I Took a Break from my ADHD

At the end of August I broke up with ADHD. I looked right at it and announced that I wanted to see other people, that we had lost the spark and were just going through the motions together.

Then I spent the next 5 months downloading mostly awful kindle books and eating chocolate on the couch. I dug out my stretchy pants and totally ignored all of my own advice about exercise.

I ignored all of ADHD’s calls– and it called me A LOT. I drowned my creative urges with a laser-like hyperfocus that would have been admirable had it resulted in anything tangible.

So ADHD and I weren’t friends, but that’s not my personal normal.

Usually I’m agreeably tolerant of my scattered brain; it’s been my modus operandi for a lifetime. Regular avoidance of taking myself too seriously goes a long way. Documenting how a bad 80s song turned into a metaphor for my time-wasting problem– also fun.

I often find the positive spin even when coupled with some deserved self-deprecation.

Consciously looking for the good in the insanity, even when that insanity involves your 19 year old self leaving a bad day at work (Food Lion) to join the Air Force.

Only to end up in the Navy for two weeks.

By the way– typically brained people–that level of effort is exhausting.

Spending the vast majority of the day knowing that life spins out of your control and that the people around you perceive your distractions as personal failures can make cheerfulness hard to maintain.

C’mon people– you didn’t expect really expect mood consistency Anyone with a chronic mental or physical condition gets fed up with having to deal sometimes. We wallow, then we dust off. Except for the ones that don’t.

Coping skills? I could write a book. Procrastination is even a coping mechanism, if you consider how waiting until the very last minute pushes my brain into hyper-focus. And hyper-focus is when shit gets done.

My imagination? My ability to see pathways and layers that y’all “normal” folk miss on your way to being, like, ON TIME for things? Looking sideways and squinty-eyed at a project idea and coming up with a plan?

Love that part.

Controlling impulsive decisions, like tattoos of cartoon devils remains the single greatest medication achievement. But medication hasn’t touched the executive function problems. Struggling both with starting–and finishing– most everything?

Harder to love.

I can appreciate what hyper-focus looks like to the outside world. Especially for those people that assume that ADHD is rooted mostly in focus, or lack thereof.

“Look! She’s been reading for 5 straight hours! That takes FOCUS.” She just doesn’t want to do her homework.”

Bah. ADHD isn’t just about having, or not having, the ability to focus. The focus thing is secondary. The primary issue is one of executive function: defined as neurocognitive processes that maintain an appropriate problem-solving set to attain a later goal.

But hyper-focus is a topic all of its own.

When Pinterest Changed the World

You’ve heard of Pinterest, right? And then, because one cannot have yin without yang; Pinterest, You are Drunk? I have a personal submission for the second link: remember, laughing at other people without also laughing at yourself makes you an asshole.

I am a procrastinator. I make To Do lists only to willfully ignore every item. I seek pressure-filled, adrenaline-rushed situations. Setting soft deadlines for myself is like putting mashed cauliflower on a plate and calling it potatoes: a nice thought, but not fooling anyone.

In a few weeks, each of the Small People start schools in different zip codes. For those keeping notes, ADHD folk (yup, that’s me) generally struggle with multiple transitions. Multiple transitions involving two people that regularly take 20 minutes to walk a mere five feet? Valium anyone?

Sane Other people might be spending these next two weeks soaking in time with the kids, making lunch menus, planning outfits and updating the family calendar.

Or finishing the other important things like emailing Z’s new principal a head’s up that the child is capable of reading Harry Potter level text– but might prefer to speak his made up dragon language on testing day. Or perhaps dropping off his immunization records.

To that end, getting E’s health form filled out.

Or buying that other car, since the insurance company totaled out the Scion.

Instead of doing any of those things, I am sifting through mountains of paper and spray painting stuff.

To thine own self be true, right?

Wistfully reminiscing about that timeI was alone in my home for an entire weekend.

