As I sit here in the middle of the afternoon, chaos reigns around me. On the table beside me sits a stack of bills that I'm trying to juggle payment on -- I have to decide which ones need to be paid now and which ones can wait until next payday. In the living room Stitch is playing, happily throwing blocks around and laughing madly as they bounce off the furniture. Down the hall Bear, who should actually be at school right now, is playing his Leapster, the fact that it's an "educational" game allowing me to fool myself into believing it can be classed as "work."
I stare at the bills, willing them to just disappear. Disappearing in a puff of smoke would be preferable, since then there'd be no trace left of them. Money gets a little tight in the ODD household because, even though TheODDDad has a pretty decent job, and for that I'm grateful, I work from home part-time and currently bring in about half of what I would be earning if I worked full-time. We manage to pay the mortgage and the bills, but there's not a whole lot extra (if any) left at the end of the month. We'd cut back on our spending, except there's really nothing left to cut. We have basic cable and neither of us owns a cell phone. We have friends over instead of going out. When we do go out, we've been known to ask my niece to babysit for free because we can't afford to go out and pay her. (For the record, my almost-16-year-old niece is one of the most important members of our support network. She has been on the receiving end of Bear's behaviour more than a few times and knows how to deal with him and laugh it off like a pro. Because she's seen it firsthand, she's one of the few people who truly "gets it," so she's always happy to help if it means we get out of the house.)
The fact of the matter is that we really need to be a two-income family. We need to be, but we aren't. We need to be, but we can't be. I realize there are a lot of families in the same boat given the state of the economy, but the economy isn't our problem.
So why then, you ask, aren't I out bringing in more money? Well, if you must know (you're so nosey!), we have a child with special needs, and just about any mom with a special needs child will tell you how difficult it is to hold a full-time job AND do everything you need to do for your child. Something, somewhere, has to give, and it's very often the ability to hold a full-time job.
Think I'm exaggerating? A recent study published in the journal Pediatrics revealed that overall earnings of mothers with a child with autism are 56% lower than mothers whose children don't have any health limitations. This is likely due to the fact that mothers of children with autism often have to leave the workforce altogether or take lower-paying jobs in order to properly care for their children. Interestingly enough, the study showed that only the mother's income was affected, not the father's.
Granted, the study looked at mothers of autistic children, not children with ADHD. But while autism and ADHD are two completely unrelated conditions, they can be very similar in their outward manifestations. In fact, a proper diagnosis of ADHD often involves ruling out autism. Both can cause behavioural problems, problems in school, difficulties in social interactions...etc, etc...and necessitate all kinds of interventions and specialists. Based on my own experiences and those of other mothers I know whose children have ADHD (especially when there's an accompanying diagnosis of ODD, anxiety, or any of the other conditions that often go hand-in-hand with it), I would say we're in the same boat.
Bear's challenges mean that he rarely gets to school before 10:00 a.m., if he gets there at all. His anxiety means that summer programs and daycares are out of the question. Phone calls from the school come weekly, although at one point they were almost daily. When he does make it to school, I don't know from one minute to the next when I'll be called to come get him. Suspensions are fairly rare now, but they were a rather frequent occurrence at one point. Until last week, we met weekly with a counsellor to work on his anxiety issues. Although that's over for now, there will be more behavioural interventions as he gets older that will require meetings and appointments. Add in appointments with doctors/specialists and meetings at the school and you suddenly find that you are almost unemployable at a traditional 9-to-5 job. You are an employer's worst nightmare -- someone who may or may not show up for work on time (or at all), who may leave in the middle of the day on a moment's notice, who receives personal phone calls at work on a regular basis, and whose mind isn't on her job...ever.
I'm fortunate in that I have skills that allow me to work from home and to bring in enough money to makes ends meet, but let's just say that Freedom 55 isn't exactly in our future.
Showing posts with label childrens mental health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childrens mental health. Show all posts
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Who Will Catch Him if I Fall?
For the past three or four months we've had a fantastic counsellor from our local children's mental health agency coming to the house every week to work with Bear on his anxiety. He took to her immediately, as did I. He looked forward to her visits, as did I. But now they're over, and Bear's going to be sad. And so am I.
Our counsellor and I had a big talk when she was here yesterday about next steps for Bear, and we came to the conclusion that Bear needs to get a little older and a little more mature before we can move to the next level of therapy. Bear might be almost 7 years old, but kids with ADHD are actually two to three years behind their peers in emotional maturity, which means that in some respects we're actually dealing with a 4 or 5 year old. The concepts involved in overcoming anxiety are quite complex and require a fair amount of self-awareness, and he's just not there yet. Together she and I decided that at this point it's probably best if TheODDDad and I continue to work with Bear using the tools we've learned until he's a little older.
I don't know how I feel about being told there's nothing more she can do for us. One one hand, it's encouraging because she's telling us that we're doing a really good job and don't need her anymore. We're not being told to take parenting classes, we're not being told Bear needs psychological help...we're being told that we're good parents and we have it under control. On the other hand, it's scary. I don't want to do this on our own. I liked having someone come into my house on a regular basis. It made me feel safer, like someone was holding the back of my bike as I learned to ride it. Now I feel like someone has taken my training wheels off and gone back in the house, leaving me with no choice but to figure it out on my own. Part of me is glowing with pride that someone has enough confidence in my abilities to leave me on my own, but the other part of me is scared of falling off my bike.
Except there's no bike. If I fall, I don't just get a scraped knee. If I fall, I bring my beautiful Bear down with me. If I fall, who's going to catch me? If I fall, who's going to catch him?
Our counsellor and I had a big talk when she was here yesterday about next steps for Bear, and we came to the conclusion that Bear needs to get a little older and a little more mature before we can move to the next level of therapy. Bear might be almost 7 years old, but kids with ADHD are actually two to three years behind their peers in emotional maturity, which means that in some respects we're actually dealing with a 4 or 5 year old. The concepts involved in overcoming anxiety are quite complex and require a fair amount of self-awareness, and he's just not there yet. Together she and I decided that at this point it's probably best if TheODDDad and I continue to work with Bear using the tools we've learned until he's a little older.
I don't know how I feel about being told there's nothing more she can do for us. One one hand, it's encouraging because she's telling us that we're doing a really good job and don't need her anymore. We're not being told to take parenting classes, we're not being told Bear needs psychological help...we're being told that we're good parents and we have it under control. On the other hand, it's scary. I don't want to do this on our own. I liked having someone come into my house on a regular basis. It made me feel safer, like someone was holding the back of my bike as I learned to ride it. Now I feel like someone has taken my training wheels off and gone back in the house, leaving me with no choice but to figure it out on my own. Part of me is glowing with pride that someone has enough confidence in my abilities to leave me on my own, but the other part of me is scared of falling off my bike.
Except there's no bike. If I fall, I don't just get a scraped knee. If I fall, I bring my beautiful Bear down with me. If I fall, who's going to catch me? If I fall, who's going to catch him?
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
I'm Not a Bad Mother
On Friday night I gave a speech at my church called "I'm Not a Bad Mother -- Moving past the blame and shame of children's mental illness."
It was a cold, blustery night. Freezing rain had fallen in the morning, and then snow in afternoon and into the evening. The event had been advertised in local papers and on the radio, but I still had visions of an empty church. Instead, we had almost 100 people turn up to hear me speak.
Here's what I had to say.
It was a cold, blustery night. Freezing rain had fallen in the morning, and then snow in afternoon and into the evening. The event had been advertised in local papers and on the radio, but I still had visions of an empty church. Instead, we had almost 100 people turn up to hear me speak.
Here's what I had to say.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
What Makes a Parent Harm Their Child? I Think I Understand
If you think I'm being flippant with my title, think again. There have been too many news stories of late where little ones have been killed by their parents. Parental anger is no joke -- in fact, for many children, it's life or death.
While I know there are bad people out there who do terrible things to children, I also think there are good people out there who don't have the skills needed to deal with challenging children and who, as a result, find themselves doing the unthinkable.
"Not me!" you say? Well, I'm happy for you. Not me either, thank God, but that doesn't mean that raising a child with a mental illness (yes, ADHD and ODD are considered mental illnesses) hasn't given me a glimpse of my darker side, and I don't like it. In fact, it scares me. If I have the skills to cope and yet can still get that lost in my anger, how difficult must it be for a parent/caregiver who doesn't have the skills or who has anger issues of his/her own? I have often said that children with ODD are the poster children for child abuse, and I stand by that.
Let me tell you the true story of the events of one evening, one of many similar evenings I've lived the past few years.
