What It’s Like to Be Non-speaking

A note to my littlest guy . . . 

If someone asked me what life is like for you, I wouldn’t be able to give them an answer.

I have no words to describe what your experience must be like. I have no words, because I simply don’t know what it’s like.

Only you know what life is like for you each day, my sweet boy.

I have no words to describe what it must feel like for you to wake from a nightmare at three and a half years old, get out of bed silently, and run toward our room.

What is it like to hope you find the door open, so that you can run right in?

Sometimes, we forget to leave it open.

Sometimes, you knock so lightly after finding it closed, and then curl up to sleep on the floor in front of our door.

The other night, I heard your footsteps thudding as you ran down the hall. You ran through the door and leaped in to our bed. You actually jumped! Then your skinny little arms waited for me to hug you tight, your eyes like saucers of glinting espresso. I wrapped my arms around you and breathed in the smell of your soft nutmeg colored curls. You pulled my arms around you even tighter.

You were so scared, sweet boy. I could feel your heart beating against mine. It felt like the heart beat of the little birds we found abandoned in their nest this spring.

What is it like to be so little and to have to face such big fears all alone?

I should be able to fix these fears for you. The truth is, I don’t know how.

I couldn’t ask you to tell me about your dream the way I would have if your brother and sisters had come running into the room with a nightmare at your age.

I couldn’t tell you whatever you had been dreaming about would never happen. I couldn’t exaggerate the silliness of it so that we could laugh together.

Since I didn’t know what your dream was about, I didn’t know if I should be telling you that we have a fire alarm on each floor and that your older brother makes sure that the dead-bolt on our door is locked properly every night.

Sometimes I tell you these things anyway. In those times, I can feel the shift in your body as you begin to listen politely.  You listen like you appreciate the effort even though I’m mostly getting it all wrong.

When your older brother was your age, he used to have nightmares about hunters in camouflage coming to get him with bows, arrows, guns, and knives.

He had seen a man dressed for hunting walk across our field one evening and the nightmares ensued. He too would run to my room and jump into bed next to me. I held him, just like I am holding you now, but I also listened as he told me all about his dream and what he was afraid of.

Next time the hunters came, I walked down and asked if they would come meet my son. I told them about his dream and what still scared him in the middle of the night. They were nice men, with little children of their own. They followed me up the hill to the house and talked to your brother. I saw him relax as they explained why they were wearing the clothes they had on, as they told him about their little boys at home, as they apologized for making him afraid.

He never had those dreams again.

But you, my littlest boy, your bad dreams keep coming.

In the middle of the night, in the morning, the only thing I really have to offer you is a hug.

A hug that is just as much you hugging me as it is me hugging you. Most days, we are just barely holding each other up. There are no words to describe how helpless this feels as a parent.

Tonight, is no different. I have no words to help you feel better. No words to convince you that I understand.

In the morning, I know you will smile and laugh when you are sitting in the bright crack of sun that finds its way in through our back window. Oh, how you love the sunlight. Unbridled joy floods your face when you find the warmth of it early in the morning. 

When you dance your hands and can’t help but laugh to yourself, a real belly laugh, I would give almost anything to know what you’re thinking of.

Your kind eyes are so often full of questions or brimming with a joke you’d love to share. There are no words to describe how it feels to only be able to kiss you on the head when you have a question, to have only a hug for you when you’re afraid, and to only watch your beautiful smile as you laugh. I want to give you so much more.

What is it like for you to have a head full of questions that no one will answer?

I imagine it is like growing up in a foreign country where no one speaks your language, not even your parents.

I imagine I have absolutely no idea what that would feel like.

Your brothers and sisters had so many questions at your age. I remember many of them like they were spoken yesterday.

“Momma,” they would say, “Where are we going?””

“How long until my birthday?”

“Why does my tummy hurt?”

“When will you be home?”

“Will my cut get better?”

“Will I be a daddy when I grow up?”

“Can I still live with you when I grow up?”

“Are you going to die?”

“What does ‘hope’ mean?”

They also loved to ask me to watch them as they mastered new things. They would say,

“Watch me, Momma!” Then they would run, swing, jump, bike, color, swim . . . wanting to make sure that I didn’t miss any of their new abilities. They would keep checking in with me, “are you still watching, Momma?”

But you, my littlest boy, were born into so much silence.

I say I don’t have the words to describe how you feel, but I have no doubt that you do. You have so many words tucked in that little head of yours. You have been listening, and learning, and listening ever since you first opened your eyes.

Your words are there, they just can’t seem to find their way out.

Even though I don’t have the words to describe how you’re feeling tonight, I hope you know these things:

I’m proud of you, my sweet boy.

You are trying so hard everyday.

I see you.

You are brave, and kind, and you are far more independent than you should ever have to be.

I know you love the sound of wind in trees, a rippling creek to throw stones in, beams of morning sunlight, and running along a wooded trail.

I know that the only thing you have ever pointed to was a full April moon.

I know I am so grateful that I get to be your Momma. I’m grateful that I get to share each of your days with you.

There is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.