Because pinterest didn’t exist back then–

Finding Focal Length: Headphones and Loud Music

I had, until a few weeks ago, forgotten that one of my earliest ADHD coping methods for finding focal length included headphones and loud music. Which seems odd since headphones and loud music once saved my job.

Photo Courtesy off Monster Beats- Beats by Dre


Do whaaa?

Back in the day, my Other Self worked in a 6×8 cube. Only statisticians got the 8×8 cubes, but I love closet-like hidey-holes. The noise level and opportunities for distraction?

Shakes head— I feel like the failure of corporate america can at least be partially blamed on the inventor of the cubical. Listening to the incessant hum from fluorescent lights ranks up there with water boarding, but with the addition of Mary Jo telling Sally about her most recent date; and Bob’s conference call; and whispered conversations–infinitely more distracting– it’s enough to make even the typically-brained go all squirrelly.

Let’s also remember that I did not get diagnosed and medicated for my ADHD until I had been at the aforementioned job for about a year. And while my mouth didn’t get me fired, my mistakes were making it harder to ignore my delightfully rambunctious personality. *cough*

And it’s not like I spent an error-free decade working retail. I lost a $500 bundle of cash one night, eventually finding it several hours later just sitting there on the window sill. But money either balances, or it doesn’t at the end of the night. Years of practice turned those errors into a money-finding skill that was a large part of my success as a customer service manager.

Go figure.

I’ve said it before medication helps; without it I’m reduced to less. Accomplishing less, being less than what I want for my life.

Do I have a disability? Technically. Does it make some areas of my life more difficult? Absolutely.
Should I use that as a reason (excuse) for not trying? Hell To the No.

Enter stage left: Coping Mechanisms for finding Focal Length

Perhaps overly simplistic, but it seems to me that the easiest coping mechanism for ADHD includes avoiding that which distracts. Okay, fine– but short of designing my own sound-proof room, noise and interruptions remain part of living in the real world. Plus, too quiet is as much a distraction as too loud.

Hunh. I just remembered a time in college and that time I left my too-quiet apartment near midnight and ended up at Perkins (similar to IHOP) so I could study for exams.

Anyway– as I discovered in that 6×8 cube, full of noise and drop-in visitors, was that a strategically placed filing cabinet, once all the drawers were pulled open, became an obvious door. And that distractions that I chose– music– helped me ignore all the other nonsense going on around me.

I’m annoyed with how much time I spend online– especially since most of it is motivated by urges to write. But because my kids are used to being able to interrupt me– honestly, how much focus does facebook require?– we are working together on forming new habits.

Headphones, the focal length technique that I dusted off about a month ago. HEADPHONES?! Suddenly all the bad word music of my youth– and I’m not talking about damn and hell– became available again. I also can’t hear the Small People’s conversations and negotiations (bonus points for them learning how to cooperate without me); my dogs barking at the squirrels; the squeaking AC; the loud thunk-thunk of a washing machine that hates to wash clothes; the woodpecker that refuses to accept that we don’t have wooden gutters; and the dude next door playing cornhole.

I’ve missed my music filled with wholly inappropriate Small People verbiage. I can think of no justification for either of them quoting 2 Live Crew. But I will never give them up, you try replacing the memory of your first censorship: my mom ripped the cassette tape to pieces– with tongs, while she was wearing oven mitts because she was so horrified by the lyrics.

So tonight when I’ve spent the past thousand (4) days having various people all up in my face (my mom had her second knee replacement) and my kids are loosing their minds because it’s 105 degrees outside and they have to remember not to jump on people, or leave toys out? And I need to check out, but there is no where to go?

Headphones.

I can’t hear the sound of mom’s knee-bending machine, or what’s on the tv. Or the normal grunts, groans, coughs, and sighs.

Nope, I just went from Blister in the Sun to Straight out of Compton, which may seem odd to some, but is beautifully appropriate to me.

Stuttering, this is new.

See, just as soon as I decide there is nothing to worry about growth wise with Elliot, he develops a stutter. And I don’t mean a simple st-st-stutter. Nope, it’s more of a s-s-s-s-st-st-st-st-st-stutter.

