This is the life of a small boob girl:
When you’re 13 your mom promises you that they’ll come in. Quit worrying about it.
When you’re 14 you do the “I must increase my bust” exercise every night before bed. You’re pretty sure it’s working.
When you’re 16 your friends console you with things like, “Oh, you don’t want ’em. They’re such a hassle.” And then they go back to flirting with the gaggle of boys smitten with their… hassles.
When you’re 21 your sorority sisters tell you stories about ladies that were old, “like, 30 or something”, that were “flatter than you” and woke up one day with double D’s. You realize you’re an eternal optimist.
When you’re 25 you know that small boobs aren’t big deals. Figuratively and literally.
And it’s basically the same thing with being the mom of a Late Talker. There’s the silent angst from comparing what your kid is
not saying to what your best friend’s kid is saying.
There’s the nonchalant questions to the pediatrician about what’s normal and to please, please, please tell you when you need to get help for his speech. And your anxiety.
There’s the Google searches. Oh, Lord, the Google searches.
There’s the fear that you’re doing something wrong, and don’t deserve to be a parent.
There’re the stories of hope. Stories of language explosions. Stories of geniuses that were silent for a period of time, like Mozart and Einstein and women’s suffrage.
There’s the tantrums and the tears. The tantrums because he has so many thoughts and feelings and ideas and no one in his world can understand him. The tears because I’m so sad that my little boy feels unheard and potentially
I can’t tell you how many times Mark and I have looked at each other and said, “Oh, he’ll be talking any day now.”
Did you hear that, Otis? Any day now.
We went to see his pediatrician today to talk about his speech. To find out if there might be other things going on. To find out if and when we needed to get in line for a speech therapist visit.
Our pediatrician agreed that it was a good time to bring him in (yay for being appropriately paranoid!). She put us on the list at Vanderbilt and said to look for our own speech therapist if we’d like.
More than anything, it was nice to get reassurance that (more than likely) everything is ok and his brain is simply developing differently than other kids.
It’s certainly more than I ever got regarding my boobs.