Living the Dream

There are definite disadvantages to having a child with a language delay, aside from the obvious language delay, that is.

Max is our third child that has required in-home services for a language deficit.  What this means for me is that once a month I have to hurry home from work and quickly clear away the visible signs of clutter so not to give the illusion that my house is worthy of an entire episode on the TV show Hoarders. 

Quite honestly, the only thing I really collect is children.  If it appears otherwise, it’s because of what they collect.

Last week, as I spent my lunch hour with a friend, I lamented that instead of knitting, I really should have gone home and picked up a bit before Max’s monthly visit.

She reminded me, “Marla, you have chickens in your dining room.  What’s the point?”

For years, I have pretended that my household is under control.  When speech pathologists, Help Me Grow staff, and school administrators would come to check on the latest mute Thompson, I have been able to pretend for an entire hour that our life on Morgan Street was mostly normal and certainly not at all detrimental. 

This past week, it just wasn’t possible. 

Just minutes before Max’s visit, Stancey came home with pack of giggling girlfriends, adding to the already booming population of native Thompsons.  As I hurriedly scooped up empty dishes and kicked random Legos under the couch, Max came into the living room lugging a gallon of milk and an empty box of corn flakes.

“Unk! Unk! Unk!” he announced, as milk fountained out from beneath the open lid. 

Guest number one poked her head in the door.

“Oh, hey, Max!  Are you hungry?”

Immediately noticing the carton of chicks in the corner of the dining room, conversation naturally veered from Max, to chicks, to Max.

“Remember,” she offered, “the school psychologist is coming too.  Sometimes she likes to ‘counsel’ when she’s involved in a visit.”

“There’s a lot to counsel,” I retorted.

Things were still under reasonable control when the Catholic Charities person arrived.  Max was content eating his third bowl of cereal; Stancey and her friends were casually hanging out downstairs; Sam and Kenny were busy outside; and Madison was last seen skulking up the stairs with a box of graham crackers and a glass of milk in search of a television far, far away from us.

It wasn’t until the psychologist arrived that things began to disintegrate.  Looking already haggard on her first day back to work following spring break, she came in lugging her brief case and blackberry.  Close behind was Kenny, chattering about the dead cat next door and his new bike in the front yard. 

As the intervention progressed, the chaos ensued.  As the intervention staff played with Max, I tried my hardest to focus on her questions, which were habitually punctuated by the needy requests from children.

“Mom!”  Sam kept insisting, “Someone went into my room and stole all my money!”

As she tried to assess how Max’s language delay was affecting his other areas of development, another kid would appear at my knee.

“Mommy!”  Kenny moaned, “I’m thirsty!  Don’t we have pop?!”

As I tried to sign paperwork for testing, the interruptions were incessant as we discussed the past speech problems of Max’s siblings.

“Mom!  Mom!! MOM!!” the kids continued.

 “Max is the last one, isn’t he?” the psychologist questioned. 

Perhaps I should have been offended, but at that point, I was sitting on my hands for fear I would put them over my kids’ open mouths.

Exiting the meeting a bit earlier than the rest of us, she excused herself by saying, “I’m just done here.  I’m done.”

When the door closed behind her, I looked at the remainder of Max’s posse and asked,

“Do you think we scared her?”

Although they tried to assure me that we hadn’t, I’m just not so sure. 

It's kind of liberating showing your imperfect side.  But mostly, it's just funny.  And although it scares some,  I choose to view it differently.  

I'm living the dream--as scary as it sometimes seems.