A page of my son’s handwriting looks as though a Wookie exploded on a snowfield. Despite brilliance in many areas, Rory’s weak point has always been when he has a pencil in one hand.
Now, I was a teacher once. I remember the sinking feeling of being presented a mangled piece of work that required minute deciphering without the aid of an Enigma cipher machine. I discovered that it is sometimes the least decipherable that contains the most talent.
Not so the Victorian NAPLAN assessors. [National Assessment Program – Literacy and Numeracy (NAPLAN)]
Whichever cretinous hobbledehoy read my genius son’s Year 5 creative writing assignment didn’t bother to mine for the diamonds in the mud, and simply marked him ‘below average’.
Below average?
BELOW AVERAGE?!
Bollocks to that.
Maternal prejudices aside, I know my son can write. I am happy to concede he may lack the edge in other areas – his relegation to the 8th Division in basketball is not unwarranted; unless I threaten to do a sniff check, his personal hygiene falls below acceptable standards; he is somewhat uncoordinated and has questionable spatial perception, to which the fact that in his ten years he has had three greenstick fractures is testimony.
However, when it comes to literacy, he’s way up there. He took to words like a duck to water, like a bear to the woods, like a pig to sh*t. At the age of four, he picked up his first reader and sailed off into the glorious sunset of the written word with ne’er a backward glance. He is eloquent, logical and expressive. And he can write! (Yeah, I know I’ve said that already, but just in case you missed the point…)
His handwriting has always been an Achilles feature. We have been doing daily handwriting-at-home exercises since his first week at school, despite what the odd sniffy teacher might think. I have spent enough on fine-motorskills-enhancing Lego to feed a Third World nation for a month.
In desperation, a couple of years ago, I took him to a highly-recommended local Occupational Therapist.
Ignoring my first impression (a tad over-the-hill), I watched in silent and disbelieving wonder as she had my nine-year-old do wall push-ups, play Kerplunk! and draw squiggly stick figures for an hour. Always one to give somebody a second chance, I returned for another hour. This time we repeated the previous saccharin session and I noticed a desperate gleam enter poor Rory’s patient eyes. I could just hear his silent plea: Seriously?
Then she presented me with her bill: $240 for two sessions.
That’s right: $2 a minute.
Seriously?
I presented the bill to our private medical firm. They laughed and said the same thing, ‘Seriously?’ (And then they said, ‘No way.’ Quel surpris!)
I wrestled with a good-mannered dilemma over how to extricate Rory and myself without hurting the OT’s feelings. (I am not so much of a blunt axe in real life: people-skills and all that.) Then I hit a lucky break. This turned out to be an unlucky break for Rory, involving a steep driveway, a scooter and another greenstick in one of his forearms.
‘So sorry,’ I said to the OT. ‘He can’t use his arm for twelve weeks.’
‘Do be sure to make an appointment as soon as he’s recovered,’ she begged.
‘Of course.’ (Yeah, right.)
To assist Rory with his recovery, I took him to a physiotherapist. In two sessions, which cost half the price of the OT, and to which the private medical lot were happy to contribute, she’d not only assisted with the rehabilitation of the fractured bone, she’d also diagnosed the core of his handwriting difficulties.
‘It’s not a fine-motor issue at all,’ she said, in direct contradiction to the OT. ‘He needs to work on developing his shoulder strength.’
She handed over some exercises that were macho and fun enough to appeal to any hot-blooded young male, and within two weeks Rory’s teacher reported a significant improvement in his handwriting.
There is so much lost ground to recover, however, that in mother bear mode I have approached the school to see if he can type his Year 12 finals (in 2018), so as not to have any further diamond-in-the-mud loss. His lovely teacher embraced the idea and immediately investigated how to proceed.
‘We need to start compiling documentary evidence now,’ she told me.
A compiler at heart, I leapt to the challenge, writing to his Prep teacher in the UK, the physio, and – feeling only a little guilty – the OT. His Prep teacher and the physio sent through comprehensive and helpful reports within a couple of weeks. I had to chase the OT for four months before she finally emailed me, saying she would compile a report (based on the futile wall push-ups, banal squiggling and infantile Kerplunk!) for $150.
Seriously?
Dumb-founded, I didn’t respond, not trusting myself to be my usual immaculately polite self.
Then yesterday, I got an email to say she’s posted the report, along with her invoice.
All I can say is, it’d better be good. Good enough to have my son firmly ensconced in front of a laptop in 2018.
Because the OT and I have both been blinded: she by the dollar signs in her eyes, and me by robbery.