My youngest child is seeing a speech pathologist. It’s nothing major, in the grand scheme of things. We’re very lucky we have two healthy, happy, incredibly cheeky children.
We had an appointment last weekend. While we’re making good progress, it’s going rather slowly. I’m not the most patient person on earth, and since we’re seeing the therapist under the auspices of the Extended Care Plan through Medicare, I’m well aware that we only get five sessions per calendar year, which sees the fees reduced to $70 per half hour. Yes people, you read correctly. The normal fee is $200 per half hour.
The therapist is great. She’s been doing this for years and came very highly recommended. Like most geniuses, she’s kinda quirky but really engages with her patients, which, as a mother, is comforting. It seems to be working too which rocks!
We’ve discussed the problems, she works out exercises for us to do at home and sends us on our merry way thirty minutes later.
In the car on the way home, I looked at my baby, gazing out of the car window, watching the world whizz by. There was such a serene look of happiness from the maxi-rider in the back seat, that I couldn’t control the tears that came.
Kids are remarkable. At three years of age, life is just a massive playground and everything is fun, there is nothing that they won’t try. They don’t care that there are ‘milestones’ they need to reach at certain times. They just want to play and run and ask for chocolate milk and have a cuddle.
As a mother which a child who has learning difficulties, you punish yourself for not being perfect. You go back to the pregnancy and try and work out what you could have done to put your child in this situation. You second guess every decision you’ve ever made and wonder if there was something you should have done differently... or better.
I know I’m lucky. Learning difficulties just pale into insignificance when you look at families who are dealing with real health problems. Cancer, heart defects, autism, spina bifida, the list goes on and on. I don’t know how those parents cope. How the enormity of their kids problems don’t make them want to scream until their throats are raw with white hot fury.
As a mum, you just want to make sure your child never suffers one day of knowing they are different, or not keeping up with their peers. The early years are so crucial. It sets the scene for all the learning to come. I’m willing to go to every specialist in the country if need be. As long as my baby is well adjusted and happy, then I’ll be a little step closer to being a good mum.
Of course, life has a way of bring equilibrium back when you need it. My tears dried when we arrived home. My husband was left in charge of our eldest while I took our youngest to the appointment. And what did I see when we arrived home?
Apparently my eldest child had decided to embrace the savage within and was sitting in a pool of mud, covered head to toe in brown sludge, playing with river pebbles. My youngest squealed with delight and was desperate to join in the fun. The kids had a ball.
I had a laugh and then inwardly cursed. The white t-shirts will never be white again. But who cares?
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