First: An official diagnosis. Next: Bagina!

Well, kiddies, the OG has officially been diagnosed with ADHD by a pediatric neurologist.

I must say; there's no surprise there, to anyone who has spent even five minutes in the company of OG. I've known she was hyperactive pretty much since birth. At two months old, she could not sit in her baby seat at a restaurant; she had to be picked up, carried, and walked around. When she was a little bit older and still breastfeeding, she would rotate in a circle, and end up with her legs over my shoulder. At two, she made one of my friends cry who had offered to babysit her for an hour.

She's not a bad kid. She just has tons and tons of energy, and too many smarts to know where to put them all. She's really not been a problem in school; she occasionally gets reprimanded for silly, impulsive stuff, and I know she blurts out answers, but her teachers so far have been really good with her. They amp up her curriculum, keep her challenged, remind her where her backpack/notebook/pencil/sweater/lunchbox is, and she has done fairly splendidly so far, actually.

But...I know in my heart that this doctor is right. The "little problems" are already occurring more frequently this year. Acting silly in music even after multiple warnings, playing loudly in the bathroom even after multiple warnings, that sort of thing. Stuff like this snowballs. She already knows that she has problems focusing and following directions; god knows she's heard it enough from us. And I'm starting to see her face get a really familiar, defeated look when she's hearing it from us yet again.

I just don't want her to give up and think of herself as a "bad kid." So, after a very long and thorough conversation with the doctor, we're going to try her on Straterra. It's a non-stimulant, slow-acting, pretty safe drug; I know several parents who have had success with it.

Oh, but I hate doing this, still. It feels as though I've failed her. She inherited my father's intense will and temper, ALL of my anxiety, and The Man's ADD. (It's good to know she also inherited a very good, non-malicious heart and some quirky charm from somewhere; that keeps us from leaving her for the gypsies.)

I've read enough genetics studies to know this for a fact: It's NOT her fault. In fact, looking at her, I see a mirror of me as a young child. (I wasn't hyperactive, but I was a smart little spaz who refused to try to live up to her academic potential.)

Good luck, sweetie. I love you. Sorry you stumbled into our genetic stew. I hope that giving you a doting father and significantly happier parents than I ever had helps somewhat.

On a happier (?) note, this was the transcript of my two children's conversation in the back seat on the way home tonight:

YG: "Sissy, that's my bagina!"

OG: "No, (YG), that's your VAgina."

YG: "Yes, it's a bagina!"

OG: "VUH-gina."

YG: "BA-gina!"

OG: "VUH-VUH-VUH-gina."

YG: (crying) "I DID say BAgina!)

Me: (in traffic, after several more rounds of this discussion) "OK, I am DONE with this conversation!"

Because that's what I had, folks. There was nothing left after the day.