All of the lists
The checkmarks
And scribbles
The sublists
And reminders
Flagged emails
Voicemails
Texts
Alerts

Scream at us:
TO DO!
TO DO!
TO DO!

A moment
A now
A deep, slow breath
Closed eyes for a brief, gentle respite.
Breathe in... Breathe out...
Lungs Full. Then Empty. Then Full Again.

Sometimes we need
To begin a new list
A clean piece of paper to say:
​
I can do one thing at a time.
Everything will get done.

And it doesn't have to be now.

I was pretty obsessed with The Babysitter’s Club book series when I was young. I read them voraciously and repetitively, eagerly anticipating each new installment in the series. #32, for those of you who may not recall, was titled “Kristy and the Secret of Susan.” It told about a child with a diagnosis which I’d never heard: Autism. Susan was very limited in her communication but exhibited what would be considered “savant” behaviors – playing the piano and memorizing dates on the calendar. I wish that the character had been more like other people with autism that I’d probably met in my life; it would be years until I realized that I’d had experiences with people on the autism spectrum often without realizing it.

In sixth grade, there was this kid that was, well, kind of different. He was really, really into trucks. Like, he wanted to be a semi-truck driver when he grew up and would often be reprimanded in class for drawing pictures of trucks (from a variety of angles and in varying colors) instead of doing classwork. He never really talked to anyone unless it was about trucks. I regarded him with caution and kept my distance. I was most concerned with not drawing attention to myself within the caste system of middle school and this boy was often treated less than kindly by my peers.

I spent my summers in high school and college as a lifeguard. We called one of the guards “Robo-guard.” He was an extreme rule follower and carried his lifeguard whistle with an air of authority that made the rest of us laugh behind his back. He had awkward body language and often didn’t make eye contact when having a conversation. His face always carried the same expression: stern. He seemed oblivious to the mild harassment he faced from the rest of the staff; however, when he was on the lifeguard chair, we knew his eyes wouldn’t waver from maintaining the safety of his area.

As a newbie elementary school teacher, I had a child in my class who was as sweet as could be. He was compliant, if sometimes distracted, and didn’t make friends easily, although he wasn’t unliked. Every morning he wanted to come in and tell me about his cats. Sometimes, when he thought nobody was watching, I would see him imitating the moves of a cat, pretending to groom the outer edges of his face with the back of his hand. I’ll never forget the day the school counselor came to me and said, “I think he has a form of autism that I was just learning about at a conference. It is called Asperger’s.” She instructed me on some of the signs: he often flapped his hands in front of his face, especially when he was excited; he preferred to look at the floor instead of at me when we would speak; he had a clear perseverative interest in cats.

I had never heard of Asperger’s before. I was a certified teacher and this was 2001. My only experience and knowledge with autism was related to much more severe examples: the girl from The Babysitter’s Club book, the movie Rain Man, and a single chapter in an undergraduate course on Education of the Exceptional Child.

Since that time, I’ve had the wonderful experience of working with many children and teens on the autism spectrum. I worked as a teacher in gifted education programs where we seemed to get a lot of those “quirky” kids. I’ve learned to love and work with each and every one of their individual personalities. Now, as a mental health counselor, I have the unbeatable job of working with them in a therapeutic setting.

I have two thoughts about what I’ve learned about autism/Asperger’s that I’d like to share with parents and teachers.

The first would be this: Autism (or Asperger’s) doesn’t look like one thing. Not all individuals with autism are introverted; not all of them have obvious sensory needs. Some people on the autism spectrum have trouble making eye contact; others have no trouble with this, but can’t understanding sarcasm or nuance in conversation. There is as much variability in the signs of autism as there are individuals who have it.

The second thing I’d offer is not to be afraid of a diagnosis. A diagnosis of autism is simply a way to help understand how a person’s brain works. I see a lot of the stigma that families experience when faced with a possible autism diagnosis, especially within the gifted/talented community (my specialization). Families understandably don’t want to think there is anything “wrong” with their child. I prefer to help them see and build on the strengths that individuals with autism often have.

