Nov 13 2017

I see you

 

Mislabeled.
Misdiagnosed.
Misunderstood.

Missed.

Unidentified.
Invisible.
Hidden in plain sight.

Twice-exceptional.

I see you.

I see you in the classroom, rarely living up to your “potential.”
I see you wanting to succeed, but struggling against your own self.
I see you out there in the world, working so hard only to appear average-to-middling.

I believe you.

I believe you exist. Why do you think I have so many unicorns? Unicorns are powerfully magical creatures, but few believe they exist, much like twice-exceptional kids.
I believe you are working as hard as you are able, despite what others may think or say.
I believe you will change the world, because you will have found alternate ways of succeeding, the ways that work best for you, and we will all benefit.

I promise you.

I promise you that I will continue to fight for your right to live outside the box, for that is where you thrive.
I promise you that I will keep writing about your struggles and your successes and your general awesomeness.
I promise you that I will be your advocate, your voice, your friend.

Because I see you.

 

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This post is part of November’s GHF Blog Hop. Please visit the other participants to read their take on the topic of invisible gifted kids.

Nov 06 2017

The 23rd Mile

I am in no way a runner. Not even a little. If you see me running, I recommend you give serious thought to joining me, as I am very likely running from something with fangs or a creature moaning braaaaaaiiiiiinnnnnnsssss. I thought about wanting to be a runner a few years ago and gave that up when my lungs and knees flipped me off, and the overall sense of EVERYTHING HURTS AND I’M DYING took over.

But by god I know marathons; parenting a twice-exceptional kid is a marathon at a sprinter’s pace. It also has the added excitement of jump scares, booby traps, and the very real possibility of a complete nervous breakdown. There’s hardly an opportunity to catch your breath, there aren’t enough water stations, and there are few spectators cheering you on. In fact, most spectators are sneering and shouting about how poorly you’re doing and you should be doing this instead of that and why aren’t you moving faster and how could you possibly be having a hard time, conveniently ignoring the increasing weight of expectations and failed dreams you’re dragging behind you.

You get to a long, flat stretch and think you’ve made it. You have hard-earned skills and confidence and thicker skin from the distance already covered. You can finally breathe a little easier and the remaining spectators are mostly supportive. You’re in a groove and feeling good.

Then parenting turns a corner and you discover you’re only at Mile 23. The finish line, such as it is for parents, is waaaay up there in the distance, hazy and indistinct. The remaining marathon course is uphill, narrow, lined with brambles, pitted with dangerous potholes. Clouds are gathering, and you pray that the storm just holds off for a change, for the love of all things holy and green, my god, please, for a change, please. The weight of expectations you were dragging behind you gets heavier with new hopes for the future, for college, for maybe a little hard-earned normalcy. Spectators return, now in the guise of your own intrusive thoughts and worries, and they’re not only loud but you’re so drained from this race that shutting them up takes more energy than you have.

You can’t go on; you must go on.

Every morning I rise to this uphill and precarious parenting road ahead of me. We have roughly 17 months to get a very twice-exceptional teen ready for whatever comes next (he’s insisting on a 4-year college, I’m wondering how to broach the subject of maybe a gap year) as well as through his Eagle Scout rank. His younger, maybe-2e-maybe-not, brother is three years behind him. It’s been a long and exhausting road to Mile 23, and we have so, so much further to go. While I have gotten much better at self-care, to the point of writing and teaching and presenting on it, it is still exhausting to know that no amount of self-care is going to make this remaining journey any easier. I know I can do it, but still.

We’re at the 23rd Mile, and the only way out is through.

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This post of barely contained panic rolled in a confidence burrito is part of the Hoagies Gifted Education Page November blog hop, on ages and stages. I encourage you to go read the other participants’ offerings!

Nov 01 2017

November, November

Why are there so many personal improvement events in November? I mean, it’s the end of the year, we’re all looking towards 12/31/17 for the end of this venomous dumpster fire of a year, it’s the start of the holidays. And yet? We have Movember. And NaNoWriMo. And there used to be NaBloPoMo, though that appears to have died a long, slow death. And there’s No Spend November. And I’ve heard rumors of a No Sugar November, though that may have been my hips shouting up at me.

So many choices, so little time.

