7 Days Old

Because we watch way too much Nick Jr over here, I can't get this song out of my head.

Every day, it's "Oh, look at me, I'm ___ days old!"

So, yes, what that means is that our newbie was born last week. Finally. At 41 weeks + 5 days gestation, Dez came into this world like gangbusters. He was just over 9lbs and 22 inches long. He's got the largest hands and feet. He's so alert and reminds me of a much older person. He's flipping adorable.

I would have to tell you the whole story for it to make sense, and I will, but suffice it to say for now that things went just a leetle away from the plan in order for him to be born.

And by a leetle, I mean "almost as much as they possibly could."

But I'm happy with the outcome.

And so very, very grateful.

It's a totally different experience, coming home with a kid that you're not staring at, waiting for any sign of heart failure because it sounds sooo horrible and you don't want to miss it by accident.

Yeah. I haven't been doing that.

I also haven't been crying non-stop, paralyzed with fear about when the other shoe was going to drop.

He's passed every screening, so all those trips back to the ENT and Audiology with a newborn haven't proven necessary.

We haven't had to brave two hours of sweat-drenched freak-out (mine) due to hearing screams like I've never heard before (hers) at the Endocrinologist's office, trying to squeeze out enough blood for a CBC. No waiting for a doctor to come find an artery. No decision to be made about whether or not to stick a needle in the baby's scalp.

No geneticist, no social worker, no staying up all night trying to figure out on my own what "EI" means and how to get connected to it.

There have been "Congratulations!" instead of "I'm sorry."

I haven't lost any friends so far that I can tell.

It's quite bizarre.

Sleep deprivation? Check.

Sibling adjustment issues? Check.

Mom guilt? Check.

Icky and painful childbirth recovery symptoms? Check.

All that delightfully boring, run-of-the-mill stuff? We're going through it.

But I can't help but think of all that I missed last time.

How scared I was then as compared to how happy I'm allowed to be now.

If you've been here, you know what I mean.

If you haven't, I appreciate that you're here and learning.

Next time, I'll share some pics or something. Today was more a day of reflection.

Again, I'm grateful. For all of it.

Without the cloudy days, you don't appreciate the sunny ones nearly as much.

35

Every time I think to come here and write, I decide to do something else instead.

Like sleep. Or eat. Or rant about my situation at work.

Fun at parties, that's me!

You know, I tried to quit my job a few weeks ago, but the circumstances made me so angry that I chose fight over flight. It's not the best timing for sure, but I feel like it's important for me to take a stand against the bad behavior. We'll see what happens. At the very least, I am now down to part time. Five hours a day, four days a week. Yesterday ended the first week with that schedule and so far, so good.

I've been thinking on and off about Kindergarten for the (not-for-long) Littlest. For a while, I debated taking the extra year for her since her summer birthday forced me into thinking I had a choice in the matter, but then one day I woke up and it felt like the decision was made.

You ever had that happen? Obsess x 1000000 and then *poof* it's over?

Yeah. It doesn't happen often for me, but I was grateful in this case. It was just like a peace that washed over me and then I heard "Why wait?"

I couldn't come up with a response to the voice in my head (which, yay?).

Like, really. What would be the benefit for my child to spend another year in Pre-K? So at least that part's done. And then, on top of that, we should be moving again before the new school year, so no point in me battling with the people here about placement (though, of course, we'll update the IEP appropriately). That just gave me years back on my life. No unreturned phone calls, no explaining why I think she should be here and not there, no begging either for or against the home school.

Buying myself some time is nice.

Because one thing I can't keep from happening is this new babe.

He's coming.

Soon.

Earlier in the week, I realized that I was 35 weeks pregnant and that meant that I had 35 days to go until my estimated due date. Days.

I'm a 35 year-old woman 35 weeks into my pregnancy with about 35 days to go.

Pardon me while I go freak my freak.

People ask me if we're ready.

What's "ready"?

Like, do we have stuff? Yeah...some. I didn't throw anything away after Playette so the pack-and-play, swing, bouncy seat...all those biggies are cleaned up and in good working order. Some great friends have donated boy-type hand-me-down clothes and other items, which is awesome.

But are we ready-ready?

Um. Well. Er.

It's just...different. We're not as anxious about things as we were when Playette was born. I think we realize that whatever we don't have and end up needing, we'll get. Or maybe we don't really need at all.

Also, and more importantly, we aren't naive. No matter how much we want to be blissfully unaware, we know that things can happen. There are no guarantees. And with that in mind, our primary focus is on the health and well-being of this little boy.

