The Word Warriors: A Brush with the Tongue Tamers

Over the years of providing speech therapy to families, I’ve often wondered what it must be like to be on the other side of the…well…table. The following is a fictitious imagining of a parent and child entering the world of speech pathology treatment together. It may or may not be based on real-life events. Enjoy! Chris Dunphy, S-LP

It begins with a note from your child's teacher, as many modern sagas do. "Perhaps," it reads, "you've noticed that your child refers to their classmate Vanessa as 'Banana.' Might we discuss speech therapy?". It turns out the name derivation started as "Banessa" but quickly progressed to a more familiar word, much to Vanessa's dismay.

Ah, speech therapy. A term you've heard lobbed about like a shuttlecock at a backyard barbecue. You picture a stern woman in a lab coat drilling toddlers on the proper enunciation of "thither" and "perchance." It turns out it's less Shakespearean and more about untangling the yarn ball of human communication. Who knew?

Your first encounter with an SLP—Speech-Language Pathologist, a title so long it could double as a tongue twister—is in a Toronto clinic that smells of lemon disinfectant and unspoken judgments. The pediatric speech pathologist introduces herself as Janice, though your child promptly dubs her "The Word Witch." She has the serene patience of someone who's spent years explaining to children that "spaghetti" is not pronounced "pasketti" and to adults that "speech pathology" is not, in fact, the study of ancient Greek orators.

"We'll start with some speech and language exercises," Janice says, producing a puppet named Larry the Llama. Larry's job, it seems, is to coax out syllables while you sit awkwardly in a chair designed for someone who's yet to discover sarcasm. "Say 'llama,' Larry croons, his felt mouth flapping like an overcaffeinated windshield wiper. Your child stares, then whispers, "That's a camel."

As weeks pass, you find yourself down rabbit holes of SLP jargon. Did you know there's a difference between speech therapy and language therapy? One's about sounds; the other's about meaning. It's like separating the "pop" from the "culture" in popcorn. You share this epiphany with Janice, who replies, "Hmm," in a tone that suggests she once majored in enduring parental hot takes.

Curiosity piqued, you Google "schooling for speech pathologist" and discover McGill University's speech pathology program, renowned for turning out SLPs who could probably convince a moose to order poutine in both official languages. The courses have names like "Neurological Basis of Swallowing" and "The Art of Not Rolling Your Eyes When Parents Ask About Baby Sign Language." You briefly consider applying until you remember your inability to pronounce "neurological" without sounding like you need therapy yourself.

Ontario, you learn, is brimming with speech-language pathologists. They're like maple trees—ubiquitous, vital, and occasionally tapped for syrup. One SLP in Ottawa specializes in pediatric speech pathology and keeps a therapy dog dressed as a phoneme. Another in Kitchener hosts speech therapy classes where children practice "r" sounds by roaring like dinosaurs, a technique you've since borrowed for staff meetings.

By the time your child graduates from calling Vanessa "banana" to "Va-nes-ah" (with a deliberate, Janice-approved pause between syllables), you've gained a reverence for SLPs—these unsung syntax sherpas, these sentence paramedics. They navigate the wilds of speech-language pathology programs, survive the gauntlet of SLP Canada certifications, and still have the fortitude to face a roomful of children, firm in their belief that "banana" is a four-syllable word.

So here's to the SLPs, the word warriors. May their puppets never moult, their patience never fray, and may they always find the humour in a grown adult earnestly asking, "But what even is speech pathology?" while their kid teaches the therapy dog to say "llama."