Sometimes, a Good Day; Sometimes, I Have ADHD

In the United States today, roughly eight out of every 100 school-aged kids have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder; a mental disorder defined by hyperactivity, inattention and impulsiveness.

To lump all children with ADHD under one four-letter label makes the disorder’s boundaries seem deceptively simple. But they are not. Some children with ADHD are quiet and stare off into space. Others are aggressive; they yell and lash out when frustrated or bored. Kids with ADHD may also talk in a giddy, loud chatter or disregard every single instruction and warning they hear.

Charlie Greenberg is a 9-year-old boy from New York City. Today, he’s wearing a royal blue T-shirt that says “Sea World” above an image of two killer whales. This morning at 7:15 he climbed on a yellow school bus for the 60 minute ride from Manhattan to the Bronx. As the bus winds its way along the route, Charlie, sitting in the front row, is glued to his Game Boy. If Charlie must be labeled with a medical condition, the best one would be ADHD of the hyperactive kind. But he is also extremely thoughtful, articulate and generous. He is Romanian, energetic and skinny. His favorite flavor of ice cream is mint chocolate chip, and his favorite animal, a chicken. These are the labels that Charlie’s mother, Marsha, wants others to know before realizing that her son has ADHD.

Charlie is enrolled in the New York University Summer Program for Kids—an eight-week program designed especially for kids with ADHD. All around him, fellow campers are yawning, sleeping or, like Charlie, staring into a portable electronic gaming device. The camp serves about 50 kids.

Charlie likes camp. “It’s fun and easy and the homework is only one sheet,” he says. “They have things that I like to do, and they have rewards.” As Charlie speaks, his brown eyes blink above crescent shaped bruises. When he gets anxious—which is often—he bites his knuckles raw or rubs at his eyes with such vigor, his small fists leave purple marks behind.

“It’s just this tic I have,” he says, and the topic of conversation moves to something more stressful—school. “It’s hard,” Charlie says, letting out a long breath. “They put so much pressure on kids,” he explains with an articulation that somehow suggests he’s uttered this phrase before. “It’s test, test, test, and they a make a big fuss if you break a rule. They basically make it so that you have to be perfect, and eventually every kid is going to crack. Every kid has their limit, you know?”

Many parents of children with ADHD also feel an immense pressure to prove themselves. “Society looks at you and thinks what the hell is going on with these people?” says Charlie’s mother, Marsha Greenberg, 52. “And you say to yourself, ‘Oh my god, I am a terrible parent.’ And you think ‘It’s my fault; it’s all my fault. I should be able to control him.’ ” But on Charlie’s worst days, says Greenberg, he’s wild and obstinate. “You can’t calm him down or reason with him. He can’t hear you. There’s just too much going on in his brain, and he’s rocketing to the sky.”

The bus pulls to stop in front of the State University of New York Maritime College, a large pentagonal building with an open field at its center. Charlie’s group, the Supersonics, has ten kids and seven counselors. The high student-to-teacher ratio is something that children with ADHD respond well to; without constant attention, they can veer easily off track. Each camper attends several arts and sports activities each day. Today, Charlie and the rest of the Supersonics start the morning off with a soccer game. After lunch and a movie (D2: The Mighty Ducks), they move to the college’s indoor pool, and then finish the day crafting bugs in art class.

But the camp, despite its many fun activities, is far from the unstructured chaos of school recess. Counselors keep a constant, watchful eye on their campers, detracting and giving points in accordance with a child’s behavior. They say the same phrases over and over. “That’s 10 points for compliance, Charlie, compliance.” Or on the rare occasion that Charlie missteps—he speaks out of turn, name calls, misbehaves or ignores an instruction, a counselor is there to catch him and dock points from his running tally.

But Charlie rarely acts up. During the camp’s hour of simulated class time, where children with ADHD learn to behave in a classroom setting, Charlie works on a crossword puzzle while some of his classmates run about, screaming, kicking and squirming. The camp has taught Charlie that he can swing his leg to blow off excess energy without causing a disruption. And he’s using that trick now, while simultaneously ignoring the boy to his right, who is happily blowing a long booger in and out of his nose with no care for the teacher’s rebuke.

Before heading to the pool for a swim, Charlie explains that he is not always so angelic.  “At home I’m a little different. I’m a little rougher. I’m hyper,” he says. To prevent such hyperactivity at camp, Marsha has kept her son on medication, but many parents don’t fill their children’s prescriptions for ADHD during the summer months because there is no daily grind of homework and schoolwork.

Aside from keeping him focused, Charlie’s medicine also reduces his appetite. So at snack time, while the other campers devour their Oreos and cheddar-cheese flavored Goldfish, Charlie barely nibbles at a few small pickles from his lunchbox. Still, he is the picture-perfect student his mother and father had hoped—but never really believed—their son could be. Charlie’s speech is peppered with thank-yous and pleases. He walks to the pool when the other boys run; he sits still when the other boys squirm.

When camp ends at 4 p.m., Charlie has won thousands of points and earned two shiny ribbons for good behavior. The first ribbon boasts that he is a star student and the other says he’s a member of the camp’s honor roll. At the week’s end, if he keeps his high score, he will get to join other well-behaved campers on a bowling field trip. This, from a boy who was suspended for two weeks as a kindergartener in a New York City public school.

On the bus ride home, Charlie swings his right leg and holds his mini Super Mario Bros. backpack with both hands. He skips the sleeve of chocolate chip cookies in his lunchbox and snacks on a cold Eggo waffle instead. “I want to be good,” he says “I want to win awards, and I want to have fun and do the right things. It’s just sometimes,” here he pauses. His little leg swings. “Sometimes, I have ADHD.”