It's 4 a.m and I haven't been to bed yet. Bear woke up at 11 p.m., just as TheODDDad and I were heading to bed ourselves. Given that I work from home and can nap if I need to and he has to get up at 5 a.m. to go to work, I'm on evening Bear duty. Bear's ADHD meds wore off about eight hours ago, so not only is he wide awake, he's wired. He's running up and down the hall yelling (we're in a 1000 ft bungalow, so he's running and yelling right in front of the bedrooms) and jumping off furniture. I've tried everything to get him to be quiet. I've played with him, cooked him a hotdog and made him a sandwich, watched him play video games and put on a movie, but as usual, nothing works. I say as usual because this is the third time in 10 days this has happened. I've tried to lie down on the couch to nap, but he runs in and jumps on me every time. For whatever reason, he needs to be with me at all times when he's up during the night. For the record, I need 10 hours of sleep to function properly and I don't do well with children bugging the hell out of me when I'm tired. I'm now at the end of my rope and am desperately trying not to scream at him. He's now decided that I'm the worst mother in the world because I won't play hockey with him or make him the hamburger he now wants. His aggression kicks in (for the umpteenth time tonight night) and he screams at me (again) that he's going to throw something at me and that he hopes he hurts me -- then he picks up the nearest toy and hurls it at my head. Neither my patience nor my reflexes are at their best at 4 a.m., so the toy hits me in the shoulder. I lose it. I scoop him up and storm down to his room where I literally drop him on his bed, screaming at him to stay in his room and how I don't want to hear a sound out of him, blah, blah, blah. He's up in a flash, screaming back at me, telling me I'm a stupid idiot, that he hates me, and that he's going to yell and scream til he wakes up Daddy and Stitch. But that's it...I'm done. I can't take it any more. What feels like torment and abuse at the hands of a pint-size bully has been going on for five hours, and I'm barely functioning in a haze of exhaustion. I raise my hand to hit him, but somewhere deep inside it registers that I haven't swung my hand back to catch him on his behind, I've raised it to slap him. Where, I don't know because I manage to stop myself despite how good it sounds at that very moment, but I can only imagine it would be across the face. Instead I storm out of his room, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me, fist balled in my mouth, teeth biting into my knuckles to stop myself from screaming my anger. Too many four-letter words are swirling through my mind, but I can't bring myself to tell my son to shut-the-f-up any more than I can bring myself to slap him across the face. But the slap was a close one, and so is the screaming. Instead I run into my bedroom and climb into bed fully dressed, telling TheODDDad that I just can't do it and that he has to take over before I do or say something I'll regret and how I don't give a damn if he has to call in sick but he has to take over. He knows I mean it, so he quickly takes over. Bear comes into the room to see where I've gone (because now he needs me to comfort him), but I don't trust myself to open my mouth, so instead I lay there with tears streaming down my face from the effort of not saying anything and feeling like the worst mother in the world. Now exhausted from the evening's events, a crying Bear allows himself to be ushered out of the room and back into bed by TheODDDad, where he finally falls asleep. It's now 5 a.m. and time for TheODDDad to get up anyway, so he comes back into our bedroom, turns off the alarm that's about to go off, asks me if I'm OK (knowing I'm not but that I will be, just like I've been OK every other time this has happened), wipes away my tears, tucks me in, kisses me softly, tells me he loves me and that he's sorry I've had such a hard night, gathers up his clothes and tiptoes out to get ready for work, closing the door softly behind him so as not to disturb the now quiet household. Bear wakes up four hours later and comes bouncing into the bedroom, once again my happy little Bear and having completely forgotten about the night's events.
I shudder to think how this story would have ended if I didn't have the skills to cope with Bear. I don't have a temper, I don't have impulse control issues, I understand that he has a mental illness and that there's a reason why he does the things he does. For the most part, these things help me to remain cool, calm and collected regardless of what he's throwing at me (literally). But what if that wasn't the case? ADHD is genetic, so what if I, too, suffered from the temper and the lack of impulse control that can come with it? What if I had ODD that I had never learned to control and got violent when I got angry? What if I, too, had been raised by a parent with ADHD who hadn't been able to control either me or their reactions and had been beaten myself? How, then, would I cope with Bear? Would I be able to?
Make no mistake -- I am in no way condoning child abuse or making excuses for people who hurt children. But am I saying that I can see how a parent who loves their child but doesn't have the skills to cope can be pushed to the point where they might hurt their child? Unfortunately, I am.
There but for the grace of God, go I.
While I know there are bad people out there who do terrible things to children, I also think there are good people out there who don't have the skills needed to deal with challenging children and who, as a result, find themselves doing the unthinkable.
"Not me!" you say? Well, I'm happy for you. Not me either, thank God, but that doesn't mean that raising a child with a mental illness (yes, ADHD and ODD are considered mental illnesses) hasn't given me a glimpse of my darker side, and I don't like it. In fact, it scares me. If I have the skills to cope and yet can still get that lost in my anger, how difficult must it be for a parent/caregiver who doesn't have the skills or who has anger issues of his/her own? I have often said that children with ODD are the poster children for child abuse, and I stand by that.
Let me tell you the true story of the events of one evening, one of many similar evenings I've lived the past few years.
It's 4 a.m and I haven't been to bed yet. Bear woke up at 11 p.m., just as TheODDDad and I were heading to bed ourselves. Given that I work from home and can nap if I need to and he has to get up at 5 a.m. to go to work, I'm on evening Bear duty. Bear's ADHD meds wore off about eight hours ago, so not only is he wide awake, he's wired. He's running up and down the hall yelling (we're in a 1000 ft bungalow, so he's running and yelling right in front of the bedrooms) and jumping off furniture. I've tried everything to get him to be quiet. I've played with him, cooked him a hotdog and made him a sandwich, watched him play video games and put on a movie, but as usual, nothing works. I say as usual because this is the third time in 10 days this has happened. I've tried to lie down on the couch to nap, but he runs in and jumps on me every time. For whatever reason, he needs to be with me at all times when he's up during the night. For the record, I need 10 hours of sleep to function properly and I don't do well with children bugging the hell out of me when I'm tired. I'm now at the end of my rope and am desperately trying not to scream at him. He's now decided that I'm the worst mother in the world because I won't play hockey with him or make him the hamburger he now wants. His aggression kicks in (for the umpteenth time tonight night) and he screams at me (again) that he's going to throw something at me and that he hopes he hurts me -- then he picks up the nearest toy and hurls it at my head. Neither my patience nor my reflexes are at their best at 4 a.m., so the toy hits me in the shoulder. I lose it. I scoop him up and storm down to his room where I literally drop him on his bed, screaming at him to stay in his room and how I don't want to hear a sound out of him, blah, blah, blah. He's up in a flash, screaming back at me, telling me I'm a stupid idiot, that he hates me, and that he's going to yell and scream til he wakes up Daddy and Stitch. But that's it...I'm done. I can't take it any more. What feels like torment and abuse at the hands of a pint-size bully has been going on for five hours, and I'm barely functioning in a haze of exhaustion. I raise my hand to hit him, but somewhere deep inside it registers that I haven't swung my hand back to catch him on his behind, I've raised it to slap him. Where, I don't know because I manage to stop myself despite how good it sounds at that very moment, but I can only imagine it would be across the face. Instead I storm out of his room, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me, fist balled in my mouth, teeth biting into my knuckles to stop myself from screaming my anger. Too many four-letter words are swirling through my mind, but I can't bring myself to tell my son to shut-the-f-up any more than I can bring myself to slap him across the face. But the slap was a close one, and so is the screaming. Instead I run into my bedroom and climb into bed fully dressed, telling TheODDDad that I just can't do it and that he has to take over before I do or say something I'll regret and how I don't give a damn if he has to call in sick but he has to take over. He knows I mean it, so he quickly takes over. Bear comes into the room to see where I've gone (because now he needs me to comfort him), but I don't trust myself to open my mouth, so instead I lay there with tears streaming down my face from the effort of not saying anything and feeling like the worst mother in the world. Now exhausted from the evening's events, a crying Bear allows himself to be ushered out of the room and back into bed by TheODDDad, where he finally falls asleep. It's now 5 a.m. and time for TheODDDad to get up anyway, so he comes back into our bedroom, turns off the alarm that's about to go off, asks me if I'm OK (knowing I'm not but that I will be, just like I've been OK every other time this has happened), wipes away my tears, tucks me in, kisses me softly, tells me he loves me and that he's sorry I've had such a hard night, gathers up his clothes and tiptoes out to get ready for work, closing the door softly behind him so as not to disturb the now quiet household. Bear wakes up four hours later and comes bouncing into the bedroom, once again my happy little Bear and having completely forgotten about the night's events.
I shudder to think how this story would have ended if I didn't have the skills to cope with Bear. I don't have a temper, I don't have impulse control issues, I understand that he has a mental illness and that there's a reason why he does the things he does. For the most part, these things help me to remain cool, calm and collected regardless of what he's throwing at me (literally). But what if that wasn't the case? ADHD is genetic, so what if I, too, suffered from the temper and the lack of impulse control that can come with it? What if I had ODD that I had never learned to control and got violent when I got angry? What if I, too, had been raised by a parent with ADHD who hadn't been able to control either me or their reactions and had been beaten myself? How, then, would I cope with Bear? Would I be able to?
Make no mistake -- I am in no way condoning child abuse or making excuses for people who hurt children. But am I saying that I can see how a parent who loves their child but doesn't have the skills to cope can be pushed to the point where they might hurt their child? Unfortunately, I am.
There but for the grace of God, go I.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Suck It Up, Buttercup!
As you may have figured out by now, TheODDDad and I take Bear's issues very seriously. I'm the researcher in the family, so I read and learn everything I possibly can on ADHD and ODD and then pass that information along to him. No matter which way you look at it, our son has problems, and sticking our heads in the sand won't make them go away. (Trust me, I'd do it if I thought it would work!) Rather, we feel that we will be better equipped to help our son the more we know and we will also be in a position to empower others to help him by sharing what we've learned. So far this philosophy has paid off.
As I think I've mentioned before, it was someone at Bear's school who first suggested that he might have a problem. I was actually happy to hear it, if you can believe it, because it meant hubby and I weren't imagining things and the things we were seeing weren't just the result of bad parenting. Ever since that day (probably almost two years ago to the day), I've worked very closely with the school and Bear's teachers to make sure that things are running smoothly. And by smoothly I mean not only that Bear's getting the support that he needs from them, but that they're getting the support they need from us and we're getting the support we need from them.
As Bear's parents, TheODDDad and I know him better than anyone. We know what works and what doesn't, what sets him off and what calms him down. The teachers are grateful when I give them a heads-up that he's having a bad morning, and I'm grateful when they send me a note home telling me what a good day he's had (or bad, for that matter). My feeling is that this open dialogue has fostered a really good environment for all of us. I can't imagine having it any other way.
Unfortunately, that feeling isn't shared by all parents, as I found out the other day. I was speaking to one of the teachers who works closely with Bear, and she was sharing some challenges Bear had been having that morning. The Vice-Principal, aware of the problems that particular day, had asked her earlier in the day what she planned to do. Her answer apparently surprised him: She was going to call me and talk to me. What? Call a parent? Would I actually be open to that? Oh yes, she assured him, these parents would be.
I find it sad to think that there are parents who wouldn't be open to it, and I have to ask myself why. Are they ashamed of their child? Do they think their child's issues reflect badly on them as parents? Are they worried that if they acknowledge a problem, then they have to deal with it? On the other hand, have they had bad experiences with the school? Do they feel judged/blamed by the teachers and administration for the problems their child is having? Have they been burned in the past by people who don't understand?
