Ask the Question

As Published in Mindscape Magazine, the official magazine of the Queensland Association of Gifted and Talented Children, Feb 2013

"Thanks, but my life and theirs would be easier if they weren't gifted," I said to a well-meaning professional who felt the need to congratulate me on having gifted kids. This goes down exactly as poorly as you might imagine, but it's true, and I’m outspoken, so I say it anyway to educate people who tend toward awe or envy when pity is what would be most welcome. In case you are still in denial, let me be frank-- being the parent of a gifted child, or gifted children, if you lucky enough to have more than one, is extremely hard! There is no quick fix; there are very few knowledgeable experts to advise us. Parenting gifted kids requires sustained effort over time, lots of time, about two decades of time. Don’t get me wrong--I enjoy my kids; I want what is best for them. I love them, and that very love often makes being responsible for decisions that direct the course of their lives heavy. It seems many of my friends with gifted kids feel the same stress over how their choices will affect their kids now and in the future.

In order to lighten that grave sense of responsibility that hangs over my mind, I do occasionally fantasise about how I might make my three girls less gifted. Perhaps I could place them in front of the t.v. for all their waking hours, or cease the practice of conversing with them altogether? Maybe I should burn all our hundreds of books, and throw the microscope and watercolours in the bin? I've even toyed with the idea of feeding them an entire diet solely consisting of junk food and devoid of vegetables ( perhaps on lead plates?) in hopes that just one of my girls might become more "normal.” You see, "normal" would make my life and theirs incredibly and immeasurably easier. But alas! These are just the fantasies of a mother who can't do any of these things because of one nagging question, one that pops up at home, in the library, in meetings with teachers and administrators. It is such an inconvenient question, really, but one to which parents like me must return again and again, one that, if asked frequently, clarifies our vision and directs our goals and the paths we lay for our children.


I had to ask myself this question at the commencement of last year when I confronted my own urge to duck and run, to pretend I had no need to intervene on behalf of my daughter who started prep last year. Experience with my two older girls said that the teacher would benefit from knowing that my four-and-a-half-year-old knew most of the academic subject matter that would be covered this year and that she was learning at alarming rates. Experience also said that her teacher would probably resent my bringing this knowledge to the table no matter how meekly, apologetically, and collaboratively it was presented. Experience postulated that "visual-spatial learning style" is a dirty word to many teachers, because of the modifications in curriculum and teaching style that it requires. In spite of my fears, I asked myself the question, "What is in the best interest of my child?" and made the appointment. To my great surprise and delight, my child’s teacher received my insights with grace and sincere consideration. My interview resulted in my child coming out of hiding and being given the opportunity to learn new things, even material that is not standard fare for preps.


My husband and I had to ask the question when we considered formal testing from the educational psychologist for my two older girls. Since our school didn’t see that our children had divergent learning needs, they were not willing to expend resources for testing them. We were concerned because both girls had good grades but disliked school and were losing more interest in school every year and developing perfectionism faster than they were acquiring new knowledge or critical thinking skills. Their teachers weren't concerned; in fact, one set was quite skeptical toward the idea of my daughter being gifted at all, for, at seven, my middle daughter had already assigned her intellect to deep cover and had altered her speech, grammar, and manner of presenting herself to complete her disguise. The cost of private testing for two children at the educational psychologist seemed astronomical for our one-income, public-schooling family, but there was no other way to figure out what divergent educational planning they required. In the end, "What is in the best interest of my child?" made the decision of whether or not to test privately easy. Testing consumed our vacation money and confirmed what we had suspected--both gifted. After a year and a quarter of working with their school, we finally have two official student enrichment plans in place to answer learning needs that were invisible to school and unclear to us before testing.


Sometimes asking "What is in the best interest of my child?" means letting things go, even things that are unjust. Last year, in preparation for standardised testing, one of my daughters had her spelling deficiency pointed out in front of the entire congregation of children in her grade. So far, although she is gifted by many measures, sensory processing issues confound her attempts at spelling; however, it is hard for me to imagine a context in which pointing out any child's weakness in front of a group could be acceptable. Certainly, the children with learning difficulties who are not gifted were not subjected to the public humiliation that my 2E child endured. My daughter was outraged, but not because she recognised her deficiency or because she was embarrassed. She was upset because she felt that she had been falsely accused. She thought that the adult in question "had no idea what she was talking about." I took a day to cool down and then mentioned the incident to her teacher, who calmly communicated my displeasure to the offending party for me. No apology was made to me or to my child, and no explanation has ever been given, but, as there was no harm done to my daughter's academic self-concept, answering "what is in the best interest of my child" meant dropping the issue, and avoiding the offender until I was sure that I wouldn’t lose my temper. I drank herbal tea and cycled ferociously to calm down, and then proceeded to make excuses to my daughter for someone else's “mistake” while devising divergent spelling strategies for my confident-yet-remedial speller.