No surprises would be a bonus.

Everything else is gravy.



And now I want gravy. Dammit.

Feeling Chatty, Pt. 2

I had a pretty crappy day yesterday and, unfortunately it was related to my being pregnant. I must always first clarify that it's not baby related. My issues are emotional, not physical, and resulted from my having an appointment with someone that just plain didn't know how or feel like being compassionate at that moment. It was pretty bad, y'all.

And I've been reminded, yet again, that I really don't know enough about the wee babe to say whether he's ok or not. I just simply don't know. I'm waiting to see how things go. Which, ironically, was what I was planning to talk about next: my choices related to prenatal testing (PNT).

It's strange going from one pregnancy/child that was so heavily monitored to one that I'm just supposed to, based upon my own decisions, let be.

[We did not have a prenatal diagnosis with Playette, but she had decels in her heart rate that became evident when I went to the hospital for a high fever and ended up receiving twice-weekly non-stress tests and fluid checks throughout the third trimester.]

The last time I had a look at him (him? - I guess), the newbie, was almost three months ago. I'm just supposed to trust. I'm not sure how to do that, exactly. I mean, I've already been on the other side. Being surprised. That didn't work out well for me.

But before about a week ago, I was fine with this. So I do realize that I had a hand in this fate. I just never thought that I'd start freaking my freak near the end.

Am I afraid of Ds? No, not really. When you know better, you do better.

Would it kinda rock my world if he had it? Hell yes. Not like before, but Ds is not what I'm hoping for, honestly. I'd really like to give 46 chromos a try, if that's ok. I also know that that guarantees nothing.

I know that there are people in the world who are quite sure that they know my position on PNT. For some, the fact that I'm 35 and have already had a child with Ds is enough to make an assumption that of course I'd only be being responsible to seek more information. Or, you know, make sure that it didn't happen again.

And that's totally ok for some. I don't fault my fellow Ds mamas for requesting some peace-of-mind in the early (or later) days of their subsequent pregnancies. We're all part of a club that you just can't understand until you've been initiated. You're no longer naive, as much as you would like to be. You can't turn off the part of your brain that wants to remind you that things don't always work out the way you think they will. And you also have been exposed to a world where Ds is far from the worst thing you can ever conceive of...you now get it when people call Ds "the Cadillac of disabilities."

I also don't give my friends that have chosen to adopt another child with Ds the side-eye. There's room for all of us and I can see why they love their babes to pieces.

Bottom line: I declined everything. So much so that I felt off going in for the 20-week ultrasound. I felt like, "If I didn't want to know anything, how does it make sense that I'm walking knowingly into a situation that could tell me something?" It felt hypocritical in a way. Like the two positions didn't match up.

Again, I'm just talking about my own personal situation. And I didn't start to question the ultrasound until maybe a day or two before it happened.

But I did it. We did it. And everything was "fine."

No follow-ups.

Strange. For me. I live in the land of See You Next Time.

And this time? There was no Next Time.

Which was good. But still strange.

Please also know that I believe that the 1% additional "risk" they offer to people like me, in addition to that associated with my "advanced maternal age", is a load of hooey. 1%...1 out of every 100. Not possible. I've heard of spontaneous, random Ds reoccurring biologically in a family, but it's far, far lower than 1% of the time.

Anyway.

That brings us full-circle to what I had been planning to talk about when I mentioned that "something really interesting happened...[and] it wouldn't be brought to my attention for many months."

You see, I read Alison's blog and she had mentioned conducting interviews with people as part of a research project that she was doing on PNT (she still is, by the way, in case you're interested).

I was all in. I am an open book. Pretty transparent, actually.

Our phone interview took place in July. Right before I got pregnant. So, while I was running my mouth, I had no idea what was about to happen.

She followed up with me in December, after I announced my pregnancy on this here blog. She asked me some questions and then...she asked if I was interested in hearing some of what I had said five months before.

Wow. The timing was just...wow.

I couldn't resist. Here's the part of the interview that related to this topic:

I really honestly don’t even know what I would do if I was faced with that now, because it’s like I know just enough to be dangerous, but I don’t necessarily want another child with Down syndrome, but I also realize that it’s not the life change that I thought it was.

I’ve gone back and forth on what would I do? I don’t know that I would have a CVS or a triple screen or a quad screen because I still believe that they are—that there are a lot of unknowns and if I had the amnio, I don’t know—would it be for peace of mind? Or would it be—I don’t know what it would be for, and I would really need to know what I was doing it for before I did it. But I couldn’t imagine looking at my child and saying that I didn’t want another one like you.

