The six-minute rule

No, not for food dropped on the floor. (I think that's a 30-second rule.) For kiddo's behavior. He's great for six minutes. Then not so much.

That's more or less the interval they're using with him at school; if his timer goes off and he's on task, he gets a smiley on his behavior chart. If not, no smiley. If he gets enough smileys, he earns Lego-building time at home. This is the current behavior plan. We've had many behavior plans. I can't wait until he gets to college and asks his RA during freshman orientation, "Who signs my chart?"

He's been earning lots of smileys. Which is wonderful. And then two minutes later, he does something not wonderful. Like, say, tossing a beanbag at the ceiling, and getting it stuck there.

The beanbag is from his weighted vest. It's a nice vest, in that it's denim and looks like real clothing, and doesn't scream I am a special needs child and you should treat me differently. But the vest is designed for easy access to the weights, in case you need to add or remove them; it's not designed to keep the weights from falling out. Which they do, all the time, especially since kiddo is supposed to be wearing and removing the vest at timed intervals. Basically the vest is fine if the child wearing it isn't ever going to move around. You can see the irony.

So he somehow ended up with a beanbag in his hand and for some reason thought it would be funny to toss the thing at the ceiling. In a one-in-a-million shot, he got it lodged between two ceiling panels, and there it stayed. Kiddo promptly melted down, because he said I would be mad at him, and tried to get the beanbag back. This apparently involved climbing on top of desks. Standing on desks is only acceptable if you're in "Dead Poets Society."

He didn't get suspended, but we strongly suspect no one would have objected if we'd just volunteered to take him home. (We didn't.) Remember how we didn't get approval on an aide for kiddo? This topic may be coming up again, and loudly.

So, six minutes. He's great in gymnastics for six minutes, and then he's sprawling on the floor instead of stretching. He's great in the supermarket for six minutes, and then he's rearranging all the mint tins at the register. He's great in the morning for -- actually, no, getting him dressed is a feat of Herculean proportions.

I feel sometimes like we're living in six-minute intervals. Everything OK? Everything OK now? How about now? It's a little tiring.

He's great all the time when he's building Legos. If only he could do that all day. Maybe there's a Lego school somewhere.

The other mom

The other mom sat in front of me at gymnastics. Her daughter was practicing cartwheels and flips. Her daughter was wonderful. She applauded each time. Then she mimed the arm movements so her daughter would do them better.

I thought, It must be nice. 

It must be nice to be able to get perfectionistic with your child's performance. To sit back and applaud and not worry about anything except your child being even more perfect. It must be so freeing.

This was what I saw at gymnastics:

My son walking onto the mat and immediately, .5 seconds, going into silly mode because there were too many kids and there was too much going on and when he's overstimulated, he jumps around, lies on the floor and makes goofy high-pitched noises like a cartoon character. So he jumped around and lay down on the floor instead of warming up. He ran off to try the trampoline by himself when he was supposed to be waiting his turn at a different exercise. He told his instructor "No!" so many times, and so clearly, that I could hear him up in the bleachers.

I hate to think what the other mom was thinking. Assuming she saw anyone else on that mat besides her daughter.

I walked downstairs at one point, calmly headed to the mat, quietly asked, "Do you need me to talk to him?"

"Yes, he's being disruptive to the rest of the class," the instructor said.

Ah yes, the most commonly heard phrase in our household. He's being disruptive.

So I talked to him, and got him to take a few deep breaths, and sent him back. He was mostly better after that.

I sat there, eyes on him, and wondered whether the class was a mistake, whether the gym would give me a refund if I had to pull him, whether the gym would hate me for pulling him and whether that would hurt his sister, who also takes classes there, and loves it. Amazing how one disruptive kid can affect so many other people at the same time.

I wondered why his school had been so quick to suspend him and yet so equally quick to deny him a one-on-one aide. I wondered exactly what we were supposed to do about him if no one was willing to help us. Ground him until college? Send him to a monastery?

