Have you ever seen one of those ribbon magnets that says, I love somebody with autism? They’re popular on the backs of minivans, and the ribbon is composed of multi-colored puzzle pieces.
What I’ve never seen is a ribbon/bumper sticker/magnet advertising that the harried mother driving the minivan loves somebody with ADHD. Do you want to know why? Because the child with ADHD would have noticed the ribbon magnet, pulled it off the car, retrieved a pair of scissors and/or the hot glue gun, and then turned it into something even more spectacular. Until he–or she–remembered something else more interesting. The aforementioned mother would eventually disover the artwork-in-progress–let’s say as she innocently enters the bathroom to pick up wet towels. She will involuntarily shriek as she notices that “someone” has strewn scissors, Sharpies, glitter, and bits of refrigerator magnets next to a hot glue gun that is oozing glue onto the tile floor. She’ll catch her breath and decide against a second shriek as she silently thanks her child for not selecting a room with carpet.
If you don’t love somebody with ADHD, you probably think I’ve gone a bit overboard already. But that’s only because you have no idea what it’s like to live with someone whose brain is wired completely differently than yours.
In our house, we call the ADHD brain a “super brain” because that’s exactly what it is. My daughter’s super brain fires far more rapidly than mine does; it notices far more things than mine does; it tries to accomplish far more tasks than mine can; and it does all of these things all at the same time. All of the time. Unless she is asleep.
My child is funny and fun to be around. She is creative like you wouldn’t believe; in fact, I may have created the glue gun example based on her shenanigans.
Last night she brought me her gerbil, a 3-year-old morbidly obese rodent named Mocha Bob. Mocha Bob was pink because someone thought he needed a layer of blush all over his fur. G thought this new hair color was hysterically funny but did admit that she wasn’t sure how to remove it. I suggested a nice dust bath.
Last week I was cleaning up the kitchen counters when I heard a familiar voice: “Mom, do you know where I am?” I looked over the counter into the family room but saw no one.
“Mom, I’m down here. With Perry.” Perry is my sister’s standard poodle who visits us whenever her family vacations. G loves Perry, and the feeling is mutual. Since I couldn’t see Perry or G, I gave up.
“Where exactly are you and Perry?” I innocently asked. This is where I found the two of them.
I have a million of these stories from the last 15 years. They’re funny–really, really funny. When she was two, she calmly covered her legs in Sharpie while I was nursing S. When she was five, she turned her little sisters into bunny rabbits on Easter Sunday; she accurately drew noses, whiskers, and paws onto both of them. At ten, she taped S’s toothbrush to the bathroom ceiling.
I also have a million stories that aren’t very funny to me because of the amount of cleanup they required. At three, she covered her bedroom walls in Bag Balm during nap time. At 12, she splattered blue food dye up the bathroom wall and across the ceiling but still has no explanation as to how/why she did that. That was the same summer that two ink pens–the permanent type–mysteriously exploded in her swim bag and bed. At 13, she dyed her hair in the bathtub with ballpoint pen ink. When she was 14, entering her bathroom could induce panic attacks; I retrieved corn starch, olive oil, thumb tacks, Sharpies, highlighters, ballpoint pens, crayons, glitter, scissors, dishes, utensils, and bits of discarded fabric more times than I care to count.
What’s my point exactly?
It’s exhausting to raise a child who has ADHD. And it’s frustrating to be the child who has ADHD. It affects every aspect of her life and mine: her schoolwork and my relationship with her teachers and administrators; her friendships and my relationships with her friends’ parents; her feelings that no one likes/understands/loves her; and my marriage to her father.
It’s easy for her to lose hope, and it’s a struggle for me to not worry about her future.
Today I dropped my super creative, exceptionally funny child with a super brain at her first official day of work at a local horse farm. She has her first summer job, and I am ridiculously proud of her. She will be doing hard labor taking care of horses three days a week in exchange for a lease on a horse named Eddie.
I love this girl. She makes me crazy, mad, and anxious at times. Every day with her is unpredictable, but today is full of promise.