Just try it for a week

Our pediatrician is a wise woman. She must be, because she took over the practice of a long-standing, popular physician — the kind of doc who would make sure that whoever took over his practice would live up to the standards he set.

When at long last we were expecting our first child, I decided that we needed to interview pediatricians before our baby arrived. After all, all the parenting magazines said that this is what one does … so we did it.

I made an appointment with a new pediatrician, and Ed and I arrived for the “interview.” I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought she would be eager to win our trust. Maybe I thought I’d be able to discern character flaws or questionable office practices.

What I found was a competent young woman who, although relatively new to private practice, seemed at ease talking to expectant parents (one of whom probably came across a suspicious and neurotic *ahem*). We decided to do away with the nonsense of interviewing physicians, reasoning that until we actually had a child for her to examine and treat, we didn’t have anything to go on.

Fast forward several years to when Skimbleshanks was in his second year of preschool. No, he didn’t fail the first year. His birthday is in January, so it was a judgment call as to whether he was mature enough to begin first grade. Besides, he was learning, having fun with the other children, and the preschool was close to his daycare.

I was entranced by all the different learning stations — so many different things to do! I loved that each child had his or her own hook and “cubby.” The teachers (two of them) seemed to enjoy the children and be happy with their work.

And then Skimbleshanks arrived.

I don’t recall that there were problems, per se. It was just that the teachers were at a loss as to how to redirect Skimbleshanks when he lost focus or wandered off to see what another group of kids was doing.

“The difficulty is that we’ve tried everything,” the exasperated teacher explained to me. “When he wanders off, we bring him back. If he disturbs the other children, we have him sit in a chair right there [pointing to a chair that sat alone, off the carpet], but he continues to make noises and faces and seems incapable of sitting still. Last week I had him sit in the hall outside the room, thinking that if he didn’t have an audience, maybe he’d settle down. When I checked on him a minute or two later, he was having fun rolling up and down the hall.”

The poor woman. She was looking a bit frazzled, not the same calm, collected professional she’d been at the start of the school year. Then she went on.

“Then the other morning I found myself chasing him around the room.” She shook her head. “I stopped, realizing that what I was doing was just silly.”

I promised her that Skimbleshanks’s father and I would talk with him, emphasizing to him the importance of behaving, paying attention, and respecting other people.

The end of the school year came, and Skimbleshanks “graduated” to kindergarten. Both of his teachers were wreathed in smiles on graduation day, but not just at the thought of my son moving on to a different grade in a different school … I hope.

Kindergarten was a real trial. First there was a bullying incident that I just happened to learn about when Skimbleshanks said something about two third-grade boys pushing him every morning while everyone was lined up to go into the school. A phone call to his teacher put an end to that.

We began to get reports on Skimbleshanks’s behavior that were eerily reminiscent of the ones we’d received during the previous two years. Inability to sit still. Unable to stay on task. Frequently interrupts others.

The school mascot was a rabbit (to sort of rhyme with the school’s name). At the end of each month, the school would hold a Bunny Bash. Those children who had behaved that month were able to attend the event, which usually featured a presentation, movie, or some other fun activity.

Each month Skimbleshanks’s teacher would keep track of his infractions. If he was able to have no more than three in one month, he would be able to attend the Bunny Bash.

To me, it seemed that three infractions over a 20-day span (give or take a day) was really hoping for a lot from a bunch of little kids. Still, the bashes were held, and many children attended.

Skimbleshanks did not.

And what was my kid doing while the others were at their party? He was in a room with the other kids who’d done something that got them banned from the fun. He didn’t have busy work — he sat there, nothing to do, not really understanding why he was being punished.

The year ended, and Skimbleshanks entered first grade. Again, we got notes from the teacher. Inability to stay on task … interrupting the teacher and the other children … fidgety.

At this time, ADD news was everywhere. I was adamant that kids were kids, and that boys liked — no, they needed to move. There was no way that ADD was real; it was just a way that society had developed to medicate children into compliance. My child was normal, whatever that meant. What it meant to me was that there was no way that I’d agree to medicating him for behavior issues.

