What To Do When Your Child Says “I’m Struggling And I Really Need Help”
It’s 7:15 on a Tuesday, the dishwasher hums from the other room, half a bag of goldfish crackers is spilled next to my 4th grader’s elbow, and I’m half-answering a work email when Leo shoves his pencil across the kitchen table so hard it clatters to the floor. “I’m struggling,” he says, voice tight. “I really need help.”
I’ve heard small versions of this for weeks. He’s come home saying homework takes too long, that his eyes hurt after class, that he doesn’t want to go to math. I’d done the usual: reminded him to try harder, offered to sit with him for five minutes, signed him up for the free after-school homework club the school offers. I was busy, between my younger daughter’s gymnastics practices and my own work deadline, so I’d written it off as 4th grade growing pains.
This time is different. He drops his head into his arms and his shoulders shake, and when I ask him what’s wrong, he mumbles into the table that he’s stupid, that everyone else gets fractions and he never will. I put my phone face-down on the counter and pull my chair next to his instead of across the table, where I’ve been sitting all semester. I don’t say it’s okay, or that he’s not stupid, or that we’ll fix it right now. I just say, “Show me what it feels like when you try to do this.”
He uncrinkles the worksheet, and the edges are worn from him balling it up and flattening it out three times. Half the questions are blank. The ones he did answer are crossed out so many times the paper is thin. “When Ms. Henderson writes the problem on the board,” he says, staring at the paper like it might bite him, “the numbers move. They slide to the side, like one jumps on top of the other. I can’t tell which is the top number and which is the bottom. And the worksheets are all tiny, so it’s worse. I don’t want to ask for help because Jake calls me a baby when I need big print.”
That’s when I remember. When he was 7, his eye doctor mentioned he had a mild visual processing difference, said most kids grow out of it by 10, we didn’t need to do anything. I’d filed that note away in a drawer and forgotten all about it. I’d assumed his struggle was about effort, not about how his brain sees the page.
That’s the thing I’ve learned since that Tuesday, that I wish someone had told me sooner. When a kid says they need help, most of us jump straight to fixing. We sign up for tutors, buy workbooks, schedule emergency meetings, all before we actually figure out what the help they need actually is. We think “help” has to be a big, expensive, formal solution, but most of the time, it starts with small, specific changes that take almost no effort.
The next morning, I emailed Leo’s teacher. I didn’t ask for a full re-evaluation right away, though we are scheduled for one next month. I just asked for two small things: could Leo move from the back row to the second row, where the board is clearer, and could she send home an extra copy of his math worksheets so I could reprint them in bigger print at home. She wrote back 20 minutes later saying done, no questions asked. I went to the dollar store that afternoon and bought him a thick black plastic ruler, the kind with a straight edge that doesn’t bend. I showed him how to put it under the line he’s reading, to block out all the other numbers above and below. That cost me $1.25.
At home, we changed one thing about our homework routine: we split it into 15 minute chunks, with a 10 minute break in between to throw the frisbee in the backyard or get a snack. Before, I made him sit until it was all done, which meant he’d get frustrated halfway through and shut down. That took no extra time, just a little planning around when I need to start dinner.
It’s been three weeks now, and it’s not fixed. Last night, he still got frustrated with a long word problem and crumpled the paper again. We still don’t know what the re-evaluation will say, or what accommodations he’ll qualify for, or if this will get better as he gets older or if we’ll need to do more. I still forget to reprint his worksheets some nights, and we end up squinting at the tiny copy together, and that’s okay.
But it’s better. He only has one meltdown a week now instead of three or four. He came home last Friday and said he got a B on his math quiz, the first one he’s gotten all semester. He showed it to me grinning, and there was a smudge of chocolate on the corner. He even raised his hand to answer a question in math last week, he told me, which he hadn’t done since the start of the school year.
The thing I keep coming back to is that saying “I’m struggling, I need help” is hard for kids. They’ve learned that asking for help means they’re not smart, or they’re behind, so when they finally say it, the worst thing we can do is rush past their actual problem to get to a solution. You don’t have to fix everything today. You don’t have to fight the whole system, or spend hundreds on tutors, or rearrange your entire life to address it right now.
You just have to ask what the struggle actually feels like, then start with the small, concrete stuff that makes it a little easier. Right now, that’s enough for us. Some days, that’s all any of us can do.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » What To Do When Your Child Says “I’m Struggling And I Really Need Help”