Where are your manners, mama?

As he handed me the ball with his left hand he looked up into my eyes, frowning, then lifted his right hand to his chin and pulled it forward signing “thank you” and repeated himself in what was clearly a passive aggressive reminder for what I should be saying to him.

This telling off was deserved, I really do value good manners and I hadn’t thanked him for sharing his ball with me. Children, especially toddlers (or in this case threenagers), are master parent-humblers. As soon as you start to get cocky in your parenting there will be a developmental leap or they’ll say something in public that you meant for a private conversation or they will just decide to hate that food you confidently bought in bulk after they ate it enthusiastically for a few days, just to keep that parenting ego in check. I don’t generally welcome those moments of enforced humility, but this one had me welling up with pure joy. More than just him learning that saying thank you is a must. He signed to me, in clear BSL, communicating in a way that was more than purely functional; it was functional AND sassy.

Don’t get me wrong, this boy has always had a bit of sass. He expresses it in many ways (for the most part it looks like a tantrum, ideally in public to attract as much attention as possible), but this was the first time he did it in this way, using language.

When Benji was a baby we were told he had a hearing loss & I found myself watching videos on social media of deaf children hearing their parents voices for the first time. The tear jerking moment where the aids/implant are switched on, baby squeals in delight and mum says “I love you” through choked sobs. Then we had The Lost Years, where Benji was mistakenly discharged from audiology, followed by his eventual diagnosis a few months ago. The subsequent hearing aid fittings brought me right back to those ‘switch on’ videos. 

Covid meant that only one parent could go with him to the momentous appointment so I snatched the chance and promised Abe I’d get a video so he could have his very own tear jerker video. Spoiler: I didn’t keep that promise. The appointment didn’t go to plan- Benjamin hated his hearing aids and I fumbled around with my nervous fingers cutting off the video by accident. I felt incredibly awkward talking to him with the audiology team watching us closely so I couldn’t think of anything to say, then he cried and needed a cuddle so the video didn’t materialise. When I got home I was deflated. The build up to hearing aids had been intense. Over the following weeks I slowly realised that making my deaf son hear wasn’t actually the goal, but celebrating and supporting him in his own learning was. Seeing him start to recognise and respond to signs was more magical and meaningful than any switch on video could have been. His nursery teacher telling me he’d asked for daddy at nursery by signing, his excited signs as he tells us about his new favourite tv programme, his reminder that I should have manners enough to say thank you when he shares with me- these are the real tear jerkers. These are the moments I want to cherish. 

We were advised against signing with him as a toddler, by health professionals who wanted his speech to progress properly when he showed delays. I mourn all the missed opportunities, and I regret taking that (terrible) advice. Now we celebrate every new sign he learns, every new context in which he uses it. My hope is that as we progress in learning this new language it’ll become so commonplace in our day to day that we don’t have many moments like these, so I’m enjoying them in this stage (while also looking forward to communicating without fumbling over my fingers). 

I don’t know exactly what the future holds as we continue with testing, appointments and therapies, but one thing I’m sure of is this: no matter how we communicate, he will always find ways to make sure I’m humbled in my parenting.

Separation anxiety and some glittery dinosaurs.

Playgroup. Sounds a fun place, doesn’t it? A group specifically for play. A no-mum zone where messy play is not only permitted, but actively encouraged. I was keen to get Christopher into a playgroup once he turned 2 so I got some recommendations for local ones and signed him up to one that friends had recommended and we liked the look of. Introductory day went well, Christopher loved all the toys and I got a good vibe from the place. The next few weeks didn’t go so well, Christopher howled when I attempted to leave and clung on so tightly that my heart broke for him. I knew it was for his own good but I was struggling so I asked Abe to go with him on one of his days off. It was a disaster. I’ll cut a long story short, the weeks went on and I felt frustrated/heart broken/mum guilt/ anxiety-passer-on’er guilt and totally short-changed. What was meant to be my morning of post-nightshift peace had turned into me becoming an all too permanent feature in the playgroup. I spent too much time pacing the floors of the corridor, praying for him to stop crying and settle, and not enough time drinking coffee on my sofa and having a wee snooze.

Last week my mum emailed me with a link to an article about anxiety in children. There was a bit about separation anxiety which had some practical tips and I was willing to try anything so I took notes. One suggestion was to have a photo of you and your child, half it and take the one of your child while giving him/her the half with you on it. I liked the idea but wasn’t sure if that might be too complex for a two year old so opted instead for a couple of pictures; one with the three of us along with one from last weekend of us and my brother and his family too. I figured that if Christopher had a few familiar faces in a picture that might encourage him even more than just me and Abe. I thought with it being a recent picture and with people he knows it might at least give him something to chat about. I popped them into his “dino bag” (an animal decorated Body Shop bag that contained delicious smelling shower gels etc when I was given it for one of my birthdays in my teens. Teen me would love to know that it is being so well used and loved all these years later!) alongside his 8 toy dinosaurs. 8 is a ridiculous number of toys to be demanding to take everywhere but my little diva insists and since my patience runs out around question number 42: “where is rex?” I’ve given up on limiting them.

It worked

He cried for a wee while but I left and sat in my car (with a few tears of my own) The manager sent me a text saying he had settled down and was telling them all about his pictures. I was totally surprised that he had settled. A lovely friend of mine had arranged to meet me to go for a wee walk (/pace the playgroup corridors with me. I’m very thankful for mama solidarity!) so I sent her a text to change the plan. I picked her up and we went for a coffee (nearby obviously. I was relieved but still on edge!) Her wee ones are in school so it was a child-free date and we relished every (hot) sip. The playgroup manager sent me a picture of Christopher painting his dinosaurs in glitter paint (which is exactly what playgroup is all about for me. Releasing me from any guilt over refusing to allow glitter in our house because he gets to glitter to his wee hearts’ content there) and having a lovely time.

This is such a dull post, especially to anyone who doesn’t have a toddler. I can’t apologise though because the playgroup drama has taken over my life for the past couple of months and now we are finally making progress! I’ve been praying and googling and talking poor Abe and my mum’s ears off about it. Such a simple idea has totally turned it around, I wanted to share it just incase it helps someone else too.

I’m hoping he continues, I could definitely get used to drinking hot coffees and I’m not giving up the idea of some sofa snoozing. Glittery dinos, a smiling toddler and some hot coffee make for a very happy mama indeed.