Regardless of the reasons, and I can only guess they are many and complicated (and some may even be valid!), I just have one thing to say: Suck it up, Buttercup! This is your child, and your child needs you. I don't care how uncomfortable or difficult it is, this is your job. That's right, your job. Your child's success and happiness may very well depend on you doing everything you can possibly think of to help them, and then some. Is that a whole lot of pressure? Yup, it sure as hell is. Does that mean you're responsible for every decision your child makes? Nope, it absolutely doesn't. But you ARE responsible for ensuring that your child has all the tools and skills to make good decisions when the time comes. You are responsible for being the one who asks for help on their behalf and who stands up for them and with them when things get rough. That doesn't mean denying there's a problem or placing blame on others. In fact, it might even mean getting help for yourself in order to make sure you have the tools and skills to help your child.
It's a rough road, and it's not the road you thought you'd be on. But you know what...that's just too damn bad. So be the parent your child needs because...well...your child needs you.
As I think I've mentioned before, it was someone at Bear's school who first suggested that he might have a problem. I was actually happy to hear it, if you can believe it, because it meant hubby and I weren't imagining things and the things we were seeing weren't just the result of bad parenting. Ever since that day (probably almost two years ago to the day), I've worked very closely with the school and Bear's teachers to make sure that things are running smoothly. And by smoothly I mean not only that Bear's getting the support that he needs from them, but that they're getting the support they need from us and we're getting the support we need from them.
As Bear's parents, TheODDDad and I know him better than anyone. We know what works and what doesn't, what sets him off and what calms him down. The teachers are grateful when I give them a heads-up that he's having a bad morning, and I'm grateful when they send me a note home telling me what a good day he's had (or bad, for that matter). My feeling is that this open dialogue has fostered a really good environment for all of us. I can't imagine having it any other way.
Unfortunately, that feeling isn't shared by all parents, as I found out the other day. I was speaking to one of the teachers who works closely with Bear, and she was sharing some challenges Bear had been having that morning. The Vice-Principal, aware of the problems that particular day, had asked her earlier in the day what she planned to do. Her answer apparently surprised him: She was going to call me and talk to me. What? Call a parent? Would I actually be open to that? Oh yes, she assured him, these parents would be.
I find it sad to think that there are parents who wouldn't be open to it, and I have to ask myself why. Are they ashamed of their child? Do they think their child's issues reflect badly on them as parents? Are they worried that if they acknowledge a problem, then they have to deal with it? On the other hand, have they had bad experiences with the school? Do they feel judged/blamed by the teachers and administration for the problems their child is having? Have they been burned in the past by people who don't understand?
Regardless of the reasons, and I can only guess they are many and complicated (and some may even be valid!), I just have one thing to say: Suck it up, Buttercup! This is your child, and your child needs you. I don't care how uncomfortable or difficult it is, this is your job. That's right, your job. Your child's success and happiness may very well depend on you doing everything you can possibly think of to help them, and then some. Is that a whole lot of pressure? Yup, it sure as hell is. Does that mean you're responsible for every decision your child makes? Nope, it absolutely doesn't. But you ARE responsible for ensuring that your child has all the tools and skills to make good decisions when the time comes. You are responsible for being the one who asks for help on their behalf and who stands up for them and with them when things get rough. That doesn't mean denying there's a problem or placing blame on others. In fact, it might even mean getting help for yourself in order to make sure you have the tools and skills to help your child.
It's a rough road, and it's not the road you thought you'd be on. But you know what...that's just too damn bad. So be the parent your child needs because...well...your child needs you.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
It Was the Best of Weeks, It Was the Worst of Weeks
This week was just a crazy up-and-down-roller-coaster of a week. On Monday Bear and I took a trip to the specialist for a follow-up on his new anti-depressants. I wasn't sure I had really noticed any difference in his anxiety levels, but it can take up to six weeks for anti-depressants to kick in and it hadn't yet been six weeks. The last time we were there Bear refused to go into the waiting room because people might look at him (we waited in the hall for an hour), so I knew this appointment would be a good test. And boy, was it ever.
Despite the fact that the waiting room was empty, Bear refused to go in. The doctor was on time, so all we had to do was walk through. For the record, this was our third or fourth visit to this particular doctor, so it wasn't exactly unknown territory. Well, he freaked. And when I say freaked, I mean freaked. I had to hand all my stuff to the receptionist to take to the examining room and then pick him up and carry him in. That wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the fact that 40lbs of kicking, screaming, writhing, scratching, biting (oh yes...biting) Bear is very difficult to carry without dropping. My poor baby. It was really heart-breaking. The only good thing was that it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the medicine wasn't working at all. Whether or not to change anti-depressants suddenly became a very easy decision for all involved, so now he's on something new.
Tuesday and Wednesday seemed to go off without a hitch, to the point where I wondered if I had any right to write a blog about having a child with ODD. ODD? What ODD? Then came Thursday, and all hell broke loose. Homework resulted in my being punched in the stomach. Granted, that's probably more the ADHD than the ODD, but they pretty much go hand-in-hand. That was the first time he's punched me like that (normally he kicks, hits, pinches, or throws something), and I'm not sure if I'm more disturbed by the fact that he punched me or the fact that it didn't really upset me. On one hand yay me that I didn't fly off the handle, but on the other hand...wow...how "normal" has his behaviour become to me that being punched in the stomach by my six-year-old doesn't freak me out.
Friday was a good day for him, and his teacher even sent a note home saying he had had a really good week. I just love how everyone involved at his school seems to root for him. It's really heart-warming.
Then along came today, and a much-anticipated birthday party -- except he decided he wasn't going. This is typical Bear, but only for about the last six months. His anxiety gets the worst of him and he just can't bring himself to go. The good thing is that not only are we starting to recognize the signs, but so is he. Fingers in the mouth are a tip off, that's for sure. But whereas three months ago asking him what was wrong used to send him right over the edge and even into a violent rage if we pushed too hard, now he's starting to talk about it. This morning when I asked him if he was scared, he said yes. That was progress. We haven't pushed him to go to other birthday parties or to do things that scare him despite the advice of the well-meaning, and I think that has paid off. He now trusts us when we say we're not going to make him do something, so he's willing to talk about it. In the past he would shriek "You're just trying to get me to go!!!" when I tried to question him.
The one thing I did insist on today was that we go buy a present for his friend and deliver it, but I stressed that he didn't have to stay. He was OK with that, and then added on his own that maybe he could stay if he decided to. So that was our deal. Get ready for the party, go buy the present, go deliver the present, and only stay if you want to. And lo and behold, he wanted to! He did ask me to stay with him, although rather casually, so I told him I couldn't because I had an appointment to get my hair cut (I wasn't lying). I did promise him that I would come back as soon as I was done, though, which I did. I got a flying hug when he saw me, but then I was informed that I could go.
Yay, Bear!!! You go, my angel! This is real progress and I'm hoping it's a sign of better days to come. Just the fact that he's beginning to talk about how he's feeling opens up a world of opportunity to help him.
You know, when your child has ODD, you often end up as the enemy. Kids with ODD take everything personally, so they see anything you do (like make them sit down for supper) as an attack. It was a really nice to feel like his ally for a change.
Despite the fact that the waiting room was empty, Bear refused to go in. The doctor was on time, so all we had to do was walk through. For the record, this was our third or fourth visit to this particular doctor, so it wasn't exactly unknown territory. Well, he freaked. And when I say freaked, I mean freaked. I had to hand all my stuff to the receptionist to take to the examining room and then pick him up and carry him in. That wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the fact that 40lbs of kicking, screaming, writhing, scratching, biting (oh yes...biting) Bear is very difficult to carry without dropping. My poor baby. It was really heart-breaking. The only good thing was that it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the medicine wasn't working at all. Whether or not to change anti-depressants suddenly became a very easy decision for all involved, so now he's on something new.
Tuesday and Wednesday seemed to go off without a hitch, to the point where I wondered if I had any right to write a blog about having a child with ODD. ODD? What ODD? Then came Thursday, and all hell broke loose. Homework resulted in my being punched in the stomach. Granted, that's probably more the ADHD than the ODD, but they pretty much go hand-in-hand. That was the first time he's punched me like that (normally he kicks, hits, pinches, or throws something), and I'm not sure if I'm more disturbed by the fact that he punched me or the fact that it didn't really upset me. On one hand yay me that I didn't fly off the handle, but on the other hand...wow...how "normal" has his behaviour become to me that being punched in the stomach by my six-year-old doesn't freak me out.
Friday was a good day for him, and his teacher even sent a note home saying he had had a really good week. I just love how everyone involved at his school seems to root for him. It's really heart-warming.
Then along came today, and a much-anticipated birthday party -- except he decided he wasn't going. This is typical Bear, but only for about the last six months. His anxiety gets the worst of him and he just can't bring himself to go. The good thing is that not only are we starting to recognize the signs, but so is he. Fingers in the mouth are a tip off, that's for sure. But whereas three months ago asking him what was wrong used to send him right over the edge and even into a violent rage if we pushed too hard, now he's starting to talk about it. This morning when I asked him if he was scared, he said yes. That was progress. We haven't pushed him to go to other birthday parties or to do things that scare him despite the advice of the well-meaning, and I think that has paid off. He now trusts us when we say we're not going to make him do something, so he's willing to talk about it. In the past he would shriek "You're just trying to get me to go!!!" when I tried to question him.
The one thing I did insist on today was that we go buy a present for his friend and deliver it, but I stressed that he didn't have to stay. He was OK with that, and then added on his own that maybe he could stay if he decided to. So that was our deal. Get ready for the party, go buy the present, go deliver the present, and only stay if you want to. And lo and behold, he wanted to! He did ask me to stay with him, although rather casually, so I told him I couldn't because I had an appointment to get my hair cut (I wasn't lying). I did promise him that I would come back as soon as I was done, though, which I did. I got a flying hug when he saw me, but then I was informed that I could go.
Yay, Bear!!! You go, my angel! This is real progress and I'm hoping it's a sign of better days to come. Just the fact that he's beginning to talk about how he's feeling opens up a world of opportunity to help him.
You know, when your child has ODD, you often end up as the enemy. Kids with ODD take everything personally, so they see anything you do (like make them sit down for supper) as an attack. It was a really nice to feel like his ally for a change.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
My son, the Prime Minister
When I first came across this video a few weeks ago, I cried. I looked at all these people who have changed the world in their own way (oddly enough, there's only one woman in the bunch), and I thought about their mothers. Did these individuals succeed because of their ADHD or in spite of it? Did their mothers despair of them or encourage them? Or both?