I finally took Skimbleshanks to his pediatrician for a checkup. After explaining to her that, once again, his behavior was causing problems for him at school, she was quiet, then suggested that maybe we could try one of the ADD medications on him.

“Just try it for a week,” she said. “The medication wears off in a day, and it’s not addictive. Just try it and see if it makes a difference.”

With feelings of trepidation and believing that our parenting had quite possibly ruined Skimbleshanks, I had the prescription filled. We started him on the medication over the Christmas break.

On the first day after school resumed, we had a voice message from Skimbleshanks’s teacher.

“I don’t know what’s happened with Skimbleshanks, but he’s like a different child,” she said. “He’s been participating in class, staying on task, and isn’t bothering the other children. He’s having a terrific day.”

Ed and I were stunned. Could it be that easy? Could our child really have some sort of chemical imbalance that the medication was able to address, allowing the real child to shine through? Apparently so.

As the year continued and Skimbleshanks continued taking his medication, he did really well. His grades climbed. He made friends. The only reports we had from his teacher had to do with how well he was doing.

Being a mother, of course I felt like a failure. It must have been something I had done or not done while I was pregnant that had led to the ADD. Or maybe it was something that I had done or not done before I became pregnant. Or maybe I was just a lousy mother, one who had raised her infant and toddler in a way that made it necessary for him to take medication to be able to process input like other children did.

But do you know what I finally realized? I just doesn’t matter why Skimbleshanks is the way he is, not really. That’s all water under the bridge anyway. What matters is dealing with the here and now. What matters is understanding that my child does have some sort of chemical or “wiring” issue and that this issue can be effectively addressed.

Sometimes smart people can be so stupid. I have clinical depression. I was diagnosed while Ed and I were trying to conceive, when I was in the midst of what they call a major depressive episode. I saw a psychiatrist and, like our pediatrician, she said something that penetrated my self-delusion:

“People with diabetes aren’t told to bootstrap themselves out of their condition,” she’d said. “You have depression — dysthymia, in fact, a textbook case.”

I wasn’t to blame … what an amazing concept.

She explained that my brain simply uses up all of one particular chemical way too fast. That’s it. The medication I take addresses that. Antidepressants aren’t “happy pills,” believe me. What the do is allow me to be me. Sure, I have ups and downs like everyone does. However, because the medication keeps my chemistry on a more-even keel, I don’t have those huge, mind-numbing troughs of fatigue, anxiety, and hopelessness that seemed to make up my life before I was diagnosed.

So, given my own diagnosis and treatment, you’d think that it would be an easy leap for me to apply the same to my child and his diagnosis of ADD. Yeah, you’d think so. But being a parent, being responsible for the health and well-being of your child comes with so much baggage. You want to make the best decisions, and you want to be perfect. And that wish for perfection is what leads to blind spots.

You tell yourself that your son is happy, healthy, and normal … whatever that is.

You tell yourself that ADD is just our society’s way of giving permission for accepting bad behavior or medicating children to attain good behavior.

You tell yourself that it’s the teacher or the school that is the problem, not your child.

You tell yourself that your child has a food allergy, is high spirited, or otherwise within the realm of what you define as normal.

When you have two preschool teachers, a kindergarten teacher, and a first-grade teacher all tell you the same thing about your child, maybe it’s time for you to step back and take another look at your child. If these professionals, who see all kinds of behavior, tell you that your child is at one end of the bell curve, it means that you need to pay attention.

It means that you need to see the situation clearly, without viewing it through the skewing lens of your own issues.

A diagnosis of ADD isn’t the end of the world. It usually comes at the end of a long, tough road. The path forward is full of doubt and uncertainty. However, with an astute physician, caring teachers, and your own clear vision, you can help make your child’s path forward just a bit smoother.

Skimbleshanks will soon be 18. His school years have been full of trials and tribulations. As he considers furthering his education, he wonders if he’s up to the task. Ed and I wonder, too … and worry.

“Just try it for a week.” Wise words from a wise physician. I need to keep them in mind as time goes by. Whether it’s dealing with a new medical diagnosis or college or breaking a bad habit, just trying it for a week seems to be good advice.