I tried to talk Tom into doing Movember, since I think beards are sexy af, but he was having nothing of it. He despises facial hair (it itches! and it’s scratchy! and looks terrible!), so fine. Andy said he was up for it, but bless him, he tried growing out what he had and discovered it was…let’s go with patchy…and gave that up. So I will throw myself into Movember with delight.

I hereby declare I shall not shave my legs in the month of November. I call it growing out my winter fur, but whatever.

No Spend November? Really? I have two teen boys who eat like you wouldn’t believe. All you out there with young males? Skip saving for college, they can get scholarships for that. Save for food. There are no scholarships or grants available to feed teen boys, trust me. And if you think I’m kidding, I can show you my Costco receipts. If I get out of there for under two hundred bucks it’s a miracle. And I’m getting ingredients, not processed stuff. I’ve already started shopping for Christmas, because I’m not dealing with the last minute insanity. So I’m altering this one.

I hereby declare that I will spend less. That’s the best I can do.

No Sugar November? Ok, fine. FINE! I don’t have a huge sweet tooth, but sometimes I discover that a peanut butter cup has dived into my maw without warning. I really don’t know how that happens. I swear peanut butter cups are sentient and psychic and know exactly when to bungee dive between my teeth. Poor little guys. I can’t just stop buying sweet stuff (please see previous comment about teen boys), but I can and will do better.

I hereby declare that I will avoid sugar like I avoid gluten, zucchini, and clowns.

NaBloPoMo, how I miss thee. I did NaBlo for years; one year I even managed to keep blogging daily through mid-January until I finally cried uncle. The fun blogging community challenge was scooped up by BlogHer, which doesn’t even appear to exist anymore, and now NaBlo seems to be defunct. RIP, NaBlo. I really wish someone would revive it, but I guess blogging has fallen off its heyday and no one really gives half a golden shit. Which then makes me wonder why I’m still blogging, and then I have to stop thinking. I just don’t have it in me to blog every single day like I did in years past (which I find ironic as hell, because I was SO much more stressed years ago), but I miss writing here regularly.

I hereby declare that I will post here three times a week during the month of November. Yeah, is my clone ready? How about my robot maid? IT’S 20-FREAKING-17, WHERE IS MY ROBOT MAID?

Ohhhh, NaNoWriMo, you minx. You’re all sexy with your active community and challenges and sponsorships. But deep down you’re a demanding bitch. Don’t get me wrong, I respect the hell outta you for that, but damn. I’ve registered at least three times to do NaNo, and at least three times I’ve piddled down my leg and failed. Humiliating doesn’t begin to describe it. So this year I’m going about it differently. I’m not registering for NaNo. I’m not attempting fiction. I’m laughing at a 50k word count by the end of the month. Not even sneaking through a NaNo back door, I’m crawling under the porch and wiggling through a crack in the foundation for this challenge.

I hereby declare that I will write 1000 words a day on book #2, so that I can finally get my hysterical entertaining profound thoughts about self-care and gifted parents out into the world before I descend into the madness that is preparing a 2e teenager for college and Eagle Scout.

Five challenges in one month. Insanity. But three of them are not doing something, so that’s a plus. The other two?

Good thing there’s not a No Coffee/No Wine November. Because I’m pretty sure my family would lock me away if I tried that one.

Oct 10 2017

Self-care and YOU

Long walks. Hyperventilating into a paper bag. Meditation. Locking yourself in the bathroom with the vent fan on high so no one can hear you scream yourself hoarse into a towel. Journaling. Hooking up a barrel of wine to the faucet so you not only have hot and cold running water, but your favorite red on tap.

What do you do for self-care?

I’ve done most of the above, and was thwarted in my wine tap goals only by the lack of space under my kitchen sink. I grok self-care, because I’ve had to. Not just because I’ve presented on it a couple times, or because I’m working on a book on the topic, but because my health (physical, mental, and emotional) has demanded it. Loudly. Loudly with klaxon horns and flashing lights and the universe smacking me upside the head with various diagnoses. I am far from being an expert, but boy howdy, I know the importance of self-care and I know how to suss out what’s needed.

So, with a friend and colleague, it’s time to share.

