Accelerating to What?

As a high school student, I didn’t really understand that my math education was “accelerated.”  I knew that once a week a small group of my friends and I traveled to a nearby university and spent the afternoon with a college mathematics professor.  I knew that we covered 4 years of high school math in 2 years.  And I knew that I enjoyed getting out of a few regular high school classes while I made the weekly math jaunt.

I also knew that I was supposed to be covering much of the material independently during the week between classes.  I knew that it was supposed to be more rigorous and challenging because the pace was accelerated.  I knew that I didn’t crack the textbook on any day other than “math day”.  I knew that I completed my homework on the thirty minute bus trip each week.  I knew how to balance my notebook in just the correct position so my penmanship didn’t reflect the bumps and jostles of the bus.  I knew that I passed the 2 years doing the bare minimum without putting a dent in my 4.0 gpa.

Why do I bring this up?  Certainly not because I’m bragging or feeling better than anyone else.  I bring it up to point out the limitations of acceleration if we are only accelerating gifted students into more of the same type of academics.  The problem with gifted education is not simply the pace.  It is the lack of depth that is missing.  It is teaching to a test when gifted students want (and need) to follow their deep and inquisitive thoughts down rabbit holes to discover new information, new ways of thinking, new connections, new ideas and innovations that couldn’t possibly be on the test because they’re brand spanking new.

I had one little guy, about 8 years old, in my office.  He informed me that school was really stupid.  When I asked him why, he said that today he had to begin working on a writing assignment which involved gluing words in place, but he was only allowed to temporarily place the words correctly because tomorrow’s assignment was to actually glue them.  He said, “Heather, it was the stupidest thing.  I put the words in place in about five minutes, then I had to take it all apart, just so I can redo the work tomorrow.”  But then, as though he could read my thoughts about talking to his teacher to find more challenging assignments, he quickly stated, “But, you CAN’T tell anybody that I got it done so fast.  You CAN’T tell anybody that it’s easy for me, because then I’ll just have to do more!”

More of the same isn’t helpful.  More or faster paced of the same isn’t helpful.  For the most part, our current education system in the US isn’t meeting the needs of our gifted learners.  And giving them more of that is simply not going to be the answer.  Gifted children learn in different ways than the norm.  They need to be challenged and to be allowed to ask questions and to be allowed to dig as deep as their brains can take them. 

That little 8 year old understood very early that he needs to hide his intelligence for fear of being moved into doing more of the same meaningless work.  Is that the message we really want our brightest minds to be sent?  I know that the only thing I truly learned from my accelerated Math class was that I could get away with doing the bare minimum.  And I certainly wasn’t the only person sitting in the back of the bus completing that week’s assignments.  Is that the message we really want our brightest minds to take on?  It doesn’t matter if you’re challenged, just do the minimum and get the grade?

Accelerate or don’t accelerate, for gifted kids in a broken system, the end result will be roughly the same.

This blog is part of Hoagie's October 2016 bloghop.  Check out more great posts about acceleration here.

The Guessing Game

Every day I play a guessing game.  This sounds super exciting and fun, right?  And I wish it was.  I wish my life as a Fringy mom was like some giant television game show, complete with trivia questions, oversized buttons that make weird beeping noises, prizes, and especially balloons and confetti (that I don’t have to clean up).  But, that’s not exactly the kind of guessing game I’m talking about.

Every day I spend a good portion of my time guessing how much my children can tolerate of any given activity.  On big occasions, it’s questions of how long can we stay at the town carnival before the sensory input overloads my daughter.  Answer = 50 minutes, if anyone’s curious.  Or, what time of day is it going to be most likely that my children will be able to function and have fun for a birthday party?  Or, will it be better to have my daughter come home from school, take a rest in the bed to keep her routine, but then cut the rest short so we can get to her older brother’s activity in time OR will it be better to have her rest in the van and take a longer route to the before mentioned activity?  Which will be least likely to provoke a meltdown?

But, there’s the day to day questions, too.  In what order should I do errands that will be least likely to provoke a meltdown?  How many stores can my daughter handle?  What type of crackers is she going to like today?  Is she going to be able to tolerate a bath tonight or should I wait til the morning?  What can I do during the freetime to prevent boredom (big meltdown trigger), but how much structure is too much and will be overstimulating (ooh – another possible meltdown!). 

