As parents, we tend to overlook some of the more ground-breaking hypotheses that our children deliver. Mostly because we’ve been desensitized by their inane chatter. There must be some base instinct aimed at preserving our sanity that has enabled us to tune them out yet, respond to hours-long monotone diatribes about Bakugans and Yoshi’s with a series of non-committal mmm, hmms and random uh, huhs. Lately, Joe has begun to remind me of a character from the movie Meet the Robinsons. The villain who, as a child, suffers from a lack of sleep and seemingly never stops talking. Not ever. Joe has become the child version of Michael “Goob” Yagoobian.
Joe recently started medication for ADHD of the Inattentive Type and, two days after beginning the medication, David and I endured 40 minutes of incessant talking. Talking with no breaks. If he did happen to take a break say, to breathe, he started over again at the beginning of whatever convoluted and wildly uninteresting tale he was trying to relay.
His droning monologue began in the minivan, continued through two errands, back into the van and finally, mercifully ended in the kitchen. The child didn’t even stop talking when we shut the doors to the van, paused for a breather, then opened the sliders to let the kids out. Gwen had melted into her booster seat, wearing a glazed expression similar to what I imagine the people who have undergone music torture must wear.
We resisted giving him the drugs for nearly a full year after his original diagnosis, so when this new chatty version of Joe evolved, I was concerned. Under the circumstances, I did what any mom would do. I jacked one of his pills to see what it felt like. It is, after all, a form of speed that we’re pushing on our son. However, seeing as I already talk a lot it was, in retrospect, kind of a stupid experiment. I did, however, learn that going to your physician, explaining that you’ve stolen one of your son’s Adderall and seen the light, then requesting a prescription of your very own probably isn’t the brightest idea. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that they had a good laugh when I left the building.
Where was I going with this? Oh, right…inattentive ADHD and excessive talking.
Thankfully, Joe’s non-stop talking has leveled to a socially tolerable state and, with his newfound clarity, I’ve begun to tune back in. I’ve discovered that he’s a deep thinker. I mean, I always knew that he had some important stuff tumbling around in that little head, but now he can actually present his theories in an organized and intelligent manner. I’ve been learning something new every day!
This morning Joe was wiping the sand from his eyes when I jokingly told him the Sandman had brought him dreams and, while he was there, he stopped to poop in his eyes (I know, I know… I’m not the most appropriate or mature mother in the world, no need to leave nasty comments). Without missing a beat he turned and looked at me, “Actually, that’s not true.”
I detected a hint of eye roll. “It’s just boogers that go up to your eyes.”
I was intrigued by his reasoning. “What do you mean; it goes up to your eyes?”
As if suddenly realizing that I’m an idiot, he explained, “When you pick your nose it makes some go straight up into your eyes and some goes into your ears.”
“So let me get this straight. Booger picking causes eye boogies and ear wax?”
“Well, not just picking them…you have to eat them too.”
“Okay, so if you pick your nose and eat it you’ll end up with eye boogers and ear wax?”
“Right,” he confirmed.
“So…you’ve been eating boogers then?”
“Right,” was his matter of fact response, “I think I’m going to stop though because I’m thinking that eating boogers gave me that earache a few weeks ago by causing extra ear wax.”
So there you have it. Adderall has provided my boy with the clarity he needed to kick a nasty booger eating habit. He’s taking a stand and knocking that monkey off his back once and for all. Maybe together we’ll tackle the removal of the Booger Wall behind his bunk bed this weekend.
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