|Blah, blah, blah|
When Sweet Girl's language development came to a screeching halt, one of the things that bothered me most was that she wouldn't understand me. As a lover of words, and puns, and all things bookish, I ached to share that with my child and beyond that there are bigger problems with a lack of language. There's safety issues there of course, but more to the point how would she know that I loved her if she didn't understand the words coming out of my mouth? Then also, selfishly, as a mother, I sure would love to hear those words returned to me. This was the first and probably biggest scar for my arthritic heart. How would I be able to instill a sense of pervading acceptance, security, and appreciation to this precious soul I was given? Without the words I rely upon, how would my love reach her?
Tonight I watched a young man skip from his car to the door of the building where Sweet Girl has speech therapy. He was holding his iPad in the crux of one arm while he reached his other hand out to his mother. I've seen them before. They're part of my waiting room team. They have a time slot directly after Sweet Girl's and so once a week, we share 3-7 minutes of common space. I do not know their names. I do not know for certain how old the young man is. I have no idea where they live. I do not know for certain why the young man requires speech therapy. But I have seen, time and time again and with no more perfect clarity than what I witnessed tonight, that they love one another. Skipping in the parking lot has long since been socially acceptable for this young man. His clothes have a tendency to be soft textured and comfortable with little regard to matching hues. I have heard him speak and his speech is difficult to understand; his articulation and intonation making it a challenge to comprehend his message. His mother, on the other hand, is the antithesis of all of this. The word polished is more than appropriate: she wears suits and heels; hair coiffed, muted but intentional make-up; articulate in person and on the phone. I am sure that words have been difficult for them to share over the years. But tonight, when the young man was skipping and he held out his hand to his polished and poised mother, she took it and skipped with him to the door. I watched while I buckled seat belts and found the appropriate lollipop for the appropriate child, and both of them were not just happy but joyful. I know without having to share one other word with them, that they know their own love language. For the rest of the world, it may not seem like enough but for them it is.
|I love this picture.|