You guys,
When I was in 5th grade I couldn’t see the blackboard.
The teacher was clearly writing on the board but she might as well have been using a pencil. I saw nothing.
So Mom made an appointment to get my eyes checked. When I was asked to read the five letters I squinted as hard as I could to make them clearer. I pushed my little forehead into that machine until I thought I’d go through it. I willed myself to get closer to those fuzzy letters.
Lately, I’ve been feeling that eye test machine leave a red imprint on my forehead whenever I try to understand my 2-year-old’s words as he speaks.
George’s speech therapist has diagnosed him with childhood apraxia of speech. Basically, it’s difficult for George to say words. His speech muscles aren't weak, but they don't perform normally because the brain has difficulty coordinating the movements.
Two weeks ago, things were going swimmingly.
George pointed to the Christmas tree and said, “Papa.” I quickly nodded and confirmed, “Papa put the tree up?” And he put his finger down, seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and nodded his head, “Da.” (which means yes).
Then he pointed at the tree again. “Mama! Mama! Mama!” Until I replied, “And Mama helped pick out the tree?”
And George smiled, put his finger down, and said “Da” again.
It was a wonderful little exchange. This was the way. George pointed and said a word, I repeated the word back and made up a little story about whatever he was pointing to, and all was right in the world.
Then things changed. George suddenly knew I was making up a story and he wasn’t buying it. He also started to say more words that were only sounds to me and I couldn’t figure out what they meant.
I asked him, “Can you say that again, bud?”
I could see his little brain working behind his eyes before he spoke. Then when he said it, it was obvious to him, but to me, it sounded like gibberish.
I shared this with George’s speech therapist, and she encouraged me to put the blame on myself in those situations. So when George says a word I don’t know I can say, “I’m sorry, bud, I can’t hear that well today, something’s wrong with my ears. Can you show me?”
Maybe he’ll point to the ceiling, and we’ll go upstairs, and he’ll walk straight to the fly swatter and pick it up and show me and I’ll say, “Ohhhh, fly swatter!” And he’ll smile so big and say, “Da!” and we’ll hug, and my little boy will feel understood.
Or maybe he will still seem frustrated and defeated because there’s nothing to show me. And for now we’re just going to go through this phase that is hard, until it gets easier, which the speech therapist assures me it will.
I wonder how this feels for George. It’s like he’s squinting and pressing his head into the machine every time he speaks. But unlike an eye exam, there’s no shiny new pair of glasses at the end of it to make everything clearer.
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Until next week,
Charlie
There is such a warm, gentle desire of both of both of you to understand each other in this story, Charlie. It’s beautiful.
It reminds me of how Oren Jay Sofer characterises understanding - and what you have achieved:
‘Successful communication depends on our ability to pay attention. For “message sent” to equal “message received,” we need presence, to be fully here, aware of self and other.’
This sounds both heartbreaking and (sometimes) rewarding. Remember you are doing what must be done for your son to be able to communicate and lessen his frustration. Hang in there. Strangers out here are proud of you. :)