| "Take good care of the ducklings,"
[quacked Mr. Mallard]. "Don't you worry," said Mrs. Mallard. "I know all
about bringing up children." And she did.
--from Make Way for Ducklings
Before my daughter was born, my cousin told me, "It took me two weeks to realize that I am my baby's mother and I know best." It took me about six months to experience that feeling. After that the feeling came and went, depending on my mood, my baby's mood, and the circumstances of the day. I began motherhood in a heavy postpartum depression. I'm a lot better now but can't claim I'm completely over it. Feeling like the least well-prepared mom on the planet, I recalled my old pre-child opinion that some women are simply not meant to be mothers. I believed back then that I was one of those women, and having a baby did nothing to change my mind. When my daughter was two, one of her favorite books was Make Way for Ducklings. As a child I had loved it too, but I hadn't remembered what a tough bird Mrs. Mallard was. Now I felt almost intimidated by her easy confidence with her ducklings. Animals, mallards included, have rather predictable lives. They are born, they reproduce, they die. They don't read books, go for counseling, question their parental fitness, nor do they blame themselves if their offspring flounder. They rely on instinct and don't question themselves at all. Why can't we human moms do that? Why can't we all take a deep breath, look our mirror image firmly in the eye and say, like Mrs. Mallard, "Don't you worry. I know all about bringing up children." Every mother I know would like to feel such confidence. We all have doubts, regrets, weaknesses. |
 Other mothers were beginning to ask me about her delay and to offer advice. "You should talk to her more." "You shouldn't baby-talk to her." "You should read to her more." "You should send her to Mother's Day Out so she can be around other children." I nodded politely but inwardly seethed. Our weekly rhythm revolved around story-time at the library, a music class and playgroup. We read books by the hour, at her insistence. I talked to her until I tired of the sound of my own voice. The comment that angered me the most was, "You shouldn't let her get away with grunts and pointing or she'll never learn to talk." Her father and I both responded to her near-words by modeling. She would say "Wa wa!" and one of us always said "Water? Want water? Want more water?" to which she always responded, "Uh huh!" We interpreted her "Uh! Uh!" to mean "What is it?" which we dutifully answered. I pointed out the complexity of her gestures and utterances to anyone who would listen. For example, "huh uh wa wa" meant juice (literally, not water) and boc-boc-ball meant egg (literally, chicken ball). She was truly communicating for those who took the time to understand. I knew that she understood most of what was said to her and around her. However, her communication was limited, and we were concerned. |
| May 1999 Welcome Home | 5 |
Finally
we took her to a speech therapist. I don't think I realized how much her
speech delay had plucked the feathers out of my mommy esteem until that
evaluation. Despite her low expressive vocabulary (what she said) she had
a very high receptive vocabulary (what she understood). She tested at the
level of a seven-year-old on receptive vocabulary before getting bored
with the test! Our therapist told us delayed talkers are often highly intelligent
children who have invented other, often very sophisticated, ways of communicating.
She told us that our routine of reading to her and modeling for her was
exactly what we should be doing. She was amazed at our daughter's attention
span and at many of the words she understood.
