Aiden, Aiden. Wherefore art thou Aiden?

I know Aiden doesn't hear me. I talk, and talk, and talk until I'm blue in the face and he doesn't hear me. I know his ears work. You say the word chocolate or pizza and his ears sprout satellite dishes that can pinpoint the sound of my voice to the exact geographic location. Ask him to do something for me? His ears shut completely off. I've known this for a while now ~ that he's deaf to my voice ~ but yesterday I finally got a glimpse into what he actually hears when I talk.

We were trying to head out the door to go to the library. I'm struggling to do a very wiggly Zoe's hair and I asked him to get his shoes and put them by the front door. He walks away and I don't see him for several minutes. When he returns I ask him if he took his shoes to the front door. "Oh! No! Just a minute." and he disappears down the hall again. Again he's absent for several minutes. When he returns I ask again, "did you put your shoes by the front door?"

"What?" He says as he absently begins digging in a drawer for something forbidden to play with.

My hands are caught up in the little rubber bands that are half in Zoe's hair as she's turning the sink on full blast and squirting soap all over her sleeve. "Did you put your shoes by the front door?" I repeat.


"No."

I'm counting to ten under my breath . . ."Why . . . not . . .?" I ask desperately trying to hang on to what's left of my sanity.

"You told me to take care of my dirty clothes. I did that."

I was shocked. I'd been asking him to do that all morning. Now he finally does it!? "Actually I asked you to get your shoes and put them by the front door." I state as I rescue the roll of toilet paper before Zoe can unwind the whole thing.

He stares blankly off into space. Then he proceeds to grill me with questions about Star Wars and if Wolverine can beat up a jedi. "Aiden," I interrupt, "Look at me." He looks over at my knees. "Look at my eyeballs!" I amend. It takes several seconds but he finally meets my gaze. I use my slow, deliberate voice, "Please . . take your shoes . . . to the front door." He nods and walks off.

Meanwhile, Zoe's attempting to climb up on the sink and kiss her reflection in the mirror. He returns quickly. "Did you get your shoes?" I ask.

"No." He replies.

I'm beyond exasperated at this point. "Why not!?" I ask in a decidedly not very loving mommy voice.

"Because!" He says in an equally exasperated tone, "You . . told me . . . to go . . . lock the front door!"