I’m a late-diagnosed ADHD mom raising a child with ADHD. Here’s how we make it work (most days).

Blair, 39, is a Minnesotan freelance writer who was diagnosed with ADHD as an adult. Her son was diagnosed a year later. Having similar brains can make life both challenging and deeply connecting. Here’s what navigating life with ADHD looks like for them — together.

5:16 a.m. Yes, I set my alarms to end in sixes. Not everything is “because of ADHD.” But I’m definitely more self-aware of how my brain works since I was diagnosed. 

6:00 a.m. My personal training appointment is the only way I’m getting to the gym today. I’m great at talking myself out of things, so this accountability is really helpful. 

7:30 a.m. I’m back home. School starts soon, so I tell my son to put on his shoes. He ties them but says they don’t feel right. I offer to help, but he insists on doing it himself. He ties and unties two more times before finally letting me step in. I’m proud that I was able to stay calm, so I text my husband for validation. 

9:00 a.m. I sit down to work and cross off a few tasks on my to-do list. I don’t like leaving projects unfinished. When I get to mark something as “done,” I feel accomplished — like I’m actually on top of things. 

12:30 p.m. My mood is soaring. I’m so productive today! I’m shocked at how much energy I still have. Usually by now, I’m watching the day slip away. But today I feel unstoppable. That’s ADHD — up one day, down the next. I try to figure out why I feel so good, so I can replicate the feeling. I never do.

2:30 p.m. My son is upset he didn’t have afterschool care. I calmly remind him it was his choice to come home today. He argues, and I interrupt. I can’t help myself — I just say whatever I’m thinking in the moment. He snaps, “You always interrupt me!” I make him laugh to distract him. The impact of ADHD on our relationship is something we’re constantly navigating.

8:00 p.m. The Alexa reminder goes off: “It’s time to take meds and go upstairs.” My son ignores the reminder and keeps playing on his tablet until I threaten to take it away. He turns the screen off and complains that he didn’t have enough time. I’m tempted to argue but choose to ignore it. He gets distracted by every object on the way to the bathroom.

8:40 p.m. We argue over brushing teeth, then over books. When I get up to turn off the light and go downstairs, he grabs my arm and begs me to stay. I feel guilty and go downstairs. 

9:00 p.m. I finally pick a TV show, but 10 minutes in, I’m already bored. My ADHD brain craves dopamine, and this just isn’t cutting it. “Future me” would tell me to sleep, but revenge-bedtime-procrastinating with snacks and true crime feels more important. I’ll deal with how I feel tomorrow, tomorrow.

11:50 p.m. I turn off the TV, move my clock so the light isn’t as bright, and remember that I forgot to text my friend back. I get out of bed and schedule a text for tomorrow. My to-do list is on repeat in my brain, so I write it all down in the notebook on my nightstand — the only way to clear my head. Twenty minutes later, I’m asleep. 

6:00 a.m. My son is awake, standing over my bed, asking, “Will you get up with me?” I regret staying up late. I’m tired and cranky. I take a deep breath and get out of bed.

7:00 a.m. When it’s time to get ready for school, I tell my son to pause the TV. He doesn’t. My husband senses my irritation and steps in. Under my breath, I say, “This wouldn’t happen if we just did the same routine every day…. ” I love routines. I’m just terrible at sticking to them. 

7:30 a.m. I lie on the couch in silence. Who invented work anyway? I remember I have a meeting at 3 p.m. I scroll Instagram and think about going to the gym or walking the dog. I check Facebook Marketplace and make breakfast.

8:30 a.m. I write my to-do list in order of importance on my weekly planner. After years of searching for the “best” way to organize my life, I finally found something that works: simple tear-off sheets I ordered from Amazon. I always wanted to be one of those cute-planner people, but systems that work for neurotypical brains don’t work the same way for mine.

11:45 p.m. Almost noon already? Where did the morning go? I totally forgot I have that meeting later, so I set two Alexa reminders and write it on a sticky note just in case. 

2:55 p.m. Meeting in five. I fill my water and grab a cheese stick. Do I have to pee? I rush to the bathroom, then log in, right on time. 

3:45 p.m. The meeting went well. I feel bad for neglecting the dog, so I take him for a long walk. The fresh air, sunshine, and movement feel incredible. I want to remember this feeling. 

