I will admit that there have been times when I've heard parents talk about their gifted kids in a way that has made me (internally) roll my eyes. This Lessons Learned essay submission from reader Caitlin Fitzpatrick Curley opened my eyes and shifted my perspective about the complexities of giftedness, and I'm grateful to now better understand. Read on for Caitlin’s essay on 7 things she has learned from raising a gifted child.

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My son is gifted.

When you read gifted just now, what popped into your head? Do you think I'm bragging? Do you picture my son as a budding prodigy? Do you assume that I'm a Tiger Mom, and that my husband and I have hot-housed him since birth? Do you imagine my son performing well in school? Do you assume he must be easy to parent? Do you think we're lucky?

My son is gifted, and it's not what you think. Gifted is a loaded term. The word gift implies that one has been given something; that one has a leg up over others. This couldn't be further from the truth. As the parent of a profoundly gifted and twice-exceptional child, I have learned so much about this population.

1. Gifted children are asynchronous. When my son was just two years old, I entered his room one night to find him sobbing, unable to sleep. As I held him in my arms, comforting his trembling little body, he explained that he was afraid of extinction. "Mama," he sobbed, "The dinosaurs are extinct and the scientists don’t know why. What if we all die, and become extinct for some unknown reason?!" While the average child develops in a relatively uniform manner, gifted children are asynchronous. My son is many ages at once. Chronologically, he is seven years old. Intellectually, he is more than twice his age. His social-emotional development, however, is probably that of a five-year-old. His little mind houses thoughts that his emotions cannot yet process.

2. Gifted children are emotionally intense. When my son is happy, he's really happy. As in, overjoyed, literally bouncing-off-the-walls happy. When he is sad, he collapses into a mushy mess on the floor. When he is scared, he is terrified. When we are out in public and he meets with frustration, he can throw a fit to rival that of any two-year-old. I still have to underarm him out of public places on occasion. He tests my patience and keeps me humble on a daily basis.

3. Gifted children are sensitive. My son is supremely sensitive. He was unable to watch television for many years; the themes were just too much for him to handle until recently. And I cannot recall the last time we watched the news in our home. He already worries about crime, poverty, endangered animals, global warming, and war without exposure to current events.

4. Giftedness and achievement are two different entities. When my son was in kindergarten, his academic skills were 2 to 5 years above his grade-level. He read Harry Potter on the bus ride to school, but did he perform well in school? Not at all. In fact, he floundered. He was the fidgety kid in the back of the class, tipping in his chair and singing the Frozen soundtrack in reverse order. He was the kid who brought his paperclip collection to school to fidget with, the kid who doodled on his neighbor's paper rather than listen to the teacher. As the year wore on, the pile of behavior slips increased in height. At home, he was a joyful learner and yet, when I picked him up from school, he'd climb into my car and grimly ask, "Do I have to go to school tomorrow?" At only five years old, he was wholly misunderstood.

5. Gifted children can be learning disabled. My son's cognitive abilities are above the 99.9th percentile but he struggles with sensory processing disorder and ADHD. He is twice-exceptional: gifted and learning disabled, and he is not alone. There is an entire population of twice-exceptional students who struggle to have their needs met in a public school setting.

6. Gifted children need intellectual peers. When my son was five, we went out to breakfast with some of his friends. As we were leaving the restaurant, my son pointed to a garden trellis and shouted, "Guys! Look! Doesn't that lattice work remind you of a portcullis?" His friends smiled and carried on with their play as I Googled portcullis on my phone. He was right, it did look like a portcullis. And then my heart sank because I wondered if he will ever have friends who truly get him and his unique thinking.

7. Gifted is not what you think. My son is a funny, brilliant, creative, energetic, frustrating, demanding, and exhausting little person. He is a joy to raise, however, parenting him has been the greatest challenge of my life. Over the years, it has gotten easier, but it’s never been easy. He has taught me so much over the past seven years including patience, understanding, grace, and humility. He is my wisest teacher and for that, I am forever grateful.

