it were that simple.
“I gave them a snack at three. Oreos and milk and apples.” I don’t tell him that they refused to eat the apples. “And then an hour later, I was feeling hungry.” I don’t tell him that I’d eaten four Oreos at snack time.
“So I opened a bag of pretzels, which I’ve been trying to eat instead of chips because they have no fat. The kids were watching TV in the toy room, but they heard the bag rustle, so they came in and said, ‘Give me some . ’”
My throat tightens at the memory. I swallow hard.
“So I said no because they’d already had a snack and this would ruin their dinner. Sydney started screaming and Harrison tried to grab the bag out of my hands. Which really, really pissed me off. I told them to go to the corner for time out, but they wouldn’t.”
My voice is starting to rise. I take a deep breath.
“So then I told them to go to their rooms. But they wouldn’t do that either. They just kept screaming, ‘Give me! Give me!’ Harrison started kicking the wall—even though he promised he wouldn’t do that anymore after we had to repaint. It was so loud, and I was so tired, so I just . . .”
Oh God. Why did I start this?
“What?” he asks.
Maybe the story will seem funny. Maybe we’ll laugh.
“I started throwing the pretzels at them. First one at a time and then whole handfuls. And I was yelling too, I was saying, ‘You want pretzels? Here are your pretzels!’” I try to laugh. I can’t. Darren stays quiet.
I continue. “They were so shocked that they just froze. So I stopped with the pretzels. We all stared at each other, and Harrison said, ‘Mommy, you’re mean . ’ That made me cry. Which made them cry. Which made me angry. So I started throwing pretzels again and kept at it till the entire bag was gone.”
He still doesn’t laugh. Of course not. There’s nothing funny about it.
Oh shit. I’m crying again. Right here in P.F. Chang’s.
He hands me his black napkin. The polyester can’t absorb my tears. I fish in my purse, retrieve a mangled tissue, blot my eyes, blow my nose.
“I’m not very good at this,” I say. “At being a mother.”
“They’re difficult.”
“I keep thinking it’ll get better, and it keeps not getting better.” I start to cry again.
“It’ll get better,” Darren says with no conviction—or emotion—whatsoever.
“I talked to their teacher today.” My tears are falling faster than I can blot them. “When I came to get the kids, she said, ‘Can I have a word,’ and the kids went outside to the playground. I knew it was going to be bad. No one says ‘can I have a word’ unless it’s bad. She went on for a bit about how disruptive the kids are and how other parents have been complaining. And then she asked—get this—if we’ve ever considered Ritalin.”
“Huh.” He almost laughs. Or maybe pretend-laughs.
“Seriously. She said that like it was such a new idea. Like maybe we’d never thought of drugs before.”
When the twins were four, I read everything I could about Ritalin, Adderall, and other stimulants used to treat ADHD. I talked it over with Darren, who, frankly, was no help at all. Finally, despite a million misgivings, I asked the pediatrician for a prescription and braced myself for an end to the insanity.
It didn’t work. The doctor upped the dose twice—still no good. Then he tried a couple of other ineffective medications before saying, “Maybe they’re just immature. Maybe they’ll outgrow it.” Then he referred us to a child psychologist who was far more expensive but no more useful.
“Their teacher suggested I try homeschooling,” I say.
This time he laughs for real. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“You got that right.”
The waitress picks this moment to deliver our appetizers. I wonder if the food has been ready all along, if she’s been waiting on the edges for a break in my hysteria.
“Dumplings.” I inhale the aroma. “Mm.”
Back in college, Darren
“I gave them a snack at three. Oreos and milk and apples.” I don’t tell him that they refused to eat the apples. “And then an hour later, I was feeling hungry.” I don’t tell him that I’d eaten four Oreos at snack time.
“So I opened a bag of pretzels, which I’ve been trying to eat instead of chips because they have no fat. The kids were watching TV in the toy room, but they heard the bag rustle, so they came in and said, ‘Give me some . ’”
My throat tightens at the memory. I swallow hard.
“So I said no because they’d already had a snack and this would ruin their dinner. Sydney started screaming and Harrison tried to grab the bag out of my hands. Which really, really pissed me off. I told them to go to the corner for time out, but they wouldn’t.”
My voice is starting to rise. I take a deep breath.
“So then I told them to go to their rooms. But they wouldn’t do that either. They just kept screaming, ‘Give me! Give me!’ Harrison started kicking the wall—even though he promised he wouldn’t do that anymore after we had to repaint. It was so loud, and I was so tired, so I just . . .”
Oh God. Why did I start this?
“What?” he asks.
Maybe the story will seem funny. Maybe we’ll laugh.
“I started throwing the pretzels at them. First one at a time and then whole handfuls. And I was yelling too, I was saying, ‘You want pretzels? Here are your pretzels!’” I try to laugh. I can’t. Darren stays quiet.
I continue. “They were so shocked that they just froze. So I stopped with the pretzels. We all stared at each other, and Harrison said, ‘Mommy, you’re mean . ’ That made me cry. Which made them cry. Which made me angry. So I started throwing pretzels again and kept at it till the entire bag was gone.”
He still doesn’t laugh. Of course not. There’s nothing funny about it.
Oh shit. I’m crying again. Right here in P.F. Chang’s.
He hands me his black napkin. The polyester can’t absorb my tears. I fish in my purse, retrieve a mangled tissue, blot my eyes, blow my nose.
“I’m not very good at this,” I say. “At being a mother.”
“They’re difficult.”
“I keep thinking it’ll get better, and it keeps not getting better.” I start to cry again.
“It’ll get better,” Darren says with no conviction—or emotion—whatsoever.
“I talked to their teacher today.” My tears are falling faster than I can blot them. “When I came to get the kids, she said, ‘Can I have a word,’ and the kids went outside to the playground. I knew it was going to be bad. No one says ‘can I have a word’ unless it’s bad. She went on for a bit about how disruptive the kids are and how other parents have been complaining. And then she asked—get this—if we’ve ever considered Ritalin.”
“Huh.” He almost laughs. Or maybe pretend-laughs.
“Seriously. She said that like it was such a new idea. Like maybe we’d never thought of drugs before.”
When the twins were four, I read everything I could about Ritalin, Adderall, and other stimulants used to treat ADHD. I talked it over with Darren, who, frankly, was no help at all. Finally, despite a million misgivings, I asked the pediatrician for a prescription and braced myself for an end to the insanity.
It didn’t work. The doctor upped the dose twice—still no good. Then he tried a couple of other ineffective medications before saying, “Maybe they’re just immature. Maybe they’ll outgrow it.” Then he referred us to a child psychologist who was far more expensive but no more useful.
“Their teacher suggested I try homeschooling,” I say.
This time he laughs for real. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“You got that right.”
The waitress picks this moment to deliver our appetizers. I wonder if the food has been ready all along, if she’s been waiting on the edges for a break in my hysteria.
“Dumplings.” I inhale the aroma. “Mm.”
Back in college, Darren
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