Why I don't want my child to be "gifted"

A couple posts I saw on Babble this week have got me thinking about "gifted" kids, learning, and society. And, I'm convinced, I want my child to do well, but I'm not so sure about being "gifted."

That's such an odd term. Like "well-endowed" or something. It makes me laugh and wince a little bit at the same time. Especially when I think of the range that could cover, like the "idiot savant" (whatever that is) or the Rainman types or the autistic kids who can play Chopin flawlessly. I just kind of want my kid to be normal. Smart, but normal. See, I was what people might have thought of as "gifted". I seem to recall testing at a 135 150 IQ (I asked my my and she told me it was 135) when I was 8 or so and they skipped me out of 3rd grade at the beginning of the schoolyear into 4th grade (it's called being double-promoted). It was just weird. I liked getting away from my old classmates who made fun of me a lot and into a new class where they were nicer. But, I still never felt like I belonged. And, in the end, when it took me 10 years to finish a Bachelor's degree, that one year advantage ended up not really counting at all.

So, I look at my girl now and I see she is definitely smart. She's very verbal, she is curious, she makes interesting connections and likes to explore. She was an early walker. She's precocious, and yet shy around new people. We talk about letters and numbers and things, but casually. It's not like I'm teaching her anything. We're just living life, and life involves letters and numbers and things and making connections. I have magnetic letters, bathtub letters, flashcards with letters, and we have them out sometimes, but even if I think I am going to go through and do some kind of organized lesson, it always turns into something else. It's very organic. It's very "2-year-old" and it is so appropriate. I love it! We have an abacus. We count sometimes, but whenever it approaches being forced, it backfires. I think this is something I love about toddlers, these 2-year-olds, specifically. They are so free, so in-the-moment and so cool and open about the connections they make and they way they want to do things. Who am I to impose some false sense of order on the scene? I can set the stage, but if she wants to take it somewhere else, then I should see where it goes rather than hold her in. There will be a developmental stage where ordering things is part of what she wants. To some degree, there already is, it's just a different kind of order than what my mind would have. I have to sit back and learn as she learns, and respect the mind of the 2-year-old, and try to plant the seeds to remind myself to do this throughout her whole life. And let her be who she is.

So, getting back to being "gifted" versus being just regular. I am never going to hold anybody back and I am going to do all I can to nurture my girl's talents. But, I am not going to freakishly push her to be something out of touch with everybody else. I have always felt like an outsider and I don't know that I think that is so great. I want my girl to feel like she belongs, if she wants to. A person can excel and make something of themselves without being so above and beyond and different. Sometimes the sense of connectedness with peers can contribute to a person's wellbeing and achievement, too. And, with the strong likelihood that she will be an only child, I want to carefully guard against her being the lone, freak genius who nobody really knows or gets.

She already talks about her friends at preschool. When we go somewhere with kids playing, she often says, I love these kids. She wants to be part of something. Yet, when we are on the playground or in a playgroup, she often is on the sidelines or playing independently. Already. That might just be an age/development thing, though. I guess the bottom line is that my philosophy on the health of my child is to not nurture the "giftedness" to a the point that separates them from their peers or a healthy, social and cultural sense of community and belonging. I know they don't have to be mutually exclusive, but they often are. And, as much as being "misunderstood" can provide material for the artist or excuses for the genius, it can be a very lonely, sad place.

Pride cometh before a fall

OK, not pride, exactly, but, acknowledgment of happiness?

That seems to be what's going on. Immediately after my post about how great my life is, things start to get ugly with my girl. I guess it's not so bad, even ugly with this angel is not all that bad, but still. I am nursing a Belgian trippel to get through this day of no gym, no preschool, all toddler, all the time. I fear at the end of the day it will only make me tired and cranky—like her? Well, then, at least I will be able to empathize.

It seemed to start on Monday when I had the bright idea of an outing downtown to museums. She likes trains, yay! We rode the Metro, but she insisted on getting out, like a million stops before our destination. I thought I'd let her self-direct a little and play things by ear. Big mistake. We ended getting out at Foggy Bottom when we needed to get out way over by Judiciary Square or Gallery Place. I thought we'd go to Starbucks, hang out a little, then get back on a train to the museums then lunch with Dad. But, of course, at Starbucks she wanted to have her Vivianno outside. It was cold and too breezy and none of the tables outside were set up (for good reason). To make a long story short, we wandered around climbing on curbs, looking in flower boxes and otherwise wasting time til I couldn't take it any more. Then we finally got to the Navy Memorial where the relief scultpures kept her busy long enough to get us to lunch time. At lunch, she didn't eat much (another thing driving me crazy about her lately) but just wanted to climb around. After lunch, we finally made it to the Building Museum and she played a little. Sigh of relief. But the whole thing was so exhausting and not what I expected. Play date with preschool people Tuesday. Gym and random stuff Wednesday. Preschool Thursday—thank god!

