If You Can't Hear The Rain, Does That Mean It Isn't There?

Anymore I rarely think about what my two youngest sons miss out on by being deaf (when they have their processers off). Because they hear basically everything we do when they're wearing them, I don't think much about their deafness. And because I'm not deaf, I especially am lulled into a place where I can forget that they are and that no matter how great they hear, there's still some things they don't.

I'm reminded of that in a poignant way tonight. One of the greatest sounds to me is rain on the windows and roof at nighttime while I'm snuggly and cozy in bed. I realized again tonight that my sons will never hear that sound, never feel the happy, safe feeling it gives. When they go to bed at night, they take their processers off and instantly become completely deaf. This has its plusses: nothing wakes them up in the night; they sleep a deep and untroubled sleep. (Waking them up is another issue entirely.) Often they'll take off their stuff and lie in bed to read. They like this quiet time, I think. But I'm sad tonight to realize they're not hearing what I'm hearing. They don't know that raindrops are falling above them, pounding on the roof in a comfortable rhythm. The entire experience is outside the boundaries of the silent world where they sometimes exist.