“James, Ian.” They turned their heads and regarded me with mild curiosity. “First we’ll watch the Thanksgiving cartoons while dinner cooks, then we’ll feast. We’ll have turkey, cranberries, fresh-baked rolls and for desert, pumpkin pie with whipped cream.”
They didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect them to. At ages 3 and 4, both were still preverbal. This made a conversation difficult, but we persisted. We’d talk, instruct, read and, when necessary, scold. We did almost everything to get them involved.
Sometimes, we failed and they’d wander away to continue whatever we’d interrupted. This time, they took part. I sat in the recliner with a boy in each arm and we watched the holiday unfold in lessons of sharing and love, taught by animated films.
After dinner, we started our Christmas season with more holiday videos. Once again, they both nestled into my arms and stared at the TV, totally absorbed in the story.
This gave me time to reflect. They still didn’t speak, but I had hope. James had recovered from his two lazy eye surgeries and wore glasses. His obsession with a favorite stick could be an asset in the bud, and might show a dedication to task that many adults would envy. Ian had long gotten over the stitches on his leg. He showed traces of an indomitable spirit, and his fearlessness grayed my hair, even then. More importantly, both boys were healthy, with the exception of their yet undiagnosed autism. I gave them a hug. Their position in the recliner with me already showed a capacity for love.
We hadn’t won a lottery and were far from wealthy, but that didn’t mean we hadn’t been blessed. Sandi stood and watched us from the kitchen door. Little blessings can be easily overlooked, but they’re enough. We’re still grateful.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.