now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

Dispatches from the field:

1. Renee Fleming is hawt even if ostensibly dying of consumption.
2. The latte martini is proof of a benevolent god.

Scene: a mother and son, in the car en route to school, discussing yesterday’s school art project- clay snowmen, festooned with pretzel sticks, buttons, and felt. The results were lined up in the classroom window, each looking almost exactly alike- some with different colored buttons or mufflers and a few leaning like a tower in Pisa, but each with sticks for arms and nice little faces. Except for one armless soul, completed covered in buttons on his body, and his face on the absolute top of the small top ball, rather than the front of it.

“So did everyone make their snowmen yesterday?”
“It was art center, so yah. And they made sure everyone got a turn.”
“Cool. Your guy sure stands out and looks cool! Why’d you make him like that?”
“Well his face is looking up because he knows the sun is out and is going to make him melt and disappear. And he doesn’t have to look just like a snowman or everyone else’s snowman. Lots of the art in the museum doesn’t look like what it is until you squint, remember mommy?”
“Um….ok! Right!”
“Plus I just really like buttons and wanted LOTS.”

Ennui plus greed. Jean-Paul’s sighing deeply up in the afterlife.
——-

So I’ve been talking with friends about el whole gifted thing (running theme from these conversations: duh he’s gifted, are you softpedalling it because you don’t want to be seen as thrusting him into a set of societal expectations or overburden him with expectations of your own). And I guess a lot of what’s going on is pretty visceral: I’m gifted, and wow did it just bite. And if my kid’s a goddamn freak, so am I. While I do embrace the freakishness, largely made my peace with it, etc, know damn well I am smart, blah blah blah, there’s the whole…Well. Reliving the HELL of being THE smart kid in a place not chockablock with smart kids. There were very few gifted kids in my schools in Florida, and the shit we took was immense. In high school, there was no ‘gifted’ program, only honors classes and AP stuffed with little Johnny overachievers and Susie Specials whose parents screeched that their chilluns were advanced and needed to be in these classes for college- so while I had a ‘heavy’ courseload, by my school’s standards, it was not geared towards challenging a gifted student. College was the first time I was truly totally surrounded by my geekish people, as it were, and lo, that meant major portions of the first 17 years of my life SUCKED, SUCKED ASS. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends, but not a true sense of belonging for much of the time. And in seeing how people here regard Sean, I am also seeing how they regard me, and it is not simply a matter of I am a liberal freak who wears doc martens and thus is different, it is a matter of the very core of who I am- my brain, my wit, my smarts- is like a giant friggen wall between me and 99% of the people I encounter in this damn town. By extension, that applies to Sean as well, and this is something which I pure and simple cannot make ‘better’ for my child, ‘fix’, or otherwise protect him from. He is profoundly- twice!- different, and there ain’t no changing that.

And so I see some writing on the wall, and it’s nasty, and perhaps my slightly defensive ‘he’s gifted but he’s not THAT gifted’ is trying to shield him from the inevitable beating on the playground. Because lord knows any child who walks into class and announces he is going to go count the dragons at the special exhibit at the art museum and compare them to the dragons in his dragonology book did they know the Chinese lung dragon can be told apart from the In-do-nes-ian because the Chinese ones have more toes? is going to be set upon Lord of the Flies style ANY DAY NOW.

It’s a phrase I’m going to grow to know and loathe very, very well. This is one of those posts that has been percolating for a while. Do I post about it? Do I not? Is it bragging? Is it inviting trolling? Sod it all, my blog, and I need to get it out.

I have never regarded Sean as exceptionally, jaw droppingly smart. I’ve thought of him as bright, as talented in some areas. Somehow- and I’m not precisely sure how, I just checked my driver’s license and my name is clearly not Cleopatra, Queen of Denial- I had managed to separate my professional brain (the one which is ridiculously, for someone who doesn’t hold a Ph.D. in educational theory and practice, well versed in learning theory and early childhood education) from the mom brain. The professional brain knows, for instance, that your average not yet five year old cannot or does not:

-Count backwards from 20.
-Count backwards from 100.
-Count by 4s.
-Do simple multiplication as repetitive addition
-Calculate fractions
-Equate fractions and decimals
-Do double digit addition and subtraction
-Draw a chart of numbers and graph them highest to lowest
-Discuss death and the afterlife
-Remember and discuss issues from weeks or months prior, in depth
-Draw maps from memory of places like disneyworld, appropriately laid out and labeled (more or less)
-Insist on bringing their copy of Dragonology to the art museum to compare and contrast the various species of dragons with the ones in the Chinese Dragon exhibit currently there

It is a very weird headspace to be in. I commented to my mother, when pregnant, that one of the Lad’s and my greatest fears would be that we had a child who was completely, blandly, middle of the road average. We wouldn’t know what to do. Joke’s on me- we have a child who is, in the terminology of special education- “twice exceptional”. Unlike when the lad and I were assessed and labeled ‘gifted’, back in the stone ages when gifted education- if it existed at a school- had no quarter for children who also had learning issues and it most likely consisted of a separate room once a week with tons of work and then regular teachers who were vengeful about you being ‘gifted’ and who mocked you publicly when you got less than an A on a test, all of which came to an end when you hit high school and the honors classes were expected to meet your ‘gifted’ needs (guess what, they didn’t), there’s now a whole system. A whole raftload of opportunities, strategy, IEPs and mission statements, and support K-12 instead of 4-8 if you were lucky.

