I wish I could open up the super-highways in his brain, create a smooth and even flow of traffic. He stumbles over a word, literally tapping his head to shake it loose. “I know that word,” he says. “I just don’t know it now.”

Driving home from religion last week, he asked me,“Mom, you know that story about that person who visited the three sheppard children? I don’t remember who that person was.”

“You mean the Blessed Virgin? Mary?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

I wonder what he retains. What bits stay with him. Usually the things he shares with me are obscure, like the story of the Miracle of Fatima or the fact that subway trains are the lifeblood of the city—and he’ll use that word, lifeblood, as though it were a common word for six-year-olds.

The truth is, I don’t know how his brain works. I know that there are times when I think he is one of the wisest people I know, and there are times when he can’t tell me that 2 + 2 = 4. I lose a lot of sleep wondering what all this means. He’s already behind the curve, he isn’t reading. At least not consistently. Lately, that seems like our biggest challenge. Consistency—across the board.

When I think about Friday’s IEP meeting, the thing that unnerves me more than any other is that I wavered. I wavered in my belief and my faith in my son. I let myself question the big important stuff you are never supposed to question about your children—like is he smart? and, can he learn? It’s going to take me a long time to forgive myself for that.

The thing about these meetings, they are disheartening under the best of circumstances. And even when you get the outcome you were hoping for, it is never the outcome you want.