Explaining the experience of raising a child with ADD to someone who hasn’t lived it is truly a challenge.
“Oh, my daughter takes forever to get her shoes and socks on too. That doesn’t mean she has ADD. That’s just how kids are,” they say.
What they fail to grasp is that I’m referring to a genuine eternity. I could instruct my daughter to put on her shoes and socks, and return three years later to find her still sitting there, likely gazing out the window, her little feet still bare. And I can assure you that her final thought wouldn’t be, “Wow, I’m really thirsty.” It would probably be, “Awww! I was nearly done admiring those leaves on that tree.”
“Don’t worry — my kid tunes out during her softball games too. She spends half the time picking dandelions in the outfield.”
Sure, but how many times have other parents complained that my kid is making their child extremely anxious by sneaking up behind them while playing “The Lion’s Gonna Getcha!” throughout the entire game? And that’s on the days I’m not rescuing her from a tree in the woods behind the backstop every time it’s her turn to bat.
Reaching the point of understanding why she can write and illustrate a novella yet freeze up at the mere mention of 2+2 has been the most terrifying, stressful, and perplexing experience of my life.
It all began when I enrolled her in a preschool class at just 18 months.
“Have you noticed that Lily kind of… spaces out a lot?” her teacher asked one day. “She just seems to drift away, and sometimes it takes a significant effort to bring her back?”
“Ummm, yes?” I hesitantly replied, aware that not recognizing my child’s frequent mental getaways could be seen as a parenting failure.
What I had noticed was that I had a toddler, a baby, and I was pregnant with my third child. Each night when I tucked them in, I was amazed I had managed to keep everyone safe for another day. I already felt guilty for not doing enough for her, and this observation from her teacher sent me into a frenzy.
Like any devoted parent, I took it to heart. I didn’t know what “it” was, but I decided “it” was something significant, something bad, and definitely my fault.
“It” was because I didn’t spend enough quality time with her. Because I didn’t prepare her baby food from organic vegetables. Because I enjoyed a glass of wine at a friend’s wedding while pregnant. Because after she was born, I worked from home and sometimes let her watch cartoons during conference calls.
“Let’s just monitor the situation,” her teacher suggested. “It’s probably nothing.”
But “it” was indeed something.
“We’re puzzled by Lily,” her teachers would begin, like they were reading from a script. “Some days, she comes in, knows exactly what’s happening, and breezes through activities. Other days, she appears lost, unsure of where to hang her coat. When we do letters or counting, she looks at us as if we’re speaking a foreign language.” Then they would pause, “But wow, she is incredibly imaginative! Look at this drawing she created!”
In the spring before kindergarten, her teachers recommended she undergo screening. Unsure of what for, I participated in a three-hour evaluation. I sat behind a curtain, overhearing whispers like “above average,” “fine,” “unnecessary,” and “Why was she sent here again?”
I walked away with a “within normal range” slip, feeling humiliated, as if I had fabricated some issue. Everything was supposedly fine.
I relaxed until…
That fall, she started kindergarten, and shortly after, I received a letter: “Based on assessments and recommendations, your child qualifies for additional services…”
My world spun, and my stomach sank. I preferred being the crazy parent. Thus began a tumultuous roller coaster of inconsistency for the following two years.
This roller coaster included feelings of failure upon receiving letters about her qualifying for special math and writing services. It made me feel deranged when I took my daughter in for evaluations where she excelled at every task. It was the panic of repeated concerns from her teachers about her attention and the embarrassment of hearing from the school counselor that she was “fine. Just let her be 6.” It was witnessing a little girl who could complete her homework one day and then weep in frustration the next. It was friends insisting all kids behave similarly, which made me want to bang my head against the wall. It was reading books warning that without medication, my child would face self-esteem issues leading to drugs and promiscuity. It was horror stories about parents who medicated their children only to find them turned into zombies, devoid of their creativity and brilliance.
Honestly, I didn’t immediately connect what was happening to ADD. It wasn’t until her first-grade teacher mentioned “attention” that the light bulb finally flickered on, prompting me to research ADD. Until that point, I had associated it solely with hyperactive boys who couldn’t sit still. Discovering that it often manifests differently in girls was enlightening, and the literature I found seemed as if it had been written just for her — the daydreaming, the struggles with math and spelling, the difficulties in picking up social cues from her friends, the over-the-top silliness, the extraordinary pretend play, the imagination that writers would envy.
In an ideal world, my daughter would spend her days in what we lovingly call “Lily Land,” daydreaming about fairies and flavors of ice cream. However, we had to face reality; she will eventually need to leave home, which requires a basic grasp of math.
Moreover, “Lily Land” doesn’t translate well in the classroom. A little over a year ago, my usually joyful, carefree daughter returned from school in tears. “I don’t understand what’s happening at school,” she sobbed. “My teacher thinks it’s because I’m not paying attention, but I am. My brain just keeps interrupting her.”
That’s when I realized that she was the one I truly needed to listen to all along.
We began weekly math and spelling tutoring sessions with a wonderful educator who understood her needs. We eliminated most artificial colors, sugars, and established an early bedtime. She now sits at the front of the class, and her teacher is fantastic about gently “bringing her back” when needed, without drawing attention to it. We arranged for an evaluation with a child psychiatrist specializing in ADD for an official diagnosis and continue monthly consultations. Recently, we also started medication.
My hands trembled as I administered the first dose, anxiously checking her pupils and asking, “How do you feel? Are you seeing spots, or having trouble breathing?” every 30 seconds, pulling her lips back to inspect her gums for bleeding.
Like many, I was terrified that the medication would change her, dull her sparkle, and make her — gasp — mundane. Images of the hamburger grinder in The Wall haunted me.
And she has changed. We are learning as we go, still far from having it all figured out, but we are in a much better place now. She has learned to channel those creative thoughts that once flitted aimlessly in her mind into organized concepts. Her room is filled with “Invention Journals” featuring sketches of prototypes. She has authored and illustrated multiple books and crafts board games from recycled materials like egg cartons and shoe boxes. She may not love math, but she is thriving in school and no longer requires special services.
Her “Sparkly Brain” has become an integral part of our family, and we cherish it. It brings us joy and frustration in equal measure, and one day, she will use it to make a significant impact on the world.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting at the dining room table with my husband after dinner.
“She’s going to be okay,” he reassured me. “I was a bluebird, you know.”
“What’s a bluebird?” I asked.
“The ‘special’ reading group,” he explained, making air quotes. “I couldn’t read to save my life until med school. Actually, I think I have ADD, so she probably inherited it from me.”
“Holy moly,” I exclaimed, slamming my palm on the table. It suddenly all clicked into place. “You’re right. But you know what? That information would have been helpful, like three years ago when I was convinced I was ruining our kid!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, casually taking a sip of his wine. “I just hadn’t thought about it until now.”
“Shhh,” I said, patting his hand. “It’s okay. Just go back to Nick Land. I hear it’s lovely there.”
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Summary:
Parenting a child with ADD is a complex journey full of challenges and revelations. This narrative shares the struggles of one mother as she navigates her daughter’s unique needs, highlighting the importance of understanding, support, and the balancing act between creativity and academic success. With the right approach, including tutoring and medication, families can embrace the unique qualities that ADD brings to their lives.