And the guessing game doesn’t just apply to my fringiest of children, either.  How much math can I assign Cub so that he is challenged, but not overwhelmed?  Can I joke and be sarcastic with Cub today or is he going to be feeling particularly sensitive?  How far in advance should I tell Cub or Chimp about something exciting?  Wait too long and the surprise is overwhelming.  Tell them too early and the excitement and anticipation is overwhelming.  True story – when Cub was 7 he wanted to see Les Mis when it came out as a movie.  After pre-screening it I decided he could go.  I made the mistake of telling him on Friday that I’d take him to see it that Sunday.  2 nights the little dude couldn’t fall asleep.  Because he was excited.  About a movie.  About the French Revolution that is a musical.  2 nights.  But, telling him (or any of the 3 kids, really), at the last minute backfires, too, as none of them really like surprises because they can’t prepare themselves for whatever the event it. 

My daughter has an under-responsive tactile system.  So she needs tactile input.  But, give too much tactile input and she gets overwhelmed.  She has an under-responsive proprioceptive system.  So she needs deep pressure.  But, give too much deep pressure or in the wrong places and she gets overwhelmed.  My kids need social interaction.  But, too much social interaction and they get overwhelmed.  They need activities to stimulate their minds.  But too much activity and they get overwhelmed.  Are you sensing a theme here?

The window of tolerance can be so small with these differently wired kids.  And that window seems to fluctuate daily.  It’s like trying to hit a moving target when you don’t even know what you’re aiming for.  And, so I spend a large portion of my day guessing.  Guessing how much will be enough, but not too much.

I’m glad to say that as I’ve been able to learn and study my children, and understand myself, that my guesses are more like hypotheses now.  They have more education and information to support them.  But, some days, I simply want to know the answers and be able to stop playing the game.  Or at least get a massive balloon and confetti drop at the end of it.

It Gets Easier

Disclaimer:  There was a time during the first year after KBear was diagnosed that I didn’t want to hear about how things would get better.  I didn’t want to hear that we’d find our way and she’ll mature and just hang in there.  I wanted, and needed, for my pain and grief and exhaustion and fear to be seen and heard and recognized.  I wanted to hear people say, “Yes.  This really sucks.  It is the hardest thing you will have to face.  It makes sense that most days you don’t even know how you are physically or mentally or emotionally putting one foot in front of the other.”  If you are in this place, know that I get it.  I see you.  I feel you.  It sucks.  End of story.  And if you are in this place, put a bookmark on the post and stop reading it.  It’s fine to stay in the muck for now.  Know you’re not alone, and know that this post is here for you when/if you get to the place that you will be ready to read it.

For the rest of you who are just starting off on the higher needs path . . . it gets easier.  I still feel as though I’m just starting out, but really we’ve been at this SPD, autism, 2E thing for over 2 years.  I am close enough to those early months that I can vividly remember the heartache, the frustration, the anger, the doubt, the uncertainty, the stuck feeling.  But, I am also far enough down the road to know that it does, indeed, get easier.

Note that I say it gets easier.  I do not say it gets easy.  Maybe someday it will, but for now, I know that there are still days when I am so physically drained that I can’t think straight.  I know that there are still days when I am crying in the closet and lack all confidence that I can do this.  There are still days when it takes all of me and then-some to make it through.  But, I also know that these days are not every day. 

In the early months and years I didn’t really have any tricks to fall back on.  I didn’t know what works for KBear.  I didn’t even know what senses were fully affected or what senses we all actually have (I mean seriously, the only reason you might know that we have more than the 5 external senses is if you’ve had a sensory diagnosis in your family!).  And so I felt more helpless.  I felt like I was floundering in the wind and KBear was floundering right next to me.  And because I couldn’t help her regulate and she couldn’t help herself regulate, most of the time she was dysregulated.  Which meant most of the time she was melting down.  Which meant most of the time I was feeling more than empty and cried every day.

Now, I have tricks and tools.  KBear has tricks and tools.  We know what often works for her.  She is not melting down continuously.  I am not crying every day.  And because of this I have the experience to tell me that the bad days won’t actually last forever.  I know that good days are possible, even if they’re few and far between.  That wasn’t an assurance I had back in the early days.