Something is wrong with her today, since yesterday afternoon. She's not terribly sick. No fever. At least, she didn't have a fever when I checked yesterday, with the rectal thermometer, much to her protest. Just last spring she didn't care about such things, but she has already grown to know that butts are private and people shouldn't stick things in them against your will, and so it feels really awkward to try and cajole her into allowing this. She's too young, of course, to hold it under her tongue. I should probably get one of those quicky ear ones, but not now. She doesn't feel feverish. I was sick and didn't have a fever, just a cold. So, I think she has what I had. She keeps whining, and whining, and whining, except for when she's running around playing. I can't figure her out. She whines that she has to go poo poo. I think she is having some kind of tummy troubles. I can't say she's constipated because she did go yesterday. Once she goes today, things will be better, I know. I give her all the things that are supposed to make you poop and help your tummy...fiber...yogurt...and the things that make her happy and stop her whining, temporarily at least.

She's been asking to nurse like crazy. I obliged a couple days but I have to cut back. Not at this age. It's too damn much. It's got to be only for naps and going to bed. And then, even that has to go within the next six months or so. I am not going to be nursing a 3-year-old for god sakes!

When I went to the gyno yesterday, the doc practically laughed at me when I mentioned I was still nursing, when discussing birth control options. I was sick of the damn mini-pill, with its long, frequent and irregular periods and was ready to go on the regular pill with the no-period-for-three-months schedule. I am one of those sporty, sex-interested women who cannot STAND being held down by something like a period, which, before pregnancy lasted about 3 days for me, but now, lasts the full 5 days and is a royal pain-in-the-ass. She told me it was fine to go on the regular pill but it would decrease my milk supply. I was curious about how much, because, I said, I want to help boost my girl's immunity through the winter. And the doc was like, you've done all you can do for her immunity already! Like, give it up, woman. And, maybe she's right. Maybe she's wrong. But, whatever comes of it, that's fine. I do need to wean.

Anyway, I hope, once she wakes up from her nap, she will eat something, take a shit and be in a good mood. My mother in law is coming tomorrow and I don't want her to see us like this.

A rarefied life, right now

Reading The Women's Room, fiction from 1977 that paints a really ugly picture of women's lives in the 50s and 60s, I am struck with what a very easy and pleasant life I have. My mom suggested we read the book; one of her friends is reading it as part of a reading group. So far, so good, if not a little much. Nobody's happy. I suppose there are moments of happiness, or at least of relief, but overall, the women seem so unfulfilled, oppressed, and, well, sad. In addition to this novel feeding my obsession for mid-century American socio-realist entertainment, I have become a big fan of the popular Mad Men series, watching every new episode and catching up on the old ones on DVD. The women of Mad Men do a litttle better than those in The Women's Room, but there's still much to bristle at.

I want to know, was it really like this? My mom was a hippie artist type in the 70s, married to my dad, a long-haired pot-smoking guitar god who worshipped her as his "primordial woman," and this stuff was actually before her time. She told me she didn't think it was quite like this for all women, reminiscing about her own mother, who would've been living this life during the period covered in the book, and thinking of her own mother-in-law. Both worked outside the home (one in a canning factory, sad, the other as a milliner and in retail, something she liked) neither were sexually repressed, and both had nice husbands—my grandpas. My mom said she thought maybe it was a New England upper middle class thing, these tortured women. She said our Eastern European people in the working classes in the city were different. I don't know, but, boy is life different for me now than what's described in The Women's Room and what I see on Mad Men.

I live like a queen.

