About seven years ago, I was a mom of a 3-year-old, a 6-year-old, and one on the way. I was about seven months pregnant, actually, when my daughter Sophie’s preschool teacher expressed some concerns about what my child needs, to me. She was already in speech therapy, so I called up her therapist, who had just completed testing her, to get her opinion.
She gave me some news I was shocked to hear. “Your daughter’s delays are significant,” she said. “I think she will need therapy for about three to four years.”
Further evaluations would reveal that Sophie also would need significant occupational therapy as well.
And so began a long journey into “special” preschool, therapies, services, testing, doctor’s appointments, and working very hard at home.
Sophie on her first day of preschool, a few weeks before her “develpomentally delayed” diagnosis
Looking back now, it’s a happy story. Sophie is fantastic. She whipped through that 3-4 years of therapy in just 18 months. She excels in school and has been recognized for her academic achievements. But most importantly, she is a kind, loving, sweet girl who loves Jesus and truly loves others as she wants to be loved.
At the time, however, it was anything but happy. I stood in my living room, hand on my giant pregnant belly and WAILED. I mean, I lost. my. stuff. I knew NOTHING about any of this and all the stuff my child needs! How was I going to help my daughter? I cried for days, trying to hold it in when the kids were around. Surely Sophie needed a better mom, a less clueless mom, a mom who could help her surmount her delays. With a newborn on the way I felt like I had my hands MORE than full—and truth be told, with all my child needs, I did.