My daughter has Down syndrome.

Six years ago, before I even know there was a such thing as Down Syndrome Awareness Month, I couldn't say that.

It hurt.

The sentence would form in my head and before it could reach my mouth and even attempt to be expressed, it would get intercepted by my emotions, which would then form the perfect throat-sized lump while simultaneously creating a knot in my stomach that would rival even the most accomplished sailor's Bowline.

It hurt.

All I could think about was what they told me.

They came into my room when she was twelve hours old, before I could even see the symptoms on my own, before I had the opportunity to get to know her, before I had the chance to build up my defenses.

They looked at her and told me what they suspected. They wanted to take her blood. They needed proof of what they already knew and what it would take me quite some time to accept.

I consented, if only to show them how wrong they truly were. They may have been smart, but I had it on good authority that I had done everything right. I knew that my times of struggle were over. I knew that it was my turn to be happy. I knew this couldn't be my destiny.

They gave me black-and-white printouts from the internet. I could buy books from Amazon. I could try and breastfeed if I wanted to, but here were all the ways it would be difficult. I should look at these pages from a medical journal and try to decipher which condition I should fear the most. It was filled with percentages and descriptors, chances and odds.

She was no longer my baby. She was a worst-case scenario.

I learned to watch and wait for what I perceived to be the inevitable.

I counted how many times her chest rose and fell...wondering, "Is this heart failure? No, wait. Maybe this is."

I woke up in the morning, every morning, half-expecting her to have not made it through the night.

I read things that made me feel foolish for not having known sooner.

It was my fault because I declined the testing.

People asked me,

"But didn't you know?"

"How couldn't you know?"

"Can't they check for that?"

I didn't know to appreciate that my child was healthy.

I was too busy going to the Geneticist, Cardiologist, Otolaryngologist, Endocrinologist, Developmental Pediatrician, Audiologist, EFMP Coordinator, Pediatrician, and Lactation Consultant. I'm sure there were more.

I was speaking with the Parent-to-Parent Coordinator from our local Down syndrome family support group. I was reading things in online forums that would have done better to remain hidden.

At least the Early Intervention Case Worker, Physical Therapist, Occupational Therapist, Speech and Language Pathologist, and nurse for the weekly weight-checks came to me.

And people wondered why I wasn't myself.

It hurt.

I didn't know to appreciate that my child was healthy.

It didn't mesh with what was going on in my daily life.

This is why I believe that Down syndrome awareness matters.

Somewhere, there is a mom who is like I was and she feels lost and misunderstood.

Somewhere, there is a father who wonders if he's going to be able to love his baby.

Somewhere, there are grandparents who don't know what to do or say because all they know are things that are no longer relevant for a child born today with Down syndrome.

I want these people to be able to enjoy and celebrate this child.

I want their friends to congratulate them and be supportive.

I want them to know what's possible in ways that don't involve percentages and descriptors, chances and odds.

Life can be good.

Today, it is good.

My daughter has Down syndrome.