Waiting to exhale...

For about 3 years, I've struggled with this: a child who is bright and intelligent, imaginative and social, inquisitive and thoughtful. Oh, and also hyperactive and impulsive. And sometimes a little violent. And disobedient, unfocused, and obnoxious. That's all. Just that.

Many parents would be drinking by now. Many would have turned to child abuse, or demanded medication to drug this child into a zombie-like oblivion. I took him to counseling, tried with fervor to work with him at home, and spent endless hours on the internet, doing research on this sort of behavior. And I cried, certain that I had failed as a mother.

I consulted Isaac's teachers recently, after finally wrapping my mind around the fact that he may, indeed, suffer from ADHD. Some people who know us might be laughing right now, muttering something along the lines of "duh!" But those people don't get it, unless they've been through this. Mother's of children with ADHD don't admit it easily. At least I didn't. I didn't want this diagnosis, considering it's a mental disorder. What mom wants to hear that their child has a mental disorder? The pediatrician suggested it quite a while ago, but that only put me into the frenzy of research, along the way deciding to obtain my master's in child counseling because of it. The teachers' evaluation of Isaac was what really shook me. It was devastating to me. I realized that I was only hurting him further by waiting. We sat down and had a long talk, which was when this six-year old with amazing potential told me, in a nutshell, just that.
"Mom, I want to do well. My brain tells me to do things that I know are bad, and I can't stop it, even when I want to."

So all this time, maybe he could have done well, he could have struggled less...and I was too stubborn to try medication.

Until today.

He had his first dose of Adderall at about 4:30 p.m. The doctor and the pharmacist both told me it could take 2 or 3 months to level out in his system, but this was an immediate-release, six-hour formula, and I'd likely see a change relatively quickly. The first 30 minutes, I noticed nothing. He was insane in the grocery store, and acted as though he could hear me. He grabbed for everything on the shelves, begged for candy, and ran in the parking lot. Hmph...yeah, immediate release. Right.
By the time we returned home, however, something changed. He was oddly quiet. He was respectful to me while I made dinner. He asked for salad. He ate his meal without jumping up from the table, complaining about the food or making obscene noises. He volunteered to take a bath, did homework without any nagging, and even helped his brother make his bed. I thought surely it was a joke. He had to be making it up. Except for the part that he's six and has no idea what that little blue pill was for.
So I find myself, still, holding my breath. Tomorrow is a new day, another 2 pills. I am immensely curious as to how his teachers perceive his behavior. And I continue to stress, because that's what moms do. They live and breathe for their children, I suppose. And cry for them, and laugh for them, and celebrate their victories.
I'm certainly opening up to the idea that this might be one of those victorious occasions.