7 Things I’ve Learned About Playtime between my Gifted & 2E Kids

1 – There will be screaming.  Sometimes that screaming is out of sheer fun and enjoyment.  Sometimes that screaming is out of pain.  Sometimes that screaming is out of anger or hurt feelings.  Whether they are getting along or they are not getting along, there will be screaming.

2 – More time will be spent deciding what they are going to play than will be spent actually playing.  It never fails.  I’ll shoo my 3 children off and tell them to go play together while I make dinner.  I’ll warn them that they have about 45 minutes.  I’ll hear them negotiating, brainstorming, creating rules, arguing about rules, bossing each other about, creating.  Then I’ll hear them start to play only to discover that the 11 year old still found a loophole in the 507 rules they’d decided upon.  Which, results in the screaming (see #1), and then a repeat of the negotiating, brainstorming, etc.  By the time I call them up for dinner, they will have spent more time deciding what they were going to play than they did actually playing it.

3 – Most of the time I’ll have to coerce one or the other of them to actually play.  Don’t get me wrong, my kiddos truly love each other and generally enjoy each other’s company.  But, one of them is extremely introverted, one of them is extremely extroverted, and the other is a magical mix of being extroverted with some socially autistic traits.  To find a time when they all are capable and desiring to be with each other is like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack.  And most of the time I simply let them figure it out.  But, sometimes, I need to model and demonstrate and coerce them into knowing what being in relationship with another human being means and looks like.  So, the combination of differently wired kids, with different temperaments, and the desire to create connections and family, means that most of the time I’m coercing one or the other of them to actually play.

4 – It’s best if I stay out of the way.  Referring back to #1, in my more foolish and helicopter-y days, anytime I heard a scream which wasn’t clearly joy-filled, I’d come running.  Given the loud nature of my daughter, that meant I was intervening all the time.  Or, referring back to #2, in my more foolish and control-freakish days, I’d feel like I needed to sort the rules out for them, so I was intervening all the time.  My intervening rarely helps.  In fact, it actually teaches them that I don’t trust them to figure it out themselves.  My intervening steals away their creativity and autonomy.  And so, now I wait until I hear Cub shout, “Chimp, go get mom!  Tell her KBear’s in the red!”  Unless I hear those words, “go get mom,” I’ve learned it’s best to just stay out of the way.

5 – It’s best to leave them wanting more.  KBear can only handle so much stimulation.  And often she holds things together really effectively, until she just can’t anymore.  So, on the outside, it looks like she goes from 0 to 60, happy to hulk, in about 5.2 seconds.  I used to fall for this façade.  Before they started to play I’d have a time limit in my head (usually 30-60 minutes).  And I’d be ready to call them out of their play when I’d hear how well they were cooperating.  Naively, I’d think that meant they could play happily for longer.  Inevitably, 2 minutes after my initial time limit, KBear would meltdown.  And I’d internally chastise myself.  Now I know, it’s best to cut their time off, even if they’re having fun.  I’d rather have them united in their common enemy of the unfairness of mom, than fighting with each other or melting down.  The whines of “But, mo-om, we just got started” are music to my heart.  It’s best to leave them wanting more.

6 – It’s OK if some of their collaborative playtime is in front of a screen.  Parenting in this age is tricky, because we’re generally the first generation that has to figure out what to do with the balance of electronic play and hands-on play.  We’re inundated with messages that kids shouldn’t be in front of screens.  And there’s truth to that.  They need to actually play with their bodies and minds.  But, they’ve also known how to use a tablet since they were a toddler.  And there’s a lot of connecting and socializing that occurs through technology.  Guilt and shame are rarely helpful.  Yes, my kids are expected to play off-screen.  But, it isn’t helpful for me to feel mommy-guilt when they’re playing on-screen, either.  Especially when they are joyfully collaborating while in front of the screen.  It’s OK if some of their playtime is in front of a screen. And some days, it’s even OK if all of their playtime is in front of a screen.

7 – It’s fun to join them and it’s fun not to join them, too.  Some days I’m ready to play along and follow their lead.  Some days I need mom-time.  Both are ok and whatever I want to do, is ok.  After all, playtime is supposed to be fun, first and foremost, right?  And sometimes fun looks like giggling and rough-housing with them, and sometimes fun looks like a cup of coffee and sitting quietly on the porch, far away from the screaming. 

