What if he simply wouldn’t? Or perhaps he couldn’t? Even today, this remains a contentious topic. One thing is certain: he didn’t speak.
At age one, he was deemed completely “normal.” By two, he was labeled a “late bloomer”—a term I loathed. Who decides when a child is supposed to “bloom?” Who’s to say he hasn’t already flourished in his own way?
When he turned two and a half, other children were bursting with words that made their parents beam with pride. Those parents would gather for pre-arranged playdates, not just to let the kids have fun, but to compare their children’s vocabulary (and by “compare,” I mean boast). Amidst all this chatter, one little boy remained silent.
“Ten words!” exclaimed Word-Counter #1. “Five words,” whispered Word-Counter #2. An awkward pause followed as both parents redirected their attention to the playground. Moments later, Word-Counter #1’s daughter burst into tears as she sprinted toward her mother, proving that even ten words can’t prevent a meltdown. Meanwhile, my son sat quietly beside me.
His beautiful brown eyes looked up at me, patiently waiting for my attention. With a smile, he then turned his gaze to the bag I was holding. “Are you ready to go?” I asked. Silence. A slight furrow formed on his brow, but his eyes remained fixed on me.
“Are you hungry?” No reaction. “Do you want a drink?” At that, he tugged on the bag, making a small, indecipherable sound. Success.
He settled beside me, sipping his juice while observing the other children play. Two older boys were on a suspended metal bridge, jumping around and making a little girl cry as they stomped on either side. I noticed my son stiffening next to me, and before I could react, he dropped his juice box, hands pressed to his ears, eyes tightly shut. The loud noise seemed to cause him actual pain. Whimpering sounds emerged, resembling a helpless baby’s cries. The parents of the raucous boys cast disapproving glances our way, perhaps comforted by the notion that their children were “normal.”
Later that evening, my son was calm and heavy in my arms as I carried him to bed. He stared up at me with wide eyes but remained silent as I laid him down. In the stillness of the house, I sat in the kitchen and listened through the baby monitor. I could hear the soft murmurs he made when he thought he was alone, whispering sounds that, from a distance, resembled words. He did this every night, as if sharing his secrets with the darkness.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by a low growl at my bedside—the way he let me know I had overslept. “Go play, I’ll be up soon,” I mumbled, hearing his little feet patter down the hall, followed by a thud as he settled himself on the living room floor with his wooden train. I drifted back into sleep.
A short while later, I awoke again to his cold little hand gripping mine, pulling me. “Just a minute,” I murmured, still trying to gather my thoughts. I had no way of knowing when he had risen, as he never made a sound. Once he saw I’d join him, he let go and hurried back down the hall. Suddenly, I heard the fridge creak open, followed by a loud crash. I bolted out of bed, knowing trouble was brewing.
In the kitchen, my son stood trembling, arms outstretched, surrounded by a dozen cracked eggs that lay on the floor. He was frozen in fear, his wide eyes begging for forgiveness. I scooped him up, holding him close and willing all my love and strength into him. Gradually, he stopped shaking. “It’s alright,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”
The doctors and therapists keep coming, filling our lives with labels for his “condition.” Yet only he and I understand the truth: there are no words to describe what we’ve experienced. Speaking our reality would unravel everything.
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Summary
Parenting a child who is nonverbal comes with its own unique challenges and emotional experiences. The silence can be deafening, but love and connection can be communicated in myriad ways. Despite societal pressures and labels, the bond between parent and child remains profound, transcending the limitations of spoken language.