"What's in the best interest of my child?" is a question with many caveats, many shades of grey. As parents, we get the privilege of weighing short-term decisions with long-term decisions, and deciding how to make the two work together for good. Determining what is most beneficial to a child sometimes means considering social issues against learning issues, or financial issues against intellectual ones. It means electing when to act and when to lay low, and often choosing the best of several poor options. It means planning when, how, and with whom to stage learning interventions, and sizing up innumerable factors to resolve how to present your person, your point of view, and your proof in such a way that your child benefits from your effort.

"What's in the best interest of my child?" often comes into direct conflict with other questions we ask ourselves, questions like, "What will my friends think of me?" or "Will my child's teacher or school classify me as a 'pushy parent?'" or "What will they think if they have never done what my child needs before?" These and other questions, both the valid and the neurotic, battle for centre stage in our decision-making process. In the end, however, whatever is in the best interest of our children has to trump what other people think of us, convention, our own aversion to or affinity for conflict, love of being right, tendency towards flying under the radar, our fears of tall poppy-hood, appreciation for vacation money, etc.

Asking the most important question first helps us prioritise decisions that affect our children by the criteria by which they will judge us in years to come (you have already experienced the piercing truth produced by those dreadful analytical skills--imagine how sharp they will be in 15 years). So, fellow intense parents of complicated gifted children, in an hour, tomorrow, or next week, when you come to the next inevitable impasse in decision-making regarding your child, ask yourself the most important question first. Ask yourself, "What is in the best interest of my child?" before you ask all the other questions and charge forward with confidence and with courage. Chances are that you already have the answers before you; perhaps they are just waiting to be prioritised by the right question.



Elissa Shaw Mizell is an architect, and the mother of three gifted girls, two of whom are also 2E.  She has recently moved to the Sunshine Coast and launched The Learning Architect, a tutoring service for gifted and 2E children and advocacy-coaching and support service for their parents.  Contact her at elissamizell@gmail.com or find her at “The Learning Architect” on Facebook.

Fighting Terrorism at Home and Abroad--The War to Build Character in One Gifted Toddler

George Bush has become one of the most polarizing figures in the years since 911, but no matter what you think of his goals or methods in "the Global War on Terror," no one can deny he spent most of his time as the President of the United States, after 911, fighting terrorism at home and abroad. Although I enjoy considerably greater popularity abroad than old "W", as we call him in Texas, I do have a lot in common with the forty-third president of the USA. Though I now reside in Oz, I too am from Texas, and I too have spent the last eight years fighting terrorism at home and abroad with what we Texans call "Texas Justice." I guess the main difference between W and I (besides my incredibly high popularity rating abroad) is that the opponents in my war are much fiercer than the jihadists that threaten western society. If my opponent had gone head to head with Osama Bin Ladin, I think the Global war on Terror could have been ended in about fifteen minutes. Who is this fierce opponent, you ask? What could strike fear into a hate-hardened, fanatical, would-be martyr in a thousand-year religious war? Good question! Read on.

A few days ago I went to the grocery store near my home in Stafford, North Brisbane. I had the car, so I took Micah Jade, my constant companion, with me to acquire the groceries that our family would need in the following week. She prattled constantly, in the car, on the way, enquiring honestly about how the world worked and why.  Micah Jade, who is two, wore in a cute, little, pink dress, her short, honey-colored curls framing her smiley impish face.  She looked adorable; I should emphasize the word "looked."  She made it through grocery shopping with no notable incidents, but as I was checking out, Micah Jade began to play on the chrome grocery gate. I was busy trying to pay, so I did not notice her mischief until she began to bang the gate against its post again and again. “Clank! Clank! Clank!” I turned to correct her, calmly requiring that she cease and desist with the loud banging, as it was not appropriate behaviour for respecting the property and hearing of others. For a moment, she looked like she was going consent, but only for a moment.

As I turned back around to the credit card machine, I heard MJ say, abruptly, in a forceful voice, not unlike the voice of Cookie Monster, "NOOO, ya don't tell MEEEE what to DOOOOOO!" The challenge was thrown down, right there in the grocery store. MJ was confident that I was not going to make her mind with an audience of fifty people. Like the jihadists, her main weapon of choice is not force, but fear. At two and a half, she had weighed the shop and the people and had sized me up, in an instant determining that I was not brave enough to face her head-on.

But what MJ didn't know was that I had been fighting terrorism at home for half a decade before she even came along. I had tamed two terrorists, even before she existed. She thought she could take the battle abroad to the grocery store and win it there, because she thought I would be afraid of what that store full of strangers would think of me and of her, but little MJ had made a serious miscalculation.

