Special Kids Need Bounaries Too

“You should probably take your son upstairs away from this,” the police officer said.
Willie, his teenage half-brother, Joe, and I went upstairs and waited while Willie’s father was cuffed and taken to jail. Willie didn’t understand why and I wasn’t sure how much I should explain. How do you tell an eight-year-old that his father is a pedophile?

Willie was diagnosed with ADHD when we moved from Reno to Astoria, Oregon in April of 1995. After his dad went to jail, his behavior took a turn for the worse. Willie decided it was my fault and I thought I was tough enough to take the blame.

Willie’s school adamantly requested he see a behavioral specialist.

I don’t have much faith in Psychiatrists and Counselors. One in Reno told me Willie didn’t have ADHD and only liked sneak out and go on adventures because his father and I didn’t properly deal with our anger and aggression.

I sat in the waiting room with my arms crossed over my chest. When Steve came out and introduced himself, my mouth dropped open. He was maybe five foot six, wore blue jeans and a dress shirt with no tie. Blondish-brown hair hung to his waist and his left ear sported a large diamond stud.

Steve looked me right in the eye and shook my hand before leading me and Willie to his office. He treated me with respect, my defenses lowered and I talked openly about the challenges I was facing with Willie.

Steve ran tests and soon we had three labels for Willie—this was after all the county mental health division. He was not only ADHD, but also Oppositional-Defiant and Bi-Polar, now we could get down to hard work.

I didn’t see it as much of a threat when Willie faced me with a cardboard tube held like a bat, but Steve asked, “What about when he’s sixteen and it’s a real bat? How long do you plan on letting this eight year old boy run your house?”

“What am I supposed to do? He won’t listen and he won’t go to time out.” 
Steve looked from me, five foot three and over 200 pounds, to Willie, under four feet tall and skinny as a rail, and then back to me. “You mean to tell me that you can’t make him go to time out?”

“I can send him to his room all I want, but he either won’t go or he won’t stay. What would you like me to do?”

“Does Willie’s room have a lock on it?”

“You want me to lock my son in his room? I thought they would put me in jail for doing that.”

“I don’t want you to lock him in there forever, just for the duration of his time out.”
“Oh” I said feeling color warm my cheeks.

“One thing I’ve noticed,” Steve continued, “is you’re always explaining yourself to Willie. You’re the parent and he needs to do what you say. You don’t need to give him a reason why.”

“I always hated when my parents told me to do something, just because they said so. I swore I would tell my kids why I wanted them to do or not do things.”

Steve’s laugh shocked and embarrassed me, “That’s great in theory, but kids like Willie see an explanation as your admission that you really aren’t sure of your decisions so he thinks things are open to negotiation.”

The look on my face told Steve I knew he had no idea what it was like to deal with a child like mine.

“I know you’re a single mother, but you and your sixteen-year-old son can help Willie if you work together.”

“What do you want us to do if we’re not supposed to explain why he’s going to time out?”

“When Willie is doing something that is unacceptable, I want you to tell him what behavior you want him to change and how. Tell him short, sweet and to the point in words he understands. Next you tell him he has until the count of three to change his behavior or he will be placed in time out. Then you count to three.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Trust me, Willie is not going to obey me just because I can count to three. I’ve already told you, he won’t go to, or stay in, time out.”

Steve smiled his counselor smile, “When you reach three, you tell Willie to take five. His time begins when he is in his room and quiet. If Willie doesn’t go on his own, you escort him. Pick him up and carry him if necessary. Lock or hold his door shut but stay outside the door until the time out is finished. Most importantly, do not speak after that point, no matter how Willie tries to provoke you.”

The first time I carried Willie upstairs to his room it was like trying to give a cat a bath. He kicked and grabbed onto everything. Enraged, he possessed the strength of ten men and it was all I could do to hold his door shut.

Willie broke his dresser and desk and tried to impale the pieces in his door and he sounded like Linda Blair in the Exorcist.

Time-after-time Willie emerged from his room seething with anger and was back in timeout before he could make it down the stairs. Joe and I took turns carrying Willie to his room and holding the door and we were both exhausted by the end of the first week.

I began to think the only thing that was going to be accomplished by this was a vacation for me that involved a white jacket with long sleeves. However, I had promised Steve I would try what he suggested so, if only to prove him wrong, I was in for the long-haul.

Two and a half weeks after the battle started I began my latest countdown. “One, two, three…”

“Ok, fine.” Willie stomped off up the stairs to his room and slammed the door.
Attitude yes, but he went to timeout for the first time on his own.