I wake up at 5:30 a.m.; my daughter has been awake since 3:30. I can hear her in her room, moving toys around, chatting to herself. She occasionally peeks out to make sure I’m still there, that everyone is still present.
I get her a drink and her medication, then try to put on some morning cartoons to buy myself a few moments to shake off the sleep, but they’re not the right cartoons. She knows we usually watch a movie, and I’ve just switched on PBS Kids. It’s not a meltdown yet, just a persistent voice asking, “Why is this on, Mom? I don’t like this. Where’s the movie?”
So, I put on a movie. She watches the opening scene of her favorite pet flick for about five minutes before she starts doing flips off the couch, crashing to the floor with enough force to wake up her baby brother. By this point, I’ve only had a few sips of coffee. I ask her to try to sit still long enough for me to get the baby up and dressed.
I leave her for just five minutes, and when I return, she’s pulled out a chunk of her hair. I suggest we go outside to burn off some energy, and she agrees. “Go put on your socks,” I instruct. But there are scissors on the table, and she’s drawn to them like a magnet. She heads straight for the table and starts snipping our insurance bill into a snowflake design.
“Please, go put on your socks.” But the hallway is long, and she finds it more entertaining to imitate a dog, barking as she goes. That wakes up her dad. “Just get your socks,” I say again. After a while, she runs back asking, “What can I do?” I remind her about the socks. “Oh right,” she replies, then forgets again when it comes to shoes, a coat, and a hairbrush.
Finally, she’s outside, chatting with sticks and patting rocks, swinging high on the swings. She’s in her element; it’s a good spot for her.
Twenty minutes later, she returns, cheeks flushed and hands red. She sits down, has a drink, and immediately starts asking, “What can I do?” again. I tell her to give me a moment to get dressed. While we run errands, she fills the car with imaginative stories about an evil rabbit that only one princess can tame—a tale that twists and turns as we take turns narrating.
Arriving at the grocery store, she bolts from the car before we’ve even parked. I scold her, understanding her excitement, knowing she can’t wait to explore all the goodies she loves. She spots cakes, candy, juice boxes, and snacks loaded with artificial colors and sugar. “No, honey, let’s find something different,” I respond. Once again, her agitation rises, and she starts pulling at her hair. “Please don’t do that,” I plead, trying to divert her with alternatives—Goldfish crackers, apple juice, and organic cookies. It’s not a meltdown, but it’s certainly close.
After shopping, back in the car, she asks for her tablet, but I realize I forgot to charge it. Her mind races, unable to focus, and she starts crying. It’s not a complete breakdown yet, but I grip the steering wheel tightly, preparing for the worst.
“Do I have a snack?” Yes, of course, but it’s not what she wanted. The cry escalates into a growl, then a shriek. I’m supposed to provide for her needs, but even this feels like an uphill battle.
Next, we visit a friend. She’s a bit snappy, but the adults remark, “She seems so much better today.” I nod, acknowledging that she is indeed doing well… until it’s time to leave. Suddenly, her mood shifts dramatically—there’s no more crying, just full-on screaming, clawing at herself, drawing blood on her arms and legs. How can we leave when she hasn’t finished her game?
Now, we’re in the thick of it. The ride home is filled with screams and her kicking the back of my seat. Frustrated, I lose my cool and yell, causing her to shift from anger to sorrow. Why was I so mad? She was trying to convey how serious it was for her to leave. The tension peaks, and she becomes sick on the roadside. “Are you okay?” I ask. She says yes, and then asks, “What can I do?” in a calm voice.
Dinner time is a battle. The meal doesn’t meet her expectations, and she refuses to eat. “That’s fine,” she says, not wanting a snack anyway. She kicks her brother’s chair to get his attention, desperate for engagement. I remind her to say “excuse me,” but her response is a loud protest, insisting she already did.
As I attempt to bathe her brother, her cries of “Mommy, no!” pierce through. I give in and let her dad take over. We occupy ourselves with puzzles and coloring, anything to steer clear of triggering her usual doll play which often leads to chaos. When it’s time for her bath, she protests, “We haven’t finished.”
I realize I’m forcing her to stop something she enjoys. After reassuring her that she can finish once she’s out, the growling begins. I hold her close, encouraging her to envision the warm, calming bath ahead. Her brother is trying to sleep, but she’s still singing and talking loudly, oblivious to her surroundings. “Please lower your voice,” I ask, but to her, every word is significant.
Finally, we get her out of the bath. I exhale in relief until she realizes her nightgown isn’t clean. It’s just a shirt and pants tonight, but that’s not acceptable. At 8:30 p.m., she collapses into a fit—flailing, kicking, screaming, and tugging at her hair. I wonder why I keep doing this to her. I didn’t know she wanted a nightgown tonight.
We take a long time to recover, but once we get through it, we read stories together. Suddenly, she’s hungry again. I grab her an apple, and thankfully, she’s content with that. As we read two books, she begs for more, but we stop at three. She fusses but manages to hold it together. I tuck her in and settle into my corner spot with a pillow, blanket, and my phone.
Tonight, it takes just twenty minutes for her to drift off to sleep, a relief compared to last night’s hour. After a brief conversation with my husband, exhaustion takes over. At 2:30 a.m., she wakes me, claiming there’s a monster in the pipes. She curls up on her mat beside me, tossing and turning. I drift back to sleep, only to wake again at 4 a.m. to find her standing next to my bed.
“What can I do?” she asks.
Summary
This article offers an intimate glimpse into a day in the life of a parent navigating the challenges of raising a child with ADHD. From morning chaos to grocery store meltdowns, the narrative highlights the emotional rollercoaster and the constant need for understanding and patience. The story illustrates that while the day may be fraught with difficulties, there are also moments of joy and connection that make the journey worthwhile. For more insights on fertility and home insemination, check out this resource on IVF or explore this fertility booster for men.
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