8 Years

Nothing Like The First Day

Evan's fist day of 2nd grade....

Here is to a fresh new school year. To learning more, and making new friends. Harder math and more challenging reading. Improved handwriting.

But for us, as parents, it is always about so much more...

I don't know about others, but for me, it is always about being one year closer to the day he will leave the nest. One less year to have him with us. It is always the year I will be more involved, more patient about teaching him new things. Watching him grow a little more. One sad day, I will be able to sit back and see that my work is finished. But now, in the middle of the greatest responsibility the world has to offer, I am amazed and realize that these are the days for which to live.

Seriously?

Okay so seriously, it is that time of year. The only other time where it is more expensive to be a parent is at Christmas time. My little list started as just a few uniforms. We inventoried the closet to see what uniforms from last year could be reused and came up with a healthy stack. Next was the list of supplies. Evan's school does something differently: each year, when supplies are donated, they divide them up among the students. Say, for example, that each second grader needs 4 boxes of crayons for the year. If enough crayons are donated so that each child can have 2 boxes, the school does not make us buy the 4, but rather he 2 that are lacking. In the end, the supplies that are donated end up saving each parent some money. So now supplies are added to the list.

But then I start to think about things. He'll need new underwear, and socks. And undershirts. Oh, and shoes. We need a pair of gym shoes and a pair of oxfords. And we can't forget that he needs a couple of new belts. And a light jacket. And of course we cannot forget the backpack. Heaven forbid it not be the preppy one with his name embroidered in the center... And of course somewhere before next Wednesday, we will have to get a haircut. Before I know it, a couple hundred bucks for a few uniforms to add to what is left from last year...well, let's just say that the sum morphs into something else entirely. In the meantime, I mention to him that the plan for later in the day is for us to go school shopping. This is the look I get from him. (See above) Why is he so sad? You would think he was the one footing the bill.

My Baby Boy Is Coming Home!

Just for fun, Evan has been staying down at his grandparents' houses for the past few weeks. They do this every summer since we moved away. But this time it has been over 3 weeks and I miss him dearly. But today, his grandfather is bringing him home. I am so excited to see him!

Speaking of Babies, Did I Ever Tell You WHY Evan is a Miracle?

It was just a couple of weeks after we saw the two pink lines on the little stick when the beeding started. The OB referred to it as "threatened spontaneous abortion". Miscarriage. But maybe not, because there on the screen was a tiny beating heart. The shock of realization on John's face will never leave me. His baby, who he said looked like a bean, there in living color. So I started the visits to the oupatient lab every other day, where they would leave black bruises on my arms in order to siphon from me the blood that would tell them that our baby was thriving. And every other day, we would wait and cry and pray that he was. Or wait for the call that it was all over, that we would try again, that they needed to schedule a D&C. We just waited.

Then one day it was over. I was so happy on that day. I envisioned my body making the discovery that this angel was there to stay for 40 weeks. To stop trying to get rid of him, that he was no intruder, but rather a welcome passenger. The nausea and vomiting were signs of life within me, and they were welcome too. We picked names. Emily for a girl. But what for a boy? He should be named after his father, we decided. But we hated the idea of relatives in southern Kentucky calling him "Junior". So we perused the books for boy names. The control freak in me was beside heself. We needed a boy name. Brady? Tucker? No, too trendy. Then one day I saw it: Evan: Welsh version of John. Little Evan for a boy. Named after his father, but still his own person.

The happiness was short-lived. My body is stubborn. I felt the first contraction a few days later like a gentle tugging within me. But wait. Accoding to the calender, I still had 5 months to go. That gentle tugging turned to tearing, ripping, searing pain. Thoughts of all of the bleeding, John's excitement, Evan or Emily, pink or blue...they all swirled in my head as John rushed me to the hospital. And the first feeling I ever got of John-and Andrea-Against-the-World was when the young doctor told us that th medication did not work, that the contractions were continuing, that he was sorry, but I was having a miscarriage. I wonder what he thought of us, as we clung to each other, crying those big hot tears, grieving for the baby that wasn't to be. Married for about 6 months at the time, we were all each other had in that moment. I imagine it was pity he felt. Or determination. Whatever the reason, a second dose of mdication was given, and the contractions stopped. And we rejoiced. And I returned home a few days later. Only to return again. Same scenario, different day. Again and again we grieved for the loss of our baby, only to find out that it was another near-miss.

