We started speech therapy a few weeks ago. I finally couldn't put it off any longer. And it was terrifying.
It was terrifying because no matter how common it is, or how quickly it's overcome, or how much everyone (and I do mean everyone) reassures you. . .the point is, there's a problem. . .
. . .with your child.
Or maybe with you. Because if you had just made sure to work on those "f's" or "l's" or "t's" a little more seriously. . .maybe we wouldn't be here. Maybe if I'd really pressed him to eat his vegetables, went to bed earlier, brushed three times a day, read more books. . .
. . .maybe?
It was one of the most emotional things I've done yet as a parent. Watching him work with a therapist because he needs a little help doing what most kids do effortlessly. It was humbling. The therapist is great and Cole calls his time with her his "word game time." He likes going. He likes the therapist. He likes his "f's", but only at the beginning of a word.
And I know he's a smart kid and this is no big deal. He'll catch on and that we're lucky. But it still bothered me.
When we met with our new pediatrician, the first thing she asked me was if I understood what Cole said. And no, for the record, not all the time. . .but do I want to? It was enough for me to ask for a new doctor. That one clearly has no clue. That was a year ago.
His language never really got better. I think we understood more, because we'd been hearing it longer and had longer to piece it together. He doesn't need to say much to get me running. He knows that.
See what I'm saying about this being my problem?
Anyway, we've been going awhile and he's just about mastered his "f's". Next week we tackle the "l's". And it's one more person in this giant support system we've cultivated that helps us raise Cole. It's truly amazing when you think about it. All the people that teach our kids, whether we realize it or not. Whether we realize we need their help, or not.
And week after week, I sit in the corner of the room and watch their session intently. . . I'm practicing so I'll know what to say or do with Tills. . .so we won't end up back here. I keep my hands on my lap and pump a little fist when Cole says the word right. I pretend I'm not paying attention when he gets it wrong.
I struggle over what the therapist calls "modeling instead of correcting." I don't think I have that down, yet. How often should I be going through his flash cards? Where's that fine line between supporting and insane? Prepared and pressured?
We'll figure it out. I'm pretty sure Cole already has! We'll probably be done with this in no time and I'll look back and think this was pretty silly. But if I didn't share it with you. . .I'd forget it. And then how would we make fun of me years from now?
What I could use is a vegetable therapist! I've been meaning to show you the fruits of my gardening labors this summer. It's not pretty.
Here's what I got from the tomato plants. . .
Guess I'll stick to speech pathologists and farmers markets. Oy!
