From One ADHD Mom to Another

Someone once told me and a roomful of my colleagues, “Don’t ever write anything you wouldn’t want to land on the front page of the newspaper tomorrow morning.”  He was speaking about emails, text messages, and Facebook comments and posts; but the message extends far beyond social media and the like.

And, for me, I would take it one step farther: Don’t ever write anything to which you are not willing to sign your name.

As a writer of a blog, I have full control over all comments that appear here.  And while I can count on one hand the number of comments I have opted not to publish over the course of five years, should one appear that I feel either does a disservice to readers or is otherwise inflammatory, I can put it in the metaphorical and technological trash.

When I write for publications, however, everything is available for not only public consumption but commentary, too.  I accept that–and expect it, too.  The written word is nothing if it does not inspire one to think, to feel, to remark, to criticize.

But sometimes comments are blatantly inaccurate, do nothing to advance the conversation, or ultimately have the potential to do harm.

In the most recent edition of ADDitude magazine you will find an article about my seven-year-old son Edgar, who in October was diagnosed with ADHD.  And here you will find the online version.  In the article, I relate how tremendously his life has changed since beginning a regimen that includes stimulant medication.

This afternoon the following comment appeared from someone who calls herself (or himself) “ADHD Mom”:

Your piece is clearly written with a lot of love. I am saddened that you decided to dope your child instead of providing him the tools and patience he will need to succeed and that he deserves. Doping is a temporary solution and as documented will potentially lead to increases in doseage [sic], addition [sic] medications being pushed for anxiety and depression not to mention what it does to a growing child psychologically. While you enjoy your momentary relief, your child continues to suffer and will eventually believe that he is inadequate without the dope. This is not a long term [sic] solution.

With ADHD, indeed with pretty much everything, each family must formulate its own plan and come to its own decisions–decisions that are not made lightly, decisions that demand much thought and often inspire even more angst.  It is clear to me now that because my son does take medication, indeed because he has ADHD, he is going to encounter these sorts of misapprehensions and have to field these kinds of inflammatory comments–whether they come to him in person or anonymously from behind a keyboard.

My son is too young to hear ADHD Mom’s words.  They would do nothing but upset him, serve no purpose, and ultimately cause harm.  And though today I can control whether or not he sees these words, tomorrow I can’t.  But what I can do in the interim is to continue providing him with “the tools and patience” he will need to respond with dignity to the ADHD Moms of the world.

The Same but Different

“Mom, tell me about your mother,” my seven-year-old son Edgar asked as he studiously manipulated the latest acquisition to his Beyblade collection.

We were in the car, my eyes on the road, his on his toy when he posed not for the first time questions about my mother.

I hesitate telling my children too much, but I certainly need to tell them enough—not only to honor their earnest inquiries but also to ensure that the woman who raised me does not take on mythic status due to my reticence.

“What would you like to know?” I asked him.

“Well, tell me what was wrong with her brain.”

He knows that my mother had significant mental health issues, which, for his seven-year-old benefit we have always described in terms of her brain not being healthy and not allowing her to make the best decisions.

I then thought about the verbiage we have been using, terms we came up with well before Edgar was diagnosed with epilepsy or ADHD—conditions he understands to be the result of his brain working in a different capacity compared to others’—and I could see the connections he was making and where this conversation was going.

And I was terrified.

He said, “Mom, you didn’t really love your mother, did you?”

I told him my feelings for her were and are very, very complicated.

He surmised that since she hurt me it would make sense if I didn’t love her. Then he added, “But you know, Mom, I think I understand her . . . why she made bad decisions. Her brain didn’t help her—just like mine sometimes doesn’t.”

I reflected on his magnanimity, the depth of his understanding and empathy; but at the root of it I also understood his fear—that my love for my beautiful son may be compromised if one day his brain causes him to make a decision that hurts me.

I explained about unconditional love, the love a parent has for a child, the love I have for him.

