is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
On Bieber, black belts and (maybe...possibly...oh, who cares?) being gifted
Wednesday, February 9, 2011 I admt it. I was afraid to publish this post, this long and winding wondering about whether my boy is gifted or gifted enough to go to a gifted school or if it even matters at all. It was honest but it seemed pretentious. It felt like one of those first world problems no one really wants to hear about, like how your fridge died and you lost seven pounds of grass-fed organic beef from Whole Foods. WHOLE FOODS, people! Or how your cable went out and you missed the last crucial twelve seconds of the Real Housewives reunion. THE HAIR PULLING-SOBBING PART, friends! Or how your six-year old was one of 35,000 children in Chicago to MAYBE GO TO A DIFFERENT SCHOOL! I wanted to write it but I also wanted to take my $7 latte to the very back seats of the indie coffee place to read my Brain, Child magazine and just shush it.
I didn't feel comfortable posting a link on Facebook, didn't really tell any of my mama friends I had these thoughts in my head. Instead, I just took the boy back for his second round of tests, tried to relax into the present-momentness of not knowing where the boy will be in school next year, and just drive to the damn place, sit through the boring hour, and ask casually and calmly how it went.
"This was easy," he assessed as we crossed the long parking lot of puddles and slush after the test. I pushed down the excited leap in my heart to hear that. It's crazy, that reaction. "This time, they didn't just read the question ONCE before you had to choose an answer. They read it twice."
"And that was better?" I asked. You know, as non-stage-mothery as I possibly could. I was shoving aside images of myself threading his eyebrows and forcing him into a spray tan booth.
"Well, yeah, because if I yawned, I wouldn't miss it." And so there it was, the logic. Fine logic. Logical logic. Hearing the question is, after all, key to filling in the tiny little bubble with a slightly oversized pencil. My child is clearly a hearing overachiever. Unless iCarly is on. Or there's a Lego guy in his hand. Or we have to be anywhere seven minutes ago. OK, scratch auditorially gifted.
That day called for celebration, regardless of whenever those tests arrive (which could be any time before he graduates from college as it is CPS). Earlier that morning, he'd already scored big with a jump-side kick and a nod from Tae Kwon Do teacher during belt testing that moved him up in rank to cheetah belt.
Maybe it was the high of performing on the mat that gave him calm confidence as he walked into the auditorium where he'd be lined up with other kindergartners testing into school programs around the city. Maybe it was exhaustion of warming up with monkey jacks and doing sequences that require more focus than even scaling across the top of the playground monkey bars.
Maybe it was a familiarity with the moves he and his classmates were called on to do by the Tae Kwon Do teacher or in taking the second round of Scan-Tron tests. Whatever it was, he felt good, accomplished. He looked proud, happy. He was tired and wearing a yellow headband over his bedhead.
We went out to lunch first. He was resistant, but gave in to eating something other than mac and cheese as soon as I asked him details of how each kick and knife-hand strike felt to do. Then we napped, long and hard, both of us groggy when we woke up as the sun was setting, expecting it to be morning. And finally, we went to see the Justin Bieber docu-drama. In 3-D. (Spoiler alert: He's totally going to get that Oscar.)
My pride allowed me to pay for the $12.50 tickets without wincing, but only because my purse was packed full of leftover Christmas stocking candy and water bottles filled at home. My own geekdom -- let's call this teen pop star giftedness, shall we? --enabled me to pull the 3-D glasses on, pull my boy tight, and squeal at the wispy-haired Christian crooner from Canada work red and purple high-tops for big crowds of imaginary teen girls he reached out to with a 3-D beckoning wave. OK, there was no squealing. But there were tears.
I know, I know. I should be ashamed. Quieter about that. Think about withholding such personal information.
But what got me was...well, the whole day. And this kid with the voice and the moves and the drive that seems to come from deep within, raised by a seemingly sane and centered single mom, kind of spoke to me. The people around him -- his mother, his grandparents, even the kid-like goofy guy manager and body guard and assistant -- all spoke to their concern about what kind of man he would become, about wanting to raise a kid who could be a kid and still one day grow into a responsible, caring, good man. That got to me.
The child next to me may not ever fill Madison Square Garden or be accepted into a gifted school or become valedictorian or earn a black belt. Or maybe he will. No matter what dreams he sees for himself or what he achieves, I will always be concerned about how it is impacting him, who he is becoming, what man will grow out of this small child with big sights.
But I promised myself, sitting there with his head pressed into my shoulder, intent eyes behind 3D glasses, headband, bedhead, lips mouthing the words, "baby baby bayyyyyybayyyy oooohhh", that I won't let all of what comes tomorrow distract me from seeing what's shining today.
And in that moment in the dark theatre, the light was very bright.
The light was, however, turned up a bit too high later that night when he emerged perhaps prouder than he did with that cheetah belt, in this shirt (thanks, Mom and Dad!).
Funny is smart, right? I know, I know. This kind of funny is just six. And so is that kind of seriousness. And also the starry-eyedness.
And you know -- and I really do know -- that's all this kid has to be. RIght now.
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