Reflecting on childhood

Plans have a way of screwing up. Last week I went on a family visit to Wanaka and Arrowtown.

I had a tight schedule but it worked and I felt on top of the world. This was followed by a trip to Christchurch for my baby sister’s big ‘‘70th’’ birthday. I sound like a gadabout who likes birthday gigs but although I am not a party person, this was a special occasion.

It was a great night with close family – among them five little grandees. I had forgotten how high pitched little voices were. When they are having fun they reach an incredible level of background noise.

Yes, I have a problem that hearing aids do not fix. In a room of crowded people one noise is indecipherable from the next. Being deaf, speech is lost in a maze of sound, which adds up to complete isolation for me.

But the party was good and I was helped at times by sitting at floor level with the little ones. Telling them stories of my childhood diverted their free expression to listening in amazement. I was astonished that my stories of pretend games we played were listened to with great interest and awe. Did grand-auntie, with her grey hair and wrinkles, really play games like that? I found myself accepted as a modern-day balloon player who liked hitting bouncy balloons, too.

I never told them our Christmas morning highlight was that Santa tied a balloon to our stocking, which was hung on a string across the fireplace.

Now this week I admit, last week’s excitement has been too much. Now I am isolated not by noise but a nasty hacking cough.

Know what? Children are the same today as yesterday.

I think I need to look at myself to see the change.