This Friday Kate Arms, of Signal Fire Coaching, and I are co-facilitating an eight-week course on self-care. Be The Eye of the Hurricane: Self-Care for Parents of Complicated Kids is for parents…like us. Kate and I both have twice-exceptional kids, we’ve both been through the wringer and back with them, and we’ve noticed that general topic self-care resources miss the mark. Like mainstream parenting books and websites, our particular concerns and needs aren’t in there. So we created what we would have wanted and needed. This is a course for you, not a parenting course. Our goal is to help you help yourself, because every family is different and the only expert is the parent.

If this sounds like something you could use, take the chance on yourself and register. It’s entirely online, so you can even participate in your pajamas. I may or may not be doing that myself…at least, pj bottoms. The top half of me has to look somewhat presentable for the video link. Can’t be scaring animals and small children. I promised I wouldn’t do that anymore.

This class isn’t my book, and my book won’t be this class. Same topic, same ideas, but one is not the other.

Kate and I have had a great time planning this course out and hope you can come join us. Eight weeks of figuring out your self-care. Looking forward to seeing you.

Oct 02 2017

Caring for your soul in this age of fear

Hey you. How’ya doin’? Hanging in there? One foot in front of the other and chin up and all that?

Yeah.

The world right now is a jagged rock of shit tumbling down the WTF avalanche bouncing around inside of an out of control dumpster fire, so I feel ya. I’m struggling too. Hand to god, I don’t know how I got through September in one mental piece. I eventually hid from the news and social media and stopped talking, because discussing anything deeper than “that is a sharp sign, not a hashtag” was more than my emotional state could process. Most people I know are reeling in one way or another, so I can imagine you are as well.

How’re the kids? Those amazing and infuriating G2e kids? Are they doin’ ok? I know how intense they can be, and when over-excitabilities fan the flames it can be rough. Really, really rough. Even if they’re not exposed to the unpolished turd that is current events, they can sense that something is up. A disturbance in the force. And they react to that, and you react to that, and back and forth it goes like a turbo tennis match with no winner in sight.

It makes difficult parenting even harder. And my god, we don’t need anything to be harder right now.

So listen up. As part of writing my second book on self-care and the needs of parents as they raise these incredible kids, I’ve been learning a lot about dealing with stress in the midst of chaos. I’m gonna share what I’m planning to do today and this week, to counteract the painful reality of life in 2017. Because if I don’t make a concerted effort to do something, I’m going to end up in a very poor mental state, and that’s not going to do anyone any good. Not me, not my family, not the world.

  • Create beauty. Spread that rainbow shit everywhere, fling it around like glitter bombs at a rave. I’m going to dig out some of my favorite flute pieces and lose myself in music. If I can play something beautiful and cancel out just a little bit of evil or pain or chaos, I’m going to do it. You could paint or doodle or decorate cupcakes or belch the alphabet in iambic pentameter. Whatever. You do you.
  • Power down. Turn off the news, close out of social media, go on an outside world blackout for awhile. If you think you’ll miss something important, trust me, if it’s really important it’ll find you. I guarantee that when the aliens show up to complete the dystopian nightmare we’re in you’ll know it. Enjoy the emptiness. It’ll feel weird and disconcerting for a bit, but then it’ll be soothing.
  • Turn on some classical music. Trust me on this. It doesn’t have to be anything deep or important, just… Look, yes, I’m a musician, but I’m saying this as a human. Music is part of our very souls, and our souls need some healing right now. I loves me some Dropkick Murphys and other heavy screaming music, but classical music is what our world needs today. When we first moved to Boulder in 1997 the town was rolling out new bus routes, with shorter buses arriving more often. I would take the Jump from our apartment to campus, and what was so awesome about it was that the buses were playing classical music. People were nicer, the ride was calmer, the day would start off more centered for everyone on that bus. So open up Pandora or Spotify or Apple Music or whatever the hell you have for streaming music and put on some Aaron Copland. Go from there.
  • Make your place smell nice. The sense of smell influences us more than we realize. So burn a candle or some incense or even just a pot of water on the stove with cinnamon in it. If nothing else it’ll overpower the aroma of teen boys and aging dog.
  • Breathe. Take a few moments every so often and just stop. Breathe. Keep your shoulders down and relaxed and breathe into your belly. Do it four or five times; take your time. I’m talking a minute or two, max. I swear to you the world will go on just fine while you take a literal breather.
  • TAKE 👏🏻 CARE 👏🏻 OF 👏🏻 YOURSELF 👏🏻. Sleep, drink water, drink wine but not too much, eat a goddamned vegetable every day, put on the sexy underwear because you’re worth it, take the time to care for yourself because no one is going to do it for you and because you are modeling adulting to your kids.

