Some door, creaky and solid, has opened in Ian’s brain. He’s suddenly making some progress with his speech.

It’s not huge. He’s not reciting Shakespeare or anything. But there is improvement nonetheless.

For the past four months, he’s been on a long arid plateau despite the twice a week therapy routine. No new words. No new sounds. Just an acquiescence to the intrusion of strangers. He’s more tolerant about strangers getting in his face commanding him to say words. “BALL. Say BALL, Ian. BAAAALLLLL.” He no longer screams in frustration and disgust.

He knows the speech therapy routine. Chewing stale licorish on the side of his mouth. Blowing bubbles. Doing puzzles. Rubbing his face with a sponge. Tooting horns. And lots of sign language.

How much of these exercises are helping I can’t say. I am going along with it. Sometimes I worry that sign language has become a crutch. He picked it up quickly and easily, and no longer tries to say the words he knows in sign.

At Christmas, I struggled for weeks to get a picture of the two small boys side-by-side and smiling. “Say cheese,” I would say. And Ian would smile, look down at his hands, and grind them together. The sign for cheese. A dozen picture of a boy looking at his hands.

And then, in the past week or so, he suddenly started improving. They say that change never happens gradually, but in sharp jumps. Punctuated equilibrium.

We have a few words now and not just the first or last sounds, but entire consonant-vowel-consonant words. Mom. Ball. Car. Bus. Ham. Pop. Instead of “yes,” he says “aye” like a pirate which is just fine with us. This morning, he mumbled the words to the Happy Birthday song.

We’re off the plateau and for a short time, his brain is ready to make progress. A small window of time when the rusty doors to his brain have been thrown open. So, I’m canceling all unnecessary activities and chores and blowing bubbles for him on our painted kitchen floor.