You Can Always Tell if Someone Has ADHD by their Compost Bin

Little things around the house have a way of raising my awareness to the projects I let slide. Little things, like spotted bananas on the counter, have a way of reminding me of my shortcomings. There is nothing like over ripening fruit that says, “You will never change!”

I have quite a list of dos and don’ts so that I don’t repeatedly trip up but I have not completely sealed all of my ADHD pitfalls. For instance, I never make appointments on a Monday because I know I’ll space it and then have to apologize later and then sometimes pay for their time even though I didn’t render any services. That stinks.

I have learned that I need to rebound from the weekend. Monday is my transition day. If Monday isn’t sacred, if Monday is drudgery, you’re not doing Monday right.  It took me 38 years to figure out how to make Monday work for me instead of trying to square-peg-round-hole my way through it.

Living with ADHD is God’s way of making sure you don’t get too big for your britches. It’s God’s way of saying, “Who has the cheese, little mousy? Who has the cheese?” Then he sprinkles it all around a maze in places where there is no access. So you keep running around trying to get what you know is there but can’t find it.

“Fixing” ADHD is trying to put a greased octopus to bed. You finally get all eight limbs in, pull the covers up and kiss its bulbous head goodnight, and before it has had a chance to wipe off the kiss, three legs have already slid out from under the covers. One is wrapped around your ankles. It doesn’t want you to go. It wants a bedtime story. And a glass of milk. Never give up. Pull the covers up, click off the light and walk away. The legs will get cold eventually and pull themselves in involuntarily. If not, the next time you tuck it in, secure those legs into a giant ponytail.

I clean the counters after each meal, wiping the sponge around the bananas whose brown spots are smearing together like old, cheap tattoos. I tell myself that I’m just waiting until they’re completely spotted on purpose. There is that window of waiting until are just the right ripeness. It’s a window of lies I tell myself about my plans for those bananas. Watching them get black and slimy is all part of a plan I’ve mastered.

I tell myself I’m so going to make banana bread with them this time. Baking is in my very near future. I can practically smell the bread in the oven. Feel the sweet steam rising up into my nostrils before taking a bite of a buttered slice, with crisp edges and a moist middle. But I never set a date. I never tell myself, “Tuesday, I’ll pull out the Joy of Cooking and make that bread.”

The bananas come to nothing. It’s the cheese in the corner of the maze that is blocked off on four sides. I scoop up the black, soggy, shiny pile of has-beens with a spatula and throw them in the compost bucket. “Here, God. Your bananas are ready.”

“Oh, well,” I tell myself, as if I’m coaching a team that never wins a game. “Maybe next time.” I stop buying bananas. That’s how I fix that.

Really, there is no fixing ADHD. I just fix the things in my environment where I will be reminded that I have it. Some might call that avoidance. I say, “Tonto! Don’t go to town!” If you know the outcome will be unfavorable from past failures, just don’t put yourself in the experience.

I don’t call that avoidance. I call that nurturance. ADHD won’t go away. But you can learn to do things to make living with it more pleasant. There are a lot more towns to discover and avoid.

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