One would think I would know how to navigate this labyrinth. I’m gifted. The lad’s gifted. SURELY I know how to raised a child who has already been pegged as gifted (though we must now go through a formal assessment process, which fills me with dread that he WON’T be identified and we’ll be stuck trying to meet his educational needs without all this support. The head of gifted for the district assures me this is unlikely- more on this in a moment). Answer: like hell I do. We have fears and hopes, and only our own experience to guide us, and in more ways than one that’s sadly lacking.

The head of his school observed to me the other day- before I had this meeting with the district- that the kiddo is the sweetest little boy, and she used a word one rarely hears used regarding a small sprog: genuine. That when he apologizes, she said, he really means it, and when he hugs, he hugs with his whole body and being. And that sometimes she thinks he just wants an adult to talk to, when he acts up to get sent to the office, because he will happily sit with her and talk about the poem they just read in class, and what it means. And I realized suddenly she was right: that what the Lad and I pump into him at home- because we dumb down nothing- is so far from what other families do, and how other people think, that he’s just plain bored shitless by other children. While they’re on ‘The fox can’t climb the tree to get to the bird.’ he’s running off to ‘foxes have paws so they can’t climb trees. Monkeys have hands that can hold onto stuff so they could climb the tree, so if the fox had been a monkey it could have gotten the bird, but since it’s a fox, the bird is safe and can just laugh at the fox.’

I related this story to the head of gifted, and in almost the same breath said ‘he’s just our boy, for all we know he’s not gifte–’ and I hadn’t even finished speaking before she reached over and patted my hand. (Because, for some reason, I thought that to be exceptional, gifted, he had to be spouting calculus and eating sandwiches cut in alphabet letters and wearing high-waisted pants and a bow tie like some sort of mini Nerdlinger. Yes I know this is nothing like what the Lad or I were as gifted children but please, go along with my completely fucked up psyche here)

I came away from that meeting loaded for bear, with books on parenting the gifted child that were like having a cast iron frying pan smashed into my head (again. Just like with the apraxia behavior stuff). Everything that pisses me off, exasperates and frustrates me about the little man that could not be tied to the apraxia was in here. Everything. It was like reading a Field Guide To Sean. I handed one book to the Lad to read a section, and he handed it back to me, puzzled. “Yeah? I was exactly like that as a kid. Weren’t you?” Well no, I was a girl, shockingly enough pal, and the physical overexciteability is more a hallmark of gifted boys than girls. I did not realize the ’sensual overexciteability’ was a hallmark of anything other than the rapture of a small child presented with a perfect peach, or the ‘emotional overexciteability’ was anything other than a very loving, genuine, and demonstrative little boy.

I did not realize this was not normal. Because it’s my frame of reference.

Ans so we have on our hands a twice exceptional child. Gifted, and apraxic. It is changing how I parent: now I filter things through what I’ve read, and try to redirect physical jitteriness as I realize it’s his mind going a zillion times a minute and he literally has no clue he’s swinging the swivel chair yet again (you would think I would have clued into this, given a not infrequent conversation in this house goes “Lad, stop jiggling your foot and making the couch move.” “I am?” “YES. STOP IT NOW OR I RIP YOUR FOOT OFF.” But noooooo! Damn I am blind to my husband’s actual genetic contribution to the kid, aren’t I. Doubly ironic, given that fancypants degree IN genetics of mine.)

It will change how we do things with the school- assessments will be different (no time limit, for instance, because of processing speed issues for apraxic kids), less relying on letters and verbal to indicate advancement or placement and more relying on observation. Serendipitously, the gifted teacher at what will be his elementary school is actually a special ed teacher who is making the switch to gifted: it’s the only school in the district with this situation, and so no other school is quite as prepared for him as this one. The ball gets rolling at kindergarten round up: the district has a policy of not doing out of room gifted ed the first semester of kindergarten, because their mission for gifted has not a damn thing to do with content or curriculum: it’s about the social and emotional health of gifted children, because they recognize that the most important thing they can do for these kids is not stuff information into them like they’re Strasbourg geese, but nurture their intellect and curiosity, help them be productive members of society, give them outlets and space and range for their minds, and guide them on how to navigate a world that sees things very, very differently from them.

Every single one of the parenting a gifted precious snookums books has a section on how guess what, this really does kind of suck- it’s not all great, keeping your kid active and engaged and happy and challenged will be exhausting, and people will expect things to come easily for them and they won’t always, and societal pressure, and people think you don’t need help or resources or support but really you do. And so I don’t know quite how much to say, or how not to talk about this which isn’t sounding like I’m bragging or looking a gift horse in the mouth. But it’s sobering to realize that even though there’s all this in place in this district for gifted, that really, this is going to be an ongoing parenting challenge- we will not hit the magic point at age 5 when he will calm the fuck down (like many people had told us) and he will always be this exhausting, rapacious mind which is like a ravenous gullet demanding input, we will always need to advocate for him in a larger system which is NOT designed for a learner like him (because oh yes, his twice exceptionality flies in the face of phonics, or verbal learning, joy).