Teaching a Sensitive, Pre-Teen Know-it-All

Witness an actual conversation that occurred between the 11 year old and myself:

Picture me, excited because I think I’ve found a co-op class that my drama-loving, ever-talking, debate-engaging, pre-teen son will enjoy.

Me:  Cub, there’s a homeschool speech and leadership class offered through the library.  What do ya think?!

Cub:  Oh, yeah.  (with all the liveliness of a block of wood)

Me:  (amping up the enthusiasm in the hopes it would be contagious) Yeah!  I thought you’d really enjoy it . . . you’ll learn ways to project your voice and use body language and get to tell stories . . .

Cub:  (eye roll)  Mom . . . I already know how to do all that.  I’m an actor.  I’ve been in plays.  I don’t need to learn more.  

And Cub exits stage left.  Which was probably a good thing, because that kind of mindset makes me want to strangle him just a little bit.

He’s always been a precocious little kid.  And while the official definition of precocious has something to do with developing abilities at an earlier age than usual, I’m using it as a synonym for smart aleck, wiseguy, smarty pants, know-it-all, etc.  Sometimes this attitude of his can be an asset, like when he’s in a group of kids and steadfastly sticks to his convictions.  But, when I’m trying to teach him something, either in his academics or just passing on mom-wisdom, it is incredibly infuriating and gets in the way of actual learning.

He’ll staunchly talk over my explanations on how to do a math problem, because he knows what he’s doing even though he’s doing it completely wrong.  He’ll refuse classes, or grudgingly participate, because he doesn’t think he has anything more to learn on the topic.  He’ll spout off about a topic that he actually knows little about, but maintain that he saw it somewhere on youtube, so he knows more about it than anyone else.  This unabashed certitude is a hallmark of giftedness and of being a pre-teen, and when those have combined over the past couple of years . . . well . . . there really are no words.  I mean, seriously.  Holy hell.

And for me, personally, narcissism is one of my biggest pet peeves.  And when I see my lovely little boy overflowing with it, part of me becomes very adolescent and I want to show him just how wrong he is.  I want to tie him down, duct-tape his mouth and “make” him listen to me.  I want to make him eat his all-knowing words.  And while I’ve never actually duct-taped his mouth shut, I have uncontrollably jumped into a power struggle with the boy and tried to lecture him into wisdom.  Which, you know, worked really well.

To complicate things, Cub is also one of the most emotionally intense and empathetically sensitive souls I’ve ever met.  Oh, and lets not forget the perfectionism that many gifted children are simply born with.  To provide correction and guidance to this child requires a very fine balancing act.  He already beats himself up enough if he thinks he’s made a mistake, his mom certainly doesn’t need to add fuel to his fire.  He picks up on tone and feels other people’s emotions, so even the hint of frustration or disappointment can have him feeling bad for hours or days.

As a parent and teacher, this balancing act can be so difficult to walk.  Our children require correction.  Developing a growth mindset and the humility to know that there’s always more to be learned is essential for success.  But, our children also need us to be their soft place to land.  They need us to be their champions and cheerleaders.  

Here are a few things I’ve learned about how to navigate this contradictory place of sensitive narcissism.

First and foremost, I need to prioritize my own emotional regulation.  When he refuses to listen to my teaching, I need to take a few breathes and not take it personally.  I need to quiet my own know-it-all tendency that wants to prove just how right I am and remember that the irritating wise-ass sitting in front of me is actually just my little cub who’s trying to find his way.  I need to stay calm.

I need to provide space and time.  Not all lessons can be learned in one sitting.  We’re in it for the long haul and when I can keep my eyes on the long-term prize, I can see this one moment as simply a building block.

I need to allow my own discomfort and watch him struggle and fail.  If he thinks he knows how to do the math problem and won’t listen to instruction, let him do it his way and see where he gets.  Let him find his own errors.  Let him come to me and ask for help when he does finally see for himself that he doesn’t understand.  That’s far more effective than when I’ve tried to make him see that he needs help.

I need to model my own growth mindset.  Fully acknowledge when I don’t know something.  Ask for help.  Show my kids that I’m continually learning.  Be willing to show humility when I’ve thought I’ve known something to be true and learned that I was mistaken.

