They Do Hear You

One day when my son David was about 12, he was struggling with an issue at school.  I sat him down to discuss this important topic (which of course I can’t now recall), and while I was trying to talk rationally and impart my wisdom, he responded with cracking jokes, clowning around, and being completely silly.  He heard nothing I said, responded with anything but appropriate comments, and generally made me crazy.  In frustration, I threw my hands up and told him to go to his room.

An hour later, he stuck his heard around the doorway and, in an offhanded way, said that he had heard everything I said, agreed, and that he would be following my suggestions at school the next day.  And he did.  I was dumbstruck.  He listened.  More than that, he heard me and internalized what I had said, while giving no clue at the time that he was hearing anything other than the “wa wa wa wa waaaa” sound of adults in Peanuts cartoons.

Fast forward seven years.  My boys are now 19 and in college.  For years (and years and years), I have been locked in battle with them about what it is to be a Mariners fan.  To me, being a fan means complete and utter team support, no booing, and dedication to the team, win or lose.  To them, well, not so much.  After I wrote the reflection of a few months ago about my grandmother and the Mariners in that magic 95 season that started my love for baseball, I e-mailed it to them, with a note that I was hoping they would now understand where I come from and why it means so much to me.  And then I sat back and waited for their kind, understanding response.  And waited.  And waited.  After a few days, I realized with dismay that they weren’t going to even take the time to read it, or, even worse, they read it and it didn’t mean enough to them to even reply.  Once again, I was throwing up my hands and mumbling my frustration.

A few months later, my birthday rolled around, and both boys made the trek home from college for my birthday dinner.  We had a wonderful meal, and I loved having my family whole again, even for an evening.  And then the gifts came, and I felt so loved and appreciated.  The last gift was from Kyle and David.  I opened a string of baseball cards - signed baseball cards – one for each of the 95 Mariners, framed around a signed picture of the king of the 95 Mariners, Edgar Martinez.  And a signed baseball cap by Lou Piniella, the skipper of the team, from that championship year.  And, best of all, each had written a two page letter to me about baseball, and what it means to them because of me, and how they will teach their children and their children’s children how I loved the Mariners, and what it means to be a fan.

They had spent hours and hours tracking down these baseball cards, and spent more money than they had for this gift.  They touched me beyond words, beyond explanation.  It was the gift, it was the letters – but it was also the understanding that yes, they have heard me.  They didn’t show it right away, but they have heard me all these years.

Parenthood is like that.  Sometimes our rewards come so quickly – a baby’s laugh when we smile at them.  As they grow, the rewards can take longer to come out – we all remember potty training and thinking that this reward might never come.  And then they hit the teen years, and we think that nothing we say or do is getting in, and sometimes rewards can seem a long, long way away.  But, I promise you, they do hear you.  Your words, your love, and your support is getting in, and it is resonating with them.  And someday, they’ll tell you so.

Sara Gillam