When I was a little girl I had two loves; pretending I could grow gills if only I spent enough time swimming, and books. I would spend hours and hours lost in my own world. A world created and contained in the words and friends poured onto their pages; worlds now contained inside of my head. My imagination carrying on their stories long after the last page had been read and the book was back on my shelf. (Or more likely under my bed.)
I imagined myself on an island with a black horse, or a babble fish inside of my head, of knights and kings. I dreamed of an age of robots and artificial intelligence, being the one to save robots and humans alike. I flew through the stars, and spoke with foxes. I trained bears, and loved a Lion. I fought Roman invasion, and dined with the gods. All the things I imagined and all the things I loved were hidden between the covers of my beloved books.
Left over unwanted bits of wood, mashed up and spread out into paper and transformed into something else. Something alive. The world was rich with imagination, language, words and rules, so uniquely human.
When I was very very little language came naturally to me, so naturally that it seemed supernatural or eerie to the adults around me. At my second birthday, I took my grandfather by the hand and walked him around to meet people, "I would like to introduce you to my Granddad." I don't remember, but I can imagine it was a little unsettling for some. When I was 4 I started kindergarten, a year earlier than my peers, and already reading proficiently. "See Jane run." Yes, but what about her birthday party, and the bow in her hair, and what did her sister bring her?
Language, syntax; the conveyance of feelings and thoughts that change the world, bringing life and meaning to ordinary reality.
This is what I grew up with, this is what I knew. When I was in 5th grade I was reading books like "Homer's The Illiad and The Odyssey" and "The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy" and the Encyclopedia Britannica. I found comfort in words, this shared experience we call language. I took pride in it, and despaired in peoples brutal butchery of one of the most elegant ways of sharing our human condition with each other, even if it was just, "Put the butter on the table so we can eat, Mom." (Don't forget the comma please!!)
Even when nothing in the world made sense, I had my sword. My words. I used to call them my weapon, which is another story we wont get into today.
When my first son was very little, he said the expected "Momma" "Milky" and "NO!", but his very first word, the very first thing he made an effort to say because it mattered to him, was, "Aardvark". It wasn't a fluke, or an imagined "look at how advanced my baby is!" moment. He deliberately would pick up one of his letter books, point to the aardvark and say it's name.
Brilliant! My son understands! He get's it! The important things in life are worth saying! I rejoiced and reveled in that moment, I breathed in deeply and knew all was right with the world. Words they mean so very much, often we actually pay little attention to them. We take for granted that we have language and higher thought, and the fact that this does make us special. We aren't just creatures scurrying about on the earth, eating and breeding and fighting for our territory. We have the ability to be so much MORE.
So you can see why, when my younger son was born and I was told that he would likely not talk until he was 5, it was a bit disconcerting. I will admit the broad implications of that didn't hit me at the time, nor could they. I was drowning in facts and data, therapy, and medications. Breathing was something I had to be reminded by others to do, as my brain didn't have room to remember this fundamental task of living. I thought, "It's ok, he will talk, so it will be fine."
As the years went by the reality sunk in, it was a lesson I was not prepared for. Trying to teach sign to a baby who doesn't have the physical strength to lift his hands for more than a few seconds at a time, and who really isn't interested in using his energy for it is quite frustrating. You don't realize that you pick up on their cues; learning what means, "I'm tired," and what means, "I need a clean diaper." It's a matter of necessity. One day someone says, "Wow, you really know what he would say if he could, don't you?" And you suddenly see, in a moment of clarity, that you can at once hear your child and fulfill their needs, and not hear them at all. No, I don't really know what he would say. I know what he wants, I know what he needs. I don't know what he thinks. Not really. Oh you get the general gist of things, "I HATE yellow carrots! They belong on the floor!" "I LOVE Elmo, lets wiggle dance some more!" But I don't know what he loves or hates about those things.
When Z-man was about 4 we moved back to southern California after having lived in Florida, a place vibrant and alive with insects and reptiles, birds, and turtles all scurrying about and providing an endlessly entertaining environment for my children. But here in coastal Southern California, if you're very lucky on a warm day in the right part of town you might see as many as 3 or 4 lizards, and a few insects aside from a house fly or a bee. (If you see a wasp or fuzzy red ant, just go somewhere else!)
The boys were particularly disappointed by this change of the outdoors, and I am still regularly asked when we will move back to Florida. Florida is the "dream" around here.
When Topher was adjusting to being back, and much lamenting his loss of flora and fauna to explore, he discovered that we did have one bug here in great abundance. The Rolly Pollie, or the Pill Bug.
Topher had, at a very young age, decided that when he grew up he wanted to be an entomologist. (I didn't even know he knew the word "entomologist" at that time.) He had a various selection of bug watching and catching equipment, including a wide assortment of bug jars with a magnification lens on one end to observe your new leggy, and hopefully antenna-ed new friend. (I find bugs without antenna decidedly creepy...) Since the only real bug selection consisted of various sizes and colors of rolly pollies, that is what he filled his jars with. Separated by size, color, and even spotting patterns, there were containers littered across the yard many filled with dozens upon dozens of the tiny armored critters.
Z-man was still next to non-verbal at this point, often refusing to even say something as simple as "no" or to sign "please". One day something extraordinary happened, Z-man noticed the rolly pollies. Not just a, "Hey, look at those bug thingies in here, lets catch some more!" kind of a way. Rather in a, "Hey, these bugs are all jammed in here, and they're climbing all over each other!" way.
Actually that's exactly what it was, Z-man was deeply distressed that all of those rolly pollies were rudely and incessantly clambering and climbing over each other! He sat there in the grass, blonde hair shining like the sun, hands held before him cradling the containers of bugs, deeply and completely heartbroken and ANGRY that the bugs would not STOP! He was so angry, he had to say it. Red faced and intense almost yelling, "Hey!" "NO!" "NO Ciem!" (climb) "HEY, TOP!!" (stop) "I SAY NO!"
My virtually non-verbal, but my no means mute, son was speaking! Sure not enough to be considered a conversation, but definitely enough to get his point across. Those bugs were WRONG to be climbing on each other. It was rude, it was mean, it was intolerable.
I was blown away, it was a reminder (a slap in the face, really) that there was a full blown human being inside of my son. My son, whom I loved more than anyone else on the planet loved him, and I had marginalized a part of him because he couldn't SAY something. In that moment I realized just how much I hated that he couldn't talk for all those years. I realized how much I just *did* things for him because I knew what he wanted. Most importantly, I realized how much humanity there is inside of each of us, ESPECIALLY those who can't or wont say what they are thinking.
Language, it is such a fundamental part of being human, of our interactions with each other. Our understanding and expressing of our emotions, our love for each other. It has only been about a year since Z-man started to speak well enough for people outside of his family to understand him. And it is still rough, he doesn't use complete sentences, and severe apraxia keeps him from being able to get many words out, even though he's thinking them. But still, he can say what he really needs to. It has been a hard road to get here, and I am so thankful for the hard work everyone put into bringing him this far. We rejoice in the smallest of victories, and it makes the world a different place than I lived in before.
It's all the moments that made everything sparkle and glow and GROW that we take for granted, the moments that we miss because they seem so mundane. These are the moments my life is about, and why I named my blog.
This is about finding the laughter and joy, the beauty and absurdity in Scolding Rolly Pollies.
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