After 2 weeks of trips back and forth to the hospital, we met the doctor who would test our resolve. More pre-term labor. But this ime, the doctor and nurse came in to the room and pulled up chairs by my bed. They started speaking of babies with profound disabilities from prematurity. Of families wrecked with medical expenses. Of our youth. The doctor actually said the dreaded word next. Abortion. He told me to let God have our baby, that it wasn't in the cards, that we could have another. I didn't understand. Was the baby okay? Wasn't it just my body? Didn't they have medicine to stop the labor that had been working? Wasn't I at 20 weeks of pregnancy? The age of viability, as they had been telling me during previous visits? I didn't understand, but we knew we needed to find a docotr who wanted us to have our baby like we wanted to.

A couple of months went by, and we switched hospitals to one with a top-rated NICU in preparation for a birth of a very premature infant. We toured the NICU. The hospitalizations continued as we braced ourselves for heartbreak. I learned what the "Special OB Unit" was at Good Smamritan in Cincinnati. I spent over a month there, on magnesium sulfate drips. At such a high dose that I was not permitted to get up to go to the bathroom or even roll in bed by myself. I had chest x-rays every oher day because such high doses were associated with fluid on the lungs. They would cover my arms in hot packs to relieve some of the pain from the viscous fluid going into my veins. They said it was about the thickness of corn-syrup, and that is why it was so painful. Every third day, they would come in and stop the drip because it was not safe for me to be on it any longer than that. And every third day, the contractions would start back up. I got yet another course of steroid injections to prepare the baby for the early birth that could not be stopped. I met a maternal-fetal specialist who was the best in his field and began to get ultrasounds twice a week. We learned tht it was a boy in there. That there was no infection in the amniotic fluid, and no other reason for me to be having the preterm labor. "Sometims this just happens", they told me. But with each week, I got closer to the day that our baby could be born, that the rate of survival for him increased just a teensy bit.

I ws sent home. I was on a medication that would lower my blood pressure so much that when I would take a hot shower, I would pass out from the further dilation of my vessels. I was on another that caused such horrible acid reflux that I was essentially vomitting without wretching. Huge moutfuls of hot sour acid would wash up without any warning. But my baby was okay.

It got to the point where we thought Evan would survive, and we begged the doctors to deliver him. "You can help him", I woul plead. I just wanted them to make it stop.

A little past midnight, on September 1st, 2001, it finally did. I was havng hard contractions, and a nurse midwife who had never seen me before insisted that I was not dilating. And she said I wasn't due for anothr 5 weeks. We laughed at her like maniacs and begged for the on-call obstetrician. I blurted out words like fetal fibronectin,amniocentesis, ultrasounds, steroid courses in all 3 trimesters, hCg levels, magnesium sulfate, age of viability... She started telling me about "what is best for the baby", and a cried hot tears as I told her of the unspeakable hell I had endured for my body to continue to provide a home for this growing baby. I knew from my experiences that if you start labor at 36 weeks, they will let you go. I was 35 weeks. And I didn't care about a few more days. I couldn't do any more. My body was physically, emotionally, and mentally drained in every way imaginable.

The OB finally came in, and he ordered everyone to get off of me. He put his hands on my giant belly and felt as contraction after contraction ripped through me in waves. Contractions that felt like they were ripping me in two, but were not causing any results. And he told me to breathe through them. The monitors came off as he let me feel this last bit of pain unencumbered by the trappings of modern medicine. And he explained to me how they usully do c-sections after just a day of labor, citing failure to progress as the justification. And I had been in labor for literally 17 weeks. I had endured my hell, and he wanted to help it end for me with a c-section.

