Can we do a jigsaw?

Disclaimer: This blog post was started in May, and only just published now in July so the content around school relates to where we were at in May.

It was getting on for 7pm and it had been a busy day. I had been at work, but I’d also done the four school runs that I was currently doing to ensure my son came home for dinner.

This was working. My son was managing school better, and I was managing work better too. Except… I was doing four school runs a day.

Granted, the dinner school runs were very quick. I literally sped all the way to school, pressed the buzzer on the gate, the office staff buzzed me in, and my son came running out. We jumped in the car and I flew home. He had his dinner, and I took him back. I mean seriously—at this stage, school should just give me a code to get in the gate instead of waiting to be buzzed in.

And I was trying not to complain, because as hard as it was, it was working for my son. So I kept going. By teatime most days, I was done. The pressure of getting him to school, racing home for dinner, racing back again—it wore me down. But I kept going, because it worked for him.

This particular day, I’d finished work and from the moment I closed my laptop, my son wanted/needed me. We’d played football, dug thistles out of the garden, thrown the rugby ball to each other, built a castle out of magnetic tiles, and played with his exercise ball—throwing it back and forth like a game of catch.

And as the evening wore on, I was desperate to sit down. To stop. Just for five minutes. Even when I went to the toilet he would stand outside and ask me to hurry up. And then at 6:45pm, he asked:

“Can we do a jigsaw?”

A simple request, you might think. But no—this wasn’t simple. Not for me. I immediately felt anxious. And I’ll explain why.

My son has lots of strengths, lots, but jigsaws aren’t one of them. I said yes, we could start one, but then it would be time for bed. He picked out the most complicated, biggest one we had (500 pieces). Of course he did. One we’d tried before and never finished. In fact, I remember that attempt ended in disaster. Every single jigsaw we’ve ever attempted ends in disaster, even ones that only have a few pieces.

Now, I don’t mind doing jigsaws. For my birthday one year, my husband bought me a jigsaw of trees (yes, we are old!!). I love trees, so I thought it would be lovely. I started it—but during one of my son’s meltdowns, it got destroyed. I remember feeling devastated. Yes, it was just a jigsaw, but it was something for me. And now it was just another thing destroyed. I packed it away, and it’s remained under my wardrobe ever since. One day I’ll do it. But not now. Right now, it’s a reminder of a really hard time, and I can’t face it.

Anyway, every so often, my son asks to do a jigsaw, and I have no idea why. Because he really struggles with them. And it’s not for lack of trying. He tries his absolute best. I’ve spent hours sat with him, trying to teach him how to do one. He can’t tell the difference between a straight edge and a middle piece, no matter how many times we go over it.

I show him:
“See this flat side? That goes on the outside.”
He nods. Seems to get it. Then picks up a middle piece and tries to fit it in the outside.

I’ve spent a long time wondering what it is about jigsaws that makes them so difficult for him. On the surface, it seems simple—fit the pieces together, start with the outside, work your way in. But when I really slow down and observe him, I start to see just how many different skills are involved.

There’s visual processing—being able to scan the pieces, spot patterns, match colours and shapes. I watch him pick up the same piece three or four times and not realise he’s already tried it in that spot. His eyes jump around the puzzle, missing details, getting overwhelmed. Then there’s spatial reasoning—mentally rotating pieces, imagining how they might fit. That’s hard for him too. He tries to force pieces where they clearly don’t belong. When I gently point out it doesn’t fit, he looks genuinely confused. He can’t see why.

And then there’s executive function—planning, organising, following a sequence. Jigsaws require a method: find the corners, build the frame, group by colour. But to him, it’s just… chaos. A box of broken pictures with no clear starting point. I see the overwhelm in his body—the restlessness, the shifting, the flicker of frustration behind his eyes. Even fine motor skills come into it—lining up the pieces just right, not bending tabs, not forcing a fit. He’s capable, but it’s hard. The picture doesn’t come together quickly, and that adds to the struggle.

And yet… he keeps asking.

“Can we do a jigsaw?”

And he’s so enthusiastic. Honestly, if you saw him, it’s infectious how much he puts into it. He keeps saying….

“This is going good, isn’t it?”
“We’re doing well with this, aren’t we?”

And as we sat side by side at the dining table—pieces scattered everywhere, none of it making much sense—I looked at him and thought: this isn’t really about the jigsaw. Not for him. Maybe not even for me.

It’s about the time. The connection. The hope that this time, we might figure it out together.

Because that’s what love looks like sometimes—sitting in the middle of the mess, trying to piece it all together, even when nothing fits the way you thought it would.

At the time of writing, this jigsaw sits half-finished on our dining table—closer to completion than any we’ve done before.

Part of me wants to push ahead, just to get it done. But this isn’t about finishing. It’s about sitting beside him, piece by piece, going at his pace. However different from my own that might be.