In a recent moment of vulnerability, I found myself doing something I promised I would never do in front of my child—I cried. This wasn’t just a reaction to a sad movie or the loss of a loved one; it was tears sparked by my struggles to support her.
My daughter, Mia, who is eight years old, has been diagnosed with ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) for over three years. While this condition has its advantages, like her unique ability to see things from different perspectives, it also presents significant challenges, particularly when it comes to her schoolwork.
Mia’s school imposes summer homework requirements that include a minimum of 30 minutes of reading and 20 minutes on an online math program daily. Other optional activities, such as journaling and keyboarding practice, feel overwhelming for her, especially when she can barely manage the essentials due to her ADHD.
I make every effort to ease her homework burden. I allow her to take breaks, she chooses the order in which she tackles assignments, and I reward her with screen time afterward. However, none of these strategies fully alleviate the immense frustration she experiences when faced with challenging tasks. Despite her intelligence and knack for recognizing intricate patterns in numbers, math continues to be a significant hurdle.
One afternoon, we sat in our kitchen, Mia using my laptop for her math program. As she wrestled with a particularly tough problem, her frustration escalated. I tried to assist her, sitting on a stool beside her, armed with paper and pencil, attempting to reframe the problem in a way that might resonate better with her. But despite my best efforts to remain calm, her anger boiled over.
She ended up on the kitchen floor, having a meltdown, declaring that she would never grasp the math concepts and that nothing I said could help. As her distress mounted, I felt my own frustration rise. I questioned whether taking her off her ADHD medication for the summer, to help her gain weight, was the right choice. She was gaining weight, but at what cost?
Amidst my swirling thoughts, Mia continued to cry. I realized there was no point in pushing her to work on the assignment at that moment, so I suggested she retreat to her Calm Down Area, but she refused, preferring to stay on the floor, screaming. Feeling defeated and hopeless, I was terrified by my inability to support her.
In that moment of despair, I chose to stay put and let my emotions flow. I allowed my daughter to see me cry for the first time. When she noticed the tears streaming down my face, her response was immediate and poignant. “Why are you crying?” she asked. I shared with her the honest truth: “I don’t know how to help you.”
To my surprise, she got up from the floor and hugged me, whispering, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” We shared tears of sadness, frustration, and connection—a moment neither of us will forget. By witnessing my tears, Mia gained a newfound understanding of how her actions impact those around her. She realized the frustration I felt in wanting to help her but finding it difficult when she resisted assistance. Most importantly, she recognized the depth of my love for her and my unwavering commitment to her success.
After our heartfelt conversation, Mia returned to the stool and allowed me to guide her through the math problem. She completed her entire assignment that day, and remarkably, since then, she hasn’t had any meltdowns during homework. When frustration arises now, she knows to take breaks, learning to manage her emotions—a small victory that I cherish.
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In summary, allowing my daughter to witness my tears opened a door to deeper understanding and empathy between us. It was a moment that transformed our dynamic during challenging tasks and taught both of us valuable lessons about emotions and support.
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