Cledwyn, my three and a half year old autistic son, loves Mammy, Daddy, catalogues and his sausage dog KaBoom. Perhaps more than any of these things though, he loves the sound of his own voice.
He had three words that he’d use meaningfully but by the time he was two “Wossiss?” (what’s this), “Daddad,” (Daddy) and “Boob,” (Mammy -yes he was breastfed) were long gone. “Daddad,” never exactly went but became, like “diggadiggadigga” just a sound he would repeat often for some length of time. It’s been a long while since he called me anything at all.
But, love his own voice he certainly does. Even as a tiny baby he’d gurgle and squeak away in his buggy, drawing the attention of anyone in earshot. His sounds soon morphed into songs and I remember him at around a year old, still unable to sit unaided, happily oohing along with any song that reached his ears. Opera was always a favourite. I’m not contending that Cled is a musical savant – nobody who’s ever heard his excited screams whenever he hears a soprano would think that but music reaches him in ways that ordinary language doesn’t.
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