I don't have to keep a particularly sparkling clean home. Although I keep it orderly, basically clean, and bug-free, my husband doesn't really have any expectations of me in this area. Or, maybe I just haven't tested him, but why would I want to? I have a certain standard for my own surroundings, of course. I get to go to the gym, go shopping (I'm not a big shopper, so by this, I mainly mean grocery or house supply shopping or toys), hang out with my adorable one girl child. It's a dream! I also get to work a little bit, earn some money, stimulate my brain and interact with serious adults just enough to keep myself "sharp" with a foot into the door of the "real world." We're not wealthy, but I don't worry about money when I go on my daily stops to Whole Foods for a snack, Starbucks for a smoothie for A and a coffee for me, Walgreens for some fresh playdough or new markers, or Macys for an occasional Clinique treat for myself, or books, books, books from Amazon. Oh, and my husband is not selfish or brutish in the bedroom, either! We have so much and we are so very happy.

Women back then were expected to keep a spotless home (or so it seems) and had fewer modern technologies to help them do so. The "exotic" foods that light up my days (sushi, kombucha tea, chips and salsa, dark chocolates, microbrews...) weren't readily available. I mean, in Mad Men, even cosmopolitan Don Draper admits he's never had Mexican food! Most women had more than one child, increasing the work load and decreasing the magic significantly, in my opinion (but that's fodder for a whole other post, and purely a matter of individual choice). Women didn't get to choose whether to get pregnant, at least not as easily as we do today, with so many birth control options available to us on one hand, and fertility help on the other. Women didn't get to choose whether they were going to work or not, what they would do for work, or when, either.

I realize that even today many women don't have that choice about work. Some need to and don't want to. Others want to and can't get it. And then there are the very lucky, very blessed women like me, who have the rarefied experience of doing just enough satisfying work, on their own terms, and I get to do this while enjoying the cool experience of raising a "perfect" daughter in her early pre-school years from the comfort of home.

I gush about my girl because she is so gorgeous, so smart and so good. She is a genuine pleasure to be around. I actually enjoy hanging out with her, going to the coffee shop, doing art at home, going on outings to farms, playgrounds, museums and such. Sometimes I think a mom who really likes her child is rare, too, and I don't know whether that's just them or their lousy circumstances that detract from the pleasures of parenting.

Anyway, so often I find myself thinking how good I have it and that maybe its not so common to have it so good. Other times, I get into slumps, feeling a little bit of that spoiled, suburban ennui that seems so shameful. I get testy with my husband, thinking he doesn't help enough around here, etc. etc. etc. But, when I look at the whole picture of the world around me, and history falling off behind me, I am struck by what a glorious time in my life these years are, spent basically just chilling out and enjoying life with my small child at home.

Someday, I will have to either go back to work for someone else or build my business. My girl will get older and will want friends other than me. Maybe the fact that these golden years of my daughter's babyhood are but a short stage of my whole life adds to their fun and beauty, and tolerability—knowing I don't have to stay home, forever, with a gaggle of children and do housework, the lifestyle that seemed to ruin so many women back in the day. (But, maybe I would even have liked that, who knows?)

Everything changes. And, I do worry, just for a minute here and there, about what if this all got taken away from me. What if I lost my contract or my husband lost his job? Things would be harder. We'd be OK, but the ease of it all would vanish and I'd have to readjust a few things, for sure. I don't even venture into the territory of worrying about if something happened to my child. That's too scary.

I'm sure I will find plenty of happiness in my future, but damn, are things great for me now, and I just want to look back and remember it in this post.

You don't have to have an opinion about everything

Preamble: I took a long break from this blog because it was making me tired. I was caught in a weird cycle of looking for things that pissed me off online, mostly surrounding children, parenting and "womens" issues, and coming up with some kind of retort. It may not have been reflected in my posts, which, at the end, sort of moved away from that, on purpose, as I tried to have a more gentle outlook.

While I stopped blogging, for a little while, my opinion-spewing continued in the form of comments on other sites, and, in some ways, that was even more exhausting. But, I'm happy to say, I've wound that down alot, too, and have been reaping the benefits of not being so caught up in all this—more time for more productive pursuits and a calmer mind. There were plenty of opportunities to get worked up, on a couple of my favorite online places—Babble and The New Yorks Times' Motherlode had posts on disciplining children, breastfeeding, and the ever-popular "to work or stay-at-home" question, with its many hooks...but I remained on the sidelines for the most part, just taking in all the comments and sighing a breath of relief that I was not compelled to enter the fray. In reading all the comments, it really hit me that most of this stuff is really just a matter of opinion—to which everyone is entitled.

Premise: I've never liked the old saying "Opinions are like assholes—everybody's got one." It's kind of disgusting in what it brings to mind, first of all. Second of all, it's kind of obvious. Yes, we all have opinions. And that is fine. Good, even. It keeps us thinking, it keeps us from being stupid, boring people. But, do we all have to have an opinion about everything?

