ADHD, Massive Feelings, and Studying to Love Unconditionally
You are my problem child. I’m not saying this (this title was given to you by your grandmother when you were two years old) but we both know it fits more or less. With three older siblings, three younger siblings, and more energy than all of them combined, you became a problem child.
It started before you were even born. You were so big and needy that you got an eviction notice a week before your due date, and my problem child got his head stuck, as it should be, before he could even leave. They had to cut me open to get you out of a tight spot, and that has been more or less life ever since.
When you were 18 months old, I woke up with your empty cot. Your siblings slept soundly, but you, you were just gone.
I panicked. I ran through all the rooms on the second floor, terrified that you had crossed the baby gate at the top of the stairs and imagined your baby skull burst on the landing. But the gate wasn’t knocked over. No, not knocked over, but carefully unscrewed from the wall.
I think I probably swore back then. My problem child, not yet my middle baby but my second youngest baby, had stolen the screwdriver. Again. After the last seizure, I had it locked in the toolbox outside in the garage.
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I was mad, absolutely mad. I wanted to scream your name, urge you to come here, threaten you (what could I threaten you were a baby) punishment with extra peas for dinner, but I didn’t. Your sleeping siblings saved you the extra peas. But even though I ran into the kitchen, I froze when I saw you up there on the fridge, sticking a screwdriver from the leg hole of your diaper, shoving a handful of sugar from the bag into your mouth, I was so sure I would so placed high above your reach.
Two days later I came home from work on a flour-covered first floor, your exhausted father slept on the couch while you painted pictures in the glorious, non-melting “snow”.
You’re the only kid I ever had to drag off the roof by 2 (the window behind your crib was nailed shut afterwards) to search the neighborhood at 4 (we replaced the bolt with an inverted key lock, firefighter, dammit) and at it to remember to wear clothes regularly, even as a kid, which is close to double digits.
So maybe your grandmother is right. If I tell all of these stories all over again, it is certain that you will be portrayed as my problem child. But let me say one more thing:
[Read: Could My Toddler Really Have ADHD?]
When you were in first grade we were alone. I got a call from school that you were throwing pencils on the desks while doing math. You have been suspended and I had to pretend I was sick from work to pick you up.
You were in the car behind me and knocked my seat over and you know that drives me crazy. I looked at you in the rearview mirror and when I asked you why you did that, you said, “Because we did math.”
“Don’t you like math?” I asked.
“Not when it’s that easy,” you said. “I’ll be ready in about two seconds and then I have to sit quietly and think.”
“So what are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Things that make me throw pencils,” you said.
“I see”, I remember saying that. I had my own feelings that made me stand on all the tables and throw all the pencils.
We have not spoken further on the subject. On the way home, however, we got 99 cents ice cream cones. I had just enough change to make sure your sprinkles were there.
It was on that day that I realized how similar we are, my problem child. Our brains work the same way, and it’s not the way neurotypical brains do. Emotions make it difficult for us. It’s easier to hold them down and pretend they’re not there, especially when there are so many problems to solve. Like annoying baby gates that get in the way of our goals, or parents who keep getting in the way of nature and adventure.
It’s hard to focus when the head is full of bees and the outside is so bright and full and both too much and too little in one. It’s hard to be still and feel the emotions that you are trying to distract yourself from in the middle of a math class and not want to throw a pencil every time the world treats you wrong.
It’s called emotional dysregulation, this feeling. A fancy word to say that almost any emotion feels bigger than your heart or head can grasp. A word that explains the shutdown, the unwind, or the leakage, or the whipping that comes with the emotions that just don’t fit.
It means you’re the only kid I had to train not to hit when they’re angry. The only one with a curse glass. The only one without a toy because they are all broken, because you were too excited or frustrated or angry and took it out on the erector set.
As you get older I will teach you how to sit in your car, blasting music at full volume and screaming all the things you shouldn’t say around people. I’ll teach you how to have a cup of tea and sit alone in a room when you’re overwhelmed or, if that doesn’t work, find a good, dark cupboard to rock and cry on.
But you already know the latter. When I’m at the worst and disappear for a few moments, the other children don’t notice. After all, that’s the point: Mom will pull herself together. Mom is destimulated by sitting alone in a dark closet. Mom will hug to shut down the sympathetic nervous system, which is far too easy to get stuck in the “on” position.
But you are like a bloodhound in these moments, my problem child, who sees the problem that no one else sees. You find me. You sit with me in the dark. You lie down on my lap, pull my arms around you and rock with me. You don’t ask me why I’m sad because we both know I just can’t answer that. We both know that sad is not the right word anyway. And within minutes before any of your brothers and sisters even realized I hatched, we are both back in the midst of the noise and the crowd and in the business of life.
You are the only child who says “I love you” first – every time. You’re the only kid who likes to cook dinner with me, who actually likes to take out the trash because it’s the best outside. You’re the only child who notices when I’m tired after work and offers to get something out of the fridge. You are the kid who doesn’t realize what the rest of the world is saying, but what you do notice makes you better and fuller and richer.
So maybe you are my problem child, my middle man. And maybe you cause problems for others sometimes. But it is much more common to solve problems that no one else sees, that no one else can solve. That is what makes you so special. And you’re still only 8.
So I’ll call you my problem-solver child instead. It feels more accurate anyway. And if your grandma can’t go along with that, she can look forward to the flour sack and screwdriver that I put in your travel bag.
The problem child: the next steps
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