AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Eliot looks up at me. “Can you read The Black Cat again?”
I smile at his choice. He likes
gothic tales, and while some parents would chastise me for letting a five-year-old read Edgar Allan Poe, I purposefully brush off societal constraints like ages. I always have. Every person is different.
So are my children.
I wouldn’t force Poe on a child that could barely sleep at night. Eliot isn’t frightened by the insanity and murder in tales. He sees them as what they are. Stories. At the very end of Little Snow White by the Brothers Grimm, the queen is forced to put on burning shoes and dance until she dies.
He’d rather hear the original versions than censored ones, and if asked, I’m certain he’d be able to recite a portion of Little Snow White.
In German.
“Find it in the table of contents,” I tell him, “and we’ll read it together.”
Eliot pouts. “But I want you to read it.” He crosses his arms and leans back away from me, already upset.
“Why don’t you want to read it with me?”
He kicks at his covers. “You’re better at it.” His speech is clear. He doesn’t stumble over words, but his handwriting is nearly illegible. He had trouble holding a pencil until I helped him switch to his left hand. We had three teacher-parent meetings in kindergarten because he refused to read aloud during group story time.
At one point, he chucked the book and started crying.
The teacher said that he has no patience, lacks focus, and she called him “too lazy to try”—she only sees Eliot as unruly. He’s loud-spoken, not shy, and he’s unwilling to follow reading instructions.
It’s not because he doesn’t want to. It’s because it’s difficult for him, and I can’t understand what it’s like. I can’t imagine being road-blocked in an area of learning, but he is. He shouldn’t be disciplined. He should be taught to use his strengths, so school isn’t challenging to the point of being unbearable.
We have tutors outside of school for all our children, in case they need extra help, but if knowledge bores them, if they’d rather be outside, Rose and I aren’t authoritarians on the matter. We don’t shove them in their seats for hours on end. Facts, history, books—these interested us, but if they don’t interest them, we wouldn’t push.
I turn the open book towards my son. “Then I’ll read it, but can you at least pick out The Black Cat from the table of contents?”
Eliot concentrates, but then he gives up, defeat in his eyes. “You can read something new.”
“Eliot,” I start to tell him.
Then he sighs and just points. “This one.” The Devil in the Belfry.
I put my finger beneath the “the” and ask, “What does this word say?”
“I don’t know.” Frustrated tears fill his eyes. “I don’t know!”
I immediately set the book aside and hold Eliot in my arms.
He cries into my chest, and I rub his back. “It’s okay, Eliot,” I whisper.
“All the other kids can read more than me,” he cries. “It’s not fair.” When we read out loud, we make sure he follows the words in the book, but it’s still really difficult for him to visually process them. It’ll take time.
“Just because you can’t read as fast as the other children, it doesn’t mean you’re not smart.”
He rubs his cheeks with his fist.
I wipe the rest of his tears with my thumb. “You just learn in a different way, and your way will make you incredibly gifted.”
He starts crying again, this time just overwhelmed at that word. Gifted. None of the teachers call him smart, and he’s often compared to his brothers and sister who excelled before him. I once asked him what he sees on a page. He said, “Words all around.” Eliot made a scrambled motion with his hands. If the letters look different in the same book every time, he’d struggle picking out The Black Cat from the list of tales.
Rose and I want him tested for dyslexia, but the administration says he’s too young. Children develop motor skills around this age, and they said that they couldn’t conclude whether he has a learning disorder yet.
They think we’re jumping to conclusions since our other children surpassed common milestones far faster. “It’s likely he’s just more normal than your other kids,” the principal said.
We’re not upset that our son isn’t up to par with our other children. And I don’t want to fix him so he can become “normal” or whatever normal may mean to the administration. I want Eliot to learn at a rate that doesn’t cause him to cry or feel inferior to the students around him. So he’s not anxious at being called on in class or so frustrated he’d throw his books.
To do this, he needs to focus on his strengths and not be forced to learn the same way as everyone else.
Eliot sniffs, calming down, and then he asks, “How will I learn to read?”
“Here.” I touch his ears. “These are your gift when your eyes fail you.”
If he struggles visually processing words, then he’ll have an easier time learning through sound. Rose and I have already started talking to Dalton Elementary about allowing Eliot to use audiobooks for the first grade curriculum.
