A love story.
Is My Child Gifted?
Many parents with exceptionally talented children wonder if their child may actually be gifted. Since there is no official diagnosis, gifted children can vary in their abilities. Any child can be gifted for a fee, but there is no guarantee they will be received well.
What Does It Mean To Be Gifted?
According to the National Association for Gifted Children, children are considered gifted when their ability is significantly above normal range. According to the Post Office Association, a child is considered gifted when they reach the front door of any house, apartment or place of residence.
They do not need to be gifted in one particular specialty such as math or science. They can be gifted in multiple areas of interest including Alaska, Iowa and the IGA. Florida is off limits.
Common Traits of A Gifted Child
All children are unique in their own way, but some are more distinct than others. Two specific traits are often seen in many gifted children.
- ) A developed sensitivity. Certain children are sensitive. This can be a sign of a gifted child or something else. Many gifted children who excel at math and science are often bothered by loud noises or certain fabric. Children who are gifted must be wrapped in non-styrofoam peanuts for the majority of their transition. Upon arrival, crushed velvet is preferred.
- ) Puzzle play. Abstract thinking that involves complex problem solving abilities can be seen in the early development of gifted children. Gifted children may have been subjected to confined spaces and complex postal systems. This may be particularly disturbing during the holiday season. Many gifted children prefer to find a way out as soon as they are gifted.
Parents can and should opt for testing. If you suspect your child is gifted, they may seem strange and out of place. To better detect any possible diseases, fleas or emotional disturbance, testing is recommended for any child that thinks outside the box.
Once upon a time there were books. Hard angled, sharp cornered rectangles with slivers in between. Slippery inked characters ran the page black and white. No color was necessary for pictures made of letters.
The books were complicated. Happy, but conflicted. Arrogant with the self aggrandizement that can only come from small sizes, the books had something to say.
“The History of Mankind”. Medical journals devoted to all aspects of the chest. The hunger of a whale.
“Don’t forget,” they all seemed to say. “I’m still here.”
Books went into shelves and then several cases. Crammed together with no structure, The Most Beautiful Woman in Town sat next to Lonesome Dove, stale Atlantic covers and Allure magazine. Too many words clanged against one another.
“This is too dusty a life these days,” McCall could be heard complaining.
“Have you tried page whitener?” Beauty magazines were shoved to the back.
The direction was unclear. There were words of self help. “Don’t think: Just Do.” mixed with fairy tale warnings, “always listen to your mother-in-law.”
When the book cases were full, they were kept in kitchen cabinets. Out went the dishware. Out went the pans. Words stayed in cramped spaces and roll-out drawers for silver.
When the kitchen was taken over, books piled under the bed. The sneaky books took to hiding. Narcotics Anonymous. How To Be Single. Ipod for Dummies. Quieter, but ever present, there they stayed. All the books. Softly chattering throughout an apartment worth of sentences.
Once upon a time there was not enough space. With every story came inches lost. Ingested into the head, they moved from the physical sphere to the mental and when it was time to go, they came with. Boxes of characters in square structured places. All books find a home.
How is this possible? You’re telling me, I can’t sit on the grass, collar popped and comfortably breathe in the fresh air? You’re telling me the polo match is canceled? What about the vineyard itself? Is it, too, closed to the public?
And what is “public” anyway? Children in stained shorts? Walmart? What about the private sector? What about the natural, organic spread of pure material? 100% wool vests? Unmixed cotton? You’re telling me we’re no longer invited?
I demand a refund. I wasn’t made to sit, holed up in some closet, only to wither away from society. The public pool may be closed, but my family owns a house on the lake. No, not the lake you’re thinking about. The lake. I’ve been going for years.
You can’t tell me to close up shop. I live in Tyson’s Corner. I was born for a high end lifestyle and I won’t tolerate quitters. You think you can tell me what to do? Who’s your boss? I want to speak to the manager.
Viral Service Briefing
Platform Site: MyHome
Tag Line: Where going viral is fun again!
Brand History: We, at MyHome, started off as a small site mainly used by shut-ins. By providing moment-to-moment, live analysis of Car Talk and People’s Pharmacy, a healthy community was born for folks interested in learning the social world of the wide web.
While other social media platforms emerged with their own messaging software, we stuck to classic chatroom communication for minimalist information such as A/S/L. Gradually, as an increasing amount of users divulged more information, they grew bored with the same advertisements targeted specifically for them. At MyHome, nobody knows what kind of paid content they might see.
Demographics: MyHome is currently designed for those who are stuck indoors. Whether self-quarantined or living without a car in an assisted living or hospital facility, social distancing does not require isolation. Those who particularly enjoy MyHome are roughly 50-75 years old with limited cooking ability. Instead, they prefer to upload blurry, digital pictures of home-made, boxed brownies and post them for friends to see. These friends then re-post the homemade brownies, assuming others won’t know it’s somebody else’s photograph. Once the homemade brownie photo has been shared multiple times, another cooking success must be documented. This information, while somewhat misleading, will inform everyone that everyone is baking.
Our Sponsors: Sponsors include products that, while not technically relevant, still exist. Duracell, SanDisk, KikWear and Sharper Image are just some of the important brands we find crucial to our development.
Quarterly Goals: MyHome does not strive for large economic growth. Instead, MyHome is a process that explores the inner depth of communication through online existence. Without a physical presence, we feel MyHome can break down the boundaries of fiction and nonfiction in an effort to build the ultimate viral performance. For this quarter, MyHome nurtures the motivation of many would-be bakers and cat-owners to upload the most generic photos possible so that anybody could be responsible for their content.
