On Language Facilitation

I was with two friends the other day, both speech-language pathologists, both with young families. I was catching up on news and photos of the little ones. It gives me enormous pleasure to hear of their antics, especially what they say. My friend was relating a story about another of our friends, also a speech-language pathologist. On a recent visit, her son had become a little fractious, so she had produced a toy from her private practice equipment for him to explore. Without missing a beat, his mother started to narrate what he was doing with short, repetitive, intonated phrases. She was irresistible to the toddler; he imitated, commented, and shared her excitement. At one point she looked up and said, “Sorry. I can’t help myself!”

I smiled. We speech-language pathologists, when we become mothers, become instant zealous converts to the wonders of language facilitation techniques. We learn these things in our classes and practice in our clinical placements. Many of us work with young children when we graduate, and these techniques, this knowledge, becomes the focus of our treatment. We believe it. It is best-practice, and the evidence is overwhelming. But I don’t think anything prepares you for the power of these techniques like using them yourself, daily, with your own children. It is also humbling to realize how difficult it can be to remember to give your child time to respond, to talk about what you and they are doing, to repeat, to get down to your child’s level, and to revel in communication as it develops. We are busy. Life is fast. We do not even realize we have negotiated most of the day in silence, except for instructions and reprimands. Language facilitation though has lasting benefits, embarrassing and useful.

When my eldest daughter was three, we were stuck in a huge line at the fruit and vegetable store. The baby was fussing and I was jiggling the stroller to calm her and trying not to drop the items I had balanced on top of the stroller canopy. My three year old wandered just out of reach to the huge barrels of nuts near the cash. I looked over to see her up to her elbows in the nuts. She was enjoying the clicking, crashing noises as she picked up armloads of nuts and let them slide through her fingers. The busy cashier was throwing me filthy looks. Everyone was staring. I tried a hissing whisper. The little imp heard me very well, but ignored me completely. The baby was fixing to howl. I jiggled the stroller harder. With a contortionist’s reach, I grabbed the three year olds’ hood and yanked her away from the nuts, anchoring her to the counter in front of me with my knee. I was furious. She, however, was unperturbed and unrepentant. As I was paying, she hauled her chin up over the counter by standing on her tiptoes. She announced, loudly, and with perfect clarity, “Mummy, how does it make you feel when I don’t listen? I like the nuts!” As some people grinned, the cashier still scowled, and the baby howled, we made our escape. I regretted even encouraging her to talk at that moment.

Yet I observed this same daughter, years later, working at summer language camp, effortlessly imitating, recasting, redirecting and supporting the communication of the language delayed four year olds in her charge. She said to me, partly accusingly, “You did all these things to us for years and years!” I admit it freely, but consider it one of the gifts I was able to give my children. I know it is not always easy, not always immediately rewarding, but worth it? Without a doubt.