My Little Mind Facebook ad: “Read this if you have a Speech Delayed Child”

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Parenting & Kids

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I still have the voicemail saved. Forty-one seconds. My son Eli, calling to tell me about a frog he saw at recess. That's it. That's the whole message. I've probably listened to it thirty times. My name's Marcus. I'm 39, I coach my daughter's softball team on weekends, and until about eight months ago I would've told you my son was just "a quiet kid." That's what everyone said. My dad was quiet. I was quiet until about third grade. So when Eli was three and a half and mostly pointing at things instead of asking for them, I figured he was just built that way. It looked like him standing at the pantry door, patting it, waiting for someone to guess what he wanted instead of saying "snack." It looked like birthday parties where he'd stand near me instead of joining the other kids, not because he didn't want to play, but because he didn't have the words to ask "can I have a turn." It looked like his preschool teacher pulling my wife Dana aside — gently, kindly — and saying maybe it'd be worth getting his hearing checked, just to rule things out. We did. Hearing was perfect. Pediatrician checked him over too — said he was hitting his physical milestones, growing fine, "a little behind on expressive language, but every kid's on their own timeline, let's recheck in six months." Everything fine on paper. We went home with nothing to actually do. Six months is a long time when your kid is standing at a door patting it. The thing that actually moved the needle wasn't from a doctor's office. It was from another dad, of all people — Carlos, who coaches third base on my softball team. We were folding up the bases after a game and his son ran by, talking a mile a minute about something, and I just said, kind of joking, "must be nice." And Carlos got quiet and said his son was the same way at three. Barely talked. He wasn't trying to sell me anything — we were just two guys putting equipment in a truck. He mentioned that around that time they'd started giving his son a daily zeolite-based supplement drop, something his wife found after a lot of research, and that it was part of a few things they changed. He wasn't making big promises. He just said "it's worth looking into, for what it's worth." I want to be straight with you here: I'm not a doctor, and neither is Carlos. We didn't change anything without talking to Eli's pediatrician first, and if you're reading this, please don't take anything I say as medical advice. talk to your pediatrician, your ENT, or a speech-language pathologist before adding anything new to your kid's routine, especially if they're on any medication or have any health conditions. What Dana found, after her own research, was Lingo Leap — a zeolite mineral drop supplement, made for kids, processed at low temperature so the mineral structure stays intact (apparently that matters — something about how it can support the body's natural process of clearing out everyday toxins, which some researchers think may play a role in supporting focus and developmental milestones in some kids). It's not marketed as a treatment for anything, and it didn't come with some miracle promise. It's a supplement — it's meant to support overall wellness, not replace anything Eli's pediatrician or SLP recommended. We added it alongside the speech evaluation we'd already scheduled, not instead of it. A few weeks in, here's what it looked like instead: It looked like Eli standing at the pantry door again — except this time he turned around and said "Dad, cracker." Two words. I had to leave the kitchen for a second. It looked like that same birthday party scene, a different month, different kid's party — and Eli walked up to a group of kids and said "my turn" and just... joined in. Nobody clapped. Nobody noticed but us. That's kind of the point. It looked like his teacher stopping Dana at pickup again — but this time to say Eli had been raising his hand during circle time to answer questions. I have to be honest with you: this wasn't the only thing that changed. We'd also started the speech therapy sessions the pediatrician referred us to, and Eli started a new preschool classroom with a teacher he really clicked with. I genuinely don't know how much of this is the drops, how much is the therapy, and how much is just Eli's own timeline finally clicking into place. Probably all of it. But I know that adding the drops is the one thing we did that we almost didn't do, and I'd hate for another dad to skip it for the same reason I almost did — because it felt like "one more thing." At his recheck, the pediatrician noted his expressive language had "caught up significantly" — her words, not mine. She didn't credit any one thing, and she shouldn't have. But she also didn't tell us to stop what we were doing. Carlos and I still coach together. Last week his kid and my kid were on the same team for a scrimmage, both yelling at each other about whose turn it was at bat. Loudly. It was the best noise I've heard in a long time. If you're a dad reading this at 11pm because you just typed "is my toddler behind on talking" into your phone — I've been there. I'm not going to tell you this fixes anything, because I don't know your kid, and I'm not a doctor. But I'll tell you what Carlos told me: it's worth looking into. Talk to your pediatrician first. Keep doing the therapy, the evaluations, all of it. This isn't a replacement for any of that. It's just one more thing in the mix, and for us, the mix worked. Lingo Leap offers a satisfaction guarantee if you want to try it and see for yourself — though again, check with your pediatrician before starting anything new.

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