4:00 p.m. My son’s upset because he thinks I picked him up too early. “Karate tonight,” I say, trying hard to stay calm. I get it — transitions can be tough. I try to validate how he’s feeling, but he doesn’t want to talk. We get home, and he turns on the TV. I tell him we’re leaving in 20 minutes and set his visual timer. 

4:20 p.m. When the timer beeps, I brace for a meltdown. We get ready without a fight. Yay! In the car, he says his uniform doesn’t feel right. I offer solutions, and he shoots down every single one. We don’t talk for the rest of the ride.

6:30 p.m. After dinner, everyone’s in a good mood, so we head to the park to throw my son’s boomerang. This time, he actually catches it! My husband and I cheer, and my son’s face lights up with pride. These are the moments worth celebrating. Before heading home, we turn the playground into an obstacle course and race each other. 

8:00 p.m. The TV is too loud. My body aches from sitting all day, but I was so productive. I pop some ibuprofen and sink into the couch. My husband and son teach me a new card game, but the directions are just too much right now. The dog needs to go out, so I tell them to keep playing. I wait in the kitchen, checking my phone — the one place I leave it so I don’t get distracted.

8:45 p.m. I got distracted. I guilt myself into doing the bedtime routine. I commit to being present this time.

10:00 p.m. My husband and I sit outside together. I start brainstorming ways to make our life more manageable — routines, discipline, homework, screen time rules. We balance each other well. I’m a planner, always full of ideas. He works with kids, so he brings a lot of patience and perspective. Our follow-through is another story.

11:00 p.m. I crawl into bed. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I think I’ll sleep in. 

5:30 a.m. So much for sleeping in. The dog must not know it’s the weekend. I let him out, feed him, and climb back into bed.

6:00 a.m. I hear my son’s footsteps, so I get up and make peanut butter toast, which is basically my breakfast 90 percent of mornings. When I find something that works, I stick with it on repeat. That’s until, out of nowhere, I switch to something else like it never existed.

6:10 a.m. Before I can sit down, my son asks me to play video games. I take a deep breath and reluctantly grab a controller. Sometimes I wonder if other parents of only-children have to play this much. And do they feel guilty for saying no? 

8:30 a.m. My husband’s awake. I’ve been up for three hours, so my brain is buzzing. I ask about his plans for the day, but before he can answer, my brain jumps to something else. I jot it on a sticky note while he waits patiently. When I finally tune back in, he laughs (he’s used to this) and keeps talking. 

10:00 a.m. I announce that I’m going into my office to work while my husband gets ready for the gym. I wanted to go too. I know we have nothing going on today, but now it feels too late. “Let Mom work,” he says. My body is on high alert, waiting for the inevitable interruption. 

10:10 a.m. “Mom! Will you get me a string cheese?” Saying no might trigger an argument. But saying yes feels like giving in. I get up and toss him the cheese. The dog needs to go out. I notice the dirty dishes in the sink, so I start scrubbing. A clean house makes me feel calm, but today it’s just another distraction.

11:00 a.m. I’m deep into a blog draft, and it feels like nothing else matters. Hyperfocus is a double-edged sword. Sometimes I can plow through hours of work in minutes, and on other days, just getting started feels impossible. There’s a knock at my office door. “What!” Being yanked out of deep work is a nightmare that irritates every ounce of me. I don’t want to react that way, but it feels automatic. “Will you play a game with me?” my son asks in the sweetest voice. I feel bad saying no. Plus, he’ll be back in five minutes. I cave.

12:00 p.m. Noon already? I make my son his favorite random plate: turkey, crackers, and fruit. The cottage cheese is runny again. This is the third time! It’s the only brand he’ll eat. I rant about emailing the company.

2:00 p.m. We decide to build a cardboard box fort. My son and I have a hundred creative ideas. Our ADHD brains think big and fast. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. But other times, it’s pure magic. Now we’re arguing. We see it completely differently, and neither of us is budging. We both think our idea is the best.

2:15 p.m. I cave and go with his idea, then head to the kitchen to grab scissors from the junk drawer. Instead, I end up reorganizing the jumbled mess of phone cords, rubber bands, and pens. The only thing I love more than organizing is buying more bins to do it.

5:00 p.m. Cooking feels like more time and energy than we have to give, so takeout it is.

9:30 p.m. The house is finally quiet. I should go to bed, but my brain won’t shut off.

11:00 p.m. I give in and force my eyes closed.

What do 72 hours in your ADHD life look like? We want to hear from you. Find out how to submit your own diary entry.