WHY I TALK ABOUT MY KID ON FACEBOOK

            Some days are harder than others. Some days I am overwhelmed with trying to do the right thing for my child with ADD. Now that my son is in middle school I have multiple teachers to communicate with and one terrific special education professional whom I’m trying (probably unsuccessfully) not to deluge. I also have to keep in mind that I have a kid who is trying his best to master these transitions, too. Just the “normal” days are usually difficult enough, but when I let myself wallow, the guilt inevitably follows. After all, I’m a married stay-at-home mother with no other children to worry about. I know single moms with children on the autism spectrum and working parents with children who have Down’s Syndrome. You don’t have to have a special needs child to be having a rough go of it. Other people are going through hard stuff, too. Still, some days are harder than others.

            Like yesterday. I know from past experience that my son needs to do his homework as soon as he gets home from school. Otherwise, he gets tired, his medication wears off, and he becomes completely unfocused. What normally takes fifteen minutes will instead take two and a half hours. That’s not two and a half hours of him just sitting staring at a homework assignment. That’s including the fits, the tantrums, the screaming, the crying, and also many minutes of him staring at a homework assignment.

            I don’t talk about my son’s diagnosis often except with the people it impacts (his teachers) or the friends whose children unfortunately have that in common with mine. It’s not that I have any shame associated with the label, it’s that I don’t care for the generalizations or limitations that label might impose. That’s what he has, it’s not who he is. I’ve heard “every kid has ADD now,” as if it’s a trend rather than the unhappy diagnosis after many days worth of testing with multiple specialists. I’ve seen people whose children are perfectly healthy demonize the drug industry and those of us parents who choose (nay, need) to put our children on medication. If my kid had asthma, you wouldn’t tell me I should learn to control it without medication, so why would that be our only valid option for ADD? Perhaps people think we give him his pill and it instantly makes him compliant and docile like a trained circus animal. They scoff and say, “Wouldn’t we all love a magic pill for our boisterous boys?” But my boy isn’t merely boisterous. He can sit silently and read for hours but he can’t sit at a table without at least one foot on his chair. He can be in a classroom but he hums or makes noises, not to get attention, but as a subconscious way to soothe himself. He doesn’t do it for laughs or attention. In fact, attention for his tics is the last thing he wants. He has spent years learning strategies to calm himself when he gets frustrated, but in the moment, the “energy,” as he calls it, builds and he has to find a way to release it. He doesn’t get any reward out of jumping or yelling except for the release of pressure. The medication lessens the feelings that cause him to have to do what it takes to calm himself. It gives him that extra moment of thought to control his impulses. It temporarily changes his brain chemistry to be more like that of a typical child. Trust me, it’s no magic pill. It helps, but some days are harder than others.

            As I was saying, yesterday was one of those days. He came home from school an hour later than usual because he had an after school activity. I should’ve made him go right to his homework. But he wanted to play outside and although he just went hiking for an hour in his after school club, I didn’t want to deny him outdoor time. It was a beautiful fall day. He’s a boy. He wanted to be outdoors. Besides, he was in such a happy mood. Things would be fine. He’d do his homework later.

            But I know better. Happy has nothing to do with it. He doesn’t resist and make noises and throw himself around because he’s not happy. He does it because he doesn’t know how else to say, “I feel out of control.”

            By the time he came in, it was dinner time. We ate together as a family. He got to his homework right afterwards, as expected. It was a math paper. He stared at it. He made noises. He started one problem, lost track of what he was doing, then had to start again.

            I read a blog post once from an adult man with ADD who said to imagine that you have a sticky note with something you need to do written on it. Now imagine it’s floating in the air with 500 other sticky notes swirling around it, all brightly colored, all with other things to read on them, “Look at me,” “No, look at me”. And even though you’re trying to keep an eye on your one yellow sticky note, you’ve got to dodge this constant barrage of others vying for your attention. That’s what ADD is like.

            I can see it in my son’s eyes. It’s different than procrastination. Believe me, I’ve seen that, too. So I try to help, to keep him on task, “Nine times two. What’s nine times two?” It’s just a small part of the first equation. He’s no math whiz but he certainly knows his two’s. “Nine plus nine,” I say it differently hoping it will trigger a response. Nine plus nine, he’s whispering over and over to himself. And so it goes until his frustration begins to overtake him and before we can stop it, there’s the full-on screaming tantrum. And I’m trying to hug him because I know the pressure from my body makes him feel more in control of his own. But he’s crying, “I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop myself.” That feeling of believing he can’t is just as bad as the feeling itself. And there’s nothing I can do but hold him until he calms down and finally remind him that he just did stop himself. Indeed, he did. And we dry our tears and we hug and kiss and he says he’s sorry and I say it doesn’t matter, let’s move on. We get back to it. It’s still hard, but he finishes it. He asks if he can go read now and I say yes. More hugs and kisses and I love you’s and he goes to his room.

            I berate myself for not making him do the homework right after school. It’s my fault. This has happened dozens of times in the past, I should know better. But, dammit, sometimes when my kid comes home from school and wants to play, I want him to be just like any other kid. I want to be a mom who doesn’t have to worry what time the medication will wear off. But I can’t be. I’m the mom who understands that almost any toy he’s given will eventually be taken apart and examined piece by piece. I’m the mom who cringes when he grows out of anything because his clothes have to be just the right fabric and texture for him not to obsess on their discomfort. I’m the mom who needs to have much more patience than I do. Some days are harder than others.

            Which brings me to the title of this blog post: Why I talk about my kid on Facebook. I don’t talk about the ADD. I talk about the good stuff, the fun stuff, and also the stuff that drives me crazy (the firewalk of Legos, fellow moms?). I posted a photo of some “contraband” I found under his bed covers yesterday morning: a flashlight and a Calvin & Hobbes book. And this afternoon as I sat here feeling helpless that I can’t make my son’s hardships go away, one of my friends, who only knows him from my Facebook posts, wrote, “Love this kid.” And it immediately made me stop feeling sorry for him and for myself, for that matter. I know how incredible he is, but sometimes I worry that that's just a mother’s blind love for her child. My friend’s comment was a simple affirmation for me that he is perfectly him. He has so many qualities that will carry him through. I wish I could take his struggles from him, but every parent wishes that. And I know in the big picture, those struggles will contribute in making him who he is meant to be. But some days are harder than others, and my friends who might not even know about my bad days help me to keep it all in perspective. That’s why I talk about my kid on Facebook.