On the good side, he does still enjoy a good poop joke. He’s not Nerdlinger all the time.

So when we bought this house, there was a list of shit we wanted to do to it, when finances allowed. Then things happened, like being a consultant, and having shitty clients who didn’t pay on time, and a pregnancy, and a small child who required diapers and very expensive formula, and a water heater that decided to commence to spew water on the floor the weekend the in-laws were arriving, and a furnace that threatened to kill us all in our sleep with carbon monoxide, and a driveway that needed mudjacking. So niceties like ‘put tile in master bath instead of damn carpet who the hell carpets a bathroom?!’ fell to the bottom of the list.

Until now.

Except, of course, it’s never that simple.

Because one of the sink faucets is leaking.
So we have to replace the faucets.
So we might as well replace all the faucets, so they match, including the one on the big whirlpool tub.
And while we’re tiling, we should rip off the backsplash and retile it so it matches.
And the shower is so old and so poorly done it’s obvious we need to rip it out and do a true mudpan. And- you guessed it- tile it.
And while we’re ripping out the backsplash, we should redo the countertop because it’s old and dinged up and of a very dated looking material and it will be impossible to rip it out without destroying the new backsplash if we wait.
And because we’re replacing the faucets, we should go ahead and put shut off valves on there, because the assholes who built this house didn’t install any shutoff valves anywhere except at the main supply.
And did we mention that the sinks are built into this very dated material, so we need to buy new sinks?
For the countertops, which are a non standard size, because again, assholes.
Oh and paint the little room with the toilet, because the genius painters we hired before moving in didn’t paint that, just the main bathroom.
And find a new towel rack, because we’ll be losing the ass ugly, useless one in the shower which apparently is good only for washcloths and a demented, festive hanging of the animal wash puppets.
And you know those blinds are looking beat to shit, maybe we should replace them.
Oh wait. Non standard size. Again: assholes.
And maybe a new curtain rod, because the ‘tension wire’ one is not so tense no matter what we do, and so the curtain hangs limply like a 68 year old man deprived of viag@ra.
And I should touch up the wall where the hamper keeps banging into it and chipping the paint.
Maybe this means we need a new, non-aggressive hamper.

As I got out of the shower this morning, I looked down and realized.
Need a new bath mat, too. The blue will clash with the new color scheme.

I need to go have a shrieking, freaking round of hysteria over in the corner.

Kindergarten Round-Up at the local elementary is February 8.

I have a child old enough for Kindergarten fucking Round-up!

When did that happen?!

I had read, before I gave birth, about feeling like a lioness, a tigress, a fill-in-the-name-of-scary-predator towards one’s children. A ferocity, of you will, against anyone who would threaten them. I thought, foolishly, it meant towards physical threat. Now I know better, as my hackles rise and gaze narrows when some adult huffs at the kid when he’s bonky on steroids, or freaking out in an apraxic fit.

There is no value in yardsticking suffering, in saying oh but really, I don’t have it so bad, so and so’s kid has much more profound issues and so that diminishes the burden on us. What happened to us was a roll of the dice- though now we have some information which indicates the horrorshow of how labor went likely contributed to the apraxia. What there is value in is in railing against senseless suffering. There’s no point in my saying my having to be a tigress about the kiddo is more or less painful, annoying, or stressful than a friend whose child has autism, or spina bifida. My burden is my burden. Theirs is theirs. And we help each other and move on. But when a child’s suffering is not a roll of the dice, is the result of malevolence or pride, hubris or breathtaking illegality, then there’s value in standing up and saying ‘that parent’s burden is not fair’, and railing against it.

I have been fairly head in sand about the upcoming elections. I know who I like, and who I do not. I merely want the elections over with, and Bush out. This is simplistic, I know, and it behooves me to be more politically active, to campaign for people who will not place greed and rabid personal belief above the good of a nation. But it is easy to just whimper and duck one’s head under the covers, or get lost in the minutiae of holidays and work and this and that.

There is a mother at the gym now. She speaks to no one but her workout partner. Her face is a mask, stone-like and rippling under the surface. It is a look I know well. Look too long at my child, it says, and I will stare through you until you look away. Sigh or say a single word that hurts them, and you will regret ever taking in a breath. She is slight and wirey, her movements gentle but still with that slight air of getting used to this. Lifting her child should have been over with then he was decades younger, but now she helps the young man with the military tattoo and the wasting, jangling legs of someone with a partial spinal injury and crushed pelvis on and off of equipment. He makes eye contact with no one as he maneuvers his wheelchair through rows of machines. She makes eye contact only as a warning. Her shoulders are perpetually tight; she never stands down from being a warrior mother.

I did not choose to be the mother I have to be, but it is no one’s fault. She does not have that luxury. And if nothing else, for that reason alone I cannot bring myself to stick my head under the pillow from now until November.

That you don’t know where to begin? Yeah.

I’m back. Slowly but surely.