And I need to provide all correction nestled gently between words of love and full-on acceptance.  Even when his eyes are rolling and his words are sarcastic, he continues to be a gentle soul who simply needs, like all of us, to know that he’s loved and worthwhile simply for being who he is.

After some time and space away from each other, I was able to calmly explain why I thought the speech and leadership class would be helpful and he was able to listen to my words.  And victory for mom!  He’s signed up for the class.  Though now that I’m thinking about it, maybe giving him more tools to eloquently argue with me was not my wisest move.

On Being Intentionally Active

I remember the moment distinctly.  We were sitting at the cub scouts end of the year picnic, watching Cub and the other 6 year old boys playing t-ball.  I watched as Cub tried really hard to behave like the other 6 year old boys and he just didn’t know how to do it.  It was pretty painfully cringy to watch.  He just simply didn’t know how to “act his age.”  Typically he was pretty serious, engaged in thoughtful conversations, and enjoyed magically creative dramatic play.  In his attempts to fit in with the other boys, he became that overly silly, in-your-face kind of boy.  And, with his psychomotor intensity, he was physically buzzing around everyone and talking non-stop.  But, psychomotor intensity doesn’t necessarily equate to advanced psychomotor ability.  So, not only was he buzzing around, but he was doing so clumsily and simply seemed as though he didn’t know how to move his body.  My husband and I looked at each other and said, “Oh my gosh.  Our kid’s the annoying kid.”  My mind could flash forward a few years and the picture it painted of Cub’s social life wasn’t pretty.

Later in the week, I finally acquiesced to my husband’s fairly regular requests to enroll Cub in a martial art.  It was one of the best activity choices we’ve ever made.  And, in reflection, here’s why.

The physical discipline he has learned has helped him to grow more grounded in his movements.  He understands how to move his body with intention, which helps him modulate his psychomotor intensity.  The form of martial art, Aikido, is a defensive discipline, so it has also curbed his previous tendency to get into people’s faces, knowing he doesn’t need to go on the attack, but can quietly wait.  He has had the opportunity to learn from other people, older and younger, and to develop his own leadership skills.  In addition to the physical skills, there is an intellectual element of Aikido as he learns strategy, Japanese culture and language, and an understanding of the philosophy of Aikido.

His successes with Aikido have taught me a few things with regard to choosing the appropriate extracurricular activities for our gifted kids.

First, I now try to very intentionally choose activities that allow an outlet for their various intensities (overexcitabilities).  The more we feed the intensities, the less dysfunctional they become.  Aikido for psychomotor intensity.  Drama or Destination Imagination for imaginational intensity.  Art classes or philanthropic service projects to feed the sensual or emotional intensity.  Strategic gaming clubs for opportunities for intellectual intensity.

Second, I try to not only choose activities that feed the intensities, but also that help my kids learn how to modulate them.  There are a lot of downsides to intensities and us gifted people need to know how to regulate those downsides.  But, there are a lot of upsides, as well, and we need to teach our kids how to build the strengths and regulate the weaknesses of their particular intensities.  Aikido has been fabulous for this as Cub’s learned how to be generally more grounded in his body.

Third, we seek out multi-age activities.  Our kids develop asynchronistically, which means they rarely fit in with chronological peers.  They tend to do better with older or younger kids.  And, when multi-age groups for particular activities don’t exist, sometimes we create our own.  I managed a Destination Imagination team geared to homeschoolers so we could have a range of kids’ ages on the team.  Worked far better than sticking Cub in the public school’s team with all the same grade kids.

Fourth, we are very intentional about talking together to determine what and how many activities to participate in.  Gifted kids tend to be more introverted, so the fast-paced, be busy 24 hours a day, sign up for lots of activities world that we live in is often even more detrimental to these kiddos.  Sometimes we choose activities that are one-on-one, or solitary, or just at home.  And Cub generally has an understanding of what his limits are.

There are so many fantastic opportunities for our kids these days.  It becomes difficult to say no or to find the right match.  But, I’ve found that when I can be intentional in the ways I’ve described, my kids can flourish.  They learn how to build upon the strengths and modulate the weaknesses of their intense personalities.  And, thankfully, with Aikido’s help, Cub is no longer the annoying kid.

