Parenting a Genius (and a Hurricane)

Every parent believes that their child is special, and most believe that their children are smarter than normal. Perhaps they walked or talked early, maybe they tackled a puzzle meant for children much older than themselves, or maybe they excel at sports or other endeavors. That's great and gives parents enormous pride.

But what if your child is seriously intelligent—off-the-charts bright, testing above the genius level? What then?

Most parents would eagerly embrace the concept, I think. Who wouldn’t want a child who could master calculus in grade school, hold conversations with adults that leave them blinking in surprise, or absorb knowledge like a sponge? I suppose I would have been keen on the idea as well. But before adopting Ben, I never really thought about what it meant to parent a child whose intellect far exceeded the norm.

The reality of raising a child with an exceptional IQ is not just about academic acceleration or skipping grades. It’s about navigating a world that wasn’t built for them. Schools, social structures, and even parenting advice books assume a general range of intelligence and development. But the normal playbook gets thrown out the window when your child operates on an entirely different level.

Ben was dazzlingly brilliant. By the time he was in elementary school, he was explaining quantum physics to adults, solving complex math problems in his head, and challenging his teachers in ways they weren’t prepared for. He didn’t just learn—he absorbed, he questioned, he challenged. And that, right there, is one of the first challenges of raising a genius: brilliance is not always convenient.

Geniuses don’t tend to follow instructions blindly. They push back. They question authority, not out of defiance but because they see the flaws in logic and feel compelled to point them out. Ben didn’t believe in doing something just because someone told him to—he needed a reason. And if the reason didn’t hold up under scrutiny, good luck convincing him.

Then there’s the emotional intensity. Many profoundly gifted children experience the world in extremes. The highs are euphoric—full of curiosity, excitement, and the pure joy of discovery. But the lows? The lows can be devastating. Frustration comes quickly when the world moves too slowly, when peers don’t understand, or when emotions hit with the full force of a freight train. Add to that the loneliness of being a child who thinks like an adult but still lacks the maturity to handle complex emotions, and you get a storm of contradictions.

Ben could argue circles around most adults, but he still had the emotional regulation of a child. He was both wise beyond his years and utterly, heartbreakingly vulnerable. And because his intelligence set him apart, it was difficult for him to connect with other kids his age. Conversations about space-time paradoxes don’t always translate well on the playground.

And then, of course, there’s the boundless energy—the hurricane. Genius doesn’t sit still. It moves, it explores, it disrupts. Ben’s mind never stopped racing, which meant he never stopped moving. It was like raising a tornado wrapped in a textbook. He was relentless—always thinking, always questioning, always pushing. He could exhaust even the most patient teacher, frustrate the most experienced caregivers, and leave me equal parts in awe and on the verge of collapse.

Would I have signed up for parenting a genius if I had known what it truly entailed? I honestly don’t know. It’s an extraordinary gift, but it’s also an extraordinary challenge. And for all of Ben’s brilliance, he still faced struggles that no IQ score could solve. His intelligence didn’t shield him from pain, or loss, or the complexities of his own mind. If anything, it made some things harder.

Being Ben’s mother was never easy. But it was never boring, either. And for all the storms he brought into my life, he also brought a kind of brilliance that lit up the world around him.

And that is what I hold onto most.