It's a beautiful day and we should be outside soaking up the sunshine but the girls enjoyed an expanded quiet time today and post quiet time absolutely calls for Elmo and/or the Wonder Pets. And who am I to challenge the routine. So instead of picking up the clothes project I started during not-naptime, I em enjoying the weather by myself. And by enjoying the weather I mean I turned the computer so it is facing the window.
The few glimpses of the sunshine I do catch taunt me with whispers of "good mothers would be outside teaching the children how to ride tricycles." Oh sunshine, good mothers would buy their daughters tricycles instead of spending all the money on wine and fancy laptops with surprisingly subpar battery life. Why fight it?
As if the sunshine wasn't enough I am torturing myself by reading mommy blogs. I have a love hate relationship with "mommy blogs". For me that term refers to blogs written by "good mothers" who often post pictures of their children and their accomplishments along with recipes and pictures of their decorated homes. So sadly most of my friends with your hilariously awesome snarky blogs, you are bad parents like me. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.
Anyway, I don't know why I love reading the mommy blogs but I do. They are like visual candy for me and make me happy in the same way that the Sound of Music does. They are just so good. But sometimes they make me sad. Because their kids are all so adorably verbal. Evidently in their worlds children throw out amusing bonmots about the tres hilarious things their preschool classmates do during the day. Dinnertime is rife with observations about crafts and story time and made up adventures.
Contrast this with our own tortured mealtimes where we try to eek out anything about the girls' day. We ask all sorts of leading questions and I often end up doing a call and response where I say something that happened and the girls then repeat it to Daddy. It's crushing.
Sometimes it feels like we have come so far and really we have. My sister heard my daughter speaking words to her for the first time last week. That's huge. I need to remember that. And treasure it when we're suffering through another silent supper. Oh well, at least they aren't screaming through it like they did before we instituted the three bites and you're excused rule.
And I am just going to pretend that the mommy bloggers spend hours making up their child's observations. Poor, poor deluded mommy bloggers.
Showing posts with label speech delays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label speech delays. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Oh Happy Day
This morning I woke up in a bad mood. There was no good reason for it. My husband had so nicely let me sleep in even though it was my morning to get up. The weather was finally warmish and sunny after weeks of gloomy coldness. And I had enjoyed a perfectly lovely low key birthday yesterday.
In spite of the small delights of the weekend I was still grumpy. I was cantankerous with the girls especially after my husband escaped for a shower. I yelled at them for the little things and made Desmonda cry. Not that it's hard but I felt bad because she is under the weather so her dramatic sobs were punctuated with coughs.
When my husband emerged and suggested we all go to the park I grumped at him: "I'd like to just finish my TEA, can I just do THAT?!" He gave a look out at the sunshine but backed off. The girls gathered around me as I tweeted and sucked down my tea. Then I heard Calamity Jane call out: "Come play Desmonda!"
That simple phrase, perhaps unintelligible to most but clear as a bell to me, was the most beautiful thing I had heard in weeks.
It was better than all the sunshine in the world.
I immediately put down my tea and went to the park with the family. We soaked up the sunshine, even as we shivered in the wind. Then we went and had the best Mexican meal we have enjoyed since leaving San Antonio. Bad mood gone.
They were driving me crazy again by (not)nap time but my daughter's voice speaking words? The most wonderful sound in my world. If only I could bottle it up and open it for a listen in cranky times.
In spite of the small delights of the weekend I was still grumpy. I was cantankerous with the girls especially after my husband escaped for a shower. I yelled at them for the little things and made Desmonda cry. Not that it's hard but I felt bad because she is under the weather so her dramatic sobs were punctuated with coughs.
When my husband emerged and suggested we all go to the park I grumped at him: "I'd like to just finish my TEA, can I just do THAT?!" He gave a look out at the sunshine but backed off. The girls gathered around me as I tweeted and sucked down my tea. Then I heard Calamity Jane call out: "Come play Desmonda!"
That simple phrase, perhaps unintelligible to most but clear as a bell to me, was the most beautiful thing I had heard in weeks.
It was better than all the sunshine in the world.
I immediately put down my tea and went to the park with the family. We soaked up the sunshine, even as we shivered in the wind. Then we went and had the best Mexican meal we have enjoyed since leaving San Antonio. Bad mood gone.
