I nearly skipped out on the screening today. Cordy was having a great morning – she didn’t even fight getting into the car, and when we arrived she calmly walked up the steps – so I figured they’d shoo us away quickly and tell us to stop wasting their time when there are kids with real issues who need their help.

And then I opened the door. She took one step inside, saw the large hallway looming ahead of her, and promptly threw herself down on the floor and refused to move. The receptionist told me what room to go into, and after a few minutes of trying to get Cordy to stand up, I scooped her up against her will. I must have been quite a sight walking into the room – an infant car seat hooked on one arm and a shrieking, thrashing toddler under the other arm.

While Cordy wailed and tried to run out the door, I gave the two evaluators our names and signed the necessary paperwork to give them permission to attempt contact with my unwilling participant.

After a few minutes, Cordy calmed down a little, meaning she no longer tried to run out the door, but instead chose to throw herself down on the floor and crawl under a table.

OK, maybe we do need to be here…

The younger lady tried to convince Cordy to come play with some blocks. She loves blocks! She’ll show them how smart she is, I thought. But Cordy wouldn’t budge from under the table. The lady then tried to engage her in conversation, but Cordy wouldn’t give in.

After another few minutes, Cordy emerged from under the table and came over to examine the blocks. The young evaluator tried to get Cordy to stack the blocks. Instead, Cordy arranged them in a line, ignoring the evaluator. Cordy finally spoke as she counted the blocks.

“Oh, she can count to five!” the young woman said as she noted it on her clipboard. “Actually, she can count to 19,” I added. Shut up, shut up, they don’t need your help, my internal voice shouted at me. Let them do their job and don’t get in the way.

Most of the evaluation was completed by accident. They would try to persuade Cordy to do a task, she would do something else, and they would look for the skill the new task represented. She wouldn’t identify animals in a picture, but would run around and jump (gross motor skills, check!). Ask her to draw a line? She tells you where the kitty is in the picture (cognitive skills, check!). Ask her which animal in the picture says “neigh!” and she stacks the blocks (fine motor skills, check!). Sigh. The poor young evaluator was jumping all over her clipboard as she tried to keep up.

At one point Cordy had arranged the blocks in a particular order, and was picking them up one at a time and telling us the color. The older lady picked up one out of order.

“Cordy, what color is…”

“NOOOOO!” Cordy cried frantically, snatching the block out of the woman’s hand. She carefully placed it back into the pattern, then picked up the next block in order and exclaimed with a smile and all the joy in the world, “Yellow!”

At one point she turned and ran to the doorway, stopping just short of running into the hallway. “Cordy, come back!” she said with a sly smile. I explained to the two evaluators that Cordy likes to give us the prompts for what she wants us to say. I played along and told her to come back, and she complied.

Eventually, the evaluators turned to me with questions. Does she try to take her clothes off or put them on? No. Does she use eating utensils? Nope. Does she try to brush her own teeth? Not really. Does she always have trouble with transitions? Most of the time. Each question made me feel more and more nervous.

They gave me a little quiz to fill out, with questions such as “My child has trouble calming down after a tantrum” (absolutely) and then the older lady scored it. She then explained the score to me: “Any score below 57 means that we believe there is nothing to worry about developmentally. Cordelia scored 145.”

My jaw dropped. 145? Wow, that’s a big number compared to 57.

As they wrapped up our 40 minutes, they handed me a full report. Cordy’s cognitive skills, gross and fine motor skills, and communication skills are excellent. “She’s smart,” they tell me. But the little checkbox next to Personal/Social is checked “Refer”. They’re troubled by her lack of interest in self care, her difficulty with transitions, and possible sensory issues (she hates anything gooey on her skin or people touching her if she’s upset).

The next step is a full evaluation from the county early intervention team. If the second evaluation determines she is delayed, they’ll put together a plan for therapy. I’m not sure what happens after that, because I kind of zoned out at that point, lost in my own thoughts.

As we got packed up to go, Cordy told the two ladies goodbye and then ran to the door. She turned to look back at me, big grin on her face, and collapsed on the floor dramatically.

“Cordy, are you OK?” she asked, still grinning broadly.

“Yes, Cordy, you’re OK,” I replied as I took her hand and we walked out the door.

You’re OK. But am I OK? I’m not sure yet.

Cordy has been in daycare, two days a week, for four weeks now. Every day after the first has been met with screaming “No school!” followed by one of her teachers having to pry her off of whichever of my limbs she has tried to melt into while I make my getaway.