For More tips, tricks, and stories about the intersection of extracurricular activities and intensities, check out the Blog Hop at Gifted Homeschooler's Forum!

Caroline's Cart

It seems that I am confronted with the reality of my daughter’s disabilities weekly.  Various situations trigger the familiar feeling of  being sucker-punched in the gut as, once again, I am catapulted closer to full recognition that my daughter is different.  Sometimes it’s the public meltdown or the flapping hands or her stilted gait.  Tonight, it was Caroline’s Cart.

If you are unfamiliar with Caroline’s Cart, follow the link here to learn more.  Basically, it’s a cart that Target provides for larger special needs children.  When I first spotted one at our local Target, I assumed physically disabled individuals would utilize them and I thought it was a great idea.  When my daughter first spotted one tonight at our local Target, she assumed it was designed just for her.

KBear does have developmental dyspraxia, some hypotonia, and sensory issues, which do make her tolerance of physical activity to be minimal.  She also has some autistic traits, which make her inflexible and perseverative.  But, these issues are hidden.  And they can be particularly hidden because she is also cognitively gifted.  She (sometimes) appears typical.  She (sometimes) appears smarter than the average bear.  She appears able to walk throughout a store without issue.  And so, while sitting in Caroline’s Cart, she appears to be stealing a modified medically necessary piece of equipment out from underneath someone who really needs it.

As KBear approached the cart after having already made it through 2 previous stores, I could sense that her senses were near overload.  She gave me all the red flags and signs that a meltdown was possible.  She indicated that she was tired and needed to sit.  She no longer fits in “regular” baby or child seats.  She pointed at Caroline’s Cart and, with full baby-voice on (one of her cues that she’s had enough), she said, “Mine.  KBear need.”

95% of me wanted to say, “You don’t really need that cart.  It’s made for people with disabilities.”  95% of me didn’t want to fully acknowledge that my daughter does, actually have a disability.  95% of me feared the assumptions and judgments that others might send our way because she doesn’t look like she needs a modified cart.

But, the other 5% of me said, “OK.  Get in,” because it was able to acknowledge that without the cart, she’d meltdown and her hypotonic, dyspraxic legs just couldn’t actually walk her through the store, even though they look like they should be able to.  

That 5% of me did, once again and with the accompanying sinking feeling in my gut, accept that she does indeed have a disability.  It can be very confusing and difficult to accept, because at some points she can have the most quick-witted, mature sense of humor or the deepest, most philosophical conversation about the meaning of life.  At some moments, it becomes easy to deny that she also has these disabilities.  But, that 5% of me said, “Nope, she is humorous and philosophical and needs a special needs cart.

That 5% of me also decided to plow forward into judgment.  If I claim to want hidden disabilities to become visible, acknowledged, and accepted, then I need to stop hiding them.  I need to stand in my own discomfort and challenge the typical concept of what special needs means.  I need to show the world that my daughter can appear “normal”, can be gifted, and can also need Caroline’s Cart.

We did, indeed, receive several judgmental looks from passers-by.  And even though I like to pretend that those looks don’t bother me, they do a little.  I found myself justifying the use of the cart over and over in my own head.  But, it was a step.  A step toward more fully accepting my daughter as she is.  A step toward educating people that disabilities come in all shapes and sizes.

And, even if none of those things happened, at least we avoided a meltdown in the middle of Target.

The Most Exhausting Thing

The most exhausting thing for me as a parent to a higher needs child is that I ALWAYS have to be “on”.  There is very little grace within the space of my parenting.  Let me clarify, I am generally pretty self-compassionate and can feel and accept grace.  My daughter, however, not so much.

Differently wired kids often feed on the energy of the emotional states of those around them.  So, when I’m having a stressed-out, overly-tired, I-haven’t-gotten-enough-alone-time-in-the-past-10-years-of-my-life-and-so-I’m-crabby kind of day, my daughter picks up on it and sucks it all in.  Now, she doesn’t consciously know that she’s doing this, so she just feels as icky as I do, but without understanding why.  And when she feels icky, she meltsdown and acts out.  So, the days when I feel my worst, are the days she will behave her worst.  Exhausting.

