Many of you know I’ve been on this journey with my kids, both who are late-talkers, for quite awhile now. They’re both introverts and empaths, both sensitive to the world and its energies in a much more profound, deeper way than even me. And they’ve both called upon me to be more.

To be greater.

To be their voices when the rest of the world couldn’t hear them—or as more often the case, refused to hear them.

To do this, I’ve had to dig deep. Real deep. I’ve had to look back at my own childhood and heal and fix those areas of myself before I could ever show up as the parent they needed me to be. And believe me when I say, I still have a long way to go.

And yet…

And yet I’m getting there. We’re getting there.

At times this has been a pretty lonely road I’ve walked because, let’s face it, we do things differently in this family—a heck of a lot of things different. When it came to Eric, who he is, his personality, the way he was determined to exist in this world, he really called upon me to stand for him. Speak for him.

And I did.

Sure, I made mistakes along the way. I fumbled. I messed up (quite a bit, actually). But thankfully I had Kate to show me the way first, I had her shining her own little light and showing me where the heck the tunnel was in the first place. And then with both kids, I walked right on in. It’s been far from easy and if you’re parents of differently wired kids, you get that. You know that. Heck, your tunnel might longer and deeper and darker than mine and I truly admire you for just showing up and trying your best.

Sometimes, in those hardest of moments, when our little beings who are doing their best to exist in this world, sometimes showing up is all we can do.

That, and trying.

Which is what I kept doing, just like I kept forgiving myself for those mistakes along the way, for thinking I could do more and better, and somehow with each passing day or moment, I’d forgive myself. I take a deep breath (or several), I’d pick myself back up, and I’d try again. I did my best to not listen to those negative voices in my head, the stories they were trying to tell me, and instead I’d focus on gratitude. I’d look at those little moments of success and I’d hold them close. I’d focus on the good and the positive and that gave me the light and hope I needed to fully stand up—and try again.

To keep trying to show up and be this parent my kids needed me to be.

And finally we’re seeing the light at the end of this tunnel, except it’s not just us either. Others are seeing it too, and in a big, big way. (And frankly I’m not sure there will ever be an end to this tunnel because again, this is just who my kids choose to be in this world.)

Where is all this coming from? Why am I suddenly feeling so settled and comforted and at peace? (Well… okay, not all of the time. I am still a mom of two differently wired kids and they both have some crazy intense, challenging moments.)

You see, Eric is starting to talk.

Eric is dipping his little toes in that language water and starting to trust, starting to even try to use words.

It is beautiful. Magical. And so, so rewarding.

I’ve had to fight a lot of battles for him. I’ve had to go interviewing doctors and deal with my own inner gremlins about professionals and speaking out. I’ve had to stand firm, time and time again, and tell people, “No.”

No, you’re not seeing who he is.

No, he is more than what he’s allowing you to see.

He’s a child whose trust you need to earn. He’s a child who takes awhile to feel comfortable with a person, especially adults, but with those he trusts he’s incredibly social. He loves physical play and being silly. He loves being a kid and loves it when others be kids with him (Eric’s the one who, at the tide pools when his shorts sag off his bottom, yanks them off and starts running around in complete joy and completely butt-naked—and yep, I’m the mom that let’s him because he’s four and how many times in your life are you allowed to do that??).

Eric is a child and he wants to be a child and if you want to connect with him and then get your butt on the floor, too, and lose yourself to that play. Otherwise, he’s not gonna give you the time of day.

And if you show up with your own opinions and judgments?

Oh, he can sense that shit a mile away and there’s no way in hell he’s letting you in.

That’s Eric. And my goodness, he is quite firm and set and strong in who he is. And this includes his anxiety, this includes the intense stress he gets when he’s not in control of a situation. It’s made for some pretty intense moments in our life (and trying dealing with all this and having very, very little language or even an understanding of language).

This whole time, I’ve relied on my own strength. On the lessons Kate has taught me. Believing in myself, in who I am as a mother, my own intuition and gifts as an empath. I’ve listened with my whole being to what both of my kids have needed and I’ve trusted in them.

Now, that’s a very easy thing for me to say, but to do? To live in that kinda space? ‘Hard’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. 

But I did it.

Or, at least I tried my best.

And now I’m finally here, finally at this space, this moment, where Eric is ready.

