Ken became part of our family after his wife died in a tragic car accident. Two years after her death, Ken remained devastated. A counselor suggested he consider taking piano lessons with my mom, who was known in their tight-knit community on the Canadian border for offering compassion along with musical instruction. Although possessing little aptitude for the piano, Ken stuck with the lessons because he gained so much from the human contact; he and my mom enjoyed each other’s company because they were kind, plain-speaking people who’d grown up in farming villages.
Looking back, it amuses me to recall how strongly I reacted 15 years ago to a question Ken asked about my then-seven-year-old son. “Have you had his hearing checked?” Ken asked with a concerned expression. I recoiled, stunned that anyone would question the well-being of my miracle child, who was born when I was 40 after years of trying. “Why do you ask?” I replied defensively, adding, “Our pediatrician said a few weeks ago that Gillis’ hearing and vision are both perfect.”
Ken said, “That’s good news. Still, I’m concerned about his speech impediment. I wondered if it could be related to his hearing? But apparently not.” A seasoned father and grandfather, Ken knew a few things about kids, but I could only hear judgment and criticism. “His speech… impediment?” I echoed. My face grew warm and I felt increasingly resentful. I was aware that Gillis had his own special ways of pronouncing words involving the letters L, R, and S, but I considered it cute and figured he’d grow out of it. I’d yearned my entire adult life to have a child, and after Gillis came along, I marveled at his intelligence and beauty. I’m certainly not the only parent who’s felt that way! But the intensity of my reaction to Ken’s comment took me by surprise.
I’m happy to report that after initially getting my back up, I agreed to ask our then-pediatrician (the fabulous Dr. Bert Fernandez) for a speech specialist referral. I politely concluded the conversation with Ken, but the force of my reaction nibbled at me until I had an “Ah ha!” moment when our speech therapist confirmed Ken’s concerns. “Gillis has speech delays,” she said, “but we can work on them and he’ll be fine.” Today, my son speaks articulately, is a local business owner, and tours as a professional athlete. You’d never know he used to sound like a pint-sized Elmer Fudd.
I finally figured out why Ken’s comment triggered me to ratchet up on the defensiveness scale: I’d come to measure my worth by the perceived quality of my parenting, and any suggestion about room for improvement sparked a reaction that I later had to admit was more about my needing to appear right than about my ability to consider my son’s welfare. Since then, I’ve noticed something fascinating. If a fellow motorist alerts me to the fact that I have a taillight out or a tire that looks dangerously soft, I’m deeply grateful. When a neighbor left a message saying, “Hey, it looks like you’re not home, but I’m standing in front of your house and I hear a smoke alarm going off,” I thanked them profusely. Yet when feedback about my kid fell short of absolutely perfect, I stonewalled. That was unhelpful. I’m over it.
As a parent and educator in my early 60s, I’ve witnessed a lot of heartache as families struggle to contend with a wide range of challenges. Ours is not an easy society or era in which to raise healthy children. The phrase “It takes a village” has been used so frequently, it now sounds nearly meaningless, but it’s really quite significant. What if we could calmly consider concerns that arise regarding our children? Surely, there are times when it’s appropriate to ignore someone’s criticism or cluelessness; hopefully we can develop radar to recognize such occasions. But wouldn’t we build a stronger “village” by listening with open minds even to questions about hot-button issues like health concerns, tech use, identity issues, or other patterns? Aren’t our kids at least as important as an automotive or residential issue? I hope so.
Eveline MacDougall lives in Greenfield.