My Jared

My little Jared re-started his speech therapy this afternoon. I am so excited! It's been a battle, to say the least, to get him back into the program.

Jared is smart, very smart. So smart that because of his intelligence New York State was willing to ignore the fact that he is mostly unintelligible, 55% intelligibility to be exact. That means that 45% of what he says makes no sense at all to strangers. He's almost 4, and I believe (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) he should have an intelligibility rate of 80% or more by the age of 4.

Jared wears his heart on his sleeve. His feelings are easily hurt. He loves everyone. He loves to give hugs, and I melt when stops playing to come over and give me a hug, and say "I love you mommy."

I love my Jared.

When he started his session today, Allie (his therapist) asked him to repeat a sentence. He put his head down, and began to pout. She asked him again to say the sentence. Jard continued to stare at his feet.

We both encouraged him, and told him he was smart, and he could do it.

He looked up with his big baby blues, and said "My mouth tells me I sound different."

My Jared. My still 3 year old Jared, knows that he sounds different.

How do you, as a parent, reassure you're child that they are wonderful, and intelligent, and special when everyone else in the world knows (and points out) that they are different?

I love my Jared.

I love that he is different, but he doesn't.