And that’s truly where I thought this chapter would end . . . a picture-perfect moment where I express and my son understands the depth of what I feel for him, a neat conclusion tied up with a bow.

But it didn’t end here–and there was most assuredly no bow.

He pursued and in rapid-fire succession asked if she had epilepsy. I told him she didn’t. He asked if she had ADHD. I said no. He then asked what she did have, and I told him. He asked me if she were born that way, how old she was when people realized her brain was not healthy.

He asked whether the same diagnosis was coming for him.

And before I could answer—as if I could answer—he mercifully asked, “Mom, what was her name again?”

I said, “Diane.”

He said, “That’s a pretty name. Maybe it’s not to you, but it is to me. I think it’s nice.”

I stared straight ahead at the road in front of me and realized that my past may be behind me—but it’s also on the side of me, above me, below me, and in front of me. And clearly it’s in my son’s heart and on his mind.

He doesn’t realize that her story will not be his story, and he fears it—this sweet soul who carries burdens in body and mind disproportionate to his years.

I can’t change my past nor can I predict my son’s future. All I can do is negotiate the present and hope that there are enough hugs, enough declarations of love to make up for the rest.

Book Review: Too Hurt to Stay

Too Hurt to Stay

By Casey Watson

294 pp. Harper Element. $14.99

Questions about why we read and why we write are at the forefront of this compelling tale of an eight-year-old child who enters foster care ostensibly of his own volition.  Watson, a pseudonym, in a clear, lilting British vernacular, tells the story of Spencer, who comes to live with the author and her husband armed with notoriety, a thick file, and a past that belies his young age.  He is angry; he is hurt–and he desperately needs love.

The memoir ebbs and flows, following the predictable patterns of a child in crisis: two steps forward and sometimes three back.  The structure builds suspense–so much so that it is important to remind yourself as you read that this is a true story–as are all of Watson’s books.  The names and identifying details have been altered sufficiently to guarantee the privacy of those involved; but at its core are the tragic trappings of the beleaguered foster care system–as strained in the United Kingdom as it is here at home.

As an adoptive parent and one-time foster care provider, I can attest to the pain, loss, and anguish that hovers around the young lives that come into care; and I tip my hat to those who can provide foster care for our world’s most vulnerable children.   Spencer’s story is not unique but is nonetheless heartrending, and it is in very good hands with Casey Watson.

The Trouble with Marilyn Wedge’s Analysis

I am not French, nor am I psychologist, but I am the American mother of three American children, one of whom has received an American diagnosis of ADHD and takes medication dispensed at an American pharmacy for this condition every day.

Marilyn Wedge, Ph. D., in her article in Psychology Today entitled “Why French Kids Don’t Have ADHD” has inspired over 240 comments at this writing; so I don’t imagine I will add anything new to the conversation.  But because her article has invaded the internet with a vengeance, I am compelled to comment—for the sake of my son, for his peers who battle this condition daily, and for the American parents who are being flogged as permissive poisoners of their children’s bodies and minds.

I’ll start with acceding the fact that there are probably some things the French do better than us—speaking French comes to mind and, well, let’s be honest, cooking.  But beyond that I don’t think there is much productive about pitting one culture against the other—unless, of course, you take the next leap and remember that French parents are raising their children to thrive in French culture while American parents have to prepare their children to be successful here.

Wedge describes what she sees as the American propensity “to ‘pathologize’ much of what is normal childhood behavior”; and while I agree that many of the markers of ADHD (inattention, impulsivity, and restlessness) parallel those attributes of early childhood, it is disingenuous of her as a scientist not to examine and explore the cultural reasons why American parents are more apt to acknowledge ADHD in their children than their French counterparts—if that is indeed the case.  These reasons may, in fact, explain her opening statistical salvo and conclusion that ADHD is some kind of curse that “has completely passed over children in France.”  Perhaps it’s not so much that ADHD has “passed over” France but rather is not something readily or comfortably admitted to there.