After that, I didn't feel another contraction. They never stopped, even as th doctor cut through the soft layers of my abdomen. And I was prepared for the silence that follows a cesarean birth. The birth canal doesn't squeeze the fluid from the baby, and often they need to be suctioned. Plus this was a baby who was early. The last to develop is the lungs. He may need help. But from the instant he was exposed to this world, my son let out the lustiest cry I have ever heard in a newborn. And tears choked my voice as I shouted out that his lungs were okay, long before I had ever laid eyes on his beauty.

There is not a day that goes by in my life wih Evan and John when I don't look at my little family and have waking nigtmares of what could have been. Where I do not thank God for the sloppy kisses and brown eyes that sparkle with laughter and amazement and wonder. Where I do not count my blessings. He truly is my Evan from Heaven. Our miracle. A tribute to God or Allah or the science of modern medicine. Or maybe a mother and father's determination.

Jordan Leon

Welcome to the world, Little Jordan. He is my sister-in-law's much-anticipated sequel to Joanna, who will be 2o years old in February. In other words: our new nephew. Over 9 pounds of bouncing baby boy makes her my new hero. 6-pound Evan was nuthin'!

We haven't seen him in person yet. I'm afraid. John and I toyed with he idea of another baby. We would have scares, where Mother Nature would be late. I would mention it to John, and he would sprint to the store to get a home test. And it woul be negative. And we would speak words of relief to each other that betrayed the hint of regret in both of our eyes. And we would remind ourselves of why we didn't need another. I worked hard to get to where I could earn a decent living and give Evan the life I always wanted to give him. I had these lofty ideas of higher-and-higher education. I had such a hard time having Evan, that he truly is a miracle, and one miracle is enough for any family.

It is sort of like the window of opportunity passed us by. I started school and my RT career, though not in that order. I traded visions of a new baby girl in pink for the vision of me in a white coat. And med school and a new baby is not a good combo. A baby that John would have to raise by himself. And by the time I am finished, I will be in my early 40's. And consiering the problems I had with Evan, each passng year makes me more of an obstetrical nightmare...

So we are finished. And it was a hard choice to make, and I can only hope it will be worth all of this in the end. But baby Jordan reminds me of what the other option was to be...

The Ball Tick and its Aftermath

When we were out in the country weeks ago, on John's Dad's property, we found ticks on us. Yes, as in multiple ticks. We got them off, even though I was grossed out entirely.

So fast forward a couple of days later. I think it was a McDonald's we were at for breakfast. For the umpteenth time that day, I caught little Evan scratching his nether regions. He never does that. Well, being that he is getting older and more aware that Mommy is girl, I sent John into the bathroom with him to inspect. Yep, you guessed it! He had a tick fully embedded.... there! So John tries to get it out, to no avail. I call the doctor, and she is going to get a male colleague to get it out if I will just stop by the office. At this news, Evan starts wailing. He doesn't want the doctor to do this. So I call the in-laws. They're country people and know more about this crap than I do. My father-in-law tells me to hold a match to it. Seriously? Did he even hear where I told him it was on Evan's body???? But the heat idea....hmmmm. So I get Evan in a hot shower, hoping it will back out enough to get the sucker out. Of course not.

I have no idea how I did it, but I managed to convince the kid to let me have a crack at it. I hope no neighbors were looking through the windows, because I had to have my son lay on the floor, and I had to get my face very close to see what I was doing. But armed with nothing but a pair of tweezers, I got the damned tick out. Ewww. The entire time, Evan was whimpering about the "ball surgery".

So here we are a month later. The spot where the tick was located looks awful. And Evan has developed this horrific rash all over the lower half of his body. We have tried every over-the-counter cream there is, from anti-inflammatories to anti-fungals. Nothing is fixing this rash. A week later, when it is actually worse, we take him to the doctor.

My child has lyme disease. So now we are on a one-month, three-times-a-day course of antibiotics. So much for summer!

The Handprints They Leave

My boys, that is. Let me explain. I firmly believe that the people that come and go from our lives leave evidence that they were there in their wake. Some leave us smiling, and some leave us crying. Some stay longer than others. We are born alone, and we surround ourselves with others throughout our life, and we cannot take them with us when we go.

