When my son hears the words, “Let’s get in the car,” he grabs a book or two. It doesn’t matter how far the journey or even if there’s natural light outside. Since he was very young, he’s chosen to be surrounded by books, no matter where he goes.
He devours novels and comic books and magazines. He comprehends, retains and recalls it all easily.
But Cooper struggles with spelling. We spend three, four, sometimes five hours a week prepping for the Friday spelling test. He’s usually able to make an A or B, and then those exact letters in their precise order fall out of his head.
His sustained spelling troubles were one of the clues that he might have a learning disability.
Over time, I realized another clue while watching him complete homework. He has trouble on fill-in-the blank assignments, where all the answers are at the top of the page and his job is to write the correct word on the correct line.I’d watch him read the question, find the correct answer in the list, place pencil on paper and then write the word — incorrectly. He’d jumble the letters or miss some entirely.
“Buddy, the answer is right there on the page,” I’d say. “There’s no reason to spell it wrong if it’s right there on the page.”
Actually, there is a reason. After years of struggling with handwriting and spelling and schoolwork in general, Cooper has been identified as dyslexic.
Upon learning about this new label, he walked into his gifted-and-talented classroom and declared to his peers with genuine enthusiasm, “I have dyslexia!”
He was as excited as I was to pinpoint the reason for his academic difficulty. (And he was a tiny bit thrilled to share a characteristic with one of his favorite fictional heroes, Percy Jackson.)
Now we’re navigating what that word means.
At school, it’s pretty clear. For the next two years, he will be pulled daily from his regular class for special instruction. He qualifies for accommodations, such as being penalized for misspelled words only on spelling tests.
The changes at home aren’t so explicitly defined.
His first spelling list after the dyslexia diagnosis was particularly difficult. On the first afternoon of practice testing at home, he missed seven of 15. On the second afternoon, he missed nine. In four years of spelling practice, he’d never regressed that much.
“Cooper, you need to try your best,” I told him. “You missed more today than yesterday.”
His outburst in reply, declared with genuine hysterics: “It’s because I have dyslexia!”
That’s when we had the big “this doesn’t change who you are” talk.
I told him that he was just as capable the day after he had “dyslexia” attached to his name as he was the day before. Nothing about him had changed; how we would help him would change.
We talked about how much he reads now — and enjoys it — and how much his brain is compensating, without him even knowing. One of his weaknesses is decoding multi-syllable words, so he guesses based on context. With instruction, one day he’ll be able to read challenging words correctly, spending less energy and time making an educated guess.
We’re both learning when it’s appropriate to categorize a deficit as a byproduct of dyslexia vs. when the problem is just related to being an active 9-year-old boy.
I’ve stopped chiding him for mixing up letters that are right there on the page. (How long will I hold on to that guilt?)
And I’ve started praising him more for reading so often — for fighting through difficulty and ignoring a label that doesn’t have to define who he is or how successful he will be.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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