Navigating Chaos (eBook, ePUB)
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The first time I realized something was different, it wasn't with a diagnosis or a test it was with an innocent tantrum. But to understand that moment, I have to go back to the beginning.When Axelle was born, she was the quietest baby I'd ever seen. Sweet and beautiful, she lay in my arms with eyes closed, her blonde hair catching the nursery light. Neighbours and nurses would pause at the door, breathless over her rosy cheeks and green eyes. I remember thinking, "How lucky am I?"Yet even then, there was an odd stillness about her. While my older daughters laughed and cooed, Axelle would stare...
The first time I realized something was different, it wasn't with a diagnosis or a test it was with an innocent tantrum. But to understand that moment, I have to go back to the beginning.
When Axelle was born, she was the quietest baby I'd ever seen. Sweet and beautiful, she lay in my arms with eyes closed, her blonde hair catching the nursery light. Neighbours and nurses would pause at the door, breathless over her rosy cheeks and green eyes. I remember thinking, "How lucky am I?"
Yet even then, there was an odd stillness about her. While my older daughters laughed and cooed, Axelle would stare without smiling, as if she were watching a world I couldn't see.
By the time she turned one, the first tantrums erupted bath time was a battlefield, meals became a siege. A squeal here, a kick there; every routine turned into a clash of wills. I took her to our pediatrician, who told me she was perfectly normal and simply needed encouragement.
We tried negotiating: rewards for brushing teeth, stickers for bedtime. When encouragement failed, bribes crept in ice-cream breaks for five minutes of peace. Nothing worked.
When Axelle was five, I sought out a specialist. He called her "strong-willed" and recommended more positive reinforcement. I devoured parenting books and online forums, desperate for answers. At home, chaos reigned over, tantrums, tears, and daily meltdowns that left us all raw.
Axelle often complained of stomach aches. Multiple tests later, doctors found nothing physically wrong. I sensed it was anxiety, but no one called it that.
At ten, I pushed for an ADHD evaluation. Axelle wasn't bouncing off walls, but she was emotionally intense and craved my constant attention an impossibility with two other children, a job, and a house to run. By then, I was newly divorced; her father, frustrated and fearful, resorted to harsh punishments that only deepened her despair.
When the ADHD tests came back negative, I felt adrift. I thought this was who she was in this storm of emotion and defiance but deep down, I knew we hadn't found the real cause. Something bigger was waiting to be uncovered, and that first innocent tantrum was only the beginning of our journey.
When Axelle was born, she was the quietest baby I'd ever seen. Sweet and beautiful, she lay in my arms with eyes closed, her blonde hair catching the nursery light. Neighbours and nurses would pause at the door, breathless over her rosy cheeks and green eyes. I remember thinking, "How lucky am I?"
Yet even then, there was an odd stillness about her. While my older daughters laughed and cooed, Axelle would stare without smiling, as if she were watching a world I couldn't see.
By the time she turned one, the first tantrums erupted bath time was a battlefield, meals became a siege. A squeal here, a kick there; every routine turned into a clash of wills. I took her to our pediatrician, who told me she was perfectly normal and simply needed encouragement.
We tried negotiating: rewards for brushing teeth, stickers for bedtime. When encouragement failed, bribes crept in ice-cream breaks for five minutes of peace. Nothing worked.
When Axelle was five, I sought out a specialist. He called her "strong-willed" and recommended more positive reinforcement. I devoured parenting books and online forums, desperate for answers. At home, chaos reigned over, tantrums, tears, and daily meltdowns that left us all raw.
Axelle often complained of stomach aches. Multiple tests later, doctors found nothing physically wrong. I sensed it was anxiety, but no one called it that.
At ten, I pushed for an ADHD evaluation. Axelle wasn't bouncing off walls, but she was emotionally intense and craved my constant attention an impossibility with two other children, a job, and a house to run. By then, I was newly divorced; her father, frustrated and fearful, resorted to harsh punishments that only deepened her despair.
When the ADHD tests came back negative, I felt adrift. I thought this was who she was in this storm of emotion and defiance but deep down, I knew we hadn't found the real cause. Something bigger was waiting to be uncovered, and that first innocent tantrum was only the beginning of our journey.
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