Archer's supposed to be talking by now, but he isn't.
"Does he have any words yet?" Our pediatrician asked last week, at Archer's two-year appointment.
"No."
"Not any? Six months ago you said he had a few words."
"I know..."
I
lied to her at the last appointment. I didn't want to take Archer to
therapy. I didn't want to get him tested. I was afraid of what that
meant for us. I figured he would get there on his own. Just like he did
with crawling at thirteen-months and walking at seventeen.
I told myself to wait until he turned 2. "He'll surely be talking by then," I thought.
For
the past six months I've tried everything I can think of to get Archer
talking. But still no words. No "Mama". No "Dada". No nothing.
"He doesn't have words. Not a single one," I admitted.
"I see," she said, scribbling away on her clip-board. Big illegible scribbles that I tried to read upside down but could not.
I tightened my arms around Archer. I repeated over to myself and to him not to worry.
"He's just a late-bloomer," I said. "He has always done things on his own time."
That's okay! That's good! That is how it should be!

I
do not like doctors. I do not like therapists and I should know, I've
been to my fare share. I have sought help for myself on many occasions,
but Archer is so young. Too young.
"I'd like him to see a therapist. Run some tests. Don't worry," she said. "I'm sure everything's fine."
She handed us a phone number. "Call here. They will come to your house. It's free."
"Okay,"
I said, but inside I was screaming, "No!" Fuck you! No! Leave him
alone! Give him time! He's fine! He's perfect! He doesn't need anyone
to talk to him or test him or teach him! Fuck you! Fuck all of you!"
I took the card. We made the call. We are waiting.
I'm crying as I write this and I don't know why. Okay,
I do know why but I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk
about why I'm scared or why I feel like I've failed myself and him.
"It's just a therapist, Bec," I tell myself.
It's just a therapist.
Since
the beginning of my pregnancy I have been adamant about doing it all
myself. Without the books and the specialists and the bullshit. I
didn't read the books. I stopped subscribing to the babycenter
newsletter long ago. I don't believe in waiting lists or classes or
private education. I believe in living. And showing my child the way to
do so passionately. I hate tests. I fight with teachers. I am stubborn
as all hell. I want to do it my way. And as a parent, I have trusted that I am the one who knows what's best for my child. I know what Archer needs and I can and should be able to give it to him.
Until
now I haven't been worried about what Archer "should" be doing because
I see how happy he is wandering around on his own.
"He's on his own
path."

And we have all enjoyed watching him:

"Whatever we need to do," I said.
And suddenly I was vulnerable. I am
vulnerable-- forced to stuff my "fuck the man" attitude in my back
pocket and do as I am told. Opening my house to a stranger so that she
can get my son to speak because I can't. I must go against what is
natural for him to do now because his development is not "normal." And
that is cause for concern.
"I'm not concerned. Everything is fine," I have been saying all this time.
What if I've been wrong?
The
feeling in my gut is that everything is okay. He's a late bloomer but
so what? I keep myself away from web pages that might suggest otherwise.
Oh God... He's obsessed with spinning things.
He's in his own world. He wanders aimlessly, talking to the clouds. Laughing.
There
is no possible way I could ever love this child more, no possible way I
could ever love this child less. He is perfect, even though I've been
told that perfection is impossible.
"Nobody is perfect."
I
beg to differ. Archer IS perfect. And he always will be. No matter
what. Just the way he is. Slowly making his way down a path, as his
peers speed by.
And it doesn't matter to him because the only prints he can see are his own.

It shouldn't matter. He will get there. Wherever he's going.
I only hope I can guide him as best as I can, that I can be open to specialists and therapists and all the "ists", if need be.
Because
for whatever reason, that is my biggest concern. That is what's
scariest to me. Seeking help when I feel like I'm the one who should be
giving it.
***