Behavior Management

Are you there, God? It’s me, Luke. Yeah me, the one who made himself your prodigal son by pulling a disappearing act the last ten years. I prefer to fly under your radar, floating through life with as minimal effort as the universe will allow me.

The problem is, I’m a dad now. That’s not the problem, I love being a dad. But I now have responsibilities with a capital R, and I might be in danger of screwing up my perfect kid. Don’t get me wrong, he’s far from perfect—after all, he’s got my DNA! But he is so completely himself, with his quirks and way of moving through life as if powered by fifty cups of coffee. And no, of course I don’t let my eight-year-old drink coffee! I’m not a complete moron.

You’re surprised to hear from me, I know. Especially after you heard me tell my wife Callie that I unequivocally don’t believe in you. I’m sorry if that sounded rude. It’s just that life has this randomness that I can’t believe would ever be specifically orchestrated by some greater power such as yourself. Don’t even get me started on the state of this country. Not just this country, the entire world. I don’t understand how anyone has the energy to get so worked up over every little thing; I can barely remember where I parked my car half the time.

And that’s kind of why I need your help. No, not because I keep forgetting where I parked my car. Despite what my wife might tell you, I am fully in possession of my mind—I just may have started from a lower baseline. As you know, because well, you’re God, I have Attention Deficit Disorder, Combined Type. And not just a touch of ADHD, we’re talking the most severe case my therapist has ever encountered. Yup, she let that little gem slip when I told her about the time I put my car keys in the freezer and didn’t find them until three weeks later! I left them there as I was getting an ice pack for my back (I injured myself, again, when I was out walking our dog with Callie and I tripped over the buckled sidewalk.) Even after my wife had just said, “Luke, watch your step!” Sometimes, though, when she talks, all I hear is a mumbled “wah wah wah” mixed in with “Remember, we were just talking about blah blah blah this morning!”

The thing is, no, I probably don’t remember what we were just talking about this morning. As hard as I try to pay attention, I can’t help but find myself solving a math equation in my head. Or wondering whether I moved my clothes into the dryer, or if they are going to, once again, rot in there until Callie starts the next load.

I swear, I was trying to focus on her words but then I got a notification on my phone that my package had been delivered, so I needed to bring it inside before I forgot! Oh wait, it’s garbage day….shit. What’s that overdue task on my phone? Did I seriously forget to pick my mom up from the airport? Oh, I put in the wrong date and it’s not till next month—score for me for planning ahead! Do you see how hard I work every day just to function in everyone else’s world? I think I need a nap.

Anyway, luckily, I had a spare set of keys so I was able to get by until I went back to the freezer for a popsicle and there were my keys, just where I left them! Problem solved.

Okay, back to why I need your help. My wife is getting worried because she’s seeing some of my, um, lovable traits in our son. I’m proud of what a spirited, energetic, creative boy he is. He has the wonderful gift of losing track of time, which I realize in my wisdom of adulthood may not be such a useful trait. But for now, he’s my joyous tree-climbing, newt catching, creek swimming, rock collecting, chatterbox of a kid. I can’t help but feel in awe of his ability to find fascination in the tiniest aspects of the world around him.

Unfortunately, Andrew’s naturalist propensities proved to be entirely insufficient preparation for the skills children must possess upon entering elementary school. This became clear when my son spent his kindergarten year with a teacher who can only be described as a former military drill sergeant who decided to create her autocratic regime to squelch every ounce of creativity from unsuspecting kindergarteners. I know, there’s lots of research about how well kids respond to structure and the importance of developing routines to function throughout life. But this woman seemed to create procedures simply to execute the routines. On the day I had been not-so-gently invited to observe my “unruly” son, I witnessed the magnitude of the requirements to function in her empire: “Soldiers, it’s time for lunch! Get up, line up! Find your spot, don’t get caught!” But my personal favorite happened during circle time: “Sit still, you know the drill!”

Poor Andrew tried his best to follow the routines but he reached his breaking point when Mrs. Pratt squirted hand sanitizer on his knees. He swatted her hand away and you can imagine what happened next. But seriously, since when did germophobe become a job requirement to teach kindergarten? Seems counterintuitive if you ask me because kindergartners are known nosepickers and explorers of all things disgusting.

