I'm Driving Her Crazy

I really shouldn't be writing right now.

The very fact that I am writing right now, when I have a bajillion different things I should be doing, is the perfect illustration for what I've got to say.

Which is this:

Sometimes, an ADHD Mama can drive a RAD kid crazy.

I know, I know, I know.  Usually it's the RAD kids that spend their time driving their mothers crazy.  They feel this desperate need to control everything that goes on around them, and totally flip out/melt down/cease to function/become confrontational/annoy the pants off you/etc. when they can't.  Fact is, they need to learn that they can't control everything.  They need to learn that they can trust you to make the best decisions and to take care of everything they need.

And Miss M is learning. 
S l o w l y.  But definitely learning. 

Today, though, I feel just a bit sorry for the poor girl.

We're getting ready to leave for our trip to see Mr. J, and my method for trip preparation is making my control-seeking daughter insane.  To be fair, I really have no solidified method, which (I suppose) could drive any number of organized and schedule-keeping people crazy.  Do you know any of those super-focused and un-spontaneous people that never learned to just fly by the seat of their pants?  Maybe you even are one?  Would this drive you crazy, too?

Here's my ADHD-influenced method of packing for seven people:

1. I wake up at the regular time on the morning of the day I think we might leave.
2. I plan a departure time of "later tonight" or "sometime in the middle of the night" or "possibly tomorrow morning".
3. I begin doing all the laundry in the house.
4. As the laundry comes out of the dryer, I figure I'll put whatever we need into duffel bags.
5. I forget to change the laundry.
6. I spend an hour choosing DVDs for the car ride.
7. I gather things (completely randomly and one-at-a-time) as they come to mind.
8. When packing books, I get distracted and begin reading a book.
9. I forget to change the laundry.
10. I make a delicious fresh veggie tray.
11. I realize I still have to pack all our clothes and toiletries.
12. I write a blog post.
13. I forget to change the laundry.

   
"Mom, when are we leaving?  In the morning?  After nap time?"

"I don't know. When we're done packing."

"When will we be done packing?"

"I don't know. When I can't think of anything else to bring."

"Are we almost done?  Are we staying in a hotel tonight?  Are we driving all night?  Are we sleeping here?  Why can't you just tell me what time we're leaving?!" 

"I don't know what time we're leaving! Quit bugging me! We'll go just as soon as the mood strikes me!"


It's *almost* funny how much ADHD and RAD clash on a day like today.

Poor, poor kid. 

Guess I better go change the laundry.

I Think I Can

My personality is a wonderfully frustrating and obnoxiously silly combination of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and perfectionism...two things that do not mix well and which cause me to frequently ask God "What on Earth were You thinking?"

Let me give you some examples:

I am always running late.  Really late.  Even for important things.  I have no concept of time and very little natural sense of urgency, yet  I can't leave the house until I'm positive I have every single thing that I could possibly ever need with me...which makes me even later.  But to go anywhere for an hour without granola bars, bug spray and the coupon it took me fifteen minutes to find "just in case we pass Hobby Lobby and feel like stopping in" would be horrific.  Seriously.

I get really overwhelmed by what seem like really simple things to most people, like filling the dishwasher.  If I let myself dwell on the "enormity" of the task, I can't even function, yet  I have an innate need to fill it the exact same way every time, methodically placing every dish in its own specific place, and I'm insanely insistent about the spoon to fork to knife ratio in each compartment of the silverware holder.  I know.  Abnormal.  But trust me...my normal is not your normal.

As you may be able to imagine, this whole idea of uprooting our seven-branched family tree and replanting it somewhere else (along with all its junk) is looming in my future like a half-starved T-Rex peering through my front door.  The thought of packing up my life and moving everything I own from one house to another makes my brain short out. 

I can't fathom it...beginning, middle or end; it's simply too big of a task for an ADHDer like me to handle. 

Which is why I'm currently alternating between bursts of overwhelmed hyperventilation-inducing tears, waving of arms in characteristic crazy-Lisa style, and staring cathartically off into space.  Pinterest and Craigslist have fallen captive to my recent half-blank zoning sessions, where I'm searching and dreaming about the perfect things with which to fill my new house...you know, the one that I'll never get to live in if I don't actually remove my backside from the couch.

The cutest thing I've packed so far.

Don't get me wrong.  I am      s l o w l y  plugging away at all the little molehills-turned-mountains, but the obsession to pack every box "perfectly" (on top of my general state of overwhelmedness), means that my short-lived motivated sprints of useful activity are usually followed by feelings of utter despair.  And then tears.  And then arm waving.  And then Pinterest.

