<\/p>\n
Penny was sitting on the potty. “Where’s the new shirsh?”
\nshe asked.<\/p>\n
I wrinkled my forehead. “The new shirt?”<\/p>\n
She shook her head, with a little smile. “No. The new
\nshirsh.”<\/p>\n
“Skirt?”<\/p>\n
This time, a grin. “No, Mom!” she said, in a tone of false
\nexasperation. “The new shirsh<\/i>!” She
\nsaid the word slowly, with emphasis.<\/p>\n
“Oh!” I said. “The new church!”<\/p>\n
She was so proud of me. <\/p>\n
For the past few years, as Penny has slowly learned to talk,
\nas she transitioned from sign language to spoken words to two-word utterances
\nto phrases to whole sentences, she has been patient with us. And when we don’t
\nunderstand, she somehow sees it as our loss. She tends to shake
\nher head with a knowing smile, as if to say, “If only you had the ears to hear
\nwhat wonderful words I’m saying. Don’t worry. You’ll understand some day.”<\/p>\n
A few weeks ago, Peter and I met with a school social worker
\nand we were describing the dynamic between Penny and William. I said, “Penny
\nhas more language concepts than William does, but it’s easier for his mouth to
\ntalk.”<\/p>\n
She said, “Yes, and Penny will be frustrated soon because
\nWilliam will be able to say so much more than her. You’ll have to deal with her
\nbeing mad about that.”<\/p>\n
Needless to say, my shoulders tensed up a bit after that
\ncomment. There was an assumption about her abilities: that William would “surpass”
\nhis sister, which may or may not be true. There was an assumption about her
\ncharacter: that when this possibility happened, she would react with anger and
\nfrustration and discouragement. All this, and she had never met our daughter.<\/p>\n
I didn’t say anything in response. It didn’t seem worth it. Penny
\nhas worked really hard to be able to speak. And she generally does so with a
\ngentle, patient spirit. So I tried to emulate our daughter and shrug
\nmy shoulders with a smile, thinking about the social worker–Don’t worry. You’ll understand someday.<\/i><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n