They were driving me crazy again by (not)nap time but my daughter's voice speaking words? The most wonderful sound in my world. If only I could bottle it up and open it for a listen in cranky times.
Monday, October 12, 2009
If Only I Could Read Minds
Yesterday I finished up my weekend read Petite Anglaise by the writer of the blog Petit Anglaise (which I was kind of glad I had not read, I might have not been as enthralled by the book). A lot of what she wrote about touched a nerve in me about my own identity crises and relationships worries post kids. But it is the recollections of her daughter that stick with me.
It really touched a chord with me, the frequent references to conversations with her daughter, who in the book is the same age of the girls. The recordings of the utterances that, literally, could only come from the mouth of a child. The funny little back and forth exchanges they had. I envy that so much.
As I look up from writing, I watch my daughter lay out napkins (old cloth wipes that the girls now use for pretend) out in a pattern on the floor, I wish I could see into her head. For me, it is the hardest part of their delays... the loss of their voices.
With Desmonda it is as if I am listening to a language I am only starting to master. Her muttered sentences are full of words that I can't quite understand. Often I get the gist of what she is saying but sometimes one indistinguishable word is enough for me to not be able to translate. I hate telling her hopeful, expectant face "Sorry, honey, I don't know what you want". Communication is so close with her but feels so far away.
With Calamity Jane, I am left to just wonder. Her few words are utilized for only her most basic needs and often only understandable to us. The words all are shouted at us in the same insistent, angry tone. I cried the first time she called out Mommy to me in excitement when I walked in the door. Here was proof I could hold onto that she could communicate, that she wanted to. All along her babbles have been full of expression and variation, rising and falling as she talks in her Janespeak. There is always so much going on in her head but we are not privy to any of it.
Often when I observe their play, I imagine their thoughts for them. Sometimes I unconsciously speak them out loud. Occasionally they will riff on what I am saying, allowing me into their world, but often they just look at me, befuddled. They have no idea what I am talking about. And I have no idea what is going with them.
It feels wrong that I am missing out on their thoughts. This is a unique time when they are completely unselfconscious. Their thoughts are unfettered by the limits of reality and the judgments of others. It is radical honestly in its most pure form.
When they do start communicating it will be precious to me whether it is next week or next year. The words will be no less sweeter and I know I will treasure each one. Until they drive me crazy with too much talking. But I think a small part of me will always mourn all that I have missed.
It really touched a chord with me, the frequent references to conversations with her daughter, who in the book is the same age of the girls. The recordings of the utterances that, literally, could only come from the mouth of a child. The funny little back and forth exchanges they had. I envy that so much.
As I look up from writing, I watch my daughter lay out napkins (old cloth wipes that the girls now use for pretend) out in a pattern on the floor, I wish I could see into her head. For me, it is the hardest part of their delays... the loss of their voices.
With Desmonda it is as if I am listening to a language I am only starting to master. Her muttered sentences are full of words that I can't quite understand. Often I get the gist of what she is saying but sometimes one indistinguishable word is enough for me to not be able to translate. I hate telling her hopeful, expectant face "Sorry, honey, I don't know what you want". Communication is so close with her but feels so far away.
With Calamity Jane, I am left to just wonder. Her few words are utilized for only her most basic needs and often only understandable to us. The words all are shouted at us in the same insistent, angry tone. I cried the first time she called out Mommy to me in excitement when I walked in the door. Here was proof I could hold onto that she could communicate, that she wanted to. All along her babbles have been full of expression and variation, rising and falling as she talks in her Janespeak. There is always so much going on in her head but we are not privy to any of it.
Often when I observe their play, I imagine their thoughts for them. Sometimes I unconsciously speak them out loud. Occasionally they will riff on what I am saying, allowing me into their world, but often they just look at me, befuddled. They have no idea what I am talking about. And I have no idea what is going with them.
It feels wrong that I am missing out on their thoughts. This is a unique time when they are completely unselfconscious. Their thoughts are unfettered by the limits of reality and the judgments of others. It is radical honestly in its most pure form.
When they do start communicating it will be precious to me whether it is next week or next year. The words will be no less sweeter and I know I will treasure each one. Until they drive me crazy with too much talking. But I think a small part of me will always mourn all that I have missed.
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