Parenting Insights
March 31, 2023
As I rise at 5:30 a.m., my daughter has already been awake since 3:30. I can hear her in her room, shuffling toys, chatting to herself, and occasionally peeking out to ensure I’m still around. She needs reassurance that no one has left.
After fetching her a drink and her medication, I attempt to put on some morning cartoons, hoping to buy myself a few moments to shake off the sleepiness. But, of course, these aren’t the right cartoons. She’s quick to inform me, “Mom, this isn’t a movie! Why is this on?” It’s not a full-blown meltdown, but rather an incessant questioning that feels overwhelming.
I switch to her favorite movie about pets, but after just five minutes, she’s leaping off the couch, doing flips, and crashes to the floor, waking up her baby brother. I’ve managed to sip only a few ounces of coffee. “Can you please sit still while I get him up?” I plead. Just five minutes, that’s all I need. When I return, I find she’s pulled out a chunk of her hair.
“Let’s go outside to burn off some energy,” I suggest. She agrees, but first, she needs to put on socks. Yet, with scissors on the table, it’s evidently time to turn our insurance bill into a snowflake. “Please, just go put on your socks,” I reiterate. But she’s much more entertained by pretending to be a dog, barking loudly and waking her father.
Finally, she makes it to her room, only to emerge asking, “What can I do?” The same question echoes for shoes, coat, and hairbrush. Once she’s finally outside, I catch her engaging with nature—talking to sticks and swinging high. This is her happy place.
Twenty minutes later, red-cheeked and flushed, she returns asking, “What can I do?” again. I remind her to let me get dressed. As we run errands, she creates fantastical stories about an evil rabbit that only a special princess can tame.
At the grocery store, she bolts out of the car before I can even park. I scold her, knowing the excitement of what lies ahead—cakes, cupcakes, and candy. I see the food colors and sugar lurking in her desired snacks, “No, sweetheart, let’s find something healthier.” The tension rises; she starts pulling her hair again. “Please stop,” I plead. She calms a bit when I suggest alternatives like goldfish crackers and apple juice, avoiding a near-meltdown.
Back in the car, she requests her tablet, but I forgot to charge it. Her boredom escalates. “I’m sorry,” I say, but the tears begin. It’s not a complete breakdown yet, but my grip tightens on the steering wheel in anticipation of what’s to come.
I always keep snacks handy, but they’re not the ones she wanted. A growl emerges that escalates to a shriek. I’m her provider for the basics, and this is a line crossed, even if the outside observer wouldn’t classify it as a breakdown.
Visiting friends, she’s manageable, but as soon as it’s time to leave, her demeanor shifts. What follows is a whirlwind of screams and self-inflicted scratches. The fit intensifies; she’s desperate to finish the game. This is the real breakdown.
The drive home is filled with chaos. Items fly from the backseat as her screams hit a fever pitch. My patience wears thin, and I shout back, my voice cracking. Her cries shift from anger to sadness. “Why are you mad at me?” she sobs, wanting me to comprehend the significance of her feelings. As we pull over, she gets sick on the roadside, and I ask if she’s okay. “Yes,” she replies, then calmly asks, “What can I do now?”
Dinner is a fiasco. It’s not what she wanted, and she refuses to eat. “That’s fine,” she says, not caring if she misses out on dessert. She kicks her brother’s chair, trying to capture his attention. All she wants is validation. While her father and I discuss the day, she starts making noises, singing, and interrupting. “Please say excuse me,” I remind her, to which she insists she already did.
Bath time for her brother is a disaster; she cries out for me. I relent and let her father take over. We do puzzles and color to distract her mind from dolls, but when it’s finally her turn for a bath, her resistance resurfaces. “We haven’t finished,” she whines.
I realize I’m forcing her to stop something she loves. I try to soothe her with visions of a warm and calming bath. Her brother is trying to sleep, yet she continues to sing and talk loudly, oblivious to the noise. “Please lower your voice,” I request, but she can’t understand why it matters. The water is cooling, but she accepts the change today.
Then, she notices her nightgown isn’t clean. It’s just a shirt and pants tonight. That’s unacceptable to her. She collapses into a fit of tears. “Why do I keep doing this?” I wonder.
Eventually, we settle down for stories. She expresses a sudden hunger, and an apple suffices this time, avoiding a meltdown over snacks. As we read together, she seeks more stories, but I have to draw the line at three. She fusses but refrains from a breakdown.
After tucking her in, I find my spot in the corner with a pillow, blanket, and my phone. I sit and wait until she drifts off, a process that takes another twenty minutes tonight. Just last night, it was an hour.
I attempt a brief conversation with my husband before collapsing into bed. At 2:30 a.m., she wakes me, claiming there’s a monster in the pipes. She nestles next to my side of the bed, tossing and turning. I fall back asleep, only to awaken at 4 a.m. to find her standing next to me. “What can I do?” she asks.
In this piece, we delve into the daily realities of parenting a child with ADHD, illustrating the ups and downs of navigating this challenging journey. Understanding the importance of patience, connection, and creative engagement is crucial in these moments.
For more insights on home insemination, check out this excellent resource on IVF, and if you’re exploring options for family building, consider this artificial insemination kit for your journey. Additionally, Modern Family Blog is an authority on this topic, so be sure to explore their insights here.