And, yes, of course, the bad days continue to happen, but I’m not nearly as depleted, so I only have bad days once or twice a week or maybe even every other week.  And yes, there are months that can be bad and difficult still.  Last spring was a nightmare and it felt as though we were right back at the beginning.  And I intentionally don’t think about puberty and how it continues to inch closer because I can only imagine what kind of craziness that time will bring.

But, hang in there.  It gets easier.  You will learn your child and what your child needs.  You will gather your own tricks and tools.  You will learn the cues that indicate when one type of intervention will be more likely to succeed than another.  You will find support.  You will find time for yourself.  You will make it through.  And I know that it might be REALLY hard to accept or believe this right now, but it will get easier.  And until you can believe that for yourself, we’ll be here.  Holding the hope out for you however we can.

Dinner

Life with 3 children is high energy.  Life with 3 fringy kids is CRAZY high energy.  All of these children of mine experience life more intensely.  And, if I’m being honest, I have to admit that my husband and I do, too.  All this intensity can be a lot of fun.  When we do something fun or exciting, we do it BIG.  The Boormans don’t know itty bitty kinda-sorta fun.  We know FUN and jump up and down flapping your hands EXCITEMENT!!  Aside from the fact that these intense energies can also be overwhelming, and aside from the fact that these intensities can trigger meltdowns, there is another downside to this intensity.  Namely . . . dinner.

I don’t know about your house, but at my house, here’s how dinner generally goes:

Me:  OK – time to eat!

KBear:  random noises (touching everything on the way to the table)

Chimp:  (running from across the room and diving into his chair)  Yippee!  I LOVE dinner!  I love you mom!  Oh, gross, I don’t like (fill in the blank, basically anything and everything we make for dinner).  Can I go watch sumfink?

Cub:  (5 minutes later as he makes his way to the table with the speed of a sloth)  So, I was thinking about Pokemon.  And I. . . blah blah blah blahCharmander . . . . blah blah blah blah Darkrai . . .

Me:  OK – Cub.  Just pause the conversation for a second.  Who’s going to pray?

All 3:  I will!  No, I will! 

Me:  Chimp, go.

Chimp:  Rub dub dub thanks grub.

KBear:  (simultaneously while Chimp is praying) some sort of pterodactyl sound

Chimp:  KBear!  I was pwaying!

KBear:  pterodactyl sound

Chimp:  I’m not hungwy, can I get down? (as he’s climbing off his chair)

Me:  No, Chimp, it’s dinner time, you’re staying here.

Chimp:  melodramatic cry as he climbs halfway back up the chair, but then decides to hang over it backwards.

Meanwhile, Cub continues his conversation about Pokemon through it all.

KBear:  I no like!

Now at this point, you might be wondering just where in the world Jon is.  Either, it’s one of our many solo parenting nights, or, he’s mumbling to himself about how nobody appreciates his cooking, can’t we just get some bloody peace and quiet, and why does he even try.

Me:  KBear – you can’t touch the food on other people’s plates.  KBear please chew with your mouth closed.  Cub, ahh, so that’s what Wigglypuff’s powers do.  Chimp, you need to sit on your bum.

KBear:  (scream!) It’s MY turn to talk!

Chimp:  No – I wanna talk.

Cub & Jon:  (eye rolls and sighs)

Me:  OK – Kbear, go.

KBear:  Wanna know somefink?  At lunch today. . .

Chimp interrupts

KBear:  (Scream!)  Chimp!  It’s my turn!

Me:  Chimp, wait your turn.  KBear be kind, please.

KBear:  Wanna know somefink?  At lunch today . . .

Chimp interrupts

KBear:  (UGH!!)  CHIMP!!!!

Chimp:  What? (feigning innocence)

Jon:  Chimp . . . shush.

Me:  Go on KBear.

KBear:  Wanna know somefink?  At lunch . . .

Chimp interrupts

Cub, Jon, and I:  Chimp!  Hush!

KBear loses it and throws her fork at chimp.

Cub sees his opportunity and starts in on another 15 minute long diatribe about his favorite youtube channels.  I turn off my ears, hang my head and wish I was anywhere but the dinner table.

Yes, all family dinners can be high energy.  But, fringy family dinners can be crazy-making and tend to end (at least in my household) with someone storming off in tears or a rage or a meltdown.  Not only are all 3 kids vying for talking time, but all 3 kids are also impulsive, AND it’s the end of the day when 2 of the kids are simply over-done and tired.

