We took our son for evaluation today. He’s 39 months old and still not talking. That’s a little hard for me to write. I try to act like it doesn’t bother me. But it does.
It does, because I worry. A lot. That I’m not doing enough. That working from home and having him here with me, instead of a day care or preschool, is hurting him. Holding him back.
I worry that I waited way too long to see about getting help. That he’s so far behind he’ll have trouble catching up. That it’ll follow him around, this inadequacy of his mother.
And he’s such a bright little boy, too. I don’t just say that because I’m his mother. He understands things that 5 and 6 year olds understand. I can see his frustration when he tries to communicate and we can’t understand him. And it breaks my heart. Daily.
On top of all that, while we were at the school, they had some sort of drill that involved a very long bell ringing. Like several minutes long. And then we had to go outside for a bit. It was close to naptime and the ringing had already agitated him. (Me, too.) And then the bell rang while we were outside. And it was. Really. Loud. And it freaked him out. Poor kid. Then it rang a second (well, third total) time and it scared him even more. Super loud noises have always bothered him. That was a sucky way to end his visit.
So now we’re under the gun to get him help. Quickly. To get an IEP in place and see if we can get him into preschool (which we can’t really afford) and get him caught up. Because regular interaction with his peers is what’s going to help him the most right now.
I just don’t know what to do. Except try to help my son. But I don’t know how. And it’s quietly killing me.