Have you ever watched someone do something so well it looks easy, and wondered how on earth they do it?

I had one of those moments the other day.

I got talking to a mechanic. He’s the sort who can look at an engine, work out what’s wrong, and put it right. He’s been working with his hands since he left school, and he’s properly good at it.

However, there’s a part of the job he can’t get past, and it has nothing to do with engines.

I’ve just come home from the most magnificent two weeks away, and the rest was much needed and thoroughly enjoyed.

We headed up to Russell in the far north for my partner’s daughter’s wedding, which was an experience all of its own, then wound our way home by the scenic routes, through Kumeu, Whangamatā, Tauranga and Rotorua. The sculptureum at Matakana, the Treaty Grounds at Waitangi, which is a must for every New Zealander, the meals, the ice creams, and yes, the extra padding round my middle to prove how much I enjoyed them.

Usually, most of what I write is about the children, but today I wanted to turn to you, the parent, because you carry so much of this and it so rarely gets said out loud.

I’m thinking of those long weeknights at the kitchen table, the reading you do together that never seems to get any easier, and that awful moment when you try to help, you explain it your way, and your child pulls away from you, because to them you’ve become one more person who doesn’t quite understand. You’re doing everything you possibly can, and somehow it still feels like it’s not making any difference, and that is one of the most wearing things in the world to live with.

Have you ever watched a child spell the same word three different ways on a single page?

Because one line, becuz the next, becos further down. Not because they don’t know it. Somehow they know it and don’t know it at the same time.

It’s one of the most confusing things for a parent to watch, because it doesn’t fit everything else you know about your child. They’re sharp. They notice things adults miss. They can tell you a whole story in vivid detail. And yet a single word on a page can trip them up three different ways.

I wanted to make sure you knew about something worth your evening.

There are two final screenings this year of the documentary Who Knew: Dyslexia is a Way of Thinking. Tuesday the 13th of October and Tuesday the 20th of October, both at 7pm, online, and both free.

If you’ve ever watched someone struggle with learning and wished you understood what was really going on for them, this film is for you.

I've spent the last couple of days on nana duty while my son works, and I've loved every minute of it. Something I always enjoy.

Each night, one of his kids gets a turn cooking dinner with him. Last night it was my littlest granddaughter's turn. She's just turned eight, and her job was the potatoes.

Her dad asked her to read the recipe. She wasn't keen. With a bit of gentle cajoling she gave it a go, and that's when my ears pricked up.

On Saturday my partner and I stopped for a coffee and a bite to eat. Across the cafe was a mother and her daughter, both engrossed in their own books, every now and then putting them down to share a piece of brownie between them.

I remember thinking what a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

Then they got up to leave, and the mother reached for a crutch I hadn't even noticed beside her, and followed her daughter slowly out the door.

I have a confession to make.

Last week, I turned up at Tamatea High School, well prepared and ready for their expo, only to find there were no stalls, no visitors, no expo at all. There were exams.

I stood outside the hall slowly realising I had the date wrong. Not by a day. By a year. The expo is the 8th of September 2027. Well prepared indeed.

But standing there feeling like a right numpty, my attention turned to the students inside that hall.

Quick one first. I'm at Tamatea High School this afternoon for an expo, 2.00pm to 5.00pm. If you're local, come and have a chat and see what we're all about. Pop your name in the draw while you're there and you could win a copy of The Gift of Dyslexia.

Now, the thing I actually want to talk to you about.

On Friday, we all received the sad news of Ron Davis's passing, and we are still reeling from the loss of our mentor and friend. He has been on my mind ever since, because this is a man who unexpectedly changed the entire trajectory of my life.

If that name means nothing to you, let me tell you why it means so much to me.

Ron Davis was the author of The Gift of Dyslexia. He was severely dyslexic himself, and could not read at all until he was thirty eight, when he worked out a way to correct his own dyslexia and then spent the rest of his life helping other people do the same. The methods he developed are the ones I teach every single day.

I was lucky enough to hear Dame Sophie Pascoe speak at a Hawke's Bay Chamber of Commerce event last night, and I woke up this morning still thinking about it. There was a moment where the whole room went quiet, properly quiet, because she wasn't delivering a speech at us. She was talking to us, and everyone in there felt it.

You gave the instructions clearly. You watched them nod. Then they went off to do the job, and it was like none of it had gone in anywhere.

They heard every word. It wasn't their memory that let them down. It's more like the instructions disappeared into thin air before they had a chance to filter into their brain.

I've had the most fabulous week. I've been working with a 13 year old, and honestly, what a star she has turned out to be. She has absorbed everything like a sponge.

Watching a learner change that much in a few short days is the part of this work that never gets old, no matter how many times I see it.

And it leads rather nicely into what I want to talk about today.

There's a question I get asked more than almost any other when a parent first sits down with me, and it usually comes out sounding like an apology.

A fourteen year old girl came to see me a few weeks ago, brought in by her mum. Her results were not reflecting the intelligence anyone around her could plainly see. Her teachers were concerned. Her parents were concerned.

She was not.

As far as she was concerned, she was doing fine.

Sure, she struggled sometimes, but her friends had her back at school, and between the two of them they made it work.

She had built a system that got her through the day, and in her mind, that was enough. 

I've properly enjoyed the break these holidays. A bit of slowing down, some time with family, and a few catch ups with old clients who I've come to think of as friends more than anything else at this point.

Family time is exactly where this story starts.

Last Friday was Matariki, and half of Hawke's Bay was out celebrating despite the cold and the rain. Hardy souls, all of them.

I decided my time was better spent inside. I cleaned the oven, sorted the kitchen cupboards, roasted a tray of vegetables for a pot of soup for lunch, and sacrificed a stubby to bake a loaf of bread to go with it. Not exactly a festival, but it felt like exactly where I needed to be.

The last couple of weeks have brought something else my way too, and it has stayed with me.

If this is your first newsletter from me, welcome! You have joined a pretty special community of people who refuse to give up on the learners in their lives.

Something happened this weekend that reminded me there is something important you might not know about me.

My partner and I headed to Turangi for the hot rod club AGM. He is on the committee. I was there for the social side of things. And very good the social side of things was too. There is something genuinely lovely about kicking back, relaxing and catching up with a really cool bunch of people. No agenda. No rushing. Just good conversation and good company.

Which brings me to what I actually want to tell you.

Last weekend I did something I hardly ever do.

I took a whole day off...!

I know. Try to contain your shock.

I reorganised my wardrobe, baked blueberry and white chocolate muffins and shared them with my family. Pretty delicious too if I do say so myself.

And for one whole glorious day I did not think about work at all.

Well. Almost.

Because here is the thing about doing work that genuinely matters to you. It has a way of sneaking back in. Not in a stressful way. More like a quiet tap on the shoulder reminding you why you do what you do.

This morning I took a day off work and tackled my rental property.

Now, handywoman is not exactly a title I would put on my CV. But there was no one else available and the place needed a spruce up. So I got stuck in.

I cleaned with gusto. Found the paint, the brushes and the drop sheets. Started with a touch up here and a touch up there. And then, before I knew it, I had the roller in my hand and I was rolling the walls in my very cumbersome and uncoordinated manner.

I could practically visualise my heavenly husband cringing behind his fluffy white cloud, hands over his eyes at the execution of my work.