And perhaps therein lies the author’s agenda.  In her article, she refers to children who exhibit ADHD symptoms as “troubled”; in fact, the name of her book is Pills Are Not for Preschoolers: A Drug-Free Approach for Troubled Kids. Troubled—a word that is just a hop away from “disturbed,” “difficult,” and “unfortunate”—and not remotely the way I would choose to describe my son, the way he would describe himself, or the way society—least of all a children’s therapist—should be describing anyone.

And it doesn’t take a Ph. D. in psychology—French, American, or otherwise—to understand that.

The Fear of a Seven-Year-Old

He has been talking about being afraid to die.

And though most people–children included–from time to time internalize, reflect on, and occasionally articulate this all-too-real fear, Edgar is just seven. And when he couples the expression of this fear with a sense that his seizures will return, what is usually a fleeting fear for most people takes on an added dimension. In a seven-year-old.

In Edgar’s mind he has linked his epilepsy with dying. And though this connection has never been actively expressed in our house–since he is just seven–he is not incorrect. It’s a fear we live with every single day. And apparently, though we have tried to shield him, so does our son–who is just seven.

There are many things we can and do say in response, but the fear becomes all too palpable and marches right to the front of the line when he invokes his seizures. His seizures have stayed at bay for sixteen months; and Edgar has done a remarkable job at convincing himself he is in charge of them. He has utilized the martial imagery our society uses when we encounter conditions that compromise our health; he has fought and battled and is prepared to do so every day. At age seven.

But in truth, though Edgar’s attitude toward his condition plays a significant, even vital, role, it’s not the only factor.

It is very hard to reconcile, as a parent, that this beautiful smile masks fears that should be no part of a seven-year-old’s day. But it does, as do ours.

Every day.

My Mother’s Day Challenge

Growing up, Mother’s Day was a strange day for me.

There are really few words that could ever adequately and concisely capture what life in the small, dank apartment where I grew up was like.

It was filled with cigarette smoke and filth and plagued by dishonesty and abuse; but beyond that and short of telling the individual and discomfiting stories that comprise the history of my childhood, there is not much more to say.

My mother’s mind was terrorized by her own thoughts, her body ravaged by a lifetime of poor choices.

And parenting is one choice, looking back, I wish she hadn’t made. My now-eight-year-old son broached this subject with me one day years ago when he had heard only a heavily euphemized description of the reasons why he had never met my mother. He asked me instinctively if I had wished she made an adoption plan for me; and without hesitation, I said yes.

There were many days I would sit on the wide windowsill of my basement apartment and stare out the window to the outside, not knowing what was out there but instinctively feeling there had to be something—something better, something different, something else. Looking back, I think I was waiting for someone; and it took years for me to realize the person I was waiting for was me.

A child growing up in an abusive environment is, of course, at the mercy of his or her abuser; but, strangely, also on his or her own. At a time in life when you’re learning how to trust and the importance of trust, you learn the true limit of your options.

In the realm of our son’s adoptions, we talk about their birth mothers with reverence—expressing to them the extreme foresight and bravery of these women, their understanding that they were not in a position to parent and wanting for their sons parents who would foster their best at every turn and love them unconditionally. It’s a selfless decision that the selfishness that permeated my own mother’s bearing would never have allowed to happen.

Today Mother’s Day is still strange to me—beautiful and replete with hugs and hand-drawn cards, celebrations and sweet gifts but strange nonetheless. I aspire every day to be the mother my children deserve; but my taller order is to each day be the mother my mother was not.

Let’s Drop the Adjectives

My Facebook news feed greeted me on three separate occasions with this pithy image this morning.  It’s Mother’s Day weekend, so the internet is understandably alive with these sorts of sentiments.  “Mothers are always right . . . even when they’re wrong,” “I love how we don’t even need to say out loud that I’m your favorite child,” “I child-proofed the house, but they still got in.”