He’ll be 3 in November and his language abilities were already advanced, so that his stuttering may be the result of a forthcoming language explosion (a common reason for stuttering in the 2-5 year age range) is a little terrifying. What kind of advancement is he going to make? A self-taught foreign language? Haiku? Olde English? I’m not doing the mom-thing either, the kid exceeds cognitive milestones with the same rate as he misses the growth ones.

Assuming it’s not any of the more scary reasons (of course there are some) for stuttering– I’m categorizing this as a mild SOS (get it, Sudden Onset Stuttering). Elliot’s SOS is a simple one: I also have thoughts– so could y’all shut up for a second and give me a chance to, 1) start, and then 2) finish a sentence?

In a world a thousand light-years from this one, I attended a classic college dorm room party: 20 underage bodies crammed into one 10ftx10ft room, drinking warm, cheap malt liquor. I came with someone who knew someone, but I was meeting the room’s occupant (and on-duty RA) for the first time that evening.

Here I am, slightly less than sober, having to listen to this drunk guy struggle through a word I identified as “because”.

“Be-be-be-be-be”, he stammered.

“Because”, I shouted, frenetically waving my arm in a circle as if turbine wind speed would hurry him the hell up.

When a 6+ foot drunk Uruguayan, who, as I was to find out shortly, also happens to be an extremely talented poet/author and, quite often, eloquent storyteller, lambastes your presumption with a perfectly timed, ad hoc limerick? Those are the wince-worthy life lessons that become part of your own mentally-held Permanent Record.

I never again, not for the decade we were friends (how could I not befriend him– the kid had talent) rushed his , or any other stutter’s, words.

Which leaves me with poor Mr E., who’s popping neck veins like Ah-nold in Conan (officially this is called a block), just to start a sentence. Which leads me to rearrange my typically impatient face to one of smiling attentiveness, even as my twitchy meter starts to inch into the red-zone. One, because it’s just heartbreaking to listen to your child struggle to communicate. Two, it already takes 15 minutes for them to walk 5 feet from the front door to the car. Not rushing a child who is most-definitely trying to say something and stuttering makes punctuality damn near impossible. Three, I am–by clinical definition, personality and habit– an extraordinarily impatient person. For me to stop what I’m doing and genuinely deliver both undivided attention and patience is as difficult for me as getting the word out is for him. My longterm success with doing this for Elliot, while dealing with Zach’s jealousy over his younger brother getting any extra attention will likely necessitate some sort of martial arts training.

Oh,and the other day when I heard Zach mocking his younger brother? I might have threatened the entirety of Zach’s toy collection if I ever heard it repeated. Which perhaps may seem a but harsh. But sometimes it’s the harshest of lessons that make the longest impression.

To Do Lists are for Forgetting

I make my To Do lists so that I can forget what I need to get done. Yeah, I said it– what? Once upon a time I was so very responsible and organized (-ish). Why? Because back then Other Self had a paycheck that depended on not missing/messing up deadlines. Now I gracefully bow to my more anal-retentive friends (ahem– make fun of my accidental chili-ing of oatmeal, will ya!) who have a great need to have precise plans. Honestly, I love those people (and there are more than one of you in my life RIGHT NOW)– because even though I am capable of turning off my planner/Control Freak, I still like to know that someone trustworthy has mapped out the route. I can completely be cool with my forgetting the cheese…or the utensils–which I swore I packed and found on the kitchen table when we got home. And… for all of my control-needing friends– I am you for someone else in my life. All of you never-forgetting-important-things, if-I-need-20-extra-minutes-I-wake-up-earlier folks, take a moment and absorb that. Shocked? Or resentful? Or complimented that I believe so strongly in your abilities that I turn off my own only-child-ingrained need to be boss?
/But I only do this for the people that make a plan and then stick to it. You last minute plan-changers drive me completely bonkers and I trust you not at all./

My epiphany of I Write It to Forget It occurred this afternoon as I wrote another To Do list (often coinciding with long waits in places with the sign, “NO CELL PHONES”. Does surfing on your smart phone count as breaking that rule? No, seriously.) And since that list is on a scrap piece of paper that I dumped into a hobo bag full of other scraps of paper, diapers, and crushed cereal bars… Well, we all know what is going to happen to it, don’t we? The same thing that happened to my 2 hours worth of Home Depot/bathroom remodel research– that I wrote on the back of my grocery list. A list that, yup, I threw away. At.the.grocery.store.