I’m not naïve anymore, so walking into another pregnancy, a second one, or any subsequent pregnancies, I would be –I couldn’t just be happy-go-lucky about it because I would wonder. You know, there’s a million things that could go wrong. And Down syndrome—as much as they try to make it seem, at least for me, like the worst possible thing that could happen, it’s not. So, you know, did I just get off easy? I don’t know.

Full disclosure: I read this when she sent it to me over six weeks ago and then not again until I just pasted it here. Any similarities to what I wrote today are purely coincidental. It's not like my memory can be trusted, so this is just real stuff here, folks.

It's a complex set of emotions and thoughts, and run-on sentences and question marks come with the territory.

It's not just a black and white issue with me.

I wish it were sometimes.

I do feel very fortunate to have these thoughts documented though.

That, I do know.

And I love this little inside my big, brown belly to pieces. Regardless of anything, I can't wait to meet him.

Or her.

Whatever.

No guarantees.

Feeling Chatty, Pt. 1

I already know this will take some time to write, so a multi-parter it is. Plus, we're trying out a highly recommended music class tonight (no more gymnasstics - WOOT!), so I don't have a ton of time.

Oh, while I'm thinking about it, someone mentioned that maybe the instructor wasn't pure eeevil since she did do Special Olympics and all. I felt the same way! But then something hit me. If she stopped the class before due to low participation, then how come when she re-started the "Special Needs Class" in the fall, she didn't have the support/backing of SO? I mean, why not, right? They paid for it before. Just something I've been thinking about. I think there's way more to this story. If I get some interesting info, I'll share.

We've got about two more months, give or take, before the baby arrives. Um, yikes?

I haven't really talked about the pregnancy much here...for a few reasons.

First and foremost, I know what it's like to want to be pregnant and not be able to have it just happen. I would never want to lead to anyone feeling bad because of that. Which, I know, it's unavoidable and people dealing with infertility understand that other people have babies, but I'm sensitive to it. Because I've been there.

Having this baby was a process. It's no secret that after Playette, I wasn't hardly thinking of adding another kid anytime soon. I was too busy being sad, feeling screwed over, and about a million other emotions. I couldn't imagine having another baby. And then, honestly, I felt like I blinked and she was three. How did that happen?! So, we decided that it was time to try. Except that I know my body and how it doesn't like to cooperate. Before waiting too long, I involved my doctor. We did test after test before he finally agreed that maybe I knew what I was talking about regarding not ovulating. He said that he could put me on Clomid, after already trying some other alternatives with no success.

And then BD was deployed. I cried and cried because I realized that by the time he got back, I would be over 35 when/if the baby came. To me, that represented a whole new can of worms because not only did I have a child with Ds, but I'd also be classified as AMA and I was devastated at the idea of possibly being treated poorly by medical professionals. Again.

Close to the time he was due home, I went back to the doctor and said I was ready for my prescription. I tried one cycle of the Clomid, in the midst of our move. And nothing happened.

In a new place, I had to start from scratch. My old doc never did forward my records. I have no idea why. So I went and found a new primary care physician who referred me out to a fertility specialist, which was denied, and then I was sent to the military hospital to be seen by the Reproductive Endocrinology Department.

They were a lot more involved than my doctor in CA had been. They tested me. They tested BD. I had an HSG. I was given Clomid again and told that we would attempt IUI in July.

You know, because of my age. There was no time to waste. Gag.

But then you know what happened? The day I was to go in for an ultrasound post-Clomid fell over the July 4th weekend. And there was no way they'd allow me to proceed without first making sure that I didn't have a zillion follicles.

I was rescheduled for August.

I was heartbroken.

I sat and analyzed when I would take my Provera so that it wouldn't run into the situation of being in San Antonio for the NDSC conference when I needed to be home for more testing.

When I finally thought I had it all figured out, I started the Provera.

That weekend, I went to take a physical for the reserves. It was a Sunday.

A couple of days later, I checked in to make sure that all of my paperwork was complete and that the results from those seven mystery vials of blood they took were a-ok.

And that's when I found out that one of those mystery vials was for a pregnancy test.

I will never forget that moment. She said, "And you know you're pregnant, right, ma'am?"

Say huh?

"You didn't know?"

Wha?

I finally asked if she'd ever seen a case of a blood test being wrong.

"Never," she said.