The day doesn’t remain that bad, thank goodness. Usually at the end of the day we return to find her playing with a toy with a smile on her face. But it’s clear she missed us, too, as she sees us and yells, “Mommy! Daddy! You saved me!”

But all is not perfect at school, either. Any transition between activities is met with a full out tantrum and tears. One day she had to be removed from an assembly because she wouldn’t calm down and it was bothering everyone. She refuses to feed herself most items, and as a result she won’t eat much. (The teachers do make sure she eats something during the day, however.) We have to send one of her sippy cups or she’ll go the entire day without drinking anything, too. She spends most of the day playing by herself and not participating in group activities.

Last week I ran into Aaron’s aunt, who happens to be the director of the preschool and daycare. We chatted for a few minutes, and then she leaned in a little closer to me. “Hey, are you still thinking about having Cordy evaluated for developmental delays?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Why?”

She put a hand on my upper arm. “I had the chance to watch her a little bit today, and I think getting her evaluated is a good idea. She’s the oldest in her classroom, and while she’s probably smarter than most of the other kids, in behavioral age she’s one of the youngest in the room. I definitely don’t think she’ll be ready for the three-year olds room when she turns three in the fall.”

We continued talking about Cordy’s behavior and how she really isn’t like the other kids. She’s never had the ability to cope well with transitions. Other kids can happily finish their paintings and move on to storytime, but Cordy can’t switch gears without a meltdown. She has the physical ability to use a spoon and fork (we’ve seen her do it), yet when it comes time to use them to eat, she simply can’t do it. If she’s not in control of the situation, a tantrum shortly follows.

Cordy’s vocabulary is growing every day. She knows hundreds of words. Yet when it comes to carrying on a conversation, she struggles. Many times what she says is simply a phrase she heard from us or from TV. When she’s bored, she will quietly talk to herself, quoting entire scenes of Dora or Backyardigans or some other show, word for word, with different voices for each character. If she ever wants to be an actress, she’ll have no trouble memorizing her lines.

Aaron’s aunt watched her try to interact with another little girl. Cordy approached her and said something that his aunt couldn’t hear. The little girl responded in a positive way to Cordy. But Cordy stared at her, unsure of where to take the conversation next, then turned and ran away.

I’ve seen these quirks developing for several months now, and Aaron and I have struggled with the thought of having her evaluated. The option has been debated over and over in my head. On one hand, I see her all the time and see how other kids don’t act the same way. On the other hand, my mom would remind me, “You’re not exactly normal, either, so why should you expect it from her?”

I’ve often wondered if this is all in my head and I’m seeing problems that don’t exist. I don’t want her to have problems – I want my child to be perfect in every way, like most moms. But there comes a point when you wonder if it’s only your kid who has a screaming half-hour tantrum because you bought her the toy she wanted, or who can spend over an hour at the playground and not once acknowledge another child there.

Even worse is the feeling that I’m somehow responsible for her awkward social behavior. Did I do something wrong that has shaped her into a child who can’t cope with change? Did I not take her to the playground enough? Was there too much of a routine at home? Should I have been more strict, forcing her to do things my way and not let her have any control? Did she watch too much TV? Did taking an anti-depressant during pregnancy cause this?

So now I’m taking Cordy for an initial evaluation this Wednesday. We’ve been considering it for months, but it wasn’t until Aaron’s aunt – a childcare professional with over twenty years of experience – admitted that she saw possible warning signs that I finally made the call. They’ll look at all aspects of her development, give me an assessment, and if they do see any problems, give us some idea of where to go next.

I’m not sure what I’m hoping for from the evaluation. I know Cordy isn’t your average toddler. She’s different, but I don’t know if it’s a kind of different that requires intervention. It’s like a stab to the heart to see her wander her classroom, playing by herself, unsure of how to interact with the other kids. It hurts to see other kids approach her, trying to befriend her, only to be ignored or answered with some babbled line from Dora. If this continues, eventually the other kids will stop trying.

She’s a happy child much of the time, she’s funny, and she’s so very smart. But I worry she’s not normal, and while it’s OK not to be normal (heaven knows I’ve never been “normal”), I want her to be successful in life. She will need social skills, and she will need to deal with change. I’d never push her to totally conform with the crowd – a drone in a sea of average – because I know she’s anything but average. But without social skills, she’ll be that weird kid in the corner that no one likes.

I guess we’ll see what happens on Wednesday.