“Just twenty-three more days,” I remind him as we arrive at his preschool on yet another chilly January morning. When every day feels identical, numbers become crucial.
We eagerly count down the days to Valentine’s Day, akin to how others anticipate Christmas. The countdown begins right after New Year’s. I often wish he had a fondness for chocolate; I could create an elaborate Advent calendar filled with a giant assortment of sweets.
This journey started three years ago, during his inaugural year at an inclusive preschool designed for children with special needs. It marked the first holiday season spent with peers instead of just family. Halloween was a letdown; despite my efforts to transform his wheelchair into a Batmobile, he barely reacted. I captured one photo of him with drowsy eyes before he yanked off the cape and moved on with his day. Thanksgiving and Christmas were similarly uneventful. I was drawn to the excitement of school programs and sing-alongs, but he remained unresponsive, sitting like a miniature royal on his wheeled throne. None of these experiences seemed to engage him as I had hoped.
I began to dread the birthday invitations that appeared in his cubby, glittery reminders of what we couldn’t attend. “No, sorry, Leo won’t be able to join Rachel’s birthday at the trampoline park,” I would text, feeling the weight of my words. We had attempted a trial run at the trampoline park, just the two of us. With him in my arms, I awkwardly navigated the sea of trampolines. Younger kids bounced us around, startling him until I had to pull him out like a lifeguard rescuing a swimmer. The same went for pool parties and playdates; the atmosphere was either overwhelming or insufficient to entice him out of his shell.
“Remind me again, when does the ‘inclusive’ part of this inclusive preschool kick in for us?” I would say, using air quotes for emphasis while my husband observed the bruises on my knees from our trampoline escapade.
“The important thing is that he has the opportunity,” he would respond, embodying his unwavering optimism.
But by the time February arrived, I was picking through the dollar bin Valentine’s Day cards at Target with a sense of resignation. I had lost my enthusiasm for the holiday and simply wanted the 14th to come and go, quickly and inexpensively.
Before I realized it, Leo nearly toppled his wheelchair as he reached for a neglected bag of conversation hearts. I steadied him, trying not to notice the drool he had inadvertently transferred to the shoulder of the woman nearby. He lifted the bag to his nose, examining it as if he were an elderly man reading fine print.
We purchased the conversation hearts, their compact sweetness promising something special, and brought them to school. When the van door opened that afternoon and I secured him in his car seat, he uttered two words: “Mamma” (stretching it out like a game show host) “good.”
He raised a paper bag overflowing with candy and cards, revealing a piece of pink construction paper shaped like a heart. A kind soul had arranged his conversation hearts in a haphazard line that read: “Love You,” “Dear One,” and “Tweet Me.”
I chuckled and attempted to take it from him to prevent him from eating the glue, but he shot me a look that clearly said: “Not a chance.” I released my grip.
After dinner, I spread the remaining conversation hearts across the table, watching as he sifted through them like a child at the beach. He began forming coherent phrases: “UR,” “Real Luv,” “Soul Mate,” and “Marry Me,” followed by “Please,” while gesturing between me and his dad. We were left speechless, his words eclipsing our own.
Was this a magic trick? A bag of candy acting as a conduit for communication? I had wished for signs of progress in his abilities, but this felt different.
I recorded a video, struggling not to sound overly enthusiastic in the background, and shared it with his speech therapist. I held my breath until she confirmed my suspicions: he had done the same thing in class, creating that heart and spelling out messages for his classmates. I hung up and cried. Naturally.
In that moment, I realized my son had been harboring an entire world within him. Those candy hearts enabled him to express himself in ways that flashcards and his communication device had not. With those hearts before him, he crafted messages in vibrant colors that anyone could understand.
Now, he communicates more effectively with his device, engaging with others as I had always dreamed. But every Valentine’s Day, I still buy a bag of those hearts. We count down together, create cards with sentences he forms independently, and commemorate the holiday when he truly found his voice.
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In summary, Leo’s experience with conversation hearts was transformative, allowing him to find a means of expression he had struggled to achieve. Each year, we celebrate this milestone, reinforcing the importance of communication and connection.