To the Parents of the Classmates Who Didn't Give Up On My Son This School Year

Dear Parents,

           

In the daily grind of schedules and snow pants, I’ve neglected to acknowledge my appreciation for you and your family – namely, your sweet, amazing child. 

 Let’s start with you. Before I first dropped my child at your house for a playdate I informed you that my son lives with moderate autism. I hate having this conversation, not because I have any shame surrounding his diagnosis, but because it sounds like I’m giving a warning, when really I’m just highlighting what my son needs to be set up for success with peers, and potential pitfalls I can predict. But if I’m being honest, we didn’t really know each other. We were moms with kids the same age in the same class. We’ve come a long way when it comes to stigma, but the reality is, not everyone is comfortable with special needs. You seemed like a mom I could really get along with, but how could I be sure you wouldn’t have reservations about hosting a child with unique needs, with whom you were unfamiliar? If you had reservations, you didn’t show it. On the contrary, you put my mind at ease, assuring me you’d let me know if any snafus popped up. 


I appreciate your openness, acceptance. Parenting a child with unique needs is often isolating. It can feel a lot like living on an island. Finding someone willing to reach across the water is invaluable. There’s someone else I appreciate. Here’s to your child.

            
You see, my son transitioned (transition – a four letter word to many on the spectrum) from a special-needs preschool class to a mainstream kindergarten. His IEP team proved amazing, but we were nervous about how he’d relate to his peers. We had the same fears most parents face. Would he make a friend? Would he be lonely at recess? Would he get bullied? I remember relating to Julia Roberts’s character in the movie, Wonder, when she watches he son, Auggie walk into the school building and whispers, “Please God make the kids be nice to him”.

 Our concerns were amplified by E’s social anxiety and difficulty reading social cues and communicating verbally. Selective mutism was suggested, as E spoke to teachers and aides but tended to freeze with peers. This looks like flat affect, and a frozen, staring face. Often, he won’t respond when a peer says “hi” or asks to play. When he sees peers playing together, he wanders around them waiting for them to invite him to play. Despite role play, he struggles to verbalize his desire to be included. My biggest prayer wasn’t about reading or math. I prayed that God would send him a real friend to make his school days more comfortable.

           
God gave more than I asked. He gave E. your child. When we ask E. who he played with at recess, instead of hanging his head and saying “no one” like he did in the beginning, he mentions your child’s name with a grin. When E. struggles to transition back into the school week after a weekend or longer break, we remind him that he’ll reunite with your child. That helps. Your child gives him something to look forward to, someone to comfort him when he gets homesick.

Your child was okay with taking the lead, which my child needs. Your child not only asked mine to play, but they were undeterred when E. didn’t respond to their invitations and greetings. Instead of (understandably) running off and finding a more receptive playmate your child persisted, somehow recognizing that my son’s companionship was worth the extra effort. Your child kept asking, kept greeting, and kept inviting. 

I remember the ice cream social during the fall of first grade. E. clung to me, overwhelmed by the excited voices bouncing off the cement walls of the cafeteria and the lines of people. To be honest, I was a bit overwhelmed myself, though I didn’t show it. I saw you and your child. We all exchanged greetings. E. was overloaded and didn’t say “hi” to your child, even with prompting. He remained glued to me even when your kids asked him to come outside and play on the playground. E. tugged on me to go with him, but I was in line for his coveted ice cream ticket. Your kids ran outside.

Moments later, they were back. I watched in grateful amazement, as your child amended, “E., do you want to play with us?” to “Come on, E., let’s go play.” I watched your children gently but firmly take my child’s hand and lead him outside. By the time I made it outside the kids were chasing each other and rolling down the hill. E. was sweaty and laughing. He’d forgotten about me, and more amazingly, he’d forgotten about his ice cream melting in my hand. I’ve never been so happy to have sticky vanilla running down my wrist. That night I got to watch my son run and play with friends - no social worker, aide, or parent prompting him – just being a kid. This was possible because of my son’s bravery to venture away from his comfort zone, but the opportunity was offered, no, insisted upon by your children. We all chatted while our kids frolicked, and I got to be just one of the moms. I went home from that ice cream social with high spirits.

Your child is so much more than a playmate. Your child is the friend who encourages my son to raise his hand in class. Your child has made him comfortable asking for sensory and movement breaks, referring to these accommodations as cool privileges. Your child often accompanies mine on these breaks, and while I’m sure they enjoy the break from class too, they engage my child without asking why he’s given these breaks.  

