Am I a Bad Mother?
I didn’t realize my son couldn’t read
I remember sitting with a friend, softly crying, when I told her the news about my son. Being a good friend, she said, “It’s okay. You can fix this. It will get better.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. “This isn’t something I can fix. There is no medication. This is the rest of his life.”
B.B. was at the end of 5th grade when he was diagnosed with dyslexia. This meant that he had slipped through the cracks of public school for six years with an undiagnosed learning disability. Still, I don’t fault the school system as much as I fault myself. I knew him best. How did I not know?
He struggled with routine words. He hated to read aloud. Not only did he dislike it, he actively refused it. Pre-teen behavior, I thought. Now, when I look back, the signs were there. He loved being read to at night, but would stammer over words when it was his turn. When he was in third grade, this seemed like emergent reader skills. When he was in fifth grade, something was up.
My son had flown under the radar because he was typically a “B” student. His teachers missed it, but his parents missed it, as well. We only found out because we decided to have him independently tested, having this slight feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
When B.B. was diagnosed, he felt relief because he had a reason for why he had always felt different, and why some things were harder for him. An estimated 5–10% of the population has been diagnosed with dyslexia. How many others go undiagnosed?
B.B’s dad and I went through the public school system to get him special accommodations, which can often offer better accommodations than a private school. Most of my son’s teachers were good at putting those accommodations into place, such as having his textbooks converted to audible text, or allowing him to use a computer to take notes.
At the beginning of each school year, I routinely emailed his teachers, explaining his diagnosis. Toward the end of high school, I stopped this practice because he began to advocate for himself. His senior high English teacher told me that my son stayed after class on the first day of school to tell her, “If I stare off into space, I’m listening. That is how I concentrate.”
My son made it through high school, and when he looked at colleges, he didn’t choose a liberal arts school. Although some dyslexics struggle with math, my son gravitated toward numbers, often successful at the calculations, but not at reading the instructions. This is one of the many undefinable sides of how dyslexia works. He chose to study engineering, a scientific field where everything can be broken down into black and white.
I’m not an expert on dyslexia, but I understand that the effects are complicated. Not everyone with dyslexia reverses their numbers and letters.
Dyslexia fits more of an umbrella of maladies than a concrete definition.
During the second semester of his college freshman year, my son told me he had stopped buying textbooks. My heart skipped a beat.
“How can you take a class without buying the textbook?”
“Mom. I don’t skip class. I take a lot of notes. I go to the recitations. I get tutors when I need to, and I have a study group. I can always borrow a friend’s textbook if I really need it. And when all else fails, there’s YouTube.”
I grew up with a book in my hand; I had my first library card when I was nine. I worked in the library in college because I loved being around books. My son’s father is the same way; he reads a book a week. Reading for me is like a salve. My son never felt the same way. I was proud when he read Harry Potter, and later, The Hunger Games. Maybe I just wanted him to love reading as much as I did? As he got older, he would buy books on Dungeons and Dragons, but reading a best seller? He is not there yet, and he may never be.
Do I want him to love reading as much as I do? Or is it that people make judgments about you if you say you don’t like to read?
While growing up, he felt stigmatized by the diagnosis. He went to a tutor for years, and her generous spirit and positive energy helped him through a tough time. As he matured, he accepted who he was, and he understood his limitations. He can laugh at the mistakes he makes when he misspells or mispronounces a word.
Our brains are different, I tell him. I can’t do Calculus like you.
Was I a bad mother? When we don’t do enough for our children; when we fail them, these are the questions we ask ourselves. We love our children; we want to protect them, but it doesn’t always work out like we think it will. The dreams we have for them when they are little don’t always equate with how they will turn out. My son may not be a reader, but he is so much more.
