Explaining the experience of raising a child with ADD to someone unfamiliar with it is no easy feat.
“Oh, it takes my son ages to tie his shoes too. That doesn’t mean he has ADD. Kids just take their time!”
What many don’t realize is that I’m referring to an actual eternity. I could instruct my daughter to put on her shoes and socks, then return three years later to find her in the same position, likely lost in thought, her bare little feet still uncovered. And I assure you, her final thought wouldn’t be, “Wow, I’m really thirsty.” More likely, it would be, “Awww! I was almost finished watching that squirrel climb the tree.”
“Don’t worry — my kid zones out during her soccer games, too. She spends half the time picking flowers on the sidelines.”
Sure, but how many parents have expressed concern that my child is startling their kids by sneaking up and playing “Lion’s gonna getcha!” while they’re trying to focus on the game? And that’s when I’m not rescuing her from the tree in the park every time it’s her turn to kick the ball.
Reaching this understanding — why she can create an entire storybook yet freezes at simple addition questions — has been one of the most daunting, stressful, and frustrating parts of my life.
It all began when I enrolled her in a small preschool at 18 months old.
“Have you ever noticed that Lily kind of…zones out often?” her teacher asked one day. “She just drifts away sometimes, and it takes a while to bring her back?”
“Ummm, yes?” I replied, somewhat in denial. Not realizing that my child was regularly mentally escaping felt like a failure in parenting.
At the time, I had a 1-year-old, a 5-month-old, and I was pregnant with baby No. 3. Every night, when I tucked them in, I was more surprised than anyone that they were all still alive. I already felt guilty for not being enough for her, and the teacher’s observation only sent me spinning further into doubt.
As any concerned parent would do, I internalized everything. I didn’t know what “it” was, but I assumed “it” was something bad, and definitely my fault.
“It” was because I hadn’t spent enough one-on-one time with her. Because I didn’t make her baby food from organic vegetables. Because I indulged in wine at a friend’s wedding while pregnant. Because after she was born, I worked from home and let her watch cartoons during my conference calls.
“Let’s just keep an eye on it,” the teacher suggested. “It’s probably nothing.”
But “it” was definitely something.
“We’re puzzled by Lily,” her teachers would always start, as if reading from a rehearsed script. “Some days she comes in, fully engaged and breezing through activities. Other days, she looks around like she’s never been here before, unsure of where to put her coat. When we do letters or counting, she seems like we’re speaking a different language.” Then they’d pause, “But wow, is she ever creative! Just look at this drawing!”
The spring before kindergarten, her teachers recommended a screening. For what, I wasn’t sure. A three-hour assessment where I sat behind a curtain, overhearing terms like “above average,” “fine,” “unnecessary,” and “Why did they send her again?”
I left with a “within normal range” slip, feeling embarrassed, as if I’d fabricated a problem. Clearly, I was the one who was overreacting.
I felt relieved until…
That fall, she started kindergarten, and not long after, I received a letter: “Based on assessments and recommendations, your child is eligible for additional services…” My world tilted, and my stomach dropped. I preferred it when I was merely overthinking things. Thus began a roller coaster of inconsistency that would take two years to navigate.
This inconsistency includes feeling like a failure when I receive a note that my 5-year-old qualifies for special math and writing services. It’s the frustration of taking a child in for screening who excels in all tests. It’s the panic when teachers repeatedly express “major concerns about her attention.” It’s the embarrassment when the school counselor reassures me, “She’s fine. Just let her be 6.”
It’s a little girl who one day breezes through homework, and the next sobs because it makes no sense to her. It’s friends saying, “All kids do that,” making me want to pull my hair out. It’s reading books that warn that without medication, my child could face self-esteem issues that lead to drugs and other serious problems. It’s horror stories about kids becoming dull and lifeless from medication, losing the spark that makes them unique and special.
Honestly, the connection between her challenges and ADD wasn’t immediately clear to me. It wasn’t until her first-grade teacher mentioned the word “attention” that a light bulb went off. I began to research ADD, realizing that I had previously associated it solely with hyperactive little boys. Discovering it often manifests differently in girls was an eye-opener. 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 whimsical play, the imagination that would inspire any writer.
In an ideal world, my daughter would spend her days in what we affectionately call “Lily Land,” lost in thoughts of fairies and flavors of ice cream. But we had to be realistic: she needs to be prepared for life outside our home, which requires a basic understanding of math.
A little over a year ago, my ordinarily cheerful daughter came home in tears. “I don’t understand what’s happening at school,” she cried. “My teacher thinks it’s because I’m not paying attention, but I am. It’s just that my brain keeps interrupting what she’s saying.”
It was then I realized she was the one I needed to listen to all along.
We began weekly math and spelling tutoring with a wonderful educator who speaks her language. We eliminated most dyes and sugars from her diet, and established an early bedtime. She sits at the front of her class, and her teacher is great at discreetly “bringing her back” without making a fuss. We even consulted with a child psychiatrist specializing in ADD for an official evaluation and diagnosis, and we continue to have monthly meetings. This year, we started her on medication.
As I gave her that first pill, my hands trembled, and I nervously checked her pupils. “How do you feel? Any spots? Difficulty breathing?” I asked, anxiously monitoring her every move.
Like many parents, I feared the medication would change her, dull her sparkle, make her ordinary. I imagined the nightmarish images of the hamburger grinder from The Wall.
But she has changed. We’re still figuring things out, but we’re in a much better place now. She can channel those creative thoughts that used to swirl chaotically in her mind into organized, constructive ideas. Her room is filled with “Invention Journals” overflowing with sketches. She’s written and illustrated multiple books, and even designs board games from recycled materials. While math isn’t her favorite, she’s thriving at school and no longer needs special services.
Her “Sparkly Brain” has become an honorary family member, and we love it. It brings us joy and frustration in equal measure. One day, she will undoubtedly use it to change the world.
Just a few weeks ago, I was chatting with my husband after dinner.
“She’s going to be just fine,” he said. “I was a bluebird, you know.”
“What’s a bluebird?”
“It’s what we called the ‘special’ reading group,” he replied, using air quotes. “I couldn’t read until, like, med school. Honestly, I think I have ADD too, so she probably inherited it from me.”
“Wait, what?” I exclaimed, slapping my hand on the table. Everything suddenly clicked into place. “That would have been good to know three years ago when I was beating myself up about screwing up our child!”
“Yeah, you have a point,” he said casually, taking a sip of his wine. “I just never thought about it until now.”
“Shhh,” I said, patting his hand. “It’s fine. Just go back to whatever world you were in. I hear it’s lovely there.”
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In summary, parenting a child with ADD is a journey filled with ups and downs, moments of joy and frustration. It requires patience, understanding, and a willingness to adapt, but the reward of seeing your child thrive is priceless.