Today’s Mother Words installment is one of longing and perspective from Cynthia Lehew-Nehrbass.

Conversations With My Daughter

Often as I listen to my friends express the woes of communicating with their teenage daughters, I wonder what the experience would be like. Conversations about messy rooms, requests for shopping sprees, exorbitant phone bills, and broken curfews — they all intrigue me. Their motherly struggles with finding the right tactic to curb the pubescent whiners and “back talkers” that inhabit their homes — I am almost jealous. Probing for details on how these conversations might go — I want to know everything. Why? As a mother, I would give almost anything to have even just one conversation — no matter how rocky — with my own teenage daughter.

Sarah Grace, my thirteen year old, has Down syndrome and hearing loss. She speaks in minimal, one to three word sentences — usually with prompting; and struggles through shyness to verbalize nearly anything. Daily, I see the frustration in her brown eyes as she attempts to express herself. From a young age, I always knew that Sarah would need help in the area of speech; but I thought that with years of therapy, by the time she was a teen, she would finally find her voice.

I remember conversations that I had with my own mother as I was growing up; ones where I’d divulge secrets, share giggles, or gossip. And also the ones where I’d throw my hands up and walk away in frustration. I’ve secretly longed for the day that my own daughter would come home from school, sit across from me at the kitchen table over cookies, and tell me about her day.

 I would even welcome the turbulent argument — her telling me off and slamming her bedroom door. I’d welcome the chance to hear her whine, to refuse, to “talk back”. Instead, Sarah closes one eye to me when she wants me to disappear, pushes me away when she is mad and sits down on the floor when she refuses to do something. This is just how she is able to communicate with me.

I would love to hear her speak, in long involved sentences, in the sweet voice that I hear only occasionally when she is singing her favorite songs. I’d ask her a million questions, like – “How’s school? Are the other kids nice to you? Do you ever feel alone and left out?” And she’d confide in me, in rambling, breathless sentences.

I have an occasional dream, one that equally haunts and soothes me. Sarah and I are at our kitchen table over cookies. She is telling me that she needs to talk to me. She confides that she doesn’t feel like she belongs at school, because she is different.

I hear her needing my guidance, my reassurance as she reveals all her secret fears. I tell her about when I was her age, overweight and in braces; never thinking I was pretty enough. That I was afraid of what boys thought of me because I was shy, and that I knew so many mean and caddy girls. I reassure her that it gets easier as you grow up and start feeling more comfortable in your own skin — that you do become more confident every day. And, although it is difficult at times, life’s journey is always interesting. She relaxes when I remind her that I am always here for her. I say softly, and she understands, that I think she is beautiful and amazing, just the way she is.

We talk for hours. I see her looking at me with her intent almond eyes, asking me endless questions and wanting advice on a cute boy. She giggles and belly laughs as we joke about silly “girl stuff”. I melt because her voice and the words she chooses are perfect and magical. They are exactly as I had always imagined, like a beautiful song that grabs my heart.

Somewhere in the dream I always wake up, and for a moment I wonder if, even hope, it had really happened. Then my daughter opens my bedroom door, peering in to see if I’m stirring yet. When I wave her in, she climbs in bed with me and puts her head on my shoulder. I kiss her and tell her “good morning”. And I wait. I wait to hear that beautiful voice. When it comes, it is still so satisfying. She says,” Mama, wake up”.

 I don’t have the heart to tell her, “Not quite yet, honey”. I’d like to stay in that dream a little longer, even to the point that she gets mad and slams her bedroom door. Because although my life with Sarah is uniquely wonderful, in so many unexpected ways, I still long to have conversations with my daughter.

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 21st, 2008 at 10:51 am and is filed under Main, Mother Words Essays. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.