The other mom kept applauding, and occasionally ignoring everything to check her phone, and for an instant, I was jealous.

He just forgot

This is what kiddo has in common with Little Critter: He forgets things. Homework. Hoodies. Perpetual requests to make his bed. Typical ADHD kid -- the second he's not thinking about whatever it is, especially if it's a thing he's not that interested in, it's gone from his head forever.

You can imagine what this does to his homework track record. We've had to give his teacher permission to check his backpack to make sure 1. he's got his homework and 2. he actually did his homework (he'll also forget to hand it in, and when asked, clearly has decided it's easier to say he didn't do it). Apparently second grade is when teachers need to get permission for what I would consider a fairly common-sense thing, especially for a kid with known executive-function problems. Backpack search=locker search, I guess. Somebody call the ACLU. (Or don't, really.)

You can also imagine what this does to his wardrobe. Several sweaters and hoodies have just disappeared, gone forever, no idea what happened to them. Not the most convenient thing, when we're mired in subzero weather. It's like he wants to be cold. I already ran out and bought some emergency backup warm clothing, and the first day he wore his new hoodie, it failed to come home with him. I considered tearing my hair out, but I like my hair. Fortunately the hoodie was recovered the next day. Less fortunately, that same day, he came home with only one glove. At least that's only his hand?

The thing to remember with kiddo is, he's not doing this on purpose. ADHD isn't a moral failing. It's a bit of inconsistent wiring in his head. He really wants to remember everything ... but then he gets distracted, and he doesn't.

So the question for today is, what did he remember? And will he remember it again tomorrow? And if not, is there a sale on kids' hoodies anywhere?

And then I returned to gym class

For Heaven's sake, why would I do such a thing? I was a geek in school. I'm a geek now. Gym class was the worst part of my week. Not only was I picked dead last for every single everything, sometimes the teams would argue about who had to take me. The best part of college was no gym class.

Granted, since then I have discovered yoga, and also Pilates. So I'm not morally opposed to exercise. But planned group team sports are still not precisely my thing.

And yet there I was, in kiddo's gym class, for Healthy Heart Day. Exercising.

It was cute and all. In one game, if someone tagged you with a noodle (representing junk food), you had to sit on the floor and yell "I need a healthy heart!" until someone else handed you a ball (representing said heart) and you could get up and run around again, passing on the ball to someone else who needs it. In another, there were teams, and pins lined up at either end of the gym, and your job was to guard your pins while trying to knock down the other team's pins with balls. Also, the balls were smallish and super-squishy, not the rock-hard kickballs I remember from my childhood. And the gym teachers were playing No Doubt and other '90s faves the whole time, so that was nice.

It's just, I thought I was showing up to watch kiddo play these games. And then the teachers handed out the noodles to all the parents and I thought, oh no.

Fortunately, I was wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, because I can. Less fortunately, I was afraid to take the hoodie off, because I was wearing my Elfquest T-shirt. Remember how I'm a geek? Elfquest is a much-beloved indie-gone-mainstreamish comic book that features, well, elves. And wolves. And the female elf on my shirt, who in my defense is my favorite character, happens to have a bare midriff. A Captain America T-shirt is one thing; people know who he is. Only fellow comics geeks know what Elfquest is. I couldn't figure out how to explain my slightly racy shirt to the other grown-ups. The upshot? I was unnecessarily sweaty. Bleah.

I even got to play more than kiddo did. We've had some less-than-stellar weeks around here, and as a consequence for acting out -- and then refusing to leave the room when he was asked -- kiddo spent the first few minutes of gym with the guidance counselor. (My request. I didn't like the idea of him sitting there, the "bad kid," watching everyone else play.) So I was already out on the floor, having just been tagged by a kid with a noodle, because the kids got the noodles in the second round and some of the ones I'd tagged came after me for revenge. Those kids are fast. I was just starting to sit down when kiddo came barreling into me, and we went down in a heap together. Then he jumped up and became my protector. "My mom needs a healthy heart! You have to help my mom!"