He’s ready.

Eric is four years and nearly five months old and until recently, he had one functional word. That’s it. Just one. But after our last trip to Las Vegas, when I went to a writing workshop with my mom and the kids? Something truly exciting and wonderful happened.

Eric started counting.

He started saying numbers, even in the elevator when he repeated the word “nine” after another fellow elevator-traveler requested the ninth floor. And since we’ve been home, Eric’s comfort, his readiness, has only grown.

Of course, when it comes to language and cognitive developments (at least in this household) that also meant a decrease in that other areas… like emotional regulation. Handling his frustrations? Oh forget it. Eric was like a walking hair-trigger of emotion and me, good ol’ me, had to wade in that with him and help him through it.

I did my best.

Eric did his best.

And now, now we’re at this new space.

Eric is saying the word, “No.” In context. With meaning. He’s also counting, regularly, all the way up to twenty and back down again. Of course, this being Eric, it’s when he good and well wants to, which to my delight and joy, is often. He’s pulling out this wipe-clean numbers and math book we have and he’s learning; he’s even trying to write his own numbers and doing a damn good job of it.

He’s also talking.

Not full words, not fully intelligible, and it’s still just dipping his toe in, still gaining his comfort and trust, but the cadence of language?

My God, it’s there.

I can hear it—and so can others.

Like when I was watching the latest video I sent our speech pathologist, she caught the words he was saying… like “erase” as he was using the eraser, and “there” as he directed to Sean which number he wanted to write next. She watched Eric in those videos and was so impressed by his patience, how he’d wait for Sean, and then Eric would be the one to initiate in the next bit of numbers. All those little moments of success, so darn small and tiny if you had a normally developing child you wouldn’t know or understand the significance, but for us, for Eric to really, really show who and what he was, I just felt this breathe whoosh out of me.

Like, like…

Finally.

Now, now you can see. Now you see who we’ve seen this entire time.

And it didn’t stop there, either. In fact when we were on a hike looking for Kate’s friends and she’s calling out this friend’s name, “Mishu! Mishu!” 

Well, Eric (who I was holding) said, “Maho. Maho.”

So, being the aware, attuned parent I strive to be, I recasted: “Mishu. Mishu.”

Oh… the look on Eric’s face. His absolute and complete joy.

He was trusting in his words, he was using them…

And I heard him.

I heard the word he was trying to say and he was so excited. And because he was excited… he did it again and again, I recasted. We just kept on going and then Kate was getting in on it, too, because she understood the significance. She understood our joy. And when later, after we found Kate’s friend, we shared this with him this moment of Eric saying his name and this little boy’s joy and excitement to hear that…

It was touching.

For everyone.

I’m holding that joy inside me, of Eric, of that look on his face close. I’m holding it real, real close. Because we’re getting there.

This little being we’ve been trusting and following… it’s working.

For me, this isa huge sigh of relief because I know what all this means. That each little piece is another step toward people truly being able to see Eric for who Eric is and not immediately putting a label on him or trying to shove him in a box—one that didn’t fit him at all and this whole time we’ve known in our hearts, as parents, that it didn’t fit.

But now, finally, after all our patience and trust, Eric’s showing us his little light… and others are seeing it, too.

And yes, I’m feeling relief. I’m able to breathe a little bit more. Some pressure is sliding off my shoulders because I have been fighting for my kids for awhile and I am tired. I could just use a bit of a breather, you know?

All I want them is for them to exist in this world and be whoever they want to be. Sure, help and guide them because there is an expected way of doing things in our society, but at the heart of it, I just wanted them to show and be their full, truest selves.

And for me, too, each time Eric takes another step forward like this, another piece to his puzzle slides into place.

The thing about patience and trust is there’s a heck of a lot we don’t know and not knowing, well, that can be a pretty darn scary.

You see, until Eric started actually trying to talk, we didn’t know if he had childhood apraxia (very rare in kids, although something—in my experience—speech therapists and professionals can mention quite a bit). We also didn’t know if Eric had a phonological disorder. Until Eric started talking or attempting to talk, there were just a lot of questions left unanswered.

So we supported Eric in the best way—for him—and we gave him the time that he needed and now we’re finally getting some answers. Because Eric’s making this crisp and clear and strong, ‘s’ sound when he says “sixteen,” our speech pathologist says it bodes well for us. It most likely means he doesn’t have a phonological disorder, which means that’s another piece that I don’t have to deal with.