Wow.

So I called the RE department and told them what I found out. They scheduled me to come in the following Monday for another test.

My first HCG level was a 13. The second was 836, I believe.

I was really pregnant.

And, apparently, I was going to make a fantastic designated driver in San Antonio.

No margaritas por mi.

But, right before all of that, something really interesting happened. It wouldn't be brought to my attention for many months.

I'll tell you all about that next time.

Gymnasstics

What? That's not how you spell it?

So this whole gymnastics thing started out on a high note. The lady who taught the class used to offer one, gratis, to children with special needs via Special Olympics. For some reason, that stopped. I heard it low participation. I called her early in the summer after seeing a sign and asked if the class might start up again. She said she'd call me once school started and let me know. And she actually did. She told me the available time slot and offered a free trial throughout the month of September.

The following month, we began as full, paying customers. The number of children in the class fluctuated between two and three. I worked on helping the teacher reach more students, but, really, it was fine by us the way it was and the teacher never mentioned anything so we rode it out. The girls seemed to need more one-on-one interaction as they were easily distracted and seemed to work as a team to conspire against what they were supposed to be doing sometimes. It was all in good, four-year-old fun though.

They were super cute, and sometimes comical in their endeavors. Remember how I told you that Playette rolled like a triangle? That got better. In fact, everything was getting better for a while. She began to do amazingly well on the trampoline, started rocking the balance beam, followed instructions, and just seemed less afraid, overall. She was definitely the less adventurous of the twosome (read: scaredy cat), so every little bit was a huge victory in my eyes. She ran, she jumped, she had fun.

But then that stopped. I'm not sure what happened. Even I didn't want to go anymore. But I figured it was a phase for both of us and I was just tired after being at work all day and the whole human-growing portion going on.

And then I started noticing things. The instructor, an award-winning Russian gymnast who certainly knows her stuff, didn't seem to have the same rules for us as other classes. We parents were required to stay, while those in other classes were able to drop their kids off and come back when it was all done. I kinda let that slide and chalked it up to being part of the price of admission that came with the extra chromo. On one hand I understood that maybe more help was needed in keeping them on task. But then, I also couldn't help but think, "There are only two of them!"

Sometimes, we'd have other children in our class. Typically developing children whose parents maybe couldn't pick them up and they needed a ride home at the end of the night. That was fine if the kids were helpful. But sometimes they weren't and just added to the girls being distracted even further.

One evening, the teacher just up and left the class. I think this was right before Christmas and Playette may have been without her counterpart that day. I watched at the teacher went to meet the people who had entered the lobby and were obviously looking for her so that they could say hello after being away for a while. I fully expected her to offer some niceties and then explain to them that she was in a class. She didn't. She didn't even excuse herself from the room when she left. I gave her the stinkeye for what I now know was way too long and eventually she came back. I was really trying hard not to rock the boat. I didn't want to ruin this opportunity for both girls. But I am a huge customer service nut. And what she did by leaving my kid on the trampoline, leaving and coming back without ever saying a word to me about what happened? NOT COOL.

I also tried to give her an extra dose of grace by thinking that maybe what we were experiencing was some difference in cultural norms. Maybe in her eyes she wasn't being rude?

So, I sat back.

And then, when I was in TN earlier this month, BD reported back to me that one night another group of children (4) and instructors (2) were sharing the gym. He said that "our" girls were completely distracted, but the other people were only there for half of the class, so maybe it wasn't such a big deal. Maybe it was a one-time thing? Again, our instructor, the owner, said nothing.

I think it had been two weeks since the other class had been there when I showed up on Wednesday night and was met with a new group in the waiting area. I asked the other mom if these were the same people from before and she said yes. This time, though, they started at the same time we did. I made up my mind to address this with our instructor after class and let her know up-front that I needed to talk to her later. I watched to see how she would handle the girls running over to be with the other children instead of following her directions. Because they did. Several times. Also, what about when Playette would be staring at them instead of looking ahead on the balance beam? Normally, I would have helped. That night, I did nothing.

Now, I had spoken to the other mom the week before about how I had been feeling about everything. I wanted to be extra careful because, as I've mentioned, this would might them as well. My worst case scenario was that we would leave and then the other little girl would be in class alone.

