Mommies Paradise

When you find out that your child is smarter than the average bear we tend to be proud and excited to see what comes next. Expectant to see what they will do. At the two or three years old, when they start asking you why people die and what exactly happens to the body, you realize this is only the beginning. This child will not sit quietly and listen to what is being taught. This child does not nod their head in ascension. They will question every single thing they see. They will know that you are not telling the whole story. They will see their peers and mindless drones and revel in the company of adults. This child is sensitive and raw and does not take criticism well. And this child is even more aware of your weaknesses than most children. Where other children push and prod and see where you end, the advanced child will push your end farther.

When did education become about children being what the teacher wants? Shouldn’t the teacher figure out how to teach the children?  Some children need more than what the syllabus dictates.  Children are not drones. They are little people who have different needs, desires and who learn in their own way. Some are followers and some are leaders. They are all creative in their own way. It is up to our teachers to understand that and allow for some flexibility.  If this were the norm we may just end up with girls who are more willing to raise their hand and ask a question. Little boys might be more inclined to listen.

To this child’s mind your repetition is a ridiculous waste of time.  If they already have done the work and understand it why do it again? I don’t blame them. These children however have a hard time sitting through the test. Not because they don’t know the work but because it doesn’t make sense to them. They rush through things and make silly mistakes. He will not understand your problem.  Why is he always in trouble? He feels like he isn’t good enough and not worthy of love.

How do we change the education system in this country? Why is it such a battle to ensure a reasonable education for these exceptional children. These are children who will grow to do the great things in this world, if we keep them on the right path starting now. Each day we fight and wait is a day too long and brings us one step closer to disengaging these little minds from their education. We are essentially telling them that they are not individuals and they don’t bring anything special to the table.

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“When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”

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 ”We don’t do that,” for example, is not an individualized response. If your school has never had a child like yours (and since your child is an individual, they haven’t), and now they do, and a service is appropriate to his or her needs, then they do do that now.  –What is an IEP?, About.com

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“Some of the more prevalent unproven treatments for ADHD are special diets, herbal supplements, homeopathic treatments, vision therapy, chiropractic adjustments, yeast infection treatments, anti–motion-sickness medication, metronome training, auditory stimulation, applied kinesiology (realigning bones in the skull), and brain wave biofeedback.”  (Bold mine)     — ParentsMedGuide.org

Yeast infection treatments?

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What do you do when you make an appointment with an unknown but highly recommended pediatrician to test your son for ADD/ADHD?  You attend the appointment.  But what if, just what if when that doctor walks into the room you realize that she is that mom from hockey last year who you sort of snubbed because she was really annoying and whiny, and thought every single mom was making eyes at her husband, and is also probably too skinny?  Well after you both pretend you are great pals amid squeals of good-to-see-you, you awkwardly tell your story and proceed with the program.  Wondering during the entire appointment if you can trust her.

So I answered the questions and most of my answers were yes.  Yes, he talks constantly.  Yes, he has frequent outbursts (meltdowns).  Yes, he consistently has a hard time getting started with any project.  Yes, he has a hard time staying focused on anything except drawing or reading for longer than seven minutes.  Yes,  he gets up and walks around the classroom at inappropriate times (daily).  And on and on.  Yes, he is gifted.  The doctor assigns a questionnaire which I need to complete as well as two versions of the questionnaire for two teachers to complete.  Essentially these entail the same questions asked at the appointment.  We all turn in our papers and then she adds up the scores and we go from there.

When I brought the paperwork to the Boy’s current teacher she was elated.  As if the forms were a hot rock, she filled them out and faxed them back to the pediatrician before lunch that very day.   I wish I could say it was because she is just so damn helpful and caring but that is not the case.  She feels that my son is complete distraction in her class and wants anything done to fix it.  He isn’t violent or abusive.  In fact he is described as an “incredibly kind child,” but he can/will not stop talking.  The fact is he tries to stop but he says that he just can’t.  The same goes for the angry outbursts and the emotional meltdowns.  Afterward he says that something comes over him and he can’t stop.  So his teacher is excited to get him medicated as soon as possible.  Won’t she be surprised if that just isn’t the solution.

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That Baby is now The Boy.  The Boy is physically seven old and thinks he is 43.  He is ‘gifted.’  His mind is constantly on high and never stops taking in information.  He solves problems with a clarity and often times ingenuity I struggle with as an adult.  He questions every single thing the teacher teaches and will simply refuse to do anything he feels he has already done.  Adults find him easy to talk to because he understands them and sometimes he uses bigger words than they do.  His ability to grasp and communicate detail is astounding.  When he was five he helped me with Geometry.

