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He’s once again tangled in his pajama top. I watch him squirm and twist until at last, he manages to poke just his little face through the opening. His bright brown eyes, reminiscent of freshly brewed coffee, light up against the backdrop of his tiny race car pajamas as he giggles and exclaims, “Look! I’m a snow cone!”
My partner and I exchange glances. To an outsider, the joke might not make sense, but we share an understanding of his quirky humor because no one knows him like we do. As he completes his task of dressing himself, his face beams with pride. My son is starting to navigate his challenges with humor. At four and a half, he’s becoming increasingly aware of his limitations, and I realize I can only protect him from his condition for so long.
The early indications were subtle, but they were there. He entered the world as a calm and sleepy infant, giving us big gummy smiles and endless giggles right on schedule. Then, he rolled over and sat up later than expected—the pediatrician reassured me it was nothing to worry about. As a first-time mom, I wanted to trust the doctor, even though my instincts whispered that something was off.
When he began daycare, I informed the teachers to watch over him, as he rarely cried when he got hurt. Later, one teacher commented that she had never seen a child crawl using the backs of their hands before. He would return home each day with red marks on his chubby hands, but again, his pediatrician dismissed it as unimportant.
Another teacher noted his difficulty with drinking from an open cup and recommended Early Intervention services. We brushed it off, reasoning that we hadn’t given him an open cup at home for fear of spills. Of course, he didn’t know how to use one yet. Yet, out of caution, I pursued it, and to our surprise, he qualified.
As he grew into a clumsy and stubborn toddler, I began to dread the end of each workday because a whirlwind awaited me at home. Being a self-identified highly sensitive person, I now had a child who was a bull in a china shop. Holding my hand in the parking lot? Not a chance. Staying in the shopping cart while I picked up a few items? That was off the table—something other mothers seemed to manage but I couldn’t. Doctor visits, Target runs, and indoor play areas were also added to my list of avoided outings.
I sometimes ventured out alone with him because I had to, but I dreaded it. His unpredictable behavior left me wondering who I would encounter that day. Those errands often ended in chaos or disappointment, leading me to question my abilities as a mother. While seven months pregnant with his baby sister and with my partner away on business, I found myself dragging a massive glider out of his room because he couldn’t stop climbing on it. He laughed and jumped like a little monkey, and I worried for both his safety and my sanity. In hindsight, I realize his need for sensory input often overpowered his ability to listen.
As he aged out of Early Intervention, our dedicated but puzzled specialist suggested we pursue a neuropsychological assessment. Despite being cognitively bright, social, and verbal, he struggled to access these skills when tired or upset, or sometimes for seemingly no reason at all. During one testing session, he even hit me unexpectedly in front of the doctor, but I had grown accustomed to being told we were overreacting and that he was “just a toddler.” I didn’t expect her to offer any new insights.
I tried to maintain my composure as we reviewed the evaluation, but inside, I wanted to cry and scream. We finally had a label for all the things that felt “off,” but I didn’t feel relief; instead, I felt despair.
He was diagnosed with Dyspraxia, also known as Developmental Coordination Delay (DCD). How is it possible that with a Master’s in Special Education and a decade of teaching experience, I had never heard of this condition?
I blamed myself. Was it because I allowed him to stay in his infant seat too long since he was so content? Did my past use of antidepressants play a role? Was switching to formula after breastfeeding for a month a factor? Should I have been a stay-at-home mom instead of hiring a nanny while I returned to work? These thoughts plagued my mind nightly as I tried to process the diagnosis and find a way forward.
After Thanksgiving, I took a leave from my teaching job to attend all the subsequent evaluations and appointments. We enrolled him in a more play-oriented preschool nearby, which seemed a better fit. Shortly after, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, and like many families, I found myself in lockdown with my newly diagnosed three-year-old who couldn’t access the necessary services. We were stuck at home, and I spent months—probably overspending on Amazon—finding ways for him to crash, bump, squeeze, and jump safely within our tiny home while my partner worked from the kitchen. It was utter chaos.