I believe almost everyone has value. People have gifts and attributes that I lack, some that I admire. I respect people at their best. Eliot at his best may not involve penmanship, the same way my best isn’t among comic books or rock climbing. For Eliot to find his best, he needs the right tools to learn.
Rose and I will fight to give him every last one.
I start tucking Eliot into bed. “Every night, you’ll put on headphones and listen to books being read to you. You’ll need to follow along on the page the best you can.” We’ll probably give him an index card to block off the other line of words, if it helps.
He might never understand how words look on paper the way that I do. The way that you do. But it doesn’t mean he can’t read. It doesn’t make him unintelligent. It doesn’t mean he can’t love stories just as much, if not more, than everyone else.
“Will you still read to me?” he asks.
I nod. “There’s one more thing.” Sitting next to him, I open up the book and turn to The Black Cat. I meet his impish eyes. “Mommy and I decided that it’s better if you stay in kindergarten for one more year. It’ll give you more time to learn the way that’s best for you.”
His mouth falls. “But…?”
“You’ll be in the same grade as Tom—”
“Really?” His face brightens. Eliot and Tom are as close in age as they are in friendship.
“Only if you agree to use this extra time to your benefit. Otherwise, you’ll go to first grade.”
“I will, I will! Can I tell Tom now? Does he know?” He nearly springs out of the bed.
“Tomorrow, you can tell him.” I grin at the sight of his own smile. I tuck the covers back around his small frame and then position the book on my bent legs, angling the pages towards him.
Rose told me earlier, “The teachers will hate us more than they already do.” I didn’t disagree. Eliot and Tom together might be mayhem, but he needs more time. It’s easier to grant him extra when he’s this young and when his birthday is in June.
“The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe,” I begin, my voice smooth and tranquil. Jane says I make her fall asleep. She prefers Rose reading.
I also prefer Rose’s hostile, icy tone, but maybe not over my own.
“‘For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief.’” I look at Eliot while I read the next line from memory, and he too, remembers it, mouthing all the words, “‘Mad indeed would I be…”
I smile as his lips move.
His memory matches mine. And I never forget anything.
Lily & Loren Hale welcome the birth of their baby girl
KINNEY HALE
October 3rd, 2024
{ 41 }
December 2024
The Mall
Philadelphia
LILY HALE
In hindsight, we probably should’ve delegated all Christmas shopping to assistants or eve
n bodyguards. (They can do double-duty and run errands for us). But the thought of not picking out my children’s gifts made me sad.
This’ll also be Kinney’s first Christmas and Xander’s second birthday. I won’t half-ass these two monumental moments.
One positive upside of shopping in this particular mall: no paparazzi. They’re barred from entering.
One downside: people still approach continuously for autographs and selfies. I like greeting fans and taking pictures. Seeing their happiness by even a simple wave makes my heart swell. Though I saw two fans whispering about how I brushed them off. I felt bad. It’s not intentional. I’m just frazzled, and the pressure to shop combined with not alienating people who love us—it’s a lot.
Two hours into the shopping extravaganza and I only bought Moffy one gift. A Batman Lego set that he begged us for last month. I also included a Spider-Man one so Lo won’t feel like we’re turning into DC parents.
“I think I’ve taken more photos today than the entire year,” I express, collapsing onto an iron chair adjacent to Rose’s. Roasted Beans Café has open seating and views of the mall’s second floor. Little potted plants mark off the café’s territory, and Rose chose a table in the very corner, shopping bags piled on one of the four chairs.
Five bodyguards surround Rose. They shoo people away from her area with authoritative looks. I last saw Poppy and Daisy disappear into a sporting goods store to find gifts for their husbands.
Rose cuts her spinach and goat cheese toast with a fork and knife. As though this is any other day. I suppose it is. Crowds gathered just on the other side of the potted plants. Phones point directly at Rose to see her food choice and her pregnant belly. She looks exceptionally regal today, a glittery statement necklace, form-fitting black dress (Calloway Couture), and deep blue matte nails.
Our bodyguards watch the crowds, but they don’t block their view of us. We always tell them not to worry about that. We don’t mind the pictures, especially when they’re of us without our kids.
“I told you to stay in this protective circle.” Rose gestures around the table with her knife. If icy looks could kill, I’d be buried. “It’s the safe zone.”
