“Only twenty-three more days,” I remind him as we arrive at preschool on another chilly January morning. Numbers matter when every day feels the same. We count down to Valentine’s Day much like others anticipate Christmas. It begins right after New Year’s. If only he enjoyed chocolate, I often think. I could create an incredible Advent calendar filled with delicious treats.
This journey started three years ago when he first attended an inclusive preschool for children with special needs. It marked the beginning of celebrating holidays with friends rather than just family. Halloween was a complete miss. He wasn’t impressed by my transformation of his wheelchair into a Batmobile. I managed a single photo where his eyes were half-closed before he discarded the cape and resumed his day. Thanksgiving and Christmas passed with similar indifference. Despite my enthusiasm for celebrations and his first school performances, he remained aloof, like a mini-Queen Elizabeth on his wheeled throne. None of it seemed to engage him as I had hoped.
As birthday invitations began appearing in his cubby like glittery time bombs, I dreaded the task of declining them. “No, sorry, Jake won’t be able to attend Sam’s party at the trampoline park,” I would text. “Will not be able…” was the most accurate RSVP I could give. We had attempted a trial run at the trampoline park—just the two of us. With all his weight in my arms, I staggered onto the bouncy surface, only to be startled by kids half his age bouncing us around until he cried out in fear. It was the same scenario at pool parties and play gyms; the overstimulation kept him withdrawn.
“Can you remind me when the ‘inclusive’ part of inclusive preschool starts for us?” I asked, using air quotes while my husband eyed the bruises on my knees from our trampoline escapade. “The point is he gets the chance,” he replied, ever the optimist.
By the time February rolled around, I found myself sifting through the Valentine’s Day section at Target with a sense of dread. I was over the holiday cheer and just wanted the 14th to come and go quickly.
Before I could react, Jake lunged for a bag of conversation hearts, nearly tipping his wheelchair. I steadied him while trying to ignore the drool he had transferred onto the shoulder of the woman next to us. He held the bag close to his face, examining it intently.
We purchased the conversation hearts, and later that day, when I secured him in his car seat, he said two words, “Ma-ma” (stretching the syllables like a game show host), “good.” He proudly displayed his paper sack overflowing with candy, cards, and stickers, pulling out a piece of pink construction paper shaped like a heart. Someone had glued his conversation hearts in an uneven line that read: “Love You”… “Dear One”… “Tweet Me.”
I chuckled and attempted to gently take it from him to prevent him from consuming the gluey sugar. But my son, who has cerebral palsy and only a limited vocabulary, shot me a look that clearly said, “Not a chance.” I relented and drove home.
After dinner, I poured the leftover conversation hearts onto the table, letting the powdery remnants settle into the wood cracks. I watched as he began sifting through them like seashells at the beach, arranging them into coherent phrases.
“UR,” “Real Luv,” “Soul Mate,” and “Marry me” next to “Please,” as he pointed between me and his father. We stood in stunned silence, his words eclipsing ours. Was this some kind of sorcery? A bag of candy turned into a portal of communication? I had spent so much time wishing for movements and skills that were yet to emerge, but this felt different.
I recorded a video, struggling to sound nonchalant like a proud parent. I sent it to his speech therapist, holding my breath until she confirmed my unvoiced hopes. He had done the same thing in class. He had crafted that construction paper heart and spelled out messages for his classmates like a little genius. I hung up the phone and cried. Naturally, I did. I had just realized my child had been harboring a world within him.
Something about those candy hearts made language accessible for him in a way traditional flashcards and his advanced speaking device never could. With the hearts at his fingertips, he created colorful messages that everyone could understand.
Now, he communicates better with his device, engaging with others as we always dreamed he would. Yet, every Valentine’s Day, I purchase a bag of those hearts, we countdown together, and create cards with sentences he formulates himself. We celebrate the holiday when he truly found his voice.
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In summary, my son’s journey to discover his voice through conversation hearts was not just a transformative moment; it opened a new world of communication for him. Each year, we celebrate this milestone, reminding ourselves of the power of connection through simple gestures.