When we last left off, Olivia’s developmental pediatrician was concerned that Olivia has selective mutism.
And I’m pretty sure she’s right.
And yet…yesterday, Olivia followed me from room to room to room, talking and talking and talking. She told me every single thought that came into her head. It was lovely, except, well, six year olds have pretty boring thoughts.
She was having an imaginary day. She kept going on dates, which is cute, until it’s not anymore.
She told me that her boyfriend was picking her up and taking her out to a movie. Then she told me she had a new car and each new thing she described, she insisted that I actually LOOK at the imaginary thing and describe it for her.
But I can’t actually see what she’s imagining and so I was always so very wrong in my descriptions. After the fourth wrong answer, I suggested she describe her imaginary things to me. Which was still boring but not nearly as irritating as being wrong as I tried to read her mind.
I realize that ‘selective’ is the descriptive word in O’s most recent diagnosis. I know that she talks to me because, duh, I’m her favorite person in the whole wide world and because of this, her mutism doesn’t extend to me.
She’s comfortable with me, she loves me and I’m so, so flipping luck that she can and does talk to me. I really do know all of this. And I’m grateful for it. So, so grateful.
But you guys, the imaginary stories of six year olds, are not best-selling material. And after listening and replying to her narration for five solid hours, I was ready for a little bit of muting.
Not that it happened. She didn’t shut up until she fell asleep last night. I think she might have fallen asleep mid-sentence.