He Doesn’t Seem to Know

Back to the topic of school.

We’ve been hoping to transfer Martin from his self-contained special-education school to a general-education classroom with an aide. Our local zoned school, at Martin’s grade level, had 26-to-28 kids per class, which is too many, so we looked at private schools. We found two church schools we thought would be good fits. Each school asked Martin to visit, for an entire day, without an aide. Each visit, Martin was at his worst; fighting his Lyme disease has been a rough ride. Combine “Martin is having a bad day” with “Martin is making a full-day visit to a general-ed classroom with no assistance.” The result was no private school placement for Martin.

At the same time, Adrian and I became increasingly convinced that the time has come for Martin to leave his current placement. Martin has started copying undesirable behaviors that he witnesses at school, like whining. Four other boys are leaving the class, including Martin’s two closest social peers. Martin has started self-advocating, telling us that he’d also like to go to a new school. He says he has too many teachers and that he’d like to be in a bigger class, and that he wishes he could go to a school close to home like his friends from play group do. Finally, Martin is finishing second grade, so these decisions concern possible third-grade placement. We’ve been told, by multiple sources, that the distance between second-grade curriculum and third-grade curriculum is the biggest jump in elementary school. Academics (except for reading comprehension and drawing inferences) are Martin’s strong point. Adrian and I worry that the longer we leave Martin in a slower-paced, modified learning environment, the less possible an eventual move to general education will become.

Just when it seemed that leaving Martin in his current school would be our only acceptable, available choice, two late entries arose. First, our district passed a new budget, part of which added additional sections to our zoned school. The class sizes dropped from 26-to-28 kids to 21 or 22 kids. Second, our local Catholic elementary school, which works closely with our district, invited Martin to visit—for a few hours, with an aide—and he happened to be doing well that day. Then the district offered Martin an IEP for general education, with a full-time, one-on-one teaching assistant, plus a consultant special-education teacher, plus resource room, plus regular visits from a behaviorist to the classroom, plus continued speech therapy and, if we wanted more services, occupational therapy, physical therapy, and counseling (services he has in his current placement). This panoply of benefits would be available to us at either our zoned school or the Catholic school.

The decision to pull Martin from his current placement was almost clear. Almost. We still faced this hesitation: Whatever our concerns with academics or behaviors, Martin is safe where he is now. His class is small, structured, and constantly supervised. He faces no playground bullying. He does not stand out because of his differences. His self-esteem is high, his confidence intact. The headmaster of one of the church schools that turned us down earlier this year is a former special-education administrator. Immediately after Martin’s full-day visit there, the headmaster kindly spent 20 minutes on the phone with me and Adrian. He enumerated the reasons why they wouldn’t accept Martin (including, apparently, the 11 times Martin stopped between the gymnasium and the classroom, because he wanted to examine a vase, to look at a photo of last year’s graduates, and so forth). The headmaster also said, in Martin’s favor, “I have to tell you that he made himself right at home. This is quite extraordinary—Martin doesn’t seem to perceive that he has any challenges at all.”

I’d like to keep it that way: that Martin doesn’t perceive that he has challenges. With continued hard work and a little luck, we just might be able to lose the ADHD diagnosis before Martin wonders too much about being different. If we toss him into a classroom of typically developing kids, how much of Martin’s own perception of himself will evolve?

Well, we’re about to find out. Last week, Adrian and I accepted the district’s proposed IEP, placing Martin into general education with an aide, in our zoned school, with one change in plans: At our request, Martin will repeat second grade. He’s changing schools, so the other kids won’t realize that he’s repeating. I hope that repeating second grade will give Martin a chance to adjust to the faster pace of general education before he is called upon to master new material.

Martin’s going to spread his wings. Here’s hoping he can fly.


Martin, in orange, with friends.

Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)

Because we are thinking about changing Martin’s school placement, Adrian and I decided to order a new neuropsychological educational assessment (a “neuropsych”). Martin also had a neuropsych three years ago, before he entered kindergarten, and last year. Those first two neuropsychs were completed by Dr. DS, a practitioner in Manhattan. This time we switched to Dr. PS, a practitioner in a suburb near ours, who knows our local schools and who had never before met Martin. Dr. DS and Dr. PS are mainstream neurodevelopmental psychiatrists, not biomed practitioners. Before Dr. PS started her testing, I enumerated Martin’s issues at this time: paying attention, sitting still, emotional regulation. I did not say “autism,” though she certainly must have seen that word on the previous neuropsychs and the school records I provided.

