Poop for Peyton

More poop, pease!

Caedmon turned three last month, and with the approach of this milestone, (finally) came the beginnings of his speech. 

While other little friends his age and younger were churning out words and then deftly stringing them into sentences, Caedmon was perfecting his grunts and whines and pointed gesticulations. It has been confirmed by his pediatrician that he, indeed, has a speech delay.

I was never concerned though; enough moms and dads have related stories of how their now garrulous Gabby or chatty Charlie didn't start speaking until the age of three. And Caedmon is proving to be another such case. 

Still, by the encouragement of our pediatrician, Caedmon has been working with a speech therapist since the beginning of this year--first through Alta Regional, a state-funded program, and now that he's three, through Elk Grove Unified. (Can I just say how impressed and thankful I am for the support our country and state provide to those with disabilities, slight as Caedmon's is.)

And though the speech therapist reports that he is able to produce all expected sounds for his age, he has a tendency to mix his sounds, so that the first sound in his word will match a latter sound, made in the same region of the mouth. For example, the b- and p- sounds are made in the same region, as are the g- and k- sounds. So Caedmon's "stop" becomes "bop", "Caedmon" is "Peyton", and "muffins" become "fuffins". But my favorite has to be how he pronounces the word "fruit"; often, after dinner, he holds his hand to his face, a vestige of his baby signs, and asks in all earnestness, "More poop, pease!"

How can I not love this stage?

Though Wayne and I have become experts at deciphering his garbled code, sometimes even we can't understand what he is saying, and poor Caedmon is left gesturing wildly, unwittingly repeating his same clumsy words over and over, louder and louder, like the stereotypical American in a foreign country. The more I guess wrongly (You want James? You want beans? You want brains?), the more frustrated he becomes, until on more than one occasion, he has burst into pitiful, defeated tears. 

But he is developing and learning fast, and so thankfully, these episodes are becoming fewer and farther between. (Or I've just learned to stop after a few wrong guesses and then proceed to nod and feign comprehension, "Mm-hmm! Yeah! That's right!" It's been working pretty well for me.)

He is now saying "water" instead of "wa-wa". His "Popmas-Fens" is starting to sound like "Thomas and Friends".  He is replacing his favorite filler "a-jugga" with actual words. And each time, I praise his efforts, but I must admit that internally, I lament his maturing baby speak. Though I don't want Caedmon to talk like a neanderthal forever, a part of me is reluctant for my baby to grow up. I'm sure most moms can relate.

But of course I continue to cheer on my boy as he makes verbal leaps and bounds. And in the meantime, I will cherish this time of choppy, clumsy transition. We will continue our games of charades. We will greet the baghic guck each week as it picks up our trash. And I will keep doling out poop to my Peyton... because you know, it goes so well with peepeebutter and jelly.