Then there was that time I loaded all of my Really Important Tasks into the Astrid App for my droid–streamlining my life, right? Snort. Update blog design has been popping up to be ignored for oh, 8 months or so. Thank you note for the August Fire Station tour? I safely deleted that one. Like 10 minutes ago.

Or the Facebook wall post to a friend about getting pictures up soon, after realizing I’d forgotten to upload ones from a January playdate. I was making a joke-reference to college and how she used to have to harass me to get my film developed; equating “posting pictures on FB” to “developing a roll of film” (what, that’s not the same thing?). Bless her heart, she thought I meant getting the pictures printed. Egads– I haven’t actually printed a picture since…um… November 2009.

/bangs head/ Now, a good friend would print them. Especially a good friend who still hasn’t mailed an August 2010 birthday present. And it would fit nicely into my now 10 month overdue “make Z a friends’ photo album” task.

None of these To Do items are even that time intensive–to the average person. I could print the pictures as quickly as it would take me to upload them. Hell, if I used snapfish, I wouldn’t even have to leave my house to pick them up. But I couldn’t possibly just send the photos as-is without editing first. That’s like leaving the house without a bra.

Except it isn’t. But that, my dear friends, is where my personal Control Freak makes a mockery of any of your punctuality and remembering to bring cheese-type stuff. And as much as I love you all, my “blaming it on the ADHD” is not an just a convenient excuse. Any more than OCD, PPD, anxiety, or depression is “just an excuse”. I cannot take the dose of medication I need to attain optimal performance, because I need to be able to not tunnel in and focus. Those silly kids…and their occasional need for my un-tunneled attention. Which means I take just enough drugs to make sure I don’t forget one of them at the grocery store, or to give them their medications. And so that I remember to pay our bills– even though the dude at our water main with a wrench caused a bit of panic that had me looking for a paid receipt. Bet that doesn’t happen to you non-deficient attentioners.

That’s the problem with mental health though, hunh? If you can’t get a positive test for it, people think it’s not real. /shrug/ My husband, who has lived with me both on and off medication for more than a decade, can see the difference.

Maybe I’ll get the blog design updated this week. But it’s the first hint of spring out there, so I doubt it. Peace and Love Grease to you all, though!

Wallets and Weather

Having ADHD causes moments of extreme D’ohness, which I usually control nicely with pharmaceuticals. Sometimes though, my internal Homer breaks free and I got nothing but D’oh for ya. Two epic fails this week–read on and enjoy.

First was The Wallet. No, it did not used to be a ziplock bag. However, my other one was really messed up after it got run over by a half dozen cars on the side of a busy highway. The how of my wallet being on the side of a highway remains a mystery. I assume I put it on top of my car and that it eventually fell off.

Note: Much thanks to the stranger that saw the wallet, retrieved it (and its contents), and managed to track me down through my insurance company. I promise the fact that I spent 5-10 minutes considering the potential for you to be a serial killer is a function of my overactive imagination, and not a reflection of your kindness.

Next was The Cabana. A group of friends with similarly aged children decided to take a trip to Wet’n Wild waterpark. To a kid (as memory serves) a waterpark is, like, the coolest thing…evah. We had tickets, I reserved the cabana ($100 split among a group isn’t expensive) and we were ready to roll.