And differently wired kids are often not very flexible.  On the days when I’m feeling indecisive and I say, “well, maybe we’ll grab a burger for lunch,” but then decide to have a picnic of PB&J instead, my daughter will inevitably shout, “But you PROMISED burgers!  You’re a LIAR!” and then a meltdown will ensue.  So, the days when I feel least like being structured and assertively making decisions, are the days when I’ll have to be strong and structured in response to her worst behaviors.  Exhausting.

And differently wired kids often do not deal with boredom or lack of structure very well.  On the days when I’m wanting to check-out of parenting just a little, she will get bored and inadvertently instigate misbehavior and arguments with her brothers.  So, the days when I feel least like parenting are the days when I have to parent the most.  Exhausting.

And I know that parents of typical children still have to parent when they don’t feel like it and still have to deal with crabby kids on the days they are crabby.  I do understand that.  But, I also know that I could have low-key days with my boys because they can tolerate entertaining themselves for a day.  And, in fact, my 11 year old LOVES those days.  And I know that a crabby neuro-typical kid looks different than a melting down, crabby differently wired kid.

With a differently wired kiddo like my daughter, I pay extra for my parenting failures.  It feels like I can’t have an “off” day because an off day quickly turns into a horrific day.  It feels like I can’t be sick, because sick days quickly turn into horrific days.  It feels like there’s no space for grace.  I would give anything for a grace period, or a day where I could simply coast through it with minimal effort.  But, I can’t.  And that’s the most exhausting thing.

Stupid Logical Brain

I’m learning that there are many bittersweet moments as a mom.  Moments in which your children reach another developmental milestone bring tears of happiness and tears of grief as the loss of your baby’s babyhood become clearer.  Gifted kids hit some of these maturational milestones earlier than others, and I have to say that I think that kind of sucks.

Take, for example, an incident that occurred a few years ago.  Cub was 6 years old, 7 tops.  For the previous 4 years he’d been all about superheroes and Harry Potter.  He walked into the kitchen, head hung low, and said to me, “Mom, I’m kinda sad.”

“Really, buddy?  What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s just really sad that everything cool isn’t really real.  You know, like superheroes or magic or Harry Potter.”

Hugging ensued as this mama’s heart was torn into pieces and my mind frantically searched for a helpful, feel-better response.  And I remember thinking that this sucked.  He was still a teeny tiny boy, barely school-age, and his stupid logical brain had already taken away the magic of childhood fantasy.  (Don’t even get me started on his struggles to suspend reality and simply enjoy a fictitious movie!)

And at that moment, I decided that maybe the magic of the fantasy was gone, but I could help spark some new magic.  So, I said, “Yep, buddy.  Right now there aren’t any people who can fly or climb walls with sticky web fingers, but who’s to say that you can’t find a way to make that happen?  Maybe you’ll be the world’s first real-life superhero.”

I never knew it was possible to embody pure sadness and incredulous scoffing at the same time, but there it was, all over my 6 year old’s face.  “Don’t be ridiculous, mom,” he said.  And, having proven his point, he thought the conversation was over.  But I had a comeback.

“Seriously, cub.  If you really want to and you work hard and surround yourself with other smart people, maybe you and your crew will be the first to develop some type of injection or microchip that will allow people to harness the power of flight.  100 years ago nobody thought airplanes were possible.  So who says it can’t be done?!”

Yes, my motives were probably suspect.  Really I just didn’t want my baby to grow up so fast.  But, ultimately, I’m pretty proud of this parenting moment.  And, don’t worry, there are about a bazillion other parenting fails in my repertoire, too.

Gifted kids have enough struggles to contend with.  The least we can do is keep imagination, hope, and fantasy alive for as long as we can, even if it has to shift form.  This, after all, breeds innovation and creates the crazy humans who actually do change the world.

Or, maybe, I just really want to fly.

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes... the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules... You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things... they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.
”

— Steve Jobs

Hulking Out

My daughter hulks out.  Seriously.  Clothes get ripped.  She grows about 500 times stronger than usual.  Her face contorts into a scary, ugly mask of rage.  She attacks anyone and everyone standing in her way.  She doesn’t recognize her native language and speaks in grunts and one word answers.  I’m pretty sure she even turned green on one occasion.