Caitlin Fitzpatrick Curley is a school psychologist who has worked in the Boston, Chelsea, and Lowell public schools. She is currently – unexpectedly -- homeschooling her PG/2E son and she writes about the journey at My-Little-Poppies.com. Caitlin is a Year Round Homeschooling contributor and a member of the iHomeschool Network. She volunteers for and is published by Gifted Homeschoolers Forum.

Image credits: Caitlin Fitzpatrick Curley

Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned essay? See submission guidelines here.

Today is Violet’s 4th birthday and I’m finding myself rather emotional. Her pregnancy was unexpected, the 58 hour labor remains vivid in my mind, the ride over the last 4 years has been crazy, and each exasperating moment with Vivy inevitably is counterbalanced by a sweet or hilarious one. I’ve also learned some things the second time around, and I’m grateful for the lessons, which I want to share with you today as part of the Lessons Learned series.

1. Don’t let pride get in the way of accepting (or asking for) help. Why was it so hard for us to accept or ask for help? While I’m certainly mindful not to take advantage, I’ve let go of any deferential pride issues in this department!

2. Individual differences are just as they should be. Parenting Violet has been a completely different ballgame than parenting Laurel. At first, it freaked me out, but I now know that their differences are just as they should be.

3. Having another kid helps your older kid(s) spread their wings. By necessity, we have needed to encourage Laurel towards more independence. It was a tough shift; after all, she was the focus of our attention for 6.5 years, but I know it has helped her grow immensely. She is so confident and capable now; it’s a joy to watch her tackle new challenges and help around the house.

4. Every decision impacts the family system. Whether it’s decisions about my travel, Jon’s client load, Laurel’s extracurriculars, or Vi’s playdates, every decision impacts the family system and we need to make choices accordingly. It’s really helped me evaluate my choices in a less (admittedly) self-centered way.

5. No is more important than ever. If you’ve read Minimalist Parenting you know I’m a big fan of people learning to say no. And it’s more important than ever as your family grows. There will always be more opportunities; don’t fear no!

6. Store-bought is totally fine. I do love baking from scratch, but, well, TIME. I’ve realized store-bought is totally fine, and in fact, when Vi asked for munchkins for her school birthday treat, I was relieved, given my workload this week. Best $7.99 I ever spent.

7. Letting your kids work it out is a gift. I have a low patience threshold when it comes to sibling squabbling. I quickly realized that whenever I tell Laurel and Violet to go work it out, I’m gifting them with practice in conflict resolution.

8. Reading together is still really, really important. Both of my girls love books and come to think of it, it’s really one of the few quiet, totally focused things we do together. I read a lot with Vi (she’s very forthright and will dump a pile of books in my lap) and I’ve also started reading with Laurel again. It does wonders for both of their moods.

9. Relationships matter more than ever. Whether it’s your spouse, immediate family, or friends, nurture your relationships. Go on a date. Go out for a meal (you do, after all, need to eat). Call someone on the phone. Nurturing your relationships will make you a happier parent. Trust me.

10. Your kids want you to do less. Ultimately, your kids want you and your undivided attention, not all the fancy trappings you’re trying to create for them (well intentioned as they are). It’s a win-win for everyone. JUST DO LESS. Vi and Laurel both are happier when we’re just hanging out together, and my phone has been stored accordingly.

Image credits: Christine Koh

Today’s Lessons Learned essay comes from Brittni, a dancer and visual artist from Grafton, MA. Brittni also works with preschoolers and in this moving essay, she shares lessons she has learned both from working with preschoolers and self-identifying as a highly sensitive child. And goodness, this piece definitely resonates with me, given that parenting my fiery sensitive Violet has taught me so much.

Dear Grown-ups,

First of all, thank you. Thank you for trying so hard. I know I am a handful. I know I am confusing. I know that sometimes I make you want to pull your hair out. I am not your average child and so most of the techniques and habits used successfully with other children do not apply to me. So please allow me to supply you with a few tips that will make both of our lives a little easier:

1. I apologize for my seemingly unexplained tantrums. I feel so much love, fear, wonder, anxiety, joy, frustration...It is often too much for my little heart to handle and I have to let it all out. I have yet to develop coping strategies or ways to express my intense feelings, so I resort to long, loud, and tearful meltdowns that probably make you feel quite helpless. Please try to be patient with me. I am just as confused as you are during these episodes. Long loving hugs and a soothing voice will bring me out of my object-throwing ear-splitting drama-fests.