That’s all I got for today, if I share anything more my editor will yell at me about the book and hey maybe leave something for that. But in light of the incessant painful news lately, I felt the need to send this out into the world. It’s all I got today. I’m struggling because I am sick of humanity and just wish…yeah.

Go do your thing today. Do it well. Make a difference on a micro level. Care for yourself and others. Get through the day and love on those closest to you. And then drink a good red wine in a dimly lighted room, wrapped in a soft blanket, breathing out the day.

Peace out.

Oct 01 2017

At the intersection of creativity and life

 

Years ago, way back in the dark ages of raising young boys, I did a lot of scrapbooking. Like, a lot. It was my hobby of choice and I loved it. Still do, I just don’t have the time and space I once did to indulge, plus I vowed not to spend another cent on it until I organized the digital vortex that is my Photos app.  As there are currently north of 40,000 images waiting to be sorted, it’ll be awhile before I return to recording our memories. And don’t tell me the app does the sorting, something hitched a ride on the whackadoodle train and it’s a freaking disaster.

Twice a year I would go up to Winter Park, Colorado with a handful of girlfriends for a long weekend retreat. We rented out a mountain cabin and transformed it into Scrapbooking Central. For four days we talked and drank and ate and laughed and created our own memories while recording those of our families. It was so important to me to go that I dragged Jack up as a three month old; I didn’t get a lot done, but my soul was filled.

At those retreats we each had our own 6-foot table that we’d drag up the mountain. Six feet of space to spread out and create. And, without fail, I was always gently teased by the others because I absolutely had to clean up my table between projects. Finish a layout? Clean everything up. Back to a clean space. Even mid-project, if I hit a block, I’d clean up what I could, just so I could think clearly enough to be creative.

I am the polar opposite of the messy creative stereotype. I must have clear spaces to create; even before sitting down to write this post I had to clean my desk, a giant six foot by three foot library table. Physical spaces for sure, but mental and emotional as well. If I have too much on my mind it’s as though the words are clogged by a giant gloppy hairball of stress. If I’m an emotional wreck, I just don’t even try, I just open my journaling app and scream in there. Lots of profanity and ALL CAPS, but always proper grammar, because I’m not a heathen, sheesh. When I go silent on the site here, it’s nearly always because things have gotten messy behind the scenes. Too much cluttering up my life, my mind, my emotions.

Life is messy. It zigs when you think it’ll zag, chases rainbows through the mud, never remembers to remove its shoes when it comes in the house. My natural tendency is to work before play, to tidy up life before diving into the creativity ball pit of fun, to deny myself the restorative act of creativity until a future “later.” News flash: that doesn’t work. Work is never done, life refuses to be tidied, and denying myself creativity is as moronic as denying myself oxygen.

So again, it’s a balance. Tidy the desk to write, but leave the dishes. Journal out the anger and frustration, but leave the passion for public viewing. Brain dump the stress, but leave the mind intact for making words and music and beauty.

As in music, practice makes better, never perfect. So I guess I’ll practice living at the intersection of creativity and life and see where that gets me.

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Today’s post is part of the October Hoagies’ blog hop, on Creativity and Productivity. Other writers have more profound thoughts than I, and I encourage you to read what they have to say.

Sep 18 2017

Homeschooling: acquisition of skills or accumulation of facts?

It’s that time of year again. That time of year when I get just a wee bit crazy (erm…crazier), and it’s not because I’m still scanning the horizon for the Disaster of the Day. It’s the start of “this is the curriculum on which we agreed, now shaddup and go do your work.” Hold me. Give me wine and chocolate and gentlemanly eye candy and a hot bubble bath and something to read that will take me far, far away from the insanity that is trying to plan the last two years of high school for a kid so far out of the box that he no longer uses the box for climbing but has actually set the box on fire and is using the energy from the flames to power the intranet he’s built in the basement for the AI he’s programming to do his bidding. Or something like that. I have no idea what’s down there, other than a couple of ancient servers he has set up and hacked into working. I just know that my electric bill is high and that he’s designing a Faraday Cage for his machines.

