Academically, he learned fast.

He would walk into the classroom and check the monthly theme, reviewing the ones he knew out loud and tugging on the teacher's sleeve to prompt them to tell him the ones he didn't know.

Farm animals. Chichen. Pig. Chat.

However, he lagged a bit with his motor skills.

He would stand in the washroom, his hand on the soap dispenser plunger, and he would stare at the teacher, saying, "Push." Nothing would come out.

He would sit on the floor next to the basket of wet wipes, his hand on the reusable lid.

"Push."

It wouldn't open.

After summer vacation, he came back, ready to take on the challenge. He went to the washroom, he put his hand on the soap dispenser plunger, and--

He pushed.

Soap foam plopped into the palm of his left hand. He smiled. He turned on the faucet, held his right hand under the flow of water, turned it off.

He didn't understand why the bubbles didn't go away.

That wasn't all. The reusable lid on his wet wipes had lost its stickiness. He would push, and it would open, but open wasn't the only thing it did. It would come clear off of the wet wipe pack, and he would stare in confusion. First, it was reaffixed with double-sided tape. It didn't hold. So, it was sent home for a replacement, and when snack time came, he sat on the floor next to the basket of wet wipes, and he pushed.

It didn't open.

It was a new lid. It had to be pulled.