As I flit around from class to class, campus to campus, to work and to home and back again, the evidence my John and Evan leave behind is hard to miss. I spent the largest part of my day infuriated yesterday. You see, I stopped at a carwash to clean the salt grime that winter driving leaves on a car. And I thought to myself, "Self, why don't you vacuum it out while you're here. It will save you the hassle of tangled extension cords and a cumbersome Kirby being dragged to the curb at home." So I did. And for the first time, in the glaring light of day, I actually looked at my car. (Since John's car died a while back, he has mainly been driving my car and chaufferring me to the places I need to go.) What I found pissed me off beyond belief. Scuffs from gym shoes on the backs of the seats. French fries under the floor mats in the backseat. Dirt everywhere. What was supposed to be a quick stop turned into a 2-hour cleaning frenzy. Let me remind you that this car was brand spanking new in September. A 2009. The first new car I have ever purchased for myself. I was livid, and the boys got quite the lecture about respecting the things we own. I even broke down $20,000 to Evan in his terms, explaing that I could buy x amount of Webkinz for the price of the car, thinking maybe he would realize just how expensive automobiles are, and would respect the car a little more.

So I go back to class, and am a little early. I whip out my MP3 player from my backpack and am going to listen to some tunage while I am reviewing my notes for our quiz in biology. No music. What???? Why does it not work? The battery is charged, but it keeps trying to reboot itself. I try to remember the last time I used it. Or the last time it was used, period. And I flashback to a vision of little Evan wearing it and be-bopping around the house with it. He has his own, but mine has more memory, and thus more songs. Now I need a new MP3 player.

There is evidence all over the place that the boys are here. A discarded pile of school uniforms in the laundry room, holes in the knees of the pants or stains on the shirts (Pant: $45/pair, Shirts: $25/ each). Piles of shoes that are not outgrown, but simply worn out because they don't treat them well (I don't buy them the cheapies, either). Dirty dishes piled on the counter. Litlle pastel colored Post-It's all over my desk because the little one thinks they are "make-your-own" stickers. Money missing from my purse because someone, at some time, removed it for something they needed. It would seem that my boys don't leave handprints. They leave a path of destruction.

But wait...

This is the same little boy who came up to me early this morning and hugged my neck, telling me how I am the best Mommy he has ever had (LOL!). The one who gives me sloppy kisses on the cheek and presents to me Crayola masterpieces and macaroni sculptures, that I accept with such glee that you would be convinced that they are from Van Gogh. The one whose rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" would have given Beethoven a run for his money.

This is the man who looks deep into my eyes and tells me how convinced he is that I can do this when I am doubting myself the most. The one who kept his hand on my leg and wore lead the entire time I was getting head scans done for a brain tumor, just to assure me that he was there, that he was not leaving me. The one who cried with me when the doctors told me to consider aborting our child who was sure to be too premature to survive.

My life with these boys is messy. And expensive.That's a definite. Yes, they leave paths of destruction through it all. I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, truth be told. These are all such small prices for the joy they can bring to my life.

A Mother's Wishes for Her Son

Playing with MovieMaker again. Making myself cry.

Drawing the Line (With a Broken Pencil)

Evan comes home from school yesterday, walks through the back door, and flings his backpack on the kitchen floor while telling me that he was on "red card" today for behavior. John's immediate words were: "Son, you are grounded." Evan looked dejected and sad but did not protest. I think he has gotten to the point where he accepts his punishment with defeat. And I cannot help but notice that while last year, Evan loved school and would be heartbroken on days when he did not go, this year he dreads it.

So my baby boy spills it to me. He was using a little boy's pencil for one reason or other. We know this little boy and his mother and the child honestly cries over everything. Anyhow...Evan was using the pencil and pressed too hard on his little paper and the lead broke. I made sure I clarified that the lead broke and not the entire pencil. Evan's response: "No mommy, just the black part at the tip." Of course Whiny Butt started to cry. Mrs. X sharpened his pencil for him, and all was right with the world. Until she disciplined my son for that.

