babel
I never knew real love until the day I heard you sing Let It Go.
The song is nearly unrecognizable on your lips. But what you lack in enunciation and melody, you make up for in earnestness. I can feel your tiny heart soaring as you rise like the break of dawn, and you can’t help yourself - you tangle your little fingers in my hair insistently, twisting and smoothing as you imagine my Disney princess updo falling into a loose braid over one shoulder. I’m in love with your soft little voice, the way it travels from your mouth to my ears to connect us.
So much of the time, your words are unintelligible. I try to piece them together, to make sense of vowels and consonants that just don’t mesh, relying on the context of the moment we’re in, the look on your face, your body language.
Bit by bit, I discover new tells.
When you’re happy, you belt out the song with reckless abandon, like there isn’t a judgey human for a thousand miles. When you’re anxious or confused, you whisper-sing it to yourself, never taking your eyes off the person or object that threw off your mojo.
When you’re tired, you trace your fingertips around my knuckles. It drives your father crazy, since you’d do it long enough to bore a hole in his hand if he let you. I don’t mind as much, since I know you picked up that habit from me.
When you’re upset, you flex your fingers rapidly, poised to scratch and fight for your way. You do it for several seconds before actually reaching for someone. If we’re quick, we have time to intervene.
Learning your language has meant learning to listen, in ways I never had before.
But all too often, I have to smile, nod, and ask you to tell me again. Failing that, I repeat the affirmation that behavioral therapy has impressed upon me:
“I like your talking!”
I can only imagine what it feels like, to work so hard to tell me something, or ask me for anything, and be met with a wall of confusion and forced optimism. All that effort, and you walk away without having your needs met - while I apologetically admonish you to keep pushing, to keep trying, and someday Mommy will understand.
Our friends visit, and we watch with wonder and delight as you interact with your first and best friend. The visits always feel too short - they have no idea how much it buoys us, getting our families together, soaking in four whole people with whom we can all be completely ourselves.
And even so, it’s hard sometimes, watching their son grow up before our very eyes, faster than we had ever dreamed possible. Seven months younger than you - which is actually a lot, in toddler time - and he blows me away with what he can do. He anticipates, he negotiates, he plays pretend. He jockeys for position and he charms me with hyperbole. He “needs” everything, and he’s still too young and precocious to see the humor in it.
There’s a part of me that wants to cry every time he talks circles around you. I can only imagine what our relationship will be like when we get there - what we’ll talk about, how much better we’ll understand each other.
The hardest part is not knowing how much you understand. I know you recognize most words that we say, but I can only guess at how it all comes together in your mind. When we take you to the hospital on Friday, will you understand that we are staying with you, that this is scary and unfamiliar, but that you will be okay? When we beg you to be more gentle with your baby brother, do you know that we love the way you adore him?
I’m starting to believe that you do.
I can feel the change in you these past couple of months. The dam of words has sprung a leak, and tiny words and phrases are bursting through. You catch me off guard sometimes, suddenly squeaking out a fully formed sentence as I gawk in amazement. I’m starting to see you in there, peeking through, suddenly able to share things that we never could have guessed at.
And I can see the difference in you, too, your tension fading away as you suddenly seem more comfortable in your own body. What a difference it makes to feel understood.
I am a lover of words. I have spent my life collecting them, savoring them, rolling them around in my mouth until they felt right. They are the most honest and healing way I have to share who I am and what I feel with other people.
I would give you all of my words if I could. But we have time.
I’m listening. ♥
therealljidol week 24: babel
The song is nearly unrecognizable on your lips. But what you lack in enunciation and melody, you make up for in earnestness. I can feel your tiny heart soaring as you rise like the break of dawn, and you can’t help yourself - you tangle your little fingers in my hair insistently, twisting and smoothing as you imagine my Disney princess updo falling into a loose braid over one shoulder. I’m in love with your soft little voice, the way it travels from your mouth to my ears to connect us.
So much of the time, your words are unintelligible. I try to piece them together, to make sense of vowels and consonants that just don’t mesh, relying on the context of the moment we’re in, the look on your face, your body language.
Bit by bit, I discover new tells.
When you’re happy, you belt out the song with reckless abandon, like there isn’t a judgey human for a thousand miles. When you’re anxious or confused, you whisper-sing it to yourself, never taking your eyes off the person or object that threw off your mojo.
When you’re tired, you trace your fingertips around my knuckles. It drives your father crazy, since you’d do it long enough to bore a hole in his hand if he let you. I don’t mind as much, since I know you picked up that habit from me.
When you’re upset, you flex your fingers rapidly, poised to scratch and fight for your way. You do it for several seconds before actually reaching for someone. If we’re quick, we have time to intervene.
Learning your language has meant learning to listen, in ways I never had before.
But all too often, I have to smile, nod, and ask you to tell me again. Failing that, I repeat the affirmation that behavioral therapy has impressed upon me:
“I like your talking!”
I can only imagine what it feels like, to work so hard to tell me something, or ask me for anything, and be met with a wall of confusion and forced optimism. All that effort, and you walk away without having your needs met - while I apologetically admonish you to keep pushing, to keep trying, and someday Mommy will understand.
Our friends visit, and we watch with wonder and delight as you interact with your first and best friend. The visits always feel too short - they have no idea how much it buoys us, getting our families together, soaking in four whole people with whom we can all be completely ourselves.
And even so, it’s hard sometimes, watching their son grow up before our very eyes, faster than we had ever dreamed possible. Seven months younger than you - which is actually a lot, in toddler time - and he blows me away with what he can do. He anticipates, he negotiates, he plays pretend. He jockeys for position and he charms me with hyperbole. He “needs” everything, and he’s still too young and precocious to see the humor in it.
There’s a part of me that wants to cry every time he talks circles around you. I can only imagine what our relationship will be like when we get there - what we’ll talk about, how much better we’ll understand each other.
The hardest part is not knowing how much you understand. I know you recognize most words that we say, but I can only guess at how it all comes together in your mind. When we take you to the hospital on Friday, will you understand that we are staying with you, that this is scary and unfamiliar, but that you will be okay? When we beg you to be more gentle with your baby brother, do you know that we love the way you adore him?
I’m starting to believe that you do.
I can feel the change in you these past couple of months. The dam of words has sprung a leak, and tiny words and phrases are bursting through. You catch me off guard sometimes, suddenly squeaking out a fully formed sentence as I gawk in amazement. I’m starting to see you in there, peeking through, suddenly able to share things that we never could have guessed at.
And I can see the difference in you, too, your tension fading away as you suddenly seem more comfortable in your own body. What a difference it makes to feel understood.
I am a lover of words. I have spent my life collecting them, savoring them, rolling them around in my mouth until they felt right. They are the most honest and healing way I have to share who I am and what I feel with other people.
I would give you all of my words if I could. But we have time.
I’m listening. ♥
therealljidol week 24: babel