Show and Tell

When Archer started school back in January, he was barely able to say his name. He spoke mainly in gibberish. The odd word thrown sporadically in the mix, the odd peanut in his linguistic box of Cracker Jack. He had about twenty-words, then. Maybe less than that, which at two and a half was considered abnormal, worrisome.

We started him at school two days a week. And then three. After about a month, Archer started attending school full-time, the youngest in his class of three-year olds and boy, was it obvious. The other children had established friendships in the months before Archer started school so Archer had a hard time finding his place for those first few months, acting as a sort of little sibling to his older, more well-spoken classmates.

Show and Tell happened on Thursdays. I knew this because every Thursday all of the children in Archer's class would arrive with their hands full of favorite toys or homemade swords made of wrapping paper dispensers. No one had told me about Show and Tell for obvious reasons. Archer was unable to "tell."

So for seven months, Archer sat on the rug as the other children introduced their objects with pride. Gleeful in their descriptions of such treasure. Archer listened to the children share and when they were finished, he clapped.

"He loves Show and Tell," his teachers told me. "He's always the first to sit down on the rug, waiting for it to begin."


Archer was the class spectator, the "little brother" of the school, one who was mostly an outsider because of his inability to communicate. He needed and received special attention because of his speech delay, and although the kids were kind to him, he never quite found his place and it broke my heart to see him sitting all alone. Smiling but alone.

"I'm afraid he's going to be that kid," I said to Hal one day after dropping Archer off, earlier this year. I had watched too many times him wandering alone in the back of the playground, too shy to join the other children in play.

I recognized in him, myself when I was his age. Soft spoken and sensitive, unsure of how to participate in peer-activity without feeling like I was interrupting. Uninvited. I was always so envious of the children who so easily approached each other, confidently asking, "can I play?"

Archer's speech improved dramatically over the months. From two-word phrases to complete sentences to literally hundreds of words and seemingly overnight.

When the new year started, back in July, Archer was the only child not to move on to the other class. Archer was at least a full year younger than his classmates and so, had no choice but to stay behind in the "threes" class which would mean all new children for him to meet. I was upset at first. I loved the kids in his class and was afraid that their leaving would make Archer feel left out, held back: alone. I was afraid that him being the only child behind, he would feel isolated. Different.

But something happened I did not expect. The new year of school started and when it did, Archer embraced his new status. He was the local. Fearless and confident and excited to flex his big-brother muscle. He got to be the one who knew first where to line up and where the peg-boards were kept and where to sit and when to be quiet. He knew how to work the dump-trucks in the sandbox outside and everything else the new children did not.

I watched from the window as the other boys and girls went to him with questions, scooting over so he could sit down next to them, when it was time to line up on the wall.

"Here, you can sit here, Archer."

"No sit with me!"

"I want Archer to sit on my side!"

Later that day, when I went to pick Archer up from school, his friend, a little girl, started to cry.

"I don't want Archer to leave," she said, whimpering.

Without hesitation Archer handed me his lunchbox and went to hug her.

"It's okay," he said, pulling away slowly. "I'll see you in the morning, kay bye!"

I don't think I said a word to him the entire car-ride home. I was too busy examining his face in the rear-view mirror like I would a stranger. Who is this little boy and when did he become someone else? Somehow my son had transformed from silent, dependent outsider to communicative, dependable leader in a matter of days.

I was trying to explain Archer's speech developments to my mother recently and came up with a pretty spot-on analogy. "It's like if one day your dog decided to talk in complete sentences after doing nothing but bark for three years."

And it's true. For parents of children with developmental delays, it can at times seem highly unlikely that our children will ever catch up. So when they do catch up it feels surreal. Relieving of course but also strange. Maybe because when we wait long enough for something it becomes easy to forget what it is we are waiting for.

Oh, yeah. This. I was waiting for this.

Last week, Archer's teacher told me to "please remember to bring Archer's Show and Tell next Thursday."

"First Show and Tell of the year!" she said. "And every Thursday from now on, if you could have Archer bring something to school to share, that would be great."

"Really? Are you sure?"

I felt like crying. She might has well have said, "now your kid can do everything the other kids his age can do" after I'd been told so many times "your kid is pretty far behind. Way behind. Two years behind..."

Suddenly, last week, Archer wasn't behind. I had known it for a while, of course, but for some reason it never hit. Not like it did last week. Not like it did this morning when I told Archer to find something special to bring to school for Show and Tell.

"Show and Tell day?"

"Yup!"

"Stay here, Mommy. I'll be right back!"

About a minute later, Archer came running down the hall into the living room, his Brobee and Tutti dolls pressed to his chest.

"Okay! Time to go to school, do show and tell, let's go in da car."

So we did.

And just like every other child in his class, Archer walked through the preschool door this morning with his treasure.

After seven months of sitting cross-legged on the lettered carpet, watching as the other children shared their various items, waiting to catch up, to participate, Archer's name was called. It was his turn. So he stood before his peers with his toys, able as everyone else, and he showed AND told. He told.

And when I picked him up from school, he was still telling. He told me that he had done show and tell and that it was real fun and he did "a good, good job." He told me that he wanted to see his friend Jackson at the park later and that when we got home he wanted to have cookies and milk and went pee-pee on the potty at school and that the music on the radio was fortissimo.

And suddenly it was my turn to sit and say nothing, to marvel at how beautiful the sound.

GGC