Mountains

I think the last blog I posted was about how little I liked my own son. It makes me feel sick just to think about it. How could I have said that out loud? More so, how could I have felt that way? How could it come to that?

He’s wonderful.

He’s bright. So bright. Bright in the clever way but also bright in the beaming with smiles and brightening up any room he walks into, any person he encounters.

He’s happy.

He’s an absolute frigging dream.

I adore him.

He’s happy.

He is a different child to the one he was 3 months ago. As you would expect I imagine. Maybe if you are detached from it all you could see that. Maybe you knew it would all be okay. I didn’t. I hated every second that he was profoundly deaf. And so did he. And he let that be known.

His speech is amazing. His listening is amazing. He is blowing everyone away.

His teacher told me the other day that he was a mere smidge away from achieving the national average for numeracy and literacy. That’s for hearing children.

For hearing children. This kid couldn’t hear for a whole term. He didn’t talk. For a whole term. And he still very nearly achieved what a regular kid did.

Because he’s not a regular kid. Let me tell you, he is the furthest from regular you’ll find.

He’s a freaking superstar.

And he’s mine.

And I’m so proud I could burst.

He’ll move mountains that kid.

He already has.

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