I have gotten to the point that I am not taking the school seriously. It feels as if they are ganging up on my little boy and I will not stand for it anymore. If they are going to punish my son for accidentally breaking the lead of a pencil, I can no longer go along with their methods. Up until recently, if Evan was on red card, for whatever reason, he has been punished here at home as well. It is a slap in the face to know that I may have been punishing my son for such trivial infractions. That I am spending a fortune to take him to a private child psychologist for "behavior issues at school" when the misbehavior is this.

For the first time since all of this has started, I called the school and let them know I was pissed. As a matter of fact, I told them this: "If pencils are such a rare commodity at an elementary school that a child has to be reprimanded for accidentally breaking the lead, then please let me know and I will be glad to send a case of pencils in with my son the next time he attends your school."

I also instructed my son that the next time someone teases him, he is to tell that child this : "My IQ is twice your parents' annual salary, so please do not speak to me." And when someone is physically agressive toward Evan, he has been instructed to report to the nearest school employee with this statement: "I do not appredciate X's physical aggression toward me and would appreciate it if you would address it." He may only be 7 years old, but he will use those words, too. I cannot wait for him to do so.

I'm tired. I do everything I can as a parent to help my son learn to value education. I try to be as active a participant in his education as I can, backing up the teachers and administration. But through this process I am now starting to turn the focus on advocating for my son, who is being mistreated.

A Mother's Urge To Protect Her Young

I was never prepared for this hurt. No one tells you when you decide to have children that you wil physically feel their pain. You cry when they get their immunizations as babies. One time, when Evan was 10 months old, he had a stomach virus that left him dehydrated and his electrolytes completely depleted. He had to have an IV, and I had to leave the room. I could have sworn I could feel the stick myself, outside of a closed door, in the hallway of that ER. None of it prepared me for this.

Evan went to see the child psychologist today. She got down on the floor with him, playing with Legos, and managed to pull out of my child all of things he never told me. I sat by silently, trying to focus on the questionnaires she gave me to fill out, while my son poured it all out to her. In his beautiful mind, he could not understand why he had to do the mundane schoolwork presented to him in class. He knows this stuff, so why should he have to prove himself to his teacher? Then we got to the part where his retention in kindergarten was discussed. It was all I could do to keep myself from breaking into gulping sobs when I heard the sadness in his little voice as he explained to her in very adult terms how the children at school called him a dummy, or stupid, or retarded because he was forced to repeat kindergarten. How they pick on the Southrn accent we all find so adorable. How he is taunted about being a "rich" kid because of the shoes he wears. He said sometimes they combine it all: Dumb rich hick. Never, in all of this time, did I imagine my bright and beautiful child would be the butt of jokes at school. Never did he utter a single word about any of this. I told him as we were driving to his appointment that we were going to meet a lady who was going to help us with the problems he was having at school, and how important it was that he tell her the complete truth about what is truly going on. I am so proud of him. He did just that. I sat there and let him speak.

Her opinion of my son is that he is a "social butterfly with an abnormally high intellect". That he never should have been forced to repeat kindergarten, and that the school should be doing more to offer to him more challenging and engaging work. We will continue to meet with her to work on these issues. His IQ? I will not report that publically, but I will say it is freakishly high.

But then I came home. After grocery shopping and playtime, homework, bath and bedtime have passed, I am alone in a silent house. And I feel this deep, primitive urge to wreak havoc on the morons who did this to my son. He has been hurting and I could not fix it. I know about it now and still am not sure I can fix it. I want to keep him home tomorrow. I want to tell him he never has to go back to that place, full of cruelty for him. My understanding of the teacher's view, my desire to back the school, and my inclination to put up a united front with them in front of Evan? Those are all gone. I want to fight them tooth and nail to ensure that they do right by my child. If he had an impairment of any kind, the law would force them to come up with an individualized plan to meet his needs. Well he has needs, just at the opposite end of the spectrum, and I do not see why they should not legally be forced to accomodate Evan as well. And the children who have tormented him, when in truth he is exponentially more intelligent than they are??? They need to be dealt with by the teacher. How could she not know this was going on?

