The uncertainties swirl around us, leaving us to wonder if he simply won’t speak or if he truly can’t. Even today, there are countless opinions on the topic, but the reality remains: he doesn’t use words.
At just one year old, he was deemed completely “normal.” By age two, he was labeled a “late bloomer.” I loathed that term. Who decides at what point a child “blooms”? Who’s to say he hasn’t already?
When he reached two and a half, other children his age were bursting with vocabulary, delighting their parents with every new word. These parents often had meet-ups, proudly exchanging their children’s word counts—“Ten Words!” boasted one mother, while another whispered, “Five words.” An uncomfortable silence would follow as they returned their attention to the playground, only for one little boy to remain silent.
I glance down at him. He gazes up at me with his warm brown eyes, patiently waiting for my acknowledgment. A smile lights up his face once I engage him. His eyes dart to the bag I’m holding.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask. Silence. A slight furrow appears on his brow, but his eyes remain fixed on me.
“Are you hungry?” No response.
“Do you want a drink?” Finally, a reaction. He tugs at the bag and emits a small sound. Success!
He settles beside me on the bench, sipping his juice slowly while watching the other kids play. Two older boys have taken over a metal bridge, hopping onto the railings to let a girl pass. As she cautiously walks across, the boys jump down and stomp around her, making her cry. I look over just in time to see my son tense up beside me, and I hear the juice box hit the ground.
He covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, his face twisted in distress as if the noise causes him physical pain. Soft whimpers escape his lips, resembling a baby’s attempts to form words. Meanwhile, the parents of the instigators cast judging glances our way, their children’s “normalcy” overshadowing their behavior.
Later, as bedtime approaches, he’s calm again. The house is quiet, and I feel the weight of him in my arms as I carry him to bed. He looks up at me with wide eyes, silent as I lay him down. I sit in the kitchen, and soon I hear him murmur through the baby monitor. The sounds seem almost like words whispered into the night. He does this nightly, believing he’s alone.
The next morning, I awaken to a low growl beside my bed. This is his way of telling me I’ve overslept. “Go play, I’ll be up soon,” I reply, hearing the soft patter of his feet as he scurries to the living room. I fall back into a deep sleep only to be stirred again by a small, cold hand gripping mine. He pulls me along, but I can’t tell when he woke, since he never makes a sound.
As I finally rise, I hear a loud crash coming from the kitchen. I rush in to find him standing there, shaking. A carton of eggs lies shattered on the floor, and he freezes, terrified. His eyes plead for forgiveness as I scoop him up, wrapping my arms around his trembling frame, wishing to instill every ounce of love and strength into him until he calms.
“It’s okay,” I whisper gently. “You’re safe.”
Doctors and therapists continue to come and go, each offering their interpretations of his “condition.” They have various labels, but only he and I know the truth. There are no words to express the journey we share. Speaking our truth could unravel everything we hold dear.
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In summary, parenting a child who doesn’t speak is a journey filled with questions, challenges, and heartfelt moments that often go unspoken. It’s a profound experience that brings both joy and heartache, revealing the depth of connection that can exist beyond words.