Take a Moment

I babysat my friend’s deaf 2-year-old yesterday.  I had a lot of anxiety leading up to it since I don’t know sign language.  I wondered how I would possibly be able to communicate with her and entertain her.  I worried that she would have a miserable time and wondered what kinds of things deaf children even like to do.  I had a stomachache in the morning knowing that she was coming over.  I tried to explain to Eva that our friend is deaf.  I should have just made my speech to the dog since Eva blankly stared at me, waited for me to stop talking, then said something about Sesame Street.  Worse yet, when the little girl’s mom explained to her that she would be coming over to my house, the poor thing clung to her mom’s leg as if it was a lone branch on a cliffside. I couldn’t even reassure the girl by telling a joke or insisting that I’m a likeable gal - I have approximately 2 friends after all. (If I round up.)  I stood there like a ninny wondering what I should do.  The fear in the girl’s eyes made me realize this was going to be a catastrophe.

I first met this little girl when she was only a few months old and I instantly felt pity for her.  Every subsequent visit with her made me shake my head in sympathy for the deaf child.  How will she thrive in a hearing world?  How sad that she will never hear the sound of her mother’s voice as she sings silly songs or lullabies to comfort her in the night.  She will never hear the clear soprano of a chirping bird or the deep bass of a grumbling garbage truck making its rounds.  Sadder still, her mother will never hear the sweet tones of a toddler girl laughing or verbalizing the soul-warming phrase, “I love you, Mama.”  The idea of raising a deaf child is so overwhelming to me that I would literally feel sadness whenever I saw her. 

Then I was asked to babysit.

I was instantly put at ease once I realized that the sweet girl is like any other 2-year-old.  We played peek-a-boo, I pushed her around on the trike, she motioned for things that she wanted and we had a fun time with her.  She puttered around and sifted through the toy box just like Eva does.  I did feel bad that I couldn’t communicate with sign language to her but she understood my smiles and excited expressions.  The fact that she is deaf didn’t matter.

When I took her home and she spotted her mom, the munchkin opened her mouth so wide and smiled that I thought her jaw might unhinge.  Her eyes beamed with a sincere brightness that only a child can create.  Without any words and without any sound, she greeted her mother with a tender, “I love you, Mama.”  Her life is not sad at all.

As I was leaving she signed for me to come in and watch a movie with her.  She had become my buddy and my friend count is now up to 3.  My 3rd friend just might be my favorite.

I spent the rest of the day reflecting on how lazy I can be as a parent because Eva can hear.  I realized that I can improve my efforts to hear my child.  I shouldn’t stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell for her to come down; I should walk up and find her.  When Eva is speaking to me, I should stop whatever insignificant task is occupying my mind and look at her while she talks.  I should memorize the endearing sound of her innocent voice as she sings the alphabet song or reads her books.

I should listen.