It’s not exactly a huge surprise that one of our children is dyslexic.  After all, the husband is, and so are my father and brother and from what I understand, there’s a strong hereditary link.

In a lot of ways it’s a relief to know.  The middle child has cried about school more times than it’s snowed this winter, convinced that he’s stupid, despite his teachers being very supportive and not half as gloomy as he is about his skills.

But lots of little red flags kept popping up.  How much harder he finds certain things than his younger brother, how catching up after our round the world trip has been such a struggle, how his obvious intelligence doesn’t match his written words.  I know I’m his mother, so I’m bound to think he’s bright, but he really is, you should talk to him.

So we booked an assessment with an Educational Psychologist who has confirmed what we thought. His reasoning skills are in the top 1% for his age group, which puts him closer to a 13 year old than an 8 year old.  (See, I said it wasn’t just me.)  But his maths, spelling and handwriting are below average.  And he has significant trouble with his working memory and processing speed (I’m learning a new vocabulary).  All of which point straight in the direction of dyslexia.

Like I said, it’s actually a relief.  The child in question is really quite chirpy about the whole thing, he’s pleased that there’s a reason he finds things hard.  I’m pleased that we’ll have specific recommendations for how to help him.  I’m also pleased that I wasn’t just being a neurotic pushy mother what-do-you-mean-my-child-isn’t-top-of-the-class type.

So there you have it. I expect I’ll blog as sporadically about this as I do about everything else. But I wanted to chart our journey from the beginning.

If I ever use the term journey again, you have my permission to slap me.