This morning I took Gabriel in to the school district’s early intervention program to have his initial assessment. Since he is quite speech delayed (We are three for three, people. My kids don’t talk until they start Kindergarten), we are hoping this gets him into the fabulous, free preschool they run in our school district. It is called Carousel and from what I hear it is a really
free great preschool that helps kids with developmental delays. Also, may I mention again the fact that all of these services are rendered completely free? Why yes, they are. Isn’t that great?
I think after months and months of listening to a non-communicative child tantrum five times a day because he lacks the ability to tell me what he wants, I deserve free preschool. Also a parade, very expensive jewelry and quite possibly a padded room. I’ve been dealing with these kinds of tantrums for about 9 years now since my preschoolers don’t talk. THEY SCREAM. My sanity is questionable at this point.
Anyway, I am feeling slightly guilty because I am hoping that he stays sufficiently non-communicative before his re-assessment in the fall, and that he doesn’t pull ahead to where he is borderline and won’t qualify for services and then gets left in the dust because he’s behind, but not so behind to be worthy of help. Every time I find myself saying, “yes, Gabe that’s a fork, can you say fork?” Part of me is telling myself to shut up because I’m undermining a good thing. On a positive note, the really adorable woman who worked with Gabe seemed pretty sold on him needing the communication help, so I am hopeful.
Gabe has had many tantrums lately. It is hitting the point where I don’t even try to make him happy half the time. You see, if we go to the store and he asks for a treat, he will yell if he doesn’t get it. But, if he is given a treat, he will find something else to scream about. Perhaps it will be a request for a second treat, or a disapproval about the way I opened the first treat. More than likely it is the fact that I made him put on pants five hours earlier and he is just now remembering that he scheduled a tantrum on that topic for later since he was already screaming about the shirt I was pulling over his head, and hey! the commissary is as good a place as any to commence with the screaming and flailing.
Sometimes I know why he is yelling. Most of the time, after many guesses, I fail to understand why he is upset, and so I just chalk it up to an existential need to express his true feelings to the universe. If the tantrums don’t stop soon, I may join him.
Right now Gabe is sitting in the living room watching an animated version of George Orwell’s Animal Farm. I kid you not. It is part of a collection of old cartoons that his great grandpa gave him, and happens to be Britain’s first animated feature. Apparently a highly metaphorical exploration of the frustrations born from the corruption of socialist ideals in a revolutionary, cirica 1917 Russia was much more fun than his usual fare of Pixar’s Cars.
If only this child could talk.