In an instant, I snatched her naughtiness up, and in the time that it took me to flip her over my shoulder, she commenced shrieking like a banshee. I frantically punched in my pin number in the credit card machine, flung the groceries into the cart, and hastily bid the cashier goodbye, as MJ, still screaming, began to kick the air in front of me. All 100 eyes were upon us, and the people within six meters of us began to put their fingers into their ears to protect their hearing. As we walked out of the store, the horror of the situation overcame me and I began to laugh out loud, my mad cackling adding to the audio-mayhem created by MJ's super-human lungs. All the way to the car, she continued to belt out high-pitched screams, the kind of screams that Jamie Lee Curtis screamed in those 80's Wes Craven films, while I laughed like a madwoman.

I held my naughty, air-kicking toddler over my shoulder, and I pushed the trolley to my car in the parking lot with one hand, walking with ease through the channel through people and cars that we had cut with our sound waves. When we reached the car, MJ received a well-needed disciplining--a short speech on obedience before I buckled her in her car seat and closed her into the car alone. Her rebellion lasted about a minute more, but she was only able to deafen herself, since the car could now contain her voice.  After that, she found her thumb, and calmed herself down on the five minute ride home. By the time we arrived home, she was back to Dr. Jekyll, and her Mr. Hyde personality stowed away for another day. She was smiling and laughing and discussing her take on the world again like the cute little toddler she appears to be.

Gifted toddlers are amazing creatures. They paint with poo and eat dog food, at least MJ does. They routinely bite and hit beloved family members and close friends, even while kissing and cuddling, as they honestly critique your parenting skills, physical fitness, or eating habits. They are unashamed to be naked in public, and occasionally refuse to brush their teeth, despite having dog-food-breath (again MJ). The gifted toddler will proudly proclaim his toilet habits and demand lollies for not making a mess in his own pants, before demanding to know how exactly the toilet and the entire sewer system function. I love to watch gifted toddlers as they discover the world. Each one is as unique as a snowflake. Gifted toddlers are equal parts sweetness and raw ambition, both adorable and insufferable, simultaneously. Gifted toddlers are so much more exciting to me than infants; but, in my experience with my children and the children of my family members and friends, I have continually found that gifted toddlers are terrorists, almost by definition. They are hell-bent on imposing their vision of reality on the world and will use fear to accomplish their sinister goal, (though a world where the loving guidance of a parent is replaced by the anarchy of toddler is a scary place, especially for the toddler herself.)

In my opinion, the prevailing wind of popular parent psychology, the stuff you read in the magazines and most popular books, seems to declare that if you just wait out the toddler years and accommodate or ignore tantrums and coups thrown in selfishness for a few years, that a sweet school-age child will emerge, magically reformed and reasonable, just by aging; but I don't believe it for a second. I guess I know too many people, gifted or not, that have never outgrown selfishness, people who have never learned to care for the good of others or to submit to any authority outside themselves. No, character is not reformed by time, but by consistent and kind intervention and guidance by a loving parent, starting during the toddler years.

The cost of refusing to confront terrorism in someone I love is too great to postpone or ignore. A little child who pouts when she doesn't get her way can be funny and outrageously cute, but a pouting adult is intolerable. In life, we don't always get to drink from the pink cup. Sometimes we are lucky to have a cup at all, even a blue one or (horror of horrors!), an orange one. Often in life, we don't get another ice cream cup if we throw ours on the ground--on purpose. Sadly, in real life, throwing tantrums and articulately slicing through others with words sometimes means the loss of a relationship, and as adults, we all experience the lasting consequences of our own poor choices, even when we are sorry afterwards.   Though gifted toddlers don't yet know it, a life, well-lived, is not about making the world conform to one's self, but in loving others, in living out honesty, thankfulness and kindness, and in developing one’s potential, not only for the sake of one’s self, but in order to contribute towards the good of others.  For me, the most important parts of parenting (though also the most difficult parts) are teaching these global truths in the mundane moments of everyday life.

It is such a huge task to be responsible for the developmental years of someone I love, and I guess that is why I think a lot about what I am working toward, while I am in the thick of grocery store tantrums, deep conversations about the meaning of life or the sewer system, and playground assaults on friends. I'm sure I'm not a perfect parent. Anyone who knows me could tell you that. I get frustrated sometimes, and often I am not as consistent as I should be; but I know what I am working toward and what is not important to me. I am not interested in having the best behaved children on the playground (this goal would be completely unattainable for me). I don't aim to make friends of my children; (Why would anyone want to have friends that are two or six or eight years old?) I may not always find agreement in parenting with my peers, with the current mags, or with my children's school; but if I am parenting for the good of my children, worrying about those things is not worth my time. No, I care most about my girls, about encouraging their inherent strengths, and about confronting and disciplining ugliness in their hearts every single time that I see it, so that they grow integrity instead of selfishness, pride, and deceit. I care about building their character and supporting them while they begin to make their own wise choices as they gradually take from me, the responsibility for their own lives.

