It all started with a call from school.
Not about a forgotten lunch. Not a mix-up at pickup.
This one was serious: the school psychologist wanted to meet with my mom.
Naturally, Mom spent the morning spiraling. Had I said something unusual? Drawn something alarming? Corrected a teacher one too many times? By the time she arrived, she was bracing for the worst.
The psychologist welcomed her warmly and led her into a small office: two chairs, a low table, and a neat row of printed pictures.
Potatoes. Carrots. Beets.
On the surface, harmless. But the psychologist leaned forward and asked, “What would you call these together?”
Mom didn’t hesitate. “Vegetables,” she answered.
The psychologist nodded. “Correct. But your daughter said something different.”
Mom froze. When a professional says a child answered differently, it’s rarely charming—it usually raises alarms.
“What did she say?” Mom asked cautiously.
“She said… ‘ingredients.’ More specifically, ‘ingredients for soup.’”
Mom blinked. “Ingredients?”
“Yes,” the psychologist said, folding her hands. “She answered instantly, without pausing or asking for clarification, and with full confidence.”
Mom laughed nervously. “Well… she helps me cook a lot.”
“Exactly,” the psychologist replied.
Apparently, the exercise was meant to see how children categorize objects: by label, abstract concept, or personal experience. Most kids said “vegetables.” Some said “food.” A few even said, “things I don’t like.” But I skipped the label entirely. I went straight to function: potatoes were mashed, fried, or soup. Carrots were snacks or cake ingredients. Beets? They stained everything—and went in soup anyway.
The psychologist reassured Mom that this was normal. In fact, it showed strong practical thinking and real-world association.
Mom raised an eyebrow. “So… she’s normal?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the psychologist said quickly. “She just thinks practically.”
That should have ended it.
It didn’t.
Earlier that week, the class was asked what a chair is for. Most kids said, “Sitting.” I said, “Standing on to reach high places.” Another day, when asked about a bed, most said, “Sleeping.” I said, “Reading, hiding snacks, pretending to be sick.”
Each answer made sense—just not the expected way.
The psychologist explained that I didn’t see objects by their definitions. I saw them by how I used them.
Mom exhaled, laughed, and said, “So she’s not troubled. She’s just… me.”
By the time Mom picked me up, her worry had turned to amusement. On the walk home, she asked, “Why ingredients?”
“Because that’s what they do,” I shrugged.
“You know they’re vegetables.”
“Sure,” I said. “But vegetables don’t do anything. Ingredients do.”
End of discussion.
Years later, this story still comes up at family dinners—usually right after someone asks me to call something the “normal” way.
It was never really about vegetables. It was about perspective.
Some people see labels. Some see rules. Some see categories.
I see purpose. Patterns. Function.
And if that’s a problem? At least it makes a memorable story.