My day at Hedgebrook was a day in which I was completely out of my element. It was a day to be surrounded by talented, gifted and pure, non-cynical women who wear Birkenstocks, don’t perm their hair and refuse to sport designer labels. I came to learn to be a better writer. But I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. That would take more than one day. And these women were really good. Many were professional, published authors. Others were just naturally amazing. We were given an assignment to inspire creativity. We were to write instructions for something and the woman to my right quickly jotted down with ease and off the top of her graying head, a moving diatribe detailing the pain and angst of being married to an addict. She cleverly called it “How to Stay.” Are you freaking kidding me? Her first draft was like one of my 20th drafts. WTF! Then she gently pushed my hand and indicated that I should read what I wrote. Not a chance, lady. I’m not that deep. I don’t wear organic cotton clothes, I don’t meditate and I don’t make my kids' lunches from scratch. These were real ladies and real moms. Not me. I’m a lazy, surface mom who buys organic crap food because it makes me feel good about myself. In case you don’t know, organic crap food is the stuff in boxes with cute names like “Annie’s Home Grown” or “Happy Times.” The manufacturers make the junk food we used to eat as children like pretzels and cheese-its but with organic cane sugar and organic wheat. Sometimes it’s even Gluten Free! But it’s still junk food. It was created to relieve the guilt about being indolent. Let’s face it, anything in a box is junk food (unless it’s seaweed or kale chips and good luck getting my 5 year-old to choose those snacks over a ginger snap, even an organic one). There is one thing I could have written. I could have written about how to screw up. I’ve done that a lot. But then I didn’t know if I could’ve communicated that in a flowery language with powerful metaphors that would tug at the heartstrings of my fellow Hedgebrook attendees. More importantly, they would’ve probably called the department of children’s services if I admitted things like how many times my daughter fell of the bed after I nursed her and drifted to sleep or the time I almost got into a fight with a woman in a Vegas parking lot because my adrenalin was pumped upon rescuing my son from a locked car when he was 7 months old. Yes, I know how to really screw up. I’ve done it so many times, it wouldn’t fit into one essay anyway and we only had 5 minutes to write. I’d need about 5 months. As a matter of fact, I’ve gotten so good at screwing up, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until years later. I am an expert. A genius. A renaissance screw-upper. The hard part is going to be keeping this talent hidden from my kids.

Why The Heck Couldn’t I Have A Normal Kid?!

Yeah, I said it. I know it’s not politically correct and doesn’t align with my whole gratitude attitude shift but it’s the truth. Having a child that is “outside of the box” is a pain in the butt. I would like to enjoy one week free of crying, violent outbursts and calls from the teacher at the nursery school he attends. But I can’t. I would like to know what it is like to direct a child to do something without an inappropriate response almost every single time. But I don’t. I would like to experience shopping in a store without rushing out to address one of my son's major meltdowns. But that hasn't happened since he was a newborn. Having a "special needs" child can be a lonely place for a parent. Although the level of support for these children has increased over the years within the educational infrastructure, there is still a stigma attached to the label that causes family members to ignore signs, assume you're an inadequate parent, who just can't control her child, and discourage you from seeking professional help. You begin to think, perhaps, you are the problem and by somehow becoming a better parent you can rewire the circuitry in your child's brain that causes his behavior. But that is not the case. What happens in the womb is a miracle beyond our understanding and the fact is that something is wrong with each of us. In my son's case, the something is ADHD (so I've been told by three professionals). The advice I've been given? Well, everything from signing him up for sports to giving him medication to hitting him on the bottom with a spoon. I honestly wish I just didn't have this one more thing to deal with. Seriously, I thought being a grown up meant I would get to eat Frosted Flakes for dinner, hang out with friends my parents would never approve of and paint my room purple. Instead, I'm stuck with making decisions for a child that will either work or ruin his life. This sucks! I'm not prepared, I'm not ready and I didn't sign up for this. Today, after talking to staff members at my son's new school, who were of no help at all, repeatedly telling me, "we can't give an opinion ..." (code for, "not my kid, not my problem") I wanted to sit and my cubicle and have my own temper tantrum. I now realize why the informational websites tell you to be your own advocate for your child, do your own research and make your own decisions. In other words, you're a grown up now. Deal with it!