I don't know how much progress George Bush made in the "Global War on Terror" during his eight years as president. I guess time will tell, but no matter what happens on a global scale, in my own little corner of the world, even after the eight years I have already served, I know that I will continue to fight my micro-war on terror both at home and abroad in the hopes that one day soon, I will make enough progress with MJ for the folks at the grocery store not to have to endure the ear-piercing shrieks of a terrible tantrum from my gifted toddler. I'll keep on bringing "Texas Justice" to MJ, like I have to Jordan and Meryl before her, because it is in the her best interest that I  intervene to help her to build character.  Judging from my battles with other temporary terrorists in my family, I think I probably only have eight months or so left between now and the time when I can declare a tentative victory. In the time between now and victory, though, if any of you counter-terrorism-agent-types need help, please shoot me a facebook message. My resolve is sure, my cause is just, and thus, MJ's days as a terrorist are numbered.

Afternote:  It was more than two years until my husband and I could declare a tentative victory in the war on terrorism within our house, though some days, we still feel aftershocks and shadows of it hanging around MJ.   (probably because MJ inherited a stubborn streak the size of Texas from both of us).    

Elissa Mizell is an architect, a writer of several projects including the blog elissainoz.blogspot.com, wife of her best friend, and the mother of three gifted girls, two of which are also 2E.  

The Sugar Cookie Diet

You've heard of the Atkins diet, the African Mango diet, the South Beach diet, the diet where you eat only chicken Ceasar salads (minus the best parts--croutons and dressing), liquid diets, diet pills, diet shakes, but have you yet heard of the Sugar Cookie Diet?  Yes, that's right, the sugar cookie diet, invented by a ingenious stay-at-home mom who has discovered marvellous secrets of diet and body chemistry through the sugar cookie.

Here's how it works--

1.  Make yourself some sugar cookies, from scratch, with lots of butter and sugar, which we all know have been influences in diet for thousands of years.  

2.  Ice the sugar cookies with lots of icing.  Add sprinkles for an extra helping of sugar.   Icing is linked to happiness--more sugar, more happiness.

3.  Reduce the amount of food you normally eat, and substitute sugar cookies for said food.  Sugar cookies are better to eat than spinach, as everyone knows.

4.  Enjoy your cookies.  They are the perfect breakfast food, lunch food, or dinner food.  If you wonder what to snack on, you have the answer in the name of the diet--sugar cookies.

The "fine" print:  (Be sure you want to know before continuing. . . ) This diet is a great way to enjoy the holidays, and I would recommend adopting it around any holiday that could be used as an excuse to make sugar cookies . . . BUT. . .It won't actually help you lose weight (Shocking, I know.)

Since this diet is so fantastic and so incredibly successful as a tool to modify food intake, at some point, this diet will probably be published, and you will have to pay to get this expertise.  Be sure that you take full advantage of this amazing system of changing your diet before The Sugar Cookie Diet is refined it into a system that is actually workable for those that want to lost weight.  Go ahead; enjoy the Sugar Cookie Diet before the good parts are extracted (that would be the sugar cookies).

As you've probably guessed, I am the infamous, I mean ingenious, stay-at-home mom who invented the Sugar Cookie Diet.  This is the "diet" that I adopt during the two weeks around Christmas every year.  In case you are wondering, yes, I gained a few pounds, (and have lost  most of them again. Just eliminating sugar cookies and adding the spinach back will do the trick.)  Let me know how your implementation of the Sugar Cookie Diet goes, though I can probably guess . . .

A belated merry Christmas, happy New Year, and an early happy Valentines Day to all you fellow sugar cookie junkies out there. Just to make sure that you don't run out of opportunities to enjoy the Sugar Cookie Diet, here is a list of major holidays for 2012.

