BRATTLEBORO — It's hard as parents to know when a child is crossing the proverbial line from being willful, high energy, and strong towards being potentially diagnosed with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder.
Preschool is difficult; it's too soon to tell. Kids are still learning their boundaries, mastery of school skills is only starting, and kids are barely capable of changing their own clothes, let alone handling themselves with the control of an adult.
But a parent knows their kid, and a parent knows a gnawing in their gut.
And “waiting it out” is utter torture, but “overdiagnosis” might also be a very real issue.
We carefully look for milestones in kids from babyhood through toddlerhood, and we try to encourage the development of their interests through preschool.
And maybe sometimes we do so with a lot of outside pressure from family, online communities, the knowledge of a failing school system, or friends' kids who are ahead of the curve and add just a little guilt to your plate through no fault of their own.
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Understanding that my child is learning differently than I do isn't the hard part; he has a skill set for building with blocks and Legos at a level that I lack the aptitude to master.
At different points in life, we all find our thing. I don't want to pick battles over activities and interests with my kids because the simple act of existing with them is hard enough.
Teaching the ABCs from scratch is shockingly difficult when you've spent 30 years completely accustomed to them. I am a pitiful teacher; I'm too wordy for a 4-year-old. He gets bored with how I'm explaining things and says, “I don't want to talk about it anymore” or the worst, “I can't do it.”
I am most frustrated by how easily my son gives up on himself. He begins with a bright spark, his eyes light up, and he asks a wonderful, curious question that I either can explain or have to Google. (This is probably the greatest application of the Internet.)
And that's how we are completely stunted at writing the letter “T” for Teddy. The rest is a wash behind his big brown, brooding eyes. I haven't found my way into his head yet.
My son shuts down very easily. He rarely takes interest in sitting still to observe or absorb. He has two modes: frenetic/wild/running/screaming/gibberish baby-talking, or silently and contentedly building fantastic creations out of magnets and Legos.
Those moments are stunning and brilliant, and they make my heart swell. I've learned to sit back and watch him as quietly as I can. When I speak, I ruin his concentration, and he's instantly frustrated again.
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My son is sensitive - he's a crier. I never foresaw myself being upset with a child for the act of crying. I myself cry very easily, but my son cries every time he's confronted. If I don't handle every situation with absolute delicate care, he crumbles.
He does so even in times when he is the assailant and tormentor, because even though he is sensitive, he is not innocent. I catch him hitting his little brother, stealing toys, refusing to share, and using his body inappropriately and defensively.
Sometimes I'm awesome. Sometimes I say the right words, separate the kids, or remove the toy they're fighting over.
Sometimes I scream.
I feel awful and regrettable and mean for screaming when he acts out, and then he cries at my reaction and I scream again because in some ways, I wonder if he's crying to get out of the confrontation.
But honestly, I think I know in my heart that he's crying because he's overwhelmed. I cry when I'm overwhelmed, too.
I should have more compassion, but sometimes that well runs dry.
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We assert that my son should engage in sports or karate or other organized physical activity because learning how to be a part of a team is healthy and good preparation for a future in society.
He spends practices with his shirt over his head, standing in the middle of the room, spinning in circles.
I am embarrassed. I am also ashamed that I could be embarrassed by my son. I have to be stronger for him and be his defender, and I have to do it in a way that acknowledges when his inconsistent behavior is a distraction. It's tricky, and I admit that I like the days when we skip practices. In fact, my husband and I argue about whether he is even ready for classes.
If he's like me, he will never have a genuine interest. But my husband makes a stern point: you can't just raise a quitter.
* * *
Having my son at home with me during the day became nearly impossible this year. I had my third baby, and I absolutely relish quiet time. My son seems to thrive on destruction and jumping off of the couch screaming his head off about Spider-Man.
Meals are an absolute nightmare. He takes food off his plate, smears it across the table, and licks it off. Or he throws it on the floor, or mashes it in his hands, and eats like Mowgli.
He sits for 10 minutes, announces he's full, and wants to be excused. Ten minutes. He eats almost nothing; he weighs 38 pounds and has for a full year.
I don't want my son to spend his whole life in time outs.
I don't want him to feel dejected in public school.
I don't want his siblings to continue to copy his behavior and follow in these footsteps.
I don't know what to do with my son.
* * *
I said the words that have been eating me alive for the last year. I do not know what to do. He is hard - so hard that I don't cope with him being home all day and I shell out for day camp just to keep him busy and active and to give myself some space.
I walk the line daily and waffle back and forth.
“Is he a normal 4-year-old?” I ask.
“Is every single thing supposed to be a struggle?”
“Am I supposed to have to say something six times before I start screaming and he finally listens?”
“Is something wrong with Teddy?”
I think I might be failing my child, and I have to figure out what's right before it goes more wrong.
I hear people in the ether talking about lack of discipline, spoiled kids, lazy parenting; talking about how we're making up excuses and need to give more spankings; talking about all other ways that we refuse to admit that sometimes we get a hard hand and not everything is in our control.
We do the best we can do, and we spend a lot of time trying to figure out exactly what that is.
It's anything but lazy.
It's an absolute struggle.