When your child invites mine for playdates, he hesitates, not because he’s not excited to play, but because leaving his familiar environment and predictable afternoon brings its own challenges. Often he asks that your child come to our house instead. He always has fun at your house once he’s there, but your child is just as happy to roll with the punches and play at our home. On one of these playdates, we were having some work done in our basement, and our internet cable was accidentally cut. I was informed it would be two days before it could be repaired. In general, dusty, noisy home repairs and a cut internet cable equals first world inconvenience. For someone on the spectrum, an unexpected change on top of a noisy disruption in their safe environment is a potential recipe for a meltdown. This particular week, my son’s fixation is building a boat in Minecraft with his brother. Per our therapist’s recommendation, he gets this at the end of his day. When you’re looking forward to something and it doesn’t happen, you probably feel disappointed and maybe frustrated. To my child, unexpected disappointment can feel like the end of the world.

            
But it can look like a bratty temper tantrum to the outside observer. I get it, I do. I’m telling you this because on this day your child witnesses a full-blown screaming, crying, throwing the X-Box remote at the (already cracked) television screen, and falling on the floor. I won’t add a full dissertation on the difference between a tantrum and a meltdown but suffice it to say no seven-year-old CHOOSES to have a meltdown in front of a peer – especially a classmate. But here we were. While attempting to deescalate, I glanced over at your child lingering at the threshold of the family room with a pensive frown on their little face.


In that moment, I froze. I didn’t want your child to be scared, but I didn’t want to embarrass my child further by attempting to explain. Before I could decide how to handle the situation, your child came into the room, walked up to my child, and without missing a beat, said, “E., I’m sorry you don’t get to play Minecraft today. That’s sad.”

My mouth hung open. Without prompting and in the sweetest voice possible, your six-year-old did what I’ve personally witnessed countless educated adults fail to do in these situations – validate feelings and show empathy. Your child didn’t see a kid “too old to be acting like that” being a brat. Your child saw a friend and fellow human upset, and showed understanding without judging whether or not his reaction was too much. My child didn’t respond immediately, but ultimately your child coaxed him out of his fixation and into another activity. 


I’m rambling now, but this event made me think. As an advocate for my child, I feel the need to learn every single fact about autism, therapy, and how to diffuse meltdowns while also raising awareness to other people. I believe those stares and passive aggressive comments (always from adults) in public sprout from simple ignorance rather than cruelty. After all, autism is an invisible disability. However, I doubt your child knows or understands that my child is on the spectrum. They probably haven’t stayed up until 1:00 A.M. reading articles and scouring online support groups. They don’t have any letters after their name (yet). In this moment, none of that was needed. Good old-fashioned human empathy and validation did the trick. What would life be like if we all responded that way? Maybe the opposite of ignorance isn’t knowledge but compassion.


In my long-winded way, I’m circling back to you, parent. Your child learned empathy and compassion from somewhere. They learned inclusion and kindness. They learned that sometimes the most valuable friends are those you have to work a little harder to get to know. Maybe you’ve sat your child down and talked about differences. Maybe in the beginning of the school year you reminded your child to be kind to classmates and look for the kid keeping to themselves at recess. Either way, I can safely assume your child has learned the most from watching you.

            We don’t know each other well, dear parents, but we know our kids watch us even when we think they don’t, and they’re always absorbing like little sponges. When you approached the new, socially anxious mom hiding in plain sight in the farthest corner of the classroom, they were watching. When you offered a kind word to someone having a bad day, they were listening. When you responded with compassion instead of snapping back at the cranky barista, they noticed. So, thank you for modeling acceptance, understanding, and perseverance. Our kids are only in first grade. Chances are they’ll lose touch over the years. But your child will always be the reason my child didn’t play alone in first grade. Your child will always be the reason my child didn’t have to feel different. Chances are my child will remember these friendships and sense of belonging well into adulthood. I’m not saying this to be cheesy. As an adult, I can name every bully, but I can also describe in detail every classmate who showed kindness. 

Through their persistence, your child gained an invaluable friend. E. is the most loyal person you’ll meet. E. is a fun, silly, imaginative, and complaint playmate. Your child took the time to learn this. Thank you for sharing your child’s pure heart with our family.

           

With love,

A Fellow First-Grade Mom

What Receiving My ADHD Diagnosis In My 30's Did for Me

They called me slow. Funny that I even remember that. Yep, I’m in my thirties still lamenting on the indignities of grammar school bullying. Sigh.

Seriously, though, that’s a cut-throat world. I couldn’t keep up with the cliques, the social cues that hovered just over my head, the expectations and assignments. I was in a foreign land feigning fluency in the language. My peers knew it, too.

