"Where My Coo-Coo Be?"

He spoke with an enthusiastic fervor that was not always understood by me. Gesturing helped his struggle with words. ... Though he was only 3 years old, his energy was a refreshing change from our non-stop worrying of 2 years, gone by. We could now relax. He ran all day, sometimes carrying his blanket, this comforting fabric appendage, made for him, by his paternal grandmother. It had been with him through it all. Change was in the air. Nursery school was just around the corner.

The world of little children was here. He would be among strangers, potential playmates, forced, to some degree, to speak their language, one he was familiar with, yet could not handle, very easily. But he was friendly, happy and always busy. Though 'John's' spoken vocabulary was limited and sometimes, unrecognizable, at times, his abilities were not! Our attempt to enroll him in a local nursery school, at the tender age of 2 1/2 , one year earlier, had been short-lived. Three illness episodes, two weeks apart, had put an end to that error in judgment. His grandmother was pleased. She worried a lot about her preemie grandson. He was simply too young; his immune system, too immature for structured time with other children.  His 13 week early entry into 'life', had propelled him into a world of developmental challenges. He did not care. He was always smiling, laughing, having fun and full of busy. He'd beaten the odds, an incredible feat, unto itself. He was alive. That was what mattered most. A language delay was window dressing, to me.The words would come, one day. In our family, words were a mainstay of our lives, a tool to the future. "Where my coo-coo be?”, he would ask many times. (“Where is my quilt?”) “Where did you last leave it?” I would respond. Words that should have been easily spoken by him, were problematic. The teacher inside me didn't worry. He was alive, healthy and safe. Being three was a great place to be.

Long before I became this person of 'responsibility', I had been a young special needs high school teacher. My male students had challenged the notion of the meaning of success. In my first year, a special staff lunch was organized for the departing vice-principal, to be served, in staggered fashion, over three, 45 minute lunch periods. My grade 9  and 10 male classes had help plan the event, astounding the staff, at this hastily executed last-minute production. Going off curriculum had shown the students, in dramatic fashion, their capacity for learning success. In uniform, my boys performed their duties, to applause. They had achieved the improbable. They were a delightful 'band of brothers'. Their learning struggles had captured my attention - more than those of my son - at his tender age of 3.

As a newly 'minted' teacher, I had been puzzled how 10 years of formal education had not managed to address and ameliorate the learning challenges of my 'bigger boys'. In the process of trying to educate them, what had we missed? Were reading, writing and tests the only true measures of their success, worth noting, in the learning curve? Was hope fading? Was the academic stream, in education, the only way to gauge learning success? (Whole brain stimulation was always the key to it all!) Did these other abilities not matter more, in the short term? What had we ignored? ... I would soon appreciate the true nature of learning when our first child arrived too soon to survive. ... What had made the difference for him. later, in his learning journey, was simply having fun, laughing and doing whatever suited him, that day. Education was never ever about curriculum!  It was always about engagement, interaction and diversification. Thoughts and ideas were the 'silent' partners in verbal expression, in this thing called language. Were they absent because the words weren't in place and in proper form? Modelling language helped to show our son the way. ... 'Creative' language was his journey to the real thing.

Preschool served as a simple 'litmus test' for our son. Through this new medium of learning, problems of development would be revealed, noticed by his trained teachers. Nursery school would help our son build vocabulary and syntax, the rules of language. Other children would also be his teachers. At home, he was busy from moment to moment, attempting new things, enjoying food, smiling, laughing, building wooden towers with his family. He would jump and squeal at the anticipated collapse. He loved his dogs. Was that not important, too? John would be surrounded by music and dance. They were fun, healing and happy things. All the senses would be activated. Though I could not ride a bike, swim or skate, he would learn these very important life skills, too. Everything mattered – not just words! At nursery school, there was no one who would understand him the way we did. But that was good. He needed to be challenged, to be would be prodded out of his intellectual shell to go where he was not familiar. He would problem-solve, create and learn to listen, to others, in a remedial circle of fun.

It was year end when I was called into the teachers' office. Why did they want to see me? What had he done? He was only 3 years old. But here were the results of the 'litmus test,' I had hoped for. Nursery school had been my investigative tool for our son, another layer of assessment, in helping me gauge his life's progress, so far. His teacher and the owner of the school spoke, with candor, about his verbal delay. Words were the movers and shakers of communication, the measure of intelligence, I understood. But they were not the only measure, I knew. They had recommended hearing and speech assessments. And so it was done.

His once a month, one-hour speech therapy sessions, lasting one year, ended on 'graduating' day. Viewing 100 'picture' cards, each showing 3 different 'action' poses of people or animals, our son pointed to the pose most aptly described by the spoken words of the speech therapist. Making only one mistake, out of 100, catapulted our son to the top of his graduating class of one! Therapy was officially done. Real world kindergarten beckoned. His enthusiasm began to build. A new chapter was waiting.