I am grieving. No. No one’s dead. I’ve not been deserted or fired.
My second son (8) has been diagnosed with ADHD. It’s official.
At least it is as official as a prescription and an accompanying list of side effects enough to make me want to dump the little white dispenser of the daily dosage in the trash.
Here’s how the diagnosis went: I make a phone call. I tell the nurse (not the doctor) what I see. Based solely on my description the boy’s called in for a physical and, pronto, the words are uttered. A (pre)script(ion) is written.
But wait. I am accustomed to his ways. Constant movement is his signature.
It’s his trademark.
I am comfortable knowing he sometimes practices his spelling while he’s whizzing through the kitchen on a skateboard.
I love him just as he is.
I don’t want the boy silenced, quieted down, tamed. I know he’s tough to handle. I know he doesn’t play by the rules – but does he have to be drugged into order?
Or, wait. Will it do wonders for his self-esteem and his school grades?
Will the day soon dawn when I thank God such help exists for this, my beloved, affectionate, funny, talented, and caring son?
