I have a question for you: How many children do you know who are on medication for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)? Now, another question: How many children do you know who are not on medication for this disorder? Well, chances are, based upon what I have heard from parents, read in newspapers and magazines, heard on the news, and witnessed firsthand when I was teaching high school, the number you provided in response to the first question exceeded the number you provided in response to the second question. Am I right?

What I wonder, and have been wondering for some time now, is when did ADHD first become so prevalent in our children? After all, isn’t it a fairly new malady? And since it’s relatively new, exactly where was it before its discovery? Was it lying dormant in some primordial sludge, undetected for eons by scientists and medical practitioners alike, until it decided to exert itself and, like a plague of epic proportions, infect our children in the late 20^th century?

And before you start accusing me of being heartless, ignorant, and/or totally uninformed, let me establish that, first, I am not trying to make light of children who actually suffer from the disorder and in whose case pharmaceutical intervention is warranted, especially if a child is a danger to others or to himself. However, I am questioning why doctors so frequently prescribe potent mood-altering drugs to children who are simply doing what they do best—which is acting like children. 

Back in the Dark Ages, when I was growing up, we kids more often than not had the attention span of gnats. We had trouble sitting still for more than, oh, maybe fifteen minutes. We daydreamed. We fidgeted. We squirmed in our seats at school, in church, or pretty much anyplace where we were expected to remain stationary. We were disorganized and usually downright messy. We only half listened to our parents or any other adult—when and if we listened at all. We lost our toys, books, galoshes, lunchboxes, jackets, and other belongings. We were easily distracted. We were rowdy. We were noisy. We were impatient. We were often disheveled and dirty. We ran, we jumped, we screamed, and we argued and fought. In other words, we were pretty obnoxious. We were also trials and tribulations to our parents, who often became exasperated to the extent they threatened to disown us or give us away to the first band of gypsies that happened to pass through town. 

But did our parents ever once rush us off to see the doctor? Did they stand in his office, wring their hands, and moan, “Oh, Doctor, you have to do something about Little Johnny. There must be something that will calm him down. He can’t sit still. He has the attention span of a gnat. I simply can’t take it anymore. He’s driving me nuts; he’s too hard to control; he doesn’t act like other children”?

The answer to that, of course, is no. What our parents did was shake their heads and say, “Little Johnny is driving me nuts, but he’ll out grow it. He’s just a child, and children will be children.” On the other hand, they would usually add, “And if he doesn’t out grow it, he’ll rue the day because I’m gonna wear out his behind so bad he won’t be able to sit down for a month, maybe even a year.” And, then, they would follow through.

But, alas, the times have changed and not necessarily for the better.