Explaining the experience of parenting a child with ADD to someone who hasn’t lived it is like trying to describe a color to a blind person.
“Oh, it takes my son ages to find his shoes too. That doesn’t mean he has ADD. It’s just kids being kids!”
What my friends don’t understand is that when I say “ages,” I mean an eternity. I could instruct my son to put on his shoes and socks, and if I returned three years later, I might find him still sitting there, likely fixated on a dust particle dancing in the sunlight, his bare feet untouched by footwear. And I guarantee that his last thought wouldn’t be, “I should really drink some water.” It would more likely be, “Wow! Look at that ant carrying a crumb!”
“Don’t worry — my kid daydreams during soccer practice too. She spends half the time picking daisies in the field.”
Sure, but how many times have other parents expressed concern because my child is sneaking up on theirs while playing “The Lion is Coming!” throughout the game? And that’s on the days when I’m not busy rescuing him from a tree in the park right when it’s his turn to kick the ball.
Understanding this journey — recognizing why he can compose an epic story yet freeze up at the mention of 2+2 — has been the most nerve-wracking and exhausting experience of my life.
It all began when I enrolled him in a preschool class at just 18 months.
“Have you noticed that Jamie sort of…checks out sometimes?” his teacher asked one day. “Like she just…disappears, and it takes a bit of effort to bring her back?”
“Um, yes?” I replied, not wanting to admit that I hadn’t really noticed. It seemed like something a negligent parent would overlook.
What I had noticed was that I had a 1-year-old, a newborn, and I was expecting baby number three. Every night when I tucked them in, I was impressed that I had managed to keep them all alive. I was already feeling guilty about failing Jamie, and this comment from her teacher sent me into a spiral of self-doubt.
Like any concerned parent, I instantly internalized it. I didn’t know what “it” was, but I decided “it” was significant, “it” was concerning, and “it” was absolutely my fault.
“It” must be because I didn’t spend enough one-on-one time with her. Because I didn’t make her baby food from scratch. Because I enjoyed a glass of wine at a friend’s wedding while pregnant with her. Because, after her birth, I worked from home and let her watch cartoons whenever I had a meeting.
“Let’s just keep an eye on it,” the teacher reassured me. “It’s probably nothing.”
But “it” was definitely something.
“We’re puzzled by Jamie,” her teachers would say, like they were following a script. “Some days she walks in, knows what’s happening, and breezes through activities. Other days, she seems lost, not knowing where to put her coat, and when we do letters or counting, she looks at us as if we’re speaking Martian.” Then they would pause, “But wow, is she ever imaginative! Check out this drawing!”
That spring, before kindergarten, her teachers suggested we have her screened. For what, I couldn’t say, and neither could they. After a three-hour evaluation, where I sat behind a curtain overhearing terms like “average,” “okay,” “unnecessary,” and “why was she sent?” I left with a slip stating she was “within normal range,” feeling humiliated as if I had fabricated the entire issue.
Besides the fact that I was losing my mind, everything seemed fine.
I breathed a sigh of relief until…
That fall, she started kindergarten, and shortly thereafter, I received the dreaded letter: “Based on assessments and recommendations, your child is eligible for additional services…”
The room spun, and my gut dropped. I preferred it when I was just a paranoid parent. Thus began the roller coaster of inconsistency that I was strapped into for the next two years.
This emotional roller coaster includes feeling like a failure when a letter arrives saying your 5-year-old qualifies for special math and writing help. It makes you feel like a lunatic when you take your daughter in for screening, and she aces every test. It’s the panic of hearing teachers voice “major concerns” about her attention span while feeling embarrassed when the school counselor reassures you she is “fine. Let her be six.” It’s a little girl who one day sails through her homework and the next day breaks down in tears because she can’t fathom the assignment. It’s friends telling you that all kids behave similarly, making you want to smash your head against the wall. It’s reading about how without medication, your child might develop self-esteem issues that could lead to drugs and risky behaviors. It’s horror stories of parents whose children became zombies after medication, losing their creative spark.
To be honest, I didn’t initially connect what was happening to ADD. It wasn’t until her first-grade teacher mentioned “attention” that a light bulb flickered on, and I started to research ADD. Until then, I had associated it solely with hyperactive boys. Learning that it often presents differently in girls was eye-opening, but the books I read felt like they were written just for her — the daydreaming, the math and spelling struggles, the difficulty picking up social cues, the overly silly behavior, and the incredible imaginative play that writers would envy.
In an ideal world, Jamie would spend her days in what we lovingly refer to as “Jamie Land,” lost in thoughts of unicorns and ice cream flavors. But reality is that she needs to eventually become independent, which requires some grasp of math.
Furthermore, “Jamie Land” doesn’t exactly align with classroom expectations. About a year ago, my typically cheerful daughter came home from school in tears. “I don’t get what’s happening in class,” she cried. “My teacher thinks I’m not paying attention, but I am! My brain just keeps interrupting her.”
That was when I understood that she was the one I needed to listen to all along.
We began weekly math and spelling tutoring with a fantastic tutor who speaks Jamie’s language. We eliminated most dyes and sugars and established an earlier bedtime. She now sits in the front of the class, and her teacher is wonderful about discreetly “bringing her back” when she drifts. We consulted a child psychiatrist specializing in ADD for an official evaluation and diagnosis, and we continue to meet monthly. This year, we started medication.
My hands trembled as I administered her first pill, and I checked her pupils almost obsessively. “How do you feel? Are you seeing spots? Are you having any trouble breathing?” I asked, glancing at her lips every 30 seconds for signs of bleeding.
Like many, I feared that the medication would change her, dull her sparkle, make her — gasp — ordinary. Vivid images from The Wall haunted me.
And change she has. We’re navigating this journey together, still far from having it all figured out, but we’re in a really great place now. She can channel those once-chaotic creative thoughts into structured ideas. Her room is filled with “Invention Journals” packed with sketches. She has written and illustrated books, crafted board games from egg cartons and shoeboxes, and while math isn’t her favorite, she’s thriving in school and no longer requires extra services.
Her “Sparkly Brain” has become a cherished member of our family, and we love it. It brings us joy and frustration in equal measure, and one day, she will harness it to change the world.
A few weeks ago, I was at the dining room table with my husband after dinner.
“She’s going to be okay,” he said. “I was a ‘bluebird,’ you know.”
“What’s a bluebird?”
“The special reading group,” he clarified with air quotes. “I couldn’t read to save my life until med school. Honestly, I think I have ADD too, so she probably inherited it from me.”
“Wow,” I exclaimed, smacking the table. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. “You’re right! But you know what? That would have been useful information, like three years ago when I was convinced I was ruining our child!”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said casually, sipping his wine. “I didn’t really think about it until now.”
“Shhh,” I said, patting his hand. “It’s alright. Just return to ‘Nick Land.’ It’s very lovely there.”
If you’re keen for more insights, be sure to check out our other posts, like this one. You can also explore more about the journey of home insemination at Make a Mom or consult this CDC resource for a comprehensive understanding.
Summary
Navigating the complexities of parenting a child with ADD can be both challenging and enlightening. Through trials and tribulations, one mother learns to embrace her daughter’s unique way of processing the world, leading to strategies that foster creativity while ensuring academic success. The journey is filled with ups and downs, but ultimately, it highlights the importance of understanding and supporting children in their individuality.