Parenting Insights
By: Laura Henderson
Updated: Jan. 30, 2019
Originally Published: Feb. 11, 2015
Yesterday afternoon, my 9-year-old son, Ethan, enveloped me in a hug. It was a genuine embrace, his slender arms wrapping around my waist while he rested his head against my chest, allowing the moment to linger. It was akin to hugging a butterfly. Typically, butterflies flit about, lightly touching surfaces before darting away, their vibrant wings poised to take flight.
This is how Ethan is—always in motion. He’s kinetic and lively. When he speaks, his words spill out in a rush, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, punctuating his chatter with spontaneous hops or rising onto his toes. His gaze often wanders, distracted by the world around him. At his computer, brief silences are broken by the thudding of him jumping up to peer out the window or bouncing back to his chair. He literally bounces off the walls.
His hugs are usually quick and stiff-armed, reminiscent of a cat that prefers a brief cuddle before darting off. I cherish these moments, though they are infrequent.
As a fourth grader, the pattern remains unchanged year after year. The notes in his daily planner read: “Ethan is having trouble following instructions,” “Ethan is disturbing others,” “Ethan won’t remain seated.” The comments change only in handwriting as the years and teachers pass. This brilliant boy, who once asked me for ammonium dichromate to create a realistic volcano, and who was programming computers by age seven, has become “that kid” at school—the one who’s perpetually out of his seat, poking at others’ papers, disorganized, and struggling to keep pace. But he’s not just “that kid.” His challenges have overshadowed his potential, which is genuinely heartbreaking.
It’s not just sad; it’s devastating. It tears at a mother’s heart to witness her child face more frustration than encouragement, more “no’s” than “yes’s.” I can only imagine how difficult it is for Ethan. If only he could just sit still and listen! I want to plead with him, but I know that for whatever reason, he simply can’t.
We’ve watched him decline, feeling powerless as his love for learning fades, his curiosity dimming year by year. Despite our best efforts—diet changes, various disciplinary tactics, and positive reinforcement—we’ve struggled to adequately address his needs. It’s painful to see him fight.
I yearn for his teachers to recognize the wonderful child we see, the one who occasionally shines through in calmer moments. I want them to see his kindness, his intelligence, and the light he possesses. During countless parent-teacher meetings, I’ve fought back tears trying to convey that Ethan is so much more than his behavior suggests. I know he can be challenging; please don’t let that cloud your perception of who he truly is.
At one meeting about a year ago, it was suggested that he might be on the autism spectrum. After extensive testing with a psychologist specializing in childhood learning disorders, we received a diagnosis—but it wasn’t autism. Instead, it was attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
Initially, I felt a wave of disappointment. Like many, I had associated ADHD with the notion of “your child can’t control himself.” I viewed it as a catch-all label for kids who are simply active, a convenient excuse for medicating children to conform. I worried that medication would turn my vibrant child into a lifeless shell.
“No medication,” I told Ethan’s therapist firmly. We explored numerous non-medicated strategies, and while some helped, nothing truly changed. He was still struggling, and we were all exhausted.
Finally, we decided to explore medication, an option we had previously resisted. His therapist, pediatrician, and teacher all supported this path. I insisted on starting with a low dose, vowing to stop if there were any adverse effects.
The day Ethan took his first dose, I watched him closely. When he came home from school, I was astonished. He walked straight to the car—no lingering as usual—wearing a smile instead of bouncing around. He hung up his coat and backpack without being asked, completed his homework in ten minutes, and had a good note from his teacher. For the first time in years, we had an uninterrupted conversation, and he was calm.
And that hug—oh, that hug! For the first time, Ethan seemed genuinely at ease. Not in a disconnected way, but rather as if he had finally shed a heavy burden. “I feel so much better, Mom. Why didn’t we do this sooner?”
It made me reflect on our previous hesitations. We didn’t want to be the parents who resorted to medication to manage behavior. But we were mistaken about the true benefits; medication can help quiet the chaos in his mind and body, allowing him to be his authentic self. I had let my fears of being a bad parent blind me to what could have truly helped him.
I recently stumbled upon a paper he wrote that perfectly illustrated his thought process. “The brain! Did you know you can live without part of your brain?! Answer this: 1+6=? You just used your cortex!” He then wrote about the Loch Ness Monster, expressing, “I think it’s a dinosaur still alive. By dinosaur, I mean water dino.” Now, he can focus on topics like brains, dinosaurs, or what makes salt—individually.
Ethan approaches school each morning with renewed hope and optimism. If nothing else, those hugs speak volumes. When he looks into my eyes—calm and present—I feel his warmth, like never before. That connection is validation enough.
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Summary
This article reflects on the journey of a mother navigating her son’s ADHD diagnosis and the emotional challenges that come with it. Through personal anecdotes, it highlights the struggles, misunderstandings, and eventual acceptance of medication as a means to help her son thrive. It emphasizes the importance of looking beyond behavior to recognize the potential within.
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