2. It means the world to me when you validate my concerns. I do realize I have more concerns than the average child, but if you can make an effort to acknowledge them and make me feel understood, we are likely to skip right over a potential hurricane meltdown (see above).

3. Raising your voice three octaves just to speak to me is not necessary; I can hear you just fine at a normal pitch. Also, a little space please. Do you bring your face within centimeters of your fellow adults’ faces when asking them a question? I certainly hope not because it would probably make them feel just as claustrophobic and invaded as it makes me feel.

4. Please stop calling me shy. The more you call me “too shy” or “too quiet” the shyer and quieter I become. You express concern that I never talk, but when I do talk you look at me like I just performed a stunt, which makes me feel very self-conscious. I will talk when I want to talk, but mostly -- for now -- I just like to listen.

5. Please do not force me to do an activity that I don’t want to do. Picking me up and putting me on the swing against my will on the preschool playground, or telling me I must sing with the rest of the group makes me feel utterly powerless. I will do things on my own time. When I am ready, I will hoist myself onto the swing by myself thank you very much. And I will sing with the group once I have memorized all of the words in the song; that's just the way I operate.

6. Disciplining me with a loud voice, angry eyes, and assertive body language is overkill. When I have done something wrong, I know even before you say anything because I am so very sensitive to your mood and body language. When you are disappointed, I am flooded with guilt and have therefore been sufficiently punished. A few words explaining why what I did was wrong, or even just a moment of meaningful eye contact is often all it takes.

7. Let me create. All I need is a box of crayons and some paper and I am golden for the rest of the afternoon. I am at my happiest when given the freedom to explore my creativity.

8. Finally, I will always be this sensitive. I will always feel everything intensely and I will always be a handful to both myself and to my loved ones. My saving grace is that empathy, creativity, and compassion are traits that tend to come with being highly sensitive. So if you can hang in there and be patient with me now, I will try my best to return your efforts as I get a little older.

Sincerely,

A very small person in a very big world

Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned essay? See submission guidelines here.

Image credits: Christine Koh

Today's Lessons Learned essay (see submission guidelines here) on standing back comes via Kim Kalicky, author of Mothers Fulfilled and Away at a Camp in Maine. Thanks so much for sharing this essay, Kim!

The hardest thing we'll ever have to do as parents is stand back and let our children be who they are and who they are meant to be...especially if it happens not to be what we expected or hoped.

Oh, we thought when they were babies, toddlers, and middle schoolers that the physical aspects of clothing, feeding, and sheltering them was taxing and exhausting (albeit extremely joyful and enlightening), but that was just physical. To me, dealing with the physical is always easier than dealing with emotional.

It's a challenging balancing act coaching, leading, and teaching children how to be giving, thoughtful, kind, and productive citizens of the world -- yet competitive enough to survive in work and play on the long trajectory thorugh childhood and adolescence and then into college (if they choose to attend) and the work world.

So when have we arrived?  When do we step back, let go, glide, and hope the coaching, leading, and teaching has met some success?

I told my son at his 18th birthday that I thought it was time for me to stop giving him advice. His eyebrows rose slightly and his eyes opened a little wider in laughing question. I said I wasn't clear if it was 18 or maybe 22, after college...I wasn't quite sure. He said I'd never stop giving him advice -- to date, every day of his life had been a moral lesson. (Every day? I'm sorry!)

I decided it was probably 18, because at that point an adult's advice to an adult child becomes criticism, no longer advice. His character was formed by middle school; by 18, at his core, he was who he was meant to be. I said, rest assured, I'd always have advice (and a quote or two or moral lesson) and opinions, but I'd keep them to myself unless asked. If he wanted my advice, I was always there for him, but I needed, as surely as the sun rises each morning, to respect him and his decisions for who he was and love him for that and only that.

Allowing children to be their own people, apart from us, is the ultimate quest and the hardest part of the parenting journey. Understanding they are not "ours," but totally their own beings on their own journeys takes introspection to arrive at acceptance. We've just had the honor and privilege of coaching, leading, and teaching them on their quest...and standing back when they see for themselves who they are and what they want in this life.

Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned essay? See submission guidelines here.

Image credit: Drawing by Kim Kalicky's son, who is a student at Savannah College of Art & Design for game design/computer animation.

I'm penning today's Lessons Learned essay in honor of Jon and my anniversary:

Fourteen years ago today Jon and I got married. I have learned so much about myself and how to be in a partnership during these 14 years, but it wasn’t until last year that I learned about the power of compromise. I’m almost a little embarrassed to write that, but it’s true and I feel that the story of this revelation is worth sharing because compromise is a crucial part of making a marriage work. And I know lots of couples who struggle with it.

I’ll back up and be plain and say that traditionally, I’ve not been the best at compromising. I mean, I think in the past I have felt as if I have been compromising, but in reality, I haven’t. Or at least not where it’s mattered most. I imagine this is rooted in how powerless I felt during the stressful events of my childhood, as well as the hard headed aspects of my personality.

Anyway, my current profession has brought many gifts and opportunities, but one of the related tradeoffs is travel. In 2012, everything in my life was stretching my time (and the residual demands on Jon’s time) to the max: in addition to my general palette of writing, consulting, and design work, Violet was just a baby, I was writing a book, and my travel was at an all time high; notably, there was a 6-week stretch where I was in California, Las Vegas, and Ethiopia (for 10 days). My last day in Ethiopia, I had a complete meltdown during breakfast; I was scared to return home because I knew there would be tension and unhappiness.

I always thought it was stressful for me to put each travel opportunity in front of Jon because I knew it would lead to a stressful conversation. Looking back, the way it usually played out was that I would position each trip as imperative (sometimes it was, if I was working for a client but sometimes -- I now realize -- it wasn’t...it just felt imperative to me), Jon would push back, and I would lock up and freeze (my typical response to stress) until I got a green light. I often would counter with, “But I have said no to x, y, and z” but I now realize that those weren’t really compromising points because I’ve actually become really good at saying no to things that I don’t want to do. It’s saying no and compromising around the things I do want to do that have been the issue.

As a result of the toll that my 2012 travel took on my family, in 2013 I reigned things way in, only traveling when truly essential (e.g., client work) or for very select advisory type work (e.g., ONE Moms). The stressful fog happily started to lift just as the offer to speak in New York at a high profile event was offered to me.

My brain immediately jumped into “how can I make this work?” mode. The reality was that I was already feeling pretty maxed out with client work but I figured I could do a quick overnight to New York. I could feel the stress and anticipation welling up as I looked at the calendar and realized that the trip would immediately precede Jon’s first university teaching engagement. I think part of me knew I needed to let this opportunity go, but I brought it to Jon anyway. It was a difficult conversation and we basically left things at a standstill.

I decided to call Asha (ever a source of wisdom for me) and during our conversation she said something that finally penetrated. It was something along the lines of, “I know this is a hard decision, but the sadness you will feel about not going will be so trivial compared to the hit your marriage will take if you do go. You have shown time and again that there will always be more opportunities...let this one go.”

And with those seemingly simple words, I finally realized how little I had been compromising. I realized that while yes, part of me did feel as if I was letting something big slip away, I wanted to compromise. I wanted to support Jon’s new journey as a professor and have his back if he needed help to get ready for his class. I wanted Jon to know we were a team.

When Jon and I sat down again to discuss the New York trip, it was a turning point for me and for us. I think I probably shocked him by saying that I wanted to let this opportunity go and play a supporting role to his work that week. And you know what? It felt damned good. It changed the way I have handled every opportunity moving forward and it changed how we talk about travel and events. The stress and angst that typically clouded our conversations is now gone. Because we’re truly having a two-way conversation, and making decisions together as a couple.

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Happy anniversary Jon; thank you for being my beloved partner in this journey. I'm so grateful for you every day.

Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned essay? See submission guidelines here.

Image credit: Christine Koh

Today's Lessons Learned essay (see submission guidelines here) comes via my sister Sharon. Thank you, Sharon, for sharing your heart with us today:

I don't know if my lesson will ever fully be learned but it will always be practiced. Eight months ago, I gave birth to my son. He defied all expectations and denied me of the Hallmark-type experiences that I had dreamed of.