I can tell you quite honestly that I do both.
TheODDDad and I have been encouraged to dream big for Bear by a wonderful teacher at Bear's school who saw his potential and believed in him right from the beginning. For Bear's first two years of school, this man teased me that we were looking at the future Prime Minister of Canada. (He left the school, otherwise I'm sure he'd still be saying it.) He recognized that Bear is extremely bright, funny, engaging, and an independent thinker. Although kids with ADHD, and especially ODD, are at higher risk of trouble with the law and with substance abuse than other kids, Bear shows no inclination to ever bowing to peer pressure. That's not say that he'll be immune to these problems down the road, just that he'll probably be the ring leader with other people following him. As his mother, I find that both troubling and reassuring all at once.
I can tell you quite honestly that I do both.
TheODDDad and I have been encouraged to dream big for Bear by a wonderful teacher at Bear's school who saw his potential and believed in him right from the beginning. For Bear's first two years of school, this man teased me that we were looking at the future Prime Minister of Canada. (He left the school, otherwise I'm sure he'd still be saying it.) He recognized that Bear is extremely bright, funny, engaging, and an independent thinker. Although kids with ADHD, and especially ODD, are at higher risk of trouble with the law and with substance abuse than other kids, Bear shows no inclination to ever bowing to peer pressure. That's not say that he'll be immune to these problems down the road, just that he'll probably be the ring leader with other people following him. As his mother, I find that both troubling and reassuring all at once.
So as the video says, here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The ones who are just crazy enough to think they can change the world...and do. Here's to you, Bear. Someday you'll change the world in your own special way. I know, because you've already changed mine.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Irresponsibility at The National Post
I'm honestly so angry right now that it's going to be a struggle to write this post without an extreme use of profanity. For those of you who know me, you know I don't swear a lot, but right now I'm so mad that every bad word I've ever heard is flooding my mind.
You see, today The National Post, a major Canadian newspaper, published an "opinion piece" that effectively denies the existence of ADHD. Don't get me wrong -- I'm all for opinion pieces. In fact, I have a few opinions of my own right now, some of which I'm about to share. But what I am against is stupidity, especially stupidity in the guise of journalism.
Maybe stupidity isn't the word I'm looking for here, because I don't believe the article was written with malicious intent. Perhaps irresponsibility would be better. As a well-respected writer with a established career (see, I did my research), I believe this journalist acted irresponsibly by writing about something of which he apparently knows nothing. You see, the National Post's weekday circulation is about 170,000 across Canada. That's 170,000 people who could have been educated about ADHD, but instead were misinformed. And that, quite frankly, is my idea of irresponsibility.
If you haven't seen the article, here it is. The snide, bolded comments are mine.
Diagnosis: Attention Surfeit Disorder
(National Post, September 19, 2011)
These days, if a boy fidgets, pays no attention when people talk to him, and tries to get out of doing things he doesn't like, chances are psychiatrists will diagnose Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD.) Many of us had ADD when I was young, only we didn't know it. They called us spoiled brats, not sick kids. [And once upon a time people with mental illnesses were locked up in insane asylums where they were treated like animals, but by all means, let's continue to talk about the good old days, shall we?]
Teacher's Pets suffer from a different illness. I call it Attention Surfeit Disorder (ASD). Psychiatrists don't recognize it, possibly because many are afflicted themselves. Just as we once confused ADD-victims with bad boys, we confuse ASD-victims with clever boys. I think they're just as sick as bad boys, but since they usually go on to become doctors, they're a menace only to their patients.
Patients don't count. They used to, once, when doctors could offer them little beside bedside manners, but now that physicians can actually tighten loose patients a notch, at least temporarily, they've stopped coddling them. The first thing students learn in medical school is save what bedside manners they have for patients they can't help.
If you're a patient, don't worry until your doctor is polite to you. When that happens, start seeking second opinions, until you find a specialist who's rude. Then you can relax.
Anyway, it takes a sharp mother to recognize her son as a menace. An old friend I haven't seen for a while is sharp. While we're having coffee, she describes her son as a menace. Apparently at six he'd pose queries like "Mommy, when was the common carp domesticated?"
I sense a trap. "Has someone domesticated the common carp?" I ask.
"Even a person as innocent of pisciculture as you," my friend replies, "must have seen goldfish in a bowl."
True. Mind you, goldfish never looked terribly domesticated to me. Frankly, they didn't much look like carp, either.
"I thought there was something fishy about them," I respond warily. Most mothers prefer "My son, the doctor" as an opening gambit to "my son, the menace." The word leaves a gap in the conversation
"Let me guess - has he become an ichthyologist?" I ask.
"No, a doctor," my friend replies triumphantly. You can't keep a good mother down. "He works as a psychiatrist for the Ombudsman's office."
I nearly say that in that case he must hear a lot of carping, but stop in time.
"So, he isn't such a menace anymore," I say instead.
She laughs ruefully, before glancing at her watch. "Once a menace, always a menace," she says. "Have another coffee and meet him. He'll be picking me up in a few minutes."
I'm shocked to recognize the slight, neat, dapper young man who walks into the restaurant 20 minutes later. We've never met before, but he's a fully grown Teacher's Pet, a breed I can smell from a mile, upwind.
Teacher Pests, as I used to call them, exude their essence from every pore. From his carefully knotted tie to his meticulously polished shoes, my friend's son conjures up nightmarish memories. He's the monster from school, the immaculate pupil, the role model: The boy everybody wants to know why you can't be like, including your parents.
"Why can't you be like Billy?"
"I could, Mom, but you wouldn't like it."
"Try me."
What's Billy the Brain like? While ordinary boys are dishevelled, Billy is perennially neat. While we fidget, Billy sits quietly, as alert as a Boy Scout. While our attention wanders, his eyes are fixed on teacher's lips. Fixed? Glued. While our imagination soars with eagles or (more often) hibernates with bears, Billy's goes swimming in a bowl, looking for things to domesticate.
Is ASD a medical condition? I don't know. Is ADD?
Shrinks think we used to mistake sick kids for discipline problems because we didn't know any better. ["Shrinks" don't THINK that. The medical and scientific communities KNOW that. Imaging studies have shown that the brains of children with ADHD are different from those of other children, specifically in the area of the brain that controls emotions and impulse control.] I think we mistake discipline problems for sick kids because we still don't know any better. [I think you would be better off doing some research before you write your next "opinion" article.] Being resolved not to make our grandparents' mistakes, we make our own. Having decided that inattentive children suffer from ADD (actually ADHD, since we've added hyperactivity) we prescribe drugs for them instead of drills. [It's called ADHD because there are three types of ADHD: 1) primarily inattentive 2) primarily hyperactive 3) combined. And most doctors will tell you that ADHD meds are only one component of an effective ADHD treatment plan.]
Drugs calm bad boys as well as drills, if not better; it's just that while drilling bad boys helps some, drugging bad boys helps mainly their parents. [A) Don't you ever, EVER, call my son a bad boy. My son is beautiful, funny, smart, and the light of my life. He also has mental health challenges that requires medication. B) It is that exact lack of understanding and stigma in regards to ADHD medication that contributes to the guilt parents feel about providing their children with the medications they so badly need. My heart breaks to think of all the children out there who won't reach their full potential because their ADHD goes untreated. I would no more withhold my son's ADHD medications than I would withhold his insulin if he were diabetic.] The more psychopharmaceutical services we provide, the more we need. In America, the diagnosis of ADHD went from about 12 per 1000 in the 1970s to 34 per 1000 in the 1990s. Epidemic? Perhaps it's something in the water - not necessarily in the fidgety children's water, but in the water of education and health professionals. [It's called better screening and understanding. The cancer rates have gone up as well. Maybe we've made that up as well???]
Perhaps it's just as well that ASD hasn't been classified as an illness by the satraps of mental hygiene. Imagine my friend having to feed her precocious boy pills against being a Teacher's Pet.
Most of us expect our grandchildren to know more than we do. This leads some of us to believe we know more than our grandparents. Do we? Yes, we do, about satellite-navigation and kneesurgery. About many other things, we don't. About ourselves, for instance, we probably know less. [You're right; we do expect our grandchildren to know more than we do. For the sake of your grandchildren, I sure hope they know more than you.]
You see, today The National Post, a major Canadian newspaper, published an "opinion piece" that effectively denies the existence of ADHD. Don't get me wrong -- I'm all for opinion pieces. In fact, I have a few opinions of my own right now, some of which I'm about to share. But what I am against is stupidity, especially stupidity in the guise of journalism.
Maybe stupidity isn't the word I'm looking for here, because I don't believe the article was written with malicious intent. Perhaps irresponsibility would be better. As a well-respected writer with a established career (see, I did my research), I believe this journalist acted irresponsibly by writing about something of which he apparently knows nothing. You see, the National Post's weekday circulation is about 170,000 across Canada. That's 170,000 people who could have been educated about ADHD, but instead were misinformed. And that, quite frankly, is my idea of irresponsibility.
If you haven't seen the article, here it is. The snide, bolded comments are mine.
Diagnosis: Attention Surfeit Disorder
(National Post, September 19, 2011)
These days, if a boy fidgets, pays no attention when people talk to him, and tries to get out of doing things he doesn't like, chances are psychiatrists will diagnose Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD.) Many of us had ADD when I was young, only we didn't know it. They called us spoiled brats, not sick kids. [And once upon a time people with mental illnesses were locked up in insane asylums where they were treated like animals, but by all means, let's continue to talk about the good old days, shall we?]
Teacher's Pets suffer from a different illness. I call it Attention Surfeit Disorder (ASD). Psychiatrists don't recognize it, possibly because many are afflicted themselves. Just as we once confused ADD-victims with bad boys, we confuse ASD-victims with clever boys. I think they're just as sick as bad boys, but since they usually go on to become doctors, they're a menace only to their patients.
Patients don't count. They used to, once, when doctors could offer them little beside bedside manners, but now that physicians can actually tighten loose patients a notch, at least temporarily, they've stopped coddling them. The first thing students learn in medical school is save what bedside manners they have for patients they can't help.