We had our parent meeting with Dr. PS last week, after she’d had three lengthy testing sessions with Martin. She told us that Martin’s primary trouble lies in executive functioning. She diagnosed him with ADHD, compounded by social/pragmatic language delays.

She didn’t mention “autism.”

Adrian asked, “You’re saying he has attention deficit and hyperactivity?”

Dr. PS answered, “Really, hyperactivity is a minor part. The primary issue is attention deficit, this inability to focus. That stems from the executive functioning and affects his performance in many areas, including school.”

Adrian is Adrian. He likes concrete, definitive responses. He asked, immediately, “Um, why don’t you think Martin has autism?”—not the question I would have posed. I like to leave well enough alone.

Dr. PS said that different practitioners come at executive functioning in different ways. Martin, she said, presents with “a little bit of this, and a little bit of that,” such that, perhaps, a doctor focused on autism might find a mild spectrum disorder. In Dr. PS’s opinion, however, Martin “does not meet the diagnostic criteria for autism spectrum disorder.” He presents much more strongly as a child with attention deficits. True, he retains difficulties with social/pragmatic language, but he is eager to socialize and keenly aware of others. No, she concluded, he doesn’t have autism.

“So,” I said to Adrian as we climbed into bed that night, “we don’t have a son with autism anymore.”

Adrian paused. Then he replied, “I guess we’ve known that for a while.”

I guess we have.

Martin can express himself, now. Martin doesn’t really have repetitive behaviors, anymore. Martin’s perseveration, which once was literal inability to stop speaking, has faded to a penchant for prattling about obscure topics, like marching bands and features of my car’s dashboard. Martin knows exactly what other kids are up to. He won’t let me affix a sport strap to his glasses anymore, because “Zach and John don’t have straps on their glasses.” Martin is awkward, socially, and his attention span has the half-life of hydrogen-7. But “autism”? These days, that seems too harsh.

On the other hand, it feels strange—to say I don’t have a son with autism. We still have a lot of work to do with Martin’s executive functioning, and the spectrum has been a driving component of our life, even of my own identity. We socialize with other autism families. We swap articles about autism. I even pre-board airplanes, on the basis that “my son has autism.” (The pre-boarding will have to stop. I will let airline attendants draw their own inferences, but I won’t lie.) Autism, autism, autism. What do I do now? Find ADHD friends?

Adrian and I have never been public about Martin’s diagnosis. Indeed, we’ve gone to lengths to hide his autism. In part, that’s because “autism” is a scary word. ADHD or ADD, not so scary. People seem to love to self-diagnosis with ADD. Maybe now we can go public with that moniker.

Almost six years ago—the summer that Martin turned two—was when Adrian and I started to realize that Martin had “issues.” Other kids blew out the candles on their birthday cakes. Martin stared into the abyss over his own cake. (We later discovered he lacked the ability to pucker, or to blow.) In the toddler soccer program, when the coach said, “Run and kick a cone,” nine kids ran and kicked a cone. Martin wandered to the next field and tipped over the goal.

By that fall, we were sufficiently concerned to ask a high-school friend of mine, an EI provider, to come take a look at Martin. She did, and she knew immediately that he had autism. The first psychologist, sent by New York City only a couple weeks after my friend saw Martin, said, “It’s autism. You might call it ‘high-functioning autism,’ or, ‘Asperger’s syndrome’.” But though Adrian and I didn’t realize it, Martin was backsliding. He had already lost eye contact and was becoming less responsive every day. By the time the Big Imposing Hospital’s neurodevelopmental team got hold of Martin, several months later, there was no mention of “high-functioning” or “Asperger’s.” They diagnosed Martin with moderate autism and threw in the kitchen sink of co-conditions: delays in every type of communication, low muscle tone and lack of proprioceptive awareness, sleep disorder, possible cognitive impairment, and on, and on, and on.

Let’s call that the low point.

Fortunately, we had already started biomed and the tedious brick-by-brick struggle to free our son from autism.

