pre-meeting shivers

Okay, so I think I've been doing this advocacy thing for a little while now. The nice thing about it is that I get to have the same meeting, over and over. Which is also the less-nice thing, because some days I do rather think that hello, world? time to get it already. Hemophilia means X, allergies mean Y (except when they mean Y squared) and don't confuse them with asthma, which is, well, something else. Sheesh, people.

On the other hand, when I'm working my way through my third virus in three weeks, routine is good.

blah, blah, blah, did I mention that I hate talking to groups? look, cute picture of the kid, timed to buy me some breathing room, and yes, everything that I say pretty much translates to please, please, please help me make this work. Or heck, help me understand how to help YOU make this work. And did I mention please? I bring photos, I tell stories, I bring props - oh yes, even the muddy soccer ball - and do everything short of wearing sequins.

please?

I try too hard, I know. And I over-prepare. Oh, dear gollies, I do. I talk out loud, practicing possible directions that the conversation could take, because oh, I am not a negotiator. I'm a burbler, an earnest leaner-forwarder, and a gaping, gasping person hunting for rabbits in my bag of negotiating tricks. But I try anyway. And I get better at the meeting with each rep.(hello? naive much? a tetchy bit of my brain will shrill. Didja forget getting kicked to the curb?)

Which is why tomorrow has me twitching. Medical needs I get - being earnest and a good team player helps there. Having the other teammates be serious mensches also helps. And oh, we sailed right through the meeting about the Toddles' allergies. (more about that some other time) But tomorrow? Tomorrow we talk about the g-word.

gifted


I hate that word. I'm almost nodding along with Malcolm Gladwell on this one: gifted? really? As in past tense, as if that's the entire, smug story? As if being smart is a prize you win, a thing of blind luck, undeserved and shining. Bullshit. The reality that I see isn't a gift, it's a painful irregularity.

In general, I think that kids are lumpy. They grow, they sprout, they soar, they forget to take in their breakfast dishes. Take a kid who has sprouted so dramatically in one area, and he's even more uneven. Jaggedly so, because he knows - the Toddles can see where his skills are mismatched, and he tells us so. Sadly, the adults aren't so clear of eye, and we've fixed our expectations based on the best that we see - which we're defining, foolishly, by accomplishment, and assuming is representative. And we push the kid to live up to that standard, waiting for him to finally get with the program, but he can't - he's too busy getting his nose smushed into our frustration. If you can do X, why can't you put your shoes on the right feet?  

And it's a funny thing about kids, but it's true: they don't want to be the bad kid. Not so fond of being the kid in trouble. Develops perfectionista habits to avoid his weak spots, glares at adults trying to lure him into the possibility of doing something that he considers to be appallingly sub-par.

Sub his par, that is. Or maybe mine. Both?

gifted? ha. gobsmacked is more like it. Codswalloped, because different is hard. Offered the Holland=difference narrative, Rob Rummel-Hudson explains: hard. Hard, especially when you are supposed to be gloriously cruising, offering a target for others - and yourself. (The nice thing about being gobsmacked is that you might be able to design a really inventive catapult for smacking yourself down from that pedestal.) At least I got to float in a relieved cloud of thank gah it's not aspergers or oh I don't know what and now he can save da world!  for all of a week, before the kid came home and wept. N says he's not my friend anymore, because I'm smart and he's dumb. N was, of course, the first friend that the kid had made at that preschool, an older kid, wise in the ways of Bakugon.

But everyone is good at different things, said the Eldest, trying to comfort a soggy Toddles.

Measure the kids, and you are defining inequalities. Creating them, even, according to Rosenthal and Jacobson's work. (see here for more)  Design a system to give them what they need, and you find gifts sprouting everywhere. Because, after all, how exactly do you define a gift?

I define it by me, said the Eldest. I am a gift.

And he's right. Ah,  says my internal cynic. But without the label, you won't be able to fund your utopia. And she's right, too. So, then, the meeting.


So, do you want to kick us off by talking about why we are here?

(no.)
And I don't know what I'll say. But I know what I'd like to say:  meet my zebra. He's a funky, intuitive leaping kid - and yes you have that other word but I hate it and can we maybe use a label that won't have me spitting cat pee and sand cocktails? Zebra, zebra, zebra. With pink butterfly boots. Quirky, funky, definitely unexpected, stripily delightful zebras. Who might just arrive holding their own, lumpily gouache yardsticks. If any.***


And I don't know what we do about that. But I'm pretty sure that 'happy' should be in there, somewhere.


