I sat in my bed, reading. My eight-year-old appeared by the side of the bed and said, “The speech teacher took me out of class today. She said I say my s sound wrong.”
I know this already; I’ve been in communication with his teacher about it. I said, “Oh yeah? How did it go?”
“She taught me how to do it right. But I forgot.” He danced out of the room, as though the conversation was now done. I watched the doorway for a minute, thinking maybe he’d gone to get something.
A few minutes later, when I’d returned to my book, he crept back inside my room. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say my s right,” he said. Before I could answer, he shot from the room again, this time racing his words out.
It didn’t take him long to return. He said, “It’s something like this.” He tried to say an s. He tried again. And again. His eyes filled. “I can’t do it.”
I took him in my arms and told him that just because he couldn’t say the s sound correctly doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with him. I don’t always know the right thing to say at times like these, but I do know that kids need reminding—often—that there is nothing wrong with them, they are brilliantly spectacular as is, they are loved. I always start there.
He pulled away and said, “What if I don’t ever say them right?” He looked at the ground, not at me.
This son is my pessimist. He will try and try and try until he is weary from trying, but he will rarely believe, even in the trying, that anything good will come of it. When he loses something, it will surely be gone forever (but he’ll still keep looking). When a friend isn’t home to play with him for a day, he’ll probably never be able to play with this friend again (but he’ll still knock on the door and ask tomorrow). When he has to clean up his mess before tech time, he’ll probably never, ever, ever be done (but it’ll only take him a minute).
I could feel his anxiety, hanging like a heavy cloud between us.
I said, “How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“For eight years you’ve been saying the s sound wrong. It will take more than one session with the speech teacher to correct your habit.” I paused to make sure he was still listening. He was playing with something on my bed, his head tilted a little. I knew his ears were tuned to me. I said, “You’ll get it. I believe in you.”
Sometimes a parent believing is enough.
I’ve had to reassure him of this same thing several times over the last weeks. There’s nothing wrong with you, remember who you are, you’ll get it. With enough repetition, the words will get lodged so deeply in him that he’ll never get them out.
In the middle of all that repeating, all that reminding, we continue to help him practice his s sound, perfect it, have a little fun with it. And maybe, by the end of all this, when the s sound comes easily and naturally as though it were never a problem in the first place, he’ll realize that nothing is impossible when you have a team.
(Photo by This is Now Photography)