January	1 New Year's Day 4 Trivia Day 6 Feast of the Epiphany- Three Kings Day 13 Friday the 13th 16 Martin Luther King's Birthday - observed on 16th this year. 23 Chinese New Years It's the Year 4710! 25 Opposite Day 26 Australia Day
February	2 Groundhog's Day 5 Super Bowl Sunday , Superbowl XLV 12 Lincoln's Birthday 14 Valentines Day 15 Singles Awareness Day -  Are you single or in between relations? Then, this day is for you! 20 Hoodie-Hoo Day 20 President's Day 21 Mardi Gras(Fat Tuesday) 22 Ash Wednesday 22 Washington's Birthday 26 Oscar Night 29 Leap Day - It's this year!
March	8 International Women's Day 8 Purim begins at sundown 11 Daylight Savings Begins at 2:00 a.m. 15 Ides of March 17 St. Patrick's Day 20 Spring (Vernal) Equinox 20 International Earth Day - also called Sun-Earth Day 25 Feast of the Annunciation
April	1 April Fool's Day 1 Palm Sunday 1 International Tatting Day 6 Good Friday 6 National Walk to Work Day 1st Friday 7 Passover begins at sundown, lasts 8 days. 8 Easter Sunday 13 Friday the 13th 15 Income taxes due 16 Patriot's Day Third Monday 22 Earth Day (U.S.) 25 Administrative Professionals Day formerly "Secretaries Day" 26 Take Your Daughter to Work Day 4th Thursday 27 Arbor Day always the last Friday in April
May	1 May Day 5 Cinco de Mayo 6 National Teacher's Day 8 VE Day, WW II 13 Mother's Day 19 Armed Forces Day -third Saturday 24 Victoria Day (Canada) 28 Memorial Day
June	6 D Day, WWII 14 Flag Day 17 Father's Day - third Sunday 19 Juneteenth Day 20 Summer Solstice (The longest day of the year!)
July	1 Canada Day (Dominion Day) 4 Independence Day 13 Friday the 13th 20 Ramadan begins 22 Hammock Day ...relax and enjoy! 27 Summer Olympics Opening Ceremony - not until 2012
August	3 National Watermelon Day 10 National S'mores Day 13 Left Hander's Day 14 V-J Day 15 Feast of the Assumption 15 World Youth Day date varies widely 30 National Marshmallow Toasting Day
September	2 VJ Day, WWII 3 Labor Day 9 Grandparents Day the first Sunday after Labor Day 11 911 Remembrance 16 Rosh Hashanah begins at sundown 17 Constitution Day 21 International Peace Day (UN) 22 Autumnal Equinox 25 Yom Kippur 28 Native American Day the fourth Friday of the  month 30 Sukkot begins at sundown
October	1 International Day for the Elderly 8 Columbus Day observed 8 Thanksgiving Day in Canada, 2nd Monday 16 Boss's Day 20 Sweetest Day 3rd Saturday 24 United Nations Day 26 Eid-Ul-Adha 27 Make a Difference Day 4th Saturday 31 Halloween
November	1 All Saint's Day 1 Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) 2 All Soul's Day - usually on the 2nd 4 Daylight Savings time ends gain 1 hour of sleep 6 Election Day -please exercise your right to vote 11 Veteran's Day 13 Sadie Hawkins Day 15 Great American Smokeout - third Thursday 20 Universal Children's Day 22 Thanksgiving Day 23 Black Friday
December	2 Advent begins 7 Pearl Harbor Day 9 Chanukah lasts 8 days 12 Poinsettia Day 21 Winter Solstice (shortest day of the year) 23 Festivus - for the rest of us! 25 Christmas 26 Boxing Day 26 Kwanzaa 27 National Fruitcake Day 31 New Year's Eve

The Lunatic Next Door

An electrically charged doorbell would probably have done the trick, just a mild electrification, no more.  A gentle shock just might have helped the neighbourhood kids remember that my kids, who attend public school, went to school a week longer than they (the neighbor kids) had at the Catholic school, and that, yes, today is part of the extra week, just as yesterday was, and that (still) my kids wouldn't be home until later than three thirty, so there is no need to come before then and ring the doorbell, waking Micah Jade, AGAIN!  It's not that the neighbourhood kids are bad kids, just a little forgetful, and  I don't dislike them particularly, any more than I would dislike anyone who had woken crusty Micah Jade up for five days in a row from five much-needed naps that hold the power to prevent her from transforming from Dr. Jeckyl to Mr. Hyde for the remaining five hours of family life each day.

Though it may be inconsistent with my plans to electrify my door bell, I consider myself a good neighbour.  That said, this good neighbour has had a few difficulties with  unsupervised neighbourhood kids in the past, but before I tell you that story, you must hear the backstory that sets the stage.

When Greg and I bought our first house, it was in a decent neighbourhood, one with big live oak trees, older brick houses, and happy kids that played outside in the streets.  It wasn't an expensive neighbourhood, or a fancy house, but it was home.  I bought wrapping paper and chocolates and other things to support the kids in band at the local school, because I like a neighbourhood where kids can go door to door to bother people for cash.   I liked the kids that played outside too, at least in theory.

My first and last run-in with the neighbourhood kids at our house in Texas occurred at night, when I was twenty-six and alone with my two tiny kids while my husband was out-of-town.   Late in the evening, there came a knock at the door.  I wondered if it might be a neighborhood friend in trouble, but when I went to answer the door,  there was no one there.  My immense imagination could tolerate one such occurrence, but after three knocks, my fear began to further paralyse my reason as I imagined what I would do when the perpetrators forced their way into the house and attempted to kill us all (which does sometimes happen in Texas).   So, in order to get help before this impending calamity materialised, I did what any responsible, young, terrified mother would do.  I called the police.

