The Moment Everything Shifted
I first sensed something was off roughly six months before Cormac appeared to lose his ability to speak. At night he would stumble over the start of a sentence – “I‑I‑I‑I‑I‑I want a story now,” or “G‑g‑g‑g‑goodnight.” It was occasional, sometimes just a single slip, but it gnawed at me enough to contact NSW Health about an assessment. The public health wait list stretched to about six months, and I told myself the worst case was merely an over‑cautious worry that would dent my self‑image as a “cool and chill mum.”
The Sudden Turn
Five‑and‑a‑half months later, within a single week, Cormac’s stutter went from almost nonexistent to severe in every sentence. Childcare staff pulled me aside, my mother expressed concern, and my husband and I exchanged shocked glances as he struggled to utter even one word. Panic seized me, and after a 90‑minute timeout I called NSW Health again; an appointment arrived within a week. A speech pathologist classified his condition as “severe” and introduced us to the Lidcombe Programme, an evidence‑based regimen that requires daily parent‑led therapy under professional supervision. My husband’s new job left me with the flexibility to attend weekly in‑person sessions, so I volunteered to be the primary therapist.
The Daily Grind of Therapy
Undertaking daily therapy felt like childbirth and relocating to a new continent combined – demanding, relentless, and humbling. Skipping even a couple of days triggered noticeable regression, and the guilt that followed was profound. No matter how exhausted or irritable either of us felt, the exercises had to be performed consistently. The programme demanded that both parents give uniform feedback; divergent approaches could confuse Cormac and undermine progress. For 18 months I persisted, turning up each day, and gradually the frequency of sessions tapered while the intensity of daily exercises lessened.
Re‑defining Ambivalence
When the therapy concluded, Cormac spoke fluently – the term speech therapists use for a stutter‑free state. A professor once described me during an interview as an “educated, anxious mother,” a label that felt foreign until I realised I had been writing a novel about an ambivalent mother. That narrative thread opened a fresh creative seam: if a mother can misjudge herself, what other assumptions might we hold? My book, Ordinary Funny Tragic, now reflects a more human, less binary view of motherhood.
Why It Matters
The experience underscores that maternal “ambivalence” is often a mislabel for ordinary doubt, fatigue, or frustration, and that confronting these feelings head‑on can transform both parent and child. By seeking help promptly and committing to a structured, parent‑driven programme, I turned a perceived personal failing into a catalyst for growth, illustrating that imperfection does not preclude goodness. This story resonates with parents worldwide, reminding them that seeking support is a sign of strength, not weakness.