When he was three, Martin’s special-needs preschool removed him from a self-contained 12-1-1 classroom (12 special-ed students, one teacher, one aide) based on his need for more supervision, and his inability to keep up with the other developmentally delayed three-year-olds. The school placed him instead in an 8-1-2 classroom, in which two other students had 1-on-1 aides (in total, eight special-ed students, one teacher, two classroom aides, and two dedicated aides). Martin was left in that classroom for two years.

When it came time to find a kindergarten—we lived in New York City, where kids don’t just go to the local school, as they might elsewhere—we had Martin’s first neuropsych done. Dr. DS, the Manhattan neurodevelopmental psychologist, confirmed the autism diagnosis as “not a close call.” He told us that our desired elementary school, which has 12-student special-ed classrooms, would not provide enough support for Martin, and would be likely too advanced, academically. He said we were “really looking more at a need for 1-on-1 support” or a six-student ABA classroom.

Forget that, Adrian and I decided. When the desired school, with the 12-student classrooms, accepted Martin, we sent him there. And he excelled.

Two years later, before second grade, it was time for another neuropsych. To get a reasonably comparative assessment, we brought Martin back to Dr. DS.

Dr. DS admitted that he had been mistaken to think Martin wouldn’t make it at our chosen school. In fact, Dr. DS was not so sure Martin still needed all the support the school offered. “I’ve seen some remarkable progress,” Dr. DS said when he presented us with Martin’s report. Martin had moved from the third percentile to the 83rd percentile in receptive language, for example, and though the autism was still prevalent, he had made tremendous gains in other areas, too. What were we doing?

I told Dr. DS about our biomed protocol and nontraditional therapies, like HANDLE and Anat Baniel Method. He listened. At least he appeared to listen. When I finished, Adrian asked Dr. DS what our next steps should be, and Dr. DS said, “Medicate Martin. Now is a good time to start experimenting with medications, so that by the time he reaches third grade, when the curriculum becomes more advanced, you will already know the best combination and dosage of medications, whether it’s depressants, stimulants, or something else.”

Thank you, Dr. DS!

Another year passed, and this time we brought Martin to suburban Dr. PS, who opined that autism spectrum disorder is no longer the correct diagnosis for Martin. She said that her testing revealed an upward trajectory from Dr. DS’s reports. While Martin once had significant delays in all four areas of language, Dr. PS said, he now exhibited delay only in pragmatic/social language. “So looking at his history,” she said, “we can see that Martin was not destined to be a child with receptive or expressive language problems, as those have faded away.”

Destiny? I asked myself. Destiny didn’t resolve Martin’s receptive and expressive language delays. Biomed did.

“What should we be thinking about for next year?” Adrian asked.

Three components, said Dr. PS. First, the choice of school setting. Second, additional therapies and resources. And third, medication. It’s time to start experimenting to find the best medication for Martin’s ADHD.

I’m tempted to write, Thank you, Dr. PS! There’s an addendum, however. I told Dr. PS that we are “hesitant” to medicate Martin because doing so would interfere with our biomed protocol. The progress we’ve made, I explained, has resulted from a restricted diet, supplementation, and constant reevaluation of Martin’s health needs. Dr. PS—remember, she’s a mainstream neurodevelopmental psychiatrist—asked pertinent questions, like what kind of doctor we see and whether the protocol is test-based. (There are charlatans in the autism-recovery universe. I know that.) After I provided sufficient reassurance on those points, Dr. PS said we are probably right not to medicate at this time. If what we are doing biomedically is working, she said, then we should exhaust that route. Experimenting with medication does not have a time limit, and it is okay to start later.

So, actually, really, thank you, Dr. PS. Thank you for listening and reconsidering.

And, for my readers, especially my long-term readers, here’s a special tidbit: Do you remember my lengthy post about Mr. and Mrs. Twice-Exceptional, the Quirky Genius School, and the movie The Imitation Game? You might want to revisit that one.

As she was reviewing Martin’s test scores with us, Dr. PS pointed out a wide discrepancy in the different fields. In many academic areas, including reasoning and some language-based tasks, Martin’s scores were at the top of the bell curve, well above the average range. He uses his formidable intellect and those stand-out skills, Dr. PS said, to compensate for his still subpar executive functioning.

“You see,” Dr. PS told us, “your son is what we refer to as ‘twice-exceptional’.”

