A Mommy Story

I nearly skipped out on the screening today. Cordy was having a great morning – she didn’t even fight getting into the car, and when we arrived she calmly walked up the steps – so I figured they’d shoo us away quickly and tell us to stop wasting their time when there are kids with real issues who need their help.

And then I opened the door. She took one step inside, saw the large hallway looming ahead of her, and promptly threw herself down on the floor and refused to move. The receptionist told me what room to go into, and after a few minutes of trying to get Cordy to stand up, I scooped her up against her will. I must have been quite a sight walking into the room – an infant car seat hooked on one arm and a shrieking, thrashing toddler under the other arm.

While Cordy wailed and tried to run out the door, I gave the two evaluators our names and signed the necessary paperwork to give them permission to attempt contact with my unwilling participant.

After a few minutes, Cordy calmed down a little, meaning she no longer tried to run out the door, but instead chose to throw herself down on the floor and crawl under a table.

OK, maybe we do need to be here…

The younger lady tried to convince Cordy to come play with some blocks. She loves blocks! She’ll show them how smart she is, I thought. But Cordy wouldn’t budge from under the table. The lady then tried to engage her in conversation, but Cordy wouldn’t give in.

After another few minutes, Cordy emerged from under the table and came over to examine the blocks. The young evaluator tried to get Cordy to stack the blocks. Instead, Cordy arranged them in a line, ignoring the evaluator. Cordy finally spoke as she counted the blocks.

“Oh, she can count to five!” the young woman said as she noted it on her clipboard. “Actually, she can count to 19,” I added. Shut up, shut up, they don’t need your help, my internal voice shouted at me. Let them do their job and don’t get in the way.

Most of the evaluation was completed by accident. They would try to persuade Cordy to do a task, she would do something else, and they would look for the skill the new task represented. She wouldn’t identify animals in a picture, but would run around and jump (gross motor skills, check!). Ask her to draw a line? She tells you where the kitty is in the picture (cognitive skills, check!). Ask her which animal in the picture says “neigh!” and she stacks the blocks (fine motor skills, check!). Sigh. The poor young evaluator was jumping all over her clipboard as she tried to keep up.

At one point Cordy had arranged the blocks in a particular order, and was picking them up one at a time and telling us the color. The older lady picked up one out of order.

“Cordy, what color is…”

“NOOOOO!” Cordy cried frantically, snatching the block out of the woman’s hand. She carefully placed it back into the pattern, then picked up the next block in order and exclaimed with a smile and all the joy in the world, “Yellow!”

At one point she turned and ran to the doorway, stopping just short of running into the hallway. “Cordy, come back!” she said with a sly smile. I explained to the two evaluators that Cordy likes to give us the prompts for what she wants us to say. I played along and told her to come back, and she complied.

Eventually, the evaluators turned to me with questions. Does she try to take her clothes off or put them on? No. Does she use eating utensils? Nope. Does she try to brush her own teeth? Not really. Does she always have trouble with transitions? Most of the time. Each question made me feel more and more nervous.

They gave me a little quiz to fill out, with questions such as “My child has trouble calming down after a tantrum” (absolutely) and then the older lady scored it. She then explained the score to me: “Any score below 57 means that we believe there is nothing to worry about developmentally. Cordelia scored 145.”

My jaw dropped. 145? Wow, that’s a big number compared to 57.

As they wrapped up our 40 minutes, they handed me a full report. Cordy’s cognitive skills, gross and fine motor skills, and communication skills are excellent. “She’s smart,” they tell me. But the little checkbox next to Personal/Social is checked “Refer”. They’re troubled by her lack of interest in self care, her difficulty with transitions, and possible sensory issues (she hates anything gooey on her skin or people touching her if she’s upset).

The next step is a full evaluation from the county early intervention team. If the second evaluation determines she is delayed, they’ll put together a plan for therapy. I’m not sure what happens after that, because I kind of zoned out at that point, lost in my own thoughts.

As we got packed up to go, Cordy told the two ladies goodbye and then ran to the door. She turned to look back at me, big grin on her face, and collapsed on the floor dramatically.

“Cordy, are you OK?” she asked, still grinning broadly.

“Yes, Cordy, you’re OK,” I replied as I took her hand and we walked out the door.

You’re OK. But am I OK? I’m not sure yet.