T-ball follies

So T-ball is going ... just about as well as I expected.

Kiddo crouches down and plays in the dirt instead of covering second base (or third base. Or the pitcher's mound. Or the outfield). It's probably a minor (league) miracle that he hasn't gotten clonked in the head by the ball. At bat, he swings approximately an hour after the ball has whizzed past him. When the tee is set up, as opposed to a human pitcher, he does actually hit it and run to first, so there's that. But when he isn't running the bases, he isn't paying attention.

He did tag one kid out at third, to be fair, a momentous event. I was too shocked to cheer.

We'd hoped getting the glasses -- in which he looks quite dapper, incidentally -- would help focus him, in that he could, literally, focus. But seeing the field more clearly doesn't seem to make him any more interested in looking at it. And he's just as likely as before to have a meltdown if he gets tagged out, or doesn't get to be catcher, or sees a teammate getting tagged out, or basically there are lots of meltdowns.

I know there are Major League Baseball players who have ADHD (for instance, Shane Victorino), but I'm feeling fairly confident in predicting that kiddo will not be one of them.

Our friend M. points out that we should let him play for as long as he wants to, then be done when he decides he's done, which is fair advice. But I have to admit that every time he has a meltdown or starts digging in the dirt instead of covering second, I am secretly thinking growl, because I called it.

He does more or less seem to be enjoying himself, and he'll definitely enjoy the end-of-season ice cream trip, so there's that.

Anyway we'll keep helping him figure out the thing he's actually good at, and once he's got that, I expect he'll finally find that focus.

Fuzzy caterpillars and caffeinated ants

First kiddo flunked his eye exam.

He couldn't read the bottom line of the chart. Or the line above that. Or the line above that. Or the next line. The doctor's assistant giving him the exam asked if this had been going on for a while, and I said, no, this is news to me, wondering how soon I could get him to an eye doctor.

"What do you see?" I asked him later, in the car, and he said that things far away are blurry. "When I'm sitting at my desk, I can't read the whiteboard. The words look like fuzzy caterpillars."

I do admire kiddo's accidental poetry.

Why is it kids will tell you all about the Lego truck they're building or the complete plot of an episode of "Paw Patrol," but fail to mention that they can't read the whiteboard at school? Doesn't that seem like the important thing?

But aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

I can't say I'm surprised really, though I'm kicking myself a bit for letting him go too long between eye exams. My parents figured out I needed glasses when I couldn't read the blackboard at school (I was a few years older than kiddo). DH wears glasses. All of our parents and most of our siblings wear glasses. We are a nearsighted lot. Inevitably one or both of our kids were going to need glasses.

Kiddo seems more or less excited by the whole thing. He's very focused on the box the glasses are going to come in, and whether he'll get a box, and when will he get the box? And he insisted on blue frames. He so rarely expresses a fashion preference of any sort -- if the clothes cover his body, he's happy -- that I went along with it.

Next of course we'll have to drill into him proper glasses care, and not misplacing or tossing the glasses anywhere, and how to clean them with the proper cloth and not your shirt. (I know everyone secretly uses their shirt at some point or another. Still better to discourage it.) I'm sure this will go well. I'm also sure we'll be taking advantage of the one-free-replacement clause, after kiddo attempts to find out whether glasses fly.

When I brought him back to school after the eye exam, we were met with suspicious giggles from the office staff. And a couple of ant jokes. Already I was worried. And then they explained: The previous day, kiddo had been sitting in a front room, not sure why -- maybe to talk to the 504 coordinator -- and he happened to notice a bunch of ants. And he happened to be sitting near the office coffee pot. Which was full of coffee. He decided to kill the ants, and by the time anyone caught on, he had created ant-flavored coffee.

Let me repeat. He put ants. In the office staff's coffee.

"He didn't understand what he was doing," one staffer assured me. "It's a boy thing."

"We do have an ant problem in that room," said another. "It was an organic solution."

Don't you feel like they should've been mad, all things considered? At least mildly miffed? Because if someone spiked my tea with ants, I'd be pretty annoyed. Nothing gets between me and my caffeine.