Once and Twice

When we still lived in the City, I spent several months touring private schools for kids with special needs. Martin was going to be entering kindergarten. Our zoned elementary school had no special education other than an integrated co-taught class, in which a general-education teacher and a special-education teacher worked together to handle more than 25 kids. No way was Martin ready for that. Indeed, New York City’s Department of Education determined that Martin didn’t have sufficient attention-span even to enter its public ASD Nest program, which has integrated co-taught classes of just 12 students. The DOE also has an ASD Horizon program, self-contained (i.e., all-special-education) classes for kids who are deemed ineligible for Nest, but (1) none was taking place anywhere near us, and (2) Horizon utilizes Applied Behavioral Analysis, or ABA. When Martin underwent ABA therapy in Early Intervention, he became frustrated and resistant, and also seemed to think perseveration and repetition are positive habits.

So the public Nest and Horizon programs were ruled out, and the DOE school psychologist overseeing Martin’s case said he didn’t have another appropriate placement to offer. By then we had started looking at the private schools. New York City has dozens of special-education private schools to fill the gaps in what the DOE is able to offer. Most of them won’t accept a child’s application without a parental tour, a neuropsychological assessment of educational needs, a written submission including developmental history, and one or more visits by the child. Looking for the best fit for Martin, I toured 14 schools, with each tour taking between one and three hours. From that, I came up with a list of four schools I thought would be appropriate for Martin, and then I started the applications.

Is there another American city where even special education is hyper-competitive?

During this time, while touring private special-education schools, I was beset by a couple whom I (privately) called “the Twice-Exceptionals.” I suppose I actually saw the Twice-Exceptionals only four or five times. Yet it felt like they were everywhere. You’re about to find out more about me than I should probably reveal. Here goes: The Twice-Exceptionals annoyed me.

The first time we shared a tour, I introduced myself and said I’d seen them around the special-ed preschool that both our sons attended. What did they think of this kindergarten we were visiting?

“It seems nice,” the mother responded, “but we’re pretty sure it isn’t right for [their wonder kid].”

“Is Wonder Kid’s diagnosis not on their ‘accept’ list?” I asked. A lot of the private special-ed schools, especially those that are “state-approved,” have a list of diagnoses that they are authorized to accept. “Speech-language delay” and “learning disability” might be in, for example, while “cognitive impairment” and “emotional disturbance” are out.

Aside: I’ll admit to feeling down on the kindergarten-admissions process when school after school claimed they didn’t accept kids with “autism or other global delay.”

“His diagnosis isn’t the problem. It’s that Wonder Kid is twice-exceptional. We feel like this school wouldn’t be able to handle his academic potential.”

“What does it mean that mean, twice-exceptional?”

“Wonder Kid is on the autism spectrum and also gifted.”

“Oh. Wow! How can you tell something like that already? I feel like our boys are so young.”

“We knew very early,” replied Mrs. Twice-Exceptional. “Wonder Kid started reading before he turned three. He already does math in his head. This morning when he woke up, he said, ‘It’s only 6:34, and I don’t have to get up until 6:40. I’m going to stay in bed for six minutes’.”

“That’s amazing!”

Mr. Twice-Exceptional spoke up: “We’re most interested in the Quirky Genius School that opened last year. It serves twice-exceptional students.” (Obviously, or not so obviously, “Quirky Genius School” is a pseudonym.)

I marveled at the world in which we live. “They have a whole school just for kids who are gifted and also have autism?”

Back to Mrs. Twice-Exceptional: “Yes! We can’t wait to tour the Quirky Genius School next month. We are almost certain that’s going to be the right fit for Wonder Kid. Haven’t you considered the Quirky Genius School for Martin?”

“No. I mean, I’m pretty sure Martin is only once exceptional.” At the time, late 2012—I read back in this blog to confirm—Martin had just started using the command form, and I marveled when he once managed an “I don’t know.” He could read, some. He lacked the language facility to tell me much more about what he knew, and his hand wasn’t steady or strong enough for writing or drawing.

“You never know. He might surprise you,” Mrs. Twice-Exceptional assured me. “You should at least take a look at the Quirky Genius School.”