Did I mention I found the cutest little table on Craigslist this afternoon?  No, really - I did. 

My current life, stuck in a moving-from-one-house-to-another limbo, is nothing but a series of popped bubbles of useless emotion.  None of which is helping me pack, none of which is helping me clean, and none of which is going to accomplish a single darn thing.

And so I go into tomorrow clinging to the advice that I give regularly to my four-year-old son. 

"I think I can."     "I think I can."    "I think I can."   "I think I can."        
 "I think I can."      "I think I can!"

Here's hoping that come morning, my little blue engine will finally be able to lug its oversized caboose over the crest of that mountain.  That, my friends, would be perfect indeed.

Philippians 4:13

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. 
(Clinging to this promise with all my heart!)

Beginning Stages

We're beginning the long process of getting our house ready to sell. 

And by beginning, I mean beginning...as in thinking a lot about getting started, searching for a storage unit for all our junk, freaking out about it, and praying that all the clutter will somehow magically disappear. 

So far, no luck.

I'm not good at cleaning.  I'm not good at organizing.  I'm not good at accomplishing anything in a timely manner, or without becoming completely overwhelmed and crazy.  In fact, I'm not good at the whole motivation-thing in general.

What I am good at is singing, song-writing, decorating, writing, getting lost in books, loving on my kids, laughing, mooing at cows, making other people laugh, not worrying about anything, poetry, scrapbooking, being spontaneous, loving Jesus like crazy and having fun. 

None of which will help me sell a house.

I'm basically just a great big, hands-waving-in-the-air ADHD ball of creativity and silliness.

And you know how God often seems to match up crazy, unorganized, spontaneous people with spouses that are normal, organized and predictable?  Well, unfortunately for our home-selling endeavor, my husband is basically just like me, minus the ADHD and scrapbooking.  But man, do we have fun.  I've even got him mooing at cows now.

So what do I do when I look at my horribly cluttered home and want to cry because I have no idea how I will ever get started or even where I should begin?  When I know I have to start somewhere but am so overwhelmed I can't possibly even function?  Know what I do then?

I get distracted, I snuggle my kids, I bake cookies, and I don't worry about it, even though I should.

And then I sit down and write about it.



On a completely unrelated matter:  is anyone looking to buy a really really messy house?  I know where you can find one.

LaLa Land

I was hopelessly frustrated with the sweetest, most oblivious thing on Earth this morning.  My five-year-old daughter, Miss J.

Miss J lives life on her own little planet that's located somewhere inside of her pretty, blond-haired little head.  If I had to guess, I'd say that her planet is probably pink and sparkly, and is perpetually overcast with fluffy pink and purple clouds.  It's likely that there are unicorns galloping across its hills and valleys, and tiny winged fairies dancing in the mist, gathering moonbeams in heart-shaped baskets to share with all their tiny, glittering winged friends.  Everyone is smiling, everyone is happy, everyone is singing, and everyone is eating lots and lots of candy.

Okay, so I don't actually know what goes on inside Miss J's head, but one thing I know for sure is that she spends an awful lot of time in a faraway place.  LaLa Land, I've heard it called.  And the problem with living in LaLa Land is that while you're there, you can't be fully present in this world.  At all.  You kind of float through life half-dazed, being distracted by every little noise...and movement...and bug...and falling leaf...and shiny object.  And you never ever stay concentrated on one task for long.  You have no sense of urgency, for there is no such thing as time in LaLa Land.  You forget what you're doing.  You stare off into space.  You remain completely oblivious to the promptings of those around you, even those who are desperate to prod you on, speed you up, and kick your adorable little heiney out the door and into a waiting vehicle.

All this to say, Miss J is SLOW.

P a i n f u l l y   s l o w .

And while I'm not a trained professional qualified to make such diagnoses, I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that my little girl has ADHD.  Her frequent visits to a faraway place, her happy-but-somewhat-vacant expressions as she stares at absolutely nothing, her inability to remember what exactly it is that she's supposed to be doing at any given moment, her obvious lack of understanding of the concept of time, and the pace by which she accomplishes (or half-accomplishes) everything and anything that she sets out to do, are all eerily similar to someone else I know...someone I know very intimately.

Me.

Yes, ADHD is hereditary, and little Miss J comes by it honestly.  Although undiagnosed, my maternal grandfather was almost assuredly a kindred spirit, who passed it on to a couple of his children, including my mother, who passed it on to my brother and myself.  So basically, we are a family of people who are either scatterbrained ourselves, or have learned to live with someone who is scatterbrained.  To my knowledge, not one of the ADHD people in my family have married a fellow ADHD person. 