If you're a patient, don't worry until your doctor is polite to you. When that happens, start seeking second opinions, until you find a specialist who's rude. Then you can relax.
Anyway, it takes a sharp mother to recognize her son as a menace. An old friend I haven't seen for a while is sharp. While we're having coffee, she describes her son as a menace. Apparently at six he'd pose queries like "Mommy, when was the common carp domesticated?"
I sense a trap. "Has someone domesticated the common carp?" I ask.
"Even a person as innocent of pisciculture as you," my friend replies, "must have seen goldfish in a bowl."
True. Mind you, goldfish never looked terribly domesticated to me. Frankly, they didn't much look like carp, either.
"I thought there was something fishy about them," I respond warily. Most mothers prefer "My son, the doctor" as an opening gambit to "my son, the menace." The word leaves a gap in the conversation
"Let me guess - has he become an ichthyologist?" I ask.
"No, a doctor," my friend replies triumphantly. You can't keep a good mother down. "He works as a psychiatrist for the Ombudsman's office."
I nearly say that in that case he must hear a lot of carping, but stop in time.
"So, he isn't such a menace anymore," I say instead.
She laughs ruefully, before glancing at her watch. "Once a menace, always a menace," she says. "Have another coffee and meet him. He'll be picking me up in a few minutes."
I'm shocked to recognize the slight, neat, dapper young man who walks into the restaurant 20 minutes later. We've never met before, but he's a fully grown Teacher's Pet, a breed I can smell from a mile, upwind.
Teacher Pests, as I used to call them, exude their essence from every pore. From his carefully knotted tie to his meticulously polished shoes, my friend's son conjures up nightmarish memories. He's the monster from school, the immaculate pupil, the role model: The boy everybody wants to know why you can't be like, including your parents.
"Why can't you be like Billy?"
"I could, Mom, but you wouldn't like it."
"Try me."
What's Billy the Brain like? While ordinary boys are dishevelled, Billy is perennially neat. While we fidget, Billy sits quietly, as alert as a Boy Scout. While our attention wanders, his eyes are fixed on teacher's lips. Fixed? Glued. While our imagination soars with eagles or (more often) hibernates with bears, Billy's goes swimming in a bowl, looking for things to domesticate.
Is ASD a medical condition? I don't know. Is ADD?
Shrinks think we used to mistake sick kids for discipline problems because we didn't know any better. ["Shrinks" don't THINK that. The medical and scientific communities KNOW that. Imaging studies have shown that the brains of children with ADHD are different from those of other children, specifically in the area of the brain that controls emotions and impulse control.] I think we mistake discipline problems for sick kids because we still don't know any better. [I think you would be better off doing some research before you write your next "opinion" article.] Being resolved not to make our grandparents' mistakes, we make our own. Having decided that inattentive children suffer from ADD (actually ADHD, since we've added hyperactivity) we prescribe drugs for them instead of drills. [It's called ADHD because there are three types of ADHD: 1) primarily inattentive 2) primarily hyperactive 3) combined. And most doctors will tell you that ADHD meds are only one component of an effective ADHD treatment plan.]
Drugs calm bad boys as well as drills, if not better; it's just that while drilling bad boys helps some, drugging bad boys helps mainly their parents. [A) Don't you ever, EVER, call my son a bad boy. My son is beautiful, funny, smart, and the light of my life. He also has mental health challenges that requires medication. B) It is that exact lack of understanding and stigma in regards to ADHD medication that contributes to the guilt parents feel about providing their children with the medications they so badly need. My heart breaks to think of all the children out there who won't reach their full potential because their ADHD goes untreated. I would no more withhold my son's ADHD medications than I would withhold his insulin if he were diabetic.] The more psychopharmaceutical services we provide, the more we need. In America, the diagnosis of ADHD went from about 12 per 1000 in the 1970s to 34 per 1000 in the 1990s. Epidemic? Perhaps it's something in the water - not necessarily in the fidgety children's water, but in the water of education and health professionals. [It's called better screening and understanding. The cancer rates have gone up as well. Maybe we've made that up as well???]
Perhaps it's just as well that ASD hasn't been classified as an illness by the satraps of mental hygiene. Imagine my friend having to feed her precocious boy pills against being a Teacher's Pet.
Most of us expect our grandchildren to know more than we do. This leads some of us to believe we know more than our grandparents. Do we? Yes, we do, about satellite-navigation and kneesurgery. About many other things, we don't. About ourselves, for instance, we probably know less. [You're right; we do expect our grandchildren to know more than we do. For the sake of your grandchildren, I sure hope they know more than you.]
Thursday, September 15, 2011
How Many More Years of School???
I realize today is only Wednesday, but it already feels like it's been a long week. Yesterday afternoon I got my first "could you please come get him?" call of the year from the school. Mind you, it took til week three for that phone call to come, which is an improvement over last year. Last year he only made it to week two, although that was an improvement over the year before. (Fingers crossed that next year he makes it through a whole month before being sent home!)
But back to yesterday. In the school's defence, it was more of a "Bear's hiding under a counter and won't come out and we're not sure what to do now" phone call than a "come get your crazy child before someone gets hurt" phone call. (Trust me, I've had the latter as well.) The teacher said this was the first time that she hadn't been able to find a way to get him to do what he was supposed to do, which was why she was calling. Normally a promise of being able to play with Lego for a bit will do the trick, but not this time. But you have to hand it to Bear...it's a pretty gutsy six-year-old who flat out refuses to do what his teacher and the vice-principal are telling him to do. Most kids would cave at some point, especially when the teacher gets the parent on the phone. But Bear? Nope, not my Bear. Instead he crawled out from under the counter and joined in the conference call! What a kid.
Given the fact that Bear was flat out refusing to go back to class and that there was only about an hour left of school, it was decided that he would come home and do some work. That should have been a fairly simple arrangement to enforce, but this is Bear we're talking about. Homework, as we're finding out, is not something he does willingly.
What followed was about four hours of torture, both for him and for me, but extremely enlightening torture. As it turned out, there was a math test in class that afternoon, which was why Bear was refusing to go to class. You see, if he took the test, he might fail, and that wasn't an option for him. Children with ADHD are very often perfectionists with a very low tolerance for frustration, which is a dangerous combination. How do you do something perfectly when you don't have the patience to learn to do it properly in the first place? Answer? You don't do it at all. What if you're having problems with the work you're doing in class? You leave your desk and hide in the coatroom, of course. What if there's a test? You find a reason to leave the class and then you hide under a counter and refuse to go back. And if well-intentioned teachers tell you the work is easy? Well, if you find it hard when others find it easy, you internalize the message that you're stupid and a loser (his words, not mine) and then you come home and refuse to do any work because you can't do it perfectly.
In the end, no work got done, a lot of tears were shed (mine hidden, of course), but a lot of information was gleaned. That information was then shared with his class teacher and his resource teacher and by morning they were already working on a plan. (I love that school!!!)
That was yesterday. Then came today.
Today Bear's anxiety reared its ugly head again and he refused to get out of the van when we got to school. Instead, he climbed into the back seat (Before you all start emailing me, by "back seat" I mean the third row. No, he wasn't in the front at six years old, and yes, he was in a booster seat. Can I continue now?), pulled a blanket over himself, and claimed he was too tired to go to school. After a few minutes of trying to negotiate with him I headed into the school to look for reinforcements, taking baby Stitch with me. (I hate to admit it, but Bear can't be trusted around Stitch if he goes into a rage, and I wasn't sure how he was going to react when forced to go to school.) When further negotiations didn't work, I handed Stitch to the teacher who had joined me, climbed into the back of the van, and proceded to start to physically remove him from the van. Fear of his friends seeing him won the day, and he went into school on his own steam. And in typical ADHD/ODD fashion, which means the fastest mood swings you've ever seen, the boy who just minutes before had been crying and yelling at me now went happily trotting into school to play Lego, with hugs and kisses all around. Go figure.
His test, for the record, went well. So well, in fact, that he didn't even know he had written it. Alternating five-minute-periods of work and play had made his first test ever a painless experience. His teacher had already filled me in, but I decided to play dumb with him to see what he said. (Some days that's easier than others.) "So, how did your test go today," I asked on our way home from school. "Test?" he repeated, sounding a little confused. "I don't think I wrote it." "Well, you did, because your teacher told me you did and said you did really well on it," I explained. "OH!" he exclaimed, completely surprised. "Then it went well."
It's going to be a long 12 years for everyone involved.
But back to yesterday. In the school's defence, it was more of a "Bear's hiding under a counter and won't come out and we're not sure what to do now" phone call than a "come get your crazy child before someone gets hurt" phone call. (Trust me, I've had the latter as well.) The teacher said this was the first time that she hadn't been able to find a way to get him to do what he was supposed to do, which was why she was calling. Normally a promise of being able to play with Lego for a bit will do the trick, but not this time. But you have to hand it to Bear...it's a pretty gutsy six-year-old who flat out refuses to do what his teacher and the vice-principal are telling him to do. Most kids would cave at some point, especially when the teacher gets the parent on the phone. But Bear? Nope, not my Bear. Instead he crawled out from under the counter and joined in the conference call! What a kid.
Given the fact that Bear was flat out refusing to go back to class and that there was only about an hour left of school, it was decided that he would come home and do some work. That should have been a fairly simple arrangement to enforce, but this is Bear we're talking about. Homework, as we're finding out, is not something he does willingly.
What followed was about four hours of torture, both for him and for me, but extremely enlightening torture. As it turned out, there was a math test in class that afternoon, which was why Bear was refusing to go to class. You see, if he took the test, he might fail, and that wasn't an option for him. Children with ADHD are very often perfectionists with a very low tolerance for frustration, which is a dangerous combination. How do you do something perfectly when you don't have the patience to learn to do it properly in the first place? Answer? You don't do it at all. What if you're having problems with the work you're doing in class? You leave your desk and hide in the coatroom, of course. What if there's a test? You find a reason to leave the class and then you hide under a counter and refuse to go back. And if well-intentioned teachers tell you the work is easy? Well, if you find it hard when others find it easy, you internalize the message that you're stupid and a loser (his words, not mine) and then you come home and refuse to do any work because you can't do it perfectly.