And when she hulks out (or flips, as we generally call it in our household), it becomes difficult to remember that she’s really just my little KBear.  In fact, most of the time I start wondering if the real her is the hulk her and those other glimpses of a human child are an illusion.  I become discouraged and angry, and often end up hulking out myself – though with a bit more self-restraint than K-Hulk is capable of.  I begin to think that she’s trying to be defiant, that she is simply a brat, that I somehow just need to be more authoritative, demanding, louder, angrier, and she’ll snap into shape.

Except, that approach didn’t ever work to turn Hulk back into Banner.  And it never works to turn KBear back to her normal self.  And here’s why.  Because Hulk can’t think straight when he’s Hulking out and neither can my KBear.

Jon had been fooling around, taking some pictures of the kids one day.  After the impromptu photo shoot, he and the 3 kids were gathered around looking through the pictures.  There was a series of oddly exposed shots and Jon was generally deleting them pretty quickly.  When he came to this one, he had his finger on the trash button when KBear shouted, “Wait!  Stop!”

Unsure what the deal was, Jon just looked at her quizzically, until KBear said, “That’s me.  That’s what it feels like when I flip.”

Jon looked back at the picture and gave KBear a hug.

On the outside, we see a giant monster of rage and destruction.  On the inside, KBear feels like that monster is also attacking her.  She feels like she has 3 heads all pulling her in 500 different directions and she can’t see straight, let alone think straight, let alone choose to behave appropriately.  Her neurons are firing like mad, her senses are overloaded and spinning, she’s in a thousand different kinds of pain.  Of course she doesn’t listen to me.  She can’t even hear me.

On my good days, I can remember that.  I can see past the Hulk and have compassion for my baby who’s trapped inside.

But, after a few good days, or a few too many encounters with K-Hulk, or a few too many of my own stressors, all I can see is the green and rageful monster.  And I’m back where I started, thinking mean, unhelpful, blaming thoughts.  But thankfully, on my best days, I can see past my own Hulk, too, and have compassion for the tired and loving mom who’s trapped inside.

Caring Just Enough

In recent months a lot of the dirty “secrets” of society have been bubbling up to the surface.  Though, in fairness, these have really only been “secrets” to people privileged enough to be able to ignore them.  Racism and sexism have been blatantly supported by some of our country’s supposed leaders.  Institutional racism, sexism, able-ism has been caught on video and shared throughout the world.  People of differing faiths have been demonized and threatened to be put on a national registry.  Countries of plenty have been closing tight fists around their lands and resources, under the unreasonable belief that there simply isn’t enough to go around.  Immigrants are being dehumanized.  Refugees are being refused safe harbor.  People are being shot and killed.  LGBTQ individuals are being targeted and hunted down.  Victimized people are choosing to respond with more violence and hate.

For people with emotionally intense personalities (many gifted people), these bubblings can feel extremely overwhelming.  Anxiety and fear and sadness and anger and helplessness are felt by many people, but for emotionally intense children and adults, these feelings are multiplied and intensified.  Emotionally intense people not only feel things more intensely, but they also tend to be extremely empathetic.  They literally put themselves in the shoes and feelings of all the people who are being hurt and harmed.  And when there are so many people being hurt and harmed, many of our brightest, most empathetic minds simply shut down from overload.  The empathy becomes paralyzing. 

Now, obviously, this paralysis is simply not helpful.  To anyone.  Paralysis does not help to end racism.  Paralysis does not help to empower women.  Paralysis does not help to create sanctuary for our world’s poorest.  Paralysis does not help unite with people who are different from ourselves.  Paralysis does not help end violence or hate.  Paralysis simply does not help.

So, what to do?

Our brightest and most caring minds need to care, but not too much.  The trick is to care enough, but just enough.  We need to examine our own passions and decide what we, individually, are impassioned to fight for.  It is ok to choose one issue and throw all your passion and power into fighting against that evil.  In fact, it is necessary to choose just one.  And then we have to trust that other people are out there choosing the other injustices to fight against.  It is ok to notice some injustices and choose to devote your attention somewhere else.  We humans simply cannot give our all to everything.  We have to choose.  And that is ok.  I give you permission to care deeply about one of the “secrets” and do what you can to advocate for change.  I give you permission to notice the other “secrets” and let someone else do what they can to advocate for change. 

