Gifted

They separated us at an early age, second or third grade. Of course, we had been apart for some time, starting from when they first handed out reading materials dividing the class by referring to each group as animals. No one had to explain to us that the Polar Bears were the kings of reading and that the Turtles...weren't. Without being told by any authority, in the hierarchy of kindergarten learning, we knew where we stood.

And so when they came and pulled me and several of my classmates out of class a couple of years later, it seemed natural. Of course, I was gifted and talented. I had been a Polar Bear after all.

The only other thing that I remember from being a part of that elevated group was that they were painting the library, where we met, and another boy and I got sick from the fumes and were therefore separated from our peers again, to sit in a paint-free room.

In my inbox last evening was a message from a parenting website informing me of the ways in which I could potentially recognize my child as being gifted. In case you were wondering, the label now applies to children of preschool age and these are some of the signs to be on the look out for:

If your child has a vivid imagination.

If your child is relentlessly curious and never stops asking questions.

If your child is unusually active, but not hyperactive.

Seems to me, these describe just about every preschooler I know. Of course, there are some that seem more valid, but still quite obvious. If your 2-4 year old met developmental milestones far in advance of her peers, or if their language capabilities are well ahead of their peers. If they can remember arcane information from movies, books or past conversations.

I'm happy to report that both of my children fall under the qualifications of gifted.

And...so do my nephews. And several of the wee ones from church.

Of course, I know that the reality is that there are children who learn more easily and those who struggle. I just don't see what the rush is to locate and separate them is all about. Recognizing giftedness in a two-year-old just seems unnecessary to me. Why run toward labels like Polar Bear and Turtle, when for this short and precious time in their lives, they really just need to focus on being what they are: kids.

Asher Update

originally uploaded by Mellahaney.

Today

I will not feel worry.

I will not feel stress.

I will not think about the small things. The cups of apple juice that I water down to stretch out the bottle. The parade of tiny black ants that find their way onto my counters.

I will not think about the larger things. The overdrawn charges on my bank account. The dental bills enroute to our house. The nagging novel, still unfinished on my desktop.

I will...

Enjoy the sunshine.

Make Asher smile.

Stretch.

Pray.

Write.

Appreciate that my children find joy in the simplest of things and do not care that what they already have is all that we can give.

Learn from them.

Dentist

The waiting room had a fireplace and the reception desk was dark cherry wood. The floor appeared to be marble and the rows of patient files behind the woman who politely handed me the stack of new patient paperwork to fill out - were hidden behind cherry wood sliding cabinet doors.

Walking in there this morning, with The Boss and Lila in tow, I felt overwhelmed. Not a kids book or toy or stray crayon in sight. If this was their waiting area, how would their rooms be? Would my two children be able to behave, unentertained, for the entire length of all of our appointments?

All this anxiety quickly disappeared as I signed my name for the fortieth time and looked up to see Lila standing at the bathroom door with her pants and pull-up down around her ankles, exclaiming to the two other families waiting in this beautiful waiting room "I have to poop!"

Of course, she did not have to poop. She and I went into the bathroom, where she sat, hummed for a minute, then announced she was done and would like to wash her hands.

The appointments themselves went off without a hitch. My teeth are better than I had anticipated (or at least, only requiring a small amount of inexpensive work) and the children each listened and opened their mouths wide for the hygienist.

She paused while counting The Boss's little teeth, to see if she could feel movement at all. And when she confirmed she felt the slightest bit of "wiggle" - I actually felt sad. Sure, he's been growing and growing and growing and he's looking more little boy than he is preschooler - but I'm really just not ready for that sort of manifestation of his growing up.

It's funny how we want to hurry them up in some ways (ahem, Lila, please start to use the potty - without dropping your pants and announcing it to the world) and in other ways, we want them to stay just as they are, sweet baby toothed grins and all.

The Telegraph

The Telegraph has a little blurb about The Simplest of Acts.

Apparently, I should be a little more careful about joking that I write to keep myself sane in a house of three children.

I am not Italian

But my daughter has taken to calling me in dramatic, arms in the air, her body collapsing against my legs, fashion: Mama Mia!

She has also seemingly begun to take stock of this whole baby brother thing. For the first month, she had been my rock, acting nearly unfazed by the addition of a baby to our household. If anything, she was helpful and enamored, wanting to kiss the babies knees, elbows, toes, eyes.

More recently now though, she goes between wanting to help and wanting to be helped. Perfectly normal, acceptable, fine.

What I'm having trouble with is that she has also developed a Cartman-esque (a la South Park) sounding baby talk. My daughter, who was speaking in full, clear, sentences at a year old, is now regressing to nasal gibberish.

Thankfully, she snaps out of it quickly. It only takes a disapproving look, or us questioning "what's that, Lila? I don't understand when you do baby-talk," and she'll stop.

And sure, there are times when I send mixed signals and find myself laughing at her, thus encouraging the behavior. But what's a mom to do when she's in the doctor's office with her three little ones, stripped from the waist down and wrapped in a sheet, when her little girl gets out of her chair and makes a point to walk all the way around the exam table to peek at her behind and say, in baby gibberish, "That your bum, mama?"

*Yawn*

I dreamt about work today. Work, work - not writing or raising my children. The boring, sit in a cubicle sort of work. And I realized that I hate it.

Ok, hate is a strong word. And the job itself is not terrible. It's the fact that I need it that makes me loathe it. I can't be free of it, should I decide that I just don't want to do it anymore. I'm carrying the health insurance for our family, not to mention that our bank account is in constant need of its own bail out.

Still, I can't help but feel like I was made for something more than the monotony of answering questions regarding 401K plans. And for that reason, my return to office life is looming overhead, reminding me that my life is not my own.