He arrived after a frightening night of monitoring and an ambulance ride from Cape Cod to Boston. He was born 2 months early and all of the plans and all of the ideas my husband and I had about how things were going to be were severed with the stroke of a surgeon's knife, which yielded a 2 lb 2 oz shrinkadink of a baby -- fragile to the touch and, admittedly, frightening for me to look at.

As a woman who is proud of her health and strength, I was quickly humbled by the feeling of utter powerlessness as the decision to take him out was based on necessity rather than choice. My bodily strength was quickly dissolved by magnesium, which felt like being burned from the inside out. There was an even fiercer flame of fear that brought me to shadowy places in myself that in my past life made me build brick and mortar around my heart and pounds of flesh around my body. The mask of determination swaddled a scared and angry child.

Every step since my son's birth -- a baby shower cancelled, a birth plan not realized, countless tests and needle pricks into this innocent being, daily knots in my stomach from potential bad medical news forecasts, the relief of letting time do its work, the frustrations of breastfeeding and the battles with thrush, the 70 days in the NICU 100 miles away from my home and husband -- scrubbed away every glorified image I had of motherhood and turned me towards the reality of what was right in front of me: fear, pain, resentment...and eventually joy and relief that my son is alive and healthy, and that our little family is still together after that tsunami.

I have spent many days and nights questioning, blaming and punishing myself over what presented itself rather than what I expected. I felt betrayed by my body and my life.

In yoga there is a term, ahimsa, which basically simmers down to mean non-violence. After the wound of flesh and ego started to scab over, the real lesson of being kind came with the realization that I was killing myself and my family with the bitterness and judgement that came with not seeing the beauty of the small and sacred gifts. In hindsight, these gifts came in the form of each ounce of weight gained, the observation of how once concave flesh now wears soft and fleshy around the sweetest of smiles, the gradual lessening of fear as my husband and I grew more secure handling the fragile shell of a boy connected to tubes and wires, watching those wires go away one by one, noticing bit by bit the strength started to surge back into my legs and body, actually feeling the warmth of my husband's hand holding mine, and how love -- true love -- waited and worked even when we were in the darkest places to come back with hearts unguarded, to face and feel the anger, fear, and suffering of disappointment that has melted with time, communication, tears, and with being kind to ourselves and to one another. This experience, with all of its challenges, awakened the practice of kindness. The practice is the practice. The work to be kind will never end.

Sharon is a yoga and clarinet instructor residing on Cape Cod. All images by Sharon Koh.

Editor's Note (updated 3:39pm): I just learned that Sharon will be participating in the March for Babies, a cause that is near and dear to my heart and that I have supported repeatedly through my platform here at Boston Mamas. You can help Sharon reach her fundraising goal here.

Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned essay? See submission guidelines here.

I’m penning this Lessons Learned essay, inspired by National Siblings Day (today):

When I was deep in the trenches with regular visits to my therapist, one of the most helpful things we worked on involved the Enneagram. My therapist taught me about this personality system and it helped me understand my personality traits (I’m a #1 in the system) and also how those traits impact my reactions to other people’s behavior.

One of the major (sometimes challenging) things about being a #1 is that I’m guided by a strong sense of order and assumptions about how things should work and how people should behave in the world. I have worked really, really hard to let go of my assumptions over the years -- in fact, I co-wrote a book in which letting go of those shoulds is a major tenet. And I've found that this has been particularly helpful in the domain of coexisting with and raising siblings.

I have 6 siblings, almost all local. Obviously, when you have 7 people in any mix there are going to be different approaches and opinions and inevitable friction. This mix of personalities, coupled with the extreme challenges of our childhood, have created an interpersonal fabric that is rooted in a deep sense of love and commitment and desire for normalcy, while also being complicated and bumpy at times. The last few years have been especially challenging for me as I've experienced the sadness, frustration, and confusion of intense discord with one of my siblings; we basically have zero relationship right now.

