Ask any mother, and she will say that hearing a child, really any child, say “Mom,” will automatically get her attention. It is an identity we take on when we have children. From the moment the word leaves their lips for the first time, we are forever “Mom.” I’m not “Mom.” For some reason my son decided to call me “My Mom.” And I don’t just mean when he is talking to other people and says, “My mom said I could play,” or “My mom said I couldn’t have any more cookies.” I mean that all day I hear, “My Mom, can I play my game?” “My Mom, can I have a Popsicle?” “My Mom, I accidentally opened the gate and let the dogs run away.” He has always had his own spin on things, and for that reason, my name is now and always has been, “My Mom.”
L was not an early talker. In fact, he was placed in speech therapy right after his second birthday. We knew by the fact that he was signing up a storm that he was comprehending and was intelligent, but the connection to the mouth just wasn’t there yet. And getting it there was an interesting journey.
The first day his speech therapist came to the house, L ran excitedly to the door. He threw it open and yelled, “Wan see dumb f*ck?” You see, he had gotten a dump truck for Christmas. It talked, and moved, and even snored when it went into sleep mode. However, he could not pronounce “dump truck.” Which is why he then ran into the family room and yelled, “Wake up, dumb f*ck!”
His poor speech therapist just looked at me, unsure what to say. And that was her introduction to our family.
Speech therapy did go very well. Too well, in fact. Once his brain and mouth became connected, we realized that there was no telling what he was thinking. And most of the time, it was safer to not know. To this day when L says something that makes me cringe, I call his therapist and say, “I hope you know this is all your fault.”
And normally she will laugh and say, “You’re welcome.”
No comments:
Post a Comment