Sometimes I think I’m losing my hearing.

Like an old lady. Like a little girl who’d selectively like to hear things other than her mother’s voice. Like I went to too many loud grunge metal shows during the spirit-filled hardcore stage in my life.

Yes, I really do think I experienced a little hearing loss from not wearing earplugs (I would have heard just fine through them) and standing too close to the speakers and the stage (it isn’t as if I could have understood what they were saying anyway); and, maybe, just possibly, I got clocked in the side of the head being only one of a couple girls who would brave a mosh pit back in 1991.

Yikes, that got really personal really quick.

But even if my hearing is a little damaged (not so much that it impairs, but enough that sometimes I blame in on Chad and tell him he is mumbling), I seem to have perfect hearing when it comes to my kids.

I can hear a Cheerio drop on the kitchen tile from the third floor of my house. I can distinguish between a squeal of actual pain and the all too similar squeal of frustration from someone taking someone else’s scooter in the back yard. I can hear a quiet “Mama” at 1 am from a little-girl bedroom down the hall.

And I can hear every single tiny cheese cracker tumble from the ziplock bag as Naomi turns it over in my (once-a-year) clean car.

And I can hear the pain in her voice when my six-year-old looks tells me about injured feelings. I can hear the hurt in her eyes. It’s loud and distinct. I can distinguish the fatigue in my toddler and all she knows how to do at 7:30 at night after a big day is scream at me or her sister. I can hear her tell me she needs to sleep.

I hope that I will still be able to hear them as I grow older. I’ll have to listen between the words and mumbles coming from teenaged-mouths someday. There will be much more important things to hear than a request for water in the middle of the night. I want to be there to hear the big things, with my hearing (hopefully) undamaged.