My 7-year-old daughter, Mia, has always found it difficult to stay still. Over the years, I’ve observed her classmates learning to concentrate. Initially, they could sit still long enough to color pictures, then progress to focus during lessons at their desks. I watched them complete assignments without tearing the pages or leaving the table in tears, while Mia’s journey seemed quite different. I kept hoping she’d catch up.
When she was 5, dinner time became a nightly battle of “please sit down” and “stay in your chair.” Yet, as soon as I looked away, there she was, twirling through the kitchen, attempting to feed her baby brother, or staging elaborate races with her broccoli.
As she entered public kindergarten, what was once a minor challenge became glaringly evident. Getting ready for school felt like an exercise in futility. “Put on your socks,” “brush your teeth,” and “finish your breakfast” were repeated until my husband and I were at our wits’ end, questioning what we were doing wrong. No matter our efforts to help her get ready, she’d vanish into imaginative worlds, having tea parties or covering the bathroom sink with toothpaste.
The daily struggles were often amusing yet profoundly frustrating. If wine sales have surged since 2010, I might just be a contributing factor. The same level of distraction was apparent each morning at school. So many things would divert Mia’s attention: a friend walking by, a stranger in a purple hat, or even the smell of popcorn. It often ended with me as the last parent lingering in the hall, gently redirecting her focus while taking deep breaths. In preschool, I was reassured that this behavior was age-appropriate. But by kindergarten, understanding had dwindled.
Soon, the stakes grew higher. Mia would come home upset for fidgeting or for chewing her hair in class. During parent-teacher meetings, I was informed she wasn’t meeting expectations, which seemed unreasonably high for a kindergartner. It stung to see my bright daughter, who had been lovingly nurtured and read to every day, falling short. On several occasions, I’d find myself sneaking away to dry my tears in the restroom before rejoining the meeting with a forced smile.
Frustration often bubbled up inside me. Why couldn’t she sit still like the other kids? But then it dawned on me: this wasn’t something she could control. Concentration is a genuine struggle for her. Mia has ADHD, and doing anything—whether it’s finishing a meal, putting on shoes, or drawing a picture—can be difficult for her. While this can pose challenges in a traditional school setting, I realized I don’t have to fight it at home.
Despite her challenges with focus, when Mia is immersed in her imaginative realm, she becomes intensely focused. At 7, she’s passionate about dance. Watching her perform on stage, full of confidence, helps me understand her better. She’s always singing, dancing, and putting on shows. When she’s engaged in these activities, she seems truly at home. Ask her to create a painting of an elephant, and you might be there forever. But if you ask her to act like an elephant, you’re in for hours of entertainment.
Attention may not be my daughter’s forte, but she possesses countless other wonderful qualities. Accepting her as she is, rather than trying to fit her into a rigid mold, has made our life easier. We’ve learned to embrace her uniqueness, viewing it as a blessing rather than a burden.
We’ve made a conscious decision not to tell her she’s wrong. After a year of homeschooling—where dancing and exploring were encouraged—she’s now heading to a nontraditional school next year. There, sitting at a desk is optional, and her quirks won’t be penalized. Mia is relieved to know she won’t be constantly corrected for simply being herself.
As parents, we don’t choose our children’s strengths, but we can choose how we perceive them. I hope Mia continues to let her vibrant spirit shine and explore her identity. Instead of battling her, I’m committed to helping her embrace who she is. Admittedly, the cleanup can be exhausting, but childhood is inherently messy, and we can’t fix what isn’t broken.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s journey as she navigates her daughter’s ADHD, recognizing it as a gift rather than a burden. Rather than forcing Mia to conform to traditional expectations, her mother learns to embrace her unique strengths and imaginative spirit, ultimately opting for a more flexible educational environment that celebrates her individuality.
Keyphrase: ADHD as a gift
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