The day begins early. I wake up at 5:30 a.m., but my daughter has been awake since 3:30. I hear her in her room, moving toys around, chatting to herself, occasionally peeking out to ensure I’m there. She checks that everyone is still around, ensuring no one has left.
My first task is to get her a drink and her medication. I attempt to turn on cartoons to buy myself a few moments of clarity, but she quickly objects. “Mom, why is this on? I don’t like this,” she protests as I mistakenly put on PBS Kids instead of her preferred movie. Recognizing my error, I switch to a movie she enjoys. However, after just five minutes, she’s leaping off the couch, performing flips. In her exuberance, she crashes down hard, waking her baby brother. I’ve barely had a few sips of coffee.
“Please try to sit still for just a moment,” I plead, hoping to get her brother dressed. I step away for five minutes, and upon returning, I find she has yanked out a chunk of her hair. I suggest we go outside to release some energy, to which she eagerly agrees. “Go put on socks,” I instruct, but temptation leads her to the table where scissors lie nearby. Naturally, she believes that cutting our insurance bill into snowflakes is a better use of her time.
“Please, just put on your socks,” I repeat. But she finds it far more entertaining to crawl down the hallway like a dog, yipping and barking, inadvertently waking her father. “Just get your socks on,” I insist. After some time, she comes running to me asking, “What can I do?” The same answer is repeated for her shoes, coat, and hairbrush.
Finally outside, she’s in her element, talking to sticks and swinging high. It’s a good place for her.
After twenty minutes, she returns, cheeks flushed and hands red. Once again, she asks, “What can I do?” I tell her to let me get dressed so we can run errands together. As we drive, she spins a tale about an evil rabbit living underground, only tamed by a princess who must keep it happy. It’s our way of passing time.
Arriving at the grocery store, her excitement leads her to dash out of the car before I can park. I scold her, knowing the allure of treats inside—cakes, candy, juice boxes—awaits. “No, sweetheart, we need to find something healthier,” I respond, as she begins to pull at her hair in frustration. “Please, don’t pull your hair,” I kindly remind her, but the strain is evident.
She calms down with some acceptable alternatives—Goldfish crackers, apple juice, and Annie’s cookies—but the tension lingers just below the surface.
Back in the car, she requests her tablet, only to find out I didn’t charge it. Her boredom escalates, leading to tears. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling a pit in my stomach as I grip the steering wheel tighter. I check my stash of snacks, only to learn I’ve brought the wrong one. The tears morph into a growl, which escalates into a full-blown shriek. To an observer, it might seem like a meltdown, but we’re not there yet.
Later, we visit a friend. She’s a bit snappy, but nothing alarming. “She seems so much better,” they remark. I nod, acknowledging that she is indeed doing well—until it’s time to leave. Then the screams begin, escalating into self-harm as she claws at her arms, crying out that we can’t leave yet. This is the moment when everything unravels.
The car ride home is cacophonous. Items are hurled from the backseat, and my patience wears thin. I scream in frustration. My voice breaks, and her cries soften into a sad whimper. Why was I mad? She was only trying to express how unfair it felt to leave. She gasps for breath, and we pull over, where she becomes sick by the roadside. I ask if she’s okay; she nods affirmatively, and then calmly asks, “What can I do?”
Dinner is a struggle. It’s not what she wanted, and she flat-out refuses to eat. “I don’t care,” she declares when I remind her that skipping dinner means no snack later. Her brother’s chair becomes a target for her kicks as she vies for attention. While her father and I attempt to discuss our plans, she interrupts with a medley of sounds, demanding to be heard.
When I leave to bathe her brother, her cries erupt, “Mommy, no!” I give in and let her father handle it. I distract her with puzzles and coloring to avoid the inevitable breakdown that follows her desire to play with dolls. When the time comes for her bath, she resists, insisting we haven’t finished.
I remind her that we can continue once she’s out. The growling begins again. I wrap her in a hug, encouraging her to think of the warm, calming bath awaiting her. Her brother tries to sleep, yet she continues to sing and talk loudly, ignoring my requests to lower her voice.
Finally, the bath ends, but when I present her with a shirt and pants instead of her preferred nightgown, she crumples in despair. It’s a small detail, yet it unravels her. The clock ticks past 9:15 before she can speak again.
We manage to read stories together, and when she claims hunger, I offer her an apple, which she accepts without complaint. I tuck her in after our tales, positioning myself in the corner with a pillow and blanket, waiting for her to drift off. It takes twenty minutes this time, a small victory compared to last night’s hour.
I attempt a brief conversation with my husband before succumbing to exhaustion. At 2:30 a.m., I’m jolted awake by her voice: “There’s a monster in the pipes.” She curls up next to my bed, restless. I drift back to sleep, only to awaken at 4 a.m. to her standing beside me, asking, “What can I do?”
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In summary, navigating a day with a child who has ADHD can be a rollercoaster of emotions and experiences, filled with both challenges and moments of connection. Understanding these dynamics is crucial for effective parenting and support.