ADDiva Blog

Confessions of an ADDiva

Archives: June 2009

The Name Game

Maybe it’s my ADD, but I still feel like I AM a child! So how am I gonna be a grandma to a little girl who will expect grownups to act like, well, grownups?

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I spent an hour online this morning, trying to find a nickname I can live with and I’m running out of time. Little Lilly Surratt will make her appearance any day now and I have no idea what to call myself.

It’s my first grandbaby and I’m having a little trouble coming to grips with the fact that:
a) I am actually old enough to be a grandma and
b) it’s happening whether I like it or not.

Most of my friends already wear the “grandma” crown. They tell me it’s wonderful, that they can’t imagine anything better. My neighbor can’t wait to cradle her first grandchild.

Maybe it’s my ADD, but I still feel like I AM a child! I like skipping and silliness and jumping on beds and turning somersaults. (You know, I haven’t done that for a while, I think I’ll turn one right now! OK, scratch somersaults off the list). But I do like strong sea breezes and fuzzy caterpillars. And I really like staying up past my bedtime. I do it a lot!

So how am I gonna be a grandma to a little girl who will expect grownups to act like, well, grownups? I don’t have to figure it out today, I suppose. Perhaps I don’t have to figure it out at all. Maybe I can be the whimsical, wacky grandma who builds tents out of blankets and has afternoon tea in her purple treehouse (oh yes, there IS a purple treehouse at GardenSpirit).

Oh my gosh! If ADD is genetic, as many researchers suspect, perhaps Lilly will be “one of us.” Our youngest ADDiva-in-training! This is exciting!

Perhaps Lilly and I will spend goofy mornings finger painting the fence and then take a nap in the hammock under the southern pines that tower over my house. We might take a walk in the Carolina sunshine and snuggle in for a batch of homemade blueberry scones.

As much as I hate labels, maybe I can stretch this Grandma thing to fit me – kind like my favorite jeans. I suspect it won’t really matter what she calls me in the end – Oma or La-La or Gi-Gi or even... gulp... Grandma.

Hey, we might need a new ADDiva category: GrandADDiva! OK, Lilly, I’ve got you covered! Come on out into the world, baby girl!

The Buzzzzz About ADHD

I’ve learned to accommodate my ADHD's quirks and demands. But when I start to ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist, even try to brush it off like a bit of fluff, my ADHD buzzes to life.

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You know the axiom: “It takes a village to raise a child?” Well, “it takes a party” to get my house and yard clean on the same day!

Last night was the annual party for my husband’s lab students. We’ve hosted the event for five or six years, so I have the pre-party To Do list down to a science. Order the Mexican food. Make the sangria. Try to get in (and out of) the shower before the first guest arrives. (That hasn’t happened yet; don’t people know NOT to arrive on time at an ADD-driven event?)

The day after the party is like a holiday for me. I walk around in a state of semi-amazement that I (temporarily) live in a place that is picture perfect. There are no piles in the kitchen. The carpet has no stains. The pillows are fluffed and the dust settled. At least for the moment.

Even the landscaping is flawless. This morning, still wearing my nightgown, I went outside to “survey my domain.” What a thrill it was to see a freshly mown lawn, mulched flowerbeds, blueberries ready to burst into luscious sweetness. Ah, life is good. So good. Perhaps it would stay like this forever…

My two faithful Shelties, Boomer and Cosmo, convinced me that no idyllic setting was complete without breakfast. So I meandered back to the kitchen and pulled out the dog bowls. I noticed a tickle on my shoulder, so I casually reached up to scratch it when a loud “Bzzzzzzzzzz” exploded near my right ear. In a nanosecond, I screamed, yanked my nightgown over my head and threw it to the floor.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked, as he ran into the kitchen.

“There’s a bee in my nightgown!” I gasped. “Get it out of here!”

Victor (my hero) grabbed the nightgown (as I grabbed a robe), took it out to the deck and shook it to release the bee. The bee wouldn’t let go. The creature - a large bumblebee of some sort – hung on for dear life. Victor shook harder. Apparently, the bee adored my nightgown; it would not loosen its grip.

Finally, Victor managed to scrape the bee onto the patio table, where it fell on its back, spun around drunkenly and then righted itself. I pulled my nightgown back on, still shuddering that unknowingly I’d carried a bee on my shoulder for – how long? Ten minutes? Twenty? Fortunately, there was no sign of a bee sting.