Case in point: Bill Maher. Much has been made lately about his comments concerning the swine flu vaccine. He basically poo-pooed the need for the vaccine and said that people who get it are idiots, blurting out a bunch on unscientific nonsense along the way. In following the trail of Mr. Maher's latest opining about something he seems to know little about, I came across his previous comments on public breastfeeding.

OK, so why would a guy with no wife or kids who apparently loves titties and thinks America is too puritanical (he's dated a string of models and hangs out at the Playboy mansion, bully for him, I've got no problem with that, it's none of my business) even have an opinion on public breastfeeding, much less take the time on his show to rail against it? Maybe it offends his sensibilities that breasts are for showy sexual pleasure...only? My only other guess is he thinks that "lactivists" somehow downgrade activism overall (for more....important things). In the segment, he says that the lactivist cause shows how "activism has become narcissism" and is "why Al Gore can't get people to focus on global warming unless there's a rock concert." He goes on to say "its why there'll be no end to this dumb war until there's a draft, because at the end of the day Iraq is someone else's problem." So, women who want to be able to feed their infants when the babies are hungry are responsible for the war not ending. Mmmmkay, Bill. He shouldn't even have treaded in this territory. I mean, really, why?

Digression: I'm not big on "lactivism," personally. I mean, I definitely think that women should breastfeed wherever and whenever they want. For me, it was never a problem, except one time in Nice a security guard at the Chagall museum told me to take it outside. Another guard later defended me and said the other fellow was "a very sick man." Go figure. Anyway, I never needed to be a "lactivist", it was just something I did. Breastfeed my baby. Now that she's nearly two-and-a-half, and we are still at it a few times a day, I won't do it in public because she is so big and it is a little strange for people to see this, and because I'm gradually weaning her anway. But, I think its cool if other women want to be "lactivists." What's wrong with tooting about something you believe in that's important to you? Why not? Why should I care if they do this?

Back to the point: I was never a big fan Mr. Maher, nothing is ever progressive enough for him, right? And he's ugly, too. He makes this big deal about "reason" in his movie, "Religiosity." But, his stance on swine flu and breastfeeding pretty much display an utter lack of reason, in my opinion. Sometimes you need to just shut up and focus on your own area of interest or expertise, or you risk looking like a big, inconsistent fool. So, I may be back on the blog, but I am going to try and be mindful of this whole "opinion on everything" trend that blogging seems to beget, and stick to what I know, or what I can offer a truly valuable perspective on.

Finding things in common

My daughter loves to do the Yoga Kids DVD and especially perks up when they sing the Namaste song.

I am you and you are me
I am part of all I see
Namaste, namaste, namaste, namaste
I am the light and the light is me
Namaste, namaste, namaste, namaste
I am part of all I see...

It's very sweet and touching to see her spring into action and doing the bows and saying "Namaste" and so I am forced to think about what this means, again.

And what I think of is how I constantly fall short of recognizing the truth of the word in my life. I often recognize ways I am so different from everybody else. (How teenage of me!) But, isn't the idea of Namaste to recognize ways we are similar to other people? We are all part of the universe and the universe is all of us, right?

Instead of always gravitating to thoughts of how my way is better than someone else's way, but, bless their hearts, they are doing the best they can, I should see ways that we are the same. We both love our kids. We both feel awkward sometimes. We both like a fresh breeze in the summer at a playground. We both like to relax with a cold drink at the end of the day. We both like ice cream. We both hope our husbands love us. We both worry about what our lives will be like when our kids grow up. And on and on. Does it matter who works outside the home, who doesn't, how many kids someone has, whether they let their toddler watch Hannah Montana, whether they breastfeed. All the kiddoes need love. All the people need love. We all make mistakes. We all have victories...and defeats.

Watching my daughter's purity and simplicity and pure joy teaches me every day.

Namaste.

On mothering and blogging

Well, I've been off and on with this blog about since the time I had my daughter and my opinions and ideas about things have kind of ebbed and flowed in different directions over this time. When I first started I was unaware of all the mommy blogging going on out there because, of course, I didn't follow such things before having a kid. How boring!

Over the past couple of years, I've learned all about mommy culture, mommy wars, mommy this, mommy that, and tried to put my voice out into the ether on this blog and various comment sections of other (far more widely read) blogs in some meaningful way. But, I have pretty much come to the conclusion now that I am bored and/or frustrated with the exercise. I have come across few posters or bloggers who share my ideas/values/style and I go from feeling disdain to pity to indifference to most of them.