And of course this one is supposed to be amusing, too–an homage the person posting it is sending to him- or herself–wink implied and understood.

But equally obvious is the fact not every mother on earth actually gave birth.  Without listing these myriad mothers and embarking on a diatribe that it is not the act of giving birth that makes someone a mother, I’ll simply suggest that on this Mother’s Day we drop the adjectives that seem to attach themselves to those who came to motherhood in other ways.

To all mothers who have devoted their lives to loving and caring for another, Happy Mother’s Day.

He Will Be Ready

Last night, my seven-year-old son Edgar ardently declared his love for me and dreamily whispered as he grasped his pillow and drifted off to sleep, “Mom and I can never be separated.”

A tall order . . . but one that grazes my heart nonetheless–not because I have a need for this level of extreme adoration but because I earnestly worry what life will look like for my son when eventually we are separated.

I understand my charge as a parent–to love my children, of course, but as important to arm them with the tools they will need to become successful, independent adults.  It’s simple, really.  But when your child has a condition (or two) that impacts his life, his functioning, you worry–you worry how anyone will ever be able to care for your child with the same dedication, the same attention to detail.  And that worry can easily turn to unrealistic expectations.

Parents often think about what their children’s future partners might be like–their future sons- and daughters-in-law.  But when your son has epilepsy or ADHD, that imagining goes to a whole other place:  Will Edgar’s seizures scare others away?   Will this person make sure he takes his medicine if Edgar can’t or won’t?  Will he or she ever be able to love him the way I love him?  And then . . . what if Edgar chooses to live his life without a partner?  Or, worse, what if he wants one and there isn’t one?

When my son whispers that he and I can never be separated, he is echoing what I at times feel in my own heart, in my soul–because I know as long as he is with me, he is safe; he is loved; he has someone he knows will always and forever be in his corner and on his side.

But my head knows better and understands eventually I have to let him go–not today, but eventually.  And I’ll have to explain to him that it will be okay, that it will be mutual and that he’ll be ready.  We have work to do–and all that work is so that we can eventually separate, so that one night as he drifts off to sleep he can utter, “I am ready.”

Athena Where She Belongs

I asked him to head upstairs, slip under the covers, and wait, that I would be up in a minute to say goodnight.  He did.  But instead of a minute, I was up in just 30 seconds, viscerally responding to the uncharacteristic whimpering I heard emanating from his room.

I stood at the foot of his bed, and he greeted my arrival with a plaintive cry.  He was face-down, his head under the pillow, and all I could hear was his muffled plea: “Take my Athena statue away.  I am not Athena! Take her away!”

His statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, has been sitting on his bureau since I returned from Greece–the most fitting of souvenirs from me for one of the wisest humans I have ever known.  We have since had several conversations about Greek mythology generally and Athena specifically.  We have talked about wisdom and what it means.

From under his pillow, Oscar told me a story about something that had happened in school that week, a scenario that left him feeling anything but wise.  He told me he wasn’t “smart like Athena” and that he didn’t deserve the statue.

It was then that I went over to him, removed the pillow, placed my hand on his head, and asked him to listen.  I talked to him about intelligence, about wisdom, about learning from his mistakes.

He listened, intently I think, and after a few minutes he said, “So, if I learn from this, don’t repeat it, and start building again, Mom, I can still be wise?”

And I said yes, that that is exactly what wisdom is–and I looked at the goddess on his bureau, knowing she travelled a long way and is now exactly where she belongs.

Different Drummer

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” HENRY DAVID THOREAU, Walden

Growing up, this quote was perched on the dresser in my bedroom.  Handwritten in black marker on a little piece of particle board that showed the wear and tear my childhood and adolescence inflicted on it, it has always been part of my consciousness–an ode to individuality as well as acceptance.

I am so proud to introduce you to my column on ADDitude.com, “Different Drummer,” a place where I write about negotiating life’s adventures with my son Edgar who was recently diagnosed with ADHD.

Please stop by and let me know what you think.