The other night bed time was a challenge because everyone is always on the way to death.  Always.  My second grader wanted to know why we (as a species) even bother since we are always going to die sometime.  He threw up his hands and exploded with angry resignation that it is all useless and shortly fell asleep. We have never gone gently into that good night.

My son grasps the concept of black holes and the idea of string theory.  He just pointed out the silliness of the statement “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”  Clearly this town is big enough since there are already a thousands of other people here. Pff.

He reads several years above his grade level.  His second grade teacher believes that his IQ is off the charts and that he is one of the smartest and brightest children she has ever met.  She also believes he has ADHD.

He has difficulty focusing on one thing for longer than 7 minutes, can not stop speaking and has already been labeled an underachiever by a hag questionable teacher who leads the Gifted program at his school.   Daily he will get up and take a leisurely stroll to investigate the classroom more thoroughly while the teacher is teaching or other children are speaking, reading, etc.  Homework is usually accompanied by a tantrum of epic proportions only to be completed in record time.  There is much ado about nothing because his mind is constantly taking in every single thing and can not focus on a single thing.

We are twice exceptional.  You would think that would be a good thing.

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I know it can take a village, but sometimes I just want everyone to get the fuck out of my hut.

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Do you remember the first time your heart hurt?  Do you remember why?  The first time my emotional pain really took over my body was at eighteen.  I felt like someone had reached inside my body and tried to tear out my organs. There was a hole where before, I am sure, there was something. I wanted to break things, I wanted to scream. I cried and cried and cried. It was horrible. This was over a boy who was also a cheat and a liar, and my first peak into the dating future.Fast forward a bunch of years.

I know when my son’s heart broke for the first time.  He was three years old. His father moved away.  That baby cried and cried and later begged me to tell him why. Why.  He has worked through this with anger and rage and pain and tears. He is almost seven and he is still fighting to understand, but it is starting to scab and scar a little inside. Sometimes he says he doesn’t care if he ever sees his dad. It is a tragedy in a way. No one should have a broken heart so early.

It is my opinion that no baby should ever feel pain from a parent.  We are their strength.  We are the ones who should be there when their heart inevitably gets broken by a lover.  We are to be counted on when shit goes twisty, to make it all straight.  We are supposed to be the ones to impart the wisdom that people are like busses, etc.  We are NOT supposed to abandon and not look back.  We are not allowed to throw up our hands and move on to something easier or more interesting.  We are not supposed to be the first heartbreak.

Did you know that more American children are fatherless today than fifty years ago? (Go look, the data is out there) Recently I heard of a woman who dropped her one and three yo off at her mother-in-law’s house stating “I just can’t handle it anymore.” And she never looked back. What? WTF?  I am stumped. Children aren’t shoes. Or software. You don’t just get to return them or stop using them when it doesn’t suit you anymore. No really.

I know. Why not start a child exchange. Hey, if you get frustrated with this one - just take it back and get one that is more your speed. Or better yet, lets create a person exchange. You say you don’t like the terrible twos? Well, exchange him for an older more advanced model. Possibly an adult with a college education who lives on his own. Brilliant.Thinking of having kids? Great. Pretend you are buying a new house and put that same work into having children.  Go find someone who is REALLY honest and who has kids. Ask them all about it - from pregnancy on - and listen very carefully. Believe it all. Then decide if it will work for you.

Are you willing to be everything and anything to someone? Are you willing to take the responsibility for making a good future citizen? Are you willing to be the bad guy when it matters and seal it with an “I love you?” Are you willing to take responsibility when your child turns into a bully, a drug addict, or a victim? Can you put someone else first? Can you take the heat, the boredom, the monotony?  No?  Then get your parts snipped or your stuff tied.  But don’t, I repeat DON’T have kids.

Having kids will not fix your marriage or your relationship. No really, it won’t.  That man will not love you or stick around if you have his baby, by “accident” or not.  If you are a woman with a career, no, you will not be able to do-it-all with careful planning and a rigid schedule, and no your male partner will never pitch in as much as he says he will.  Your place of employment will never be as understanding as they say they are during the orientation.  And just so you know, be prepared for a truck-load of guilt which your male partner will most likely never understand or be able to fix.

Just sayin’.

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Leaving California.  Isn’t that a song?  It should be.

When leaving Southern California, several things will happen.

• The U-Haul trailer one rented will be too small to fit all of one’s meager belongings.  Someone will be forced to decide what is important and what is not.  In the end smaller important items will be shoved into any crack or crevice, such as every stiletto (very important when moving to a farm), a bag of jewelry, and a bed; IKEA mattresses will fold in half if one is very, very determined.

