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From the minute of his early arrival into the world, my
fourth child seemed to be one ceaseless motion of eating and
crying, all mouth and thrusting extremities. Michael slept
well, at inappropriate times, rarely at night.
Michael
never walked. At eleven months he ran. And climbed. And
threw. And hit. And eagerly, joyfully grabbed each day as
his, rather like an exuberant, enthusiastic puppy. His sunny
nature and good spirits were contagious, and during the
first few years, the comments from friends and neighbors
were amused and appreciative. "Never stops, does he?" "Wow,
look at all that energy!" "No grass under this one's feet!"
The tenor
of the comments changed as time went on. "Please, we expect
that as a kindergartener, Michael should be able to lie
quiet on his mat." "Michael is constantly interrupting." "He
can't sit still." "Please can he come to daycare with empty
pockets, as he keeps distracting at story time with his
pocket contents." (This in spite of the fact that we patted
him down every morning, removing bits of string, wires, dead
batteries, and assorted pebbles, before leaving the house.)
"Why can't Michael cooperate when we do circle games? He
always has to sit out, and he won't stop dancing?"
As
parents, we often felt exhausted, inadequate, stressed out.
Our two other sons had never demanded so much. Why was this
child so incredibly active? It simply was not just a matter
of getting our act together, of aligning our expectations to
those of his teachers or babysitters; this kid was
different. He was quickly labeled a troublemaker, and our
parenting skills were frequently questioned, not least by
ourselves. He seemed unable to get from A to B without going
off on at least five tangents.
Concerned
kindergarten teachers suggested we consult our family
doctor, who suggested a one-month trial of Ritalin. Our son,
the doctor said, more than met the definite diagnosis of
ADHD (Attention Deficit-Hyperactivity Disorder). As parents,
we were unsure, hesitant, worried that any drug might change
our son's bubbling personality. But what if it would mean
that he would stop dancing on the table, throwing things,
climbing walls, and disrupting story time?
So, we
gave it a try-and it worked. Michael could sit quietly at
the table, stopped throwing things, could focus on one
occupation instead of flitting from one to another, and
stopped hitting things and people. In short, he could behave
relatively normally in a group setting. Oh, we had plenty of
battles remaining; he was still a normal
(oh-so-blessedly-normal now) boy. But now, suddenly, the
teachers' comments were approving, and the whole family
seemed to collectively breathe in and settle down. At the
next scheduled PTA, his teacher was ecstatic. We had told no
one of our decision to start Ritalin, as we were keen to see
if it made a noticeable difference before deciding to
continue it.
In school
Michael was bright and attentive; academics were no problem.
The hyperactivity and attention deficit were well controlled
with occasional adjustments of his Ritalin dose. People
still commented on his enthusiasm and abundance of energy,
but he no longer stuck out. Occasionally, we inadvertently
missed a dose, and the ramifications were so immediate and
obvious that it reinforced our increasing reliance on the
pills.
Just
before Michael started fourth grade, our pastor asked, "Is
it right to sedate children with ADHD so they fit in? Are we
not ready to accept these children as they are? Can't we
find creative ways of channeling their unique energy and
force?"
We were
skeptical, yet agreed to give it a try and stopped the
Ritalin. Instantly, the extremes were back. He was once
again the dynamo of those early years-the constant
hyperactivity, wild naughtiness, and bright exuberance were
back in a heartbeat. One glance in the classroom would show
him swinging on two legs of his chair, tapping his plastic
ruler to a rhythm of his own making. Wires and batteries
again emerged from his pockets in math class, his
concentration was short and divided, his body never still.
He interrupted constantly, disturbing, distracting, once
more a bundle of explosives in a chronic state of
spontaneous combustion.
We were
immediately inundated with floods of well-meant advice and
reflections on our parenting from friends, neighbors, and
teachers, who had been unaware that he was on Ritalin, and
were equally unaware of our decision to withhold the drug.
"Shouldn't he be able to sit still?"
I was
always exhausted, always on the defensive. Fortunately, my
husband does not share my volatile temper, and his steady
insistence that we stick to our plan of action kept me from
despair. Soon, we noticed that the zest and enthusiasm
Michael brought to each day remained undiminished; he seemed
unmindful of the constant disciplining and correction from
teachers and parents alike.
Do we
regret our decision to discontinue Ritalin? No, we'd never
go back there. Five years later, we are still thankful to
our pastor for changing the way we looked at our son. Who
knows what facet of our son's childhood and growth we might
have missed in our mistaken effort to make him fit in by
medicating him? Would we have suppressed some of the
uniqueness so evident in Michael, and thwarted what God had
meant him to be, in our attempts to make him more
manageable?
Do others
regret our decision? It often seems so. Our highly
structured society and increasingly regimented standardized
schooling do not allow much room for the Michaels of this
world. It takes a big heart to manage such a child within
the limits of the daycare or classroom setting.
Today
Michael has settled down tremendously. One thing that we
have never regretted is that Michael never knew that he was
being medicated for hyperactivity. We let him assume that it
was one of his asthma medications. We felt that if he did
not know that he had a specific diagnosis, he would never
excuse his own behavior, and would be treated as normally as
possible.
We still
have occasional contact with old friends and teachers, and
it is always Michael whom they ask after, although we have
four kids. "Is he still the same?" is their invariable
question, and we know all too well what they mean. No, he's
changed, and so have we.
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Reprinted
from the "http://www.savingchildhood.org">Bruderhof Saving
Childhood Forum, where you can discuss this topic and other
hot parenting issues. |
