Page 10 of The Irresistible Distraction

Vera and I share a brief look as she comes into the dining room. It’s been a constant, underlying source of tension.

Repetitive worksheets are always landmines.

Deadlines are ongoing, protracted battles of will.

And assignments like history essays? Apocalyptic catastrophes.

Dr. Young has advised, repeatedly, that medication would likely ease Sebastian’s angst over his academic performance and help with his ability to focus, but Jesse believes ADHD medication is overprescribed. Joint custody, and the divorce agreement Jesse’s father negotiated, means Jesse is the medical tie-break, which is the legalese way of saying Jesse gets final say in all things health related.

It hadn’t been a problem when Seba was little, but as he’s gotten older, it’s gotten. . . sticky. Jesse is convinced that all Seba needs is more physical activity. Organized sports worked for Jesse. Why wouldn’t it work for Seba?

As I watch my son hyperfocus on the new page he’s just turned to, I feel a rush of almost overwhelming affection and anxiety, trapped between Dr. Young’s recommendation, Jesse’s learned medical opinion, and my own instinct.

The problem, really, is that attention deficit hyperactivity disorder has become too Hollywood, too broadly talked about and thus misunderstood. When I’ve argued with Jesse, he always assumes I want to give our kid Ritalin. He doesn’t understand that it isn’t just the absent-mindedness and spastic activity they see in films, it’s that Sebastian gets so focused on a thing (the latest Dog Man book, a Hemingway novel his teacher told him isn’t appropriate and which he has to read and finish now, the squirrel outside our window) he forgets to eat and drink.

Today’s exhibit A? The Feynman lectures in lieu of his homework.

I put a pencil in the textbook and close it so I both get and keep Sebastian’s attention. “Are you done with your history paper?”

“I started it.” He bites at his lower lip and fidgets with his hands; under the table, I see his leg shaking away. Yes, Sebastian has Jesse’s larger eyes that are more light brown than nearly black, like mine. But beyond the almost-black hair and small smattering of beauty spots, it’s these little mannerisms that remind me, Sebastian is my child.

“Can we practice answering the question?” I hate the edge of annoyance that creeps into my voice. But it’s always these moments—the ones when Sebastian most reminds me of myself, the bad habits I wish I’d been better about—that make me feel the worst. Yes, I promised myself I wouldn’t turn into that mother, the one who nags and pushes.

And yet . . .

Sebastian doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but he looks away from me, his lips curving into a frown as he replies. “No, I have not finished the history paper.”

Sensing his agitation, Spock and Kirk come to either side of my son, nuzzling him. He reaches down and half hugs Spock, the easy affection making me feel momentarily jealous of Vera’s dog.

“And when is it due?”

Do I know I’m not using the best tone?

Yes.

Am I able to stop myself?

Apparently not.

I should stop, say something positive, ask him about his day. But before I can, Sebastian speaks, his voice sullen. “Okay, you want me to do that first. Just say so. Tell me you don’t want me to be having any fun with physics until I’ve completed the boring, completely unnecessary, redundant paper about the supposed awesomeness of Abraham Lincoln.”

“He was kind of an important president.”

“Civil War. Patient and self-sacrificing. I skimmed the Wikipedia.” Sebastian glances up in time to see my look. “Before you start, I also have sources I can cite for Mrs. Reyes that aren’t Wikipedia. But everyone knows, all you really need is Wikipedia.” He takes out his laptop, tilting it toward me so I can see that he’s navigating to his school’s Canvas.

I let out a breath; I shouldn’t have started by asking about homework. Yes, I was tired and I’d had to talk to my ex-mother-in-law, but that isn’t an excuse for bad parenting.

“Can you go talk to Vera now and leave me alone?”

Sebastian puts on his headphones before I have a chance to reply, a very nice pair that I saved for, because I read online that the noise cancellation sometimes helps kids like Sebastian.

Vera waits for me in the kitchen. “Sorry, I tried to warn you.”

“Yeah, I walked right into it anyway.”

I pull a stool out and plop down, the poodle skirt pooling between my legs. “Sometimes I think I’m doing everything wrong, like I’m my own train wreck that I’m both theoretically controlling but also watching crash in real time.”

Vera comes over and puts a heavily braceleted arm around my shoulder. “Welcome to parenting a pre-teen. Even now, I think about the conversations I could and should have navigated better with my sons.” She turns to hand me plates as she grabs oven mitts. “Sebastian’s a good kid. He asks after you when you’re late, and the fact that he loves any academic subject means he’s already better than ninety percent of the kids out there. He’s going through a rough spot right now.”