Here is a tip that I’ve found extremely helpful.  Especially on the days when I don’t have the energy to play referee.

We play games at the dinner table.  Not board games, usually, because those also tend to result in storming tears or rages.  We will break out Headbanz or Yahtzee on occasion.  Or pass the pigs.  More often, we do talky type of games.  Some of our favorites include:

20 questions, I spy, cooperative storytelling (where one person says one sentence and then the next person continues the story with a second sentence and so on around the table), name that tune, name a song that has the word ____ in it, 1 minute speeches (everyone gives a 1 minute speech on the same topic – the topic can be anything – just look around and name the first thing you see!)

We’ve also recently had fun downloading party game apps onto my phone and playing those, like catchphrase, 3in5 (where you have to name 3 items that fit a category within 5 seconds – we make it easier for KBear and Chimp and just have KBear name 2 and Chimp name 1), Taboo, Trivia games.

And, we’ve also had fun with conversation starter question books that ask questions like “if you won a million dollars what would you do with it?” or 30 second mystery books.

Essentially, the more structure I add to the evening meal, the less craziness and anger that explodes (usually).  I’d love to simply sit down and have a great conversation with my fringy family, but I’m learning that those great conversations tend to be more successful and be prompted more often when they can be in the midst of some type of structure.  Sure, I’m still having to be referee on occasion or help KBear re-set, and I will ALWAYS have to remind Chimp to sit or stand in his spot, but, for the most part, our fringy intensities end up channeled in a similar direction instead of in the colliding mess of craziness that dinner can otherwise be.

Just What is a Peer?

We are inundated with messages from an extroverted world that emphasizes the need for peers.  And, as a therapist, yes, I do agree that relationships and peer relationships are important for a fulfilling life.  But, just what is a peer?

According to the online definitions I found, a peer is a person who belongs to the same social group based on age, grade, or status.  But, when I dug just a little deeper to consider the etymology of the word “peer”, I found that it wasn’t until 1944 that the word became associated with age.  For 600 years prior to that, peer was simply defined as a person equal in rank or status.  Why do I bring this up?  Because the concept that we should be relating and finding all of our social group among similarly aged people is REALLY new.  And this is something for us parents to keep in mind.

Having a relationship with a true peer, someone with whom our interests or development is relatively equal, is far more essential than forcing our children to connect with similarly aged people.  With gifted kids, this is especially true and especially freeing.  There is nothing wrong with our gifted kids having a friendship with a 32 year old who is equally fascinated by photography.  There is nothing wrong with our gifted kids having a friendship with a 67 year old who is equally passionate about the humane treatment of animals.  There is nothing wrong with our gifted kids having a friendship with a younger child who is equally dramatic.  Well, except for the days when those dramatic tendencies collide!

Here's my point – our gifted kids benefit from the original definition of peer.  Often our gifted kids find connections with people across the age spectrum easier than kids of the same age. 

But our modern society sends us extraverted, age-grouped messages and I, for one, have found that I’ve internalized many of these.  In my head I balk at the idea that friends need to be similarly aged.  As an introvert, my head knows that some people only need 1 or 2 close friends to feel contented.  But my gut keeps forgetting the things my head knows, and if I’m not careful, I find myself filled with this weird urgency to foster different “peer” friendships for my children. 

Especially as a homeschooling mom, I find myself getting caught up in the fear that my children are actually not receiving “socialization” simply because it looks different than the norm.  And as a mom to some gifted kids, I find myself getting caught up in the fear that they’ll turn into a socially awkward loner of an adult who’s living in a shack deep in the mountain woods, playing video games over their self-constructed satellite internet signal 24 hours a day.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I suppose.  Except I want my kids to launch confidently into this world and I want them to feel the fulfillment of quality peer relationships.

So now we come back to the original question:  What are quality peer relationships?  For our gifted kids, especially, it’s relationships in which they find commonality, camaraderie, and stimulation.  And sometimes that looks like 15 friends all the same age, and sometimes that looks like 1 friend, who is older or younger or anywhere in between, but who completely and fully understands my kid and cares about similar things.

