Lately, I’ve been engrossed in a series called “The Americans.” It’s a thrilling blend of espionage and suspense, set against a backdrop of vibrant 80s aesthetics. However, it has left me feeling quite paranoid. Who might be listening in on our conversations?
If someone were to eavesdrop on our home, they might think we’ve vacated the premises. Our family often sinks into silence, reminiscent of a grandmother who trails off mid-sentence, or perhaps a quirky group of sleepyheads. While we certainly have our boisterous times—shouting over the “Moana” soundtrack, the sudden blare of LeapFrog toys, or the bickering of my twins over the smallest issues—the most meaningful exchanges occur in the quiet moments.
My eldest, Noah, is nearly non-verbal. He communicates through a combination of a speech device, flashcards, sign language, and animated gestures. Watching him express himself is akin to witnessing a delicate dance or an enchanting magic act; you’re always anticipating the grand reveal. However, when the day has been long and the effort becomes too much, we simplify things with a hand gesture game. I raise both hands and ask, “Do you prefer Cheerios (left hand) or raisins (right hand)?” Noah points to the left. Then I may ask, “Would you like to read Green Eggs and Ham after eating (left hand) or The Very Hungry Caterpillar (right hand)?” He munches on a Cheerios, pauses, and taps my right hand. It’s quick and feels like a little game. While it may not be the most effective way for him to communicate, it serves its purpose.
In contrast, the twins’ quiet moments can be unnerving. When the house falls silent and they’re out of sight, I know something mischievous is brewing—something that might leave the carpet or walls forever altered. Their unique form of “twinspeak,” a silent dialogue they share right before my eyes, often involves plotting some household takeover or deciding to give the dog an unexpected haircut. It’s a wavelength only they can hear, and I’ve taken to waving my hands in front of them to break their concentration, like dispelling a thick fog.
Of course, my partner and I have our own method of communication as well. When it’s 7:30 p.m., bedtime rolls around, and no one is dressed for bed while everyone pleads for a second dessert, we rely on eye contact. We stand united; divided, we falter.
This is the unique rhythm of our family. Our “normal” comprises bursts of noise followed by stretches of silence where the genuine connections are made. In those quiet spaces, we express ourselves without words. However, for outsiders, this type of communication may be hard to grasp. Families with children who have special needs often navigate a world that requires lived experience for true understanding. You need to be part of the narrative to comprehend its unusual unfolding.
For us, the unspoken doesn’t equate to being unheard.
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Summary
Navigating communication with my non-verbal son, Noah, and my mischievous twins creates a unique family dynamic filled with silence and subtle gestures. While we have our noisy moments, the most profound exchanges occur in the quiet. Understanding our family’s communication style requires lived experience, as the unspoken conveys so much.
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