I have not made a decision yet as to what I plan to do about this. I need to speak to John first, and he will be home from work soon. Private school? Home-school? Just change districts? Raise hell at his existing school? Maybe a combination of any of those. Hell hath no fury like a pissed mother. And I will go down protecting my baby.

Worried

Today is the day I am taking Evan to meet with the psychologist to get to the bottom of the trouble in school. I am terified to hear her say that I am a bad mother, that somehow I am to blame for this. I love my son enough that I can tolerate the pointing of fingers if it means his life will be better. But this gets my thoughts going on how we, as parents, are not given instructions on how to raise our children to be responsible and competent adults. Sure, we can read the research by child psychology experts and pediatricians. But they come with no guaruntee. When I was a young child, corporal punishment was the way to go. Part of what kept me in line was the idea of going to the principal's office for a paddling. Of course I never had to, but the fear was there. And now? Parents aren't even supposed to spank their children, let alone the staff of his or her school. So how do we know that, years down the road, the techniques and research and methods invoilved in disciplining our children will not turn out to be a no-no as well?

And then there is the guilt. What if this is not a discipline problem at all? What if this is something psychological and/or physiological? I have been grounding little Evan and taking away his priviledges for some time when he acts up in school. But what if he cannot help it?

The whole thing just breaks my heart. As a healthcare professional, I know that mental illness is the same as being sick in the way we traditionally think of " being sick". But the stigma of it, even after all we know, doesn't even escape me. I just cannot get over the fact that I am taking my son to a psychologist. Therapy bills aren't supposed to rack up until after I have screwed him up for 18 years. How bad am I that we are having to start now?

Just Mommy and Evan

Today was a beautiful day, and just happened to be my first afternoon off in quite awhile. John started his new job today, and so it was just Evan and I. We had a really good time reading books together, playing outside and more. Evan made a new friend, as you can see from the pics. I couldn't resist taking out the camera and getting a few snapshots. As the sun went down, we ordered a pizza and played board games inside before it was time for bed and bath. Really just a nice, peaceful, simple day. In a way it made me really sad because it reminded me of how little time I truly have with Evan nowadays. And I got a refresher in just what an amazing little person he is turning into.

I Want...

To be here. In this picture. Between the palms. I can feel the breeze now, smell the ocean, hear the waves. Instead I am here, dealing with money and parenting and work, along with about 50 other random obligations. I want to forget it all exists. If I can just make it through the next 48 hours, I can have 4 complete days of peace while my son is at school. I have no overtime shifts this coming week. I need a break from that. All I have to do this week is clean, do my laundry, manage Evan's scouts and school functions. My obligation at work won't begin until Friday evening. It will be so nice to wear just the Mommy hat, instead of switching roles several times in a day. Just...48...more...hours...

Because He's Different

My heart is breaking right now for my son. He is getting in trouble at school daily. Despite this, for some reason, the schoolwork he brings home is always perfectly done. The only flaw we, as his parents, can see, or that his teacher can see is that his handwriting is not always what we would hope. As a matter of fact, on his progress report, across the board were 100% scores, except for handwriting. Yet he continues to disrupt the class. Exhausted from all of the slips and notes brought home from school, John and I sat down with the principal, the teacher, and the school's guidance counselor. We were attempting to solve this problem Evan seems to be having. I have exhausted all resources, and I am terrified that the "bad kid" label will follow my son throughout his education if we do not do something, anything, to stop this.

We have taken away playthings and priviledges. We have grounded. We have tried the opposite, as in rewarding the desired behavior. I even took him on a mini shopping spree one day when he not only brought home a perfect math test, but also a perfect behavior report. As in, I literally took him to the store and gave him free reign to choose whatever he wanted. (He chose books!) So what else can I do?