A diagnosis also helps the person on the autism spectrum understand why he or she is a little different. A fourth grade client who is both gifted and on the autism spectrum wrote these words in a letter to his teacher at the end of the year after he’d been diagnosed: “I must thank you for helping me get on with school. If you hadn’t helped me, the school year would have been a long 174 days of running out of the classroom…. I didn’t like that I didn’t know about my autism symptoms until the school year was almost half of the way done. Rather annoying if you ask me.” Learning more about his diagnosis allowed him to better understand himself. How could that possibly be a bad thing?

I woke up this morning to the news of the shooting in Orlando. It immediately sends my brain into a tailspin. I scroll through my newsfeed and see post after post about the shooting. I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes. My stomach has clenched into a telltale knot of worry and anxiety. 

I am driven to do two things. The first is to begin obsessing, reading everything I can find, watching the news coverage.

The second is to remain willfully ignorant of the situation. This is a self-preservation tactic. It is the easier of the two options. Sometimes, I wish I could actually do this. I can appreciate the statement "ignorance is bliss."

So now here we are. Another scar on our collective psyche. Another opportunity for people to re-entrench themselves in their beliefs, whether related to guns, terrorism, or LGBT issues.
​
"Big-T" Trauma is what the families are going through. The first responders and the other individuals who were at the night club are victims of "Big-T" Trauma. 

But we, you and I, are experiencing "little-t" trauma. Every time something like this happens, we are re-traumatized. We each handle it differently. We use it to reinforce our world views; we use it as a call to action; we choose to turn our heads and go about our lives, paralyzed by our impotence.

Sandy Hook left me devastated. At the time, I was working as an elementary school counselor and had children around the ages of those killed. I obsessed about the details. I was desperate to determine what triggered the attack. I cried. I couldn't sleep. I read every article about the victims and the shooter I could find. It only magnified the anxiety and existential depression I felt.

I felt helpless then. (And after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. And the Boston Marathon bombing. I could go on.)

I feel helpless now.

"Little-t" trauma is like the saying "death by a thousand paper cuts." Each event, each "little-t" trauma, has a cumulative effect on our mental heath, on our sense of community and safety, on our ability to see the nuance and relate to our fellow humans.

I'm left only with questions. I'm sure they will keep spinning in my head. Has the frequency of "little-t" trauma increased the prevalence of mental health disorders in our country? How does this repeated exposure to "little-t" trauma impact our society's future? As a counselor, how will I support the "little-t" trauma my clients will come to me with over the next weeks when I am still reeling from it as well?

None of this helps the victims or their families. It doesn't stop it from happening again. 

I believe that humans are inherently good. I believe that we can get through this. I can't let the effect of this trauma leave me believing that I am helpless. I'm not. You're not.

Right?

"In my early professional years I was asking the question: How can I treat, or cure, or change this person? Now I would phrase the question in this way: How can I provide a relationship which this person may use for his own personal growth?” - Carl Rogers

I've worked with one client for several years. He's had a tough year this year, struggling in school and lots of other major life changes. Transitions are especially tough for him. His mother called me one morning about a month ago. It was the end of the school year. "You aren't planning on moving or leaving your practice, are you?" she asked immediately. "No," I assured her. "I just signed a five-year lease on the new office, so I'm here for the long haul." She proceeded to tell me that her son's favorite paraprofessional was retiring, his special education teacher was changing positions, and she just got news that his occupational therapist was moving. The idea of his support system evaporating before our eyes was overwhelming.

---

A few weeks later, I am sitting on the couch in my own therapist's office. Lori is a psychologist who I've worked with for over ten years. Through our session, I babble on and on about the stresses of opening the new office, ask for her feedback on some clinical situations, and show her a few new photos of my kids at the end of the session. It has been a pretty good couple of weeks.

"Before you go, I have to tell you something," Lori says as I begin gathering my purse and standing to leave. "I'm moving back to Michigan in July to be closer to my family." I freeze, then sink back into the couch. My eyes teem with tears immediately.

I am shocked. For ten years, I have been checking in with Lori about everything in my life. I don't know if she remembers the first session we had together, but I do. I sobbed through the entire session, depressed and desperate for help. She's seen me at every high and low between then and now. 

