A Dyslexic Diary – The Sporadic & Sincere Thoughts of a Mummy

Dear Diary…

I’m not sure what I did wrong!  Did I not communicate properly when having our little toddler chats and sweet giggles on high chairs?  Or perhaps I misinterpreted the initial goo-goo-ga-gas of the endearing baby talk? Did I not use those alphabet magnets enough?  Did they just sit there all pretty and plastic on the fridge too often?  I’m sitting here trying to find some rational thinking amidst the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, doing Olympic headstands in my head.  Trying to rewind, step back in time and find Mrs Logic and Mrs Reason.  I keep going over it, like a crazy gerbil going hell for leather on a squeaky ferris wheel.  My little girl is eight now…when did this all start?

I know, I know.  So many looming question marks and deeply engraved squiggly loops in Biro.  Rushed and emotional words on these diary pages.  I suppose it is far better to write them down, for only you and I to see.  Instead of saying them out loud on awkward tweed chairs in front of teacher’s desks.  That would not do.  Forgive me, dear friend, for I do sound rather embarrassed and unaccepting.  I write these words with kindness but with a heavy heart.  A heavy heart that asks, ‘Where do we go from here?’ and ‘Is the future still bright?’.  Deep down I know the answer is yes.  To both.  So, why do I feel so deflated?

A few years in school.  A few years of muddles and mixes.  Words she giddily writes with her teacher.  Words made by small fingers, with smaller pencils on paper, that are sometimes a bit of a puzzle.  I noticed the signs that bobbed up here and there, just by glancing at words she would write.  Or at bedtime, reading by the night-light, all cosy in fleecy pyjamas under a patchwork quilt.  Simple sentences that are warped and jumbled.  I just put it down to her age and naivety.

I think I’m the naïve one.  Especially when there was a tweed seat in front of furrow-browed faces of concern from teachers.  A lot of nods and sympathetic stares.  A lot of information.  A lot of nods from me, trying to make sense of the information.  A referral was given.  An appointment was made.  An assessment was completed.  My brave girl was diagnosed.  It sounds very serious that word, doesn’t it?  Diagnosed.  ‘Dyslexia’, the professional said and there were sighs and wide eyes that day.

I am adding to this diary entry a week later.  You’ll be happy to know, that all is well.  You can now sigh a sigh of relief, as everything will be just fine.  My little girl was booked on a course of dyslexia workshops with multi-sensory learning and techniques.  This has already built up her confidence and self-esteem and will continue to do just that, while she grows out of her patent T-bars and into big girl leather laced shoes.  It is no longer the big fat elephant in the room.  I realise now, that it was so normal to be worried ad blame myself.  A Mother’s love for her child is a strong one.  She may be small and dyslexic…but she is mighty!

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