For three long years, we hesitated to put Caleb on medication for his ADHD. Like many parents before us, we took the “try everything else” approach, which served two purposes: it shielded us from accusations of being lazy parents—“Sure, we’re giving our kid meds, but look, we tried everything first!”—and it alleviated some of the guilt we felt about resorting to medication. We truly had exhausted all other options.
The pivotal moment in our “Should We Medicate?” debate came during a parent-teacher meeting. My partner and I sat across from Caleb’s four teachers, who seemed overwhelmed by their inability to get through to him. They were top-notch educators, yet Caleb was managing to complete only about 40 percent of his assignments. His classroom behavior was chaotic; he was constantly distracted, making disruptive noises, and never quite grasping what was expected of him. The teachers were so focused on trying to reach Caleb that the education of his peers was being compromised. After that meeting, I went home and cried. Clearly, we needed to take action—what we had tried simply wasn’t working.
Caleb began taking 10 mg of Focalin on a Tuesday. Just fifteen minutes after the first dose, I noticed subtle changes. I went to remind him to put on his shoes, and to my surprise, he was already wearing them. I asked him to get in the car, and he promptly complied (?!). On the way to school, he gazed thoughtfully out the window. I panicked, thinking, “Oh no, he’s turning into a zombie!” But when I asked what he was thinking about, he excitedly shared a detailed plan for his next Minecraft building project. Who was this articulate child sharing his ideas so clearly?
When he returned home that day, Caleb walked in, neatly placed his shoes in the laundry room, unpacked his backpack, and even started his homework without being told. His younger sister was running around, yelling, and he calmly asked her, “Can you please be quiet? I’m trying to concentrate.” That was a first. He finished his homework quickly and dashed outside to play with friends.
The next day, I asked Caleb to clear off the kitchen table. When I turned around a minute later, he had already completed the task. I had to stifle my urge to bark at him and instead had an epiphany: it wasn’t just Caleb who had been suffering. The toll of ADHD had worn me down too, as his primary caregiver. I had spent so many years worrying that the constant negative feedback from school would make him feel inadequate. I was right to be concerned, but I had overlooked how ADHD had affected me personally.
In my attempts to manage Caleb’s ADHD, I had become conditioned to expect failure. I believed he could only accomplish tasks if I hovered over him, repeating instructions and demanding eye contact. I’d resorted to shouting, thinking it was the only way for him to hear me. I realized I had grown annoyed with my own child—something I hadn’t even recognized.
The Thursday morning after starting medication, Caleb practiced his multiplication flashcards in the car. He recited each one aloud, repeating them to commit them to memory. Then he decided to take a break, saying, “Mom, let me know when a minute is up. I want to think about something else for a while, then I’ll come back to the cards.” A wave of emotion hit me; he reminded me of myself. He had devised a study method independently—something I once did too. I thought, “Wow, we are related!” At that moment, I felt a genuine connection with him.
Later that same day, I picked Caleb up from chess club (don’t judge, it’s awesome) and ran into his reading and social studies teacher. She was positively beaming, practically trembling with excitement. “Look at this writing sample!” she exclaimed. “He wrote so much, and just read it! It’s like a science textbook!”
Caleb interrupted us, curious about the fire alarm. He bombarded his teacher with questions, maintaining eye contact as he sought answers. We exchanged glances, both teary-eyed.
For years, I believed I was an impatient and reactive person—someone who yelled and snapped easily. But since Caleb started on medication, I’ve discovered a newfound patience within myself. The medication lasts until 6 or 7 p.m., which means I get to enjoy a calm, focused version of Caleb for a few hours after school. It turns out, when both my kids are behaving as one might expect children to behave, I’m a pretty patient parent. I just forgot how to be.
Lately, I’ve been grappling with a troubling thought: I find I prefer my child when he’s on medication. He’s more coherent, organized, and easier to communicate with. More importantly, I like myself better too. I hardly raise my voice anymore and can think clearly without frustration. This newfound life is something I enjoy.
But then, questions arise: Is the medicated Caleb still the real Caleb? Did I medicate him to make him more like me? Am I forcing him into conformity for my own convenience? Who am I truly helping here?
After six weeks on medication, I’m gaining perspective. We haven’t been using medication on weekends, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find I’m still more patient even when he’s off it. I think having him on medication during the week bolsters my emotional resilience for those challenging ADHD moments that crop up. And Caleb? He tells me school is enjoyable now that he realizes he can succeed. He delights in learning because it makes him feel smart, and he’s relieved his teachers aren’t constantly on his case anymore.
I remind myself that medication doesn’t change Caleb; it merely clears away the distractions that cloud his mind, allowing him to access his true self. That’s the narrative I’m holding on to.
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In summary, learning to navigate Caleb’s ADHD has opened my eyes to the changes I needed to make in both our lives. While medication has its complexities, it has undoubtedly brought clarity, allowing both of us to flourish.
Keyphrase: ADHD medication and parenting
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