The First Nickels

The first years of Eli’s life were filled with several small “studies” in contrasts, i.e, me studying all the ways Eli didn’t compare to his peers or his brother. On the outside, Eli was a picture of perfect – crazy curly hair that turned many a head (no really, one time in the grocery store an elderly gentleman asked me if I “did that to his hair” – I just stared at him and said, “yep! every morning!” and chuckled to myself), gorgeous, electric blue eyes, and a contagious belly laugh (sorry Noni – IYKYK) that could brighten anyone’s day – but, a quick little peak behind the curtain would reveal a running list of all the questions that I had been stockpiling.

Why isn’t he rolling over yet?
Why isn’t he sitting up like the other baby’s in his preschool class?
Does he recognize his name? I really can’t tell…
When did Aiden start babbling?
Why does it take extreme amounts of time and energy for E to master all new things?

Each time I brought a concern to doctors, educators, and specialists alike, I was met with the same chorus of words (being born and raised in the Mid-South, in my head I always remember these moments in the most southern of southern accents, so that’s how I’m gonna quote it, exactly like I hear it – now imagine, standing in a preschool classroom, bright colors splashed all around you, toddler art work lining the walls, professing your deepest, darkest concerns to this teacher you barely know, and then you are met with): “Now, mama, don’t you go comparin’ him to anybody else. These little ones all get where they’re goin’ when they’re good’n ready. Let’s just wait’n see how he comes along, ya hear?”.

Nickel.

With each class he “graduated” in preschool, my list of questions grew longer and longer. By the time the preschool started to introduce curriculum into his day (around 18-24 months) my stockpiled questions finally had somewhere to land. At one of our first parent-teacher meetings, I asked directly: could Eli be color blind or dyslexic? He was struggling to recall shapes and colors, no matter how often we practiced at home. We played all the same games and read all the same books and watched all the same videos as we did with big brother. The teachers just kindly smiled and remarked something like, “Let’s be patient, mama. No need to worry just yet”.

Nickel. Nickel. Nickel.

I left that meeting like I did many to follow – holding a handful of papers, pictures colored outside the lines, shapes half-drawn, letters that were really just scribbled lines – and I tried to convince myself that maybe they were right and it was all within the range of normal. He was funny, creative, imaginative. Surely, this was just one of those phases we’d look back on later and laugh about.

Still, the jar I was carrying around in my mind grew heavier with every progress report and doctor visit. Every reassurance felt more like a dismissal, as if my questions didn’t deserve real answers. Every time someone told me not to compare, I thought about how much comparing was the only thing keeping me alert to what was happening. I wasn’t fully ready to accept that Eli just needed time.

Eli wasn’t “behind.” He was just… Eli — bright-eyed, curious, always ready to laugh. But beneath the sparkle, I could see it: he was working harder than the other kids just to barely keep up. And no matter how many nickels I collected, the truth was slipping through.

Waiting had been the advice. Waiting had been the comfort. But waiting, I was learning, was also the problem.

This pattern continued throughout Eli’s PK years. We moved to Chicago when Eli was three and I packed up my mental list of Eli questions with the rest of our belongings and headed north. As good Catholics do, we enrolled him in a sweet little Catholic school PK3 program. We were super excited because the curriculum seemed right on par with what we were looking for, the teachers and priests we met were so kind and welcoming, and the classroom was warm and inviting – but the change in scenery didn’t change his progress.

Kindergarten was where the gap stopped being subtle. Letters that other kids either brought with them or picked up in a week slipped away from Eli like sand through his fingers. A square and a rectangle? Same result, no matter how many times we explained it. Colors blurred together, too. The harder he tried, the more frustrated he became.

I remember playing a game we made up on the trampoline – we have several balls of different colors and we toss them around to each other shouting the colors as we caught the ball. Months of this.

At our first parent-teacher meeting of Kinder 1.0, I leaned forward at the little horse shoe shaped table, desperate for answers. His teacher smiled kindly. “He’s sweet. He’s curious. He’ll get there. Let’s just give him more time.”

Another nickel. Another weight in my pocket.

At home, the evidence piled up. The first words out of his little mouth EVERY morning quickly became, “No skoo today?!” Homework ended in tears every single night, both his and mine. Flashcards were battles, not games. The other moms laughed about their kids breezing through sight words while I quietly swallowed my envy.

Even recess was telling. Eli would hang back at the edge of the playground, picking flowers (errr – weeds) or chasing bugs. The teachers saw a “daydreamer.” I saw a little boy who wanted to belong but couldn’t find the way in.

Nickel.

The contradictions were exhausting. At school, I was told not to worry. At home, I couldn’t stop. At school, he was just “a little behind.” At home, the gap felt like a canyon.

I wanted to believe them. I wanted to put down the jar of nickels, stop collecting reassurances, and trust the system. But every day the jar got heavier, and my questions got louder.

Kindergarten 1.0 made one thing clear: waiting wasn’t working.

Susan