Monday 18 April 2016

Confessions of a (tired) introvert mama

It's morning again.
I can tell this because husband has kissed me goodbye.  Setting off for work in the early hours, to faithfully provide for us.

I sink back into slumber.  Surely it can't be morning already.

Thankfully I can't hear the kids yet.

Last night, we decreed today "pyjama day" which may buy me a few more precious minutes of sleep and of silence.

The minutes, even hours pass, although it feels like seconds to me, when I crave more sleep.  Even though we are past the numbing sleep-deprivation of the baby days, I still seem to be in a season of exhaustion.

I gradually become aware of the kids playing, chattering, thumping around (that would be my dude).  I'm thankful today that they don't come in to disturb me.

But still there's some mourning for the departure from the toddler days when my mornings started with snuggles and cuddles.

Eventually I get up, lured by the thought of that first, glorious cup of tea.

I even dream that maybe I'll get to drink it in silence before I have to face the onslaught.

As I open my bedroom door, I am greeted by my dude's sunshine face, and wide grin.  "Mama!".  He's so excited to see me, to tell me what he's doing.  A hug.

A barrage of words.

"Please, don't talk so loud, please buddy can you turn your voice down."

He worked out early that a loud voice was necessary to overcome my hearing impairment and ensure he had my attention.

I heard years ago that, counter-intuitively, loud noises are harsher, more painful for those with hearing impairments.  It doesn't make sense, but it fits my experience.  Maybe because we don't get the prelude to the heights of the sound, maybe because we don't get all the quieter layers, and therefore can't interpret the sound in it's entirety.  I don't know why, but I do know that loud noises, and loud voices, are an assault.

In fact, being an introvert as well, any noises, especially voices, are an assault once my interaction-capacity has been drained.

I can't think when the words interrupt the world inside my head.

We go downstairs together, dude chattering all the way.

Maybe I can slip outside with my cup of tea.

The kettle boils.  Dude chatters.

I potter around clearing up the detritus of yesterday while I wait for the kettle to boil.

Oh blessed Tea, how would I do life, how would I adult, without you!

Dude demands breakfast, giving specific instructions on what, exactly, has to happen to the bread to make it acceptable.

Unable to comprehend his complete, detailed sentences (it's before 8 am after all!), I toss the bread bag to him and tell him to get it himself!

He's happy to oblige, then he proceeds to rip his slice into the tiniest of pieces, give most of it to the dog (describing every action in minute detail all the while), and leave the remainder lying like snow covering the table, chair, floor.

At least the dog will clean the floor.

And possibly the chair and table if I look the other way long enough.

Princess has joined us now.

When I went into her room to say good morning on my way down, I was disapprovingly told to go away as she was making something for my birthday (bless).   I promised not to look.  She didn't realise I couldn't see a thing, still bleary-eyed, and not-yet caffeinated!

Now she's downstairs she's talking too *sigh*.

They are both full of miraculous, glorious, detailed plans, and they are informing me about everything.

They insist on responses too!  I get in trouble if my yes/no is not appropriate to the request.

I pour my cup, let it brew, add the milk, and then make my escape.

I sit outside, enjoying the freshness of autumn mornings.

The long summer has meant there is no chill to the air, but it is still refreshing to be here in the cooler air, morning fragrances and dew.

I enjoy silence.

For a few seconds.

The children join me outside, dude demanding tea.

They continue talking.

I love their glorious, complexities of play, their sheer miraculousness of being.

I struggle so much with the incessant chatter, the morning-to-night conversation that requires me, requires thought, requires listening

There is the added exhaustion that comes from listening when one has a hearing impairment, the constant requests I have to make for things to be repeated.  It's exhausting for me, and for my family.

They wear me out, because everywhere I go they follow.

But I sit here, with my just-perfect first cup of tea, and I realise, despite the exhaustion, it is a miracle.

It's an honour, to have these miracles orbit around me.

To be the world to them, and have them my satellites.

I'm so blessed to have their love. It's what I've longed for all my life.

I'm thankful.

Even in the weariness, I'm thankful.

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