You are in a child’s chair, a blue one.  You are anxious.  Your son is seated at the table to your right, with his back to you, and the Speech Therapists on either side of him.  He is here today, as he was Friday, to test his normalcy.  No one will say it this way, but this is how it is. Friday:  hearing tests.  Tuesday:  speech tests.

“Gavin, we want you to tell us what you see in each picture.  OK?”

“OK.”

“What do you see in this picture?”  A building with a flag fluttering.

“That’s a school where children go to learn.”  He really speaks this way.

“What about this picture?  What do you see?”

“That’s an airplane.  With a propeller.  And one of the wheels is missing.  You can’t see one of the wheels in this picture.”

“Is there another name for it?”  She points at the airplane.

“No.”

“A shorter name?”

You want to hit this woman.

“No,” he says again.

“Break the word down.  What’s a shorter name for this?”

“That,” he repeats, more slowly this time, and with emphasis, “is an airplane.”

Later, the supervisor returns.  She has been watching on a close-caption camera.  She is an older, mushroom-esque woman.  She laughs at his jokes.  ”Well, my little friend, would you like to play blocks?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Is it OK if I talk to Mom and Dad while you play blocks?”

“Sure,” he says, and drops to the floor to build cities.

“It seems clear to me,” the supervisor tells you, “that his learning environment needs to adapt to him, and not the other way around.” You love this woman.  You are filled with love.

“His performance,” she continues — PERFORMANCE! — “was one we would expect to see from a much older child.”

You fight your urge to laugh.  The joy clutching at you righteous, and familiar.

“He is a little boy,” the supervisor says.  And you all turn to admire the little boy now.  His white woven sweater, his jeans, his monologue of action as he drives cars down slides, and between towers.  He does not seem so little to you any longer.  Gone is the pudgy face, the silence, the baby who fit in the tuck of your arm.  ”He’s just a little boy, and he’s doing what little boys do.  He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to do.  And we should celebrate that.”

You think of Whitman.  Sing myself.  Sing this boy.  Sing him.