That’s what all the literature on the subject and my instincts say, to speak with you, and then wait, wait for you to respond. No one in our house waits, it seems, to venture an opinion on something; as a clan, we crowd our spaces with noise. For your brother, the being closest to you in size and age, it is his favorite activity, endlessly narrating, monopolizing the words, and this must have an impact on you and your ability or willingness to speak, though it is not the primary culprit. We don’t yet know why speaking has not come as naturally to you as writing, as numbers, as climbing and eating. So we wait.
In waiting I am able to be still in ways I am not normally still, and it allows me time and patience enough to stare at you in mild, loving appreciation, this face so like the face of your mother stamped on the enormous long head of your father and topped by a handsome head of unruly fair hair. Your eyes, your mother’s sleek eyes, are starlight blue. The mouth is hers, the smile is mine. As I wait, it seems you’re in no hurry to respond to what I’ve said; you have a child’s indifference to any sense of conversational obligation. You’re happy only to belong, and to let the obvious speak for itself. “Is that good fruit smoothie?” Blue eyed smile. “Did you see Pop-Pop today?” Something about the question amuses you.
I wonder what you’re thinking. Your mind must be crowded with immediate ideas, pondering the things you love and which of them you’ll do next. You do talk, of course. You often preface sentences with the phrase, “What about…?” This means you want to investigate that thing. “What about… Number Factory?” This means you want to watch a video of that name. “What about… pot lids?” This means you want me to draw pot lids on your magnetic drawing board. You’ve also learned to say, “I want” and “I need help,” though we have to remind you to say the latter; more often, you simply start going after what you want and only when you can’t get it confess, “I need help.” Your other well known words are “I not!” This actually means “I won’t” or “I do not want to.” Put your shoes on. “I not put my shoes on!”
We say the things that are comfortable to us, the things we have rehearsed and the things that come natural to us. Even adults do this. Like a child a year younger than you, you tend to repeat the same basic phrases, the same jokes, the same quotes from TV shows and well worn indications of need. In between, you smile, a lot, you’re a very happy child. You fall naturally into place wherever we go, take your place beside your brother, or in my arms, or off to the side, or far ahead, or in your mother’s lap, doing your own thing. You are, I am grateful to note, very cuddly, and this is something I cherish in part because your brother, a big first grader now, is pulling away, no longer cool with being kissed and held by his dad, only occasionally by his mom.
Is it ironic that your father is a communications professional and spends his days coordinating conversation and spreading messages? I cannot make you talk, but often I am good at eliciting some speech from you. The way your face lights up when you see me tells me I “get” you. Part of it is in knowing your rhythms, in reading your cues, a kind of mind reading, like we did when you and your brother were babies. A fuss at 9:00 A.M. most likely means hunger. Excessive climbing on the couch in late morning means you need to be taken to a park and run. When you sit as if exhausted in mid afternoon that means it’s time for a popsicle, a glass of ice water. These are things you say without words and we try to put speech to them. “Are you hungry?” “Are you tired?” Wait, wait for the answer, even as I reach with my hands for the solution.
I pray for you. I pray for you every day. Our conversation is somewhat like prayer in that I have to do all the talking and listen, read the signs, for the response, wonder what the other party is thinking. With prayer, there is always the deeply buried fear that you are talking to yourself. Like prayer, you talk, you connect, out of love, hope, and desperate need, in recognition of kinship, in the need to be known – in prayer, by the maker; to a child, the made.
You are fascinated by my ability to draw. It is a language that interests you far more than speech. When I bring toys to you and your brother my gift to you is a blank notebook and a fresh set of markers; you fill it furiously with scribbling and then draw over your scribbles. The fact that you can draw, can write, can read many words, hold a pencil better than your brother, but can’t talk very well seems like a piece to a puzzle, but I don’t build much out of it. This summer, you’ll be seeing specialists and going to a special pre-school. Maybe they will recognize significance in this behavior. For now, as we wait, it’s just one more thing we do, one more thing that makes you what you are. A bright face in whose smiles I lose myself, a pair of tiny legs I am always pursuing.
I love you, Charlie. xo.
Awww. Love you, too. – Chas.
Thanks Charlie! I loved this! My kids both have apraxia of speech.. the oldest (4yr) has recently been able to really express himself and the younger (2) is still struggling with talking although she makes sounds non stop, it's extremely frustrating for her (and us) as she tries to explain herself! It's so nice to know other parents “get” how I feel! I love hearing my son speak, it is by far the most beautiful conversation I've ever heard!
Thank you so much for sharing. You have a wonderful way with words. Makes me grateful for those never-ending conversations with my toddler. God bless you and your family.