You know, sometimes it’s easy to interact on blogs and feel a bit “normal” because you’re not sitting across from me while I try to lipread. And not trying to patiently repeat everything after I say, “what?” a million times.
(And that reference to “normal” might be BEFORE you read any of our True Story Tuesday posts, just sayin…)
But keeping it real; being profoundly deaf is huge in my day-to-day life.
Sometimes it’s funny, like the time Itty Bit heard someone at the door and let the Jehovah’s Witnesses in.
Or when I don’t catch him in public when he’s yell-singing, “GOD IS BIGGER THAN THE BOOBY-MAN!”.
Sometimes it’s just scary.
Like the time he let the Jehovah’s Witnesses in.
Or when he ducks into the clothes rack at a store and I can’t hear him to find him.
Or every night when I try to quiet my heart while worrying that he’ll wake up and I won’t know it.
Sometimes it’s hard.
Like when he turns on the dishwasher when I’m not looking.
Like when he is sick and I can’t pick up the phone and call someone.
Or when he tries telling me something from the backseat.
Or tries telling me something in the dark.
Or tries telling me something in a whisper.
Or tries telling me something when he’s crying.
To an extent, I can try to accommodate most of those things.
I can keep him in my sight 24/7. Which is insanely impossible and spectacularly exhausting.
I can turn the dome lights on.
I can ask him to repeat himself over and over.
I can ask someone to call the doctor for me.
I can hold him as he cries until I can understand what’s the matter.
But what I was unprepared for. The worst part of all?
I had to admit once again today.
I’m jealous of the grocery checker who chats away with my son in a noisy place.
I’m jealous of the girl who talked non-stop with my toddler while cutting his hair.
I’m jealous of my sister, who cracks up at my boy’s silly songs.
I’m jealous of my mother, who has marvelous phone conversations with my four-year old.
I’m jealous of my husband who says “I love you” back to his son after lights-out.
As if regular Mommy-Guilt weren’t enough.
In moving the clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, I felt a thumping sound from the nearby bathroom.
Figuring Itty Bit was just stomping, I continued to load the wet clothes.
The thumping intensified.
I finished the load, turned the dryer on, and looked for the source of the sound.
I found Itty Bit on the floor, kicking his legs. Tearstained face.
I rushed to pick him up and realized that he was stuck – wedged firmly by one arm underneath the door.
I pulled his arm out and cradled him in my lap.
Mommy, I tried to tell you.
I was yelling and yelling.
I was crying and crying.
You didn’t come.
The bruises are fading.
He thinks they are silly and rather cool now.
He points to them and smiles.
I return his smile, a bit brokenhearted inside, but grateful for his forgiveness.
No one told me it would be this hard.