I was the last to get my milk at lunch and the last to clean up. I was always behind on assignments or forgot them altogether, to the point where my teachers required me to have my Pepto-Bismol-pink assignment notebook signed. I forgot a lot of things, actually. On free dress day, I was the kid who showed up in uniform. I forgot to get my tests and permission slips signed. My fifth grade English teacher threatened me with detention if I forgot to bring my red pen to class one more time. She said she was doing me a favor and teaching me responsibilities so that as an adult I wouldn’t forget important things (like always having a red pen on me?). Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

Ask anyone in my life if Mrs. M scared me straight in the fifth grade. Anyone who’s ever asked me (and rightfully so) if I called that person yet, saw that they called, or if I remember to bring X, you know what I’m talking about. In my “grown up” life I forget things. My keys aren’t where I swore I left them. Laundry hovers in various stages of completion, the dirty sometimes converging with the clean. I start things that I don’t finish. Making phone calls makes me squirm and I’m ALWAYS late. You might be thinking every busy, tired, frazzled, mom, insert-situation-here does these things. We all have our moments and our “stuff”. Nobody has all their shit together off of Facebook. At the risk of sounding dramatic, though, since kindergarten I’ve noticed that I struggle with things that most people can accomplish without so much thought. I’m not late because I don’t respect time and I’m inconsiderate. I don’t miss calling you back because I don’t care about you.

Detention didn’t teach me to stop forgetting things any more than those pink walk-of-shame tardy slips taught me to get it together and be punctual. Why didn’t these punitive measures work? Was I a kid who just couldn’t learn her lesson?

On the contrary, I was compliant to a fault. I wanted to do what I was supposed to do. I feared getting in trouble and I wanted to please people and meet their expectations. Spoiler alert number 2: that hasn’t changed much either. I didn’t start remembering things or better organizing. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do theses things; it was because I couldn’t.

My peers were right; I was “slow”. I froze up timed tests. I stayed after school to finish my work. I looked around in a panic when the teacher announced five minutes left to finish the project, observing my class mates gluing on the last pompom or flipping over worksheets, when I wasn’t even half way through.

“What were you doing all that time?” the teacher would ask. I didn’t know. I still don’t

A child knows when they’re different. Instead of denying that difference, our task is to create a world where differences are recognized as assets. It’s a tough sell when peers can be so cruel, homing in on any difference they can sense. Some girls dream of becoming princesses, movie stars, dancers. I dreamt of becoming “normal”. I tried to learn the language, but the accent grew thicker as the years passed and the demands increased. I concluded I was just stupid.

I was wrong. None of the labels I was given by peers or that I gave myself were accurate: Slow, stupid, inconsiderate, flaky, absent-minded. It took nearly three and a half decades to discover the correct label for my penchant for daydreaming, inattention to detail, forgetfulness, and overwhelm-shut down cycle. Three and a half decades to find a label that fits, that explains everything. Now I know this label is ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, inattentive type, previously known as ADD).

ADHD runs in my family, so it’s not like I didn’t know what it was. I’d even suspected it on and off throughout my adulthood, every time I reached the next arbitrary age by which I predicted I’d “have it all together”. But whenever I mentioned it, I’d hear some version of “Oh, you’re just a busy mom. It’s called pregnancy brain. It’s called ‘mom brain’. You’re just tired. Cut down on caffeine (wait, what?) You just need to get more organized and just do it. Oh, everyone thinks they have that nowadays.” In fact, when my counselor presented the diagnosis, calling me “textbook”, I was hesitant to accept it. Wasn’t I just making excuses? Not because I in anyway think ADHD is an excuse (or used as one), but years of internalizing the message of, “if I would just try harder” …. made me second guess. Was I claiming a diagnosis that I didn’t “earn”?

That last paragraph might sound really strange. I’m making an ADHD diagnosis feel like a gift or a badge of honor. Well, it is. Finally, my counselor got me to recognize and accept that I’ve been struggling with ADHD for my entire life. The struggles came to my attention when I started kindergarten and was met simultaneously with new responsibility and exposure to the development of same-age peers. By first grade I was behind, and they wanted to send me to a “special school;”. Yes, that’s really what they called it. I hate even typing it. My parents kept me at my grammar school. I’m very fortunate for my parents’ endless patience. Even without a diagnosis or much understanding of special needs or outside support surrounding them, they didn’t blame me for my difficulties. They saw how hard I tried and encouraged me to do my best.  

Let’s circle back to why I’m referring to my ADHD diagnosis as a gift and a badge of honor.

