He’s had a cough.
Only I didn’t know it.
The joys of being a deaf mother.
Mr. Daddy told me in the morning, that he’d been up with the kiddo and gave him some medicine sometime in the wee hours.
She was in front of me in line at Target.
She had an empathetic look on her face, said something, and gestured in my direction.
I assumed she was indicating the plastic separator-bar-thingie she’d placed between our items. I smiled and said, “thank you”.
She looked puzzled and shifted her glance behind me.
My hearing aid registered a loud and rhythmic sound. Even Itty Bit twisted around to see the source.
A toddler was pitching the mother of all public fits – scream sobbing at his mother with face and fists full of 3-year old rage.
I mentally repeated the sounds the woman in front of me had said.
I gave myself a virtual head-palm and realized she had been talking about the fit-thrower, not the conveyer belt.
And I’d said, “thank you”.
Dumb. Dumb. DUMB.
On the weekend.
I turned to see my father-in-law standing in the entry chatting with Mr. Daddy. They were both looking at me.
I breathed a sigh of relief that I was bedecked in a guest-worthy TWO undergarments and they were both appropriately not visible! However, the poor man may have walked in to hear me singing.
I have no idea how long he’d been standing there talking while enduring that torture.
Dumb. Dumb. DUMB.
Bang. BANG. BANG.
I couldn’t locate the source of the sound.
And exactly 52 minutes later the mystery was solved.
A smoking hot piece of pumice retrieved from a freshly dried load of laundry. Thanks kiddo.
He loves it.
And it warms my heart.
I’ve passed on my love of reading to him.
His teacher tells me she is impressed at the level he’s reading.
I beam inside.
My kid’s a genius, right?
(Go ahead, chuckle. You’ve been reading this blog, haven’t you?)
But her next words deflate me.
She has no idea.
But he seems to have picked up your accent.
And just like that, the words fall hard in front of me.
Is it true that we all feel a measure of pride in seeing a bit of ourselves in our children? Or that we fondly hope they will be better versions of ourselves?
Instead, I’m the mom who sleeps through his coughing. Answers strangers in stores with answers that make no sense. Sings away while company stands ignored. Can’t figure locate the loud noise that might be destroying a major appliance. And cannot teach her boy how to say words.
If this sounds like a poor me post, it’s not. The realities of parenting with a disadvantage sometime suck. And this week brought some harsh reminders.
In this way, I wish he had less of me.
My plan of attack includes a secret weapon.
Swapping Talk About My Occupation Day for teaching a classroom full of first graders sign language is bound to make Itty Bit less self-conscious about his momma signing to him in front of others.
Because sign language is FUN for 6-year olds. Heck, sign language is fun for all ages. Including this particular 3-year old. See?
(Standard apologies for the video voice apply)
I am blessed.
All of this parenting thing needs a lot of prayer.
I guess I just need a t-shirt for the rest of the world around me.