a whirl of words

These are but wild and whirling words.
- Shakespeare, from Hamlet

As expected of a writer, I've always been a lover of words. Reading words. Learning new words. Crafting words. I taught my small children to speak their needs, not whine them. Words will fascinate me, I am sure, for life.

How pathetic that I never fully appreciated the power and privilege of the spoken word. Until now.

This year I've been humbled to experience something new: children who struggle to find even one word to express themselves. Children whose mental capacities delay their progress in speech and other areas of life.

Imagine being five years old and lacking the means to tell your mother that you are hot, cold, sick, tired, hungry or just plain bored. Your peers sprint ahead of you playing t-ball, learning math, and chatting on the playground. You want to, but most of the time you cannot join them at their level. Sometimes your frustration boils into tears and tantrums.

Still, your strong and noble family loves you for who you are and your many successes. Your huge efforts with a smile to match inspire me mightily. Each hour I spend with you, helping you work at finding words, makes me realize that I never knew the meaning of frustration as a mother.

I could talk all day about what you're teaching me and how much I admire you.

But really, you leave me at a loss for words.