In the end, no work got done, a lot of tears were shed (mine hidden, of course), but a lot of information was gleaned. That information was then shared with his class teacher and his resource teacher and by morning they were already working on a plan. (I love that school!!!)
That was yesterday. Then came today.
Today Bear's anxiety reared its ugly head again and he refused to get out of the van when we got to school. Instead, he climbed into the back seat (Before you all start emailing me, by "back seat" I mean the third row. No, he wasn't in the front at six years old, and yes, he was in a booster seat. Can I continue now?), pulled a blanket over himself, and claimed he was too tired to go to school. After a few minutes of trying to negotiate with him I headed into the school to look for reinforcements, taking baby Stitch with me. (I hate to admit it, but Bear can't be trusted around Stitch if he goes into a rage, and I wasn't sure how he was going to react when forced to go to school.) When further negotiations didn't work, I handed Stitch to the teacher who had joined me, climbed into the back of the van, and proceded to start to physically remove him from the van. Fear of his friends seeing him won the day, and he went into school on his own steam. And in typical ADHD/ODD fashion, which means the fastest mood swings you've ever seen, the boy who just minutes before had been crying and yelling at me now went happily trotting into school to play Lego, with hugs and kisses all around. Go figure.
His test, for the record, went well. So well, in fact, that he didn't even know he had written it. Alternating five-minute-periods of work and play had made his first test ever a painless experience. His teacher had already filled me in, but I decided to play dumb with him to see what he said. (Some days that's easier than others.) "So, how did your test go today," I asked on our way home from school. "Test?" he repeated, sounding a little confused. "I don't think I wrote it." "Well, you did, because your teacher told me you did and said you did really well on it," I explained. "OH!" he exclaimed, completely surprised. "Then it went well."
It's going to be a long 12 years for everyone involved.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Will He/We Ever Learn???
If you've been following this blog, you're well acquainted with Bear's little escape act last week. If you're new, here's a quick synopsis. Bear, who isn't even allowed to the corner on his own yet, decided to ride his bike to my parents' house without telling anyone. My parents live about 10 blocks away, and there are two very busy streets to be crossed between here and there. After a frantic search of the neighbourhood by some wonderful neighbours, the police were called. Shortly after that, Bear was located safe and sound at my folks'. (For more explanation on why they didn't call me, read last week's blog.)
Anyway, TheODDDad and I struggled with how to discipline Bear. The thing is, kids with ADHD have problems with impulse control. Science has proven that the area of the brain that controls emotion and impulse (among other things) doesn't work as well in people with ADHD, so they have a hard time regulating their behaviour. Bear knew he shouldn't go to my parents' house, but he was unable to stop himself.
So how do you discipline a child who you know can't control his behaviour? Or do you discipline them? Is there any point? On the one hand, they need to learn, but on the other hand, it's not their fault. Tricky, huh?
Anyway, despite the countless parenting and ADHD books I've read (and apparently not paid enough attention to), the only idea I could come up with that seemed to fit the crime was to take away his 6th birthday party that was planned for a few days after his little escapade. Now, in my defence, the thought of taking away a little boy's birthday party made me nauseous, but I was scared and wanted him to learn his lesson. NOW!
TheODDDad, however, despite not having read any parenting books, is way smarter than I am when it comes to these things. (Oh, thank God!) As he pointed out, the birthday party had nothing to do with Bear's disappearing act, so taking it away made no sense and would teach him nothing. (Duh...I knew that. Really, I did.) Rather, he suggested, why didn't we remove his bike since that was the vehicle used in the great escape and restrict his freedom to our property. Brilliant!!! This summer was the first time Bear was really allowed off our property without our being with him, so we explained to him that he had shown us he wasn't ready for that "big-boy" privilege yet and needed to earn it back. So for five days this was the deal, and we stuck to it. Yay us!
Bear, bless him, really seemed to get it...or so we thought. (I know, now you have to read on just to see what he's done this time.) When he asked to go next door or across the street we would gently remind him of why he wasn't allowed to go, and he was OK with that. No major meltdowns (or even minor meltdowns), which really surprised us. He even went so far as to come into the house to ask if he was allowed on the street to pet the dog that was coming. I was impressed at how well he had learned his lesson.
So along comes Sunday, and Bear regains his privileges. Of course, the bike/Bear reunion was prefaced by a serious talk about the importance of always telling an adult where you are and not going further than you're allowed. Yes, Mommy. Yes, Daddy. No, Mommy. No, Daddy. So far so good...and off he went.
The first place he wanted to go was to visit our new neighbours two houses away. We haven't even met them yet but they have a dog, and in Bear's world that means they're A-OK. When I tried to explain to him that Mommy and Daddy hadn't met them yet and we didn't even know if they liked children, he matter-of-factly informed me that he had spoken to them the other day and they hadn't said they were allergic to children. Well, it's hard to argue with that kind of logic, so I agreed that he could go see if they were outside.
"Mommy, if they're there, do I have to come back and tell you I'm staying there?" he asked. I smiled at him, said a quick little prayer of thanks that he had learned his lesson, and explained that it was OK because I knew where he was going.
About 10 minutes later TheODDDad, who was working outside, asked where Bear was. At the neighbours, I explained, but suggested that we should fetch him so that he didn't overstay his welcome. So off went TheODDDad to bring Bear home. About 20 minutes later I realized neither of them had returned home yet, but I just assumed he was chatting with the new neighbours. After all, they have a dog, and that makes them A-OK in his eyes as well.
A little while later a very sad looking Bear rode into the driveway, followed by a very serious looking daddy. Funny, though, they were coming from the opposited direction of the new neighbours' house.
"Hi, Mommy," Bear said quietly. "I went away again." Sigh...
Apparently when he didn't find the new neighbours outside, Bear decided to go to the park around the other side of the block instead. When TheODDDad didn't find him at the neighbours', he headed straight to the park, where he spotted Bear's shoes and bike...but no Bear...the very same scene I had come across when Bear took off last week. Thankfully Bear was at the house next to the park petting their cat, so another Bear disappearing act ended safely.
So Bear's bike is once again locked in the shed and Bear isn't allowed off our property. Will he learn his lesson this time? My guess is probably not. Will we? Well, if the lesson is not to trust our son (yet, that is), I'm afraid we've learned it. But I can't say I like it.
Anyway, TheODDDad and I struggled with how to discipline Bear. The thing is, kids with ADHD have problems with impulse control. Science has proven that the area of the brain that controls emotion and impulse (among other things) doesn't work as well in people with ADHD, so they have a hard time regulating their behaviour. Bear knew he shouldn't go to my parents' house, but he was unable to stop himself.
So how do you discipline a child who you know can't control his behaviour? Or do you discipline them? Is there any point? On the one hand, they need to learn, but on the other hand, it's not their fault. Tricky, huh?
Anyway, despite the countless parenting and ADHD books I've read (and apparently not paid enough attention to), the only idea I could come up with that seemed to fit the crime was to take away his 6th birthday party that was planned for a few days after his little escapade. Now, in my defence, the thought of taking away a little boy's birthday party made me nauseous, but I was scared and wanted him to learn his lesson. NOW!
TheODDDad, however, despite not having read any parenting books, is way smarter than I am when it comes to these things. (Oh, thank God!) As he pointed out, the birthday party had nothing to do with Bear's disappearing act, so taking it away made no sense and would teach him nothing. (Duh...I knew that. Really, I did.) Rather, he suggested, why didn't we remove his bike since that was the vehicle used in the great escape and restrict his freedom to our property. Brilliant!!! This summer was the first time Bear was really allowed off our property without our being with him, so we explained to him that he had shown us he wasn't ready for that "big-boy" privilege yet and needed to earn it back. So for five days this was the deal, and we stuck to it. Yay us!
Bear, bless him, really seemed to get it...or so we thought. (I know, now you have to read on just to see what he's done this time.) When he asked to go next door or across the street we would gently remind him of why he wasn't allowed to go, and he was OK with that. No major meltdowns (or even minor meltdowns), which really surprised us. He even went so far as to come into the house to ask if he was allowed on the street to pet the dog that was coming. I was impressed at how well he had learned his lesson.
So along comes Sunday, and Bear regains his privileges. Of course, the bike/Bear reunion was prefaced by a serious talk about the importance of always telling an adult where you are and not going further than you're allowed. Yes, Mommy. Yes, Daddy. No, Mommy. No, Daddy. So far so good...and off he went.
The first place he wanted to go was to visit our new neighbours two houses away. We haven't even met them yet but they have a dog, and in Bear's world that means they're A-OK. When I tried to explain to him that Mommy and Daddy hadn't met them yet and we didn't even know if they liked children, he matter-of-factly informed me that he had spoken to them the other day and they hadn't said they were allergic to children. Well, it's hard to argue with that kind of logic, so I agreed that he could go see if they were outside.
"Mommy, if they're there, do I have to come back and tell you I'm staying there?" he asked. I smiled at him, said a quick little prayer of thanks that he had learned his lesson, and explained that it was OK because I knew where he was going.
About 10 minutes later TheODDDad, who was working outside, asked where Bear was. At the neighbours, I explained, but suggested that we should fetch him so that he didn't overstay his welcome. So off went TheODDDad to bring Bear home. About 20 minutes later I realized neither of them had returned home yet, but I just assumed he was chatting with the new neighbours. After all, they have a dog, and that makes them A-OK in his eyes as well.
A little while later a very sad looking Bear rode into the driveway, followed by a very serious looking daddy. Funny, though, they were coming from the opposited direction of the new neighbours' house.
"Hi, Mommy," Bear said quietly. "I went away again." Sigh...
Apparently when he didn't find the new neighbours outside, Bear decided to go to the park around the other side of the block instead. When TheODDDad didn't find him at the neighbours', he headed straight to the park, where he spotted Bear's shoes and bike...but no Bear...the very same scene I had come across when Bear took off last week. Thankfully Bear was at the house next to the park petting their cat, so another Bear disappearing act ended safely.
So Bear's bike is once again locked in the shed and Bear isn't allowed off our property. Will he learn his lesson this time? My guess is probably not. Will we? Well, if the lesson is not to trust our son (yet, that is), I'm afraid we've learned it. But I can't say I like it.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
I'm Not a Bad Mother!!!!
