Dear Diary…

I think I found today the hardest of all the seven days of the week.  Wednesday doesn’t sound particularly that fun does it?  Rolls off the tongue but doesn’t hide the fact that it is slap-bang in the middle of the week.  Maybe I’ve got the mid-week blues, people go on about on their phones to their friends or type hashtag ‘mwb’ on social media…followed by an ‘eye-roll’ emoji.  My face has done a lot of eye rolling today.  Too much perhaps.  I can’t stop these eyes of mine, they’ve got a life of their own.  I suppose it is because I’ve been too frustrated.  Frustrated with the teacher, Mum, Dad and that horrible homework!  It is like the teacher is talking in another language at school, one I do not understand.  I couldn’t put my hand up when she asked, ‘any questions?’, people would laugh, and point wouldn’t they?  I’m no coward, but I could do with more friends not less!  Friends that understand and help me, I guess.  Everyone else seems to know what to write and what to say.  AND it all comes out right and not gobble-de-goop, like when I open my mouth.  I’m just weird, right?

The trouble is I absolutely HATE numbers.  The word ‘hate’ sounds just as much fun as Wednesday to me.  Wednesday is double Maths day too.  Wednesday also means Maths homework.  Wednesday equals frustrated eye-rolls and arguments with Mum.  I don’t mean to shout, sulk and slam doors.  Mum sighs soooo loud when I shrug and push the homework across the dinner table.  Mum doesn’t understand when I hold pencil to paper and it just stays right there and hovers.  The power of numbers on a page.  Numbers that don’t stay still, but dance, shuffle and are never in the right order.  An order that just gets a big red cross.  Argh?!  No loopy green ticks for me.  ‘Was I listening?’ Mum says.  ‘Did I ask for help?’ Dad says.  I say nothing, but give another shrug and run up the stairs, two steps at a time.  My door slamming behind me and shakes my stickered heart mirror.  ‘That answers that then’ Dad whispers to Mum.

There was a light tap on the door and Mum’s fluffy slippers shuffled through the door.  She’s all super lovely and kind and hands me a hot chocolate.  She says she’s frustrated too and is upset because I’m upset.  Mum wants to help.  We are talking like old times, before high school, blazers and double Maths.  All cosy and chocolate smiles, under my duvet beneath my posters and collage of family photos.  She says that Dad has booked an appointment to see a specialist, who will help us all understand why I find numbers so crazy difficult and words a dreamy doddle.  I want to scream the house roof off, but I don’t.  I’m SICK of frustrated screams in pillows and hands. I’m even more sick of shouting at Mum.  I know that I need help to rearrange those nasty little numbers, that seem so big and scary.  So, I can make sense of them, maybe in my own special way.  FYI diary…I’ll let you know…

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To find out more information about accessing and screening your child for Dyscalculia go to – http://www.dyslexiacentrenorthwest.co.uk/assessment-and-screening/