We were sitting down for spaghetti when our eight-year-old, Sam, mentioned he didn’t feel great. “My stomach hurt at school today,” he said, pushing his fork around. I glanced at Mark, my husband. This was the third time in two weeks Sam had said the same thing. I felt that familiar tightness in my chest. Before I could say anything, Mark shrugged. “Probably something you ate,” he said. “Or you’re nervous about that spelling test. You’ll be fine.” Sam nodded, sort of relieved, and took a bite.
I didn’t say anything then. But later, as we loaded the dishwasher, I told Mark I wanted to have Sam’s hearing and vision checked, maybe even talk to his teacher about what I’d noticed. Mark sighed. “You’re always looking for problems,” he said. “He’s a kid. Kids get stomachaches. He’s fine.” He didn’t mean it unkindly. I knew he was trying to reassure me—and himself. But I didn’t feel reassured. I felt alone.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not because I was angry, but because I wasn’t sure which one of us was right. I had noticed Sam reading the same page of his book over and over, his lips moving silently. I had seen him avoid reading aloud during bedtime stories, something he used to love. He was bright and funny, but something was off. Mark saw the same boy and saw a kid who was simply a bit distracted, a little tired, growing into himself. We were looking at the same child and coming up with completely different pictures.
The next evening, after Sam was asleep, I tried to talk about it again. Mark was on the couch, scrolling through his phone. I sat down across from him and said, “I’m not trying to find problems. I’m just scared.” That changed the tone. He put his phone down. He said he was scared too—scared that if we started labeling Sam, he’d be stuck with a diagnosis that followed him forever. He’d been mislabeled as a kid, he told me, and it took years to shake it. I hadn’t known that. Not really.
That’s when we made a small, practical decision that ended up helping a lot. We agreed to stop talking about our opinions and start collecting observations. For one week, we would each read with Sam a few times, and write down what we noticed. Not conclusions like “He’s dyslexic” or “He’s lazy.” Just details: what he did, what he said, what seemed easy or hard. We put a notepad on the fridge, and every evening we added a line or two. “Sam guessed the word ‘puzzle’ by looking at the picture.” “He read the first sentence smoothly, then stalled on ‘because.’” “He said he was tired and wanted me to read instead.”
It felt silly at first. But it gave us something to do instead of argue. And it gave us a shared language. When Mark saw me adding an observation, he didn’t feel criticized. When I saw his notes, I realized he was paying attention too. “Sam skipped the last page and said ‘the end.’” I had noticed the same thing. For the first time, we were on the same team—even if we still didn’t agree on what it meant.
A week later, we sat down with the notepad. Mark stared at the list and said, “Okay. I see it.” But he wasn’t ready to jump to an evaluation. So we made another practical agreement: we’d give it another month, but we’d set a specific date on the calendar to talk again. We also asked Sam’s teacher for a quick check-in. I think involving someone neutral was key. A teacher, a pediatrician, a reading specialist—anyone who sees lots of kids and isn’t us. It’s hard to see your own child clearly when you’re afraid of what you might find.
The parent-teacher meeting helped. Sam’s teacher, Ms. Rivera, said he was “a bright and eager student” but added, “I’ve noticed he sometimes guesses at words rather than sounding them out.” When she showed us a few examples of his writing, Mark’s shoulders loosened. He looked at me and gave a tiny nod. It wasn’t that he’d suddenly changed his mind. It was that a professional, using ordinary words, had described exactly what we’d been scribbling on the notepad. That made it real, but not scary.
After that, we decided to ask the school for a reading screening. Mark still had reservations, but he agreed to go along with the plan—partly because we’d committed to looking at results together, and partly because he saw I wasn’t trying to push Sam into a label. I wanted answers, and I think Mark wanted that too, just with more time.
One thing that helped me was asking Mark a different kind of question. Instead of saying, “Don’t you think something is wrong?” I asked, “What would make you feel better about having him screened?” He thought a bit and said, “I don’t want him pulled out of class every day and feeling different.” So we agreed to ask the school how any support would actually be done. That practical detail mattered. Mark needed to know that someone would handle this thoughtfully, not just slap on a plan.
We’re still in the middle of things. Sam had the screening last month, and the results are taking longer than I expected. Mark and I are getting along better now, but we don’t always see eye to eye. He still thinks I overreact to some things, like when Sam eats lunch alone. I still think he downplays stuff at times. But we have a routine now: we notice, we write it down, we talk after a few days, and we bring in others when we’re stuck.
Last weekend, Sam handed Mark a book from the library and said, “You read to me for once.” Mark read, and I watched Sam mouthing the words along with him. There are still hard moments, and I’m not sure what the school will say. But I know that Mark and I are back on the same side of the table. Not always agreeing, but listening. That’s not a perfect ending—it’s more like a beginning. And for now, that’s enough.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » We were sitting down for spaghetti when our eight-year-old, Sam, mentioned he didn’t feel great