I found myself in a whirlwind of self-blame. It’s a common reaction, I suppose: when your child is exceptionally talented, it’s easy to think, “If he’s reading two grades above his level, then I must have fallen short in something.” When I discovered, with a sinking heart, that my 7-year-old son, Leo, didn’t know his lowercase letters, it hit me hard. His writing was a chaotic mess, and his spelling was a riddle. “Kaoak” was his attempt at “cook,” and “lvoe” was clearly meant to be “love.” He couldn’t even spell his own last name!
So we dove into the writing drills. Out of all our homeschooling adventures, Leo could only muster complaints about writing. He’d sit at his little desk, staring blankly at the pre-lined paper, struggling to scribble out three sentences on simple subjects. I tried to choose topics that aligned with our social studies or books we were reading, and we brainstormed ideas together. Despite our efforts, the process felt endless. It was as if, the moment he picked up a pen, his phonics knowledge vanished. Just yesterday, “avocado maki rolls” turned into “moce rars”—and this was from a kid who can read “the department of education.”
Eventually, I took a hard look at his paper filled with inconsistent spacing, whimsical spelling, and a mix of uppercase and lowercase letters, and the thought struck me: what if there’s something more going on here? I started researching, and I stumbled upon dysgraphia, a condition that affects writing, and possibly dyslexia. A formal diagnosis could help explain Leo’s stark contrast in reading and writing abilities and provide strategies for improvement.
But I also realized that a diagnosis would label my gifted son as learning disabled (LD). Leo is what experts refer to as “twice exceptional”: gifted children who also face learning challenges. I had already felt the weight of sadness and worry when we learned he shares the same ADHD traits that my partner and I do. I’ve witnessed my own struggles with attention, social interactions, and the infamous “choice paralysis.” Plus, I see my partner’s battles with his learning disability, dyscalculia, which is like dyslexia but for math. He still occasionally counts on his fingers and struggles with estimating time or distance. Thankfully, technology handles our finances now.
Naturally, I’m anxious about what this diagnosis might mean for Leo’s future. With some new strategies, I can assist him with writing. But it aches to think he might never find joy in it. The simple act of putting pen to paper could become a chore, rather than a source of delight. Despite all the compensatory techniques and support, he may still face challenges. No parent wants to watch their child struggle.
We’ve already had to explain to him that he’s different. He attends a homeschool co-op and is aware of how well his peers write. He notices their neat handwriting and how easily they produce text. We’ve talked about how his brain operates differently—something he’s somewhat familiar with due to his ADHD. I tell him that this unique way of thinking can make writing more difficult for him than for others.
“Maybe I just need to try harder, Mama,” he sometimes suggests, and it breaks my heart because, in truth, trying harder won’t make much of a difference.
“You can’t just try harder,” I explain. “You need to try differently. That’s why we’re pursuing an evaluation—to find out how best to support you.” He huffs at the thought of the evaluation, feeling anxious. Already, he’s adapted by shifting from attempting to spell on his own to asking me how to spell every. single. word. Yet he still manages to produce “rars” for “rolls.” The words he thinks he knows often come out misspelled, like “lvoe” for “love” and “fa” for “the.” Now that I’m aware of the issues, I can’t unsee them. They fill me with sadness, watching him labor over these little papers. I’m frustrated by not knowing how to help him, but I can’t imagine the degree of his own frustration.
Fortunately, the other kids haven’t commented on his writing yet. If they have, they’ve kept it to themselves. Luckily, the homeschooling community tends to be very understanding about everyone learning at their own pace, which I deeply appreciate.
So now, we’re in a waiting game for a diagnosis. We desperately need a label. Having one would allow Leo to say, “I have dysgraphia,” if someone inquires about his writing or if a peer makes a comment about his handwriting. A label would provide us with the tools and resources necessary for support. It would guide me on how to teach him to find joy in writing, even if his handwriting isn’t perfect.
We will navigate this journey together. We’ll discover how to support him, and he’ll learn to adapt. He’s a resilient kid. It may not be easy, but we’re determined to tackle this challenge head-on.
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Summary:
Navigating the challenges of parenting a twice-exceptional child can be overwhelming. The author shares the journey of recognizing their gifted son Leo’s struggles with writing, leading to a search for a diagnosis that could explain his difficulties. As they prepare for evaluation, they highlight the importance of understanding and adapting to help Leo thrive while acknowledging the emotional weight of this journey.