I start my day at 5:30 a.m., but my daughter has been awake since 3:30. I can hear her in her room, bustling about, playing, and talking to herself. Occasionally, she peeks out to ensure that I’m still there, that the family is intact.
I fetch her a drink and her medicine, hoping to buy myself a moment of rest by turning on some morning cartoons. Unfortunately, they aren’t the right ones. She immediately questions, “Why is this on? Mom, this isn’t a movie!” It’s not a meltdown yet, but an uncomfortable nagging fills the air.
I switch to her favorite film, and after a brief five minutes of watching, she’s leaping off the couch, executing flips that end with a thud, waking her baby brother. I’ve barely had my coffee. I ask her to try sitting still for just a few moments so I can get her brother up and dressed.
When I return after those few minutes, I find she’s ripped out a chunk of her hair. I suggest we go outside to expend some energy. She agrees but is quickly distracted by scissors on the table and an envelope, which she decides to turn into a snowflake.
“Please, put on your socks,” I urge, but she finds it more entertaining to imitate a dog as she barks her way down the hallway, waking her father. Finally, she heads to her room but returns soon after asking, “What can I do?” I remind her about her socks, and she seems to remember.
Once outside, I watch her engage with nature—talking to sticks, petting rocks, and swinging with abandon. She’s in her element.
Twenty minutes later, she comes back in, her hands red and cheeks flushed. Again, the question arises: “What can I do?” I tell her to let me get dressed, and as we head out for errands, she spins wild stories in the car about an underground evil rabbit and a princess who can tame it.
At the grocery store, she bolts from the car before I’ve even parked. I scold her, knowing her excitement stems from the promise of treats inside. She’s fixated on cakes, cupcakes, and all things sugary while I see a sea of artificial colors and empty calories. “We need to find something healthier,” I say, and I can see her starting to strain again, pulling at her hair. “Please stop that,” I plead.
After some negotiation, we settle on Goldfish crackers and apple juice, narrowly avoiding a meltdown. We return to the car, but she wants her tablet, which I didn’t charge. She’s bored now, and her racing mind can’t settle on anything else.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and the tears start flowing. It’s still manageable, but I grip the steering wheel tightly, bracing for what could come next. I offer her a snack, but it’s not the one she wanted. The crying turns into a growl, and then a shriek; I’m supposed to provide what she needs, and yet it feels like I’ve failed again.
Later, we visit a friend. She’s a bit snappy, but nothing alarming. “She seems much better,” they say, and I nod in agreement. But as it’s time to leave, the situation escalates. What begins as a whimper turns into screaming and self-harm as she desperately tries to express her frustration at leaving before the game is over.
The car ride home is chaotic, filled with her screams and flailing limbs. I finally lose my temper, my voice breaking as I yell. This shifts her fit into sad sobs as she questions why I’m upset. She’s panting, on the verge of being sick. We have to pull over, and she ends up being sick on the roadside. Afterward, she calmly asks, “What can I do?” as if nothing had happened.
Dinner is another challenge. She refuses to eat what I’ve prepared, claiming it’s not what she wanted. Her behavior becomes erratic as she seeks attention, kicking her brother’s chair and making sounds to draw focus.
As I try to bathe her brother, she cries out for me, and I relent, letting her father take over. We do puzzles and coloring to distract her from her preferences, but eventually, it’s time for her bath. She protests, and I remind her we can finish later.
Her brother is trying to sleep, but she’s still noisy. I plead with her to lower her voice, but to her, her words hold great importance. The bathwater grows cold, and I’m relieved when she agrees to get out—until I realize her nightgown is not clean.
At 8:30 p.m., she collapses into a fit over the shirt and pants she must wear instead of her preferred nightgown. It’s not a breakdown, but it takes until 9:15 to calm her down enough to talk. We manage to read stories together, and she even accepts an apple when she claims to be hungry, avoiding a meltdown over snacks for the night.
I tuck her into bed and settle into my corner with a pillow and blanket, waiting until she drifts off. Tonight it takes about twenty minutes—much better than last night’s hour. I attempt a brief conversation with my husband before collapsing into bed myself, only to be awakened at 2:30 a.m. by her fears of monsters in the pipes. She tosses and turns beside me, and I drift back to sleep, only to wake again at 4 a.m. to her standing by the bed, asking, “What can I do?”
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Summary
This narrative delves into the daily challenges of parenting a child with ADHD, capturing the moments of excitement, frustration, and emotional intensity. The day is filled with attempts to manage behaviors, navigate routines, and foster understanding, all while highlighting the importance of patience and communication.