In many discussions surrounding child development, the nuances of speech acquisition can lead to a multitude of interpretations. For instance, it’s often debated whether a child simply chooses not to speak or is unable to articulate their thoughts. The reality for parents can be daunting, particularly when their child remains silent.
At 12 months, Tyler was deemed completely “normal,” but by the time he reached 24 months, he was labeled a “late bloomer.” This term, however, felt dismissive to me. Who has the authority to define when a child should begin to “bloom”? The truth is, Tyler was simply on his unique journey.
As Tyler turned two and a half, I observed other toddlers around him chatting away, their parents eager to share milestones. These conversations often turned into competitions, with parents excitedly trading stats about their children’s vocabulary. Amidst this, Tyler would quietly watch, offering nothing but silence.
“I counted ten words!” boasted one mom. “My child has five!” another whispered. The playground would fall into a hush as they exchanged glances, their pride overshadowed by their children’s antics. Meanwhile, my little boy remained still, his bright hazel eyes fixed on me, patiently waiting for my attention.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked. Silence reigned. “Are you hungry?” No response. “Would you like a drink?” I ventured again, and finally, he tugged at my bag and emitted a soft sound. Success! He sat beside me, sipping juice while observing the other children with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.
Suddenly, chaos erupted—a pair of older boys jumped onto a bridge, startling a little girl who was crossing. She began to cry, and I felt Tyler stiffen beside me, his juice box dropping to the floor. He covered his ears, his face twisted in distress, unable to form the words to express his fear. The other parents glanced at us, their looks laden with judgment. Their children might be disruptive, but at least they were “normal.”
Later that night, as Tyler lay in bed, I heard him softly murmuring into the darkness, sounds that resembled whispers. He did this every night, believing he was alone in his thoughts.
The next morning began with a low growl at my side—his unique way of rousing me from sleep. “Go play, I’ll be up soon,” I told him, and I heard his tiny feet patter down the hall. A few moments later, I heard a thud followed by the clattering of wooden train tracks. I drifted back to sleep until I was jolted awake again by a small, cold hand grasping mine.
“Just a moment,” I mumbled, trying to wake up. I had no way of knowing how long he had been up, as he always moved in silence. When I finally joined him, I was startled by a loud crash from the kitchen.
Rushing in, I found Tyler frozen in panic, surrounded by a dozen broken eggs. His eyes were wide with fear, and without words, he communicated his distress. I scooped him up, wrapping my arms around his trembling body, whispering reassurances until he calmed.
“It’s okay,” I said softly, “You’re safe.”
Despite the frequent visits from doctors and therapists, they offered various labels for Tyler’s condition, but only we understood the truth—there are no words to capture the essence of our shared experience. The act of verbalizing our reality felt like it could lead to our undoing.
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In summary, the journey of raising a non-verbal child is a profound experience filled with unique challenges and moments of connection that transcend words.
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