When my son was seven, I’d ask him to clean his room.
Unfortunately, I could come in half an hour later and the place still looked like someone had turned the place upside down and shook it, then sprayed cheese-in-a-can on top.
When my son was seven, I’d ask him to clean his room.
Unfortunately, I could come in half an hour later and the place still looked like someone had turned the place upside down and shook it, then sprayed cheese-in-a-can on top.
My son was five. The six of us were headed to Uganda in about three months. And there were so many reasons I did not want to encounter the realities uncovered by the Vanderbilt Assessment, or my child’s pediatrician, or our family tree: ADHD, and eventually, accompanying (and profound) dysgraphia.
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