My goal is to clean them once a month, or maybe once every two, or when she can’t hear me and I start shouting again. Just to be heard, you understand. I grab a small glass bowl and the Clorox wipes, and tell her to give me her hearing aids. They’re going to be waxy, you understand. Human ears are waxy—that’s just how it is. That’s what the Clorox wipes are for. In the drawer is the hearing aid box with the tiny instruction book, the spare tulips, and the spare white wax traps. One end of the little black stick removes the waxy white wax trap, and the other inserts the new white wax trap. “Mom,” I called from the kitchen, which was not smart because I had her hearing aids. “Mom,” I said again when I came closer, “why is this hearing aid all chewed up?” She huffed and gathered her thoughts. “Well, there was this white thing and I was trying to get it off.” I huffed and explained that “this white thing” is supposed to be there—it’s the wax trap. She grew sullen and looked away. Though the white thing was half chewed off, I managed to remove it and install a new one. “Don’t chew the white things off, okay Mom?” I ordered. And now it’s going on three months, and I need to clean her hearing aids, again.