Page 50 of Meant for Mayhem

Speech Therapy Orientation - 8-2

Tuesday - Friday

Shadowing begins - 3 hours, I pick

Next Week - Forever

Virtual therapy/notes - 4 hours daily

One day in the office, I pick when

She snapped the cap back onto the marker, then handed it to me. “Your turn.”

I read through her list, the sense of dread I’d felt all morning disappearing now that I realized how flexible her schedule was. I thumbed off the cap, then wrote my schedule for the next two weeks under my name. Since I was on personal leave, my schedule was lighter than usual, but I still had practice most mornings, followed by sports psych appointments in the afternoons. Those were virtual, but from the tense messages I’d received from Frankie, I knew they were mandatory.

“No travel yet?” Shannon said when I finished my list.

I put the cap back on, then looked at our combined schedules.

“Not yet. I have to be cleared by both the medical staff and the sports psychologist before they’ll let me return. I tried to negotiate it down to two weeks off instead of four, but that depends on how well this goes.”

Shannon’s brows drew together, and my stomach turned at the idea of having to explain to her how serious this was for my career. But at that moment, Leena put a handful of chicken and rice in her mouth and let out a little mmm.

Our heads whipped toward her.

“Does that taste good?” Shannon said.

Meanwhile, I was freaking out inside, no idea what to do with the fact that my daughter had attempted to make a noise other than incoherent babble or ear-splitting shrieks.

Leena nodded enthusiastically, then stuck her hand in the pile of food and reached for Shannon’s mouth.

“I use a fork.” Shannon grabbed a fork, then stabbed a piece of chicken from the container next to Leena. “Let me try the chicken.”

The moment she bit into it, she let out the same mmm Leena had, then smiled when Leena repeated the sound back.

Leena reached toward Shannon again, and as if she were some sort of baby whisperer, Shannon knew she meant she wanted the fork in her hand. Just like that, she passed it over, and Leena used it to clumsily pick up a piece of chicken.

“Good job,” Shannon said, her eyes on me. “Let’s try another bite.”

I sank down on a barstool as they went on like this, Shannon talking constantly to her like she was an adult, but slow enough that Leena could hear each word. Back and forth they went with their little mmms until one of them almost sounded like more.

To say that I’d lost sleep over Leena’s development was the understatement of the century. Even before the panic attack in the locker room, I was prone to anxious spirals that led me to over-research and analyze everything. So, of course, I’d read everything I could get my hands on about fetal alcohol syndrome and the effects of narcotics on development.

Leena didn’t seem to have any physical side effects—she was tall for her age and plenty coordinated—but no matter how many times I heard kids developed at different rates, I couldn’t seem to get over how behind she was verbally.

That little mmm meant nothing to most people, but considering she didn’t even baby-talk much, it was music to my ears.

“All done?” Shannon said, and Leena waved her hands above her shoulders.

I hopped up and unclipped her tray, then lifted her out of the seat. Rice cascaded in all directions as she kicked her feet, ready to move once more.

Shannon carried the rest of the food to the counter, eating what was left in the container that toddler hands hadn’t mauled. “She knows a lot of baby sign language. Did you do that?”

“I’ve been trying, yes.”

One dark brow raised, her mouth still moving as she chewed her food, then set the glass container next to the sink.

“Nothing to say?” I asked, feeling her focus even as she turned toward the living room to join Leena.