Years ago, I thought it would be pretty rad to give birth, so I added it to my bucket list. At the time, I imagined creating a human would be something exceptional I could one day cross off. Now, seven years in, while I still see the act as extraordinary, I’ve realized bringing a child into this world is something to neither add nor cross off any list.
As it turns out, parenting is something that never, ever ends. Giving birth is actually the easiest part, and for me it only lasted for what I look back on now as a blissful 26 hours.
I remember being extremely nervous throughout labor and delivery and my nurse asking me why. “Because having a child is the most significant thing I will ever do,” I said, which continues to be the only thing I know for sure.
Like so many things in life, parenting is accomplished entirely through experience. No book or anecdote could have possibly prepared me for my toddler’s exploratory interest in electrical outlets or the sheer unpredictable terror of his eardrum erupting at daycare. No friend’s story could have helped me barrel roll out of my baby’s room after hours of attempting to get him to fall asleep or primed me for the compassion he exhibited toward a fellow kindergartener when he chose to sacrifice his own lunch so she would have something to eat.
I’m fortunate in that I’ve had an equally clueless partner in my husband Rod, but even together we still have no idea what we’re doing. With parenting, every day is an adventure and, like everyone else, we’re figuring it out as we go.
In 2018, Van started the first grade. Things had not been particularly easy for him in preschool or kindergarten, but we still had high hopes he would flourish in the new year. While academics have never been an issue, his inability to listen and sit still and pay attention for more than seven seconds have always been a major concern.
Our family doctor told us the previous spring there was nothing wrong with Van; he simply needed more discipline. But then, six weeks into the school year with countless negative reports from school, which resulted in no TV, evenings alone in his bedroom, no toys to play with, and no time with friends, we’d come to understand discipline wasn’t the problem. Van was genuinely trying to learn from his mistakes, but for one reason or another he just couldn’t make it work.
Kids I’ve learned, while different from their parents, are also quite similar, too. From conception, they inherit both the good and the bad. The genes that gave Van his amazing hair and his big heart, and the odd, cute ridges around his ears came from us, as did the genes that gave him a brain that does not turn off and a body that reacts quickly and uncontrollably to every prompt or nearby squirrel.
The brain thing he gets from me. I’m always in my head playing out scenarios, worrying about the next 458 things on my to do list, and thinking about something else even when I appear deeply engaged in conversation. My own mind reminds me of one of those zoo animals painting furiously while trapped in a cage. Unfortunately, the result isn’t like the artwork created by that elephant who painted those amazing self-portraits using only his trunk. No, it’s more like the lackluster dribble drawn by an average zoo animal waving around a paintbrush stuck between its teeth. Sure it’s interesting, but it’s also a mess.
Then there’s Rod, an outspoken, impatient, animated man. He cannot control his body. He’s like one big, tall elbow running into things, pacing, and walking in circles. He has a difficult time controlling his temper, too, and even when he’s actually somewhat calm, he appears as though he still could be told at any moment to settle down by a member of law enforcement.
We needed help.
We started by visiting a trusted therapist who we had known for years. Rod and I went in for two sessions without Van to get the led out, listen, and accept whatever was to come. We then brought in Van who flitted from thing to thing in the room, bounced on a step stool, occasionally shared facts about dinosaurs, and read aloud every inspirational sign on the wall. Our psychologist, wisely recognizing he was not a physician (unlike those pesky orthodontists), said he believed Van exhibited signs of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), but suggested we find Van a pediatrician who could provide him with a proper diagnosis and treatment plan.
We did our research and found a lovely pediatrician who agreed to meet with us for a consultation. She spent nearly two hours with us at our initial visit. Two. Entire. Hours. I have never in my life engaged in conversation with any physician for that length of time, and that includes the time I worked in an actual hospital with actual doctors to rebrand any entire medical system. I was amazed not only because of her genuine interest in Van, but also because I honestly thought docs shut down after about 45 minutes of personal interaction.
After two visits, she did in fact diagnose Van with ADHD and recommended medication. We had prepared ourselves for this, but it still didn’t come easy. Rod is not a huge proponent of pills. Whereas I literally survive every day with copious amounts of ibuprofen, Rod once refused aspirin prior to surgery for a collapsed lung. He eventually came around with Van though and realized giving our child one chewable tablet every day beat the every-other-day calls from the principal’s office. Our baby had things to learn and songs to sing and an entire lifetime to live. Realizing Van’s genetic makeup was not going to change, we decided to give it a try and now, three months in, I think it’s one of the best decisions we’ve ever made.
For Van, medication has not altered who he is as a person. He’s still compassionate. He still won’t eat dinner. He still cares deeply about his parents. He still gets upset. He still has an imagination. He still needs rules. He still wants to play with his friends. He still hugs tightly. He still reads everything he sees. He still laughs at his own jokes. He still rolls his eyes at ours. He still cares.
What has changed has all been for the better. He can now look me in the eye. He can now make it through his teacher’s lessons. He can now remember not to roll around on the floor. He can now interact productively with his classmates. He can now stand in a line. He can now wait his turn. He can now be a part of a team.
Now I’m not saying all kids need to be medicated. Hell, maybe there are children with ADHD who don’t need anything at all. But my kid did, and that’s all I can speak to. Parenting is a motherfucker, and only our gut knows what’s best. Baby books don’t know anything your gut doesn’t know already. No Google search is going to elicit results your gut hasn’t already told you. No amount of babble from friends, colleagues, mommy groups, neighbors, churchgoers, or acquaintances is going to talk your gut out of something it sees as right. Trust it. Gut health, as it turns out, is important and not just when it comes to eating carbs.
Today, my baby celebrates his seventh birthday. Seven entire years of life following 26 hours of labor, nine months of pregnancy, and a mere concept I once jotted down on a bucket list. Being a parent to Van Christopher Morgan will always be the most significant thing I will ever do, and I’m so grateful that little rascal is mine. I tell him every year to continue giving the world hell. This year, it’s so good to know he will be able to do just that only this time while sitting completely still.
Title Track: “Mama Tried,” Merle Haggard & The Strangers. Listen here.