I don't care to complain about my child or my husband, because when I sit back and think about my life, it is pretty damn good and I don't care that I have to do a little more housework than my husband or that I work harder in general. That's who I am an I am happy that way. I mean, there is actually a blog out there called "Angry Mamas". Now, I may have expressed passing irritation from time to time in my posts, but I would never want to characterize myself as, in general, angry. My child is healthy, I am well-fed, I have a roof over my head. I vacation—in Europe. I am middle class (not rich). What the hell have I got to be angry about? I suspect that many of these "angry mamas" are probably also doing pretty well for themselves. Those that aren't, who are struggling to make ends meet, have sick kids or jerky husbands, etc. I feel for them. Seriously. This is why I am cutting the blogging about working vs. staying at home and all the other "who's better" kind of stuff (breastfeeding vs formula, etc.).

I am speed-reading Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother (because it is so good, she is such a good writer and so easy to ready) where she shares her experiences, springboarding off the notion that women are so judged (by other women) and feel so much pressure to be perfect (from society?) that it's just too much and we need to let go of all that. I try to search myself and honestly, I would say that I don't really feel this pressure. I tend to insulate myself a bit and I always sort of do things my own way. I think because I am staying home with my kid and breastfeeding and co-sleep, etc. that I banked alot of personal good will that makes me feel like I am such a good mother. But, if Waldman's memoir is the barometer, then I am a "Bad Mother" too. And she never even mentioned hitting her kids. (I have, I regret it and vow to not do it again. It's wrong.) I bet alot of moms who put their kids in daycare never hit them. So now, who's the better mom?

We all have our shortcomings and our failures and I have many. I guess I just don't think of mothers as good or bad unless they are seriously really bad. Most of us are just trying to get by and my best is different from your best or someone else's best. And our bests differ on different days. So...if this blog is to continue, I think I will shift the focus of the posts to other things. I don't want to be one of the judgers for those women who are a little weaker and feel judged or insecure. (Not that I have hordes of readers, anyway.)

The past is gone...literally.

On my 37th birthday, two days ago, I did something I'd been thinking of on and off for a while. I threw out my old journals. That's probably nearly 20 years of my life's ramblings now in a dump somewhere. Good. Whenever I went back and re-read them, I never thought how cool or creative or interesting I was...I just ended up thinking how pitiful I was. Maybe I was not that pitiful. Who knows? But, I didn't see any value in keeping those reminders of angst-ridden, sad years of trying to figure out life through a boy, art or drugs around anymore.

My life is pretty "settled" now, and I actually haven't written regularly in journals like I used to for...hmm...longer than I have been married, which is six years. I have still felt angst, recently, actually, but am ready to be rid of it. I know what I need to do so now I am just going to do it. The angst may still be there, the uncertainty will be, too, but I can find some peace by embracing spirituality in the universe and my place in that, rather than the self, self, self that I was so absorbed in for so many years.

***

I look at my daughter's face and into her eyes. She is so beautiful. There is such a cleanness and purity to her and I am struck with the notion that she is very special. She will be something important. She will do great things. And I wonder if my mother thought this of me and whether all parents think this of their young ones...and I think of how much of a "nothing" I actually am now as an adult. And it gives me pause. I am not pure. I am not clean. My skin in blemished, burnt, wrinkled. My body has fat and sags in places. My teeth are yellow. My hair is dry. I have done bad things. I have hurt people. My brain is scrambled. I strive. I fail. I grasp. I lose. How far have I fallen from the perfection of my babyhood when my mother must have gazed at me in wonder? Yet, she is not disappointed. I know this because I know my mother and because she tells me she is not disappointed. In fact, she tells me how wonderful I am, and special. Still. Amazing. Of course, we are all our own worst critics. Perhaps that's how it should be. So, I know, that in order to "save myself" in order for me to go forth in my life, getting older, getting further from the purity and perfection, in order for me to maybe, maybe have a chance at something good, something important, I have to give up my notion of what is good and what is important. I have to give up my ideas about gain and the self. Because that stuff does not matter. I have to savor the here and now.

***

Breathing in, I calm my body.
Breathing out, I smile.
Dwelling in the present moment,
I know this is a wonderful moment.

***

And life is just a string of moments, no?