Ashlynn had her Kindergarten baseline test of sorts two days ago. They get data on her letter names, letter sounds, phonemic awareness skills, and number sense. I sat in the back while she sat a table with the her new teacher, looking like an official Kindergarten student.
It was quiet and she was 1:1 without distractions. She named almost all of the uppercase letters correctly. I could see her really thinking and really trying. Lowercase was harder, but we haven’t been focusing on lower case anywhere. Even so, she managed to name quite a few lowercase letters that resembled the upper case ones including /c/, /s/, and so forth.
In speech therapy, her SLP has goals around word retrieval and rhyming, among others. During the word retrieval tasks, she is also inherently having to focus with min cues. I saw ALL of that work paying off during this test.
In the past, and even now still, Ashlynn would smile, giggle, and then attempt to change the subject when she was asked to do something that she couldn’t do. This time though, she looked at the teacher honestly and would say “I don’t know” or “I don’t know that one.” She just seemed so much more mature.
People have been asking me if I was sad she was going to Kindergarten. I remember thinking last year, “Sad? Um no. Scared? Yes. Worried? Yes, but sad? No.”
Well, as I observed this glimpse of her Kindergarten year, I had flashbacks to the little girl who couldn’t talk. The little girl who laughed and giggled when things were hard, and the little girl that many discounted in preschool. The little girl who didn’t seem aware of how different she was and who just marched forward.
That little girl wasn’t so little now sitting in that chair across from her new teacher. That little girl seemed so much more aware now, so much more determined now, had a look of resolve on her face, a look of pride with each success, and then anxiety when she had to say “I don’t know” too many times in a row.
Her voice from this summer was echoing in my head, “We work on my homework mama?” everyday she got out of bed.
Everyday.
And that’s when it hit me. I finally felt sad. I realized my little baby girl who struggled to talk, to walk, and to do literally any motor task or learning task that she has mastered, is now embarking on the first day of her true academic career.
I felt sad her young life was full of therapy appointments and hard work, but I felt so damn proud of her too. In her first five years of life, she has learned, and I have learned through her, that if you never give up, you can never be beaten. She will always succeed because that is who she is. Inside her sweet laugh and kind light, is a heart of a brave fighter, a warrior, an overcomer, and achiever….a true hero. Someone who doesn’t shy away from hard word, but who wakes up each morning with a smile ready to embrace it.
So I’ll take my cue from her. I’ll try not to be sad as I watch her walk away, but if I cry, it will be tears of pride.
014 Denver Walk for Apraxia with a client and his family. In my private practice, I have the privilege of working with many children with CAS and appreciate deeply the work of the CASANA community. Walks such as this, are a beneficial experience to share as a Speech professional with the community of families connected to the cause.
with unique circumstances. To these families, who can come to feel isolated, such an event is a tangible manifestation of how supportive and optimistic the world can be. It is an opportunity for children, like those we see on our case-loads, to have fun amidst a friendly gathering in celebration of those on a common journey. Every day, parents strive to balance their child’s intense therapy schedule, frustrating social interactions, sibling relationships, and much more. But, at the event, I delighted in seeing parents bond as peers over their shared experiences and mission.