Not far from my part of town, the police had really dangerous people to deal with--drug lords, thieves, and general thugs--and so the neighbourhood kids were small fish.  The next knock at my door was a policeman.  "Well, ma'am, there are some kids walking around outside in the streets, but it is not past curfew, so there is nothing I can do.  It is probably them, but I wouldn't worry," he said, in a calm, but patronising tone.  

Well of course he wouldn't worry! He was 6'2" and he probably had ninja training and he definitely had a gun, and, judging from his judgemental expression, he was clearly not in possession of an imagination as vivid as mine is.   When threatened, he also probably had the advantage of both "fight" and "flight" instincts, whereas I only possess "fight."  With his reassuring message delivered to the cowardly young mother, he drove off into the night, and left my imagination,  myself, and the neighbourhood kids to my own devices.

And then it occurred to me.  A note!  I will write a note to warn them of the consequences of tormenting a paranoid young mother late at night.  In a former life, I was a reasonable artist, so I put my skills to work do draw what would occur if the perpetrator cared to come back, and I taped it to the window beside the door.  Then I checked the doors again, and went to sleep because I knew with veritable certainty that it would work.

The next morning, when Greg came back from a business trip, he paused at the door in disbelief, wondering if he should call first before coming through the front door.  With tremendous courage, he unlocked the door with his key and came to find me, unsure of what had transpired while he was away.

"Babe?" he called, "Are you alright?"

I casually strolled into the living room, smiling, with an infant on my hip, and a toddler in tow.  "Yes, honey, why?"

"Well, I saw this picture of a gun in the window, and read that if I knocked on the door, that you would 'blow my head off through the window' like this picture on the sign you made."

"Oh, that was not meant for you," I said with a pleasant smile.   "The neighbour kids scared me last night when you were away, but they didn't knock after the note."

"Well, I guess not!"

I never had another kid try to sell me wrapping paper or a car wash.  Word must have gone around that five dollars for a band fundraiser was not worth facing the crazy lady at 11703.  I suppose that part of me wishes I could say that I am sorry about this incident, but I am not sorry.  My friends and family love to bring it up, and, we have all enjoyed our fair share of laughs because it is exciting when someone that you generally think of as being sane  has terrified deserving neighbourhood children that you don't know in a neighbourhood that is not yours (and subsequently refuses to repent).

So, I guess, compared to my last confrontation with the neighbourhood kids, my fantasies about shocking a new set of neighbourhood children with an electrified doorbell are quite mild.  My recent designs have given me a few chuckles, though at least this time, my plans have been hidden by discretion from real people and only revealed to my 619 friends on Facebook who laughed with me and helped me strategise (and of course, to you, my loyal blog readers, who enjoy my writing because I am foolish enough both to own and to tell any thought in my head.)   The truth is that whether I reside in Texas or in Australia or somewhere else,  I will ever be the lunatic next door.   Don't ring my doorbell at nap time for several days in a row, and, for your own sake and for mine, if you knock after dark,  please don't run off :)  

*Just to be clear, I have not ever owned a gun, and would not really shoot anyone.  Also, I don't really know how to electrify my doorbell, so wouldn't do this either.  

Poo and Jewels

If I had a beautiful jewel, I would have it put into a ring and I would wear it every day, on my hand where I could see it-- even when I clean-- because jewels are beautiful reminders of perfection and eternity in a world that  is broken in so many ways.   If Jordan had one, she would study it to see how the light refracted when it wandered through the facets, and then the kid would probably count the faces on it before researching the way it was forged in the bowels of the earth--because jewels are a product of natural science that must be studied.  If Greg had a jewel, he would put it in a ring and give it to me and I would wear it every day--even to clean (I suppose this has already happened)--because he has no use for jewels (and I do). Meryl would hide hers in a treasure chest at the end of the rainbow, and she would pull a curtain of silver mist across the shiny copper chest to keep it hidden from common eyes--because jewels are mystical and perfect for feeding the imagination. But Micah Jade? Well, I never would have predicted her plan. (Don't read on if you don't like little kid toilet stories.)
    
I don't bathe Micah Jade any more.  By the end of the day, when I am trying to get everyone clean and practicing instruments and doing homework, while cooking dinner and attempting to be thankful and cheerful during the most stressful time of the day,  I am in no condition to get the smallest, squirreliest of my children bathed.  It costs me about five dollars a week, but it is worth every penny to get Jordan or Meryl to bathe her.  She doesn't always cooperate.  Sometimes I have to pay up for Jordan or Meryl's efforts and finish her bath myself because she thinks it is hilarious to be both dirty and difficult.
  
