By Donna Shea
I am the mom of that kid.
But I wasn’t always. My growing up years were as typical as they come – the white picket fence kind. Sure, I got into it with my little sister now and again, but that was pretty much the extent of any family conflict. I was an A student, and spent my school life in band, chorus and drama club. I was a girl scout and sang in the choir at church. I babysat, worked at McDonald’s with my friends and I followed the rules.
I got married a year after graduating high school with visions of white picket fences and a natural continuation of my experience of family life. Little did I know the path would be so very different and a couple of years later, I found myself in a world I didn’t recognize, expect, nor had the tools to navigate. I became the mom of that kid. The one who:
Did not sleep through the night for 14 long months. The one who was climbing out of his crib by 9 months and could get over two baby gates stacked on top of each other. The one who I found on top of the refrigerator, coloring on the ceiling. The one who our neighbor found in her kitchen at 7 AM in the morning at 2 years old. The one who at 3 years old found a screwdriver and unscrewed all of the legs on the TV stand. The one that we had to lock in his room at night and caused us to install dead bolts inside all of our doors to give us enough time to reach him before he escaped. The one who I had to put on a wrist leash and endure the stares of strangers before those cute little backpack ones were created. The one who set fire to a mattress while we were on vacation with my family. The one that I spent all of those toddler and preschool years just trying to keep alive. The one we had to medicate at only four-years old for his own safety.
That kid hated to cuddle, needed to sleep on top of a running dryer in his baby seat and was happiest in his bouncer. He couldn’t stand being put down in the grass to play and flung sand, rocks and anything else he could find to fling. He screamed himself purple during his first haircut and when he wanted his blue shorts at the beach. His non-stop, inquisitive nature caused librarians to glare at me, playgroups to be impossible to attend and I became very adept at the walk of shame.
I asked for help. His pediatrician said, “he’s just fine.” Translation: it must be you. I brought him to a child psychologist at 3 years old. He immediately destroyed a jigsaw puzzle in her waiting room. She got angry with me. I thought, that’s why I’m here. Translation: it must be you. We lasted at family functions for about 45 minutes before I heard, “he just needs a good spanking.” Translation: it must be you. I became a failure to that kid.
That kid started school and the calls from teachers started too. “Mrs. Shea, your son (fill in the blank) today.” Every September, I would put him on the bus and pray that this year was going to be different. It never was. Attending school functions often entailed more walks of shame. The police came to a basketball game after he called 911 on the pay phone as a prank. The police never once came to my house when I was growing up. We became that family to the town police, the school and other families in town. That kid finally gave up in 7th grade after his teacher (in a TEAM meeting) told him that he was simply lazy. That kid started down a path of self-medication and substance use. Our family fell apart.
Hopefully, we have a better handle on those kids then we did 25 years ago and I have made it my life’s work to sit with moms of these kids who struggle with what was unnamed for me – sensory processing challenges, anxiety, ADHD and all that goes with that – and say to those moms, “It’s not you. It’s not him. It’s this.”
That kid has turned into the most amazing young man who I not only love as his mother, but respect as a person. He lives on his own, earned his GED, works hard and attends college. We all stopped the shaming of ourselves and each other and turned it around.
That kid is the father of my beautiful granddaughter. He and her mother have created a wonderful version of a white-picket fence childhood for her. And when she has children some day, and if things turn out not the way she expects, I believe she’ll have our hard-earned tools for the job.
*Note: I have two sons who struggled in different ways – for ease of writing, I compiled experiences with both of them into one. For those that might be interested, I did a thesis project in college on the experience of mothering an ADHD child. It’s a research paper (translation: a little dry) but here it is in it’s entirety: Mothering-Peter-Pan
