My nine-year-old daughter had a friend over last week. The two of them invented a new kind of gunk, which they dubbed “aqua sea slime.” They also washed—or, should I say, groomed—my daughter’s pink bicycle, which doubles as a horse named Strawberry.
And the friend got a paper cut. On her toe. From some old piece of paper in one of the piles on my stairs.
It wasn’t a big deal. The cut didn’t bleed, and the girls put a neon rainbow-colored bandage over it. Still, I hate it when negative aspects of my ADD affect my daughter’s friends so directly.
This wasn’t the first time. A couple months ago, I got my daughter to a short play date a full half hour late. As we walked in, her friend’s mother took me aside. It turns out her daughter had been in tears before we arrived, distressed about missing out on so much time with her good friend. The mom was her usual warm and down-to-earth self. But I ended up in tears myself, in the car after I left.
Once last year, this same friend of my daughter’s tried to help me with my ADD issues. She was standing in the middle of my living room on a day when jackets and American Girl doll stuff and school papers pretty much covered the floor. Her parents, she said—in her usual sweet and polite way—did a little bit of housework every day. That, she informed me, was how they kept their house clean. It was endearing to receive housekeeping advice from an eight-year-old. But after a few repetitions of “just a little bit every day,” I was gritting my teeth.
I decided to go for the educational approach. I told the girl that I have something called ADD that makes my brain work differently than most people’s. I told her that people with ADD tend to be creative, like I am, but that some things that are simple for other people are hard for those of us with ADD. Like being on time. And keeping the house picked up. I thanked her for her good advice and told her I was getting help and working hard to do better.
Part of my teeth-gritting certainly came out of my own shame. I have a voice in my head that berates me harshly about paper cuts to the toe and late play dates. But that voice tends to lead me into paralysis. It would probably be better to listen to the simple and accepting language I used to explain ADD to an eight-year-old. Ironically, self-acceptance helps me be more on time. And helps me keep a neater house. That, plus doing a little bit every day.
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