So, I guess it was a day like many days, and Jordan had been chosen as the designated MJ bather--today in the bath, not the shower.  I began to hear the first sounds of distress in the bathroom.  I don't come immediately when I hear slight distress because sometimes it resolves itself, but not this day. I waited the customary minute and then emerged into the bathroom to see micah Jade on her back with her legs in the air, looking sheepish and smirky, and Jordan frantically trying to look into Micah Jade's anus.

Jordan:  (distressed) "Mom, there is a blue sparkly thing in her butt.  I looked in there, and I know it is there! OH NO"
Me:  (curious) "Micah Jade? Did you put something in your butt?"
Micah Jade:  (smug) "Um-Hm.  I had a little jewel and (now starting to get agitated) I put it in there, and now I can't get it OUUUUUUUT!"
Me: "What was it?"
Jordan:  "She had a jewel--like a marble, and now it is not here, and the thing in her butt is blue just like the jewel."
Me:  (in disbelief)  "You put a jewel into your butt?"
MJ:  (with real alarm) "YES! and it is STUUUUUCK!"
Me:  (matter-of-fact-ly) "You might have to poo it out into the toilet."
Jordan:  (worried)  "You shouldn't put things in your butt"
MJ:  (repeated for two minutes  and during Jordan's and my astute analyses) "OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!"

I calmed her down; and I dressed her while stifling laughter and trying to explain the dangers of storing things in one's anus; and she ate dinner with us--all with a jewel in her butt.  In the end, I caught the jewel before it fell in the toilet so that she could enjoy it again.  Somedays, that is what motherhood is-- jewels buried in poo.

We mothers take the "good" experiences with the "bad", and we get to laugh and do things we never signed up for; and if we are lucky, we get to share the journey together with other mothers on parallel journeys of humour and mess and love.  Real motherhood is raw and untamed, and it is perfect for women that have a little wildness left--sometimes hidden deep inside.   It is not for the faint of heart (or the queasy), and I love it because I love my kids.  Perhaps tomorrow will be a little less nasty, perhaps not.  I'll take the adventure that comes, and, after surviving the poo, I'll treasure these memories in my heart like the priceless jewels they are.

Meryl's Real Question

"I'm not sure I believe all this stuff about Jesus and God like you and Daddy,"  stated Meryl, as she looked through her dark lashes deep into my soul.   "How could Jesus do miracles?  How did he have powers?  I don't have any powers, and I don't know anyone else who does."  I listened carefully and I  answered specifically, but her doubt remained, like a cloud of suspicion between us.

The communication of our beliefs is part of our job as parents.  In both intentional and unintentional ways, we all tell our kids what we see as truth about themselves and about their world.  Whether our belief system comes from an old religion like Christianity, or whether it is something we have fashioned from our own experience and pieces of meaning, what we believe runs so deep within us that we can't help but teach it in every interaction with our children.

Meryl has heard about our faith since she was a very little girl, as have all of our girls.  We are not casual or cultural Christians.  We are Christians by choice, by careful study and evaluation, and by conviction.  For Greg and I, our Christian faith has implications into every aspect of our lives, and we teach our children our faith because we see it as our privilege and our obligation to tell them the Truth.

My answers to her questions about faith were were complete, but Meryl still looked at me with doubt, and as I stood there pondering her stated questions longer, I heard the question she never asked.  My heart heard what was in her heart.  The real question Meryl has is this--"If I don't accept your faith, will I still be your daughter?  Will you still love me?"  It is a question that all children ask in one way or another.  Sometimes the question is asked after massive failures.  Sometimes it is asked with actions that seem to intentionally force distance into the relationship.  Sometimes it is asked by moving across oceans to new lands and new opportunities.  This night, right before bedtime, it was asked by a wisp of a seven year old girl with doubts and questions about faith so deep as to nearly obscure the real issue.

And so I looked back through her thick, black lashes into her deep ebony eyes, and I answered her with all my heart.  "You are precious to me.  You will have to decide for yourself what you believe about God.  It is really between you and Him.  I am here to tell you the Truth, as much as I understand.  No matter what you believe, I will love you.  If you don't share my faith I will love you.  My relationship with you does not depend on whether you are the same as me.  I love you no matter what."

"Really?  You won't love me less if I don't believe in God like you do?"

"Nope," I answered.  And just like that, all the suspicion was gone from her little face, and she kissed me and went to sleep.  She still has big thoughts, deep doubts, and ponderous questions, and I expect that she will be doing her own investigation into Christianity for quite some time.  I don't know if she will arrive at a conclusion that matches mine, but I do know that every time she investigates my love by asking me about my faith, she will hear the same answer,  "Meryl, I love you because you are mine.  I love you no matter what."

