Why isn't my child as clever as me?

We all think our children are special. But how does it feel when you realise your daughter just isn't very bright? One disappointed mother tells her story.

I didn't realise how important being bright was to me until I had a daughter who wasn't. I was brought up by searingly intelligent parents, both complicated, funny, intellectual. They bonded over cryptic crosswords and were contemptuous of tabloid-reading mouth-breathers.

I grew up believing that having an incisive wit and split-second recall of arcane facts is more important than being kind or compassionate.

If someone was bright, I warmed to them. If not, I yawned. I assumed that my child would share my feelings. No, I assumed that she would be like me.

The first signs were good. In the womb, Bella was constantly kicking and hiccupping, as if she yearned to be out there, engaging in a lively debate. And when she arrived she was restless, with a nervous energy that was alarming. My father declared her "very alert" and I glowed with pride.

As she entered the toddler years, this agitated, highly emotional baby didn't show signs of developing the cerebral abilities you'd connect with being alert. She was slow to talk; while other children could string together three words – "Wan go slide" – Bella would just utter "slide".

All the other milestones found her trailing. She'd reach them eventually, months behind her contemporaries.

It's not helpful to compare, I'd tell myself. Celebrate her for herself. But when you're a new parent, it's impossible not to measure your child against others.

I searched for reasons. She had a long and traumatic birth – had it left her with slight brain damage? Did all that crying in the first year frazzle her synapses?

I grew weary of competitive mums with their "stealth boasting". "I'm so cross with Saffron," one said. "She's taught herself all her letters – she'll be so bored at school." I'd get a sick feeling when even the sweetest of friends would mention her child's progress, as I hated having to reply that, "No, Bella isn't doing that yet".

I felt protective of Bella – she didn't know she wasn't measuring up – but also disappointed. I desperately wanted her to be as good as, if not better than, her friends.

I'd try to "hot-house" her with educational toys, but she found anything but the most basic games baffling. She grew edgy around anything challenging such as jigsaws – she just couldn't grasp them.

When she started in infants, I was hoping that somehow things would just click for her; that she would respond to her teacher differently from how she responded to me.

Bella came home with a workbook. We'd go through it together, and she'd carefully draw around the letters I'd outlined in dots for her. But turn the page and the lesson would vanish from her mind.