In the second game, when we were supposed to be protecting the pins (I have no idea what they were representing. A low BMI maybe?), kiddo guarded his pin so intently he didn't move from the spot. Probably not a good choice, because one of the dads shot a ball right through kiddo's legs to get the pin down. Well, at least kiddo is just as athletic as I am.

I guarded the pin in the next couple rounds -- once knocked down, once stayed up -- and I was getting into it, crouching to catch the balls, using one to stop another, diving to my knees, that sort of thing. I don't think we won, but I also don't think it mattered that much. Kiddo had a grand time, and gave me about 20 hugs before heading back to class. "I'll miss you," he called after me.

He's such a sweet kid sometimes. It makes up for so much.

Unfortunately the next morning, all that crouching and diving and running caught up with me, and I woke up sore. Thanks for the warning, gym teachers.

So if you feel your workout isn't challenging enough, I have a suggestion: Join your kid's gym class. Have a heat pack ready.

On being Ferdinand's mother

Ferdinand the bull, that is. She's a pretty cool mom, as fictional cows go. She sees that Ferdinand would rather sit by himself under the cork tree and sniff flowers than run around with the other bulls.

His mother saw that he was
not lonesome, and because
she was an understanding 
mother, even though she was 
a cow, she let him just sit 
there and be happy.

That was both a wise and a brave choice. She knew her son wasn't acting like the other bulls, and wasn't fitting in, but she decided not to care and not to push him, because he was happy. 



I try to remember that a lot, when I'm dealing with kiddo. 



When to push him? When not to push him? Is he social enough? Not social enough? Is he listening in class? Is he OK on the bus? Is he learning how to take care of himself? Is he happy?



Sometimes I worry even when he does seem happy. When he's building Legos, for instance.



He's utterly obsessed with Legos. He builds these fantastical things. He's got a how-to book by a Lego artist (yes, there are such things) named Sean Kenney, and he's decided that he's going to have Sean Kenney's job when he grows up (though he, adorably, insists on pronouncing the name "Seen" no matter how many times I correct him). Every chance he gets, he's at the Lego table, itty bitty pieces strewn across the floor, building. He's good.



I'm happy to let him do that as long as he wants. Except when he has to get ready for school. And when he needs to set the table for dinner. And when it's bath time. And bedtime. 



Transitions have always been tough for him. He fights it every time. I've had to talk him into leaving the Legos. Occasionally I've had to take Legos away. It's not an enjoyable scene. But it needs to be done. 



And when it doesn't need to be done?



Kiddette wanted to play in the snow yesterday. Kiddo didn't. He wanted to build Legos. We pointed out it would get dark soon and he'd lose his chance. We said he wouldn't get hot chocolate unless he went outside first. He didn't budge. 



I debated. Ferdinand's mother would leave him alone. I almost did the same thing. And then I thought, he really needs to get some exercise today. And I caved. "Go outside," I told him. 



I'm still not sure it was the right call, though he did have fun once he got out there (and had his hot chocolate afterward). I want him to do what makes him happy. But I want him to be part of the world, too, or at least to remember there is a world once in a while. It's a tough balance. 



He'll probably want to build Legos tonight. I'll probably let him. If his homework's done. 

In the waiting room

Waiting rooms occupy a good amount of our time these days. At the behavioral therapist's office. At the social skills group. At the psychiatrist's office. They're fascinating places.

For one, when there are other parents about, there's almost this tacit agreement not to chat. (Rarely, at the occupational therapy facility we attended, you could get a good conversation going with another parent. But this was more the exception than the norm.) I'm guessing, no one wants to know what's up with your kid. No one wants you to ask what's up with their kid. It's like "Fight Club: Pediatric Edition." The first rule is, don't talk about the diagnosis.

