TALKING TO ALIENS

Eleven Years in, My ADHD Translator is Still a Work-in-Progress

Hey, before I tell you about my parenting-fail-of-the-week, I want to make sure you know that I was featured on my friend Jennifer Troester’s podcast this week! It’s a fun discussion if you want to hear how my book idea came about, what I do to manage the hardest time of day, or about the magical power of drawing stick figures…

You can also share it with friends! Just click share and write: “Hey! My friend is on a podcast! She’s a great writer and you should also follow her on Substack!” Sharing is caring. 😉

Okay, back to my screw-ups on the parenting roller coaster…

A few years ago, a friend told me I should write a book about raising a kid with ADHD. 

I may or may not have snorted the water I’d been sipping through my nose at the suggestion. 

The idea struck me as preposterous—How in the hell could I write a book about something that I myself barely grasp? —while simultaneously flooding me with shame—How can it be that after this many years of parenting my son, I still feel mostly clueless about how to best parent him?

Being the neurotypical parent of a neurodivergent kid involves a lot of a lot of bumping your shins on coffee tables in the dark, a lot of slamming into brick walls you didn’t realize were there. An ADHD brain isn’t wrong, it just doesn’t work the same way as mine does. The things he hears aren’t the same things I believe I’m saying. The things he says aren’t always quite the things I understand him to mean. 

If you’re the kind of person who enjoys getting things wrong over and over again, mostly by making the same mistakes and expecting different results, then parenting a kid with ADHD is definitely the job for you. (Call me, we may have an opening.)

My most recent experience of this began in late April, when my eleven year-old came home from sixth grade and unexpectedly announced that he loved baseball and wanted to play on a team. This was a shock to us, as he’s always been allergically uninterested in any team sport we’ve suggested, and we’d given up on expecting he might ever want to try. But now he was telling us that he’d been playing at school and felt good about his natural talents in hitting and throwing. That maybe he’d want to join a team.

So I did my Modern (First-World, Privileged) Mom thing and sprang into action, researching with crossed fingers to find a low-key summer league he could play in. One hour-long practice a week and a game on Saturday mornings! A mix of kids who have experience and don’t! Who knew such a unicorn existed within our local hyper-competitive youth sports ecosystem?

It’s not like I completely forgot about my kid’s brain and the way it works. I know that one key to speaking Alien is to remember to speak Alien. ADHD brains need more time to process information and sometimes don’t hear everything you say. So, I’ve been working on it—bringing up this baseball league in short, repetitive bursts—for about a month now, priming him to be ready when it was finally time to play. 

Which brings us to this past Saturday, when my son, husband and I sat in the living room reviewing the schedule for the week and I mentioned the upcoming first practice this Tuesday.

My son exploded, “What?! No. I’m not doing that! I don’t want to do baseball.”

Sigh. Friends, if I had a nickel for every conversation we’ve had that’s started like this in our house, I’d be a very rich lady.

The problem here wasn’t my kid saying ‘No’ to something that he’d previously said yes to. Hearing reflexive ‘No’s to suggestions or requests regardless of previous contracts and agreements has been standard around here since the beginning of Always.

What stung in that moment was how completely unprepared I felt for this ‘No.’ That, despite being this kid’s mom for over a decade, I somehow found myself blindsided, lulled into thinking that all the pre-conversations I’d carefully engaged him in leading up to this point would be some kind of insurance.

I sputtered. “You wanted to try it out! Remember? We’ve been talking about this for a few weeks…?”

As I heard these words leave my mouth, I also heard the distant honk of the “game over” buzzer. I’ve been down this road enough times to know that taking my kid’s “no” and telling him he’s wrong about it is a recipe for a double-down disaster. 

My husband respectfully allowed me to flop and flounder for another minute, then kindly stepped in.

“Listen. We’re not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But, the reason Mom signed you up for baseball is because back in April you were playing with your class in P.E. and it turned out that you really liked playing. It also turns out that you’re naturally good at it—you’re a pretty good hitter and you’ve got a good throwing arm.”

My son nodded slowly, reconsidering. “I’m terrible at catching though.” 

My husband agreed. “Yeah, but nobody is good at catching when they start playing. They teach you techniques and you practice the techniques. That’s what practice is for.”

I watched my son—body taut, a loaded weapon ready to fire—begin to relax as he took in my husband’s matter-of-fact storytelling. Here’s how we arrived at this moment. Here’s how Mom is not just out to ruin your life but how these events are actually for you and your benefit. Here’s some additional information—how a baseball practice works, what you can expect. All a soothing balm to a kid whose brain primes him to expect monsters or maiming at every turn.

I’m grateful to have a husband who so naturally speaks Alien. But I have to admit it’s hard to watch him guide my kid back to dry land and think, I am still so incredibly bad at this. When am I gonna finally figure out how to talk to my kid in the way that works for him? 

I know I shouldn’t be shooting the “second arrow,” blaming and shaming myself for slamming into another invisible brick wall. When I peel back the shame an inch or two I can see what’s underneath: Grief. Deep care. Ego. Love.

I too often fall short as a parent, a job I care about profoundly and prefer to excel at. And I hate, hate, hate it. This kid means the world to me, and I long to connect with him in ways that feel like love to him.

I’ve only got questions and not many answers today, folks.

• What would happen if I believed that it isn’t a problem, that nothing has gone wrong, that I’m still 100% worthy, even when I mess up and “say the wrong thing” to my kid?

• What would happen if I decided to trust that my kid is resilient enough to handle his feelings, that everything is eventually figure-out-able, that it’s not my job to ensure my kid’s life-journey is a stress-free pleasure cruise?

My son made it to baseball practice last night and came home excited to show me his uniform and tell me about the upcoming game. As we drove home from dinner out afterward, my daughter asked him for a turn playing his Nintendo Switch.

“No.”

I asked my daughter if she wanted some help, then took another swing. “Hey, son. I am not going to force you to give your Switch to your sister. But she doesn’t have that game you’re playing now, so she’s interested. I know if you gave her a short turn, that would probably make her pretty happy.”

I waited patiently for a beat. Or three.

“Fine.” He handed it over.

I don’t think speaking Alien will ever come naturally to me.
But I’m not going to let another bruised shin stop me from trying.