I’ve always hoped that Adrian and I would make a bright kid. It seems perfectly plausible. I finished first in my college and graduated from an Ivy League law school. Adrian was among the top five students in the best law school in his country of origin. Smart genes! But during the kindergarten tour process, we were still working on getting Martin to sleep through the night and ask questions. “Gifted” felt far off. (Don’t beat me up, readers. Don’t beat me up, Martin, if you read this sometime in the future. I think my kid has a better-than-average chance to be, ahem, “gifted.” It’s just that he’s a work-in-progress, and it’s too early to tell.) “Thanks,” I said to Mrs. Twice-Exceptional. “I will. I’ll look into the Quirky Genius School.”

“Let’s stay in touch!” she exclaimed. She rummaged in her handbag and extracted a business card.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” I said as she handed me the card. “I don’t have a card to give you. I’m not working right now.” Icky. First I had a son only once exceptional, and now I didn’t even have a job.

Mrs. Twice-Exceptional said, “That one’s not my business card. It’s my personal card.”

As that morning’s school tour began, I examined the card. It had big blocks of primary colors, Mrs. Twice-Exceptional’s name and email and phone number, and her title: Wonder Kid’s Mother. That was her title. Mother of a twice-exceptional wonder kid.

I sensed we probably wouldn’t be staying in touch.

But alas, they were unavoidable. At the next kindergarten tour, just a few days later, there they were. Mr. and Mrs. They did all the tours together, a unified front of exceptionalism doubled. Adrian, with his long work hours, toured the two schools Martin’s social worker identified as likely best fits. The other 12 I visited alone.

“Hello again!” Mrs. Twice-Exceptional greeted me. “Did you get a chance to look at the Quirky Genius School?”

“I did,” I said. “I checked the website. It looks like a terrific program. I’m not sure it would be right for Martin, but wow. Looks like exactly what you want for Wonder Kid.”

“It is,” Mr. Twice-Exceptional said. “It really is. We’re just sorry that we have the Quirky Genius School tour scheduled so late. It would be great to find the perfect fit early instead of visiting so many schools.”

Why did I resent this friendly couple? Was it the insistence on “twice-exceptionalism”? Was it their forcing me to declare my own son just once-exceptional? Was it the business card? Both of them showing up at every tour? The fact that the wife followed me throughout one tour to share details of her weight-loss journey? That she informed me that they would leave the City for a suburban district if only their hands weren’t tied by living in a beautiful rent-stabilized apartment?

All I know is that, on each of several kindergarten tours, Mr. and Mrs. Twice-Exceptional inquired with uncomfortable determination whether I was now considering the Quirky Genius School for Martin.

Last weekend Adrian and I saw The Imitation Game. Lovely movie. For the most part, well-scripted and –acted, and a meaningful story. The main character, Alan Turing, is a math and computer-science prodigy who may have been on the autism spectrum. I didn’t know that detail before watching the movie; afterward, I did some research and found conflicting reports on whether Turing was on the spectrum, or just awkward, and if the latter, how awkward. For this post, I’m going to take the Hollywood version and assume that Turing was “twice-exceptional.” As in, wickedly super-twice-exceptional, on brain-power shots.

As the film depicts, and as additional accounts seem to bear out, Alan Turing’s genius and work effort shaped history, shaving some years from World War II and sparing millions of lives. Turing also ended up profoundly unhappy. To be sure, spiteful laws enabling the persecution of homosexuals (as Turing was) contributed to the malaise. So, very possibly, did his social challenges.

Which brings me to consider a hypothetical: Would I rather raise a genius who makes extraordinary, positive gifts to history, yet who himself wallows in despair? Or would I rather raise a man whose contribution to society is limited to taking care of himself and his own, and yet whose existence is marked by love and contentment?

Easy question. For the sake of humanity, I’d rather raise the desperate genius. For the sake of my own son, I’d rather raise the happy, ordinary gent. And my own son trumps society. My family first, then my friends, then my closest neighbors, my society, and the rest. That’s the natural order of things. (I’ve touched on this theme before.) How could I sacrifice my own child’s happiness for anything, even in order to shorten a war?