And then I'll do the awkward silence thing, because hey, you know what? I'm just waiting for the part that gets scary. I was hissed at by a mom at a kindergarten event at one school, and glared at by others, so yeah, my working assumption is that people hate the mom-of-gifted-kid. Her ego is taking up more than it's share of oxygen, and you just know that she's got Quadratic Equations For All bumpersticker. That she is certain that her child is better than yours, and she's got the testing to prove it. So this meeting won't be about advocacy, it's going to be struggling to persuade people that I'm there to work with them. That I'm really not there to demand that we all admire my kid's marvellousness, while handing over the keys to the academic candy store.

This isn't going to be advocacy. It'll be apologies, self-abasement, hopeful questions about what they already do, what they already know. And then, maybe some advocacy. Gently done, because I won't have any street cred here. Because, come on? What kid can do exponents at this age - really? I've just got to be making this stuff up. I am mom, therefore he is brilliant, right? In fact, yes; in a recent babycenter poll, 71% of the parents who responded said that their kids are gifted. (but not lumpy?)

Oh, crap. Past tense, gift. A kid who has gifts, stars shining down upon him, providence in a pocket. So to be effective, I have to show him to be flawed, lumpy, uneven, fragile? And that somehow, that his fragility is greater than another child's, because he's - oh. a zebra. Ha. Or not.


You've done this before, right? I'll say. Help me understand what works in the classroom and what doesn't. Tell me what to advocate for, I'll be saying. Because even after weeks of visiting schools and interviewing directors of admissions and reading and reading and yeah. That. I don't know.

Oh, and -


please








***Got hoofbeats? say the ER docs, look for horses.

wanted: Tufte, or possibly a skilled semaphore operator

I plonked my hands on my hips, and glared. The Man, on the other end of the glare, was infuriatingly stolid.


Fine. I flung my hands up, and stomped for emphasis. Be like that. Although, for the record, "I turned out just fine" is what you said about formula, also.  He winced slightly, remembering the MIL's lecture about his early babyhood and what, exactly, he'd been tippling at the time.

Actually, he said, there is something that we do agree upon.  Reached over, grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes.

Many sticky notes later, we were still quibbling over the details, but we had this:

Assume a graph.

One axis is P = a child's potential. Keeping in mind that a good chunk of this is bunk, because potential shifts, depending on any number of things, including that nasty 'use it or lose it' thing. Add in circumstance, opportunities available, etc, and you may feel yourself perfectly free to sneer at the axis in question.

The other axis is A = the child's achievement. The kid's five. I'd settle for consistent bottom-wiping on that axis, said one of us, maintaining deniability. Er, yes, said the other. Good point.  So, unless you think that achievement is something that can be pinned to a clear and appropriate standard, feel free to wave off that axis, too. Or, if you are Malcolm Gladwell, fling up your hands and consider stalking out of the room.

But, for the sake of argument, let's consider this: assuming that not all gifted kids are created equal. And that some of those kids will soar, no matter what. For them, P = A, and we all want to know how their parents did it. Or, possibly, how it was done despite, even irrespective to their parents. (I'm not just using Malcolm as a prop here, he really does have some fascinating thoughts on the subject.) See their happy, rising bubble? That's them.

Let's say that some kids aren't gifted. Blithely ignoring the question of the specifics of their education, the problems with how we identify giftedness, or any of the other things that make me inSANE where the concept of giftedness is concerned. Right. For these kids, ignoring a host of issues and a recent, smack-you-in-the-face documentary, let's have their P = A, although without the happy rising bit. See the square where the two axes meet? That's them. We've circled them for emphasis, and possibly in rebellion against the over-simplistic divide between the two groups.

At this point, I'm worked up into a seriously pissy maternal bundle, but our sticky's not done. Going back to the idea that not all gifted kids are equal - nor are they homogeneous - and for the sake of making a semi-clear point, ignoring the fact that we didn't extend this reasonable consideration to the non-gifted kids. The sticky be small, people. For this third group, the P is way ahead of their A, which means that in the classroom, these kids are likely to be one heck of a PIA. Or quietly miserable.


I wonder if those are the kids who drop out, one of us said, morose in the aftermath of an overdose on nastily personal statistics.

That's what I'm worried about. That he'll be in that group. At which point, his P slides back to smack him in the A.

The Man folded his arms and considered. Okay,  he said. I understand that.