That's OK by me, because I've either 1. brought a book, 2. brought a notebook to work on something, 3. brought my phone to play on or 4. all of the above. But the quiet can be eerie.

Of course, if kiddo is also in the waiting room, that changes things. Because he likes to chat with whoever he sees, and play (not quietly) with whatever toys are available or with whichever Matchbox car or Lego creation he's toting around that day. If there's another kid playing a handheld video game of some sort, he zooms in as if drawn by a tractor beam, and watches over that kid's shoulder, eyes locked on the screen, until it's time to drag him away.

The office of the previous psychiatrist offered a vending machine downstairs, near the entrance. This of course was a perennial draw for kiddo. I could bring all the snacks I wanted, but what he really wanted was something from the machine. Maybe putting money in and watching the prepackaged junk drop into the slot was endlessly fascinating to him. Maybe food you buy is just cooler than food your mom brings from home. Who knows? The new office has a machine too, but I've been able to walk him past it fairly successfully so far.

There is of course no food allowed at the social skills group, on account of allergies. I was betting this was the case, and when I brought kiddo there last time, after his car snack of peanut butter pretzels, I made him use hand sanitizer before entering the office. Sure enough, I saw the giant NO FOOD sign as soon as we walked in, and the word "anaphylaxis." Special needs and allergies, occasionally, go hand in hand. Kiddo was most peeved he couldn't finish his pretzels during group. Eat faster next time, kid.

One of the benefits of our current setup is that one of us can take kiddo to whatever his next appointment is and the other can stay with kiddette. She was spending a lot of time in waiting rooms. She's a fairly self-sufficient kid, perfectly willing to entertain herself -- one time I brought her clothes shopping with me and she sat happily in the dressing room, making one toy talk to another toy, to the amusement of everyone within earshot -- but we still didn't love doing this to her. Bad enough one child has to spend so much time in waiting rooms; there's no reason the other one should too. So she's been granted a reprieve.

Maybe at some point we'll be able to ease up on the waiting rooms. Maybe at some point kiddo (and we) won't need quite so much help. It's nice to think so. But I'm not complaining. Far worse would be if we needed the help, but couldn't get it. And I'm sure that's the case for far too many families.

In which she reappears

Wherever did I go? Well, first I took a month to work on a novel. And then it was the holidays. And then I left my job. So, how have you been?

I had a few reasons for the move. One was to focus on getting published finally. Another was to actually be around to parent my children once in a while. Have dinner before 7:30. Be awake enough to handle my special-needs kid. Things like that. Because parenting neurotypical kids is difficult enough when you work full-time. Parenting a kid with ADHD, who is physically incapable of brushing his teeth without getting distracted about a thousand times? It takes so much more patience. I'm barely capable of that as it is, let alone when I'm exhausted from working.

So after much strain on the family, I finally made the decision that any number of loved ones had been suggesting I make for, oh, I hate to even tell you how long. I kept delaying because I had visions of singlehandedly bankrupting the family and getting thrown out on the street. I'm a worst-case-scenario kind of thinker. But actually we should be all right financially. And already kiddette is over the moon that I'm picking her up at night and we're making dinner together. She insisted on helping with the chicken pot pie last night, and the salad, and on eating whatever slivers of avocado didn't make it into the salad.

Kiddo? It's hard to say. He's having major issues with transitions again. He's refusing to do things at school. He doesn't get dressed in the morning unless I repeatedly walk into his room to nag him about it. He's defiant when he's upset. "I don't have to listen to you!" That sort of thing.

It's possible my being home has upset his routine, and he doesn't know how to process it. Or just going back to school after a lovely, gift-filled holiday is too much to bear. I'm not sure.

We did finally get our insurer to reimburse for a social skills group, so he's started that this week. He's doing well with his behavioral therapist. Something has to work, right?

The important thing is, whatever happens, I'm here to deal with things. And that should make a difference in the long term, for all of us.