I Watch My Son | Tebuireng Online

I am the mother of a ten-year-old boy, named Zaki Ahmad. He sat in grade 4 in a public elementary school in the middle of a busy and noisy metropolitan city. This city seems to have never slept, always running at a speed that my child cannot follow.

Zaki is not a child like most. Since childhood, the doctor diagnosed him with a delay in understanding, reading, and speaking. When children of his age were able to arrange sentences, Zaki was still struggling to call one word clearly. When other children quickly memorize, Zaki needs days to remember three new words.

But for me, Zaki is the most beautiful gift that God has given.

Every morning, before dawn, I always wake him up gently.

“Zaki … wake up, son. We are getting ready for school.”

He will rub his eyes, then look at me with a small smile like a light in my heart.

That morning, as usual, I prepared breakfast of white bread and warm milk. While eating, I tried to repeat the multiplication that he learned yesterday.

“Twice three times … how much?” I asked softly.

He frowned, trying to remember. For a long time he was silent, then said softly, “Six?”

“Yes, it is true!” I said quickly, giving encouragement, even though I knew that answer might only be a coincidence he remembered.

Every small success for him is a big victory for me.

****

Zaki’s school is not far from home, only need to take a fifteen minute public transportation. But the trip to school often makes me worried. In its class, children have begun to smoothly read story books and count quickly, while Zaki is still spelling words for word stammering.

The class teacher, Mrs. Ratna, is a patient figure. I often meet him after school to discuss.

“Mrs. Aini,” said Mrs. Ratna one day, “Zaki does take more time. I will try different methods, with many visuals and games. We will not force it, but we will continue to guide.”

Hearing that, my heart is a little relieved. I know, not all teachers want to be patient with children like Zaki in the midst of a tight curriculum demand.

Sometimes Zaki returns to school with a sad face.

“Friends say I’m slow,” he whispered one afternoon.

I hugged him tightly. “Son, everyone has a different time to learn. Some are like running, some are walking, some go slowly. The important thing is, you keep going forward.”

In my heart, I cried. How difficult it is for him to survive in this fast -paced world.

****

Learning at home is not an easy matter. Zaki is easily tired, easy to forget, and easy to lose focus. There are times when he stares at the book without reading, his mind somewhere.
One night, I accompanied him to do homework reading. Only one short paragraph, but it needs almost half an hour to complete it. Every time he was wrong, he bit his lips, frustrated.

“It’s okay, we repeat,” I said softly.

I know, if I am angry, the spirit will break.

His father, despite being busy at work, always had time to sit with Zaki at night. They often repeat memorizing or playing simple puzzles.

“If you are tired, rest for a while, son,” said his father. Zaki will smile, then continue trying, as if he knew his parents stood firmly behind him.

****

There is one incident that still imprints on my heart.

That day, the school held a poetry reading competition between classes. Mrs. Ratna pushed Zaki to come, even though I was doubtful. “I want him to feel standing in front of his friends, ma’am,” said Mrs. Ratna. “Not to win, but to be confident.”

For a week, we practiced every night. Zaki often forgot the second verse, his tongue sometimes entangled in difficult words. But every time he managed to say a row smoothly, I applause.

The race day arrived. I sat in a row of parents’ chairs, my heart was beating. Zaki came forward with a hesitation step, holding a poetry paper tightly. At the beginning, his voice trembled. Some children behind giggled softly, and my chest was tight. But Mrs. Ratna gave a signal with a smile and nod, and Zaki continued.

Although stalled in a few words, he completed his poem. The applause was heard, some might be because of compassion, but for me it was the applause of victory. Zaki smiled a little as he got off the stage, and I hugged him tightly.

That day I realized, this struggle was not about making it the same as other children, but made him believe that he was able.

****

However, not all days are going sweet. There are days full of tears. Once one night, after failing to work on the same multiplication problem repeatedly, Zaki closed his book and said, “I’m stupid, ma’am.”

The word is like a knife piercing my heart. I hugged him tightly and whispered, “You are not stupid. You only have a different way of learning. And that doesn’t make you less valuable.”

Sometimes I feel tired. There are times when I want to give up, letting him stop trying. But every time I saw his eyes full of hope, I knew I couldn’t give up.

Mrs. Ratna also taught me a learning strategy for children like Zaki: Use pictures, repeat lessons in a fun way, and give a break more often. We tried the method at home.

When learning multiplication, I made a colorful number card. When reading, we use a big picture book. Slowly, Zaki began to be more excited.

The role of parents in his life feels like a rope that keeps pulling him so as not to sink. His father was an anchor that made him feel safe, while I became a paddle that pushed him to move forward, even though the current resisted.

****

Now, although Zaki has not been able to read as fast as his friends, he has been able to understand simple stories. He still had difficulty memorizing, but he was able to remember the multiplication of one to five with the help of the songs we created together.

The journey is long and heavy. But I always believe, one day, he will find his own speed. The world may never slow down to wait for him, but we, his family, will always walk beside him.

Every night, before going to bed, I always rub his head and pray.
“O God, give Zaki the power to continue learning. Make him a patient, confident, and happy child, even though the way is different.”

Zaki usually answered softly, “Amen,” then hugged me. In the hug, I knew this struggle was not finished, but we would get through it together. In every small step, I will always be a witness.

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Writer: Ummu Masrurah