Until it started storming last night and I realized I hadn’t–not once–checked the weather forecast for the day of our trip. Actually checking it–50% chance of rain– made my head start to hurt; reading the small-“cabana-fee-non-refundable”-print triggered a full headache. But, one thing about living in NC–if you don’t like the weather just wait an hour, it’ll change. My friends, good-natured people that they are, loaded up minivans with kids and contraband snacks, taking the risk that the storms would hold off until the afternoon.

This is about what it looked like when we got there. And it stayed looking like that for the next two hours.

See, there is a difference between forgetting important details ahem– the weather forecast for an outdoor trip–when the plans do/don’t include Small People. Your adult friends might give you a hard time, but it is unlikely that you will have to drag them — limp-bodied, purple-faced, and screaming — out to the car. I mean, it’s happened…but it’s just not as likely.

But when you forget those kinds of details and those adults are now the Parents of Small People (six total, ranging in age from 20 months to 3.5 years) the potential for disaster is high. Now it’s not just your screaming kid, but the screaming kids of your close friends. And being trapped in the car with them screaming for the 1.5 hour trip back home.

Elliot yelled at me for 15 minutes the other day because I gave him a bowl of Craisins rather than leaving them in the bag. Zach has thrown himself to the floor and sobbed over getting a blue, instead of an orange, cup. Anyone with kids knows it would have only taken one of them to start in on a good tantrum before the rest of them followed.

For close to two hours we sat under our nonrefundable cabana listening to the repeated PA-announcement of “…park currently closed due to bad weather. We will re-open as soon the threat passes…”

What did our group of perfect (today, at least) Small People do? They re-stacked the brick edging, cleaned up trash, examined leaves, hopped on the steps, turned loungers into climbing structures, snacked (contraband snacks = best thing ever) and remained generally affable.

Right as I went to petition for a cabana-fee refund (inexplicably easy–it only took me saying “I worked Customer Service for 10 years, and I assure you that they don’t pay you enough to deal with me if y’all try and fight this”) the storm system broke enough to give the kids 30 minutes of play time. We all got rain-checks and went out for pizza.

As an adult, the natural conclusion was that the trip was a consummate failure. But as one of the Dad’s pointed out to Joel, none of the kids realized that they had gotten screwed–thus no tantrums. In the car–right before he passed out–Zach told us that the “Wet and Water” park was “so much fun” and “we should do that again”. And we are, next weekend, sans cabana and weather permitting.

Cardboard Box Train

If you are a person with a son who loves train, an overactive imagination, and not enough things to keep occupied during those long afternoon naps, you probably get in the same kind of trouble that I do. The trouble that revolves around having ideas and making plans off those ideas. Perhaps you think of building a playhouse train out of a cardboard box in your kids’ playroom closet.

Or perhaps you don’t. But I do, and did.

My inspiration came from the local kid’s museum—they have all kinds of static play-on structures; ambulances, boats, etc. I thought about my love of upcycling. I thought of the large wardrobe boxes (had to buy these)…I thought of silver paint (had lots of this)…I thought of a fake driver seat (had one of these, too). I thought of everything.

Well, not everything. I didn’t remember that you can’t paint oil-based paint over water-based paint and expect adhesion, especially not when the painting surface is cardboard. Nope, I didn’t think of that until after I fighting with the installation of the train roof and noticed I had silver fingers.

I have once again been foiled by the ADHD and my attention-to-detail problem.

Even had the paint not rubbed off and the end result of my idea was an actual train, I spent far more time on this than I intended. My original estimate was that it would take about 5 hours—to include paint/dry times—to create a square train from two boxes.

Well, the train wasn’t going to be square (mistake number 1) because I told a certain Small Person what I was doing (mistake number 2) and he got all excited and said SIR JOHN?, and I agreed (mistake number 3). Giving a rough guesstimate, I would say the whole thing took 16 hours. Not 16 hours of actual work, I’m billing some time to “thinking” (my former co-workers will remember this work-code). I spent about 10 minutes being really annoyed by the dismal end, and then I got over it.