The unconditional positive regard Lori has given me over the years allows a space where I can be completely and totally honest. I have no barriers during our conversations. She has been an integral part of my support system and has watched my evolution into a mother, a wife, a counselor. She has seen me at my most vulnerable, when I've been filled with shame. She has seen me mourn the loss of a child due to miscarriage. She has seen me angry, frustrated, joyful, anxious, and hopeful. I've shared more of my uncensored thoughts with her than anyone else in the world. I value her judgement and feedback immensely. She influenced my decision to enter the field of mental health and guided me along the way.

My path would have been very different if she was not part of my story.

The thought of losing that history is devastating. She assures me that we can continue our sessions over video chat after she moves, but, in that moment, it doesn't help. I am afraid it won't be the same, talking over a computer screen instead of sitting in the corner of the couch in her office, pillow clutched in my lap.

I pull myself together. "It'll be okay," I say aloud, attempting to stay the tears and reassure myself. "You'll be so happy to be closer to your family. It'll be okay." I give a feeble attempt to smile. ​Acting as if... I manage to finish the conversation. Once in the car, the waves of tears start again. I feel... abandoned? grief? vulnerable? 

---

It took a few days, but the news of the change is sinking in. We'll use video chat for our sessions and continue our conversation. The relationship isn't gone, it is changing. I feel lucky that it isn't a permanent loss. 

Which brings me back to the client I wrote about earlier. Saying goodbye to Lori has taught me that I cannot minimize the role that I take in my clients' lives. I'm susceptible to impostor syndrome - in the back of my mind, I feel replaceable. There are many other counselors who can do what I do and probably do it better. But in the moments surrounding the shock of thinking I might lose such a integral piece of my support system, I was able to truly empathize with that mother on the phone.

I guess I've been taking Lori's presence for granted. I'm lucky to have her in my life. And I'm grateful for the opportunity to help others in the way she has helped me. 

For years, I've been talking to parents about one of the biggest obstacles that gifted students face: Everything is just too darn easy.

Gifted kids seem to learn by osmosis. Parents don't have to teach them to read, count backward, or spell. They just kind of - - figure it out. For parents, it can be amazing and scary and overwhelming all at once. People - teachers, peers, the grocery store clerk - start to notice and comment: "Wow. She's so smart!"

This refrain becomes common for bright kids. Things come easily to them. And that must mean they're smart. "I am smart. Things are easy. I am smart. Things are easy," over and over in their little heads.

Then, something happens. It might be long division. Chemistry is a big one, too. Some kids make it to college before they hit their "wall." But when they do, it isn't pretty. All of a sudden, things aren't easy...  and if things aren't easy, does that mean they aren't smart?

When Carol Dweck's book Mindset: The New Psychology of Success started gaining traction, I grabbed it and shouted from the rooftops, saying "YES! This is what gifted kids need! The fixed mindset is causing all kinds of problems! If we can foster a growth mindset in our kids, they'll be able to persevere and have grit and develop resilience and (insert buzzword here)."

But then, something else began to happen. People picked up on something that Dweck mentions often in her book. That intelligence is malleable. That people can grow their intelligence.

And then, all of a sudden, all children were gifted.

And if all children are gifted, no children are gifted.

If all children can grow their intelligence, should they all be receiving gifted education services? Or, maybe nobody should...?

Research shows that cognitive ability is relatively stable throughout a lifetime. I've been involved in gifted education long enough to know that there is some fluctuation in IQ scores for a variety of reasons. But to say that a neurotypical child with an average IQ of 100 can raise his intelligence two or three standard deviations (to an IQ of 130 or 145) simply by challenging himself is both unrealistic for the neurotypical child and damaging for the cognitively advanced child. This interpretation of Dweck's work perpetuates the notion that gifted education services are elitist and minimizes the fact that the development of the gifted child is inherently different than that of other children.

Brain scans show that gifted children have distinct neurological differences in the way their brains operate. Genetics also play an important part of intelligence. Social and environmental factors play a piece in helping children reach their potential, but much of that original ability is innate. (I'll address the social justice issues facing gifted education in another post at another time.) 