Dyspraxia is a condition that affects up to 10% of the population, yet the U.S. lags behind other countries in awareness and research. Similar to Autism Spectrum Disorder, it exists on a spectrum from mild to severe. Some individuals function well with the right support, while others may struggle with daily tasks like driving or independent living. It was once referred to as “clumsy child syndrome,” a term that is not only offensive but also misleading, as it encompasses challenges with motor planning, emotional regulation, sensory processing, and executive function.
Some refer to it as an “invisible” disability. At first glance, he appears to be your average four-and-a-half-year-old, suspended between toddlerhood and childhood, with bruises and bug bites from outdoor play. He loves pizza, popsicles, dinosaurs, and spending time with his cousins. He can articulate his thoughts well, saying things like, “I’m not interested in playing this game,” or to his little sister, “Avery, I need space.” He enjoys building with Magna-Tiles and LEGOs, especially construction vehicles. Now, as I lay awake at night, I often find myself humming a Blippi song about construction vehicles, planning for the next big milestone: Kindergarten.
What’s not apparent just by looking at him are the challenges that at times drain us as parents and dominate our daily lives. As a mother, I’ve pieced myself together more times than I can count. Witnessing him oscillate between being a “normal” little boy who knows his colors and numbers and a child who struggles to hold a crayon or stay on the sidewalk fills me with a mix of hope and helplessness.
His two-year-old sister glides past him on a scooter he hasn’t yet mastered. At the end of a busy school day, he often seems out of sorts. He falls off the couch and is likely to trip at least once on his way upstairs to bed. He hasn’t slept through the night in two years, and neither have we.
Our lives feel like a constant emotional roller coaster, as we never know how his dyspraxia will affect him on any given day. It’s especially challenging when he’s gaining new cognitive or language skills; during these developmental leaps, he may need to repeat the beginning of his sentences multiple times before forming a complete thought. He becomes more physical, launching into hugs with such force that I often topple over. Some of his potty-training skills regress, and he appears to trip over thin air.
Fortunately, he eventually emerges from these phases, and we enjoy a few weeks of joy, allowing us to almost forget the looming challenges. During these good weeks, I miss him when he’s at school and look forward to weekends filled with hide-and-seek in the yard, playing in the sandbox, and watching blue jays at our bird feeder together. That bird feeder has become a shared joy.
I suspect that parenting a child with dyspraxia shares similarities with raising any child with special needs. It has compelled my partner and me to reshape our expectations of who we envisioned our son would be, accepting that “normal” holds different meanings for every family.
Add a global pandemic into the mix, along with the curated portrayals of perfect parenting and happy children shared by friends on social media, and the experience can feel isolating. I’ve tried to keep my spirits up, but I’m only human.
My love for him knows no bounds. I adore him and his unique dyspraxic quirks, but it’s easy to forget he isn’t intentionally walking in the door and taking off just one shoe or trying to spill his drink all over the counter day after day. His body often seems to move ahead of his brain, and vice versa, but they rarely sync up.
Parenting is challenging in general. Raising a child with dyspraxia has tested our patience, resilience, and mental health. For some couples, this can strain or even fracture a marriage. Our relationship has grown stronger through these experiences, but I recognize we are among the fortunate ones.
He’s been working with a fantastic Occupational Therapist twice a week for nearly a year, and we’ve seen significant improvements in his emotional regulation, play skills, and, most importantly, his self-confidence. Humor has become his coping mechanism, and it brings laughter into our daily lives.
For the first time in over two years, I took him to the grocery store alone this past Friday, and it went smoothly. To families with neurotypical children, this might seem insignificant, but for us, it represents major progress. Ironically, while helping him get dressed this morning, I inadvertently took an elbow to the eye out of nowhere. In our household, we’ve learned to take things one day at a time, putting one foot in front of the other—if we don’t trip over it first.
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Summary
This reflective piece shares the author’s journey as a parent of a child diagnosed with dyspraxia. The challenges and triumphs of navigating this condition are explored, highlighting the emotional roller coaster of parenthood, the importance of support systems, and the unique strengths of children with dyspraxia. Through humor and resilience, the family embraces their journey, finding joy in everyday moments amid the struggles they face.