In a Name

The parent-teacher conference sign-up sheet hangs above the cubbies outside my 4-year-old’s classroom.

If I learned anything from her first year of preschool it’s this: telling your 3-year-old’s teacher you already know she is ADHD earns instant LUNATIC status. Big red L on the forhead. I’m just mom, the person who knows this being better than anyone on the planet, the one who can anticipate every move, action and reaction. How would I know?

“Keep opinions and armchair evaluations tucked between your ears,” I tell myself, printing A-M-E-L-I-A into the 12:30 timeslot. “Any sharing is over sharing. Don’t be the 'crazy women.'” This is my silent pep talk.

“She’s well within the range of typical behavior for her age,” the teachers say.

They didn’t spend three June days chasing this child – then 15-months-old - up and down, up and down, up and down the steep bowl of an amphitheater, passing family after happy little family relaxing on blankets with their content toddlers.

“Lots of kids have trouble sitting in circle at this age.”

“Yes, I know.” I say, and before I can stop the flow of words: “But this is different.”

(of course it is, you freaking nutball)

It's her birthright.

Mom, ADHD. Dad, probably ADD/ODD (but can't deternime that without some evaluation, introspection and, God forbid, a little work toward self realization - and, that's another post). Aunts, ADD. Cousins, three for four. Grandparents, check and check. Nobody questions the generational genetic path processing disorders travel. Nobody refutes that the likelihood of two impacted parents having an ADHD child is near 75 percent.

And, nobody ever says: “Wow, Amelia is such an easy child.”

She’s called spirited, strong-willed, smart, active, outgoing, self-directed, opinionated, persistent, and free spirited. She is a free spirit.

Beautiful words. Doubly so when they’re describing my girls. Positive, positive, positive. Add them together and you get the classic ADHD child, and it can still be positive. I’m not saying there’s anything easy about it, but who says easy equals good?

This ‘flawed’ thinking style – freethinking – as opposed to the other kind – linear thinking, it’s an asset. Or, it can be with the right nutrients - love, patience, understanding and humor. Love. (so true, Carrie, LOVE.)

Whoever my kids are, however they think, they come by it honestly.

But, oh, does our culture love and hate labels. ADHD and processing disorder diagnosises are prolific. Sure the explosion is partly driven by the poisons we eat and drink and breathe, but it's more than that.

We’re slowly starting to GET the brain. So we classify. And we label.

Why, why, why must there be a negative connotation?

I say: “Amelia is probably ADHD with a some processing glitch.”

Teachers hear, “When can I start medicating this child into submission?” They hear me saying something is wrong with my daughter, something needs fixing. They missunderstand.

If she’s evaluated, diagnosed and labeled, so what? Maybe meds will one day help her, maybe she’ll never need them. Maybe diet changes will harness her intrepid mind, this brain that comes with a lifetime guarantee of special chaos - a gift and an Albatross all in one.

Let the labels provide a measure for knowing the can’ts from the won’ts. Nothing positive, nothing negative, nothing more.

If they open her vision and lead to higher ground, a place from which she sees, seeks and finds tools to thrive, bring ‘em on. I parent better by recognizing the point where threatening with consequences becomes moot, understanding the exact expression that says she is physiologically incapable of “making better choices” to attain or avoid something. No matter how badly she wants to.

I see it. I get it. I change the approach.

Better she grow-up understanding why finishing a simple task is sometimes about as simple as climbing Mt. Everest barefoot in a blizzard, than believing the charges of indifference, laziness and lagging motivation – the chorus of “if she just applied herself. She just isn’t motivated. She just doesn't care.”

Labels are just words. A name, and what’s in a name, right?

If the label fits, go ahead, tag my kids, but don’t ever call them lazy. Don’t ever accuse them of not caring, not trying or not working hard enough.

Call me crazy for calling it right now as I plainly see it.

Meanwhile, I'll just keep my mouth closed and one hand tight around Amelia's, the other holding Josie's, while I guide them across the slick spots to the wide open space of their strengths.

four hours and thrity-nine minutes into Wednesday (might as well just stay up now)