NOTE: This blog was started yesterday and finished today as if it were still yesterday, so keep that in mind. And on a happy note, the police had to report the incident to CAS, but CAS called this morning to tell us they aren't opening a file on us. Yay! No one's taking my Bear away. (That got your attention, didn't it?)
I'm not even sure how to describe my day. How's this...it's not even 5:00 p.m. and someone has already asked me if I've started drinking yet. I'm out of wine, but I may just have to send Hubby out for some when he gets home.
My day started off fine, until we missed the school bus. It wasn't anybody's fault, it just happened. This is the second week of school and I think things probably went a little smoother on the bus route than last week, so the bus was a few minutes early. It happens...no biggie. There was still lots of time to get to school, so back home we headed to get in the van. That was fine, until out of nowhere Bear decided he didn't want to take the bus home today. Huh? This is the same boy who was really disappointed that he had missed the bus. OK, whatever. But my insisting that the bus was his only ride home triggered a meltdown, which led to my chasing him around the outside of the house, catching him, and then carrying 40lbs of struggling six-year-old to the van. Not a good start, but we've had worse.
We get to school and he promptly bursts into tears, begging me not to make him go in. So again...huh? So he's sitting in his car seat, sobbing, telling me that he's tired and yawning and that the teacher will say something to him if he yawns. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but when you have a child with a generalized anxiety disorder, strange statements like this aren't unusual. Last time we went to a doctor Bear didn't want to go into the waiting room because people might look at him, so we stood in the hall for an hour while we waited for our appointment. The good news is it helped the doctor diagnose the anxiety disorder! (If your child is going to go nuts on you while you're out, it's always nice when it's at the doctor.)
Anyway...back to my morning. I tried to talk him through it and even offered to go in with him to talk to his teacher, but he wasn't having it. I could tell by the way he recoiled every time I reached for his seat belt that he was not going to go willingly. I considered forcing him to go in, but that would have required carrying him in, most likely kicking and screaming. I may have done it if I hadn't had Stitch with me, but I did. And anyway, he was sobbing...didn't that mean it was real? Is forcing the issue the best thing? I have no idea. In the end I caved and took him home. Right thing? Wrong thing? Again, no idea.
Having a child with mental health issues is exhausting, so by 10 a.m. I was ready to nap with the baby. Bear was happily occupied, so I lay down for a while. I guess I was a little more tired than I thought, because I passed out. In comes Bear...could he go and play in the backyard, pretty, pretty, pretty please? Yes, fine, I agreed, but stay in the backyard. He's always been good about these things, so I didn't give it another thought.
Fast forward about an hour, and I get up. I look out the back...no Bear. Running shoes by the door, so he must be downstairs. Bear??? No answer. Go out front...no Bear. Then I notice his scooter on the lawn and his sandals carelessly lying in the grass. Where is Bear??? WHERE IS BEAR??? He only has two pairs of shoes, so I knew that wherever he was, he didn't have his shoes on. I stood there, frozen, for what seemed like hours, as I tried to process what I was seeing. The logical side of my brain knew that he was most likely at a neighbour's, but the other side of my brain flashed through every episode of "Without a Trace" I've ever seen and I knew that if he had been abducted, we needed to find him soon. Don't they always say something about the first few hours being the most critical?
Flash forward again probably 30-45 minutes, while I scour the neighbourhood on foot with Stitch in a stroller and six neighbours are out in four cars going in increasingly larger circles. By this point there have been Bear sightings on his bicycle, but about 1/2 an hour before. He's not even allowed to go to the corner by himself, so how is it that we can't find any trace of him???? Then a brain wave hits...the only place he might go by himself is to my parents', who live about 10 blocks away. We go there all the time, so he would know exactly how to get there. But surely he wouldn't...no, he couldn't...please God...let him have...
The conversation went something like this:
"Hi Dad. Don't panic, but Bear's missing."
"But...he's here."
<insert really bitchy tone here>"What do you mean he's there? How long has he been there???"
"I don't know. I guess about half-an-hour."
"And it took you this long to realize I wasn't there???"
Apparently Bear had simply walked into the house and told Grandpa that Mommy had dropped him off and gone home. That seemed strange to my dad, but then he thought maybe I had been having a bad ODD day with Bear and needed a break. I've done that before, although never without calling first, so Dad just figured I had spoken to my mother, who was napping. I swear...a comedy of errors. Or would that be a comedy of terrors?
Back home, I'm standing in the driveway, phone in hand, having just hung up, when the police car shows up. One of the neighbours helping with the search is a paramedic, so he called his buddies at the police station to tell them what was going on. Nothing makes you feel more like a bad mother than having to explain to a police officer that your son disappeared while you were napping, but no worries, he's shown up 10 blocks away at your parents, wearing no helmet or shoes (no shoes???), having crossed a number of busy streets. Sigh...
So out I trotted the explanation. He has ADHD and ODD (I'm not a bad mother), kids with ADHD have very little impulse control (I'm not a bad mother), he's never done anything like this before (I'm not a bad mother), he's not even allowed to go to the corner (I'm not a bad mother), we're working with Child & Youth Wellness to develop his skills (I'm not a bad mother)...he promised he wouldn't leave the backyard (I'm not a bad mother...please believe me...I'm not a bad mother...). OK, I may have left out all the "I'm not a bad mother" stuff, but I'm sure it was written all over my face.
When my little chat with the nice policeman was over and he now knew everything about us and our family, I asked if he would mind going to over to my parents to scare the pants off Bear. No problem...he'd be happy to. He actually went pretty easy on him, so not exactly the pants-scaring-off lesson I was hoping for, but Bear's pretty cute and I think the officer felt bad for him. I didn't actually see Bear's face when the officer stepped into the room at my parents', but I did hear Bear say "Am I going to jail?"
So has he learned his lesson? Who knows. Have we? Yup. We have an appointment with the vet next week to get him microchipped, just like the dog. (kidding...sheesh...but it really did cross my mind!)
I'm not even sure how to describe my day. How's this...it's not even 5:00 p.m. and someone has already asked me if I've started drinking yet. I'm out of wine, but I may just have to send Hubby out for some when he gets home.
My day started off fine, until we missed the school bus. It wasn't anybody's fault, it just happened. This is the second week of school and I think things probably went a little smoother on the bus route than last week, so the bus was a few minutes early. It happens...no biggie. There was still lots of time to get to school, so back home we headed to get in the van. That was fine, until out of nowhere Bear decided he didn't want to take the bus home today. Huh? This is the same boy who was really disappointed that he had missed the bus. OK, whatever. But my insisting that the bus was his only ride home triggered a meltdown, which led to my chasing him around the outside of the house, catching him, and then carrying 40lbs of struggling six-year-old to the van. Not a good start, but we've had worse.
We get to school and he promptly bursts into tears, begging me not to make him go in. So again...huh? So he's sitting in his car seat, sobbing, telling me that he's tired and yawning and that the teacher will say something to him if he yawns. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but when you have a child with a generalized anxiety disorder, strange statements like this aren't unusual. Last time we went to a doctor Bear didn't want to go into the waiting room because people might look at him, so we stood in the hall for an hour while we waited for our appointment. The good news is it helped the doctor diagnose the anxiety disorder! (If your child is going to go nuts on you while you're out, it's always nice when it's at the doctor.)
Anyway...back to my morning. I tried to talk him through it and even offered to go in with him to talk to his teacher, but he wasn't having it. I could tell by the way he recoiled every time I reached for his seat belt that he was not going to go willingly. I considered forcing him to go in, but that would have required carrying him in, most likely kicking and screaming. I may have done it if I hadn't had Stitch with me, but I did. And anyway, he was sobbing...didn't that mean it was real? Is forcing the issue the best thing? I have no idea. In the end I caved and took him home. Right thing? Wrong thing? Again, no idea.
Having a child with mental health issues is exhausting, so by 10 a.m. I was ready to nap with the baby. Bear was happily occupied, so I lay down for a while. I guess I was a little more tired than I thought, because I passed out. In comes Bear...could he go and play in the backyard, pretty, pretty, pretty please? Yes, fine, I agreed, but stay in the backyard. He's always been good about these things, so I didn't give it another thought.
Fast forward about an hour, and I get up. I look out the back...no Bear. Running shoes by the door, so he must be downstairs. Bear??? No answer. Go out front...no Bear. Then I notice his scooter on the lawn and his sandals carelessly lying in the grass. Where is Bear??? WHERE IS BEAR??? He only has two pairs of shoes, so I knew that wherever he was, he didn't have his shoes on. I stood there, frozen, for what seemed like hours, as I tried to process what I was seeing. The logical side of my brain knew that he was most likely at a neighbour's, but the other side of my brain flashed through every episode of "Without a Trace" I've ever seen and I knew that if he had been abducted, we needed to find him soon. Don't they always say something about the first few hours being the most critical?
Flash forward again probably 30-45 minutes, while I scour the neighbourhood on foot with Stitch in a stroller and six neighbours are out in four cars going in increasingly larger circles. By this point there have been Bear sightings on his bicycle, but about 1/2 an hour before. He's not even allowed to go to the corner by himself, so how is it that we can't find any trace of him???? Then a brain wave hits...the only place he might go by himself is to my parents', who live about 10 blocks away. We go there all the time, so he would know exactly how to get there. But surely he wouldn't...no, he couldn't...please God...let him have...
The conversation went something like this:
"Hi Dad. Don't panic, but Bear's missing."
"But...he's here."
<insert really bitchy tone here>"What do you mean he's there? How long has he been there???"
"I don't know. I guess about half-an-hour."
"And it took you this long to realize I wasn't there???"
Apparently Bear had simply walked into the house and told Grandpa that Mommy had dropped him off and gone home. That seemed strange to my dad, but then he thought maybe I had been having a bad ODD day with Bear and needed a break. I've done that before, although never without calling first, so Dad just figured I had spoken to my mother, who was napping. I swear...a comedy of errors. Or would that be a comedy of terrors?
Back home, I'm standing in the driveway, phone in hand, having just hung up, when the police car shows up. One of the neighbours helping with the search is a paramedic, so he called his buddies at the police station to tell them what was going on. Nothing makes you feel more like a bad mother than having to explain to a police officer that your son disappeared while you were napping, but no worries, he's shown up 10 blocks away at your parents, wearing no helmet or shoes (no shoes???), having crossed a number of busy streets. Sigh...
