As we arrive at his preschool on a frigid January morning, I remind him, “Only twenty-three more days until Valentine’s Day.” Counting down the days is essential, especially when each one feels so similar. We eagerly anticipate Valentine’s Day like others do Christmas, starting our countdown just after the New Year. If only Charlie enjoyed chocolate, I muse each year; I could create an elaborate Advent calendar filled with delightful treats.
This journey began three years ago, during Charlie’s first year at an inclusive preschool designed for children with special needs. It was the first holiday season spent with anyone outside our family. Halloween was a flop; despite my efforts to transform his wheelchair into a Batmobile, he was indifferent. I captured one photo of him with half-closed eyes before he discarded the cape and continued his day. Thanksgiving and Christmas passed similarly. As someone who loves celebration, I was drawn to the excitement of his first school programs and sing-alongs, but Charlie remained unresponsive, sitting like a tiny monarch on his wheelchair throne. Nothing seemed to engage him as I had hoped.
Birthday invitations that appeared in his cubby felt like glittery ticking time bombs. “Sorry, Charlie can’t attend Micah’s birthday at the trampoline park,” I would text, and that was the honest truth. We tried a test run at the trampoline park, just the two of us. With him cradled in my arms, we ventured onto the bouncy surfaces. Younger kids bounced us around, startling him until I had to pull him away like a lifeguard rescuing a struggling swimmer. The same thing happened at pool parties and play gyms; it was either overwhelming or insufficient stimulation to bring him out of his shell.
“Remind me again when this ‘inclusive’ preschool experience begins for us?” I lamented, using air quotes as my husband observed the bruises on my knees from our trampoline ordeal.
“The point is that he gets a chance,” he replied, always the steady optimist.
By the time February arrived, I found myself sifting through dollar bin Valentine’s cards at Target with a heavy heart. The sparkle of the holiday had faded for me, and I just wanted it to pass quickly and cheaply.
Then, almost unexpectedly, Charlie lunged for a dusty bag of conversation hearts, nearly tipping his wheelchair. I steadied him while ignoring the drool he inadvertently transferred onto a nearby woman’s shoulder. He held the bag close to his face, studying it intently.
We bought those sugary hearts and took them to school. That afternoon, when I secured him in his car seat, he exclaimed, “Ma-ma” (stretching it out like a game show host) and added “good.” He proudly displayed his paper sack overflowing with candy, cards, and stickers, pulling out a heart-shaped piece of pink construction paper. Someone had glued his conversation hearts in a crooked line that read: “Love You,” “Dear One,” and “Tweet Me.”
I chuckled and attempted to take the sticky heart away, fearing he would eat the glue. But Charlie, my son with cerebral palsy and a limited vocabulary, shot me a look that said, “Not a chance.” I let him keep it.
Later, I spread out the remaining conversation hearts on the table, watching as he sifted through them like treasures on a beach. He arranged them into meaningful phrases: “UR,” “Real Luv,” “Soul Mate,” and “Marry Me” next to “Please,” pointing from me to his dad. We stood in silence, his words resonating louder than ours.
Was this some kind of sorcery? A bag of candy acting like a magic board? As his mother, I had engaged in enough wishful thinking, envisioning movements and skills that hadn’t yet emerged, but this felt different.
I recorded a video, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic in the background. I shared it with his speech therapist and held my breath for her response. To my relief, she confirmed that he had done something similar in class, crafting that very heart. He had used candy to express messages for his classmates like a tiny wizard. When I hung up, tears flowed. Of course, they did. I had just unearthed a hidden world within my son.
Those conversation hearts unlocked a way for him to communicate that traditional methods like flashcards and even his sophisticated speech device had not. With those colorful candies at his fingertips, he formed messages that anyone could understand.
Now, he’s more adept with his speech device, engaging with others just as we had dreamed. Each year on Valentine’s Day, I make sure to buy a bag of those hearts, counting down the days with him, creating cards with sentences he constructs himself, and celebrating the holiday when he found his voice.
For those also on a journey of self-discovery, you might find helpful resources on home insemination and fertility at Make a Mom. Additionally, explore MedlinePlus for excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This heartfelt narrative shares the journey of a mother, Claire, as she navigates her son Charlie’s challenges with communication during special holidays. After a series of struggles, it is a bag of conversation hearts that unlocks Charlie’s ability to express himself, marking a significant turning point in his development. Each Valentine’s Day thereafter symbolizes his newfound voice and the joy of connection.
Leave a Reply