How My Son Discovered His Voice Through Conversation Hearts

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“Just twenty-three more days,” I remind him as we arrive at his preschool on a chilly morning in January. Numbers have become crucial when each day feels the same. We count down to Valentine’s Day like many do for Christmas, starting right after the New Year. If only he enjoyed chocolate, I think each year; I could create an extravagant countdown calendar filled with delicious treats.

This journey began three years ago when he attended an inclusive preschool for special needs children. It marked the first holiday season we celebrated with anyone beyond family. Halloween was a disappointment; despite my efforts to transform his wheelchair into a Batmobile, his disinterest was palpable. I managed to capture just one blurry photo before he discarded the cape and returned to his routine. Thanksgiving and Christmas passed similarly. I was drawn to the joy of his first school events and sing-alongs, but he remained impassive, like a miniature monarch on his wheeled throne. Nothing seemed to engage him as I had hoped.

The arrival of birthday invitations in his cubby felt like glittery time bombs. “No, sorry, Jake won’t be attending Lily’s birthday at the trampoline park,” I would text. “Will not be able…” was a phrase I often repeated, and it had never been truer. We tried a test run at the trampoline venue, just the two of us. With his weight fully supported by me, I stumbled onto the bouncing surface, only to have younger children jolt us around. He was startled and cried until I pulled him out like a lifeguard saving a swimmer. The same scenario played out at pool parties and play gyms; the stimuli were either overwhelming or insufficient to draw him out of his shell.

“Remind me again when the ‘inclusive’ aspect of this inclusive preschool kicks in?” I said, using air quotes for emphasis, while my partner observed the bruises on my knees from our trampoline misadventure.

“The important thing is that he gets the opportunity,” he replied, embodying his unwavering sense of optimism.

When February rolled around that year, I approached the Valentine’s Day decorations at Target with a sense of resignation. I was over the allure of the holiday and just wanted the 14th to pass quickly and cheaply.

Before I knew it, Jake lunged for a dusty bag of conversation hearts, nearly tipping his wheelchair. I steadied him, pretending not to see the drool that landed on the shoulder of a stranger nearby. He lifted the bag to his nose, examining it closely, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

We bought the conversation hearts, and I took them to school with him. That afternoon, as I secured him in his car seat, he uttered two words, “Mommy” (stretching it out like a game show host) “good.”

He showed me the paper sack overflowing with candy and cards and pulled out a piece of pink construction paper shaped like a heart. Someone had affixed his conversation hearts in a haphazard line that read: “Love U”… “Sweetheart”… “Text Me.”

I chuckled and attempted to gently take it from him, worried he might eat the glue, but he shot me a look that communicated: “Not a chance.” I relinquished my grip and drove home.

After dinner, I dumped the leftover conversation hearts onto the table, the sugary remnants falling into the wood’s crevices. To my amazement, Jake began to arrange them like seashells on a beach, forming coherent phrases: “UR,” “True Luv,” “Soul Mate,” and “Marry Me,” next to “Please,” while gesturing between me and his dad. We were silent, his words silencing ours.

Was this a magic trick? A bag of candy acting like a conduit for expression? I had previously indulged in wishful thinking about his abilities, but this felt different. I recorded a video, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic like a pageant mom, and shared it with his speech therapist. Holding my breath, I awaited her response, which confirmed my suspicions. He had done the same activity in class, crafting that heart-shaped paper. He had communicated messages for his classmates like a tiny oracle. I hung up the phone and cried. Naturally, I did—this was the moment I discovered the world he had been concealing inside him.

The conversation hearts made language accessible in ways that flashcards or his sophisticated speaking device never could. With those hearts in his hands, he created vibrant messages that the world could comprehend.

Now, he is more adept with his device, engaging with others as we always envisioned he would. Yet, each Valentine’s Day, I buy a bag of those hearts, we count down together, and we craft cards featuring sentences he forms independently, celebrating the holiday he discovered his voice.

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Summary

In this heartfelt narrative, Emily describes how her son Jake found his voice through conversation hearts, transforming his ability to communicate. Initially struggling to engage with holidays and social situations, Jake’s discovery of the candy hearts allowed him to express himself in ways previously thought impossible. This moment marked a significant turning point in his journey toward effective communication, culminating in an annual celebration of his newfound voice each Valentine’s Day.