When my oldest child started kindergarten at a college preparatory elementary school, I had been a stay at home mom for several years. During the first week of school, I caught the eye of an experienced mom. She invited me to social events, setting a pattern of interaction with a great group of other kindergarten moms.
I look back with great fondness and gratitude for being included. Often at lunches after drop off, we laughed at our children’s playground antics and their cute mispronunciations of words as they learned to read. It felt good to be a part of a team. And I envisioned doing life with these moms until our kiddos graduated high school. When I had doubts and questioned myself, these moms were my go-to for advice. And I, in turn, acted as a sounding board for them. We felt like equal partners in this parenting adventure.
The shift in our lunchtime conversations happened subtly.
As third grade dawned, our topics turned from cute sayings to more academic matters. The other third graders were winning spelling bees, participating in Math Olympics, and bringing home straight “A” report cards. But as my oldest progressed to third grade, I noticed that I was listening more than talking during lunches with the other third grade moms. As they shared their kiddos’ latest achievements, I withdrew from these conversations because their reality was not my reality.
Where their kids excelled, mine struggled. My oldest is a very bright kiddo. She is gifted at a lot of things, but executive functioning skills were her Achilles heel. We engaged in huge battles over minor things like turning in homework, combing hair and remembering to put shoes in the car. So withdrawing from the “let’s all brag on our kids” conversations became a self-protection strategy for me.
Another tactic I started to employ during mom lunches was sarcasm. My humor became a type of armor against the shame I secretly felt. I became the class clown of our group of homeroom moms — a regular Robin Williams of one-liners, making myself the butt of my own jokes. I called myself a beta mom – the exact opposite of the “alpha mom” who had an invisible Wonder Woman cape flying behind her. I quipped that I wore the cape that read “What in the world happened here?” I mom shamed myself before anyone else could. At award ceremonies, I joked that we were the family that won the award for “Most Tardies Without the Truant Officer Being Called.” For real, getting to school on time was the struggle.
Thinking back to those lunches, I realize that I withdrew from conversations because:
- I was sad that my child’s brilliance wasn’t rewarded with a ribbon.
- I felt that I had to lie about my family’s reality because it didn’t match other families.
- I realized that I couldn’t contribute to the conversation.
I was dying to disappear because I felt like such a failure as a mom.
I couldn’t understand why parenting looked so easy for all the other moms, but felt so hard for me.
You see, at that point, I didn’t recognize my own neurodivergence: an undiagnosed ADHD mom trying to parent an undiagnosed ADHD child.
When the diagnoses came, at first they felt like a loss: the end of how I thought things were going to be. But they ended up becoming a new beginning. As I learned about neurodivergence — a brain that is wired differently — I grew as a parent.
I recognized what it was in myself and my children so then I understood what made our family different. Not better or worse, but just as special. I understood my needs as a neurodivergent person parenting neurodivergent children and carefully cultivated a support system that understands neuro-biology. So many years later, I now see the better choice for a struggling parent like myself is grace instead of shame.
My cultivated support system happened by happy accident. We made a change in our childrens’ education setting that was a better fit for our family. These people understood the situations that are a “no-brainer” for neurotypical children but are an everyday struggle for our children. I found camaraderie when I shared how difficult it was to buy clothes that felt just right for my children and how happy I was when I discovered foods they would actually eat for lunch.
What made the parents in my cultivated support system different from the 3rd grade homeroom mom crew?
- I can have a deep conversation, sharing my fears and wishes for my child’s future — without judgment or hearing suggestions on how to fix my child.
- These moms are empathetic to my struggles. They know what it is like to have your child avoid school because of social anxiety. Like me, they’ve probably driven away from school in frustration because their child was so anxious they vomited on the car floors.
- With these moms, I can take my “life is good” mask off and not pretend that things are okay.
- I walk away from these conversations feeling understood and hopeful even if my reality hasn’t changed.
Does this feel like your situation? Do you secretly cringe when you get together with other parents?
Let’s start a conversation about how neurodivergence isn’t something to be ashamed about but something to learn about, explore, and embrace for you and your family.
