He’ll Catch Up…

I will never, never forget Eli’s first day of kindergarten. We had always struggled at school drop-off with Eli. Like – big time. He would start crying the moment we pulled into the parking lot. After we moved back home from Chicago, we started to fall into a pretty good groove. The tears were still there on the daily, but we took a few minutes each morning before leaving the car to pump up our big, brave muscles, put on our confident face, and turn on our listening ears. That sweet little routine came to a tragic end when we transitioned to elementary school.

On Eli’s first day of kindergarten, we walked into that school building just like we did preschool. Our muscles were pumped, our face was confident, and our ears were on… until we reached the threshold to his classroom. That’s where the meltdown of all meltdowns ensued. To the point that the sweet, sweet principal walked up, gently loosened Eli’s death grip from my neck, and removed his body from mine while she whispered, “Give me this baby, Mama—he’s gonna be just fine, everything’s gonna be just fine.” Then she carried him off and repeated, “You’re gonna be just fine…” To him, I know—but I repeated that to myself all the way to the car: He’s going to be just fine. I’m going to be just fine. We’re going to be just fine.

I still cherish that moment and know I always will, for a multitude of reasons—but mostly because it was the first time I’d ever truly felt seen in our journey with Eli. That was the first time someone validated the hard instead of dismissing it. With that simple gesture and that simple statement, I knew she was telling me that no matter what happens, it’s going to be okay. It might be hard, but regardless, “it’s gonna be just fine.”

She didn’t try to tell me that one day he’d walk in without crying. She didn’t say that “lots of kids” have the same panic (a quick glance down the hall full of giggling kids would’ve proven that wrong anyway). She didn’t try to fix it. And that’s what made it stick. Her gentle, warm gesture and whispered words were loud and clear to me: We got this, Mom. Together. And because of that, it’s all gonna be just fine.

This sweet lady still keeps up with both my boys via Facebook (we’ve since moved back to Tennessee) and genuinely takes an interest in her former students. She is such a gem and such a blessing in Eli’s story.

Mornings did get a little easier for Eli—but the schoolwork did not. And by October that year, I was done playing the wait-and-see game.

We had waited. We had seen.

And what I saw was a 5-year-old little boy who could spend an entire week on a single color, letter, or number and still not remember it by Friday. A child who couldn’t tell the difference between a square and a rectangle, no matter how many flashcards we flipped or blocks we stacked.

I started pushing back – I knew in my bones that this wasn’t him just needing more time. Something wasn’t connecting. The same phrase always hung in the air: Let’s wait and see. He’ll likely catch up.

Nickel.

That fall, we started the school district’s assessment process to qualify for an IEP. The paperwork, the testing, the meetings – it all stretched from October to April. Nearly seven months of waiting, while Eli stumbled through the school year without the full supports he needed. We finally received a report and plan two weeks before the school year ended.

Around the same time we started the school district’s assessment, I decided to seek out a third-party psychoeducational evaluation. That’s when the puzzle pieces started to fit together: ADHD. Severe dyslexia.

I pushed further and this would be the first time (of a few) that I requested an autism assessment. The psychologist agreed to assess him, but when the results came back, I was told he was too young, too borderline, and that they didn’t want to “label him.”

In the meantime, Eli started medication for ADHD, and we began to see little glimpses of clarity through the fog—moments where he could finally sit with a task long enough to take in the full instruction. Around that same time, a full ophthalmology exam revealed what the school vision screening had missed—our guy couldn’t see!

Glasses went on his face, and suddenly the world sharpened for him.

When the district’s results came back, they officially labeled him “developmentally delayed.” At the time (and honestly, still today in many Mississippi districts), schools didn’t formally recognize dyslexia as a qualifying disability under an IEP. Instead, they used broader categories like “developmental delay” or “specific learning disability.” So while the private psychologist had no hesitation calling it what it was – dyslexia – the school couldn’t write that word on paper. And honestly, that was fine by me. Call it whatever you want, as long as he gets the help.

We made the decision to have him repeat kindergarten (dubbed ‘Kinder 2.0’). With his new IEP, he was pulled out of the classroom twice a day for one-on-one work with the special ed teacher. On top of that, we added after-school tutoring designed for dyslexic learners.

And slowly, beautifully, the needle began to move.

Eli started to recognize letters. He learned his shapes and colors. The fog was lifting. At almost seven, he spelled his very first word on his own—“C-A-T.” For the first time, I felt like maybe we’d found the right combination—glasses, medication, IEP support, extra tutoring.

It was getting better.

Until it wasn’t.

Susan