On Tuesday, in addition to his successful dentist visit, the cheesedoodle had his 2 year well child check-up. He is healthy, small for his age, but performing at or above age level in all developmental stages.
His official diagnosis? Laziness.
They gave me a recommendation of a local child development center that provides services and evaluation for children with developmental delays. When I spoke to them this afternoon, they told me that he didn’t qualify for their program because he was too normal. They recommended hiring a speech therapist privately to do an evaluation and give us some tips to help the cheesedoodle develop a vocabulary beyond Mama, Dada, tea and Uh-oh.
I thought, “Oh yeah. Because that’s so easy for a seminary family to do and where am I going to find a speech therapist?” I got bogged down in a really bad case of the “ME”s. Why ME? Why won’t my son speak? Why can’t I get some help?
What I really wanted was a 12 step plan to 50 words in 90 days. I wanted it to be easier for ME to communicate with my son. I no longer wanted MY son to be the “wordless, muddy one” any more. Mostly I just can’t wrap my brain around the fact that any child of MINE would have a hard time with words. For goodness sake, I’m not good with much *except* words.
The reality is that most of the people who call the child development center would love to hear what I just heard. For most people, that phone call is one call in a lifetime of doctors and assessments and specialists and tests. Too many mothers have called that line hoping for “It’s nothing” and ended up with “It’s worse than we thought.”
And the ultimate “in your face” to the “ME”s? My next door neighbor in this remarkable neighborhood we call home happens to be . . . wait for it . . . a speech therapist. One who knows my cheesedoodle, and understands a seminary budget, and is willing to take whatever we can pay and could do a half hour session with my son while her daughter napped because our apartments are so close her monitor works in my living room.
The sovereign Lord of the universe, who built my son and knew before the foundations of the world that he would struggle to find words, also ordained that our next door neighbor for this first year of our seminary journey would be a speech therapist. What a blessing to have a healthy, happy, otherwise excelling, son. What a blessing to be told that my second child is too healthy, too normal and too much on track to be admitted into a child development assessment. What a kind and loving God to conquer my “ME”s with Him.