April 24, 2023
Explaining the experience of raising a child with ADD to someone who hasn’t been through it can be a challenge. “Oh, my daughter takes ages to put on her shoes too. That doesn’t mean she has ADD; that’s just kids!” they say. But what they don’t grasp is the literal eternity it can feel like. I could ask my daughter to put on her shoes and socks, and I might as well come back three years later to find her daydreaming by the window, her little feet still bare, her thoughts likely on the beauty of the leaves outside.
“Oh, don’t worry. My kid dazes out during her softball games too. I think she spends half the time picking flowers in the outfield.” That’s cute, but how often do parents tell me their child is terrified when mine sneaks up behind them playing “The Lion’s Gonna Getcha!” while I’m busy retrieving her from the tree behind the field?
Understanding why my daughter can create a stunning novella yet freeze at the sight of a simple math problem has been one of the most bewildering and stressful experiences of my life. It all began when I enrolled her in a preschool class at 18 months.
“Have you noticed that Lucy sort of…zones out a lot?” her teacher asked one day. “She just…disappears for a bit, and it takes some effort to bring her back.”
“Umm, yes?” I replied, though I was unaware that my daughter was taking regular mental vacations. I was already juggling a 1-year-old, a 5-month-old, and the news of baby No. 3 on the way. Surviving each day felt like an accomplishment, and now I felt guilty for not noticing this part of her.
Naturally, I took it to heart. I blamed myself for not spending enough quality time with her, for not making organic baby food, and even for having that one glass of wine during my pregnancy. “Let’s just keep an eye on it,” her teacher suggested. “It’s probably nothing.” But I knew “it” was something.
“We’re confused about Lucy,” her teachers would say, as if reciting from a script. “Some days she comes in and breezes through everything, while other days she looks lost and doesn’t know where to put her coat. When we work on letters or numbers, she seems confused.” Then they would pause to compliment her creativity, “But look at this amazing picture she drew!”
The spring before kindergarten, her teachers encouraged me to have her screened. For what? I wasn’t sure. The three-hour evaluation felt like an exercise in humiliation, with words like “above average” and “unnecessary” floating around. I left, clutching a “within normal range” slip, feeling like I had imagined the whole issue.
Everything was fine, or so I thought, until that fall when she started kindergarten and I received a letter stating, “Based on assessments and recommendations, your child qualifies for additional services…” The ground seemed to tilt beneath me. I preferred the ignorance of thinking I was just overanalyzing things.
The next two years were a wild ride of ups and downs. It felt like a failure when I learned my 5-year-old qualified for special math and writing help. I felt like a lunatic while taking her in for screenings, only to have her ace all the tests. It was panic when teachers voiced serious concerns about her focus, embarrassment when the school counselor assured me she was “fine. Just let her be a kid.” It was maddening to hear friends downplay my worries, insisting all kids do the same things.
Initially, I didn’t even consider ADD as a possibility. It wasn’t until her first-grade teacher mentioned “attention” that the light bulb flickered on, prompting me to explore the topic. I had always associated ADD with hyperactive boys, unaware that it often manifests differently in girls. The descriptions in the books I read felt like a mirror reflecting my daughter’s daydreaming, math struggles, and her unique social quirks.
In an ideal world, my daughter would float through her day in what we call “Lucy Land,” lost in thoughts about fairies and ice cream. However, reality hit hard—she needs to leave the nest one day, which means grasping the basics of math.
About a year ago, she returned home from school in tears, saying, “I don’t get what’s happening in class. My teacher thinks I’m not paying attention, but I am! My brain just keeps interrupting her.” That moment made me realize I needed to truly listen to her all along.
We began weekly sessions with a fantastic tutor who understands Lucy’s learning style. We made dietary changes, including cutting out dyes and sugar, and ensured she had an early bedtime. Her teacher now sits her in the front row and quietly helps bring her back to focus without drawing attention to it. We consulted a child psychiatrist who specializes in ADD for an official diagnosis, and this year we started medication.
My hands trembled as I gave her the first pill, constantly checking for any adverse reactions. I was terrified that medication would dull her sparkle or make her feel ordinary. But she has changed in remarkable ways. We’re still navigating this journey, but she’s learning to channel her vibrant thoughts into organized ideas. Her room overflows with “Invention Journals” filled with sketches and concepts. She’s authored and illustrated books, and even created board games from recyclables. While math may not be her favorite, she’s doing well in school and no longer needs special services.
Her “Sparkly Brain” has become a cherished part of our family. It brings us joy and occasional frustration, and I have no doubt she will use it to make a difference in the world.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I were chatting at the dining table. “She’s going to be just fine,” he said. “I was a bluebird, you know.”
“Bluebird?” I asked, perplexed.
“It’s the ‘special’ reading group,” he clarified with air quotes. “I struggled to read until med school. Honestly, I think I have ADD too, so she probably inherited it from me.”
“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” I exclaimed, slapping my hand on the table. “This would have been helpful three years ago when I was convinced I was ruining our child!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, sipping his wine casually. “I didn’t think about it before.”
“Shhh,” I replied, patting his hand. “It’s okay. Just return to your own world, I hear it’s lovely there.”
In conclusion, parenting a child with ADD can be a beautiful yet challenging journey filled with unexpected twists. It requires patience, understanding, and a willingness to adapt. By listening to our children and seeking support, we can help them thrive in their unique ways.
Keyphrase: Parenting a child with ADD
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