But no. A third staffer waited for kiddo to walk back to his classroom before, chuckling, sharing the kicker: Kiddo watched her pour out the coffee and said, "Wow, they're all dead. Except that one. He must be a ninja ant."

I bet you had no idea ninjas came in ant form. Oh, the things kiddo can teach you.

The glasses should be ready in about a week, and then we'll have the new, improved, four-eyed kiddo. No word on whether the remaining ants have already skipped town.

On being the LCD

Meaning, lowest common denominator. See, I remember some stuff from math class. I just justified my education. Now if I could figure out how to calculate the tip on a restaurant bill, I'd be absolute genius level.

DH and I are the LCD. And so are you, if you're a special-needs parent. You're the one who knows everything there is to know about your child and your child's diagnosis, and what's worked in the past and what hasn't, and which medication your child is or isn't on and whether that's the second or third medication you've tried. You know the names of all his doctors and his OT and his teacher. You know her favorite book and her favorite color and what she's thinking about when she melts down. You know how he does in karate class or how she does in ballet. Everyone else knows a piece, a part, one thing. You know everything. You are the lowest common denominator in this equation.

I was reminded of that fact when kiddo had a bad time last week and got himself suspended from the bus for a day. He likes to be first off the bus. Several times he's pushed other kids to get in front of them. The driver was worried a kid would fall down the steps. I get it -- it's dangerous. Kiddo shouldn't be doing that. At the same time, I get kiddo -- he's not trying to hurt anyone. He genuinely didn't realize he could hurt anyone. He just wanted to be first. When his mind is locked on a thing, it's difficult to get him unlocked.

Fortunately the 504 coordinator gets that too, but it didn't prevent the suspension. Kiddo was also more defiant all week, talking back to us, more sullen, refusing to do things when asked, and more hyperactive than usual. Which is why I yanked him right off medication #3 and he's back on #1, which seems to have calmed things somewhat. It's not a perfect fix -- he's still hiding under his desk instead of doing his classwork -- but his usual sweet personality seems to have more or less emerged.

DH and I were displeased about the suspension. Sure kiddo should be punished if he does something wrong. But kicking a kid off the bus for a day is a bit more like punishing the parents, who then have to rearrange their work schedules to account for it. Also we would've been less aggravated if it hadn't taken 10 days to find out about the first infraction. What are we supposed to do at that point?

US: "Hey, kiddo, remember 10 days ago when you pushed a kid on the bus?"
KIDDO: "Huh?"

I mean he's lucky if he remembers what he had for lunch that day.

Anyway. DH and I requested a meeting with the school, to complain about the lack of communication and the lack of info we were getting about how he was doing. It's a good thing we did. One of the assembled officials had no idea we'd been trying a new medication. Another one was unaware that kiddo's social skills group had ended for the year. A third had revised his behavior chart but never sent along a finished version, so he was working without one. (Apparently kiddo has been doing fine without a chart, so we're leaving that one alone.) The assumption had been that we didn't want daily updates on kiddo's behavior, when actually we very much do. It seemed like everyone had a piece of information about kiddo, or about his accommodations, but DH and I were the ones who knew the most. And if we hadn't requested the meeting, possibly the officials would never have shared their information with each other (or us). 

We are the LCD. We make sure everyone is aware of everything. Because teachers and doctors, despite the best of intentions, are not going to be able to help kiddo unless they know everything they need to know. Ultimately, always, it's up to us to make things happen.

Kiddo really does seem improved this week, so here's hoping he keeps at it.

In memoriam

I met Tanji Dewberry at the Happy Mama Conference -- that is, the conference for mothers of special-needs kids -- last year. I was struck by several things: She was incredibly nice; she'd turned herself into a strong advocate for her son, a little older than my son, who also had ADHD; and man, did she wear amazing shoes.

She was one of the few other New Jerseyans I came across that weekend, and she'd self-published a children's book, "Oh Fiddlesticks!" designed to teach kids how to handle their anger. I was nosy, so I quizzed her on how she'd gotten the book done, how much it had cost, that sort of thing; she readily answered every question. She signed a copy for my son.

On Sunday night, she and her son died in a house fire.

