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  • My son is dyslexic.

    Mildly, but enough that it plays itself out in a myriad of ways. English papers are nail biting, sometimes horrific experiences for him. He struggles to find the right words for a lot of day-to-day things. He operates on his own timeclock, walking and talking at a pace which pushes my buttons everyday - I am already in the car while he is shuffling out the door, meandering to the driveway. Most likely forgetting something, leaving a mess in his wake.

    While I shoot my mouth off all the time, dispensing judgment, Finn watches everything and everyone carefully, staying quiet for as long as possible. He is so polite and sensitive, that it is easy to miss what's really going on and instead just think

    "Oh that boy is so sweet!"

    It took me years of hearing this before I realized that this was true, but that there were other things operating, ways in which he needed help. Help finding the words, getting them out both on paper and in person.

    He is indeed sweet, my boy, and we did get him some help. What is most fascinating though are the ways in which he helps me, and others, in crazy ways, all the time. He picks up on things that I am oblivious to, yet are totally obvious to him i.e. "Mom, she doesn't want you to solve the problem for her. She just wants you to listen. To just be there." This is in reference to my mother, his grandmother, who he understands often times a whole lot better than I do. Their relationship is unique, special, something for which I am truly grateful. She gets him in the deepest sense, and he gets her too.

    I could go on and on about this - instances of people's response to Finn. His calm is magnetic. It happens all the time.

    Anyway, tonight the two of us came home, late. After school, work, and a few stops along the way. He requested eggs for dinner. Dinner for breakfast somehow always seems like a special treat to him. I fought this for awhile until I just softened, realized the ease of preparing this is a treat for me too. Tonight I was all too happy to oblige.

    "Scrambled or fried?" I asked.

    "Scrambled, I think" he said. "Wait - scrambled are the ones you kind of scruffle up, like this, right?" he demonstated, as if he had a fork and bowl in his hands.

    I looked at those big blue eyes - the ones that see the things that most of us miss - and agreed. "Yes - scruffled eggs, exactly. I like that name better! We'll have those..."

    So it was scruffled eggs and bacon for the two of us at the kitchen counter. I snuck in some spinach too, which of course he noticed and agreeably decided to just eat and not complain. (Such is not always the case.) Looking at those eyes of his, those eyes looking at my eggs, I knew exactly what was going through his head and apppreciated his generousity in the moment. He knew I was tired, and thus was not going to push me about the spinach. That is my sweet boy, my Finn.

    We dug in. Ate some extra bacon. Scruffled eggs and smiling blue eyes. What could be better on a late Tuesday night?
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