While I was pregnant, I dreamed of my son being one of the greatest minds in history. I wanted him to have every opportunity to cultivate any potential genius. I was a full-blown tiger mom.
A few days after he was born, he looked me straight in the eyes. Clearly, he was meant to grab the world by its tail; to make it a better place. I saw his future, felt the forceful presence of him grab me from across the room. He was here, he will not be ignored, he will be heard.
Flash forward 23 months. He’s been in preschool a few days. The director feels he has poor eye contact and is not socializing at all or even responding to his name. She blurts out, “He has neurological problems.” I am angry because she is unqualified to make such a dramatic, scary medical statement when she barely has seen him.
He’s 2 years old. The doctor wants a speech therapist to check him out. She comes to our house, completes the test. He is wild and refuses to sit. He scores in the 1st percentile. As in, only 1% of children his age test lower than him. A staggering 98% are ahead.
My stomach squeezes, trying to push out suspicions. Major speech/comprehension delays, lack of eye contact, poor socialization and sensory issues. We get on the waiting list to see a developmental pediatrician, which is a year long. We wait and continue speech therapy.
Before long it’s two days before his 3rd birthday. We are at the school, to ease the transition from BabyNet to our local district. He is being put through all sorts of tests. They will tell us in a week or so if he qualifies for services. They say it gently. I remember overhearing the secretary telling another mom that free preschool is for kids that are “really poor or really bad off.” I gulp. I don’t want him to be lumped into this category.
They call. He qualifies and can start the next day. He has two moderate delays in language and socialization. He has a mild delay in cognition, meaning his IQ tests low. We arrange for the so-called “short bus.”
He goes to class. He is one of four students. All the others are non-verbal boys. I suppose he fits in. This is a cause for concern. How can he learn to his fullest if no peer is there to model it? I put him in another public preschool in the charter district. They take over the IEP and full services. The speech therapist tells us she teaches him as if he is autistic. There is no doubt he is a visual learner.
Summer comes. He is almost 4 years old and up to two-word phrases, like a toddler. His eye contact is still minimal. He still is all over the place. His attention span is negligible, minus when he is on an electronic device or doing something repetitive.
I know the autism diagnosis is coming. It feels like a hurricane is squalling all around me. I pray for the eye to come and give me momentary relief. I just want to lay down my mental weapons, get the anticipation over and move on to the next stage.
But then…
Two weeks before school starts, he takes a noticeable leap forward in verbal ability. He suddenly, unexpectedly speaks in full paragraphs.
I hold my breath.
School starts in late August, but they lose his application. No school, and no services for much between the districts claiming the other is responsible.
For months, he has no speech or generalized services. Months.
That is a phenomenally long time in early-intervention. Even days are key.
I am beside myself with worry. The hurricane is back full force. I am put out to sea with nothing but a leaky lifeboat. I beg, but no one helps, only turns their backs.
Finally, in late November, our home district takes back over with speech therapy only. They arrange for another evaluation, as it’s been 18 months at this point and they haven’t seen him in 16 months.
I feel his speech is still strong, but I’ve been here before. Many, many times. You think everything is fine, and then *bam!* suddenly they are surprising you with some new issue at the IEP meeting or teacher conference. I allow myself no cautious optimism. I can’t stand to be sunk.
After the first session, the speech therapist gushes over how well he is doing. She thinks he will be discharged within the next month when the evaluation and testing are completed.
We complete surveys on his sensory behavior. They come and observe him. He does more verbal tests, fine motor skills tests, and another IQ test. They promise to try and give us his results soon, before Christmas break. I can’t stand the thought of anticipating this all the way to January, the next year.
True to their word, they call the day before the break while I am driving home. I steel myself for the impending results, and pull over. They are this: He has a high IQ, not a low one as the first test indicated. His language scores are actually above-average for his peers, not significantly below.
He no longer has delays, or even qualifies for an IEP.
I feel the hot tears flow down my cheeks without warning. Where did they come from? I have always loved him, no matter what. I thought I had come to terms with everything a possible autism diagnosis would imply, but yet, deep down, beyond my conscious, it appears I had just buried the worries.
A weight I didn’t even know was there lifted off my chest. I get home and hug my perfectly imperfect child. The hope for an independent future has returned, and I am so happy for him.
But Tiger Mom has been shelved. I learned there is more important things than being a genius. I’d rather him have a childhood full of laughter.
