In the frigid grip of January, I remind my son, “Just twenty-three days left,” as we arrive at his preschool. For him, counting down to Valentine’s Day has become a ritual, much like others anticipate Christmas. It begins right after New Year’s, and I can’t help but wish he liked chocolate; I could create a magnificent Advent calendar filled with delightful treats.
Three years ago marked his first experience at an inclusive preschool for children with special needs, a pivotal moment that brought holidays beyond family gatherings. Halloween was uneventful; despite my efforts to transform his wheelchair into a Batmobile, he showed little interest. I managed a single photo, capturing his half-closed eyes before he removed the cape and continued his day. Thanksgiving and Christmas passed with similar indifference. As someone who revels in celebrations, I was drawn to the joyous school programs and sing-alongs, yet he remained stoic, like a tiny monarch on his wheeled throne. None of the festivities seemed to engage him as I had hoped.
I dreaded the birthday invitations that arrived in his cubby like glittery traps. “Sorry, Caleb can’t attend Micah’s party at the trampoline park,” I would text. “Will not be able…” felt like the truest RSVP. We attempted a trial run at the trampoline park, just the two of us. I struggled to keep him steady as younger kids bounced around us, causing him to cry until I led him to safety. The same pattern emerged at pool parties and play gyms—either too overwhelming or not stimulating enough to coax him out of his shell.
“Remind me when the ‘inclusive’ part of this preschool kicks in?” I asked, using exaggerated air quotes while my partner examined the bruises on my knees from the trampoline fiasco.
“The important thing is he has the opportunity,” he replied, embodying his motto of “steady onward.”
However, when February rolled around that first year, I found myself begrudgingly sifting through Valentine’s Day cards at Target, feeling defeated. I just wanted the 14th to pass quickly.
Then, before I could react, my son lunged for a bag of conversation hearts, nearly tipping his wheelchair. I steadied him, discreetly averting my gaze from the drool he had inadvertently transferred to a nearby woman. He examined the bag as if it held the secrets of the universe.
We took the conversation hearts to school, and when I loaded him into the van that afternoon, he exclaimed, “Ma-ma” (stretching it out like a game show host), “good.” As he displayed his haul of candy, cards, and stickers, he revealed a pink construction paper heart with conversation hearts glued in an uneven line reading: “Love You,” “Dear One,” and “Tweet Me.”
I chuckled and tried to gently take the heart from him to prevent him from consuming the glue, but the look he gave me clearly said, “Not happening.” I let go and drove home.
After dinner, I poured the remaining conversation hearts onto the table, watching as he sifted through them like a child at the beach, arranging them in meaningful sequences. “UR,” “Real Luv,” “Soul Mate,” and “Marry Me,” placed next to “Please,” which he pointedly directed at both me and his dad. We fell silent, his newfound words filling the space where ours had been.
Was this a trick? A bag of candy functioning like an Ouija board? I had previously indulged in wishful thinking as his mother, imagining movements and skills that hadn’t yet arrived. But this felt different.
I recorded a video, trying to suppress my excitement while sounding composed. I shared it with his speech therapist, holding my breath until she confirmed my unspoken fears. He had done the same in class, crafting that paper heart and spelling out messages for his peers. I hung up the phone, tears streaming down my face. My son had been harboring a world within him.
There was something about those candy hearts that unlocked language for him in a way that traditional flashcards and his fancy communication device had not. With the hearts in his grasp, he formed colorful messages that made sense to the world around him.
Now, he uses his device more effectively, engaging in conversations as we had always dreamed. Each year, we continue the tradition of buying a bag of conversation hearts, counting down the days, and creating our own cards with sentences he constructs. We celebrate the holiday that marked the moment he discovered his voice.
For more insights on starting your parenting journey, consider checking out resources like Mount Sinai’s infertility resources, which offer valuable guidance. You can also explore this blog post on home insemination kits to learn more about different options. And for expert advice on beauty care, take a look at intracervicalinsemination.com.
In summary, my son’s journey to finding his voice through conversation hearts showcases the power of simple tools in unlocking communication for children with special needs. Each Valentine’s Day serves as a reminder of this pivotal moment in his development.