Every morning starts bright and early—5:30 a.m. for me, but my daughter, Lily, has already been awake since 3:30. I can hear her chatting to herself and rummaging through her toys. Occasionally, she pops out of her room, checking to ensure I’m still there, still engaged.
I get her a drink and her morning medication, hoping to buy myself a few moments of peace by putting on some cartoons. Unfortunately, I didn’t choose the right ones. “Mom, why is this on? This isn’t a movie!” she complains. I quickly switch to her favorite film, but just five minutes in, she’s somersaulting off the couch. A loud crash ensues, and her baby brother wakes up.
I’ve only had a few sips of coffee. “Please, just sit still for a moment so I can get him ready,” I plead. I step away for just a few minutes, and when I return, I find she has yanked out a chunk of her hair. “How about we go outside and let off some steam?” I suggest, and she eagerly agrees. But first, I remind her to put on socks. Instead, she’s drawn to the table, where scissors await. Clearly, that envelope needs to be transformed into a snowflake.
“Put on your socks, please,” I repeat, but she finds it far more amusing to crawl like a dog down the hallway. She barks, and her father stirs. “Just get your socks on,” I say, exasperated. After a while, she returns, asking, “What can I do?” I remind her again: “Socks.” “Oh right!” she responds as if just remembering.
Finally, we make it outside. I watch her talk to sticks and pet rocks, swinging higher and higher. She’s content there—at least for a moment.
Twenty minutes later, she returns, cheeks flushed and hands cold. “What can I do?” she asks again, her need for direction manifesting strongly. I ask for a moment to get dressed before we head out to run errands. In the car, we create a narrative about an underground evil rabbit that only a certain princess can tame. It’s a delightful distraction until we reach the grocery store.
Before I’ve even parked, she bounds out of the car, full of excitement for the treats inside. I know she’s eager to find cakes, cupcakes, and all sorts of sugary delights, but I can’t help but see the artificial colors and sugars that come with them. “No, honey, let’s look for something healthier,” I explain. I see her tension rise, her fingers digging into her hair. “Please don’t pull your hair,” I remind her, and she grinds her teeth but eventually calms down when I suggest alternatives like Goldfish crackers and apple juice.
Once back in the car, she asks for her tablet, but I realize I forgot to charge it. The boredom kicks in, and she starts to cry. I can sense her frustration boiling over, but it’s still not a full meltdown. My grip on the steering wheel tightens in anticipation.
Do I have a snack? Always. “That’s not what I wanted,” she growls when I offer something different. The noise escalates, but I hold my ground, knowing this is part of her struggle, not a full breakdown yet.
Later, we visit a friend. Lily seems fine—a welcome change, and I nod along as others remark on how well she’s doing. But as it’s time to leave, her mood shifts dramatically. The screams erupt, and she begins to lash out, pulling at her own skin. It’s clear she’s overwhelmed. “We can’t leave yet!” she cries, her frustration palpable.
The car ride home is filled with her screams, and I find myself losing patience, raising my voice louder than intended. Suddenly, her cries change to sobs as she realizes how upset I am. I pull over, and she throws up on the side of the road. “Are you okay?” I ask, and she replies calmly, “Yes,” before asking, “What can I do?” as if nothing had happened.
Dinner is a battle. She refuses to eat what I’ve prepared and kicks her brother’s chair for attention. “Why isn’t anyone listening to me?” she demands, her words spilling out in a stream. Meanwhile, her father and I try to discuss our day, and she starts making strange noises. “Please, just say excuse me,” I urge, but she insists she already has.
Bath time becomes another ordeal; I step out for a moment, and she panics. I ask her father to handle it instead. We attempt puzzles and coloring, anything to distract her from her need to play with dolls, which usually leads to chaos. Bathing her is a struggle; she protests loudly, but when I remind her of the warm, calming water, she begins to settle down.
As her brother tries to sleep, Lily continues her energetic chatter. “Please lower your voice,” I say, but she can’t help but feel her thoughts are urgent. Finally, as I prepare to turn off the water, she’s okay with the change, until she sees she can’t wear her favorite nightgown. It’s a shirt and pants night instead, and suddenly, it’s not acceptable.
She collapses into a fit of screams and kicks. “Why do I keep doing this to her?” I wonder, feeling guilty. It takes a while, but eventually, we manage to calm down enough for a story. She asks for a snack, and thankfully, a simple apple suffices tonight. We read a few stories, and I tuck her in, sitting by her side until she drifts off to sleep.
By the time I settle into bed, I’m exhausted. I barely manage a conversation with my husband before falling into slumber, only to be jolted awake at 2:30 a.m. by her anxious voice: “There’s a monster in the pipes.” She curls up next to me, tossing and turning. I drift back off, only to wake at 4 a.m. to find her standing beside me, ready to ask, “What can I do?”
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In summary, parenting a child with ADHD can be a whirlwind of emotions and challenges. From the morning chaos to unexpected meltdowns, each day is a test of patience, creativity, and understanding. While it can be exhausting, it also presents moments of joy and connection that make it all worthwhile.