Effective praise is important, but it isn't going to send your kid to MIT. Encouraging kids to pursue challenge is going to help them be successful but it won't make them gifted. 

I believe more accurate phrasing Dweck could have used would be related to improving "achievement" or "ability," instead of "intelligence." You can grow your ability in certain areas - mathematics, spelling, basketball, or painting - by challenging yourself. Educators can facilitate this by ensuring that children are given specific feedback on their efforts to help guide their progress and that instruction takes place in the zone of proximal development.

But let's not fool ourselves into thinking every child is the same. Gifted students need gifted education services for the very reason Dweck posits in her work: When children aren't challenged, their brains don't grow. And, for some students, placement in the general education classroom just isn't enough to foster a challenging learning environment.

Gifted learners deserve the chance to develop a growth mindset, too, and the gifted education classroom is the best place for this to happen.

Advocacy.

Why is that such a loaded term in gifted education?

Teachers, counselors, and parents beat the self-advocacy drum daily: "Billy needs to learn to self-advocate," and "If Nicole would learn to ask for the things she needs, she'd be much better off."

Parents of children with special needs consistently and tirelessly advocate for their children to have services and educational needs met. No person would ever say that a child with a specific learning disability or autism or medical condition should have to fight for the right to get the support their child needs.

But every week, I have parents in my office asking what to do to help their high-ability child. Their child needs differentiation. Their child is twice-exceptional but can't qualify for services because they are "at grade level." Their child is being asked to complete classwork from the day they attend their gifted program, doubling up on workload for that day. 

But the parents are too timid to say anything to the teachers or administration. They don't want to be labeled as "that parent."

Here's my advice: BE "that parent." Stand up for your child's needs. Because, unfortunately, nobody else is going to do so.

Classroom teachers of gifted students may not notice the fact that a child who is mastering content would easily be pushed ahead. Some classroom teachers of gifted learners have no training in how to best recognize and understand the best ways to work with high-ability children. (As a matter of fact, most teachers graduate and get certified from their undergraduate program after taking one class that uses one chapter to address the learning needs of high-ability children.)

So don't stand by idly and watch your child float through the school year without achieving the growth that she deserves. Make suggestions. Bring in books. Make specific requests for modified assignments. Follow up with administrators. 

Because not only are you being "that parent" for your child, but you are also providing support for all of the other high-ability learners in your child's class and the students who will come after her. And there may be other parents who are too afraid to say anything.

I'm a full supporter of Carol Dweck's research and philosophy of fixed and growth mindsets.  I talk about them to clients daily.  I do my best to emphasize hard work and effort with my children.

But, there are some who do seem hardwired to be one way or the other.  Watch this video to see one of the first times I saw perfectionism in Sparky.

This is such a great example of the frustration that kids can have when they face asynchronous development.

What was the first sign of perfectionism that you saw in your child?

In many ways, IQ tests are a necessary evil in the gifted education world. The states that provide funding for gifted education programs set standards with which school districts must comply to receive this funding.

In my state of Missouri, the state limits school districts to identifying no more than 5% of a district's student body as intellectually gifted. This gets confusing as funding and regulations change year-to-year, but the ultimate result is that of a moving target. Your child may be gifted in one district, but unable to receive services if you move a few miles down the road.

Add into that the issue of different tests and different versions of tests being used by each independent school district, and the water becomes even more muddied.

So, here I am. A mom of a bright boy, an experienced educator of gifted children, and a professional counselor who specializes in working with high-potential children. I know that my son, Sparky, is smart. I know that he has been doing things developmentally that are generally beyond those of most kids his age. I know that he is an emotionally intense little guy with some social anxiety and a few sensory-avoidant behaviors related to food and clothing.

But: Is he GIFTED?

Being given the title of gifted as he enters first-grade would allow him access to the pull-out program in his district. He'd be exposed to different types of instruction and experiences. He'd be with the smart kids and maybe that would, in turn, perhaps give him opportunities he wouldn't already have.

