>Genius Move

>“I’m going to write a Nashville Scene column about what happened when I had Punky tested for the gifted program,” I told Hubs.

“What?” he asked incredulously. “You’re going to tell everyone what you did? You can’t write about that!”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Watch me.”

Read this week’s column below…

She’s with Stupid

Every mommy’s brain comes equipped with a special horror reel, a continuously-playing mental movie of precious moments gone wrong, like the time little Jimmy drank Drano, or the night Jane’s prom date stood her up. In my friend Denise’s case, the reel features the moment she was told that her three-year-old son didn’t qualify for Metro’s gifted preschool program.

“Everyone in my playgroup had their kids tested,” Denise told me at a neighborhood block party, “and about half of them got in. When I found out Robbie didn’t make it, I lost it. I mean, I completely lost it. I called my husband crying, I told him I was a bad mother. It was horrible.”

“But I’m sure your daughter will get in,” she said quickly. “You’re having Punky tested, right?” I looked down at my three-year-old, who was busy probing her belly button for hidden treasure.

“Yeah,” I said hesitantly. “I guess so.” I wasn’t sure if Punky’s wild imagination and disturbing ability to use curse words properly qualified her as a bona fide brainiac, but if if it did, she’d get to go to preschool for a year free of charge and I’d get a small respite from the “But why? Why? But why? Why?” game. It was clear what I had to do.

The Encore packet arrived in the mail two days later with about a dozen pages of forms to be filled out both by me and by one of Punky’s teachers. I laughed wryly. I was Punky’s teacher and her current studies included a visual history of the Gilmore Girls (or the Elmo Girls, as she calls them) and memorization of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Somehow, I didn’t think that would look so good on paper. Then I remembered my good friend Amelia, who also happened to be Punky’s Sunday School teacher.

“Thanks for coming over, Amelia,” I said gratefully when she showed up at my house a few weeks later to “observe” Punky and fill out the teacher forms. We spent most of the time gossiping before realizing the forms were going to take a long time to complete.

“Look, this is really too much,” I told her. “Why don’t I just do this part? I’m sure it’s just a screening tool to keep future Bob Clements out of the program.” I grabbed the forms and began haphazardly circling numbers, giving Punky a bunch of high ratings, along with some medium ratings for good measure. I didn’t want to seem too braggy. At the end of the day, I sent everything in and got a call a few weeks later to bring in Punky for testing.

“You are not going to go all Denise here,” I whispered to myself out in a hallway the next morning while a psychologist gave Punky an achievement test inside her office. “It is no big deal if Punky doesn’t get in.”

“She aced it,” the psychologist said happily, emerging from the room. I exhaled as I listened to Punky’s scores. She really was smart. Maybe even Mensa material. I started to get excited, envisioning the cars and homes she’d buy me with the millions made from her brilliant and gifted career as a biochemical instatularic psychophysicist.

“Now we’ll just give her an IQ test,” the psychologist continued. Punky put her head in my lap. “Mommy, I’m done,” she whispered. “I want to go home now.”

“Just one more test, Punky,” I whispered. “And then we’ll go home.”

“No,” she said. “I already took a test. I’m done.” I barely managed to convince her to go back inside the psychologist’s office.

“She just missed the cutoff,” the psychologist murmured when she emerged 30 minutes later. Punky shuffled out behind her, looking wan. “And when it’s this close on the IQ test, we look at the teacher evaluation score of the form you sent in.” I perked up. “Unfortunately, her teacher only gave her a 22. And she has to have a 30 to qualify.”

And that was my very first horror movie moment. As I replay it now in my mind for the 1,647th time, I can tell you for sure that there was blood running down the walls and the psychologist’s head was spinning like a top as I stared, speechless, at the 22 on the form, the result of all those numbers I had glibly circled weeks ago.

I fought the urge to drop to my knees and plead for mercy. My mom friend Kelly had told me that this was the moment the Encore psychologists dread. Some parents burst into tears. Others spew curse words. With great effort, I stayed silent.

“Okay, so next I’ll write up my report,” the psychologist said, “and then you’ll come back before a panel and they’ll tell you the results.”

“I’m supposed to go to a meeting to hear what you just told me? That she didn’t get in?” I asked dully.

“Yeah,” she said. “Basically, yeah.”

Yeah, right. Just how stupid do they think I am?