My mother probably should have named me Helen

We (and by we I mean me and anyone who has decided to tell me that I can't hear because that won't happen twice, eh?) have known about my hearing issues since I was about two years old. Apparently, my mother had the wherewithal to realize that my chimpanzee-like speech was not going to be acceptable in society although people should be more understanding since we likely descended from apes. Back in the day, my hearing aid consisted of a box strapped to my chest with delightful wires running up to the earpieces wedged into my ears. According to my mother, I frequently pulled the plug on this sound enhancing contraption.

In first grade, I got my first behind-the-ear hearing aids and started regular sessions with a speech therapist. And for the record it is EASY to get words such as kitchen and chicken confused. But I get it now. One you eat and one you eat in. I was well on my way to becoming a normal little girl. Well, normal as it applies to me.

If only the kids hadn't noticed the ear accessories that sometimes squealed maniacally. I hated standing out. I hated not being able to hear well. I hated that my mother always insisted I sit on the front row in the classroom. I hated that my teachers couldn't remember to face the class when they taught because while they may have had eyes in the back of their head, they did NOT have lips there causing me great difficulty in reading their lips.

Enter Mrs. L, my 5th grade teacher. After breaking my leg, I was moved to the far right front row seat. There, I began to struggle to read the squiggles on the board. Surely the teacher was not using the appropriate amount of pressure on the chalk while writing on the board. I squinted and squirmed and tried to read her hieroglyphics. Mrs. L called my mother in for a meeting. Within days, I was fitted with a pair of glasses that would have made John Denver proud.

I hated my glasses. I hated having to work the stems around my hearing aids in order to find to right place for my ears to be able to support all my correction devices. Again, I stood out only now I stood out as the poor girl who couldn't hear or see.

Time passed. I learned to wear contacts. I learned to pronounce most words if only all words followed the sensible rules that make phonics work. And I learned to stand up for myself.

Truthfully, I still hate not being able to hear or see well. But I do love having the gift that this struggle has brought me. When I was teaching middle school kids with behavior disorders, they appreciated that I clearly had faults. My elementary students and parents like knowing that I was once a struggling student. I think it gives them hope "See, Ms. Beth couldn't hear a jackhammer in the next room and here she is a principal! Who would have thunk that? So, now you know you have what it takes to pull your act together.".

Still, I need someone to explain to me why it is fair that I may soon need some freaking bifocals (contacts).