The Day My 3 year old Apologized for Needing to go Potty

The 3 year old was apparently drinking plenty of fluids and staying hydrated, which I suppose I could have been thankful for.  But, we were camping.  The pit toilet was a decent walk away.  I’m currently experiencing foot issues, so my left foot is encumbered with a big, clunky, walking boot.  While my children think that’s awesome and have taken to calling me “pirate”, it makes for some uncomfortable walking.  All 3 Fringy kids were playing together nicely and making friends with other camping kiddos nearby.  Which meant I deluded myself into thinking that I might actually get to sit and simply read a book.

Enters the 3 year old.  Every 15-30 minutes the kid needed to pee.  I’d see Chimp walking up, pained expression on his face, hands grabbing onto his unmentionable parts, and whining, “I need to go potty!”

The first couple of times I’d simply say, “OK, let’s go!” and walk with him over to the toilet.  But, after the 4th or 5th time, my patience was wearing thin, I’d only gotten 2 pages read in the book, and I was getting tired of lugging my pirate leg over to the smelly, hole in the ground, which barely passed for a bathroom.  My body language and tone of voice were obviously not masking the frustration and impatience I was feeling.  Probably saying, “seriously, chimp?!  You just went ten minutes ago!” with an exasperated voice didn’t help matters either. 

And so, Chimp apologized.  He looked quite upset that he was disappointing and inconveniencing me as he said, “I’m so sorry mom.”

And it struck me.  My 3 year old was apologizing to me because he had to go to the bathroom.  His body had to expel toxins and fluids and I was inadvertently shaming him for this because I wanted to sit and read a book.  Yep – everyone else just take your names out of the running, I have officially won “mom of the year”.

Don’t read me wrong, I’m not beating myself up (maybe just a tiny bit at first, but I’m over it now).  Nope – I’m simply using this as a wake up call.  The truth is, the unending potty trips are not the only times my Chimp is greeted with an exasperated, frustrated response from me.  He is the kiddo that talks non-stop.  And I am not exaggerating about this.  Ironically, as I’m typing, he’s sitting next to me playing a game on my tablet and . . . talking.  Not to anyone or anything in particular.  He just talks.  And with his talking comes endless questions and requests and “mom!  Watch this!”’s and needs and more questions and storytellings and . . . and . . . and . . .  it is endless.

Most times I can be patient for the first 10 minutes.  But then, he inevitably hears, “Chimp!  What?!”  come impatiently from my mouth.  At which point, he usually responds, “Mom?  I love you.”  And snuggles in for a hug.

Chimp has the (mis)fortune of being my preschooler after I’ve been a baby/toddler/preschooler mom for over a decade.  I’m tired.  The incessant physical neediness of these early years of life are tiring as a parent.  But, he hasn’t been a preschooler for the past decade.  And he won’t be a preschooler for very much longer.  It really is kinda unfair for me to forget that he simply needs more of my physical assistance right now. 

He also has the (mis)fortune of being psychomotorly intense with a mom who is very introverted, as well as sensually and emotionally intense.  My introverted, intense self can only handle the incessant noise of his sweet voice for so long.  But, again, that’s not his fault.  Nor is it his fault that his older sister requires a lot of my energy and time.  I’m trying to hold it together for her so frequently that I simply don’t feel I have the energy to listen to his chatter, answer his questions, or wipe his bum one more time.  There are a lot of demands on me.  But, he’s just a little Chimp who needs his mom . . . and to go to the bathroom.

 So, I’m going to suck it up and intentionally give him joyful parenting on the terms that he requires.  And I’m going to do this in the following ways:

FIRST – I’m going to revitalize myself.  I’m going to actually prioritize my own self care.  I will wake up earlier in the mornings for quiet, peaceful time to recharge before the day even begins.  I will take mommy-time-outs so I can be all by myself for even five minute stretches to be filled with peaceful rest before my kids put me on mommy-time-out so I stop yelling.

SECOND – I’m going to be mindful.  I’m going to stay in the moment and be present.  Instead of following my brain’s random thoughts and to-do-lists that aren’t related to the task or person in front of me, I’m going to breathe and refocus on the here and now.  The other stuff will have their turn for my attention.

THIRD – I’m going to work and play in intervals.  Like interval training, where you can keep sprinting because you know it’s only for a short period of time, I am able to stay more mindful of the here and now when I know it is temporary and there are set times ready for me to address the other stuff on my brain’s eternal to-do list.

FOURTH – I’m going to purposefully choose a mindset of joy, curiosity, and childishness while I’m with my Chimp.  We do have the power to choose our frame of mind – we just have to choose it over and over and over again.

