For three years, we hesitated to medicate our son, Ethan, for his ADHD. Like many parents, we opted for the “try everything else first” approach. This strategy served two main purposes: it safeguarded us against any judgments of lazy parenting and it alleviated our guilt about potentially resorting to medication. After all, we genuinely explored various alternatives before considering this route.
The decisive moment came during a parent-teacher conference. My husband and I sat across from Ethan’s four teachers, who were visibly struggling to manage his behavior in class. Despite their best efforts, Ethan was completing only about 40 percent of his assignments. His disorganization, constant noise-making, and inability to focus were not just affecting him; they were compromising the education of his classmates. After that meeting, I returned home devastated. We needed to act—our attempts at alternative strategies were clearly not working.
Ethan began taking 10 mg of Focalin on a Tuesday. Just fifteen minutes after administering the medication, I started noticing subtle changes. When I asked him to put on his shoes, they were already on his feet. He got into the car without being told twice and during the ride, he gazed thoughtfully out the window. I wondered if this was the beginning of him becoming a “zombie.” Yet, when I prompted him about his thoughts, he shared an elaborate plan for a building project in Minecraft. Who was this articulate child?
That afternoon, Ethan came home, neatly placed his shoes in the laundry room, unpacked his backpack, and immediately dove into his homework. When his younger sister began to run around and make noise, he calmly requested, “Can you please be quiet? I’m trying to concentrate.” This was a first. He completed his homework in record time and rushed outside to play with friends.
The following day, I asked Ethan to clear the kitchen table. A minute later, I turned around, ready to remind him, only to find he had already complied. That’s when it hit me: the ADHD had been exhausting not just him, but the entire family, especially me, as his primary caregiver. I had spent years worrying about the negative reinforcement he faced at school, which might teach him that he was incapable of meeting expectations. However, I had overlooked how much I had internalized this struggle. I had conditioned myself to expect noncompliance from him.
Throughout our years managing Ethan’s ADHD, I had unknowingly trained myself to be irritated by my own child. The realization was jarring; this was simply the way things were, and I had thought it was normal.
On Thursday morning, in the same week that Ethan started his medication, he was studying multiplication flashcards in the car. He sorted through them, reciting each one multiple times to memorize them. He then decided to take a minute to think about something else before testing his memory. I felt an unfamiliar wave of emotion wash over me; he reminded me of myself. It was the first time I felt a deep genetic connection to him.
Later that day, while picking Ethan up from chess club, I encountered his reading teacher, who was eager to share how he had been performing recently. She was bubbling with excitement, showing me a writing sample that demonstrated Ethan’s remarkable progress. He even interrupted our conversation to ask her questions about the fire alarm in the room, engaging her with genuine curiosity. We exchanged glances, both on the verge of tears.
For years, I had perceived myself as impatient and reactive, a parent who often raised my voice out of frustration. However, since Ethan started medication, I’ve discovered a calmer, more attentive version of him in the hours following his treatment. It turns out, when both of my children behaved in a more typical manner, I found a level of patience within myself that I had forgotten existed.
This leads me to a troubling realization: I enjoy the version of my child who is on medication. He is more coherent, easier to communicate with, and better organized. More importantly, I like myself better during these times. I am less frustrated and more composed.
However, I am left questioning: Is this medicated version of Ethan the “real” him? Have I altered him to fit my expectations? Am I making life easier for myself at the cost of his individuality?
Now, six weeks into his treatment, I’ve gained a broader perspective. On weekends, we’ve opted not to medicate, and I’ve been pleased to find that I am significantly more patient, even when he exhibits symptoms of ADHD. This suggests that the medication has helped build my resilience, enabling me to manage his behavior better during off days. Ethan reports that school has become enjoyable, as he recognizes his capabilities. He feels a sense of achievement that aligns with his newfound joy in learning.
I remind myself that the medication does not change who Ethan is; it merely helps clear the mental clutter that obstructs his thought processes, allowing his true self to emerge.
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In summary, navigating the complexities of ADHD in children can be a challenging journey for families. Medication can offer clarity and improve communication, not just for the child but for the entire family dynamic. It is essential to remember that the goal is to support the child’s authentic self while enhancing their ability to thrive.
Keyphrase: ADHD medication and family dynamics
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