There is a reason for this. 

You see, a house can only handle so much ADHD before it explodes.  When I'm running around like a mad woman, trying to compensate in the final ten minutes for everything that I failed to plan for in the previous hour while I was vacationing in LaLa Land, I need attentive, capable children to quickly follow every frantic order that I holler in their direction.

I need efficiency. 
I need initiative. 
I need an army of little people that are on-task and ready to shine where I can't.

I do not need a child dancing around the room in her underwear.  

This is why we are late for almost everything:  my scatterbrained five-year-old refuses to compensate for her mother's ADHD.  Totally inconsiderate, I know.  Day after day, I bust my buttons for ten solid minutes trying to get a whole passel of kids out the door, and she insists on trying to cram everything I've told her to do into the last possible seconds before we're supposed to leave.

She should probably work on that.

Keep Your Eye on the Goal

After a week of soggy evenings at soccer camp, my three oldest kids, along with the rest of the family, were sun-scorched today as they put their new found "futbol" skills to the test.  Three separate games were watched, three sets of pictures and videos were taken, and three personalities were vividly expressed and captured on film. 

Mr. J.  At eleven years, he's entirely a rough and tumble boy.  And fiercely competitive.  Being extremely small for his age, he's had trouble competing in other sports, but this kid has some soccer skills, let me tell you.  The other boys on his team were all much bigger, but Mr. J darted between them with the agility of a cheetah...or at least a really agile kid.  Very impressive.  He scored three goals and was always in on the action, except for the time when he was tripped and lay writhing on the grass like he'd been shot.  That's my boy, all right.  Good athlete, but sometimes I wonder if theater might be his calling.

Miss M.  My tomboy, although she hates being referred to as such.  She looks beautiful in a tutu, but you can tell she feels awkward when she's all dolled up: on the soccer field, she looks right at home.  This tiny almost nine-year-old played with everything in her, and did not stop moving for the entire game.  I got tired standing on the sidelines watching her, and I was only taking pictures.  Back and forth and back and forth, Miss M was on top of the ball wherever it went.  With no strategy at all, and frequently planting wild kicks in other players' shins, she reveled in being part of the action.  She hurt both of her ankles in the process, but no one even knew about it until we were on the way home.  That's my daughter.  She's tough.  With a few strategy skills and a little teamwork practice, we could have a soccer player on our hands.

And then there's little Miss J, five years old, distractable like her mama, and girly as they come.  She loved soccer camp.  I knew we were in trouble, though, when on the first day I asked her what she learned and she said she learned about the goalie...but she couldn't remember what the goalie was supposed to do.  She did know what she had for a snack, though, and this became the theme for the week:

Me:  "Did you have fun at soccer camp?"

Miss J:  "Yes!  We had goldfish for a snack!" or "It was fun!  We had pretzels for a snack!"

Today, when it was time for her game to start, she asked "Will we have a snack today?"

Let's just say that when Miss J's game started this morning, I was pleasantly surprised when she immediately volunteered to be the goalie.  A bit risky, I'd say, when you're unsure of the goalie's purpose, but at least she wanted to be involved.  She marched right to the net and assumed her goalie stance, and the game began.  She let in the first goal, saved a second, and somewhere around then I could tell that her mind was drifting.  Butterflies and blue skies had whisked her away, and soccer wasn't even on her radar.  A coach's friendly reminder of "Pay attention to the ball!" would bring her back momentarily, but she was never fully engaged for long.  

They played six short periods.  She was goalie for the first, she sat out the second, she played (well enough) for the third, she asked to sit out for the fourth, she delayed the fifth when she left to get a drink of water, she brought me a bouquet between the fifth and sixth, and she reclined on the sidelines with legs up during most of the sixth.  Never did it occur to her that Grandma and Papa, Mom and Dad, and all four of her siblings had come to see her play.  Not sit.

When it was over, she ran to us, smiling ear to ear.  We asked her why she liked sitting out better than playing, and she said, "I was ready for the game to be done.  I was ready for a snack!"

So soccer camp is over, and honestly, I find that I've learned something from all three of my kids.  Mr. J is passionate and competitive and driven to prove himself.  Fearless.  Miss M has a goal to achieve and puts forth endless effort to reach it.  An accomplisher.  I greatly admire people who keep their eye on the goal, so to speak.  The doers.  The self-motivated.  The task oriented.  The accomplishers.