Subsequently, and given that my journey from having one to two kids was such a roller coaster, I've wanted Laurel and Violet's relationship to be simple and pure and uncomplicated and full of love 24/7. Tall order, I know. Instead, the reality is that my two kids are incredibly different, whether it relates to general disposition (Laurel is our gentle deer, Violet is our fiery wildebeest), personal space (Laurel wants snuggling, Violet wants space), or what to wear (Laurel wants all things chevron, ombre, and sequins, Violet just wants the same pair of orange track pants). There is a ton of fighting. Sometimes it's just easier to separate them for long stretches of time.

My former self would fret about this, but through the years, I have finally learned that acceptance trumps shoulds. I don't need to agree with the choices my siblings or my kids make; instead, I need to accept that they are making the choices that make sense to them in that moment and given their personal circumstances. I can give advice or recommendations to my siblings or my kids and I need to accept that they may choose to do something totally different. I need to accept that discord is normal, perhaps even necessary for growth and change. I need to hang back and let my siblings and my daughters be who they are and issue the same acceptance that I want issued in my direction (believe me, I know I’ve done things my siblings don’t agree with).

Why? Because my way is not the only way. And the world needs both gentle deer and fiery wildebeests.

Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned story? See submission guidelines here.

Image credits: Christine Koh

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As much as I love being a resource provider, I’ve been wanting to integrate more personal voice into Boston Mamas for a while. I'll soon share how that will work in terms of community submissions (yay!); meanwhile, I wanted to share a personal post today. It's Violet's third birthday and though it has been a challenging and surprising three years in many ways, I have also learned so much. I'm sharing my thoughts in the form of a letter:

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Dear Violet,

I know it sounds trite, but I truly can’t believe you’re three today. As I was thinking about your third birthday, I went back and read the posts (and incredible, supportive comments) about my feelings of failure around infertility, the pregnancy announcement, and your 58-hour labor and delivery. All of the emotions along this winding trajectory were so palpable that I can close my eyes and relive them immediately. Invariably, I find myself teary.

People often ask how you differ from Laurel. In a nutshell, you two are like night and day, but my typical adjectives are fiery, independent, and (sorry, Sheryl Sandberg) bossy. And while I’ve sometimes (OK, often) found myself overwhelmed by these characteristics -- they’re simply so different than what I have known with Laurel -- I’ve come to realize the positives too. I think I've been doing a disservice to you by emphasizing the challenges associated with your personality traits and I'm sorry about that. Here’s why:

You taught me not to be afraid of anger. I grew up in a household where angry outbursts were the norm; this made me run the other direction and never allow my anger to come to the surface. When faced with conflict with your Dad, I would shut down in fear. Subsequently, your fiery nature used to bewilder and scare me at times. But I have learned from you that anger has many dimensions. It can be short lived. It can be rooted in nonsense. There's still love on the other side of anger. I’m no longer afraid of it.

Your independence pays off. Sometimes it has been hard to support your independence when, say, I’m trying to get us out the door and you freak out unless I wait for you to put your shoes on a certain way. But the reality is, your independent nature translated to you potty training in a week. You can get dressed by yourself. You take pride in completing chores on your own. I would be crazy not to celebrate these things.

What I used to call bossy I now will refer to as your clear sense of purpose and process. You know what you want and how you want it. You move through the world with purpose. You are protective of your personal space. I respect these things. Let's face it: I am these things too.

You know the power of your voice. You are growing up as the littlest one in a family of talkers. I now know that your meltdowns about being the first to speak reflect frustration about not being heard and not being a part of the conversation. Your daycare progress report recently came back saying that at circle time, it’s typical of the kids to mimic one another when they report about what they did that weekend. Your teachers said that in contrast, you never do that; instead, you always reply with your own answer, clearly and with detail. It brought tears to my eyes to think that by age 2 you had already found your voice. In some ways, I feel as if I’m just finding mine.

Violet, you have taught me so much in these three years and I'm sure there are many lessons to come. And just as I often ask you to be patient, I'm reminding myself to be patient too. We're both perfectly imperfect and helping one another grow. I love you and will celebrate both your fiery independence and what lives on the other end of your emotional spectrum: a pure, bright, and infectious joy that lights up my days.

Love, Mom

Reviewing airline safety protocol. As two-year-olds do.

Image credits: Christine Koh