I Need You

Just jotted down some thoughts on my responsibility as a parent and what Henry needs from me.

I Need You

I need you to teach me, with patience and understanding.

I need you to help me, nurture my strengths and strengthen my weaknesses.

I need you to challenge me, new ideas, new problems, new insights.

I need you to set boundaries for me, allow me to explore safely, and to know my limits.

I need you to set examples for me, allow me to live by the model you demonstrate to me.

I need you to love me, unconditionally, without question.

When I succeed, I need you to celebrate my accomplishments.

But when I cannot do the things that other children can do, this is when I need you the most.

I need you to be proud of me and love me, as I am, who I am, to love me in spite of, because of, my differences.  I need you to be proud of me, so that I can be proud of myself.

Imogen

Imogen has adopted the language of a mini- Auditory Verbal Therapist as she models her behaviour on mine, as always.

She points out sounds: ‘Henry, did you hear that? (exaggerated pause, pointing to her ear) Did you hear that, that was a cow”

She repeats herself:  ‘Henry, do you want the truck, this is the truck, do you want the truck?’

She commentates life:  ‘Henry, look, Grandmas is cooking, can you see Grandma cooking?’

Her language has even become more basic as she adopts my simplified versions of everyday words:  She says: “ba, ba, ba, balloon” and “ta” instead of thank you.

And she matches objects with sounds, “Look Henry, that’s a bird, the bird says, tweet, tweet, tweet, bird, Henry, that’s a bird”. 

All without even thinking.  It’s amazing how as the language has become second nature to me, so too has it to her. 

Sometimes I find it frustrating that I can’t sit and read to Henry quietly without Imogen chatting away.  Talk about minimising background noise, not an option when Imogen is around!  But having her around also provides so many positive benefits for Henry. And she is the best model for Henry.  He watches her every move and copies everything she does, so it’s a very powerful thing to have her modelling language for him.  I have to remember not to expect too much of her, after all, she is only three.  So if she wants to crawl under the table and pretend to be a cat, which Henry can imitate perfectly, well, that’s okay.  After all, they are children first  The most rewarding thing is to see them playing together, not as an advanced three year old and hearing impaired one year old, but as brother and sister, my two precious munchkins.

Some photos of the kids mucking around...

Henry and Immi being silly in milk crates

Henry teaching Immi tricks this time- car in the mouth for photos!

Glimpses

In the morning when Henry gets up, I slip his headband with his CIs onto his head and at that moment he is transformed into a hearing baby.  And until I remove it as he hops into the bath that night, there is really no difference to our daily life with him, we are just like any other family.  Sure,  I try really hard to expose him to as much quality language as possible, I talk and talk, and I point out sounds and commentate our life, but for the most part I have just gotten on with life, busy juggling two small children and my new business (hearinghenry).

However, sometimes I come across a new aspect of Henry’s hearing loss, and it causes me to stumble for a moment.  This week Henry has (finally!) moved into his own room and so I went to buy a baby monitor, so I would still be able to hear him through the night.  As the well meaning sales assistant explained the features of each one, she tried to sell me on the ‘parent talk’ feature – ‘look, you can just push this button and talk to your baby if they are distressed’.  I quickly assured her I didn’t need that (as of course Henry wouldn’t be able to hear me) and tried to move on.  “But you can sing to your baby”, she continued, “you could sing songs and not even have to go in there”. 

And at that moment, I felt raw and exposed again.  I felt a wave of grief sweep over me as I thought of Henry in his cot at night, in a world of complete silence, unable to even hear his own cries.   I felt the pain of Henry’s deafness.  My layers of positivity, strength and composure completely stripped away for that moment.

But every time this happens, I add a new layer.  I become stronger on the outside, yet below, I have a new depth of compassion and feeling.

I can’t pray that Henry doesn’t have difficult times as he grows up, because that is inevitable.  But I do pray that he can use his adversity to develop strength, empathy and love.