He’s so funny. And sweet. He’s a mouth-to-mouth kisser. He prefers Gogurts and Honey Nut Cheerios and his toys standing up, which often requires adult aid.
“Sta uh”, he says for stand up, and only because we’ve taught him. He has no spontaneous words.
Today we take Max for an assessment as part of a speech therapy program in the school district. They’ll determine if his speech delay will qualify for the special preschool, (it will), and they’ll also give their best educated guess if they see signs that something else is wrong.
He’s probably fine. We’ve met dozens of people who know trillions of kids who didn’t talk for a long time. And it may be just that.
The feeling that I have is this: If something is wrong, I want to know. I want to get him help. In the most pure love I’ve felt as a parent, I am accepting of whatever is determined. Of course, I can’t guarantee that I won’t throw a clipboard or two if the assessor says that he’s retarded, but that’s just a formality.