When I was diagnosed my first thought was, “So I’m not just stupid?” The diagnosis, once I “claimed” it, was nothing short of validating. My peers ran both literal and figurative laps around me (sometimes armed with pinesol spray and spit balls, but that’s another story for another day. Or not.) not because they were smarter or more enlightened. Their brains worked differently than mine. My brain worked differently from theirs. The teachers were annoyed with me not because I was a pain in the ass kid (although you might have to confirm that with my brother) but because I couldn’t keep up with my lessons. I fidgeted with my pencils and erasers, and I was always staring out the window. The math examples on the board didn’t make sense not because I wasn’t paying attention, but because I am part of the 20 percent of auditory learners. I don’t run out of mental energy after social engagements because I’m antisocial, I don’t forget thank-you cards because, I’m ungrateful or show up 15 minutes late because I’m rude.

I don’t love these things about myself and if they were easy to change I would, but that’s another way my ADHD diagnosis has freed me. I can now work on treating my ADHD so it doesn’t interfere so much in my day to day life. I can use systems to help me focus and keep things straight. I write and color code everything in a paper calendar because the notifications I set on my phone fly out of my brain the second my screen dims. I check and double check appointments. I make definitive plans and try to follow a routine. Everything must be gotten together the night before. I team up with other homeschoolers for accountability. These tools and others are just that – tools. It doesn’t mean I magically have it all together (who does?). I still have ADHD and I’m still trying. That’s where the badge of honor comes in. All those years I struggled to get through school (and life) thinking I was just dumb and slow, I had legitimate difficulties to work with. I was trying plenty hard enough even when it didn’t seem like it.

My ADHD diagnosis answers my life long question of why can’t I just do it? It helps me understand why I would flip through the science project syllabus given at the start of the school year, get knocked over by a wave of overwhelm, shut down and shove it into my backpack where I’d try to forget about it until after Christmas break Inevitably, I’d wind up cramming a semester-long project into a week, complete with many late, tearful nights. Rinse and repeat year after year. I turned in a lot of tear stained papers in middle school. Breaking down projects into more manageable tasks doesn’t happen in my unmedicated brain. I see and think about EVERYTING I HAVE TO DO, LIKE ALL THE THINGS. Then I don’t know where to start so I start with reading a book and blocking it out. The cards I write sit on my kitchen table so long it would just look weird to send it now. I mean all the steps required to write a card, seal an envelope, address it, and put it in the mail box.

I asked my therapist why I wasn’t diagnosed if I was so textbook? Sure, when I was growing up there was less awareness and accurate testing, but through college and adulthood I questioned. I’ve had psych evals that showed major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder, but not ADHD. She postulated that current testing doesn’t necessarily “catch” ADHD as it presents in adult women, especially without the hyperactive peace. We’ve learned, to a degree, to compensate. Now I take a low dose stimulant and work with my therapist on coping skills. Sometimes I wonder which came first: depression and anxiety or ADHD. I’ll never know, but I do know years of being bullied for something you can’t control, and thinking you’re stupid and falling behind (no matter how many times my parents told me otherwise) does things to your psych.

Which brings me to my final point. Parents, teach your kids about differences and special needs even (especially) if it doesn’t affect your inner circle. Parents of kids with ADHD, you’re doing fine. It’s not easy, but the most important thing is your child knowing home is always a safe place where they’re loved and accepted. Parents of kids with ADHD, you may struggle with whether to medicate. You know your child best and don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with, no matter what anyone says. Maybe for your child it won’t be called for. But if it is and you do go the medication route, please, please DO NOT FEEL GUILTY! Don’t worry about what people think. They don’t know your situation. I know giving your child a controlled substance isn’t easy and it’s not a decision you’d take lightly. But for some people with ADHD therapies simply aren’t enough. They NEED medication to level the playing field and give their brain the stimulation it is biologically unable to produce on its own. And you know what? That’s okay! If that doesn’t convince you to send your guilt packing, parents, how about this. I wish I’d had access to this medication throughout grade school, and not because of my grades. It would’ve put me on closer to level ground with my peers and maybe protected some of my confidence. Homework and tests wouldn’t have taken long if I could focus, limiting anxiety. My parents didn’t have access to this. If you do and your child needs it and your enduring some trial and error and you’re doing it, good for you. You are giving your child a precious gift. Pat yourself on the back. If you’ve chosen not to medicate your child and you’re using other therapies, good for you. You’re a fierce advocate and your child will know you always have their back. Pat yourself on yours.

Labels can be harmful if they’re over-identified with, or worse, incorrect. But the right label offers a map. It offers answers and validation. So, I truly am sorry when I don’t return your call and you still haven’t gotten your birthday card, or you’re left to wait for me yet again. I promise I’m working on these things, but in the meantime please know that it’s not you. My brain just works a little differently. It’s still my responsibility to work on these things and it’s not an excuse. But it is an answer to the “why” that I’ve been asking all my life. I have ADHD.