Now, of course, I’m not advocating for perpetuating the hatreds.  I will teach my children to be respectful and accepting of everyone, regardless of who they love or their gender, skin color, country of origin, abilities, etc.  But, I cannot be at every rally or write my congress people about everything.  I will be much more effective if I choose my area of advocacy, and throw all my intense passion into it.  I will be much more effective if I choose to care just enough.

Revisiting Gratitude

A couple of years ago, I played along with one of those slightly corny facebook challenges.  I often just disregard these things, but this one was about thankfulness and gratitude.  And, since I regularly encourage my clients to keep gratitude journals and choose to focus their minds on positive things, I thought I should practice what I preach, so I hopped on the facebook challenge bandwagon.

The first few days I think I wrote some pretty generic things (thought honestly I can’t remember).  As a family we were right in the midst of some pretty significant challenges with our daughter’s SPD.  We’d only started receiving services a few months before and both my husband and I were trying to make sense of it all and were grieving the diagnosis.  I wasn’t feeling very grateful, really.  I was mostly feeling tired and overwhelmed and emotional.  And then, I decided to add a bit of challenge to the challenge and I wrote the following:

Day 3: Today I am choosing to be thankful for some of the tough stuff. I admit that I often feel discouraged and overwhelmed in the midst of the following, which is entirely the reason that I am choosing to work at being grateful for them. So, here goes.

1) I am thankful for Sensory Processing Disorder. Don't get me wrong, there is a large part of me that wishes this disorder had never touched my family, or to be more honest, that it simply didn't exist. But, I am thankful for the explanation of my daughter's behaviors and idiosyncracies that has nothing to do with blaming my daughter, my husband, or myself. I am thankful that I am learning to see her behaviors through the lens of "mixed up wiring", sensory overload, or sensory deprivation rather than believing she's a spoiled brat, or that I am a bad mom, or that my husband is a bad dad. We aren't. Sure, none of us is perfect, but she struggles because of her neurological system, not because any of us screwed up or are inherently awful. I am thankful that this disorder is gaining understanding, and that this disorder has brought us into contact with a fantastic Occupational Therapist and has encouraged us to more creatively problem solve and find solutions focused at the actual problem rather than trying to "parent her out of it" or wait til she grows out of it. I am thankful that this disorder has continued to broaden our support network so we are no longer trying to manage the symptoms entirely on our own.

2) I am thankful for my daughter's meltdowns. These meltdowns are definitely not pretty and usually involve some type of destruction, hitting, kicking, shouting mean things, you name it. Her system gets overloaded and meltdown happens. These are exhausting. It is exhausting to try to figure out how to keep her safe while also protecting my other two children, not to mention myself. And I really wish I never had to feel the helpless heartache as I watch my intelligent and beautiful and thoughtful and sweet and generous daughter transform before my eyes, knowing that she's in hundreds of different kinds of pain and all I can do is wait it out. I want nothing more than to nurture her at these times, mother her, hug her, hold her, but all these things make the meltdowns and her pain worse. So I simply have to sit and wait, usually with tears running down my own face and my arms aching because they can't console and comfort her. So, in many ways, these meltdowns are not fun. But I am thankful that by watching her meltdowns we can learn more of what she needs. I am thankful that her meltdowns have increased my empathy for other parents and decreased my judgment of them. I am thankful that her meltdowns have prompted me to rest in the sanctuary of my God in ways that I have never before had to or chosen to. And I am thankful that her meltdowns are teaching me how to be more of what I believe I am called to be - a living sanctuary for all those who cross my path.

3) I am thankful that most people simply don't "get it". Sure, it can be lonely in some ways, and isolating, and again, exhausting. But I am thankful that most people don't "get it" because they have not had to face the challenges of SPD personally. I am thankful that most people are neurotypical and function well. I am also thankful because most people don't "get" that my daughter struggles with SPD. They don't "get it" because she (generally) manages to hold it all together when out and about and then melts down with overload when she's at home. Really, only my husband, my two sons, myself, and (of course) my daughter have ever experienced her full blown meltdowns. I am thankful for the hope that this brings, because with the right tools and modifications, she will be just fine. She proves every day that she can be just fine. And I am thankful that her meltdowns are reserved for me. It means that she feels fully, completely, unquestionably, and unconditionally loved and safe with me. It means that I am doing my job. Despite my mistakes and my own meltdowns and times I have been far less than mother of the year, she can totally and completely be all of herself with me. I am thankful that the effort I put in to prayerfully being her living sanctuary are felt by her.