We contemplated the sticky note, letting silence replace the discussion about why, how, and what the hell are we supposed to do now. So, if I show people the sticky, will that avoid all of these awful -  

No. But at least you'll be able to explain what you are worried about.


So, there you go.

I want my script back

Okay, so this is how it is supposed to go:
[scene]
Congratulations, your child is gifted. You can stop worrying about how much you suck at saving for college, he's going to go anywhere he wants, on a full scholarship, partly because he's spent his summers doing some really astonishing and groundbreaking biochemical research or maybe something involving quantum physics, which you don't understand because you are just his mom - but that's okay. 


Oh, he's also going to be wonderfully happy, because he's going to have a rich intellectual life, energized by the pleasures of research and discovery. And yes, there will be grandchildren.
[end scene]

Except, this is how it really does go:
[scene 1]
Gifted? What about his brother? Are you saying that the Eldest isn't gifted?
[incoherent, defensive end to scene]

[scene 2]
Gifted? who isn't? 
[silence, end of scene]


[scene 3]
Gifted? I see. So what kind of learning environment are you looking for?
um. I don't know. In your experience, what works?
Depends on the child. 
[insert garbled explanation from the parent, shuffling of paperwork by expert hands, lapsing into silence by parent]
Well, there's a gifted school that we usually refer children like this to.
[flabbergasted end to scene. repeat with each school visited.]

[scene 4]
Gifted? Are you saying that you want the school to take resources away from struggling kids for a gifted program?
um, no. Kids should get the help they need.
Differentiated instruction already has the teachers working with different kids, at different levels. I think you are making a fuss over nothing.  And is it really necessary? Lots of gifted kids turn out just fine.
[abashed end to scene]

[scene 5]
Gifted? Really. And you are asking schools to do what?
Well, see, the expert said - 
My kid is gifted, and I'm not asking the school to do that. What makes your child so special?
[abrupt silence. merciful end to scene]

And here is the short guide to the gifted conversation. Insert silent, notetaking mama with appropriate facial expressions as needed.

[scene]
Well, so your child is gifted. Do you know what that means? No? We-ell, school is going to be a bit of a challenge. There's only one gifted school in your area, and it's oh, an hour away. You'll take him there, right? No? Well, then, most of his real learning will probably happen outside of school for a while. Most schools don't have gifted programs until the 6th grade, and right now, most of those are on the budgetary chopping block. So, even if he's willing to sit politely and be quietly bored - because, you know, boys are good at that - then he's likely still SOL, which means that you are going to have to keep a careful eye on behavior issues that arise. Setting aside, of course, that a good early education experience is pretty important, let's just assume that he's going to be fine, no matter what.** Work habits aren't really important, because, you know, he's so smart - and he's going to be really popular because he'll know the answers to all the questions. Oh yes, all. Because he's gifted, so by definition, he's going to be gifted at everything. 


Except sports. There's a rule about that somewhere.


And that 18-25% drop out rate for these kids? Don't worry about it. You can afford to pay for extracurriculars, right? Good. Resources for parents are online, and you should know that it's a really bad idea to talk about this to anyone in person, and most parents-of-gifteds will refuse to admit to anything of the sort if you ask them, in person. Talk about it with others, and you will be seen as elitist, bragging, a pain in the academic arse, and so on. Also, you'll have a sudden urge to sew suede patches onto perfectly whole sleeves, and start smudging your home with certain aromatic pipe tobaccos. Either that, or you will begin to explore marketing options for your child's artwork or other salable skills - he what? no, the arrangement of Star Wars scenes does *not* count.


Harrumph.
[end scene in a whiff of disapproving silence]

or, if you prefer the condensed version:

[scene]
Your kid is gifted. He - and you - are screwed.
[end scene]


Offended yet? I am.
Coming next: a conversation with graphs


**"The observations reported by Barbarin and Crawford (2006) are entirely consistent with numerous research studies that have shown the quality of the teacher-child relationship to be a major contributor to school success in the early childhood years (Birch & Ladd, 1998; Hamre & Pianta, 2001; Howes et al., 2008). Howes and colleagues (2008) found that the best predictor of gains in academic outcomes for preschoolers was high quality instruction and close teacher-child relationships. Hamre and Pianta (2001) found that children's relationships with their kindergarten teachers predicted academic and behavioral outcomes through eighth grade. Combining scores on conflict and dependency scales into a variable they called relational negativity, they found that, "Particularly for boys, kindergarten teachers' perceptions of conflict and overdependency were significantly correlated with academic outcomes throughout elementary and middle school" (p. 634). "  more can be found here.