I’m not faced with that choice, at least not that I know. If Martin is a genius of historical proportion, I haven’t seen it yet. On the other hand, even if Martin is not twice-exceptional, he does have an unusual worldview and some exceptional abilities. He categorizes memories by specific date. “Mommy, on Thursday, September 25, I had lasagna and green smoothie at a restaurant in Manhattan,” he told me, unprovoked, one recent afternoon. “I don’t think that’s quite right, Martin. You had those at PeaceFood Cafe after we went to the children’s museum with Jason and his mommy, so I think it must have been a Saturday or Sunday.” When he insisted on the date, I checked my calendar. Indeed. Thursday, September 25. Rosh Hashanah. Martin didn’t have school, so we made a playdate with Jason. Yesterday, when Martin said, “Mommy, on Tuesday, December 16, did Georgie [one of the cats] sleep on my bed?”, which he meant more as a statement than a question, I responded, “You know, I don’t remember dates that well, but I’m sure it’s possible that Georgie slept on your bed on Tuesday, December 16.”

When Martin turned six-and-a-half, Adrian and I wished him a happy half-birthday. Martin answered, “Oh! I’m 78 months old.” At first, I thought he’d computed the number—(12 x 6) + (12 ÷ 2) = 78—completely in his head. Probably not, though; some weeks earlier, he’d asked me a string of questions on months and years: “How many months are in one year? How many months are in two years?” I reckon he must’ve remembered (his memory is uncanny) that six years have 72 months, then added six, for half of one year’s months. In any event, what an odd response to “It’s your half-birthday! Happy half-birthday!”

Last summer, we were up in the Adirondacks with my sister and her daughter, Mandy, whom based on her initials we sometimes call MC, pronounced “Mick.” The cabin we rented had some basic supplies: paper towels, cooking oil, spices. One morning at breakfast, Martin started asking about the salt and pepper on the table. Would MC take the salt and pepper with her when we left? Did MC bring the salt and pepper from home? Were there salt and pepper for Martin?

“Martin, what do you mean?” I asked. “Why would MC take the salt and pepper home?”

“Because they’re hers,” he replied.

“No. We found them here. They belong to the cabin.”

“Why do they have ‘MC’ on them?”

Because they were McCormick brand salt and pepper, and the containers had little “Mc” logos on them. To an average six-year-old, that might not mean that the condiments belong to Cousin Mandy. The average six-year-old might not even think through the meaning of the salt logo. The average six-year-old is not Martin.

“Will he lose that, as he gets better?” asked my sister that night, tactfully, while we doused the evening campfire. “That different way of looking at things?”

“I don’t know, but I think so. I think he will start to think more typically,” I said. One mother I know told me that her son used to be able to determine, within seconds, the day of the week on which a person was born, just by knowing the year and date. As her son’s coping and social skills improved, his ability to figure birthdays-of-the-week evaporated. (In my goings about the autism community, I’ve met several boys with that skill.) Another mother told me that when various biomed interventions increased her four-year-old’s speaking skills, his precocious reading declined.

I once mentioned this subject to Adrian. I asked whether he thought Martin will lose his super memory or advanced spelling ability, or his compartmentalized way of thinking. I asked whether he thought Martin might, in recovery, become less amazing.

Adrian was silent for a few moments. As between the two of us, I think, Adrian had the higher “traditional” expectations for Martin. Adrian and I come from different socioeconomic backgrounds, indeed different cultures. When we decided to procreate, we weren’t one or the other of us more or less reasonable in our aspirations, but different. I hoped for a well-rounded child who enjoyed sports as well as reading, who made friends and enjoyed their company. Adrian thought more about long-term educational prospects and prestigious careers.

Eventually Adrian replied to my question about unusual thinking versus recovery. He said, “You know what? I’ll settle for happy. I really will.”

The last time I saw the Twice-Exceptionals, other than preschool graduation, was on a kindergarten tour after their much-anticipated visit to the Quirky Genius School. “So how was it?” I asked, feigning enthusiasm. “Are you done? Are you going to apply to other schools, or just Quirky Genius?”

Mrs. Twice-Exceptional said, “We hated it.”

Mr. Twice-Exceptional echoed, “Hated it.”

Mrs. Twice-Exceptional continued, “It was the most disorganized place ever. It’s too new. They have no idea what they’re doing.”

Mr. Twice-Exceptional repeated, “Hated it.”

Their twice-exceptional wonder kid, I heard later, ended up in a public-school ASD Nest program, the very program that had rejected my Martin.

I hope we all get to “happy.”

Martin visiting Stanford University. We are shooting for happy. That doesn't mean the sky isn't the limit.

Martin visiting Stanford University. We are shooting for happy. That doesn’t mean the sky isn’t the limit.