• Those suck-all-the-bedding-and-clothes bags (they rhyme with “pace hags”) will flatten pounds and pounds of sweaters, towels, pillows, sheets, feather beds, and blankets.  Until one puts them in the travel vessel.  At that point each bag will unexpectedly take in air, explode and leave little or no room for anything else. This will make it close to impossible to close one’s trunk AND the door to the too small trailer.  However with perseverance and sweat one can and will shove, slam and sit on things to get them closed.  DAMMIT!

• At least one of three cats will maul one’s face and body in the effort to escape the carrier, and subsequently hide like a master.  Expect to turn around 15 minutes into the trip to retrieve said cat from determined parent/grandparent who does not want the cat.Once the trip is under way one’s child will ask how long this is going to take.  Right about the time you hit traffic.

• If one had any doubt that this move is the right thing to do, know that one will sit in at least three hours of traffic in order to exit the southern portion of California. This may be a reminder of why one is escaping. Consider it a going away present.

• One will discover that the map with the whole trip planned out, is in a box, which was left behind. At this point one will be 20 miles away. In traffic.

• As one does continue to drive through the ugliest parts of the California desert toward the tail of Nevada, also ugly, make note that at the border, California has set up a check-point, going the other direction. These state agents make a point of stopping everyone to make sure they are not bringing in anything/anyone unsavory. Nevada does not. Nor does Arizona or Utah. Later on one understands why.

• One will only make it to Needles, CA on the first day, which was never in the plan. If you have ever been to Needles, you understand why this should never be the plan. Know that this will change the timing of the entire trip.

• Since all three of one’s lunatic cats will spend the entire night howling at one’s face, do not expect to get any sleep on this night.

• After a nice breakfast, tons of coffee and return to the room for departure, do expect to be minus at least one cat. Eventually one will find said cat, hiding underneath the hotel dresser. However, first one will lift up the bed only to make it easy for the fattest of these cats to scuttle under it and also hide. Expect to learn that the maintenance people at hotels are very understanding and helpful. They will move entire beds to remove one’s cat as well as the rest of the furniture to hunt for the final lost feline.

• Approximately 23 minutes after the delayed departure for what will now be a three day trip, the small child sitting next to one will ask if Colorado is next. Not even close sucker.

Next… the Grand Canyon.  Did you know it is the monsoon season Arizona? Me neither.

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My body has become a body I don’t know anymore.  I never dreamed that the flesh and bones I have relied upon to house my mind and keep safe my heart would eventually weaken, soften, lie down. 

I remember this body as a child, when I would swim and swim until the sun went down.  I would push these muscles to cross a lake that always seemed smaller to me than it really was.  But cross it I would.  I would ski the tallest mountain before I was ever ready, because I had no fear that my body would let me down.  I crashed and I laughed and I did it again.  It was strong and able, right with my mind.

As a woman I urged my body to be everything.  Strong, lithe, tight and solid.  Always my safe place.  It carried TVs, couches, and beds up stairs to every walk up I rented. Rooms are always brighter upstairs.  It swayed and shimmied, glided, and sometimes it fled.  It made love and had crazy sex and tingled and shined.  I used it for good and sometimes evil.  It got me jobs and made me money.  It got me past the ropes without invitation.  It stood up to stilettos for hours, then days at a time, sometimes even running to get there on time.  It went out all night and drove for miles at a time.  This body has danced and climbed and stomped.  It rode animals and motorcycles and bikes and skates of all kinds.

I ran for miles, for my life and my mind.  Finding solace in the sound of my feet hitting the ground.  I shopped marathons for things that mean nothing now.  I parked at the back because I felt I should walk it. 

It was everything I needed it to be and only rarely did it try to whisper its losses to me.  It held my baby in my womb, gave birth, and kept that child to my chest, for years on my hip.  It has hugged and wrestled and boxed and kicked.  It has held and wept and laughed until it ached. 

Now it feels broken and cranky and old.  I drive for too long and I can’t walk for a day.  No standing around for me anymore or sitting at a desk or even on the floor. My body won’t shop but for necessities, without sitting to rest aching legs.  With the evil fusion of vertebrae and laminectomy and spinal nerve damage, I was better off before anyone fixed me.  I have always said that I didn’t need to be fixed, but I was always talking about my mind.  My body is no longer mine. Someone took away pieces and moved it around and now I am a statistic with no way to go back.

I am weak, I am fat and I am angry and loose.  My mind is a cannon, an explosion under arrest.  I fight it and fight it, this inability to be me, and then pay for it later in pain.  I refuse to give up or let it define me.  But if I can’t rely on my best weapon then what do I have and who can I be?

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