Stow had his first speech appointment today. In usual fashion, he was happy, curious, and engaged with the therapist who visited our home. He pointed and grunted and squealed and vocalized some vowels--pretty much his entire repertoire of communication.
Toward the end of the session, against my better judgment, I asked, "So where does his current communication fall? What age is it comparable to?"
"Six months," the therapist responded.
Stow's fourteen months. Though you might not know it. He doesn't really talk. He doesn't really walk. The therapists tell me it doesn't mean he's on the autism spectrum. But he's got low muscle tone, motor planning issues, and speech delays. People tell me not to worry. That I am overreacting, maybe even projecting things onto Stow that aren't really there. I hope that's true, but somehow, I doubt it.
It feels like the last fourteen months have been filled with a thousand tiny bomb shells. Some of them just words. Harmless words. Words like: "Six months." Each phrase seems so innocuous. Individually, none of them are catastrophic. But combined, they threaten to destroy our very sense of well being, our ability to right our ship and navigate our way into another day.
But, then, just when I am about to be overwhelmed with this nagging sense of despair, I encounter tiny glimmers of hope. My children giggling. A bright blue sky. A good night's sleep. A joke from Sky. A picture from Pink P.
And I decide that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.