Discovering Mom Can’t See

With my six-month-old baby girl resting in my arms, I thought about how fast she was growing. On the move now, rolling and crawling, meant walking would just be around the corner. I couldn’t help but wonder when she would discover her mommy couldn’t see the same way as other mommies.

About a year later, the phone rang while making lunch. I left my bread and sandwich meat on the counter, scurried over to the phone hanging on the wall, left of the doorway, and snatched the receiver from its base. During the conversation, my fingers toyed with the extremely long, curly cord that had twisted as I also paid attention to my daughter playing a few feet in front of me.

Before long, I was engrossed in my conversation, not processing the repeated tug on my shirt. Suddenly, I heard two little hands clap together. Without thinking, I moved the receiver and pinched it between my jaw and shoulder while scooping her up under her arms in one fluid motion.

“Oh, you wanted mommy to hold you, did you?” I spoke into her ear while listening to my friend.

Realization dawned after hanging up. My daughter had figured out I wasn’t responding. Her tugging had been ignored, so she created a new way. From that point forward, when she wanted to be held, her little hands raised, then clapped exactly twice in the air. The two of us now had a signal to pierce through any distraction.

Understanding

She wasn’t even two then. Her daddy and I were always intrigued with how she would know I couldn’t see. That day was the first sign of noting I was different than other adults, but total understanding would come in layers. Between two and three years of age, she understood my cane went out the door with me, the way the diaper bag and purse did. When at church, or anywhere we stayed extended periods of time, she often picked my cane up for me when she thought we needed to leave, or when my hand was searching for it.

At three, she noticed I felt objects while looking at them. She witnessed my hands in the air as my eyes stayed fixated on the object I wanted to touch. To adults, it looked like poor eye-hand coordination, and in a way, they were right. To me, most of my arm and hands were hidden in my blind spot, until an inch or two away. Instead of just saying, “Look,” like she did with her dad, she would guide my hand to the object or bring it to me.

Believing she had grasped the concept mommy didn’t see normal, I was caught off-guard one day when she brought me a magazine to look at. She knew daddy did the reading, and not me, but she desired to share her enthusiasm. Evidently, she had discovered a beautiful bird in her Ranger Rick magazine. Her tiny hand grasped my wrist and guided my hand to the picture for me to “see” the way she normally showed other objects to me.

“Look,” she squealed, and gently lay my fingers atop what I presumed was the picture.

“Mommy can’t see.”

Imagining her scrunching her face, she repeated the action, and I repeated my statement. Not giving up, she laid her fingers over my nails, and with a grunt, pressed my fingers harder against the slick paper.

Unsure of whether to laugh or cry, I said, “Honey, I can’t see pictures with my hands.” After seconds of silence, she walked away, more than likely confused or hurt. Water pooled in the corner of my eyes thinking about it.

Understanding continued to dawn, but another memory-maker emerged on her 5th birthday. We took a trip to a nearby resort for a weekend to celebrate. Down at the pond, my husband was laying out fishing equipment for us, and I had to go to the bathroom. Not wanting our stuff stolen or to put it all back, he asked if I thought our daughter could guide me to the cabin. She pointed while describing the way satisfactorily.

We turned our walkie-talkies on, grabbed my cane, and I instructed her how to guide her momma for the first time. I held on to her right arm, resting my left hand directly above the elbow with my thumb on the outside, toward me. I followed a step behind while her eyes searched for objects in my path. Her shoulders felt squared and I imagined a big grin on her face as she appeared proud to escort her mother.  I know I beamed with pride. It was one of the funnest, best adventures, even though short.

I don’t believe there has been one time since that we’ve been unable to work together. Leslie, her older siblings, and every grandchild past three have already discovered I can’t see, and it hasn’t bothered one of them a bit. They automatically fall in sync to help when needed, the way a translator automatically translates without being told to.

© 2023, Jena Fellers. All rights reserved.