Because I more closely resemble Miss J in thought and action (or lack of action).  I'm distracted, I lose focus, I'm unmotivated, I forget what I'm doing, I lose my way, I'm content to sit on the sidelines and dream instead of accomplish the goals set out for me.  Miss J comes by it honestly, bless her poor sweet distractable heart, and she'll most likely have to deal with these things for the rest of her life.  It's a real struggle, living with ADHD.  But there's beauty and laughter and closeness with God wrapped right along with it.

And man, are we entertaining.  

Gotta go.  It's time for a snack.

   

AC and Tractors and Snow...Oh My!

It's roasting hot today.  Just like yesterday.  And the sun and I aren't exactly friends.  The good news is, today I'm sitting in my air conditioned living room instead of baking in the warm air outside.  What's the downside?  Our window air conditioning unit (which my wonderful hubby installed for me at 6:00 this morning) has been stored all winter in our musty basement, which I'm allergic to.  Consequently, I'm also allergic to the air conditioner, which insists on blowing thousands of evil little musty spores directly into my habitat.  So I'm sneezing, my nose is running, and my eyes are itching terribly...but at least I'm comfortable.  Kind of.  

Hey, I'd rather be allergic to cold air than swelter in hot air.

Is it just me, or does Memorial Day always seem to top out the thermometers?  I know it did last year, because I distinctly remember coming home from the Memorial Day parade half burnt.  It was the back half.  The front half was still white as snow.  Lobster back, snow front.  No bronze in sight.  I told you...the sun and I don't get along. 

So yeah, Memorial Day.  Our family always goes to the Memorial Day parade in the little podunk town where my husband teaches.  It's an awesome parade.  Well, not awesome in the normal definition, but awesome for podunkville, where your value is determined by the size of your tractor.  Their parade is simple and 'old-fashioned America' charming.  There are no impressive floats, no giant balloons, no uniformed marching bands or cheerleaders, and there are no Shriners, no clowns, and no big politicians looking for your vote.  But what they do have, they have plenty of:  kids on decorated bikes, dogs with patriotic collars, local business owners pulling flatbeds full of flag-waving family members, horses, candy.  And.... tractors.  Lots and lots of tractors (all different sizes, too!). 

We now have a candy supply (I call it a "temptation supply") that will last us until Halloween. 

When it will be cold again.

Although, knowing Michigan, it could be cold again tomorrow.  In the wee hours of tomorrow morning, it's entirely feasible that my poor husband could be forced to take out the air conditioner and return it to the musty basement because Michigan has forgotten again what season it should be.  Just like in April, when it was 80 degrees on April 10th, and my kids wore short-sleeves and sundresses to church.  Eight days later, on April 18th, there was a blizzard.  I sent my kids to school in snowpants.  Sundresses and snowpants.  Only in Michigan. 

Michigan frequently gets distracted and forgets what it's working on... 

We have something in common, Michigan and I.  We both have ADHD. 

     

The Isle of ADHD

I've been sitting here for the better part of an hour, and I can't think of a single thing to write about.  Well, that's not exactly true, as I've had thousands of thoughts running through my head.  I just haven't been able to grab ahold of any one of them long enough to actually write something about it!  Mmmm....strawberries sound good.

Welcome to the world of ADHD.

If you don't have ADD or ADHD, and if there isn't someone close to you that has it, there's a good chance you have misconceptions of what it is.  The picture most people get when thinking of ADHD is of a little kid running around a classroom instead of sitting quietly in his chair like he's been asked to.  Could be a symptom, true.  Could also be a symptom of too little sleep, poor classroom management, or bad parenting.  I don't have a PhD on ADHD, so I'm not going to T-R-Y to iden-ti-fy (Oh my goodness, I make myself laugh!) the symptoms or treatments associated with it.  I am going to share with you my own elementary explanation of what goes on in my hyperactive brain versus the "normal" brain of someone like...let's say...my sister Wendy.  But first, I need you to take a moment to clear your mind of all preconceived ideas of ADHD and what you think it looks like. 

Ready?  Brain clear?  (If you have ADHD, you won't be able to clear your brain.  You are forgiven.)

The first thing I want you to put in your brain is this: (ADHDers, try to focus.  It's a stick man.  Stick man!)

Next, I want you to imagine a tiny tropical island with a single palm tree (If you have ADHD, you have probably moved on to designing your entire island, but I assure you, it is NOT important, and you will have plenty of time to design it later when you're trying to focus on something else.)

Now, I want you to put your stick man on your island, as pictured.  Oh look, a puppy!