Because regardless of there being no fancy silver train—I have another wardrobe box. They can use their own imaginations and pretend it’s a train. No further involvement from me is necessary. It’s only what I should have done to begin with…had my own imagination not gotten the best of me!

Now…my real fantasy is to build a train-shaped playhouse in the back yard. I think I’ll wait until the silver dust settles to bring that idea up with Joel.

Do normal people finish things?

Do normal people actually finish things? Is my fantasy of this place where projects are completed and all of the stuff has a predesignated space just a myth. Are there more people like me, who have a dozen projects residing in either the plan or execute phase and–very rarely–the finished phase? Stuff makes me crazy. Disorder makes my brain hurt. Paying retail prices for just about anything makes stomach hurt. My heart aches over the creative things that I never get to, because it takes too long to shift, dig, and sort through all of the stuff.

I’d like to take this opportunity to blame my piles and unfinished-ness on my ADHD, thankyouverymuch. Impulse begets purchasing things that you aren’t ready to actually start yet. Random, creative thinking gives second lives to otherwise landfill-bound stuff. Which means that I have a hard time letting go of things.

And even as I cognitively realize that there are people who have control of their lives, I have to wonder if it is actually the norm. Mostly I just hope it’s not because that means I would actually be closer to normal.

For those of you that can actually take a package to the post office and mail it before the dust accumulates, well you’ll think I’m a moron. Whatever.

I have problems following a linear path even with the lines drawn out in the road. Well, here, let me try and explain with a recent example.

Since Memorial Day weekend, I’ve been in one of my “get rid of, put away, finish” things. I’ve been freecycling, craigslisting, and goodwilling. I started with the baby clothes in the basement. Which motivated me to clean out the playroom–they have too many toys, they can’t even decide what to play with. The storage system just wasn’t working, the cube idea is cute and all, but the bins don’t stay sorted. I upcycled one of our leftover cabinets from 2008’s kitchen makeover (of course I kept them! I might need it for something!) into a book shelf so I could switch over to the clear, plastic bins. My brain got away from me during the process and I ended up trying to make the bookshelf look like a house, but it just didn’t look right outside of my brain. The cabinet/shelf was fine though. Yes, I have pictures. Yes, I’m too lazy to get up and go download them off of the camera right now. I’ll post ’em later.

By cleaning, sorting, and purging through too many toys, I reclaimed a line of wall space in my bedroom where two rubbermaid tubs had become toy boxes. But three little projects before I finished the playroom, I got distracted and started cleaning through the piles in the bedroom. And, once again, before I was done with either the playroom or the bedroom, I decided to clean out the top of the boys’ bedroom closet. Until yesterday, that closet space was the home to several random glass antiques, a broken coo coo clock, Joel’s ski bibs, and a korean hand fan. Now it has a giant box of kid winter and hand-me-down clothes, so at least the contents are appropriate and those clothes are off my floor. Of course, the clothes were replaced by previous closet residents. My piles are like an elaborate game of tetris. I do not have the high score.

Even now, I’m blogging because–thanks to the great bedroom re-org–I got motivated to finish the floor pillows I planned for the playroom. And by finish, I really mean start. I found all of the necessary items–pillow forms, fabric, thread–under my bed. The project was fresh in my mind after spending 7 hours in the hot, hot NC sun at the Spencer Transportation Museum today. Like the Grouchy Ladybug, at 6pm I looked at the unfinished project and said, “do you want to fight?” and got started. Everything is cut and pinned for three pillows, because if I was going to do one, I might as well do all three of them. In truth, all I’ve done is make a giant mess in the middle of the bed right…….before…….losing……interest.

Now it’s either:
1) finish the pillows, because otherwise I need to unpin the fabric and will have wasted all of my time investment.
2) create a new pile (mess) in a new place (top of dresser) to finish (not to be seen for another 6 months) later.

Decisions, decisions.

The End of Quarantine

Tuesday, Day 4
Mildly sick-ish kids–low fever and snot, but they’d have to like a person in the eye to spread any germs. Off to the Cary train station before the end of quarantine.