By the time I calmed down, I realized that the episode was a perfect metaphor for my ADHD. Like the bee, my ADHD hitches a ride on my life. Most of the time, it glides along quietly; I’ve learned to accommodate its quirks and demands. But when I start to ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist, even try to brush it off like a bit of fluff, my ADHD buzzes its warning:

“You can’t get rid of me (bzzzzzzz!). I’m here forever (bzzzzzzz!). Work with me and it’ll be fine (bzzzzzzz!). Fight with me and you might get stung (bzzzzzzz!)."

Point well taken (if you’ll excuse the pun). I know better than to imagine that weeds will never grow again in my flowerbeds; weeds grow in everyone’s flowerbeds. And I know that I can’t dislodge my ADHD from its private perch. It’s tenacious. It likes me. It’s my lifelong companion.

So when the piles reappear on the island in my kitchen – as they most certainly will – I’ll be reminded of that stubborn bee and its warning: "I’m here. This is reality. Do what you have to do to take care of yourself. I’m not going away."

ADHD buzzes in my ear every day. I respect it. I take care of myself. And sometimes I weed the flowerbeds. Even the ones with bees...

The First Post Is the Hardest

Count on me to be forthright, honest and open about my life, as seen through the eyes of a midlife women with "classic" attention deficit disorder.

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Never give an ADD woman a choice. It’s agony for me to figure out the "correct" option. I tend to fudge on my decisions by combining tidbits of several possibilities, so the outcome isn’t so black-and-white. I hate black-and-white. It’s so... final. Permanent. Ick. What if I make a mistake? Double ick.

So when the web editor at ADDitude magazine told me my first blog entry could be either an introduction to me, my life and my attention deficit disorder... or a regular jump-right-into-it post, I knew I was in trouble.

I wanted this inaugural post to be especially compelling and articulate. Approachable. After all, many of you don’t know me yet. First impressions are so important. It’s the moment expectations are set. Opinions flourish. Wretched rejection or astonishing approval hangs in the balance.

So I chewed on my options, stewed in the possibilities and developed a gigantic case of anxiety. Even my old friend Ms. Deadline couldn’t shake me out of my inertia. Just do it. Just DO it! I’m a writer, for Pete’s sake. How long does it take to churn out 500 words, give or take? Ah, that depends entirely on my level of procrastination. Which depends entirely on the i-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-c-e of the task. Which kicks in an accompanying dose of perfectionism – usually an overdose, in my case. Heck, shoot me up with high grade Perfectionism and I can be paralyzed for weeks. Even months or years. Just ask my book coach.

Yes, I am writing a book. I wrote one 10 years ago and swore I’d never do it again. By the time I reached “The End,” I was sick of it. The tortuous (profoundly perfection-laded) process dulled my delight at being published. Never again, I said.

I felt the same way about childbirth immediately after my oldest son was born. Notice I said "oldest." There is a "youngest" son. Obviously, after a few years, I changed my mind about birthing more babies. Just as I changed my mind about birthing another book. And a new blog.

This blog, like my book about ADD women, opens the door to my ADD soul and invites you to peek inside, to share my agony and ecstasy as I alternately bump into furniture (hey; I was thinking about something else!) and triumph over a silly deadline (you’re reading this so my creativity has returned!).

I have no agenda for this blog; I make no promises about a consistent theme or chronological flow (OK, I know you’re shocked, but try to contain yourself!). You are permitted a few expectations, however:

• Count on me to be forthright, honest and open about my life, as seen through the eyes of a midlife women with "classic" attention deficit disorder.

• Expect a wild variety of topics – my ADD brain darts here and there; my writing follows the same trajectory.

• And know, beyond any measure, that I write from a place of integrity, authenticity and respect for you and your ADD life.

I am deeply honored that you choose to spend some of your precious time with me. And I will always respond if you comment or ask questions about a post. Always.

So here we are, nearing the end of the fateful 500 words, give or take. I have avoided the dreaded black-and-white decision (note the flavorful options sprinkled throughout) and temporarily conquered perfectionism (or perhaps I should edit once more?).

And I have made peace with the truth about this blog: that whatever transpires on these virtual pages will be perfectly imperfect. That’s a promise I can keep.