It’s compounded by the fact that said child is 16 and we have started the college hunt.

Back the hell up forever just a minute. Let us pause to reflect upon that statement. The boy is now 16. Six.Teen. Not just a teenager, but a full fledged teen full of delightful snark and a passion for technology and social justice. I met my husband when I was 19; our son is only a few years shy of that. I’ve been writing this blog since he was four, and a hell-raising WTF IS UP WITH THIS CHILD? four at that. My brain hurts considering those ages and dates. Second half of the statement. We have started the college search. No. No way, no how. It is not possible that the hell-raising WTF IS UP WITH THIS CHILD? four year old who made me a mother and contributed to me being a writer is starting to look at colleges. I remember college. Clearly, vividly. I loved college. I thought I was stressed in college. I wanna go back and bitch-slap college me for thinking that was stress. His college experience will be vastly different from mine, but frankly I still feel like a freewheeling coed and thus cannot possibly have a child that age (note: I was never freewheeling, I was too busy…and too boring…a cube: square on six sides). I just can’t even. All the can’t even is right here with me, you will not be allowed any.

Until last year it was pretty laid-back; I’ve gradually tightened the screws. He was learning, I know that, but there wasn’t a lot of output. We had conversations and debates and for a long time it worked. I did finally create a transcript for him, so he could do the dual enrollment program he’s in this year.

Now it’s junior year, and it’s for realz.

So as I’m planning for the next several months and helping Andy figure out the years beyond that, I keep coming back to the intent of our homeschool. I know why we’re homeschooling, but what’s the intent? What’s the outcome we expect from at-home learning? Why in hell are we doing this again?

Is homeschooling an acquisition of skills or an accumulation of facts?

After 5 1/2 years of homeschooling (which I never, ever, ever thought I would do, I am the very model of a reluctant homeschooler), I feel pretty confident in stating that for us, homeschooling is an acquisition of skills.

Facts are easy. Google and Siri were designed for facts. With the push of a button I can call up damned near any fact in a matter of seconds….and forget it about as quickly.

Skills are more complex. Brains exist for skills. Developing skills that last for a lifetime takes thoughtful and intentional practice.

Yes, my homeschooling teen will have accumulated plenty of facts by the time he is launched, but I’m more focused on him developing long-term skills that he’ll need for life. Critical thinking tops that list; dear lord there’s a dearth of critical thinking skills out there. The ability to coalesce prior knowledge and new learning. The soft skills needed for life: tact, ability to work in groups, boundaries, calling out bullshit (sexism, fascism, racism, ageism, homophobia), communication, and most of all: TIME MANAGEMENT.

Now, of course he is still in thick of fact-focused learning. If Andy were to just work on skills to the exclusion of everything else he wouldn’t be getting a complete education. But he has a pretty good memory; facts are reasonably simple for him. Putting those facts into use is a skill that he (and frankly, a lot of students) needs to improve. So as we round out the last few years of homeschooling, I’m pushing skills more and more. He’ll need them as he goes off to college and eventually, to live on his own. Because as much as I adore my sons, I want them to live on their own, and preferably not in a van down by the river.

So what do you think? Skills or facts? What’s the focus in your homeschool? Something to ponder while you’re in a hot bath with wine and chocolate.

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Today’s post is part of the September GHF Blog Hop, on teaching reluctant gifted learners. This month’s participants have a wide variety of viewpoints and opinions, so I encourage you to take a look at what the others have to say!

Sep 13 2017

Sometimes it’s just hard

I woke with a headache this morning.

I hate waking with headaches, starting my day off in pain. My migraines begin as I sleep, weaving their way into increasingly disturbing dreams, until I jolt into consciousness at the bleating of my alarm clock. I slap it off, drink some water to clear out the cotton mouth, and fall back onto the mattress, praying for the headache to just go, muttering profanity under my breath. Thankfully, today’s skullcap of pain doesn’t appear to be a migraine, just your standard bad headache, and so far it’s responding to the ibuprofen I sent down there to find out just what the hell, man? But still. It put a dagger into the day before I was even awake.

It’s mid-September, a beautiful time of year. The weather is glorious, cool with a warm sun, the landscape giving us one last hurrah of color before fading into beige and grey. We’re all settling into a routine of sorts, and I think it’s going to be a good school year.

