The last ten minutes before I leave the house to take my sixth-grader to school usually go something like this: My voice grows louder and higher in pitch. A door gets slammed. I toss a sneaker or a lunch sack or a homework folder in my son’s general direction. We stalk to the car in silence. At the first stoplight I hiss at him, “It doesn’t have to be this way every morning. If only you would listen to me!”
My eldest was born by cesarean section at thirty-seven weeks. It was the last time he was early for anything. He was late to sit, crawl, and walk. He didn’t babble or play peekaboo or point at flowers or dogs when I took him out in his stroller. I consulted psychologists, developmental pediatricians, and speech therapists. Their diagnoses confirmed my fears: Global developmental delay. Possible autism. The speech therapist said, “Focus on if goals are met, rather than when.”