But nobody is asking me. Mrs. Pratt and my ever-competent wife somehow seemed to become best friends. That is if you judged by the number of emails they sent each other each week. Then we were summoned to meet with Mrs. Pratt to discuss Andrew’s increasingly concerning behaviors: failure to line up properly, asking overly inquisitive questions, not keeping his supplies neat, dancing when he was supposed to be marching…the list went on. Each time, my wife would look embarrassed and promise that we would work on these “offenses” at home.

Were these two serious? It’s not like my kid was getting into fights or defacing school property! By the time I was Andrew’s age, I had set off a small firecracker in the bathroom (don’t judge, it was a victimless crime.) Now I found myself seething and surprisingly just as frustrated with Callie as I was with Mrs. Pratt. I know, I’m probably overacting. I understand rules are required in school. But all I can focus on right now is my overwhelmingly vivid memory of the shame I felt as a kid for always being in trouble, for seeming to never know what I was supposed to be doing.

There was no way I could let my kid feel punished for just being a kid. It broke my heart that my wife wasn’t standing up for him. In that moment, neither was I.

***

Somehow Andrew made it through kindergarten and we lucked out with a first-grade teacher who was known for creative, not punitive, responses to rambunctious boys. Ms. Brown passed my test when I didn’t see a single bottle of hand sanitizer in her chaotically decorated room. I felt vindicated that my son would have a chance to thrive in this environment that would surely foster his self-expression.

You guessed it. Andrew didn’t thrive in this environment. My wife came home one day after observing in his classroom, appalled at the lack of anything resembling behavior management. Instead, the class was overseen by a teacher who appeared more interested in her phone than the pandemonium that was erupting in her room. Kids who were supposed to be reading chapter books were instead playing board games, completing art projects (smearing paint everywhere) or causing some other form of mayhem. Callie noticed with a sense of dread that a boy who looked about twelve was priming his pencil for its use as a weapon of some kind of destruction.

Despite Andrew’s talent for creating his own noise, he didn’t do well in loud environments. Being the problem solver that he is, he chose to leave the classroom in search of quieter surroundings. He started “eloping” every day, remaining undetected by the distracted Ms. Brown until an angry yard duty would escort him to the principal’s office. Andrew grew increasingly disinterested in school and started having tantrums. We had encouraged him to express his opinions; he was using this skill quite proficiently by the time the school psychologist got involved.

There was talk of creating a “behavior management plan” which involved an intricate sticker reward system. All well and good except Ms. Brown had a mysterious family emergency (the confirmed rumor was rehab) and there were a bunch of one and done substitute teachers who had far bigger worries than implementing a reward system. The pencil dagger boy appeared to have taken control of the classroom and his mutiny seemed inevitable.

We were at a loss for what to do as Andrew languished in this environment. My sense of hopelessness grew each day when he arrived home from school, head hung low in utter dejection. He wasn’t spending time with the neighborhood boys anymore, claiming that they were all a bunch of boring nerds who never got in trouble. I feared he was starting to identify as a bad kid, and I know from my own experience how dangerous that can be.

***

And here we are, a year later. New teacher, same problems. Andrew seems to have developed a palpable hatred for anything related to school. Which is an obstacle since he is legally required to endure this torment for his a good portion of his life.

My wife is reading the notes from last week’s student study team meeting. The “team” came to the consensus that it is past time to evaluate Andrew for ADHD; it seems that putting a label on him is the only way they can tolerate his uniqueness.

But let’s call a spade a spade and admit this is truly about getting our kid to stop being such a pain in their ass. The conversation usually starts with the gentle suggestion, because “of course we’re not doctors,” but it might not be the worst idea to “consider some pharmacological options.” And then they regale us with countless examples of miraculously transformed children! I saw my wife’s eyes reflect a glimmer of hope as I sank further into my chair.

So, this, God, is why I’m coming to you. The strong suggestion to medicate is bringing back my disastrous personal history with ADHD meds. My parents put me on four different meds, the final attempt leaving me with such dark thoughts that my parents eventually saw the harm that all the trying to “fix” me was causing. No more meds for me.

I’m not anti-meds, but Andrew is so young—he doesn’t even have a fully formed frontal cortex! How can he develop a positive self-concept when he takes a pill that’s supposed to make him normal? Is that how I want my kid to feel? I know my parents were well intended but being forced to take a pill made me feel powerless. And that’s why I acted like such a rebellious, defiant, out of control jerk.

