Taking off my teacher hat 🎩, and putting on my mama cap 🧢, this is the message of what I want to say to the teachers who work with my child who has an invisible disability:
If you work with children with ADHD, anxiety, or learning difficulties, pretty please just remove the vocabulary, “Did you tell your mom what happened with ….?” as a conversation starter in the car rider line, or passerby opening talk in the hall. It puts him on the spot, to likely talk about something uncomfortable in an unsafe environment. It puts me on the spot, too. I’m just saying, that’s not going to be the best way to get the attention of a fried mom who has heard that same phrase offered hundreds of times as a preface to detailing some misdeed or misfortune of the day. If it’s to me, I’m sorry, but most likely instead of listening and giving you the attention you deserve, my mind is already racing a million miles per minute to figure out what happened THIS time and how I’m going to minimize the damage and fix the problem. I’m going to start tuning out and expecting your eye rolls, and my stomach is going to drop to me feet in preparation of trying to explain this disability one more time, hoping you’ll understand, knowing you probably won’t. Don’t worry. I will always respect you and defend you to the end. It’s YOU that’s pouring out your heart and soul trying to shape, mould, teach, and love him. It’s YOU that spends hours trying to figure out what strategy to try next and help him solve his issues-of-the-day. I’ll always say you’re right, and I’m going to try my best to make him comply with whatever it is you think is best. You’re the professional. I trust you with one of my deepest held possessions; I know you love him, too. I’ll spend hours talking through every scenario under the sun to improve character and set expectations. I’ll divvy out consequences right and left. I know my child misbehaves. I know he’s anxious. I know he can’t keep up with his assignments. I know he has friendship issues. I know he says inappropriate things, and he’s unpredictable. I know he doesn’t pay attention and you have to repeat directions over and over. I know he does annoying things that distract everyone. I know he’s whiney and ultra sensitive. I I know his stories are half-truths that he fully believes. I know his emotions swing hard and anger comes as easily as tears. I know he rarely turns in completed work, probably never. I know he’s going to hear three words out of the fifty you say, and his interpretation of most any situation is way off.
But he also has tenacity. That guy is my pride and joy; I revel in his every success. He works harder at writing a paragraph than the average person would take to write a book. He works so dang hard to do schoolwork that he picks his hair out. Literally, like making his head bald. Reading makes him anxious, math throws him over the edge. Trying to focus takes every ounce of brain power he can muster. He bites his nails to bloody nubs and shreds papers and rips apart heavy-duty stress balls because he’s got to put that nervous energy somewhere. In fact, he nibbles and chews on just about anything and he’s even picked his eyelashes out one by one. He has empathy and understands feelings because he experiences the range of it all, all of the time. He’s on sensory overload most of the time, everything jumbled and meshed together. I think you already know, but if you don’t, what I want you to know is that he’s working as hard as he can, in every single way. We all are.
I want you to know I appreciate every time that you reach higher and try harder to tap into his world and thought process, even when you don’t get it. I appreciate your gentleness with me when I tear up in our parent/conferences. I appreciate when you don’t take excuses and you make him work harder to reach his potential. I appreciate your communication, and always answering texts and emails. I appreciate when you notice something good and I adore it when you tell me.
I just want you to know, we’re on the same page.
We’re all trying as hard as we can.
jubilantmommydiary - E. Villalta 