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There he is, once again tangled in his pajama shirt. I watch as he twists and writhes until only his little face emerges from the top. His big, coffee-colored eyes light up against the backdrop of his tiny race car pajamas as he giggles, proclaiming, “Look! I’m a snow cone!” My partner and I exchange glances; to anyone else, the joke might seem nonsensical, but we get it because no one knows him like we do. As he triumphantly completes the task of dressing himself, his face beams with pride. My son is starting to navigate his challenges with humor. At four and a half, he’s becoming increasingly aware of his limitations, and I know I can only shield him from the reality of his disability for so long.
The signs were subtle but present. He was born a calm, sleepy baby, gifting us with gummy smiles and hearty giggles right on schedule. He rolled over and sat up late, but the pediatrician reassured me that it was nothing to worry about. As a first-time mom, I wanted to trust the doctor, even though something felt off.
When he began daycare, I asked the teachers to keep an eye on him since he rarely cried when he got hurt. One day, a teacher noted she had never seen a child crawl using the backs of their hands. He would come home with red marks on his hands, but once again, the pediatrician dismissed it as a minor issue.
His next teacher pointed out that he struggled to drink from an open cup and recommended Early Intervention services. We had never given him an open cup at home, reasoning that spills would be inevitable. But I pursued it anyway, and to our surprise, he qualified.
As he grew into a rambunctious toddler, I found myself dreading the end of each workday, knowing a whirlwind awaited me at home. I was already a highly sensitive person, and now I had a child who seemed like a bull in a china shop. Holding my hand in the parking lot? Absolutely not. Staying in the shopping cart while I grabbed a few items? Forget it. Doctor’s visits and trips to the store became daunting tasks that I often avoided.
I managed some of these outings alone because I had to, but his unpredictable behavior made them stressful. Those errands usually ended in chaos or disappointment, leading me to question my abilities as a mother. At seven months pregnant with his sister and with my partner away for work, I found the strength to move his giant gray glider out of his room because he wouldn’t stop climbing on it. He was like a little monkey, jumping and giggling without a care for his safety or mine. In hindsight, his need for sensory input often overshadowed his ability to focus and listen.
As he aged out of Early Intervention, our dedicated yet puzzled developmental specialist recommended a neuropsychological assessment for further insights. Cognitively, he was bright, social, and articulate, yet when tired or upset—sometimes for no clear reason—he struggled to access these skills. During one assessment, he even hit me unexpectedly in front of the doctor, but I had been conditioned to believe we were overreacting and that he was just a typical two-year-old.
As we sat in the doctor’s office to review the results, I fought back tears. We finally had a name for the things that felt “off,” but I didn’t feel relief; instead, I felt hopeless. He was diagnosed with dyspraxia, also known as Developmental Coordination Delay (DCD). How could I, with a Master’s in Special Education and a decade of teaching experience, have never heard of it?
I blamed myself. Was it because I let him stay in his bucket seat too long? Did my previous antidepressant use play a role? Should I have continued breastfeeding instead of switching to formula? Should I have stayed home with him rather than placing him in the care of a nanny while I returned to work? These thoughts swirled in my mind as I tried to process the diagnosis and figure out how to move forward.
After Thanksgiving, I took a leave from my teaching job to accompany him to all the evaluations and appointments that followed. We switched him to a play-based preschool closer to home, which seemed like a better fit. Then, the COVID-19 pandemic hit. Like many families, we were locked down, and I was now home with my newly three-year-old son who had a diagnosis but couldn’t access the necessary services.
I spent months devising ways for him to safely crash, bump, squeeze, and jump around our small house, while my partner attempted to work from our kitchen. It was chaos.
Dyspraxia affects up to 10% of the population, yet awareness and research in the U.S. lag behind other countries. Similar to Autism Spectrum Disorder, it exists on a continuum from mild to severe. Some individuals function well with appropriate support; others may never drive or live independently. It was once referred to as “clumsy child syndrome,” which is not only offensive but misleading, as it also impacts emotional regulation, sensory processing, and executive functioning.
To outsiders, my son appears to be a typical four-and-a-half-year-old boy, caught between toddler and little kid. He sports bruises and bug bites from playing outside, loves pizza and dinosaurs, and is articulate enough to express his needs. Yet, beneath the surface are countless challenges that have sometimes drained us as parents. Watching him oscillate between a “normal” little boy who knows his colors and numbers and a child who struggles with basic tasks fills me with conflicting emotions of hope and helplessness.
His two-year-old sister glides past him on a scooter he hasn’t yet learned to ride. At the end of a long day, he resembles a deer caught in headlights, often tripping on his own feet. He hasn’t slept through the night in two years, and neither have we.
We ride a constant emotional rollercoaster, never knowing how his dyspraxia will manifest on a given day. It can be worse when he is acquiring new cognitive or language skills; during these periods of growth, he struggles to articulate his thoughts and often needs to repeat himself multiple times. Thankfully, he eventually stabilizes, and we are able to enjoy stretches of good days where he is a joy to be around.
Parenting a child with dyspraxia has compelled my partner and me to reshape our expectations of who our son might become. The experience has been isolating, especially during a global pandemic, as we witness the highlight reels of seemingly perfect families on social media.
My love for him knows no bounds. While his quirky traits can be charming, I have to remind myself that he isn’t intentionally making messes or forgetting tasks. His body often seems to operate on a different wavelength than his mind, and they rarely coordinate seamlessly.
Parenting is already challenging, but raising a child with dyspraxia has pushed our patience and mental health to the limit. For some couples, these challenges can strain a marriage; for us, it has solidified our bond.
My son has been seeing a fantastic Occupational Therapist twice a week for nearly a year, and we’ve witnessed significant improvement in his emotional regulation and motor skills, not to mention his self-confidence. Humor has become his coping mechanism, and it fills our home with laughter.
Recently, I took him grocery shopping alone for the first time in over two years, and it went without a hitch. To families with neurotypical children, this may not seem like an accomplishment, but for us, it was monumental. However, while helping him get dressed this morning, I did get an unexpected elbow to the eye. In our home, we’ve learned to take it one day at a time, carefully navigating the ups and downs of life together.
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In summary, my experience of raising a child with dyspraxia has been one of discovery, resilience, and adaptation. While there are days filled with challenges, the moments of joy and laughter remind me of the beauty in our journey. We continue to navigate the complexities of his condition one day at a time, learning and growing together as a family.