When my son, Jake, met all his developmental milestones except for speech, it felt like a punch to the gut. Learning about his language delay from the speech therapist was among the hardest moments of my life. No parent of a child with special needs forgets the first time they hear a diagnosis. I recall the therapist’s words, but they barely registered as I grappled with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I had a spirited two-year-old son and a one-year-old daughter relying on me, and I needed to pull myself together to become the parent I aspired to be. So, I jotted down a plan in my trusty planner.
Issue:
Jake isn’t speaking.
Solution:
- Engage with Jake constantly, even if it feels like he’s not tuned in. Share knowledge about our surroundings during car rides. Count streetlights—he had a fascination with them.
- Educate myself. I refused to let any doctor or therapist imply I wasn’t doing enough. I was determined to be the most informed parent they had encountered.
- I’m steering this ship, not the therapists or doctors. They are part of the crew, but I am the captain. I can do this!
I vividly recall the day a school district diagnostician came to our home and suggested that my son might have Asperger’s. Then she mentioned that I didn’t play with him enough. “Do you get down on the floor with him?” she asked. Did I? I thought I did, but suddenly I was unsure. It felt like I had been struck by a barrage of stones. Why do mothers often bear the brunt of blame? I was furious.
After her visit, I researched Asperger’s online, and it didn’t resonate with Jake’s situation. Children with Asperger’s typically have their speech development on track, while Jake had a mere 15 words—many in a language of his own creation. So, she was mistaken. Had I played with him enough? Nothing felt sufficient when I was drowning in feelings of inadequacy—which, by the way, I wasn’t. Good luck convincing me of that twelve years ago.
In a moment of emotional shopping therapy, I swung by the Gap and purchased a new pair of blue jeans. These jeans were symbolic; I committed to wearing them every time I played on the floor with Jake. They weren’t just my “Mommy jeans”; they represented my journey with Jake’s Developmental Language Disorder. His struggles with both expressive and receptive language were daunting, especially as he was in the 2nd percentile for his age. However, I could see his eagerness to communicate.
We kicked off our playtime at the train table, engaging with Thomas the Train daily. Our sessions revolved around exchanging toys, where I modeled questions and answers. I desperately wanted him to ask for water or express when he was hungry. Countless afternoons were spent in the kitchen, pairing sign language with spoken words for essentials like water, food, and more.
Instead of feeling overwhelmed by specific speech goals, I devised my own based on Jake’s needs and frustrations. Easing his challenges would foster more rapid progress. I told the speech therapist, “For the next month, let’s focus on personal requests, where he asks for what he needs. We’ll model the exchange multiple times without causing frustration. Just model, repeat, and then provide him with the item. He’ll catch on!” We began with water, progressing to food, toys, and items of interest. I incorporated sight words, colors, shapes, and the alphabet. One of Jake’s first words was “frappuccino.” Guilty as charged—Starbucks carried me through some tough days.
I counted streetlight poles on our way to speech therapy, and one day, out of the blue, Jake began counting alongside me. Tears streamed down my face; I had been waiting for that moment forever. It meant every time I chatted to myself in the car was worth it. Initially, one goal would take two months to achieve; after a year, we were hitting goals in just two weeks.
Six months after purchasing those jeans, I noticed they were becoming worn at the knees. A couple of months later, the knees tore. I wore those ripped jeans proudly until Jake’s next speech evaluation. As his therapist reviewed his progress, I couldn’t help but think about my own growth reflected in the holes of my jeans. Those holes were badges of honor, proof of the hard work put in!
Soon after, I bought another pair of jeans and repeated the process six more times. I’ve kept most of the holey jeans as trophies for each milestone achieved. I often advise other parents navigating Developmental Language Disorder to invest in a new pair of jeans and get down on the floor to play with their children. While the outcomes of therapy and play are unpredictable, at least you can enjoy precious moments with your child and embrace the journey of putting holes in those jeans.
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In summary, a simple pair of jeans became a pivotal tool in my son’s speech journey, symbolizing our commitment and progress. By engaging in play and creating a nurturing environment, we made significant strides together.
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