You suspect your child or grandchild has ADHD if/when:
Your child is the only one doing cartwheels . . . on the baseball field. At least he's having fun!
You send your child upstairs to get dressed, twenty minutes later, she’s sitting in her pajamas on the floor, examining her socks. Fussing about those little knobby things on the toes.
Her name is mentioned, called, and screamed ten times more often as anyone else in the house.
You find your grandson's dirty sock on his bookshelf, his underwear hanging on a doorknob, his shoes are never together in pairs, and his school backpack is nowhere to be found.
You're in Walmart and hear funny suction-type noises two aisles over...then find your grandson doing 'bottle flip' with a toilet plunger.
She can’t spell—unless she’s hanging upside down, bouncing on a trampoline, or spinning in an office chair.
Your child can hold a two-way conversation…on her own.
In the span of five minutes, your child asks 14 questions— all about totally different topics. You barely get the answer out before he's halfway through asking the next question!
She spends hours on a homework assignment with constant encouragement nagging, and then leaves it at home on the day it is due. Or she manages to bring it to school and still forgets to turn it in.
His big sister has to take a note to school from Mom explaining that her little brother ate her homework.
Your grandson manages to get himself stuck upside down in one of those very tall laundry baskets.
You check the lost and found box each Friday and leave with a bag filled with your child’s belongings. She has no idea anything was missing.
Climbing the walls is not a metaphor in your home.
You feel like you live with a mini-version of Jim Carrey.
Conversation with seven-year-old daughter: This is a true story.
Loaded in the car headed to school and she's barefoot.
Me: Where are your shoes?
Her: I can't find them.
Me: What do you mean you can't find them. You have about 11 pair of shoes in your closet or at least scattered around your room.
Her: Yes, but none of them are the ones that go with this outfit. (Remember . . . she's seven.)
Me: Well, you can't go to school barefooted.
Her: Why not?
Me: Here is where I wanted to say, "Because I said so." But, I explained very calmly there were rules about that.
Her: Why are there rules about going barefoot?
Me: (My voice tightening just a little) Because there could be glass on the playground or thumbtacks on the floor. The rule is to protect you.
Her: (Silence with a bit of a puffed up attitude and arms now tightly crossed in her lap) But I want to wear the shoes that go with this outfit!!
Me: (My voice even tighter and somewhat louder-trying to reason with her) Where were the shoes the last time you saw them?
Her: On my feet.
Me: My voice just a decibel below a scream You have two minutes to get in the house, find some shoes, any shoes, put them on your feet and get yourself back int this car.
Do you understand me?
Her: No response. Gets out of car. Goes into house. Comes back out wearing the shoes she was looking for in the first place.
Me: Where were those shoes?
Her: In my closet