So out I trotted the explanation. He has ADHD and ODD (I'm not a bad mother), kids with ADHD have very little impulse control (I'm not a bad mother), he's never done anything like this before (I'm not a bad mother), he's not even allowed to go to the corner (I'm not a bad mother), we're working with Child & Youth Wellness to develop his skills (I'm not a bad mother)...he promised he wouldn't leave the backyard (I'm not a bad mother...please believe me...I'm not a bad mother...). OK, I may have left out all the "I'm not a bad mother" stuff, but I'm sure it was written all over my face.
When my little chat with the nice policeman was over and he now knew everything about us and our family, I asked if he would mind going to over to my parents to scare the pants off Bear. No problem...he'd be happy to. He actually went pretty easy on him, so not exactly the pants-scaring-off lesson I was hoping for, but Bear's pretty cute and I think the officer felt bad for him. I didn't actually see Bear's face when the officer stepped into the room at my parents', but I did hear Bear say "Am I going to jail?"
So has he learned his lesson? Who knows. Have we? Yup. We have an appointment with the vet next week to get him microchipped, just like the dog. (kidding...sheesh...but it really did cross my mind!)
Monday, September 5, 2011
When a Haircut Isn't just a Haircut
I had great hopes for Saturday. I was going to do things. Good things. Productive things.
I should have known better.
Instead, I took Bear for a haircut. I know, why on earth would that interfere with doing things? Well, I'm glad you asked, because now I can vent. (Well, I'd vent anyway, but now you feel obliged to keep reading because, well, you asked.)
Bear has needed a haircut for weeks. The poor thing couldn't see out from under his hair when he put his bike helmet on. On Thursday I picked him up after school and told him we were going to go run some errands. No problem...he was game for that. After all, we were going to the party store to get invitations for his birthday party (he turns 6 this week...whahhh....) and then to get a haircut. We always go to First Choice to get his hair cut, but that's because I'm not paying more than $10 for a child to have a haircut, no matter how good his hair is (and he has really good hair...the girls are going to love it!). We managed the party store without any issues, but on the way to the haircut he informed me that he wanted to go home. I tried to convince him that it would only take a few minutes, but he was adamant. "I'm not going into the store and I'm not getting my hair cut, and there's nothing you can do about it!" Damn it, I hate it when he's right! There's a real feeling of powerlessness to admitting you have very little control over your own child, especially when he's only six, and you once again find yourself questioning your parenting abilities. After all, who's the parent here? If I say he's getting his hair cut today then, dammit, he's getting his hair cut today! Right? <insert hysterical laughter here> Oh, so very wrong.
Anyway, after talking it over we compromised on getting his hair cut on Saturday (today), with a trip to Walmart afterwards. He had received some birthday money that I had promised could be used to buy a toy, so we were already planning an excursion to Walmart at some point. Perfect, I thought...I'll tell him he needs to get his hair cut before going to Walmart or there's no Walmart. He wasn't terribly amused at my playing hard ball, but he agreed to my terms. Yes! Victory was mine!!!!
So for almost two days I listened to nothing but how much he just couldn't wait to go shopping at Walmart. Of course, being a bit of a witch, I gently reminded him every time about our deal. "Yeeessssss, Mommmmm," he'd say with great patience.
Flash forward to Saturday morning, and it's time for him to have a bath and wash his hair in anticipation of his hair cut. Sounds simple enough, right? Except Bear decided he didn't want to get his hair washed, and, again, there was very little I could do about it without a physical confrontation.
"Well, that's fine Bear," I said in my most reasonable and non-confrontational voice, as if I really didn't care one way or the other, "but then I guess we won't be going to Walmart." Bear stopped, looked at me, and said: "That's fine. I've decided I don't want to go anyway." For the uninitiated, that's a pretty typical reaction from Bear when something is being taken away. No sweat...I didn't want it anyway. It's actually pretty infuriating. Does nothing bug this child?
About an hour later he reappeared, having changed his mind. Could he please have his bath and wash his hair, he asked sweetly. I have to admit that I was really torn. Should I be the heavy and refuse, or should I be nice and agree? Would refusing teach him a lesson in doing what he's told? (Probably not. That hasn't worked in the past.) In the end I said OK, because I really wanted him to get a hair cut.
Although school started for Bear last week, the majority of kids go back tomorrow. Figuring the wait time at First Choice would be horrendous and thinking I was being really clever, I called a place in the mall and made an appointment for him. The result? Bear's anxiety, which has grown exponentially this summer, reared its ugly head and he refused to go in. Rather, I chased him pretty much from one end of the mall to the other (thank goodness it was dead, so I could see him at all times), calling for him to stop. Oh, did I mention I had Stitch with me? So I followed Bear around, unable to catch up, alternately dragging and carrying a 27lb toddler, with people looking at me funny as I went by for the second (or was it third?) time, still trying to catch up. Funny, what stopped him was when I yelled out "Bear! Arrête de marcher!" I guess French school is paying off.
After discussing it for a few minutes, we established that he was scared to go in because he didn't know them and he didn't know how they cut hair. My explanation that they cut hair just like everyone else, with water and scissors, held no weight with him, and so we decided together that we would go to First Choice, where he would be more comfortable. First, though, we would swing by Grandma and Granddad's to see if we could leave Stitch with them, because I was drained by this point.
Thankfully, everything sailed along beautifully after that. Grandma and Grandpa were home and were delighted to have Stitch for an hour. Bear and I arrived at First Choice to discover we had just missed the rush and we didn't even have to wait! We were in and out of there in about 20 minutes, and then on to Walmart for the promised shopping excursion.
So, if you've done the math, a 20 minute hair cut took two days. No wonder my house is a mess! (That, and I really hate cleaning, but today I'll blame it on Bear.)
I should have known better.
Instead, I took Bear for a haircut. I know, why on earth would that interfere with doing things? Well, I'm glad you asked, because now I can vent. (Well, I'd vent anyway, but now you feel obliged to keep reading because, well, you asked.)
Bear has needed a haircut for weeks. The poor thing couldn't see out from under his hair when he put his bike helmet on. On Thursday I picked him up after school and told him we were going to go run some errands. No problem...he was game for that. After all, we were going to the party store to get invitations for his birthday party (he turns 6 this week...whahhh....) and then to get a haircut. We always go to First Choice to get his hair cut, but that's because I'm not paying more than $10 for a child to have a haircut, no matter how good his hair is (and he has really good hair...the girls are going to love it!). We managed the party store without any issues, but on the way to the haircut he informed me that he wanted to go home. I tried to convince him that it would only take a few minutes, but he was adamant. "I'm not going into the store and I'm not getting my hair cut, and there's nothing you can do about it!" Damn it, I hate it when he's right! There's a real feeling of powerlessness to admitting you have very little control over your own child, especially when he's only six, and you once again find yourself questioning your parenting abilities. After all, who's the parent here? If I say he's getting his hair cut today then, dammit, he's getting his hair cut today! Right? <insert hysterical laughter here> Oh, so very wrong.
Anyway, after talking it over we compromised on getting his hair cut on Saturday (today), with a trip to Walmart afterwards. He had received some birthday money that I had promised could be used to buy a toy, so we were already planning an excursion to Walmart at some point. Perfect, I thought...I'll tell him he needs to get his hair cut before going to Walmart or there's no Walmart. He wasn't terribly amused at my playing hard ball, but he agreed to my terms. Yes! Victory was mine!!!!
So for almost two days I listened to nothing but how much he just couldn't wait to go shopping at Walmart. Of course, being a bit of a witch, I gently reminded him every time about our deal. "Yeeessssss, Mommmmm," he'd say with great patience.
Flash forward to Saturday morning, and it's time for him to have a bath and wash his hair in anticipation of his hair cut. Sounds simple enough, right? Except Bear decided he didn't want to get his hair washed, and, again, there was very little I could do about it without a physical confrontation.
"Well, that's fine Bear," I said in my most reasonable and non-confrontational voice, as if I really didn't care one way or the other, "but then I guess we won't be going to Walmart." Bear stopped, looked at me, and said: "That's fine. I've decided I don't want to go anyway." For the uninitiated, that's a pretty typical reaction from Bear when something is being taken away. No sweat...I didn't want it anyway. It's actually pretty infuriating. Does nothing bug this child?
About an hour later he reappeared, having changed his mind. Could he please have his bath and wash his hair, he asked sweetly. I have to admit that I was really torn. Should I be the heavy and refuse, or should I be nice and agree? Would refusing teach him a lesson in doing what he's told? (Probably not. That hasn't worked in the past.) In the end I said OK, because I really wanted him to get a hair cut.
Although school started for Bear last week, the majority of kids go back tomorrow. Figuring the wait time at First Choice would be horrendous and thinking I was being really clever, I called a place in the mall and made an appointment for him. The result? Bear's anxiety, which has grown exponentially this summer, reared its ugly head and he refused to go in. Rather, I chased him pretty much from one end of the mall to the other (thank goodness it was dead, so I could see him at all times), calling for him to stop. Oh, did I mention I had Stitch with me? So I followed Bear around, unable to catch up, alternately dragging and carrying a 27lb toddler, with people looking at me funny as I went by for the second (or was it third?) time, still trying to catch up. Funny, what stopped him was when I yelled out "Bear! Arrête de marcher!" I guess French school is paying off.
After discussing it for a few minutes, we established that he was scared to go in because he didn't know them and he didn't know how they cut hair. My explanation that they cut hair just like everyone else, with water and scissors, held no weight with him, and so we decided together that we would go to First Choice, where he would be more comfortable. First, though, we would swing by Grandma and Granddad's to see if we could leave Stitch with them, because I was drained by this point.
Thankfully, everything sailed along beautifully after that. Grandma and Grandpa were home and were delighted to have Stitch for an hour. Bear and I arrived at First Choice to discover we had just missed the rush and we didn't even have to wait! We were in and out of there in about 20 minutes, and then on to Walmart for the promised shopping excursion.
So, if you've done the math, a 20 minute hair cut took two days. No wonder my house is a mess! (That, and I really hate cleaning, but today I'll blame it on Bear.)
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