Thursday was my third year blog anniversary. I can't believe it's been three years since I first started blogging and wrote my first post. If you would have told me that I would still be blogging three years later, I would never have imagined that. It's been amazing and fun over the years. I appreciate your interest and love for Dear Son.To celebrate, I'd like to re-print one of my very first posts. I've written a new post, which I'll publish tomorrow, that relates to this one. Call it pre-requisite reading, if you like.
As I mentioned last week, I will continue to write about Dear Son and also some new topics. I wrote briefly about organizing and pulled all of the posts last night, because I didn't feel the interest was there. I wasn't getting any comments. So I am going back to my roots and writing mostly about Dear Son. I am going to try to dedicate more time to writing. It's been really hard though, compared to previous years, because I don't get much sleep. When I don't get a lot of sleep, it's hard to do creative things like write stories, because my brain doesn't function as well. Most writers will tell you the same things. My best stories always come after a full night's sleep. When I get less, they tend to be somewhat choppy and that's unacceptable. I usually won't publish those. Writing stories about Dear Son, takes a lot more effort than writing a post on a particular subject.
As for Dear Son, he continues to deteriorate physically but mentally seems really happy when he's engaged in "adult" activities at school. This year the focus is on age appropriate activities. His sitting days however are getting numbered. For the most part, he no longer has any trunk control to make sitting a possibility for much longer.
We also have a surprise to share with you in a few weeks. Gary, from Tendercare Beds, is making Dear Son one of his beautiful beds. I look forward to showing it to you.
Thank you for your continued interest in Dear Son.
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Once is Not Enough-Reprint from 2/21/06
I was still sleeping when I heard his voice. At first, I couldn’t believe it. Was I still dreaming? It was the kind of voice that is forever embedded in your memory. It was soft, sweet and yet from the heart, the kind you never forget. Kind of like hearing a beautiful aria for the first time, the kind that sends chills down your spine. The kind where you desperately hope for an encore but it never comes. I waited quietly to see if I would hear it again, however it was not to be.
I remember the first time I heard his voice. It was years ago. He never talked at first. It seemed like I was talking to myself for the longest time however I knew deep inside, he understood. Our conversations, if you call them that, took place round the clock. Always one sided of course, but you could tell by his smile that he “got” it.
So today was wonderful. His voice was much deeper now, more manly. But oh, so sweet. It was only one word though, “Hi”. I called out to him and asked him to repeat it but I heard nothing. I waited some more and then asked again. Still nothing.
I got up and went to his room. There in his bed, was my son, smiling. He’s fourteen now. It’s been years since I’ve heard his voice. But this morning I woke to the most beautiful sound, “Hi”. I kissed him on the cheek and said the same words that I say every morning, “Good morning, beautiful doll”. I thanked him for saying “hi” not knowing how much time would pass before I would hear it again, if at all. Our days are growing longer and much quieter now since he sleeps most of the time.
His Dad and I speak daily. Sometimes we have the conversation on which life skills we wish he could have, if we had to choose only one. Talking and walking always come to the top of the list, but we can never figure out which one is more important. Would it be more important for Dear Son to tell us what he needs and wants or more important for him to run and play with the other boys? Our conversation is the type you have when the lottery stakes get really high and the news people ask people what they would do with the money if they won. Only it’s not a lottery and we are never going to win.
Sometimes, I dream of the conversation that my son and I will never have. I would love to hear about his day in the first person instead of reading the day’s events in the spiral notebook attached to the back of the wheelchair. Sometimes, when I am out somewhere, I envy sometimes the excitement of boys talking to their parents telling them about their day. I envy them when they are arguing too because some language is better than none. They don’t know it of course, because they are blessed. As it should be.
I remember the first time I heard his voice. It was years ago. He never talked at first. It seemed like I was talking to myself for the longest time however I knew deep inside, he understood. Our conversations, if you call them that, took place round the clock. Always one sided of course, but you could tell by his smile that he “got” it.
So today was wonderful. His voice was much deeper now, more manly. But oh, so sweet. It was only one word though, “Hi”. I called out to him and asked him to repeat it but I heard nothing. I waited some more and then asked again. Still nothing.
I got up and went to his room. There in his bed, was my son, smiling. He’s fourteen now. It’s been years since I’ve heard his voice. But this morning I woke to the most beautiful sound, “Hi”. I kissed him on the cheek and said the same words that I say every morning, “Good morning, beautiful doll”. I thanked him for saying “hi” not knowing how much time would pass before I would hear it again, if at all. Our days are growing longer and much quieter now since he sleeps most of the time.
His Dad and I speak daily. Sometimes we have the conversation on which life skills we wish he could have, if we had to choose only one. Talking and walking always come to the top of the list, but we can never figure out which one is more important. Would it be more important for Dear Son to tell us what he needs and wants or more important for him to run and play with the other boys? Our conversation is the type you have when the lottery stakes get really high and the news people ask people what they would do with the money if they won. Only it’s not a lottery and we are never going to win.
Sometimes, I dream of the conversation that my son and I will never have. I would love to hear about his day in the first person instead of reading the day’s events in the spiral notebook attached to the back of the wheelchair. Sometimes, when I am out somewhere, I envy sometimes the excitement of boys talking to their parents telling them about their day. I envy them when they are arguing too because some language is better than none. They don’t know it of course, because they are blessed. As it should be.
