MSI Press Blog

  AI generated graphic   The rainbow makers never grew very big, except for Shane, who at 5'10" is not exceptionally tall for a young man. Lizzie topped out at 5', like me, Doah at 4'7", and Noelle at 4'3". Once in a while it has been a detriment to me at work, and Doah is always asked "pretty lady" or "handsome man" to get something off a top shelf for him at the store (they always oblige). Otherwise, we don't think about it much, but apparently others do. One day not too long ago, as Doah and I were eating at Denny's, a lady at the next table over kept glancing over at us. Not quite a stare, but clearly a fixation.  When we left, she followed us out, and as we approached our car, she spoke up. "Excuse me," she said, politely enough. "I really don't mean to bother you, but I just want to know if you are hobbits. Y'see, I've never seen hobbits before." Wow, how do you respond to someone with that...

  When Lizzie was offered the chance to skip first grade, I sought counsel from a professor of gifted and talented education. My concern wasn’t academics—it was social development. He reassured me, citing both research and experience, that if she was intellectually ready, she’d be socially resilient enough to manage the transition. So, she skipped. And he was right. The only social friction she encountered came from her classmates not quite understanding her academic passions. Still, they humored her—letting her lead them into scientific explorations that were far beyond the curriculum. Her delight at receiving a college-level genetics textbook for Christmas in fourth grade confirmed her oddness, but her enthusiasm for building a rocket launcher in the backyard was contagious. That is, until I shut it down. Maybe some mothers wouldn’t mind a backyard rocket launcher. I just wasn’t sure I wanted one in mine. Years later, Lizzie had the opportunity to skip seventh grade. Again, sh...

  We thought the hamster era would be fun. Noelle adored animals—especially hamsters. So we got her a pair from the pet store, not realizing they were male and female. Nature took its course. Babies arrived. We figured it would be a sweet experience for Noelle: watching them grow, learning about life. But one baby didn’t grow. It had three legs. And the mother killed it—right in front of Noelle. We weren’t prepared. Not for the brutality. Not for the questions. Not for the heartbreak of explaining that in the wild, animals don’t have the means to help their disabled young survive. They do what nature tells them to do. And nature isn’t always kind. Noelle was four. She didn’t have three legs, but she had two legs that didn’t work. She asked, “Would the hamster mother have killed me?” And the answer, of course, was yes. We couldn’t lie. Covering up the truth would have been as cruel as telling it. So we told her. And she sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. Nothing we said could ...

  In our household, we’ve banned very few things. We’re more likely to adapt, explain, or redirect than to outright prohibit. But one evening, when Doah was about seven or eight years old, a certain black-and-white sitcom earned itself a permanent spot on the “nope” list. It started with a scream. Not the kind of scream that makes you pause and say, “Hmm, that’s odd.” No, this was the full-body, sobbing, clutching-his-stomach, begging-for-the-hospital kind of scream. It was late—only the ER was open. I checked his temperature. Normal. Breathing? Fine. No distended belly, no change in skin tone. But the pain appeaed relentless. After a long stretch of inconsolable wailing, I bundled him up and drove to the emergency room. The ER doctor was kind but puzzled. He found what I had found: nothing remarkable. He ordered an x-ray. Still nothing. “Take him home,” he said gently. “Watch him. Bring him back if anything changes.” We stepped out of the hospital doors, and Doah—my swee...