FIFTH – I’m going to do all these things until I don’t.  Which means, at some point this afternoon I won’t be doing them anymore.  And, when that happens, I will practice self-compassion.  Just as Chimp can’t yet go potty all by himself, I can’t yet (or ever) parent joyfully 100% of the time.  And there’s room for compassion in that.

OR – I’ll go buy some earplugs, make Cub take Chimp to the bathroom, and get back to my book.

Life as an Imposter

In the interest of being REAL, we’re going to give you REAL in REAL-time.

In the space of this past week, the readership of the Fringy Bit blog jumped over 5000%.  Seriously.  I’m geeky enough that I did the math.  And that’s great.  I love that more Fringy Families are able to support each other.  I love that the words I spew out on the keyboard resonate with people.  I love that I’m not the only one living this type of Fringy life.

On the evening of the day when things really exploded, I returned home from working at the practice to find that my loving husband had already poured me a glass of wine.  Now, you’d think this would have been a congratulatory pouring of red, but nope.  My husband knows me better than that.  It was a glass of wine to help take the edge off just a little bit.  He assumed I’d be freaking out and he assumed correctly.

I’d called my best friend earlier in the day and said, “I need you!  I’m totally overwhelmed and can’t wrap my mind around this.  People from around the world are writing and asking for my opinion and engaging in debate . . . with me.  Do they realize I’m just a meager therapist, living life on the fringes, and usually spend my evenings watching Orange is the New Black with my hair up in a messy bun wearing sweatpants?  Do they realize that just yesterday I flipped out at my kids and really don’t do this any better than anyone else?!”

The thought that people, literally, around the world were reading my random start-up project of a blog made my teeth sweat from anxiety.  Correction.  The feeling that people around the world were reading my blog made my teeth sweat from anxiety.

The truth is, my mind knows that I’m competent.  My mind knows that I’ve had the training and experience to help support families.  My mind knows that I’ve spent countless hours reading and studying and attending conferences and trainings.  My mind knows that I know this stuff, both personally and professionally.

But my gut?  My gut feels like at some point, someone is going to call shenanigans and reveal that I’ve had it wrong all this time.  My gut feels like I’m still that shaky little girl trying to hide from the spotlight.  My gut feels like I’m an imposter.

There’s technically a term for this, I suppose.  Imposter syndrome.  Self-doubt.  Really it doesn’t matter what it’s called.  It feels kinda cruddy.  And I’m not writing about it to be self-important or presumptuous.  I'm writing about it because I know that nearly everyone has felt this way at some point in their life.  I know that the gifted kids I work with feel it all the time (“people tell me I’m smart, but I don’t think I am.  I feel pretty stupid”).  I know that many parents I work with can be paralyzed with self-doubt (“everyone tells me I’m a good parent, but I’m really just a fraud.  What would they think if they saw me when I yelled at my kid for not brushing his teeth?!”).  I know that fringy parents, especially, can feel like imposters (“people keep complimenting me on how much patience I have, but they don’t see what happens when we’re not in public!”)

So, what can we do about it?

We step out there even when we feel afraid.  The biggest difference I’ve noticed between people who have more of the life they want and people who don’t, is whether or not they’re willing to be uncomfortable and step into fear.

We surround ourselves with positive, uplifting, and encouraging people.  Jon knew exactly what I needed in that moment – a hug, an affirming word, and a glass of wine.  Rachel left me a voicemail which will never be deleted in which she said all the right words to quiet that doubting voice in my head.  And not only do we surround ourselves with these people – but we reach out and ask for support and help when we need it.

We acknowledge the anxiety, the fear, the doubt.  We mindfully notice it and then let it pass on its way.  We can’t control what pops into our minds, but we can control what we do with it.  And we can either dwell on it and believe it, or choose to notice it and let it slip away.  And, yes, sometimes we need to choose to notice it and let it slip away every 5 seconds before it actually slips away and stays away.

We choose not to judge ourselves for judging ourselves.  When we are filled with self-doubt, judging ourselves for feeling that way is certainly not going to help.  Be kind.  Be compassionate.  What would you tell your friend in a similar circumstance?

We remind ourselves that no matter what, we’re going to be ok.  The worst case scenario rarely happens, and even when it does, we usually come out ok (and even stronger) on the other side.

We remind ourselves that everything is temporary.  The pleasant will fade away and the unpleasant will also fade away.  The majority of the extra abundance of Fringy Bit readers will probably not be reading this post (though some of you for sure have stuck around, and to you, we say “welcome!  And we’re glad to have you!”).  There may be another trip around the world for another blogpost of ours, or there might not.  Everything is temporary and all will be well.

