Nursery Raised Concerns About My Son’s Speech – Here’s What We Learned
I was kneeling by the low blue coat pegs at nursery, trying to get my son’s arms into his jacket while he held a plastic dinosaur in each fist. His key worker crouched down beside me and said, as casually as if she were mentioning the weather, “Have you noticed he’s not talking as much as the others?”
I paused with one sleeve half on. My son looked up, said nothing, and went back to roaring at the floor.
She explained that he would point, nod, shake his head, and make sounds, but she had started to notice he wasn’t putting two words together the way most of the other two-year-olds were. “He understands everything,” she added quickly. “It’s just the expression that’s a bit slower.”
I said okay. I think I said thank you. Then I carried him out to the car, put him in his seat, and closed the door before I let myself feel the weight of what she had said.
At home, I did what I imagine most parents do in that situation. I went straight to the internet. And within twenty minutes, I had convinced myself of three separate possibilities, two of which were catastrophically worst-case and one that felt vaguely comforting but probably wasn’t based on any real science. I closed the laptop, sat on the kitchen floor while my son stacked Tupperware lids, and tried to think clearly.
He was two and a bit. He had about thirty words. He could say “mama,” “dada,” “more,” “no,” “dog,” “car,” “up,” and “uh-oh.” He could follow instructions, point at books when asked where the cow was, and bring me his shoes when he wanted to go outside. But he wasn’t stringing words together. There were no “more juice” or “daddy gone” moments. Just single words, gestures, and a fair amount of grunting.
The comment from nursery didn’t feel like an accusation. But it did feel like a door opening into a room I hadn’t known was there. I had assumed he was a late talker. His older cousin and a few friends’ children had been early talkers, so I’d tried not to compare. But hearing it from someone who spent thirty hours a week with a group of children his age made it harder to brush off.
So we decided to do something practical, without turning our whole lives into a speech therapy session.
The first thing we did was ask nursery for more detail. Not the general “he’s behind” kind, but specific moments. What did he actually do during the day? When did they notice the gap? His key worker started keeping a little notebook of examples. One entry read: “At the water table, he said ‘bubble’ when he wanted more. He didn’t say ‘more bubbles’ or ‘want bubbles.’ He also said ‘ball’ when he wanted a turn with the ball, but then got upset when the other children didn’t understand.” That was really helpful. It gave us a clear picture of where he was struggling, and it made the whole situation feel more concrete and less scary.
At home, I changed how I talked to him. Not in a big signposted way, but in small practical shifts.
The first change was easy: I stopped asking so many questions. I hadn’t realised how much of my day was one long quiz. “What’s this?” “What colour is that?” “What did you do today?” For a child who found speech difficult, that must have felt like being tested all the time. So instead, I started commenting. “I see a red truck.” “That ball is bouncy.” “The banana is getting chopped.” I narrated my own actions, too. “I’m putting the wash in the dryer.” “I’m opening the fridge.” It felt a little strange at first, talking to the air while he played, but he was still listening. And he didn’t have the pressure of needing to reply.
The second change was learning to wait. I used to fill pauses quickly, rephrasing my question or answering it for him. But a speech and language therapist friend suggested giving him more time. Not just a second, but sometimes ten full seconds. It’s a long time. But it gives a child’s brain the space to find the words. I tried it during snack times. “Do you want apple or toast?” Then I’d wait. Often he’d point. But sometimes, after a long pause, he’d manage to say “toast” or “apple”. And that felt like progress, even before he was combining words.
We also started reducing the pressure around correction. If he said “gog” for dog, I didn’t say “No, say dog.” I’d just say “Yes, the dog is sleeping.” He kept hearing the correct version without being made to repeat it. It was a small thing, but it made a big difference to him. He seemed more willing to try words when he knew he wouldn’t be corrected.
One thing we did with nursery was agree on a word list. Each week, his key worker would write down a few words they were focusing on at nursery, and we’d try to use them at home too. It was simple. Words like “more,” “go,” “help,” “open,” and “again.” We didn’t drill them. But we made sure he heard them in context. At dinner, I’d say “More pasta? You want more.” When he pushed his cup forward, I’d say “Open. You want it opened.” Repetition in real moments, not as a lesson.
I also stopped having the television on in the background all day. I hadn’t realised how much it was on. Most of the time nobody was really watching it. But it was just there, filling the kitchen with noise. Without it, the house felt quieter, and that quiet seemed to give his own sounds more space. We didn’t ban screens, but we removed the constant hum.
The hardest part wasn’t the strategies. It was the waiting.
For about three weeks, nothing seemed to change. He still mostly used single words. I kept telling myself that language development is not linear, that many children have bursts, that boys are often later, and all the other things people say. But I also felt that knot in my stomach every time I picked him up from nursery and saw another child telling their parent a story while my son just held his toy and pointed at the door.
Then one afternoon, at snack time, he looked at me and said, “More cracker.”
It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t announce it. He just said it, like it was the most normal thing in the world. I said, “You want more crackers? Here you go.” But inside, I was holding my breath.
Over the next month, the door opened wider. He started saying “Nanny gone” when we left my mother’s house. “Daddy car” when he heard the engine. “Shoes off” before bedtime. None of it was perfectly clear, and some of it still needed translation, but the pattern was finally there. Two words linked together. Meaning built out of two pieces.
His key worker noticed too. She mentioned it one day, almost the same way she had raised the concern initially. This time, she said he was echoing more during group songs, and that he had started calling a few children by name. She didn’t say he was completely caught up. She said he was “getting there.”
We still keep a small notebook at home. Not a formal diary, just a place where I jot down new words or phrases he says. It’s reassuring to look back at. But I know this isn’t over. There’s another check with the health visitor in a few months, and I don’t know if his progress will stay steady or if another gap will appear. Some children move smoothly; others take a winding path. He might need extra support later. Or he might just be someone who talks when he’s ready.
What I am less afraid of now is the comment itself. At first, it felt like a judgement. But it was really just a piece of information. It let me see something earlier, and it gave me a chance to do something practical. Not to fix him, but to support him in the way he needed. And I think that made all the difference.
Yesterday, at pickup, his key worker said he’d told another child “my turn” at the sandpit. It was short and not perfectly pronounced, but it was there.
I put his coat on, handed him his dinosaur, and let him walk to the car without rushing him.
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