Bright Colors and Impossible Gravities of the Imagination

When I was a little girl who saw fairies and monsters, superheroes and the impossible, my very best friend was an alien named Jeremy. (I know what you're thinking--but not that kind of alien--the real kind, from outer space.)  Jeremy was four months older than me, and he was from the planet Crypton, from whence he had traveled to earth via an asteroid. His parents found him and adopted him when he was very little, and (yes, amazing that this story happened on t.v. also) he possessed magic powers. Jeremy looked like a normal boy, but unlike your average little boy, he flew through the air when I wasn't looking, and he could defeat any bad guy--except our friend Daniel Seale, who, we suspected, might have access to Cryptonite, after he gave Jeremy a real shiner. When we were children, Jeremy had a charisma that made me see what he could envision; and, though he possessed super-human strength and flight, I suppose his power to imagine was the one that impressed me the most.

If not for Jeremy, I might never have known Condorman, but before I tell you about Condorman, I must tell a little backstory on my dad.  My dad loves little children. He loves them because they are brutally honest, because they only bite close friends and family members, because they will tell you all their personal business and their family secrets, but more than that, he loves them because they see beyond what is to what could be.  My dad loved Jeremy especially because Jeremy's imagination was always growing to re-interpret what he saw with his eyes.

Jeremy went to our church with jelly beans. I'm not exactly sure why he had so many jelly beans in his pockets, or whether the jellybeans were sanctioned by Ellen, his mother, but for a long time, those jellybeans were his prized possession. Since my dad had a soft spot for both Jeremy and his jelly beans, my dad convinced Jeremy that he possessed two stomachs, one that ate food, and one that stored and multiplied jelly beans. Jeremy wasn't keen to share his treasures with me, but he would give my dad a few jelly beans each week to store in his extra stomach.   Every few weeks, Jeremy would ask my dad to return his jelly beans with interest. Every so often, I would watch with wonder as my dad coughed up a whole bag's worth of jelly beans. Jeremy was, of course, unphased by the fact that these had been stored for weeks in an extra, jellybean-multiplying stomach, and instead was delighted with the amplication of his investment.

My dad loved performing this trick, but as Jeremy grew a little older, Jeremy began to suspect, that perhaps my dad had a weak spot for jelly beans and few extra dollars instead of an extra stomach. My dad had to up his game if he was going to retain his magical powers, so, one Sunday afternoon, in a carefully planned explanation, my dad told  his greatest secret to Jeremy, while I listened on.  In tones, hushed to prevent my mom from knowing the truth, my dad explained his double life as a super hero, while I peered from behind Jeremy into the hall closet.  There, folded like an ordinary lampshade, was a set of manila-colored wings.  Those paper-colored wings enabled my dad to fly between buildings late at night when I was fast asleep, because my dad was CONDORMAN.  I can't remember what planet my dad had come from, but the important part was that my dad, like Jeremy, was from another planet, even farther away from India (where he used to live.)  The story was easy enough to believe, in light of the magical wings tucked in beside the flowered sheets of our linen closet.  Jeremy was completely convinced, in one glance, that both the wings and the story were factual, and we both lived in wonder for years at the superhero who appeared, to the untrained eye, to be a common Indian architect.  

I often wonder what my childhood would have been like without Jeremy.  As a child, he re-worked common, everyday facts and objects into the whimsical world of his imagination, and he took me through the looking glass by his faith in the impossible. Without Jeremy I might prefer the Notebook to Spiderman 2, or You've Got Mail to Indiana Jones.  Without Jeremy, I might never have appreciated Hootie and the Blowfish, or searched the night sky for aliens, or worried about alligators coming out of the toilet, or become (mutually) obsessed with the ark of the covenant.  Most importantly, I might never known my dad as Condorman.

Jeremy is my oldest friend, and after we stopped being Dr. Jones and Marian, he was there to talk me through school switches, high school break-ups, finding my identity apart from my parents, and hard questions about faith.  We visited each other at university, and he smiled on at my wedding, genuinely happy for me to find love with Greg, because life-long friends do that sort of thing.

While I have been chasing the dreams that come with marriage and family, my oldest friend has spent the last ten years sleeping a few hours a night in a tiny apartment in Hollywood and working an ordinary day-job while chasing his dream of writing.  After years of diligent work and intense sacrifice, Jeremy has recently sold his first screenplay.  No one could be more proud than me, his oldest friend.

So, Jeremy, I write our precious  memories in celebration of your amazing creativity, to commemorate the moment that the world begins to recognize what those who love you have long experienced.  I hope that soon everyone can enjoy your mystical visions as much as I have, that soon the people of the world will have the opportunity to have their sight enriched with the bright colors and impossible gravities of your imagination.  Congratulations on this new chapter of your life.  I have always believed in you, and I saw this day coming from afar off.