12/5/17
I feel like I’m lying.
Today, I was asked eight different times how Ethan was doing. Each time, I
mentioned how great he was doing. Almost like a platitude, I mention his cute chubby thighs,
and his lovely squishiness. It’s not that these things don’t bring me great joy, they do. It’s just
that this isn’t the whole picture.
There were things that worried me about Ollie, but they were things that I felt that could
communicate, because they were “normal” problems like sleep, diaper rash, and swaddling.
While I consciously made sure not to complain too much, when I saw it as away to connect
and bond, these concerns were met with humor and support.
The whole picture with Ollie was
something that I was comfortable with, and there were things that I held back. This was not because of
discomfort but rather because of my own need to hold small pieces of joy privately in my heart.
The thing that I hold back about Ethan, his unilateral hearing loss, I keep to myself because I
don’t want to be a bummer. I don’t have all the answers that I know people will ask, and I’m
afraid of how the words will come out of my mouth, and the accompanying emotions that may come out.
When I told my closest friend at school about Ethan’s hearing loss, I didn’t cry, but I was close.
When I look into the eyes of people who casually asks me about how Ethan is doing, my mind races
through the truth of my experience, the completeness and complexity of emotions. Every time
this happened today, I pulled back from what was real, and gave them something safe.
One
time I dipped into the nervousness of raising another boy, and then I talked about the widening
view our society has of masculinity and how I felt reassured of this. This probably seemed
insightful and challenging, but this was something I had long sense wrestled with and
figured out when Diana was pregnant with Ollie. This expression of insecurity and struggle was
safe.
I don’t want Ethan to be the kid with hearing loss, and I worry that if I reveal this to people, that
part of his identity will become his identity. I imagine a conversation in the future.
“Kingsley’s son wrote this really cool story I read today.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, the one who is deaf in one ear.”
I don’t want to hide this part of Ethan. I’m not ashamed of him. I am just the opposite. I am so
proud of all he is, every part, not despite his right ear. Even at a month old, I
know that all that I love about Ethan is result of all he is from his chubby thighs, bright eyes,
misshapen ear, and sleepy smiles. He wouldn’t be the Ethan that I love if not for all of his parts.
So I respond in a way that feels like a lie.
I wish I could be more open. I want to be able to say more about my boy beyond social comfort,
and figure out how to talk about the different facets of his identity. I have to figure out how to
work past this “lie.” Ethan will look to me to see how I talk about his hearing loss, and this will
internalize into part of his self-image, and self-talk. It feels like a burden, but I know it’s an opportunity to learn how to love beyond, to love inclusively, and to love completely.
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