The dyspraxic lad and his DIY dad
The great irony of my life was being born to a dad who’s not only brilliant at DIY but who loves it so much that it rivalled football as his biggest hobby.
We never hired tradespeople – he did it all.
Let me tell you something, non-dyspraxic people: any dyspraxic person will feel clumsy and uncoordinated in comparison to the majority of people around them. That’s inevitable.
It just would have been nice if my dad wasn’t – indisputably, undoubtedly – the most practical person I’ve ever met.
Growing up, it was like the spotlight of contradiction was constantly shining – reminding me, daily, just how much I struggled with all the things society expected me to be reasonably competent at by virtue of being male.
Here are a few things my dad excels at.
Changing bike tires.
Driving cars.
Woodwork.
Constructing flat-pack furniture.
Brick-laying.
Putting up picture frames to a perfect 180°
Here are a few things I’m crap at.
Changing bike tires.
Driving cars.
Woodwork.
Constructing flat-pack furniture.
Brick-laying.
Putting up picture frames to a perfect 180°
You get the point.
Worse still was his implicit frustration at my incompetence. He didn’t need to say anything. The bewilderment was painted on his face in glorious technicolour.
He would watch my terrible attempts at something simple – like using a tin opener – and I would feel his gaze amplifying the pressure in my mind like a child barbecuing an ant with a magnifying glass.
(Do kids still do that or has it gone the same way as playing conkers?)
He didn’t mean it of course. He was probably just baffled by how a fellow male to whom he’d donated 50% of his genetic material could look as awkward as a tyrannosaur trying to tango.
For a long time, he was in denial when I talked about my visual-spatial struggles. “Dyspraxia” probably sounded like an obscure philosopher with whom Socrates once debated at an Athenian symposium two and half millennia ago.
I guess it was hard for him to accept we’d never creosote a fence together, never chat about car engines, never modernise a bathroom. That said, I knew he was quietly proud when I became the first person in the family to do A Levels.
I’m now 46; he’s approaching 80. I think we’re finally resolved to the fact that we’re about as talent-divergent as it’s possible for a father and son to be.
A small thought for parents of dyspraxic children
Don’t just stand and watch the child struggle. But don’t just take over either – that just heightens the shame in a different way.
Gently show them it’s okay to ask for help; or, if it’s overwhelmingly difficult, to ask someone to do it for them.
As with all forms of neurodiversity, accommodations aren’t a sign of weakness; they’re a sign of compassion. They allow the dyspraxic person to preserve the energy and motivation to succeed in those areas they are good at.
