Ellis runs ahead of me in all his four-year-old boy vivacity. As I lumber along with the baby on my back, lugging our little bag full of snacks and water bottles, I watch him, waiting for the moment, just before he disappears around the corner, when he'll turn around and make eye contact. I wave him down signing WAIT FOR MOMMY! but he's already plopped down on the park bench and signs WAIT. As I get close, up he pops again, and I watch the back of his head bounce, jump, and dash along.
Cut to later. Ellis is picking up his fifteen-month-old brother. Again. He adores his brother, but sometimes his love is a bit too lavish. I kneel down, fully intending to affirm his love, but to talk with him about more appropriate ways to express it, while firmly prying his arms away from the baby, who is screaming his head off. Ellis drops to the ground, flailing and squeezing his eyes shut.
Four years ago, when we learned that our brand new baby was born profoundly deaf, we knew our experience as parents would be different. We got a kick out of being able to vacuum in the same room as a sleeping baby. We cheered at his vocabulary of ASL at such a young age. We stomped the floor to get his attention.
However, I feel like it's only been this year that I've really begun to get a glimpse at what it means for Ellis to be deaf, and deaf in our hearing family. I've started to see how he settles himself socially. Personally, I'm starting to see the particular ways I fall short as a parent. True, nobody is a perfect parent, but I'm speaking of the ways in which I struggle as a Hearing Parent of a Deaf Kid.
The primary aspect of this unique experience is communication. We are settling into the bilingual dance between spoken English and ASL. Two years ago Ellis got a CI. He's doing pretty well with it, his receptive language is stronger than expressive. I can talk to him without signing through the simple aspects of our routine and that works out fine. He doesn't like to wear it at home. We don't press him to, but, I will admit, I may or may not have bribed him with chocolate milk to wear it at home sometimes. He wears it at school or usually any other time when we're not home. He is most comfortable with ASL, and that is the language we use with him primarily, even if we are speaking, too. This is especially true in discipline situations, where I need to use whatever language we have to its fullest, and since ASL is his preferred language, that is what I use.
From the beginning, we've pursued our education in ASL vigorously. We've taken classes, lived in the dictionary, had Deaf Mentors. But we are far from native signers. We get by. We can communicate fairly effectively with our four-year-old: we can read books in ASL and talk to him about the world around us.
I have found lately, though, that my ASL is starting to fail my parenting needs. It's taken me awhile to figure out what the matter is, because I know the signs and how to use them, but somehow I'm failing to communicate. I think there is a Deaf presence that I don't have. I'm not really sure how to describe it. A way of using my body that transcends the actual signs, that enters into his space, meets it, communicates with it. Connection is a key part of my parenting philosophy and to be so defeated by the basic communication that I need to make it happen is beyond frustrating. It has deeply discouraged me in these past few months especially.
It's not all a total big Fail. We do get along, after all. We do connect. I give him as much physical presence as I can. I give him as much language as I can. And we are a happy family. But sometimes I look at my hearing friends with their hearing kids--parents and children who speak the same native language--and wonder at the ease of it all. To just talk, effortlessly.
He shuts his eyes. Bam. Communication stops. He glances away from me, focusing back to his play. Communication stops. Sure, he might pick up more than I think peripherally. But it is unnerving to have the eye contact lost. The conversation could just be small talk about his play, but it is lost mid-sentence. Is my signing that weak? Do I not have the persona to indicate that I'm talking to you? Ellis seems to think that I can only hear him if I'm looking at him. He screams my name while I am driving until I glance back giving him the visual acknowledgment that I hear him. (Dang! We need a mirror!) He also thinks that if I don't acknowledge him the split second he says my name that I must not hear him, so he repeats it at blood-curdling volumes, until I can turn to him. I'm rambling a little. This summer has been a roller-coaster. My nerves feel shot from his screaming my name, though it's getting a little better.
He's changing socially. We were at a birthday party with all hearing kids, kids he's known since infancy. Another guest, another little boy, ran up to Ellis, hi! what's your name? Ellis didn't know what he said. How much do I step in to intervene? Do I translate for E? Let it go and watch him slip into isolated play? Do I go through the conversation for the bazillionth time? oh, hi. His name is Ellis. He can't hear you, so we talk with our hands. can you say 'hi' like this? Some kids get into it. Some feel awkward and back away. Bless the little British kid at the park the other day who made fast friends with E despite his curious quality.
How do I balance it all? As a mother I want to protect him from all this. I want to make a world that fits him perfectly. I don't want to have to teach him how to negotiate through languages and worlds. I wish I had more to offer him. Yet at the same time, he's doing a pretty good job. Sometimes, I just have to stop and let go. Let him run ahead, trusting that he'll turn around. After all, I am not in control. The God who gave me Ellis also has Ellis perfectly in His arms.
Bookmark/Search this post with:
That's the thing about funerals - they can be heart wrenching and...