The cause is unclear, though possibly an electrical malfunction. I keep being horrified by this story all over again. She was doing right by her son and trying her best to achieve her dreams, and it is just not right that the two of them are not here anymore.

Over on the Happy Mama Facebook page, there is talk of creating a conference scholarship in her honor. I think that's a nice idea, and should one happen, I'll post any pertinent links. I keep looking for an obituary, for someplace to send a memorial contribution or a card or, I don't know, something. I feel like attention should be paid.

I can't say I knew her well. But she seemed very much worth knowing. And I think this is a tremendous loss.

Incidentally, her book? My kids like it. In fact kiddette asked me to read it to her tonight.

I'm glad I bought it when I had the chance.

Hills and other obstacles

So I had a meeting with the school last week to further brainstorm ways to help our not-quite-behaving kiddo in the classroom -- they've already modified how they use his behavior chart, and I suggested a clock-style chart on his desk to keep him on task during the day, as well as a few other things. I also alerted them that we'd taken kiddo off the medication, because, turns out, it was making him fall asleep on the bus every day, and not otherwise doing much good for him. (On to Plan C.) They were understanding, and said they would keep an eye out for aberrant unmedicated behavior.

Though honestly I was kind of curious: What's he like unmedicated? Turns out the answer is, "More hyperactive than you remember." Also randomly defiant and near-constantly goofing around. It hasn't been a bad week ... just an interesting week. I haven't gotten many reports from his teacher, though, so I don't know the full story yet.

One thing about kiddo, though: He's quite charming. The school officials told me, with some amusement, how kiddo has been handling his "heavy work" assignment of carrying a load of books down the hall for his teacher. (The idea being, it's a sneaky way to build extra physical activity into his day.) He was walking out into the hallway and telling the first teacher he saw, "My teacher wants me to carry all these books!" And then the teacher would say, "Oh, let me get those for you!" And then he is heavy work-less.

The school officials noted that he is so cute, after all, that people would do such things for him, and he's pretty smart, and I said I hoped he never enters politics. Although if anyone needs a fence whitewashed, they should probably give him a call.

In the meantime, at least it's sort of warm enough to do actual exercise outside. Kiddo and I went for a bike ride over the weekend. I was relieved to find that my bike, which I got at a garage sale last year, had tuned up and then left in the garage for months because of my back issues (and also winter), rides pretty nicely. I made one other wonderful discovery:

On bike, I am faster than kiddo.

"Come back here, you little Mommy!" he kept yelling.

"You have to pedal faster to get up the hill!" I called back.

Maybe I should've gone slower. But the thing is, I've been chasing after this kid since he could walk. Through parks. Across parking lots. Down hallways and around the mall. Run run run. You know what? You chase me for once, sweetie.

Oh, am I going to enjoy this. Every single weekend, whenever we're free. "Hey kiddo, want to ride bikes? Catch me if you can!"

Mwa ha ha ha ha.

Kiddo has also started T-ball practices, and I'm pretty sure he's actually hit the ball at least twice. I'm going to take that as a plus.

Another plus: He turned 7 on Sunday (yeesh, he's 7? I have a 7-year-old?) and had a most fabulous time at his party, and even more or less patiently waited until well after the party had ended before opening his gifts. Patiently waiting for anything is a bit of a struggle for him, so I'm glad he was able to see it through.

So, lots of pluses, even among the troubles and the roadblocks. Who's up for a bike ride?

The karate kid scores

with a fourth-place trophy in his first-ever sparring match. I'll take it. First of all, I'm thrilled he even got out there on the gym floor, got his gear on -- after just getting the gear for the first time last week -- and kinda sorta remembered his moves enough to spar with someone (although he appeared to have forgotten he could kick as well as punch). Second, not every single kid walked out of there with a trophy, meaning some merit was involved. He also got promoted to orange belt level 1, which struck me as a possibly fast promotion given he just got yellow last time around, but DH thinks the first couple levels are easier to get promoted in, and after that you have to really work at it. So, fine.

I know I sound like a bit of a killjoy here, doubting the belt promotion, but I am severely allergic to the "Everyone gets a trophy! Everyone's a winner!" mentality and frankly wouldn't send kiddo to karate twice a week, or pay for the gear and the shiai entry, if I thought he wasn't really earning his wins. As they put it in my favorite Pixar movie:

Helen: Everyone's special, Dash.
Dash: [muttering] Which is another way of saying no one is.