Emergency, Get-Out Plan: Should our platform cause any political, social, financial or ethical complications within an online or physical reality, we are fully able to infect MyHome with a mutated virus. In the event of a pandemic, all social-distanced socializing can be heard over People’s Pharmacy.
It’s okay. This crisis wasn’t really about me or her. I’m just concerned about everyone else. In fact, from a very young age, much younger than most, I realized the sacrifice that some of us were going to have to make. Really, I’m okay with that. I’ve understood for as long as the earth.
In these trying times, fear not. I will be your light. I can do what no other can. From my ability to see beyond the darkness, I have come to share my wisdom from the humblest of desires: Please. Use me for your guidance.
I will show you the depths of the shadowy underground that lurks beneath humanity. At first, I thought it was just my ex best friends who were diagnostically inferior. Their facebook pages filled with all the things they can do, but Flash Lights are cheap: too fake for any real intensity. With so many tacky, inspirational quotes, one would think they’d be embarrassed to publish.
“In this horrible aftermath that has taken so many lives, I just want to say thank you. For everyone that believed I can shine.” And then, a day later: “It is during our darkest moments, that we must focus to see the light.”
That was my line. Or it was supposed to be, before she posted it with a photograph of herself standing in the middle of a field with her light switched on. Who wants to gaze at the stars now? Flash lights aren’t free and spontaneous. Flash lights belong in the basement.
But then hundreds of Likes started pouring in. “You’re my rock,” someone commented. She posted a photo of herself nestled up against some parking lot gravel. A dozen hearts appeared. It was horrifically garish at best.
Out of respect for those in mourning, I refrained from such posts. Instead, I worked on myself. Long nights burning bright on a bedroom table, I watched over those in need. A less glamorous position, some might say. But my power doesn’t come from a button.
One morning, about a week later, everything became illuminated. In this Chiroscuro lifestyle of selfish extremes, I know how to handle a crisis. I will get us through this. I have the ultimate glow.
So to all of my misguided followers out there, fear not. It is not the light we need, but the fire.
Age: No expiration date
Location: Way in the back
Favorite Song: Lips Like Sugar – Coldplay
Favorite Book: Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg
About Me: I really just like to have fun. I know that everyone says they really just want to have fun when actually they just want to hear someone else talk about their fun. But I actually just want to have fun. I’m a huge dreamer. I love star gazing (Gemini). I like to visit the rocky beaches of New England just to experience the amazing sounds of nature. I love nature. Almost as much as I love fun.
About You: Preferably over 14. I like a lot of physical affection, especially at family functions. If you’re confident, I will probably like you no matter what.
Best First Date: I want someone who likes to talk about existentialism in the form of stars. I’m really interested in thinking past the earth’s hemisphere so that we can get to the heart of who we truly are as universal characters. Whether we’re camping in a rainforest or providing care and loving support for underprivileged children, I want someone who is a human being and not just a human doing.
Deal Breakers: No David Foster Wallace. No Jean Renoir. I don’t need a lot of fluff in my life.
Here I am again. Hanging out on the street corner. Every year it’s the same thing. Someone strings me up on the lamp post and 5 hours later, someone comes back with a girl they position underneath me. “Look.” He’ll point. “We’re standing under the mistletoe.”
The girl will glance up. She will give me the same look she gives the someone beside her. Ah yes, I can hear her think. How did I end up here again?
I am the only mistletoe around for blocks. Yet everyone knows I exist. The lamp post, while beautiful in its own right, both resents and enjoys my popularity. At first, the pointing feels good. Basking in the glow of his own light, he feels a surge of pride from the strangers looking at us. Then comes the eggnog.
Early December is not so bad. The Christmas music is at a comfortable Mariah Carey intimacy. Mid December and the shoppers are getting more hectic. By late December, Perry Como has peaked and the eggnog, while once a disgusting choice of raw egg and cheap alcohol, suddenly makes an appearance.
Loud after-work parties and sloppy caroling seem to never end. The lamp post isn’t pleased. Teenage boys with dog-like tongues kiss the girls they like best. The lamp post glares at me. Come January first when I should be taken down, it’s just me and the post-Christmas post. Here I am again, wondering whether someone made it home with someone else.
I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, but I am nobody’s key.
They rolled in hot pink bubble gum, but stuck to the sides and bleed. Roads for miles with streets past the corner, the ground is stretched on neon. They roll past gravel and pave plumping stickiness until nobody is left to deceive.
I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, but there is no actual key.
They could leave if they want to, but actually they can’t because people can’t roll the same way. People head home. People go to work. Their feet got stopped up in sweetness.
“I’d go if I could, but I just can’t move.” The path is too pretty to leave.
People is for sale.
All of them as one, wrapped in plastic. How did they get themselves caught?
At first they were too large. Big, broad shoulders too wide for scrawny dresses and heads the size of thoughts: they had to become smaller. Tiny phones holding the world of web made them crane, straining their necks into squares. One by one, person to person, they shrank.
Into the flashes of cameras, people curled up inside miniature frames. One shot shows a smile. Another, a wave. One shot has a pensive look. Another, shame. The eyes are scanned and recognized, but they all seem mostly the same. These are the people beside the candy bars.
I’d like to buy the People. Every one of them, into my purse. Crinkling on top of one another, they cut up. Get plastic surgery. They slip around one another like business cards -I’d buy what they’re selling. Whether it’s clothing or just the material, People stands for stands of people. They still stand on top.