We take deep breathes and we just keep plugging away. 

And, perhaps most importantly, we remind ourselves that everyone has moments of self-doubt.  Everyone’s voice is important.  Everyone feels in over their heads at some point, or that cliché wouldn’t exist.  And when we can remind ourselves of that, we can be REAL.  And when we’re REAL with each other, well, that’s when true connection and freedom happens.

Why the Recent “Gifted Doesn’t Matter” Article Did Not Make Me Mad

If we haven’t met, let me introduce myself.  I am a Licensed Clinical Social Worker who specializes in providing mental health therapy and support to gifted kids, adults, and families.  I am a board member on the Wisconsin Association for Talented and Gifted, the statewide agency that advocates for awareness and support for gifted and talented (GT) individuals.  I present at healthcare, educator, counselor, and mental health conferences about the unique needs of GT individuals.  I write about GT needs on thefringybit.com.  I talk about GT needs on The Fringy Bit podcast.  I parent GT kids.  I was pulled out of mainstream classes for GT programming.  If anyone would have been offended or angered by the recent (2016) HuffPost (& now Scary Mommy & the countless other similar articles that pop up every so often) article entitled, “Maybe My Child is Gifted.  Maybe Not.  Maybe It Doesn’t Matter,” you’d think it’d be me.  But I’m not.  I’m not mad.

I’m sad.

I’m sad because the misconception of giftedness is so rampant.  I’m sad because giftedness continues to be thought of only in terms of education and intellect, when in truth, it has very little to do with education.  It has to do with living and experiencing life more intensely.  It has to do with being wired differently.  Which, trust me, has some great benefits and some great disadvantages. 

I’m sad because studies have shown that gifted individuals, when their needs are being met, are no more or less susceptible to mental health issues (with the exception of existential depression).  And yet, when practicing as a therapist at general community health facilities, I estimate that, even though gifted individuals make up 2% of the population, at least 30% of the individuals I worked with would be classified as gifted. 

I’m sad because I have personally seen the transformation out of depression and debilitating anxiety, simply when I normalize a gifted person’s experiences.  Multiple clients have told me that truly understanding what giftedness means was the cornerstone out of the depths of despair and toward healing wellness.

I’m sad because the misconception of giftedness affects our whole society, not just the kids who enter my office and tell me they’re certain they are an alien from another planet because they are just so very different from everyone else.  Some of our most creative, thoughtful, innovative, bright thinkers are getting lost to the misunderstandings.  They are being invalidated.  They are being bullied.  They are being made to feel like their differences are bad.  They are being silenced.  Imagine what our world could be like if we provided a nurturing and strong scaffold for these minds to grow and build upon!

I’m sad because the misconception of giftedness is dangerous.  It is dangerous for the lives of these individuals, but even bigger than that, it is dangerous for our society.  We are creating a world in which bright, creative minds are being devalued.  We are creating a world in which sensitive, intensely imaginative and empathetic kids are being chastised and put down simply for being who they are wired to be.  This creates despair and it creates rage.  A disproportionate percentage of school shooters from Columbine to the early 2000's have been identified as gifted (see also Misdiagnosis and Dual Diagnosis of Gifted Children and Adults, p 65).  Does that mean that most GT students are violent?  Absolutely not.  It means that when needs aren’t being met, people can get desperate and can take extreme measures.  And when desperate people also have efficient and creative brainpower, the desperation can turn devastating.

I’m sad because I’ve had parents cry from relief when I’ve validated that parenting these gifted kids is really hard.  These kids are intense, which makes parenting them intense.  But parents aren’t informed of this and so they internalize and believe they are failing as parents, because everyone else makes it look so much easier. 

I’m sad because I live in a world where we can freely discuss and promote the giftedness of an athlete, even find it inspiring, but the giftedness of a mind is put down, shunned, and mocked.

I’m sad because thousands of gifted kids and adults are being misdiagnosed and incorrectly medicated, directly because giftedness is misunderstood.

I’m sad because the term giftedness continues to be falsely linked with a presumption of success.  Ask any parent of a gifted kid, and I bet they’d tell you that at some point (or maybe many points) they’ve kinda wished their child wasn’t gifted.  It would make success more attainable.  It would make their child’s life less of a struggle.  It would alleviate the intensity of their child’s pain and heartache.

So, no.  Despite being a staunch advocate for gifted children, youth, and adults, I’m not mad.  I’m sad.

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.