With the change in seasons comes a change in the light. The days are getting shorter and the sunlight is more golden, more poignant. It holds memories of long summer days, and then disappears far too quickly. With autumn falling on Chicago with little warning, I wasn’t ready for this. I hadn’t mentally prepared for the change in seasons and so I feel unsettled and disturbed. The weekend forecast looks to be much warmer, for which I’m thankful, but I’m fairly confident that will be the end of the summer warmth until next May. I can feel the SAD cracking its knuckles, anxious to jump into the ring with me; telling me to be positive, to not invite in the SAD is unproductive. It’s real and that’s that.

So I’m feeling “off” today. Headache, vaguely blue, a muscle in my arm has been twitching non-stop for two days now, my kid has a sudden “back to school” head cold and is downstairs snerking every eight seconds, I’m overwhelmed by the news cycle, overwhelmed by trying to set up household systems and routines for the year, overwhelmed by the food sensitivities and pickiness that makes meal planning damned near impossible. I feel guilty if I take time to rest or engage in self-care, resentful and tired if I don’t. I see projects and things that need to be done around the house everywhere I look, and I can only manage blinders for so long. The world is descending into dangerous levels of madness, and with the lack of a social safety net, the DIYness of life will soon range from difficult to impossible.

I just want to snuggle with a kitten and make the world go away for awhile. Sadly, I’m allergic to cats and I’m pretty sure my elderly dog would not appreciate feline company.

Sometimes it’s just hard, folks. There are times when your day is set for you before you’re even awake, and no amount of positive thinking or mantras or fake it till you make it is going to save it. So you tug the big girl panties over the hips that aren’t getting any smaller and do the best you can. You keep yourself calm and and live moment to moment. And then suddenly, the kids are in bed and it’s quiet and you take a deep breath and give thanks you made it through the day. You crawl into bed early, turn off the lights, and breathe.

And hopefully wake the next morning pain-free, refreshed, and ready to face the world once again.

Sep 09 2017

Fall fell

When the world around you is drowning or burning or looking up at the sky waiting for aliens, it’s mighty tough to write something with a touch of snark or any level of complaint. There are far too many others out there drowning or burning or tumbling down the boulevard like a tumbleweed or enduring an alien anal probe. So I shall attempt to make only observations.

Fall fell this week.

Usually in the Chicago metro area (in which I include myself out of habit and not necessarily geography) summer blazes on until after Labor Day. Growing up, there were so, so many Back to School outfits that I couldn’t wear until the end of the month, because to do so would be to sentence myself to several hours of fashion flop sweat. Summer would blaze on until there was that one chillier morning…and then we’d have a couple weeks of Indian Summer (no, not the apple juice, the weather pattern) before OFFICIAL AUTUMN draped itself around our psyches.

This year? Fall fell.

It fell not with a bang or a smack, but with a gentle thwump. For my vegetarian and vegan readers, it’s not unlike the thwump you’d hear if you were preparing a perfectly juicy steak and turned it over to season the other side. thwump Soft but with some firmness. Fresh. A good marbling. And now I want a steak for dinner. With the sautéed mushrooms I do so perfectly, and roasted asparagus, and a really complex bottle of red. Creme brûlée for dessert. A comedy on the telly, all with my favorite husband.

I digress.

Fall unexpectedly showed up at our doorstep, shoving summer off the stoop last weekend, as though to say, “Yo bitch, it’s Labor Day, you had your day in the sun, it’s my turn now, get outta here, don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!” No Indian Summer (I don’t think I’ve ever even had that apple juice), no fashion flop sweat (but let’s face it, no fashion…I’m a mess…someone please sign me up for What Not To Wear, or whatever has taken its place), BRACE YOURSELF…AUTUMN HAS ARRIVED.

The sunlight is more golden, the leaves aren’t waiting to change, they’re just whipping off the green and slipping into something a little more copper, days are cool enough that windows are open barely a crack, and I have brought Perry the Parabolic Heater up from the basement. That’s a good couple of weeks early. The electric blanket will return to the marital bed tomorrow, after the weekly wash all the things that have touched naked skin!…aka, sheets and towels.

I really do try to love autumn, and have found joy and beauty in October. The colors, the warm sun but cool temps, the faint aroma of suburban fire pits.

