When my son, Leo, reached his developmental milestones, I was proud—except for one area: speech. The day my husband and I received the speech therapist’s evaluation of Leo’s language delay was one of the hardest I’d ever faced. No parent of a special needs child forgets that moment. I remember the therapist’s words, but my mind was racing; I felt like I had been punched in the gut. It took me a while to bounce back. With a three-year-old at home and a baby girl just a year old, I knew I had to regain my focus and create a plan to support Leo.
I wrote down my thoughts:
- Problem: Leo isn’t talking.
- Solution:
- Engage him constantly, even when it seems like he’s not listening. Share knowledge while driving, counting streetlights (he always loved those!) and pointing out trains.
- Conduct research. I would never let another doctor or therapist question my efforts. I wanted to be the most informed parent they encountered.
- Remember, I’m in charge. The therapists and doctors are part of the team, but I’m the one driving this bus—and I can do it!
I vividly recall the day a school district diagnostician visited our home. She suggested Leo might have Asperger’s and implied I wasn’t playing with him enough. “Do you get down on the floor with him?” she asked. Did I? I thought so, but in that moment, I wasn’t so sure. I felt like I was carrying the weight of the world. Why do mothers always seem to shoulder the blame? It infuriated me.
After she left, I researched Asperger’s and found it didn’t fit Leo at all—kids with Asperger’s typically speak on time. Leo had about 15 words, many of which were from a language of his own creation. Did I play with him enough? It never feels like enough when you’re struggling with feelings of inadequacy (which, by the way, I wasn’t, but try convincing me of that 12 years ago).
In need of a pick-me-up, I went to the Gap and bought a new pair of blue jeans. These jeans would become my “play jeans,” reserved exclusively for the times I got on the floor to interact with Leo. They weren’t just any jeans; they symbolized my commitment to help him overcome his Developmental Language Disorder (DLD). Despite his challenges—he was in the 2nd percentile for his age—I could see his eagerness to learn and communicate.
Our journey began at the train table with Thomas the Tank Engine. We played daily, modeling questions and answers as we took turns with the toys. My goal was simple: help him express basic needs like asking for water or letting me know when he was hungry. We spent countless hours in the kitchen, combining sign language with spoken words for essentials like “water” and “more.”
Instead of getting overwhelmed by speech goals, I created my own tailored to Leo’s interests and frustrations. I told the speech therapist, “For the next month, we will focus on personal exchanges—modeling how he can ask for what he needs without frustration. Just repeat and model, and then hand him the item. He’ll catch on!”
We started with water, then gradually introduced food, toys, and other interests. Along the way, I incorporated reading sight words, colors, shapes, and the ABCs. One of Leo’s first words? “Frappuccino.” Guilty as charged—Starbucks was my lifeline during those challenging days.
On our drives to speech therapy, I counted streetlight poles, and one day, out of the blue, Leo joined in. I burst into tears. That moment was monumental for me. It confirmed that my endless chatter—talking to myself in the car—was paying off. Initially, it took us about two months to reach a single goal, but as time passed, we achieved new milestones in just two weeks.
Six months after purchasing my jeans, I noticed they were starting to fade at the knees. Two months later, they ripped. I wore those distressed jeans right up until Leo’s next speech evaluation. As his therapist reviewed his progress, I reflected on my own journey, the holes in my jeans representing hard-fought victories.
Shortly after, I bought another pair of jeans and repeated the process six more times. I’ve kept most of my worn-out jeans as trophies, celebrating every milestone achieved. I often advise other moms of children with Developmental Language Disorder to grab a new pair of jeans and get down to play with their kids. While there’s no guarantee of a specific outcome from all the therapy and play, at least you can cherish those moments together and enjoy putting holes in those jeans.
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Summary
Navigating my son Leo’s speech delay was a challenging journey that unexpectedly led to personal growth and a symbolic pair of jeans. By engaging him in play and creating personalized goals, we made significant strides in his communication skills. My worn-out jeans became a reminder of the milestones we achieved together, serving as a motivator for both Leo and me.
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