I paid a fortune for the clinic and now I'm trapped, watching my son sinking by the day 

Sara Esther: My son needs help now — not in half a year.

Kayla: My professional policies are what make the clinic — and your child’s therapy — work.

Sara Esther

“Thanks so much! How’s he been?” I asked Morah Hadassah as I bent down to zip up Moishy’s coat.

“Good!” she said, like she did every day. I straightened, waved, and started maneuvering Chaya’s stroller out. Moishy followed, his mittened hands flapping as he tried to tug his backpack up with one arm and push open the heavy door with the other. The bag slid off his shoulder twice before he managed it.

That’s when the script changed.

Morah Hadassah stepped out after me.

“Actually,” she said, lowering her voice. “Can you give me a call tonight? I wanted to discuss something with you. Nothing to worry about,” she added too fast. “Just… something I noticed. That you might want to look into.”

N

othing to worry about meant I spent the next four hours in a state of abject terror because when a preschool teacher says something you might want to look into — well, that could be absolutely anything, best case scenario, “his scissor skills need strengthening” and worst case scenario, not things I even want to think about.

As soon as I could without looking too overeager or nervous, I dialed Morah Hadassah. There was still noise in the background. Joy; I’d caught her too early.

“No, no, it’s fine, this won’t take long,” she said when I asked if I should call back later. Bless her.

“It’s about Moishy. I’ve noticed a few things recently and I wanted to run them by you.” She paused for a moment, like she was choosing her words carefully. “He seems to have trouble coordinating both sides of his body — like when the kids do jumping jacks, he can’t get the rhythm. And during art, cutting or coloring, he tires out really quickly. Even cleaning up —he can’t hold the bin steady and drop the toys in. He’s bright and social, but when it comes to physical stuff, he’s… lagging behind where I’d expect for a kid his age.”

Whoa. This was… a lot to process.

“Is this something you notice at home, too?” she asked.

“I—I’m not sure.” I hadn’t really noticed anything. Moishy was my first, and baby Chaya had blocked tear ducts and was sick and congested for months straight, leaving me exhausted and kind of in moment-to-moment survival mode. Moishy was, in my mind, pretty… easy. Bright, chatty, curious. Sure, he sometimes tripped over his own feet, or took forever to zip his coat, or spilled food or drink when he was eating, but… doesn’t every three-year-old?

Or… was that was the teacher meant? Struggling with physical tasks, not what I’d expect at his age…

Morah Hadassah continued. “I’ve seen it before — kids who just need a bit of help with coordination, balance, things like that. An OT could make a big difference. I’d really recommend getting him evaluated.”

I hung up and immediately called Perel. She’s my oldest sister, mother of seven, resident expert in both parenting and unsolicited wisdom. And she’s had several kids in various therapies, so I was sure she’d have advice for me. Of course, she did.

“You need to take him to Kayla,” she said, authoritatively. “I’m telling you, you don’t want just any freshy-graduated OT doing basic bean-bag exercises. Trust me, I went down that route too many times, blowing literally thousands of dollars before I realized we were in the wrong place. You need a real evaluation by an expert and Kayla is top. She’s crazy busy but I know her, I’ll ask her to squeeze you in if you want.”

This kind of felt too fast for me. But….

“The teacher said we need an evaluation. So, I guess so?”

“I’ll see if I can get a spot for you by Kayla,” Perel promised. “I’m telling you, she’s amazing.”