there are lot of them. So he has very few friends and TADA! More proof of social impairment: the inability to make friends.

(There again, another concept I myself am not above because I get caught up worrying and biting my nails over his lack of friends. Why can’t I accept it? Hell, I don’t have copious amounts of friends. Do I just enjoy having insane thoughts?)

I could jump and down on my soap box and write to remind myself ALL DAY. There are also so many other thoughts, ideas that I wanted to talk about…

They say most gifted kids level out by 4th grade. It’s happening to my son! Why is this? Is this my fault? Or the school, because, as we’ve seen, the system does nothing to support and nurture their gifts. But ultimately that’s my fault too because I sent him to that school. OMG, forget the fear game, let’s play the MOMMY GUILT game instead.

…but my posts like this have a way of taking on a life of their own. Sort of like all those fear fantasies, they just take on a life if I let them.

While in the middle of writing this, Payton was beside me, investigating things with his microscope. I went to his room to look for his boxes of prepared slides and guess what I found way in the back of his supply cabinet.

I’m not even joking.

Not just any label maker, but a PERSONAL label maker. And I found it in the exact moment I was reworking my concepts and fears of labels and disorders.

God has a weird way of talking to me. But I’m listening anyway.

Life is a personal story.

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

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.