Which I’m all for.

Seriously.

I really could use a bit of a break.

Eric’s come a long way. I’ve been waiting for him to be ready and while we still have a long, long way to go, this next step that he’s taking, well, it’s a big one.

A real big one.

Although (full honesty here), as I’ve learned with Kate, Eric’s choice of late-talking will most likely be more than just a language issue. His choices to talk late, it’s part of who he is. His temperament. In fact, I’m already watching him with a different level of awareness, to see if his anxiety, his need for control and certainty continues to come up in other areas of his life…

And I already know it has.

I suspect he’s known numbers and counting for a long time, but it’s only now when he’s sure that he’ll even try.

Or I see it with him when he decides to climb some new structure at the playground. Time and time again, he won’t even try—even if he’s been watching other kids, even if he wants to… he just won’t do it. Until he’s ready. And when he is? It’s like he takes these little, tentative, tiny steps—and he also wants me near by (even though he can totally do it).

So yeah, the anxiety is there and I’ll have to do exactly what I did with language:

Trust and patience.

One step at a time. Following Eric’s lead. Allowing him to go at his pace and his comfort and knowing that, in the end, it’ll all turn out okay.

These are choices we’ve made not just for language and parenting, but also how we’ve chosen to approach learning—because again, this is what works best for our family.

I offer them new opportunities and experiences, I pay attention to their interests and when, like Eric shows a sudden interest in numbers, I lay a whiteboard on the ground with a marker or the First Math book from Usborne. Or a number puzzle or number magnets just to see what might happen…

And then it happens, but only when they’re ready. And when they are? It’s like light speed processing with the learning and it’s so darn fun to see it happen. I get so much joy because I’ve put this trust in my kids and they’re running with it toward their future—

And again, we just do things differently in this family and I’m learning to hold joy in that, even when I’m getting the looks (or feelings) of judgment from other people. Because the more I hold myself in that moment with my kids, the more I stand in that joy and in our confidence that this is the right path for us… the more I don’t feel other people and their discomfort.

When our speech pathologist was watching the videos, Kate had jumped in, too, and started writing out numbers. She did it because I was playing with Eric and she didn’t want to miss out on Mommy-play-time. But what made me smile was when our speech pathologist commented on Kate’s wonderful grip with that dry-erase marker.

I never taught her how to hold a pen. I never asked her to practice and repeat.

She learned it all on her own because that way of gripping (the right way, apparently) was just more comfortable for her.

That, and she was ready.

Her hands and muscles and just desire, all that stuff that goes into such a small thing like holding a pen was there when she needed it to be. But, mind you, when we first started this journey everyone was pushing that we take her to an occupational therapist, but both Sean and I had a firm, “No.” And somehow she figured it out—when she was ready.

Kate had learned this grip on her own. Learned to write those numbers on her own. To step out there and trust that it’d be okay if they didn’t look perfect (because again, her anxiety exists in everything and not just with language). We didn’t push her to write, but we were always aware and followed her interest.

Because again, well, in our family we just do things differently.

This hasn’t been an easy journey and I’ve done a lot (a lot) of growing along the way—especially when it came to Eric—but it’s definitely, definitely given me the strength to stand out there, be different, and just see where this will take us.

Kate is blossoming into this unique little girl and now Eric’s following right behind her… and still in a completely opposite direction.

We’ve chosen to exist in this world differently, and why not? Sean and I are different. Our kids are different.

Let’s face it, we just weren’t meant to walk that conventional path and these kids have been nothing but a crash-course in orienteering. And now, now after a lot of patience, a lot of trust, of standing in this wilderness alone, others are starting to see what we see. They’re seeing the same light that we’ve always known was there. The light in Kate. The light in Eric.

It’s a light we trusted in. It’s light we’ll continue to trust in.

Even if that means, at times, we walk this path alone.

(I will be slowly moving my blog over to this website. Technical issues and time—time, mostly—means maintaining one website is the way to go for me. So you’ll start to seeing my older posts, from Parents and Prose, head their way over here. I definitely want to keep our story, our journey, out there in the world for other parents to find and maybe offer some measure of hope and comfort in a sometimes very lonely and scary journey.)