At the end of the original FB post, I had written something along the lines of writing this mostly as a reminder to myself.  I find that as I re-read it, I am thankful that time, trial and error, and helpful professionals have helped us understand my daughter’s needs better.  But, I also find that I continue to have those days, weeks, months in which the struggle is very real and it is hard to stay grateful.  And so, I re-post this as a reminder that there are always ways to reframe a situation to see it from a different angle.  And mostly, I re-post as a reminder to myself to always revisit gratitude.

Being a Smart Girl

The other day, Jon came home from a shopping trip with KBear and said that a woman had started up a conversation with KBear, which went as follows:

Woman – You are so beautiful!  You could be a model!  Do you want to be a model?

KBear – I want to be a doctor or an engineer.

Woman – But you are just so pretty.  You could be a model!

KBear – I want to be a doctor or an engineer.

Woman – But, don’t you want to be a model?

KBear (to Jon) – I don’t want to talk to this person anymore.

My first reaction was to laugh hysterically and feel a sense of pride.  That’s my girl!

My second reaction was to feel a sense of awe for the advantage of KBear’s autism-y type ways.  How fantabulous that her social difficulties can also allow her to simply say what she thinks and write off silly strangers who are trying to convince her that what she wants isn’t legitimate or valuable.  My younger life could have been so much simpler had I been able to be more oblivious to other people’s reactions.  I certainly would have found my own way of being true to myself much more quickly had I cared less about hurting other people’s feelings.  KBear’s autism tendencies can make social situations challenging for her, but they also innately provide her a level of differentiation within relationships that I am regularly trying to instill in my own life and in the lives of my therapy clients.

My third reaction was to feel a sense of sadness that the world continues to pass on these archaic and nonsensical messages to my children.  Messages that there’d be more value in a girl to be a model than to be a doctor or an engineer.  I was the smart girl in class who intuitively knew I should hide my intelligence if I wanted to fit in.  I was the girl in class who finished her tests about 15 minutes before anyone else but pretended to keep working on them because no one likes a know-it-all.  I was the girl in high school who knew answers to the questions teachers were asking, but kept quiet because the other boys and girls looked confused, so I should be too.   I was the girl in class who pretended that exams or papers were difficult because everyone else said they were and I certainly didn’t want to make them feel bad that I felt the test was easy.  I was the young woman who allowed my own opinions to sit quietly in the background so the young men around me wouldn’t feel intimidated.  I played stupider than I am.  And by doing all these things, I actually began to believe I’m stupider than I am.  I began to doubt my knowledge, my thoughts, my own voice.

Thank God all that changed.  I’d thought it’d partly changed because I’m growing older and wiser.  But I’d also thought it’d changed because the world is changing and is no longer expecting girls to play dumb in order to appear more attractive.  I thought my part of the world no longer valued a girls’ appearance more than her intelligence.  But, the truth is, I guess I knew all along that the world still has changing to do.  Sometimes it just feels easier to pretend that my daughter won’t have to face the same challenges that I did.  So, I cozy up to naiveté to avoid the sadness, until I hear that some woman was trying to convince my daughter that being a model would be better than being a doctor or an engineer.  And the sadness rushes in.

But then I go back to my second reaction.  Thank God KBear can think a little black and white and can simply write off silly people touting ignorant ideologies.  Thank Goodness her wiring allows her to be herself and choose the people she wants to listen to and disregard the people she doesn’t want to listen to.  And for all the times when I feel twinges of loss and sadness as I watch her try to navigate our complex social world, I will remind myself of the flipside and the positives of her wiring.

For all of you who are hiding your true intelligence or talents – take a lesson from KBear and learn to be a bit more autistic!

“Your playing small does not serve the World.
There is nothing enlightening about shrinking
so that other people won’t feel unsure around you. . .
As we let our own Light shine,
we consciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.
”

— Marianne Williamson