time, pausing to listen to Ezra. I watch, waiting for a miraculous breakthrough, the moment my five-year-old boy suddenly emerges from his two-year-long trance to reveal his hidden ability.
It doesn’t happen.
Instead, he merely continues to page through, staring at the book. And as we continue our conversation with Brad, I let the momentary fantasy slip away.
Until a few minutes later, when Elana returns to the table.
“He’s reading,” she says evenly, still wearing her mysterious smile.
“What do you mean?” I ask. It just doesn’t make sense. I feel confused and skeptical—and it must show on my face.
“He’s smart ,” she says. “Of course he can read.”
Later, on the way home, Shawn and I are both quiet for a while, and then I ask my wife: “Do you think he’s reading?”
She shakes her head. “Do I think he will read—someday? Yes,” she says. “Is he now?” She shakes her head again.
I don’t know what to think. Have we missed something? Have we been overlooking new developments all along? Has Ezra been reaching fresh milestones, higher levels of comprehension, unprecedented accomplishments that have escaped our notice? Has he been deciphering the words on the pages all this time, while we naively dismissed his page turning as mere habit? I’m perplexed. Did Ezra actually read the words on the page to Elana? Or is she just trying to send us a signal—that we ought to have faith in our son, ought to assume that he is a mindful, intelligent person?
That night at bedtime, I sit on the boys’ bedroom floor with Ezra, an Eric Carle picture book between the two of us. I point to a word and ask him to read it to me.
Silence.
I read it, then point to the next.
No response.
“ Read to me!” he demands.
“No,” I say. “You read to me .”
He squirms. “ Read , Abba!”
“You,” I say.
It’s silent. In the hush between us I am aware of the tension within myself—the tug-of-war between acceptance and aspiration, between embracing what my son is and pushing him toward what he might become. As much as I aim to appreciate Ezra on his own terms, with all of his eccentricities and limitations, Elana’s comment has touched a part of me that dreams for—maybe even expects—my son to do what any other child could do: make friends, sit still, read books.
While I try to rein in those too-grand thoughts, he takes me by surprise. Soon after that evening Ezra magically starts spelling words.
At first it’s his own name: E-Z-R-A. And within a few weeks he has added to that the names of his brothers: A-M-I-E-L (Ami’s full name) and N-O-A-M. He spells what he calls me: A-B-B-A, and what he calls Shawn: I-M-A.
One night, I’m making dinner in the kitchen and notice Ezra running into the room and grabbing the brightly colored plastic magnetic letters from the refrigerator door. Again and again he appears in the doorway, hurries to the fridge, grabs a letter in each hand, then scampers back out. When he leaves and doesn’t return, I peek into the playroom next door to see what’s up, and spot Ezra arranging letters in the corner of the small table that holds his wooden trains and tracks. He has placed eight letters into a crooked line to spell a word: D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R.
A big word for a little boy who seems so lost in his own head.
“Did you do that?” I ask.
He beams: “I spelled dinosaur ! That’s how you spell dinosaur !”
I smile and watch my son fiddle with the letters and the trains and wonder what else is going on behind his deep brown eyes. And for a moment I ponder another question: Was Elana right? Is Ezra teaching himself? And I wonder whether he has been doing that all along—and whether he just might continue.
Soon, spelling becomes yet another obsession. When Ezra is not mimicking phrases from Winnie the Pooh or disgorging minutiae about Thomas, he is asking how to spell words: names, characters, objects, animals. This is what he fills the silence with now as we
It doesn’t happen.
Instead, he merely continues to page through, staring at the book. And as we continue our conversation with Brad, I let the momentary fantasy slip away.
Until a few minutes later, when Elana returns to the table.
“He’s reading,” she says evenly, still wearing her mysterious smile.
“What do you mean?” I ask. It just doesn’t make sense. I feel confused and skeptical—and it must show on my face.
“He’s smart ,” she says. “Of course he can read.”
Later, on the way home, Shawn and I are both quiet for a while, and then I ask my wife: “Do you think he’s reading?”
She shakes her head. “Do I think he will read—someday? Yes,” she says. “Is he now?” She shakes her head again.
I don’t know what to think. Have we missed something? Have we been overlooking new developments all along? Has Ezra been reaching fresh milestones, higher levels of comprehension, unprecedented accomplishments that have escaped our notice? Has he been deciphering the words on the pages all this time, while we naively dismissed his page turning as mere habit? I’m perplexed. Did Ezra actually read the words on the page to Elana? Or is she just trying to send us a signal—that we ought to have faith in our son, ought to assume that he is a mindful, intelligent person?
That night at bedtime, I sit on the boys’ bedroom floor with Ezra, an Eric Carle picture book between the two of us. I point to a word and ask him to read it to me.
Silence.
I read it, then point to the next.
No response.
“ Read to me!” he demands.
“No,” I say. “You read to me .”
He squirms. “ Read , Abba!”
“You,” I say.
It’s silent. In the hush between us I am aware of the tension within myself—the tug-of-war between acceptance and aspiration, between embracing what my son is and pushing him toward what he might become. As much as I aim to appreciate Ezra on his own terms, with all of his eccentricities and limitations, Elana’s comment has touched a part of me that dreams for—maybe even expects—my son to do what any other child could do: make friends, sit still, read books.
While I try to rein in those too-grand thoughts, he takes me by surprise. Soon after that evening Ezra magically starts spelling words.
At first it’s his own name: E-Z-R-A. And within a few weeks he has added to that the names of his brothers: A-M-I-E-L (Ami’s full name) and N-O-A-M. He spells what he calls me: A-B-B-A, and what he calls Shawn: I-M-A.
One night, I’m making dinner in the kitchen and notice Ezra running into the room and grabbing the brightly colored plastic magnetic letters from the refrigerator door. Again and again he appears in the doorway, hurries to the fridge, grabs a letter in each hand, then scampers back out. When he leaves and doesn’t return, I peek into the playroom next door to see what’s up, and spot Ezra arranging letters in the corner of the small table that holds his wooden trains and tracks. He has placed eight letters into a crooked line to spell a word: D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R.
A big word for a little boy who seems so lost in his own head.
“Did you do that?” I ask.
He beams: “I spelled dinosaur ! That’s how you spell dinosaur !”
I smile and watch my son fiddle with the letters and the trains and wonder what else is going on behind his deep brown eyes. And for a moment I ponder another question: Was Elana right? Is Ezra teaching himself? And I wonder whether he has been doing that all along—and whether he just might continue.
Soon, spelling becomes yet another obsession. When Ezra is not mimicking phrases from Winnie the Pooh or disgorging minutiae about Thomas, he is asking how to spell words: names, characters, objects, animals. This is what he fills the silence with now as we
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