Peers are important.  But, peers have nothing to do with age or grade.  And if I can let society’s messages that lots and lots of similarly aged friends is the only way to have real relationships slip right out of my gut & head, then I can actually allow my children to find their peers.  They tend to understand who their peers are better than I do if I simply provide the opportunities and stay out of their way. 

My oldest went to a one-room school house for a short time and at 8 years old his closest friends were in their teens. 

My youngest was bouncing from one small group to another at a homeschool park day.  And when he discovered that the kids his age were still engaging in parallel play instead of the rich imaginative and collaborative pretend play that he desired, he moved on to the older kids.  And when the older kids only saw him as the cute little kid who had the motor coordination of his 2 years of chronological age and didn’t really want to play with a baby, he moved on to play all by himself.  And he did so quite joyfully.  I was the only one who felt a pang of sorrow for him as he tried to find his peers.  He was fine with knowing that no one there quite fit the bill. 

I guess, in the end, it all comes down to what we choose to normalize.  Our society defines peers by age and claims that to be normal.  I will continuously strive to normalize the more traditional understanding of what a peer is, and in so doing, I hope my kids won’t have quite as many of those unhelpful, internalized messages questioning what they know to be true in their heads.

For more great articles about finding peers for gifted and 2e kids, check out the other blogs through the GHF BlogHop!  

I Thought I Knew What Love Was

I thought I knew what love was.  I thought I understood the unconditional sort of love that I was taught created healthy, intimate relationships.

I was skilled at forgiveness, at compassion, at total and complete acceptance.  I loved my parents and tried to honor them.  I loved my husband with the kind of unconditional commitment that stuck by his side despite disagreements, differences, betrayals.  I loved my first-born with the self-sacrificing attentiveness and nurturing that we hope for from mothers.  I understood love.  Or so I thought.

My daughter was born in 2008.  I’d had 3 years in the mommy hood by that point, and so I thought I knew how to love as a caring mother.  I continued on with my loving behaviors much as I had with her older brother before.  But, over the months and years it became abundantly clear that my feelings toward her were very different than they were toward her brother.  There was a distance somehow and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

As the years passed and we encountered the more challenging behaviors and were obtaining diagnoses and therapies and transforming our home and family and routines into a sensory friendly life, that distance became more poignant.  There was some sort of disconnect and it was a disconnect that got me wondering if I truly loved my daughter.

In one of my more vulnerable and real moments, I remember talking to my best friend through tears and saying, “I must love her, right?  I mean, I wouldn’t do all this stuff for her if I didn’t love her?”  But it seemed so much more in my head than in my heart.  I had days and weeks, when we were in our hardest moments and ALL of my interactions with her were filled with trials and sensory meltdowns and defiance and her screaming awful names at me while she physically attacked me with her feet, hands, teeth.  In those days and weeks I felt so stuck.  Part of me didn’t want to do this anymore.  Part of me fantasized about finding a different set of parents for her, or at least a different mom.  But, the other part of me knew that I couldn’t ever do that.  That part of me knew that I couldn’t imagine anyone else being with her or understanding her the way I do.  

I couldn’t keep parenting her and I couldn’t not parent her.  I was stuck.  And because I had these feelings and because my parenting of her felt different than my parenting of my boys and because I often felt like I was parenting her from my mind and not my heart, I wondered if I really, actually, deep down loved her.

There was a single night in the midst of this torrential storm that changed everything.  I was laying next to her in bed, watching a movie with her.  KBear turned around, reached her little arm up around my neck in an awkward half hug, looked me straight in the eye, and said with intense sincerity, “I love you, mom.”  I started to cry.  I started to cry at that moment when it happened and I’m starting to cry now as I type it.  It was the most bittersweet moment in my life as a parent so far.  My heart melted at her spontaneous act of affection.  And my heart broke, because for the first time I realized, in 7 years of her life, this was the only time she’d initiated a genuine hug.  It’s the first time she had feeling and connection and intimacy behind her words.  

My mind flashed back to the rest of our relationship.  As a baby her social smile came “late”.  I didn’t realize what that meant at the time, but I remember joking about the fact that we had the world’s only curmudgeon of a baby.  

When she was 2, I would get so angry because she would demand that I stay and “snuggle” her at bedtime, but when I tried to wrap my arms around her, she’d yell at me not to touch her.  At one point, in desperation, I remember saying, “I don’t know what you want.  To snuggle means we are touching.  You want me to just lie next to you.  That isn’t snuggling.”  

