To Medicate, or Not To Medicate: The Disorder of Corrupt Babies

Other articles addressing the rise in ADHD blame societal pressure: placing high demands on children. I tend to agree with that one. Did you know that Mayor DiBlasio of Halloween Town is planning Universal 3-K?

That’s right, full day school for fucking 3-year-olds, oh yeah, that sounds like a great idea.

Is it me, or are Demon children popping up everywhere?

The other day, I heard some sevenish-year-old girl say, “Mom! I told you to pack me the green swimsuit, NOT the pink one. You completely ruined my day!”

I was hoping to hear the mom retort with, “Don’t you talk to me like that, you little brat,” but no, she smiled lovingly and…apologized.

A-POLLO-gized!

I just wanted to slap her. The mother, the daughter – take your pick. But sadly, that wasn’t the first time I witnessed a Class A brat and their asshole-behavior-empowering-mother.  Another kid-asshole I witnessed was on the downtown subway. There was this 10-12 year-old kid yelling at his mother for looking over his shoulder while he was playing some video game on his iPhone. When they got to their stop, the mom told him to put away the phone and get up, to which he replied, “Shut up. Don’t tell me what to do.”

After they left, I joined all other riders, shaking my head and telepathically read their thoughts which said, bitch, smack that kid!

What, is there some special school for budding jerk-offs and princess-zillas that I don’t know about? These kids would take the honor roll in the subject of disrespect – they make Veruca Salt look like just a tough-gummy-bear. It’s disturbing.

Then, at the last visit to the neurologist (she renews my son’s Ritalin prescription – more on that later), I watched two grown women chasing around this one-year-old baby girl. It occurred to me that the baby was there to see the neurologist.

The baby.

Somebody must’ve convinced the mom that the baby has a disorder because it was fairly obvious that the baby literally hit the ground running. If she wore a pedometer, I bet the baby would average one million steps a day. The mother in tow – eight-hundred-thousand steps – easily.

Instead of teaching her to redirect her hyperactivity with a toy, a book or a security blanket they let her waddle from office to office while one, sometimes both of the women shuffled an arms length behind her.

The baby climbed on chairs next to strangers, walked into rooms and tested closed doors with no adult intervention. She even barged in the doctor’s office during the doctor’s consultation with another patient and all the mother did was spin the baby around to exit. She didn’t reprimand the child nor did she apologize to the doctor and the patient – she just smiled as if they walked into some television sitcom, waiting for the canned laughter.

So, this is where it begins, folks. These parents catering to their kids – their babies even, instead of disciplining them. As tempting as it would be to lump them into a group like say, Millennial parents, or victims of over-diagnosis, or digital dependency, the single answer is more likely “all of the above,” which makes them harder to kill.

No, I kid – of course we don’t want to kill them. We don’t.

The Millennial parents and the victims of over-diagnosis could be coincidental but I think it’s obvious they go hand in hand. In my day, only rich people could afford psychiatric counseling, everybody else just got high and neither were covered by health insurance. But Millennials grew into puberty just in time for peddlers of anti-anxiety drugs. It seems only natural that as parents, they’d seek a medication for a disorder of their kid just being a kid.

In The Psychopath Test, Jon Ronson goes into the rise in cases of ADHD and Autism as a result of DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). Basically, DSM-5 is a book containing checklists for all known mental disorders. I know, sounds tempting, right?

So in The Psychopath Test, the DSM editor reveals that these parents usurp their parenting skills by attaching a label like ODD (oppositional defiance disorder) rather than admitting that their kid is a stubborn pain in the ass. All I know is that if there is a foolproof medication for ODD, I’d try to get some for my husband.

Other articles addressing the rise in ADHD blame societal pressure: placing high demands on children. I tend to agree with that one. Did you know that Mayor DiBlasio of Halloween Town is planning Universal 3-K?

That’s right, full day school for fucking 3-year-olds, oh yeah, that sounds like a great idea.

If I was a day care worker at 3-K, I’d be gnashing my teeth to be politically correct. “Your baby may not be an angel but he’s certainly corrupt! That’s the kind of full day we had, mom.”

I thought it was outrageous that Kindergarten parents were expecting their child to write three pages of content for homework. Now they’ll be expecting baby sister to finger paint Cubism. Well, okay maybe Surrealism but trust me, they will be maneuvering her into “gifted” classes when the kid is still shitting herself.

In another article, parenting policies were compared between the U.S. and France. Apparently, France doesn’t believe in Kid’s Menus. Children eat what adults eat because it’s probably balanced and proportionate. In other words, it’s not a quarter pound of fatty ground beef for dad and chicken nuggets with french fries for junior. Don’t like chicken? How about pizza and Cheez Doodles. And we wonder why they’re cranky. You know, Bloomberg had a lot of stupid ideas, but his attempt to ban large containers of sugary drinks actually made sense to me.

If anything should be banned, it should be those limousine-strollers on mass transit. And while we’re at it, how about a children’s fare, Mr. Mayor? To Hell with your 3-K, looking out for the working-class family, my ass.

I digress. After all this ranting, I promised to explain my son’s ADD label and clear the hypocrisy. Honestly, I don’t believe he has ADD – I think he hates math and he prefers siestas after lunch instead of crunching numbers. Who wouldn’t? However, teachers get evaluated and caffeine may stunt his growth, so that was my answer for “to medicate, or not to medicate…” – wait, what was the question?

Share

Half or Bi?

Japanese people call mixed race people “half.”

Just “half”.

In western culture, we’ll say the half that is pertinent, like “Oh, Broomhilda there is half Japanese, half human…” but I’ve never heard Americans refer a mixed race person as just “half.”

Recently, my Japanese friend used the term “half” and I interrupted with the insight that the current, politically-correct term is “bi-racial.” She looked a little skeptical, wondering if the term “half” was actually derogatory.

I explained, it’s the glass-half-full terminology because really, the person isn’t devoid of half a culture – they encompass it. Like a Long Island Ice Tea. When in doubt, always involve a cocktail metaphorically.

As a Japanese-American, I used to relate with my bi-racial friends in feeling displaced. In a tale of two cultures, with neither side eagerly claiming you, the only group that’s truly family is the same bunch of misfits as yourself. But for my two guys, a majority of their friends are bi-racial, which caused a stranger to do a double take when he took a group photo of us. I could see his gears turning and asking, who are these Asian moms with Black, Hispanic and green-tinted children?

The green ones – that would be mine. It’s what you get when you mix olive with yellow.

Anyway, my boys just recently tapped into their Japanese lineage after meeting my cousin from Japan. Up until then, Samu thought himself as “white” and I thought I’d need to pull a Dave Chapelle “Racial Draft” to clean his rose colored glasses. Inadvertently, my cousin stirred a dormant curiosity in his Japanese half with the enticement of “gasha gasha” – the capsule toys from those coin-cranking vending machine thingy.

They were amazed because the gashapon machines at home spew out shit. It’s usually a single piece of plastic that my boogers can intimidate. But the toys from Japan – a mini-flash light with Super Mario images, little Lego-like dinosaurs, a teeny Thomas engine (with cargo car) that cranks and goes. And all of them…work.

So now, my boys want to learn Japanese and go to Japan. Not to ride the Bullet train or eat real Ramen or test their ability to withstand an average Tokyo earthquake – no, they want to go there with a suitcase full of quarters and collect gasha-gasha toys.

Wonder if I can convince them we’re actually Canadian.

IMG_0467

Share