Previously, the "issue" was Archer's walking late and now, it seems everyone has an opinion on the fact that Archer is in no hurry to "use his words"/speak English. (He can speak Mandarin fluently, btw.) Our pediatrician suggested that if he still isn't speaking in the next couple of months to "take him to someone."
Someone who specializes in toddler gibberish?
Someone who can teach Archer that a cheerio is not a ca-ca (cracker)?
Well, thank GOD. Phew!
I can be sarcastic now. But at the time, all I kept thinking was, "Fuck you. No. Nonononono."
This is where I have a real problem with people. Especially doctors. Doctors who judge children based on text-books and month-by-month guides. Who know nothing of the children they treat. (How could they? They have thousands of patients. Who has the time?) Doctors who pass out pie graphs and write-up prescriptions and send children to "specialists" and then gag them with pills to take the edge off. Doctors who need notes to remember names and give immunization without explanation. Even when asked.
When did we need so many specialists? Doctors who run us around like a High School track team?
Clearly Archer is a child who takes his sweet time. He was in no rush to walk and quite possibly crawled miles at a time.
"Does he talk?"
"Not really. He can say Cracker, though. And 'eh' means no."
"Oh. How old is he?"
"Well boys are slower than girls."
Becoming a parent has turned me into a somewhat of a misanthrope, mainly because so many people subscribe to by-the-book parenting, by-the-book living, by-the-Book EVERYTHING. Bo-ring. Fru-strating. Maddening.
I may have associated with irresponsible lunatics in my previous life but at least they lived. And days like today I miss them. All the freaks and beggars and anarchists and whores aren't all wrong in their approach. They certainly don't live their lives by any book, (besides this one.) They certainly would rather strip naked and streak down the boulevard than take a cardio-strip class at Crunch. And good for them.
But I digress, sometimes books are good. SOMETIMES. But not all the time. Not every day. And just because your week-by-week guide or "Hip Mama" instruction manual says it should be so, does not mean it will be so. Not while I'm the mommy.
The most unsettling part of being a parent are the doctors. And the books. The fucking books. And the people who talk and talk and TALK about stuff that doesn't matter. About products and books and bullshit and milestones and Jesus Christ! Where is the joy in parenting, I ask you? What about the fun? Why do they have to grow up by Tuesday? Because the book says so!
Maybe the most unsettling part of being a parent is caring. About all of this. After all, everyone is trying. Right? Hold on, lemme look it up. I'm supposed to look it up.
Remember that part in Good Will Hunting where the guy from Harvard rattles off Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States like it's his own? In a nut shell, that's how I perceive most parents.
I have a happy child. He's healthy and in no rush to be friends with your honor student. So lay off. Lay off him and lay off me and go hide in your manuals and text books and studies and let us play. We have lego-castles to build and ponds to splash in:
Yeah, that' right. He's a kid. And he'll talk when he's ready.
Now, if only certain people would take lessons from Archer and refrain from using their words. That would be nice.