Brainstorms & Rainbows

Chaos, Creativity, and a Little Bit of Magic

When ADHD Meets Autism: A Beautiful, Chaotic Storm

Picture this: A neurotypical (ish) parent who probably has a few quirks of their own trying to navigate life with a teenager who has ADHD. It’s like trying to herd caffeinated squirrels while blindfolded—pure, unfiltered chaos.

Let’s break it down, shall we?

The Eternal Hand-Holding (Metaphorically, of Course)

This kid needs me like a GPS needs Wi-Fi—constantly. He can’t just start a task and finish it like a regular human. Nope. I have to be there, cheering him on for picking up one sock while reminding him he has two feet.

And seriously, let me drill this in for you because I need a mini rant sesh. The dishes—if I’m not standing there next to him drying what he just washed, he will rush through it, leaving food chunks and grease everywhere, then get mad when he has to redo it. Picking up his things? It’s like he’s blind. He can’t see anything, including the ketchup that is right in front of his face when he wants some for his chicken nuggets. I have to literally point out each and every item that belongs to him and direct it back to its rightful home—because no, my living room is not his personal storage unit.

But then, there are those moments when the hand-holding actually works in my favor. Take cooking—just the other night, we made chicken soup with dumplings, and he wanted to be in charge of the dumplings. He’s done it before, so he somewhat knows what he’s doing. He pulls out my cookbook, starts getting them all goopy, ready to drop into the pot, but halfway through, he’s lonely and needs me there to reassure him that he’s doing it right. And, of course, to participate because solo dumpling duty is just not the vibe.

These are the heart-melting moments that keep me sane—well, mostly sane—especially after I’ve had time to cool down and process the madness. He knows he can do these things but needs constant reassurance. Why? I still don’t fully know, but I’ve learned to somewhat embrace it.?

The Button Pusher Extraordinaire

You know those big red buttons that say DO NOT TOUCH? Yeah, he would not only touch it, but he’d hit it repeatedly while making siren noises. He just knows how to activate frustration mode in the entire household. One moment he’s casually flipping light switches on and off like a mad scientist, the next he’s somehow managed to get everyone yelling—including himself. It’s an endless cycle of chaos.

It is the wild and unpredictable toddler energy—it's like living with a tiny hurricane on a sugar rush, but worse because they have no concept of personal space or quiet time. Those random, out-of-nowhere questions? The ones that hit you like: “Why do we park on driveways and drive on parkways?” or “If you’re in a dream and you die, do you wake up or stay asleep?”—it’s a constant barrage of Why? How? What if? And honestly, it’s not so much about finding answers as it is keeping up with the endless curiosity while trying to maintain any semblance of sanity.

The noise. Oh, the noise. Even when you think it’s quiet, there's still that faint buzz of chaos in the background, like the hum of a distant alarm that’s always on the brink of going off. So, to survive, I got some trusty loop earplugs, a lifeline to at least some semblance of peace. Imagine it—you're in the same room, but it's like you’ve managed to create a forcefield that blocks out the madness. You're deep in your thoughts, reading or writing, while he’s constructing his Lego empire and narrating each and every step of the process as if it’s the most important thing in the world. But hey, at least he’s somewhat occupied… until he decides you’re not giving him enough attention and the siren goes off once again: “Mom, can I show you this thing I made?!”

The need for space and quiet, though, that's the real trick. You’re setting boundaries—hard boundaries—because if you don’t, chaos will consume you. You need that 30-minute window to recharge your mind. It’s not a luxury; it’s survival. And of course, he’ll be watching that clock like a hawk, counting down the minutes until he’s allowed to “spend time with you” (aka continue the cycle of relentless interruption). But you’ve got this! You’ve learned to hold firm and explain the need for alone time, and those 30 minutes are sacred. It’s not about shutting him out, it’s about preserving your own peace so you can actually be present when he needs you.

And then the moment of calm comes: a whole 30 minutes. It’s a beautiful thing. Until, inevitably, it’s up.

Logical Warnings? Irrelevant!

Me: “The stove is hot. Don’t touch it.” Him: Touches it immediately. Also him: “WHY WOULD YOU LET ME DO THAT?!” Me: Deep sigh of resignation.

I could tell him something a hundred times, but his brain operates on a need to learn the hard way basis. It’s like living with a very loud, very forgetful scientist who insists on testing every hypothesis in real-time with no regard for previous data.

The Great Electronics Battle

Enter Dubbi, the one app that has actually been somewhat useful—seriously, check it out! And while we’re at it, can someone tell them I should be a sponsor? Wink wink. But here’s the kicker—electronics are the one thing he truly values, and yet they are also the one thing he constantly loses privileges for. The irony would be funny if it weren’t so exhausting. It’s like watching someone sabotage their own happiness in slow motion.

So Where’s the Silver Lining?

As much as I’d like to trade places for just one day so he can see what it’s like to be me (a saint, obviously), there’s something beautiful in this madness. ADHD and autism do overlap in some ways—hyperfocus, sensory quirks, thinking differently—but when they mix in a family dynamic, it forces you to communicate in a way you never expected.

Living with someone who has ADHD is like being strapped into a roller coaster that’s perpetually stuck on high-speed mode. There’s never a dull moment, and every corner is an unpredictable surprise. One second, you’re dodging flying Legos while trying to answer the 87th “Why can’t fish breathe air?” question, and the next, you’re hiding in the bathroom with your loop earplugs praying for just 5 minutes of peace (or until you can finish your tea without it turning into an impromptu science lesson). It teaches you patience (more than you ever wanted), resilience (also, more than you ever wanted), and the ability to find humor in things that would send lesser humans running for the hills. Exhausted? Sure. Proud? Weirdly, yes. He’s like a tiny tornado, but hey, that tornado has some serious creative flair.

He thinks differently, and that’s not always a bad thing. Unless he’s actively setting off another metaphorical (or literal) fire, in which case, it’s a bad thing. But I’ve learned to roll with it. ADHD isn’t about being “bad” or “difficult,” it’s just... well, extra. Extra energy, extra curiosity, extra questions that you never saw coming, like: “If you could be any vegetable, what vegetable would you be?” (Spoiler alert: I am NOT prepared for this kind of deep conversation at 7 AM).

At the end of the day, I wouldn’t trade him for the world… but let’s be real: I would trade places with him for 24 hours, just to see how he handles me repeating “I told you so” every five minutes. (I’m sure I’d get the “But WHY, Mom?” 400 times and need a nap before the day’s over, but the genuine curiosity would be priceless.)

So, here's my big tip on how to survive—I mean, thrive—while living with someone who has ADHD without dimming their light or burning out yours: Set boundaries and stick to them like your sanity depends on it (which, let’s be honest, it does). Give them space to let that boundless energy run wild (while praying they don’t burn down the house in the process), but also guard your alone time like it’s a treasure chest. Just because they can go from zero to 60 in 2 seconds doesn’t mean you have to go along for the ride every time. Find your balance, and remember: You’re allowed to put on those earplugs, shut the door, and take a break without feeling guilty. Trust me, everyone will be better for it.

So, if you’re out there trying to keep your cool while living with someone who’s basically a walking caffeine jolt, just breathe, laugh, and repeat after me: "It’s not a mess, it’s creative chaos." And if you need to vent or share how your day was wildly similar to this one, hit me up. We’re in this snarky, chaos-filled, ADHD/Autism rollercoaster ride together.

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