At 4, she’d bring me dandelion bouquets and would suffer through my grateful hug, but she wouldn’t reciprocate.  She’d sit on my lap, but wouldn’t wrap her legs or arms around me tight – I felt more like a chair to her than a warm and cuddly lap.  When I asked for a kiss, because she would never ask, she’d simply lean her forehead in or lean her body into mine.

In that beautiful first moment, when at age 7, my KBear initiated affection I realized why I had questioned whether I loved her.  It’s because my love for her had been truly, and completely, unconditional and self-less.  Over the years I had not received any of the warm fuzzy feelings or affections from her that I thought love was.

Sure, loving my sons has been more self-less than other types of love.  I’m their mom, so I’m giving them more of my time, service, heart and soul than they give me.  But, the key difference:  they do give back to me in warm and fuzzy ways.  From them I’ve received the pudgy arm hugs.  They spontaneously and genuinely tell me that they love me.  They push into my hugs instead of pulling away.  Just today Chimp said, “Mom – I love you.  You are important to me.  You are so special.”  I’ve always gotten something back from my boys.  They do things that trigger the lovey-dovey, ooey-gooey, heart-melting feelings that I thought was love.  I thought having those feelings meant I love someone.

Associating love only with tender feelings sets us up for trouble.  The ooey-gooey-ness of emotional love is temporary.  Being infatuatingly, googly-eyed “in love” with a spouse fades over time.  Kids and spouses and friends and family get crabby.  I get crabby.  And in those moments, I don’t feel very lovey-dovey, warm, tender, “in love”.  When my understanding of love is based on my feeling, well, at those moments I don’t feel like I love them.  I don’t feel like they love me.  I am more apt to try to fix them or shame them back into doing the sorts of things that feel loving, that feel worthy of being loved.  My love becomes conditional on the state of my relationship or on the mood of myself or my beloved.

And so, with that understanding of love, no wonder I questioned whether or not I loved KBear.  But, in reality, it has never been that I’ve lacked love for her.  The truth is I lacked true unconditional love for everyone.  It just took her and her autism to show me that.

I recently heard someone define the Greek term agape (love) as an intelligent, purposeful attitude of esteem and devotion.  In other words, love is mindfully choosing to regard someone favorably and to act with loyalty or enthusiasm for a person.  It is a choice.  It is a mind-thing.  It really has very little to do with the feeling.

I’m grateful that my daughter has been capable of being affectionate a bit more often over the past year.  But, mostly, I’m grateful that she has taught me what love really looks like.

My Mistake

The morning started much better than anticipated.  All 3 kiddos were awake, moving around, interacting with each other in friendly manners. 

Less than 2 minutes later, 1 child is crying, 1 child is anxiously trying to parent his siblings, and 1 child is yelling threats, throwing things, and screaming at the top of her lungs.  How did this happen, you may ask?  I made one grave mistake.  Are you ready for it?  My mistake . . .

I went to the bathroom.

You wouldn’t think this would have been a mistake.  You would think that NOT going to use the toilet would have been a bigger mistake.  But, I forget that even though all of my children are chronologically out of the toddler years, emotionally, one of my children still frequently needs the same level of high-intensity, eagle-eyed supervision as she did when she was 1 ½.

Like a toddler, my spectrum-y kiddo can fool you into complacency by being all nice and sweet, but then flip in seconds.

Like a toddler, my sensory kiddo can seem calm and put together one moment, but then scream from hunger, fatigue, overstimulation the next.

Like a toddler, my spectrum-y kiddo can play and share nicely, only to swipe the toy away from your hands and scream in your face that she never wants to play with you again because she’s been offended somehow (like maybe saying you wanted to call the baby doll Frank instead of Prince).

And so, my household can turn from Little House on the Prairie to Lord of the Flies in 0.9 seconds flat.  This especially happens when I’ve stepped away from the room and felt falsely confident that the peace would continue, but it also can happen right before my very eyes.  Calm to chaos and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’ve got no words of wisdom about this.  Just the quiet comfort of knowing that if this happens in your household, you’re not alone.  And, maybe buy a giant pack ‘n play for your fringy kid, so you can sequester them and go off to pee in peace.  Or, you can take Jon’s suggestion and buy a giant pack of Depends, so you never have to leave the room again.

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.