BUT A MONTH EARLY?

My friends, as the west burns and the south drowns and the rest of us endure yet another anal probe, I have to wonder what climate change will bring to Chicago’s winter this year.

NOTE: If you think climate change is a myth, then I reserve the right to laugh, point, and think you’re a moron. If you think the Flat Earth people are spot-on, not only do I reserve the right to laugh, point, and think you’re a moron, I also reserve the right to mock you to your face. JFC it’s called science. Read some.

I digress once again.

Winter of 13-14 was the WINTER OF THE POLAR VORTEX MY GOD SAVE YOURSELVES BUT PLEASE TAKE ME WITH YOU BECAUSE I CANNOT HANDLE ANOTHER F*CKING MINUTE OF THIS WINTER. It’s also the winter I threatened my beloved husband with a shovel bodily harm if he didn’t go and purchase a snowblower right this very minute because I had HAD it with shoveling. I am concerned that winter 17-18 may be heavy on the cold and snow once again, especially since last winter was blessedly mild. If autumn decided to jump the gun and visit early…will winter show up early to the party and demand appetizers? An amuse bouche? An aperitif? I draw the line at giving winter any booze; that’s for me to survive winter’s visit, I’ll be damned if I share. Winter is bad enough; winter on one of my margaritas and I refuse to take responsibility for what it does.

So as I sit here in my unexpectedly early autumn, watching the west burn and the south drown and victims of alien probes beg for quality lube…just remember to find the silver linings at what you can, help your neighbor, laugh at climate change deniers (and then vote for candidates who believe in science), and be grateful that raking leaves burns untold number of calories. For then you can have a summer margarita whilst toasting yourself over your autumn fire pit.

Sep 01 2017

Anxiety and gifted adulting and aw hell get me off this rock

My emotional over-excitabilities are at a forest fire level lately.

Kinda like a red-flag warning, EF5 tornado of red-hot flame, tearing across the prairie to Laura and Pa level of out of control.

I am supremely proud of the fact that I have not lost my shit 1) online, 2) with my sons, 3) with random people out in the big, bad world.

It’s because of the big, bad world that I am on edge.

But I lose my shit with myself daily. Hourly. Between thoughts.

The daily news cycle is a fustercluck of epic proportions. I literally jump when my phone dings with any kind of notification.

I’m so deep into focused breathing that you’d think I was in the middle of giving birth. #GodForbid #NotStartingOver #LetUsNotEvenJokeAboutIt

We talk so much about over-excitabilities with our gifted kids. But you know? Just like our kids don’t quit being gifted when they graduate, they don’t hand over the over-excitabilities in exchange for that diploma. Giftedness is wiring, it is lifelong, and it tiptoes through the generations. The OEs they have when they are four years old and losing their shit and you’re wondering if you’re going to let them live to see age five are the same OEs they will have when they are 24 and 34 and 84. And I guarandamntee that you, as a parent of a gifted child, are drenched in your own over-excitabilities. Like bathing in cheap cologne some days, I swear.

I know that I am tightly wound, that my main squeeze is emotional OE. But you know what? It also makes me a damned fine musician, and sometimes a fairly decent writer. I’m also dipped in the imaginational OE pot, which helps me interpret music and sometimes allows me to write something good-ish. Those are the silver linings to the two craptastic OEs that plague me. Because the stormy side of that cloud is that I am easily affected by the pain of the world (and dearsweetbabyjesusonaliferaft there is a lot of that these days) and can imagine myself (or my sons) living in a van down by the river in two steps or less.

Anxiety, yo. It’s a thing. So is gifted adulting. I’m really over both.

Yes, I turn the news off, and yes, I get off social media, and yes, I engage in all manners of self-care. Helps enough to keep me functional right now.

But I keep an eye to the sky, wondering when the aliens are going to arrive, because that’s all we need to complete the absolute dystopian shitfest we find ourselves in these days.

Hope they like marshmallows. We can make s’mores over the flames of my OEs before they annihilate us.

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Today’s post is part of Hoagies’ Gifted Education Page September blog hop, on philosophical and spiritual anxiety. My anxiety was so through the roof that I couldn’t expound upon it very well, so please go read the other writers’ posts.

Toast some marshmallows while you read.

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