They have lots of cool stuff—like route maps.

A bench with an older man who spent more than several minutes playing pass the paper with Elliot.

Instead of being punk’D, I was ADHD’ d and managed to insult the game-playing stranger. If a clinical definition for social Tourette’s Syndrome doesn’t already exist, it should. I don’t even remember how I managed to transition an innocuous conversation about plane vs train travel into a Yankee crack. In Cary. Cary, the city that is (lovingly) referred to as the Corral Area for Relocated Yankees. Thankfully, the train arrived soon after, saved by the…whistle?

In the afternoon Zach and I made play dough. I even let him stir it on the hot stove stove, with burner on super low.

Oh gracious, he could have burned himself! What if he ended up in the ER. Said with all of the Southern-ness of, Bless your heart, you moron. Why ever would you let let your 3.5 near the hot stove?)

I have to constantly remind myself (and a few others) that Zach is not as spastic as Elliot. Activities that Elliot can’t do–both because he’s Elliot and he’s only 18 months old–Zach can do, just fine.

Also, for anyone who thinks that homeschooled kids don’t learn as much as schooled children…let me point out a few of the conventional topics I taught to my 3.5 year old.

English

      Review of capital versus lowercase letters.

 

    Reading–recognize simple words, learn new words.

Math

      Review of whole number ID

 

      Introduction to fractions–1 cup of flour versus 1/2 cup of flour

 

    Counting–3 cups of water

Chemistry

      What is energy–for cooking, the energy is heat

 

      Phases of matter–How does energy affect the matter? Liquid starts to solidify

 

    Describe the some of the differences between a liquid and a semi-solid

All of that looks like formal learning to me. And we got some playdough out of it. 😉

Then there are the points that I re-learned, too

      A kid who goes more than a little crazy after

eating

      red dye #40 will have the same reaction he uses it with bare hands to color his dough orange.

 

    Food coloring is more water resistant than Crayola paint

Wednesday, Day 5.
Yet another regularly scheduled playdate that we are missing. The fevers broke on Tuesday night, so they were both feeling better, which meant they were antsy. It’s hard to explain the 24-hour-without-fever rule to Small People. We were all bored and getting annoyed with each other.

A random bag of hidden (from them, not me) toys provided a happy diversion when tossed into rubbermaid containers of moonsand.

We ended up having a spontaneous–and quick–birthday party for several members of the Stuffed Animal crew. Complete with cake (bread, cream cheese, and fresh strawberry preserves) and pointy birthday hats. Take that, Tea Party.

Even though hanging out with them turned out to be a lot more fun than I anticipated we are happy to be rejoined in the healthy world of with the other Small (and adult) People.

Losing your Prescription: ADHD in the Trenches

Losing your prescription is ADHD in the trenches. I mean, seriously, even I am rolling my eyes at myself.


(By the way- cafe press has some rocking ADHD stuff. Just saying).

Where was I? Oh, lost my script, right. Here I am, four pills left, with no clue where this month’s tiny scrap of paper (speaking of, why ARE prescription pads so small) has meandered off to. Is it where prescriptions have lived for the past 5 years? Nope. I have a vague memory of deciding that my wallet wasn’t the best place (WHY?) and choosing a better, safer spot. As long as safer means hidden then my plan was a success.

All of this is made worse by the ridiculous piles of random paper that litter every flat surface of my house. Despite my mediocre effort–I cannot, in good conscience, pretend that I am giving my best effort–to keep the clutter under control it permeates every available space.

I’m going to have to tear my house apart tonight. My hope is that I will find it in the process. My fear is that it inadvertently ended up in the trash during a previous purge.

I could call my doctor, but I doubt she’ll give me another script. The downside to taking a Class C narcotic, I suppose. Instead I will up my coffee intake (gasp) and buy some vivarin. Not optimal, but certainly better than unmedicated Stephanie.

Wish me luck, people. A true Scattered Mom looms on the horizon.