A different point of view
It’s sometimes during the most mundane of tasks that we have the most glorious epiphanies. For me, it’s frequently my 17-year-old son who brings me to a new way of thinking about something. And it’s usually while he is making fun of me.
Last weekend, we were trudging through the slush of the parking lot on our way to get groceries. It was the kind of soupy slush that means you’re going to have to clean your shoes/boots later.
“Mom, I don’t see how you don’t think this is the worst part of winter,” my kid said.
“Huh?”
“Whenever it snows you bitch about how much you hate winter. But fresh snow is pretty. It’s so much better than this disgusting sludge.”
I laughed as I shuffled my feet on the entry mat leading into the store. He was right. The smear of thick, grey matter behind me and the mucky prints ahead of me was proof.
As a symptom of his ADD, he sees and experiences things differently. When he was younger, this was a challenge for me. He didn’t play by the rules and I had frequent conversations with teachers about it. By the time he was in the fourth grade, he was on medication, a process that gave both of us clearer vision. I stopped apologizing—to educators and the other moms—and tried to help people see things differently. Like my kid was doing for me.
I challenged teachers to change their vocabulary, from disruptive to curious, or from rambunctious to effusive. I asked them to not punish him, but engage him. Give him a specific task, I suggested. If he’s making a mess at the water play table, show him how a mop works or how paper towel is absorbent.
I challenged moms to teach their children to be more compassionate, and to exhibit patience. Many looked at me like I was insane, others shunned me completely, and a group of four moms filed a formal complaint with the principal because my kid was doing things most kindergarteners were guilty of at some point (biting, pushing and throwing a fit).
As he grows older, I no longer need to advocate for him. He has taken on that role with gusto. He still defies his teachers, but explains to them why he needs to take a different approach. His friends are more forgiving, since he is comfortable stepping up and admitting when he is being an asshole.
Whenever we hit a wall—not seeing eye-to-eye, working through complicated school assignments—I remember a post I wrote when he turned 7, just after he was diagnosed. I’ve only published it once before, on a now-defunct blog, but I want to share it here.
It might give you pause to find the good in a challenging situation. And we all need some of that these days.
Onward and upwards, my friend.
Dana
Today, my baby boy turned 7. I could write about how my life was forever changed, he is my angel, he made me see the colours of the world…blah, blah, blah…but the truth is, I cannot say that with any conviction.
This boy wreaked havoc in my life. He had me sitting in my car crying my eyes out because he bit/kicked/hit a fellow pre-schooler AGAIN and was thrown out of school. He rarely gave me a chance to sit and enjoy a coffee at a playdate since I had to be on the edge of my seat to grab him before he hurt someone. He had me wandering in a fog, rushing through my shopping and chores so I could get things done before the school called and told me I needed to come get him.
I sat with him for hours, trying to teach him to read until we were both blind with frustration and the book was torn in half on the table. I stayed with him at every program to ensure he kept his hands to himself. I watched other children taunt him into a reaction and then listened to their mothers complain to administrators about my son.
For the last 6.5 years, I have been walking a tightrope, ever ready for the wire to break and for me to be sent into a nervous breakdown over my son’s behaviour. We tried private assessments. We sent him to gymnastics to burn some energy. There were so many different diagnoses and therapies that we felt like fish in the bottom of the boat, flopping around in confusion.
And finally – FINALLY!!!!! – we found the right doctor who made the right diagnosis. Three little letters. ADD.
Now our son takes Biphentin – a form of Ritalin. And I cry every time I think about where we were 6 months ago and where we are today. Before you criticize, try visualizing what it would be like if everything you saw looked like the image from a kaleidoscope. I think Westin’s view of the world is like that without his medication.
The little boy we always knew was – sweet and kind and smart – is now out there for everyone to witness. He is generous and compassionate. He is loving and tender. He has a wicked sense of humour that makes us laugh every day. The medication clears the clutter from his mind and now he can focus enough to read at a level above most of his peers. He can now share every detail of his day with wonder and delight.
The light in his eyes is full of cleverness and mischief and love.
Without knowing it, Westin has taught me compassion, patience, tolerance, and empathy. He has given me the strength I never knew I had to stand up for what is right and fair. Westin has helped me become one of those mothers who will say “Yes, my son takes Ritalin” not to defend our decision, but to let you know that it’s okay if your kid needs help to shine.
I love this, Dana.
Wonderful words, thanks Dana