Okay...now imagine that all your thoughts are individually written on really long fortune cookie papers and are swirling in a massive tangled cloud that's hovering over your stick man's head.  I know it's a stretch.  Humor me. (Normal people:  this may not seem very forboding when you have like two thoughts at a time, but for the sake of my example, you should imagine at least twenty-five or thirty fortune cookie papers).

Pretend that your stick man is reaching up, trying to grab ahold of a single one of those pieces of paper so that he can read it.

Now imagine a hurricane. 

Your stick man is frantically jumping, grasping at any thought he can reach.  Every time he grabs hold of one for a second, the hurricane winds tear it violently from his little stick fingers.  Yet he doesn't give up.  He is a valliant stick man, persevering despite being bombarded endlessly by a tropical storm of wayward thoughts.  This is what it's like to live inside my brain.

Poor stick man.  (As a side note: medication, when I'm on it, does NOT change the number of thoughts I have wreaking havoc in my brain.  It only slows down the winds so that I can hold onto one for longer.  It is NOT a cure-all...more like a band-aid.)

Okay, let's take a look at Wendy's stick man (I like to imagine him with glasses).  He has a filing cabinet.  He can choose which alphabetized thought he wants to focus on first, accomplish it, and efficiently move on to the next. 

Stupid organized stick man. 

¹⁸ But in fact God has placed the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. ¹⁹ If they were all one part, where would the body be? ²⁰ As it is, there are many parts, but one body.  1 Corinthians 12:18-20 (emphasis mine)

Cleanliness is Next to Timeliness

This morning at 8:45, I sent my oldest son out the door on his way to school, shut the door behind me and declared to my little ones, "It's a bath day!"  (As a good rule of thumb, I figure that whenever I can no longer pinpoint the day I last bathed them, it stands to reason that it's time to do it again.)  My announcement was met with shrieks and squeals (probably because it's been a while) as Miss J (5) and Little Mr. C (3) ran to the bathroom, leaving a trail of pajamas in their wake.  I filled the tub, they chose their toys, they climbed in, Miss J climbed back out dripping wet to go potty, and then they played and shriveled like little prunes as I, nursing babe in arms, looked on. 

We began this process at about 8:50.  We had to leave for Miss J's ballet class at 10:15.  No problem, right? 

Wrong.

First of all, you have to realize something.  I have the worst sense of time of anyone that has ever existed.  Ever.  In the whole world.  No matter how much I try to tell myself otherwise, I firmly believe that it takes 15 minutes to get anywhere.  And then I leave 10 minutes to get there.  I'm also fairly certain that I can cram 12 activities into the 10 minutes before I go.  It hasn't been accomplished yet, but one of these days.... 

So, because we had all the time in the world, I leisurely fed the baby, spelled words with foam letters on the shower wall, and periodically checked in with 8 yr-old Miss M, who was unable to handle school today.  I passed out pink washcloths.  I doled out the soap.  I played with my kids.  I sang songs with them.  I convinced Mr. C that boys can use pink washcloths.  I replaced the murky water in the tub with fresh water (suspicious that a diaperless Mr. C had caused the murkiness).  I poured cupfuls of water over them, loving their giggles.  I was just getting ready to wash their hair...and then I looked at the clock.  It was 9:40.

Fast forward.  Seriously, if you picture everything that happened after that point and then imagine it at warp speed, that's how it felt from that moment on.  An observer would have heard us all speaking in chipmunk, including the set-down baby's screams.  Shampooscrubscrub rinsescrubscrub "that soap smells girly!" scrubscrub "it's in my eyes!"wipewipe rinserepeatscrubscrub pickuptoweldry*cuddle*diaperdress.  Next child.  Shampooscrubscrub rinsescrubscrub "I can do it myself"scrubscrub "it's in my eyes!"wipewipe rinserepeatscrubscrub pickuptoweldry*cuddle*"go get dressed!"  Grab your shoes! Get your coat! Choose a book!  Can I bring my umbrella? Can you put on my tights? I can't get my shoe on! Where are your glasses? Can I have some raisins? Ahhhhhhh!!!

Amazingly, despite the enormous task set before me, I had three kids completely ready to walk out the door at 10:15.  Unfortunately, it was at that exact moment that I realized I was sweaty, covered in bath water....and still in my pajamas.  And so was the baby.  After cramming 12 more things into the next 10 (okay...more like 17) minutes, all five of us left the house at 10:32....two minutes after Miss J's ballet class started.  It's a good thing it only takes 15 minutes to get there.

My point?  Not sure I really have one, except that my life is crazy and I'm late for everything...but I wouldn't have traded that bath full of giggles for the world.