When my son was a two-year-old, he didn’t speak much. In fact, he didn't speak at all. Not one single word. EVER. His comprehension was not the least bit shady though. So we took him for an evaluation with a Speech Therapist who gave us a full assessment on his capabilities. Via this assessment, she told us that at our son was severely linguistically compromised and that therapy should be started immediately to rectify any impairment to his future development. In addition, he presented a sensory-based feeding disorder and sensory modulation deficits. We also heard possible-borderline-autistic.

Needless to say, the anguish I went through over this diagnosis was unparalleled. Had I failed him? Had I caused this terrible problem by talking too much or too little? What would it mean for his future? His intelligence? His education? This speech-deficit time was terrifying for me – a time when nothing but the worst scenario seemed foremost in my mind.

I read every bit of information I could find on Apraxia/Dyspraxia and Sensory Integration Dysfunction. I gobbled up any books on bookshelves. I jumped in with both feet firmly planted to help my son in any and all ways that he needed. I put him into speech therapy despite Other People saying “he’s just a boy, boys learn to speak more slowly, give him time” and despite this facility’s books being jam-packed with a clientele that was ninety- percent boys! I put him in Occupational Therapy and Feeding Therapy despite Other People telling me there is nothing wrong with my son and despite that I knew something was amiss with my first born baby AND despite the fact he had not eaten a meal in over 6 months! (mother's instincts are very keen)

During this year, there were minor improvements. Thinking that maybe English saturation was the way, we also decided to put him into preschool at just two year old, hoping the peer language exposure would help (once a week and IT DID NOT). I read to him until my  voice was hoarse. I flashed flash cards and spoke like the Wiggles. I did everything I could to help my son, but his improvement was, nonetheless, very slow.

My little boy attended speech therapy and occupational therapy once a week (each) for four months and we did not see much improvement. The plus was that I discovered sign language, which he excelled at. The feeding therapy was such torture that I couldn't endure it for my little boy and refused to have him attend any sessions past the three months that he screamed bloody hell through. I stopped the occupational therapy after four months when I walked into the therapy room, (after my son had been crying for 30 minutes to see what the problem was) to see the OT therapist, the ST therapist and an intern sitting in a circle. Not allowing my son out of that circle. Needless to say. I.Was.Furious. And I no longer went to that facility.

I contacted our insurance company to find all the children specialists in our area and instead of going with the therapist our pediatrician recommended, who I didn't think was very successful with my son, I interviewed these new therapists to find the right fit for my son.

What a difference a therapist makes! My son loved his new speech therapist. I LOVED my son's new speech therapist! He started to speak! It was amazing to hear words out of his little mouth. He was so happy that we could finally understand him. The smiles that came from his face during this time could light up a dark cavern! The greatest joy I had was to finally hear the words I had been aching to hear from that little mouth for so long. I.Love.You.Momma. My heart sang that day.

My son attended speech with his new therapist twice a week for eight months and was discharged because he had met all his language goals. I fully support this kind of therapy in general, it did cross my mind more than once that our son was not really “severely linguistically compromised” – perhaps he was just going to be a slow learner when it came to speech. Or maybe oration was just not going to be one of his fortes, like geometry is not mine, or baking cookies is not my husband’s. My son’s other skills were all highly developed and often well above his peers. Maybe, just maybe he was not “delayed” and was just taking his time with the verbal factor.

It was very much a time of Maybes.

During this horrible maybe time, my very down-to-earth darling friend would intersperse the terror with well-placed words of wisdom. Statements like “Oh for goodness sake, leave him alone. He’s a boy! He’s more focused on books and games. He’ll be fine. He will develop at his own pace. Don’t rush him. You wait and see – he will be a public speaker or even President (of course) one day.”

It’s easy to dismiss such wisdom when it comes from someone so close and who so badly wants the best for her (adopted) grandson. But I didn’t. Amidst the all-encompassing fear, I did listen to her. I still did what was expected of me as a responsible mother. I did everything in my power to ensure my son had the appropriate stimulation that could help him improve (a swing in the basement, a small ball pit to aide with sensory issues) but I also listened to my dear friend. I heard her. And deep, deep down, amongst the devastation and doubt, I began to believe her.

I consulted many friends – and came up with a dozen women who were also sharing similar fears over their sons, most of them speech and comprehension-based. Is it a coincidence that so many boys experience the same phenomenon?

My dear friend asked me this question – “What is your gut feeling? In all my years dealing with mothers, I have not once known a mother’s gut feeling to be wrong. Do you think there is anything wrong with him?” My answer (hopefully unclouded by wishful thinking) was categorically “No”. I did indeed feel he was slower at speech, but I truly didn’t feel there was a “problem” with our son or that he was mentally compromised or developmentally delayed. There were no other “signs” that ever lead me to believe this, and trust me; I was wide open to them, searching for them even. So, even when I was entrenched in the professional opinions and lay opinions of everyone else (and my Lord, there are many with an opinion), I could still see through it all, and believe my son would be okay.

What a difference four years makes. Our son’s speech has blossomed like a flower and he has definitely joined the “Six Year Old Ceaseless Verbal Diarrhea Club” that his sister joined at age two. He is also (and I write this with tears of pride), the top reader in his grade.