I could coach him on the types of questions the test would ask and spend hours on the evenings and weekends practicing with similar puzzles and spatial reasoning tasks. I could purchase a membership to a website that would promise to enhance my child's score with sample test items specific for the exam he would take.

Or, I could just let him do his best.  And let that be okay.

So, okay - - maybe he doesn't qualify for the gifted program. What does that mean exactly?

It means he has the chance to excel and develop a growth mindset in his classroom.

It means that I can continue to challenge him and help him to explore his interests at home and with other community programs.

It means that he is still my smart, sensitive boy.  He didn't do well enough on a particular test on a particular day to get into a program that relies on a quantitative test result to determine whether or not he can participate.

It does not mean anything more than that.

And, personally, even as someone who works specifically with children and adults who get the label, I know that it is only that and nothing more.

Yours truly,
The World's Okayest Mom

Q:  You know what is the hardest thing about being a counselor that works with families and kids?

A:  Play-doh in the carpet.  (And, yes, I mean "in," not "on," because after the Play-doh crumbs fall on the carpet, they are inevitably ground into it by someone's Croc-clad foot.)

But, you know what else is hard about being a counselor that works with families and kids?  Being a parent that is a counselor that works with families and kids.

As the school year came to a close, my son's kindergarten class was doing an "Alphabet Countdown" to the last day of school.  "T" day was "Teddy Bear Picnic" day and each child was allowed to bring a teddy bear from home.  The letter from the teacher specifically said "Teddy bears should be NO LARGER than a backpack."

Sparky and I spent the evening before Teddy Bear Picnic day discussing which teddy bear would be making the trip to school with him the next day.  Sparky is notorious for having a difficult time making decisions, especially when he has his mind set on something.

We have approximately 63,000 teddy bears in our house.  We were able to narrow the choices down to four.  Three of these fit the size requirements.  One was as big as the six-year-old that wanted to take it to school for the picnic.

We talked it out.  We discussed the pros and cons.  I set clear limits.  "Okay, Sparky.  You don't have to decide on which bear to bring tonight, but you can NOT bring the big bear.  Your teacher said it has to fit inside your backpack."

The morning was typical.  Sparky had to get a ride to school for P.E. club early; the rest of us were rushing to get to where we needed to be on time as well.  After my husband and Sparky had left for school, I walked by Sparky's bedroom and saw all of the approved teddy bears still on the bed.

I raced to get my cell phone.  Sparky must have forgotten his teddy bear.  The phone rings and my husband answers.  "Sparky forgot his teddy bear!" I told him.

"No, we've got it," he says.  I felt my forehead crease in confusion.

"You do?"  I began to put the pieces together.  "Which one did he bring?"

"The big one.  He buckled it into the seat next to him."

My stomach sank as my frustration built.  This was deliberate; he knew which one to bring.  My Mom instinct kicked in:  I can leave right now, rush to the school, bring an appropriate teddy bear, and just be a few minutes late to work, thus saving the day in SuperMom fashion.

Then, the Counselor brain chimed in:  He knew which teddy bear he was supposed to bring.  If he doesn't have the teddy bear, he'll be okay, and maybe he'll learn something in the process.

I knew what would come next.  The Mom Guilt.  But what if he is the only one without a teddy bear?  What if he feels left out?  It really isn't that big a deal for me to bring up a different one for him.  I don't want him to feel sad when it would be SO EASY for me to make it right!

That Counselor nag started hurling psychological mumbo-jumbo at me.  Love and Logic!  Natural consequences!  Enabling behavior!

I sighed.  I explained to my husband the situation.  We made Sparky leave the teddy bear in the car and he teared up a little, but pulled it together by the time they arrived at school.  (The teacher ended up having a few extra teddy bears for the kids who forgot theirs, so my Mom Guilt felt somewhat appeased.)

Ultimately, the Counselor side won this battle. 

But, it is an ongoing war to make hard choices about how to parent.  I *know* what I should do; I often *feel* like I should do something else.  Luckily, I don't think I've messed up too badly...  so far.  :)

I know you know what I mean.

Yours truly,
The World's Okayest Mom