Day One: He Noticed His Difference

Most nights, my wife puts our son to bed and reads him a few books to end his day. I leave him with a hug and a kiss, telling him that I love him. 

In recent months, my release begins when I close his door. I begin to let down the façade that makes everything appear okay. However, it has usually been a day filled with navigating my own struggled stuttering pattern and the cognitive CrossFit associated with that and now the adrenaline, pain, and guilt from holding space for my son’s stutter. The coming down is typically the hour before I go to bed. 

This night was different. As a father of a child who stutters, it was a moment I had anticipated since, well, really my first thoughts of wanting to become a parent. What it would feel like when my child notices that the way they talk is different, or that something is not right with how they are talking. 

The words are forever etched in my memory. “I can’t say that word.” I wasn’t there to hear him say it the first time, but I rushed up to his room to support my wife as she struggled to hold it together for him. I knew immediately what was happening. He was lashing out, frustratingly hitting his mattress. He said it again, “I can’t say that word.” I heard it. It was a moment that no one can prepare you for. There was so much pressure riding on my response to his distress. I took one long look at the tears welling up in my wife’s eyes and I went for it. 

“You know what, buddy, daddy has a hard time saying certain words too,” even stuttering through some of that gut-wrenching sentence. In the moment, I’m deflecting my gaze from his hoping that he didn’t hear the tremble in my voice or the batting of my eyes to hold back my emotions. I don’t remember anything after that until I was back downstairs sitting on the couch. 

I rallied again as my wife came down. I needed to be there for her. I have never felt so defeated at any point in my life—nothing compares. 

And then we waited for his response the next morning, wondering if he would remember or have any residual emotions. Nothing then, or since, weeks later.