The Response That Made the School Psychologist Stop and Think

It began with a phone call from school.

Not the kind about a forgotten lunch.
Not a mix-up with dismissal.

This was a please come in and speak with us kind of call.

The school psychologist wanted to meet with my mom.

Naturally, my mom spent the rest of the morning spiraling through every possible explanation. Had I said something unsettling? Drawn something concerning? Corrected a teacher one too many times? By the time she walked into the school office, she was already preparing for the worst.

The psychologist greeted her kindly and led her into a small office. Two chairs. A low table. On it were several printed pictures laid out neatly.

Potatoes.
Carrots.
Beets.

Nothing alarming. At least not yet.

The psychologist slid the images toward my mom and asked casually,
“What would you call these things together?”

My mom didn’t hesitate.
“Vegetables,” she said.

The psychologist nodded.
“Yes. That’s correct.”

Then she paused.

“But your daughter said something else.”

That’s when my mom’s stomach dropped.

Because when a professional says your child answered differently, it rarely means differently in a charming way. It usually means something needs to be examined.

“What did she say?” my mom asked carefully.

The psychologist smiled. Not amused exactly. More like she was trying to stay neutral.

“She said… ‘ingredients.’”

My mom blinked.
“Ingredients?”

“Yes,” the psychologist replied. “More specifically, ‘ingredients for soup.’”

On the surface, it didn’t sound concerning. Honestly, it sounded practical. But the psychologist leaned back in her chair, folding her hands, like that single answer had opened a door she wasn’t sure how to explain.

“She didn’t pause,” the psychologist continued. “She didn’t ask for clarification. She looked at the pictures and answered with complete confidence.”

My mom gave a nervous laugh.
“Well… she helps me cook a lot.”

The psychologist nodded.
“That’s exactly what she said.”

Apparently, the exercise was meant to assess how children categorize objects. Whether they grouped items by learned labels, abstract concepts, or personal experience. Most kids said “vegetables.” A few said “food.” One kid reportedly said, “things I don’t like.”

But my answer skipped labels entirely.

I went straight to function.

To me, potatoes weren’t vegetables. They were mashed potatoes. Fries. Soup bases.
Carrots weren’t vegetables. They were snacks. Cake ingredients. Something you chopped while balancing on a stool.
Beets? I didn’t like them—but I knew they stained everything and showed up in soup whether you wanted them there or not.

So when asked what they were together, my brain didn’t reach for a classroom answer. It went to the kitchen.

The psychologist explained all this gently, reassuring my mom that nothing was wrong. In fact, she said it pointed to strong contextual thinking and real-world association.

My mom still raised an eyebrow.
“So… she’s normal?”

“Oh, absolutely,” the psychologist said quickly. “She just thinks… practically.”

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Because once the psychologist started talking, it became clear this wasn’t the only moment that had caught her attention.

Earlier that week, the class had been asked what a chair was for.

Most kids said, “Sitting.”

I said, “Standing on to reach high places.”

Another day, they were asked what a bed was for.

Most said, “Sleeping.”

I said, “Reading, hiding snacks, and pretending to be sick.”

Each answer made sense. Just not in the expected way.

The psychologist explained that I didn’t approach objects by their official definition. I thought of them based on how they were used in my life.

My mom sighed with relief, then laughed.
“So she’s not troubled. She’s just… me.”

That earned her a knowing smile.

By the time my mom picked me up from school, her worry had turned into amusement. As we walked home, she asked,
“So… why ingredients?”

I shrugged.
“Because that’s what they are.”

She tried again.
“But you know they’re vegetables.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But vegetables don’t do anything. Ingredients do.”

End of discussion.

Years later, the story still gets brought up at family dinners. Usually right after someone asks me to label something the “normal” way and I don’t.

Looking back, it was never really about vegetables.

It was about perspective.

Some people see categories.
Some see rules.
Some see labels.

Others see patterns, purpose, and what things become once you use them.

And honestly?

If that’s a problem, at least it makes for a great story. 🥕🥔🥣