Kids should be allowed to be bad at things. How else will they ever figure out what they're really good at?

We did have one issue early on. Kiddo and kiddette and I were wandering the gym floor, looking for his classmates so she and I could go find seats in the bleachers, when a few of the classmates ran by. I sent kiddo after them, but he came back, upset, because the girl leading the pack told him to stop following them. I thought maybe he'd misunderstood, and sent him their way again. Nope, the girl definitely told him to go away. He came back in tears.

Now, he's had a little bit of a crush on this girl, and has been known to goof around when standing next to her in class; his way of showing off. Add to that his usual inability to read social cues, plus she's a little older than he is. I totally get where all this would be annoying to her, and if she by herself had told him to scram, I wouldn't have said anything about it. But there were other kids following her, so suddenly it was a group rejection, and I was left standing there with one crying boy, his bewildered sister and no idea what to do with either of them.

I marched them both across the floor until I found one of kiddo's instructors, and explained that the other kids were being a little mean. He promised to take care of the situation and of kiddo. Walking back through the room, I spied the girl and her cohorts standing near the entrance. I had a brief mental argument with myself -- do I say something? do I keep walking? -- and then the little devil on my right shoulder won out. "Are you always that mean to my son?" I asked her, and kept walking.

Probably I shouldn't have said anything. Probably the girl didn't mean to make him cry. Probably no one in this situation is old enough to react appropriately to anything, except me, and I still didn't. But his heart is so much on his sleeve, and it's going to keep getting broken, because he has no idea that some of his behaviors annoy people. And I can't protect him from that, and I won't always deal well with that knowledge.

At the very least, I'm starting to nudge kiddo to stay away from the girl from now on. Better for everyone involved.

Still, even with that incident it was a good day. Kiddo got his trophy, he'll get his new belt in class (what do we do with the old ones, anyway? Donate them somewhere? Make funky art projects out of them?), and he got to scarf pizza and cookies at the after-shiai party. All's well that ends well.

Dear Abby, think again.

I mean, I guess it's progress of sorts when ADHD makes it into a nationally syndicated advice column. Even if you don't totally agree with the advice given.

A high school student (I'm assuming high school, no age given) wrote to say that their ADHD medication was suppressing their appetite, and so they didn't eat any lunch, and well-meaning teachers and friends have been pushing them to eat, not knowing the situation. The student didn't want to tell anyone, because some of those friends make fun of people with ADHD.

Abby (okay, "Abby") says to inform the teachers about the medication, but added this:

"It's a shame they would tease someone who has ADHD because it's a condition that so many students and adults share. However, because you feel it would make you a target, you're wise to say nothing."

No, no, no.

I wouldn't call it "wise" to hide a significant part of yourself away in hopes that no one will laugh at you for it. That suggests that people are right to laugh at it, and no they are not.

Also, frankly, if you're different, people pick up on it, and if they're so inclined, they'll make fun of you for it even if you pretend that difference doesn't exist.

Really. Just ask every kid in grade school who made Jew jokes about me.

You have to turn it around. Why is it on you to convince people not to pick on you? Why isn't it on them to try harder not to be jerks?

You should never be ashamed of who you are, and anyone who would try to make you ashamed is not someone who deserves the privilege of sitting next to you in the cafeteria.

At no point have I hidden kiddo's diagnosis from anyone. His family knows. His teacher knows. The other moms know. His karate sensei knows. Because I am not ashamed of him, and because figuring out what works and doesn't work with him is sometimes a group effort. It takes a village to tackle ADHD.

And because of that openness, other people are open with me; they talk to me about their special-needs child, or ask where to go for an evaluation. It's good to know other parents deal with the same issues.

Even if I wanted to, I'm not a good enough liar to pretend I have some sort of Stepford-perfect son. I'd rather be honest, with other people, with kiddo and with myself. I don't want kiddo to grow up thinking he needs to hide his ADHD from people. I want him to be proud of who he is -- all that he is.

Just my two cents, Abby. Carry on.