Well, after the call from his teacher this afternoon, I was so frustrated that I started searching things online. Here is the thing: I blame the school system, partly. And here is why:

Evan was 4. He was a very small 4, as a matter of fact. But he had just barely made the cutoff for kindergarten. So we took him to be assessed, and they said he was ready to start big-boy school. I would have much rather him stay home and be my baby for another year. But I trusted them to let him start school. He did remarkably well.

So when I graduated from college, credentials in hand, we moved to Indiana. He continued the second half of kindergarten there. At the end of the year, we were told he was just too small and young, that they wanted to retain him, and he should repeat kindergarten for the next year. I disagreed with their assessment of him. They counted such things against him as his physical size, his status as an only child, and more ridiculousness beyond his control. But I allowed them to retain him, not realizing the impact it would later have.

Now, after 2 years of kindergarten, he is in first grade. Academically, he is perfect. There is nothing they give him that he cannot do well. As a matter of fact, he is slated for the gifted and talented program, which does not start until the very end of the school year. For now, he is with average first graders.

His teacher uses such words as immature, impulsive, and spoiled to describe his behavior. When I explained that he has been assessed for ADD/ ADHD and was found not to reach the criteria for a diagnosis, she acts shocked and hints that medication may be the answer. In the classroom, Evan is limited to what he is allowed to do. When they go to the school library, he is only allowed to select books from a special selection designed to meet the abilities of average first graders, despite the fact that Evan can read way beyond that level. After bringing this to his teacher's attention, she has started to personally escort Evan to a special, more advanced section to choose books in which he may be interested.

In the meantime, he continues to bring home the pink discipline slips. He knows right from wrong, and can verbalize that he should not be behaving that way at school. He can explain why. He also tells me that they give him "baby stuff" to do at school, and this is further exhibited by the fact that he breezes through multiple homework assignments within 10 minutes or less. Total.

Reading articles on gifted children left me in tears. We, as parents, want nothing more than a normal child. Scratch that. We all want our children to be exceptional, smart, beautiful. And yes, all children have some gifts. I don't claim to be any different. But the more I read, the more I realize that my son truly is different. Which means more to me than others.

Not a lot of people know that I was burdened with the gifted label as a young child. It is not fun. You think differently, process information differently than the other children. Adults puzzle over your behavior. I could never handle riddles and puzzles because I would over-analyze everything to the point that others would think I was stupid. I wasn't. I just thought through things differently than others. Because of that, I never fit in with the other kids. As I got older, I could act differently to make myself fit in. But I never truly felt at-home with anyone. To a degree, that is continued now.

It is very difficult, as a parent, to vocalize your child's flaws. As in, "Nope. I won't admit it. He is my son, and he is PERFECT." But as I read these articles, it was like I was reading about my son from someone who knows him better than I do. I reverted back to being the kid nobody understood. And for the first time since trying to figure all of this out, I remembered what it is like to carry that label. Everything made sense to me. The fact that Evan was slow to start talking as a baby. The experts told us back then that they suspected that his thoughts were too complex for his limited speech ability. Then I flashed on his experimentation and the times I struggled to keep him from trying to cook in the middle of the night. And what about the time when he was 4 and I punished him for sneaking out of his room and filling my coffeemaker with cocoa powder in an effort to make hot chocolate. To him, that was an experiment.

Everyone will tell me not to worry, that he could not possibly remember. But here is the thing: He will. He will, because I do. I can recall the scratchy blanket I was wrapped in when my family made a pilgrimage to Disney World when I was 3. I can remember the smells, the feelings, the sights of it all. I remember my little pink Strawberry Shortcake bathing suit and asking my Mom what the fuzzies were on the seat, where it had pilled from the poolside concrete. I remember my pink bibbed overalls I wore in preschool, can describe to you the layout of Learning Station One, where I attended in Cincinnati. I remember eating breakfast with Mom before she dropped me off, at Burger Chef (before it was Hardee's) and asking the manager why Chef wasn't spelled S-H-E-F, because that was the sound it made. I was 3. So I know he will remember.

I am so afraid I have failed my son. Whether through upbringing or genetics, or whatever, that I have done this to him. I have made him Different.