In truth, I felt worthless most of the time, wondering what was so wrong with me that I couldn’t do something as simple as show up to school on time, no matter how hard I tried. I even started sleeping in my clothes to save time the next morning. All that did was make me a late kid wearing wrinkled clothes while sporting a brutal case of bedhead.

I felt a glimmer of hope when my parents found me an “executive functioning therapist.” She listened without judgement and helped me comprehend that despite my efforts, my brain simply isn’t capable of accurately estimating how much time I need to do something. She had me complete a time estimation exercise, where I would guess how long something would take me, and then later track how long it actually took. She was amazed (horrified) when I estimated fifteen minutes to complete my calculus homework (it took me an hour and a half.) Or when I guessed that walking to school, something I had done every day during the school year, took me ten minutes. I was shocked when I timed myself and learned that it took me thirty minutes! Side bar: what parent forces their kid to walk thirty minutes to school?

The therapist triumphantly announced that I had time blindness. When she explained this concept to my parents, I thought I would be vindicated. Nope. All that happened was I started having to keep a chart of how long it took me to do every freaking thing, including going to the bathroom. Embarrassing doesn’t begin to describe how this was for a fifteen-year-old kid.

Which is why my wife and I are going back and forth on getting Andrew evaluated. At least we agree that this is one of the most important decisions we’ve faced as parents. Normally, I defer important parenting choices to Callie because she has reasonable answers that make so much more sense than mine. Some days, I think my wife is a saint for putting up with me. Other times, she shows herself to be a cruel arbiter of truths that are known only to her. The thing is, she is usually right. This time, I’m not so sure.

“Luke, we have to get Andrew evaluated! I mean, you got tested when you were a kid and look how great you turned out!” Callie said, a little too brightly.

I love that she thinks I turned out great. I haven’t bothered to tell her how awful I felt as a child during the period before my supposed greatness. I kept my childhood struggles to myself because they don’t fit with my easy going, skate through life attitude that is now my trademark. Callie has no idea how worthless I felt as I walked through life feeling that I had already done something wrong. The only way I knew to survive was to develop the façade of thick-skinned goofball you couldn’t help but forgive. I became the jokester, the one who didn’t worry about the rules. Want a good time? Invite Luke! Need a scapegoat to blame when the cops pull you over? Bring Luke! Want a wingman who will make you look like a brilliant entrepreneur? Luke’s your man—he’s such a loser that anyone looks successful next to him!

Only in my quietest, private moments do I allow myself to feel the anger for being judged and misunderstood my entire life. Why do I have to be the one to conform? Why can’t the world adjust even a fraction to accept my way of doing things?

I wish someone had stood up for me, just once, to defend my uniqueness. To champion my strengths instead of reminding me of all the ways I was so far off the mark. I know, I sound like some whiny victim. Until it hits me that the very struggle of defending my individuality is what gives me the awesome power of understanding my son in a way that no one else can. I am the only one so viscerally aware of the fight my son is facing, the pain that I would do anything in the world to shield him from.

I realize it’s time to let Callie in on my little, okay actually big, secret. It’s what needs to happen so she can understand why I can’t let them take away Luke’s individuality.

And so, I let it all out, fearing Callie would no longer see me as her lighthearted, chill husband. It takes the better part of thirty minutes for me to give example after example of the ways that trying to conform nearly broke my spirit. She listened intently, making understanding faces at the right times. It felt good to get this off my chest and I even cried a little. When I finished, she took my hands in hers.

“Oh my God, Luke. I had no idea. I’m so sorry you went through all of that.”

“It sucked. Sometimes I feel like it happened to someone else, way back when. But when I saw it starting to happen to Luke, it all came back and I needed you to understand how bad it was.”

“I’m so glad you did. Now I’m even more convinced we need to get Andrew tested! So he won’t have to suffer the way you did.”

Wait, what? Was she even listening? I start to get that familiar sensation, the one where I feel like I live on a different planet than everyone else. Until now, I’ve been trying to avoid causing trouble so the world will leave me alone to plant my flag on the small part of the universe I’m allowed to occupy. Now, it looks like I need to cause some trouble and stand up for my son.

Tomorrow morning, I will tell that student study team Andrew is not going to be evaluated. Now, or ever. I’m planting my flag on the hill I’m willing to die on.