After class, the teacher asked me what I wanted to talk to her about. I didn't touch any of the other issues I had, but simply asked her about whether or not the other class would be sharing the space from here on out. She said yes and then went on to tell me that she had to do that for her business and that she couldn't continue to give us "private lessons" any longer. If we went to another gym, we would be sharing space. I asked her if another gym would share that information with us up front. She said no. I reminded her that these children have special needs and appeared, at four-years-old, not to be quite ready to handle those types of distractions. Didn't she notice their lack of presence? She said no. She then told me that she was upset that I would even have this conversation with her.

SCREECH!!

Pump the brakes.

Did this woman not realize how flippin' patient I was being? Did she not appreciate my calm, even tone? Did she not see in my eyes that what I really wanted to do, instead of being the kind, professional mom, was go upside her head with a shoe?

Such is the cost of playing the nice role, huh? You get underestimated.

Back to the convo.

She had the nerve to be offended that I would approach her with such a thing?

I asked what she would rather have me do instead?

No answer.

So, if I have a concern about the class, I shouldn't come to her?

Nothing.

She then said that she was bothered that I think that she wasn't giving the children enough attention.

"Sweetie, that's guilt talking. I never said that," I thought.

The other mom then pretty much said what I was thinking in a more tactful way. She confirmed that was not what I said at all.

And then we were unceremoniously dumped.

She told me that class was now canceled. For all of us.

I asked her as of when.

She did not understand.

I asked her when this brand new decision would be effective.

She said that she would no longer offer our class in February.

I asked her when she was planning to tell us that. Was this conversation the catalyst?

She said yes.

I asked her if I had never asked the question, would this still be the case?

She said no.

(Which I believe. Before class, she had asked the other mom for the contact info of the local Ds group so that she could place an ad looking for more students.)

I looked at the other mom and apologized. I told her that I had no idea this would happen.

The instructor then told me that there was no need to apologize.

Say huh?

I told her that there was. I said that because of my confrontation and attempt to address an issue, that their daughter would miss out on class (nevermind the start-up and uniform fees!).

My brain was fried. Isn't this what grown-ups are supposed to do? Talk things through? Address and solve conflicts in a mature manner?

I took Playette's hand, told her to tell Miss M thank you and good night and then we left.

Pleasant as ever.

By the way, when I came in that night? I saw a calendar on the wall of all of the classes. None of the others classes share space. She must think I have "Yummy the Dummy" written across my forehead. Two things you don't mess with: my kid and my money. This was far from charity and I expect for us to be treated as equals.

What a nutball night.

So. Do we go back next week, y'all?
I'll have to check with BD, but I don't think we've paid for January yet. I'm guessing that we should, because that's the right thing to do, even though I don't want to. And then, if we do, I don't want to miss out on a paid-for class. It's not like I feel like tipping this lady. But I also don't want to be held liable if I go off on her next week. A shoe upside the head feels too kind now.

What I Like

What I like about this Thanksgiving is that my little fam is all together.

Sure, BD is at work right now, but he'll be home soon and, hopefully, phone calls of things going haywire will be kept to a minimum.

Last year, he was on a ship on the other side of the world while Playette and I spent the day sightseeing in San Francisco. He never even got the chance to have dinner since he was on watch and we (well, I) decided to forgo anything that resembled the traditional holiday festivities on that day (we did dine with friends the week prior) for fear of getting all sad and not focusing on what we did have. That can be tough, y'know? We're a unit over here and when that unit gets disturbed, it takes a bit of a toll.

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Hey. I don't think I ever posted any of those pics. I was a little overwhelmed last November. Wanna see some?

We stayed at the Marine Corps Memorial Hotel downtown. Great hotel, great location (the happy hour and breakfast buffet are a nice touch, too). Playette liked the mascot statue in the lobby.


We dined that night on yummy Italian fare. I think we split a plate of gnocchi.


In the morning, we went to Pier 39 where we took a boat tour around the bay.





I remember that I had to make the decision to put my camera away after the tour because crowds + squirmy, inquisitive kid + 1 adult meant something had to give. We did end up going on the carousel though. And also some movie thing. It wasn't a long deal, so maybe a 3D/4D suck-the-money-out-of-a-parent's-pocket feature? I can't recall. She did sit through the whole thing though. I was really happy about that.

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So I'm excited that today BD gets to eat and eat until his heart is content. We don't even have to cook or travel far, so that makes it even better.

My co-worker/friend has invited us to her house and she already has most of my donations. All that's left for me to bring is the carrot cake I made last night, some whipped cream for the pies, and my tupperware.

Because you know I'm bringing stuff home to nosh on, right?

The menu we planned includes things like two fried turkeys, ham, mac and cheese, dressing (I call it stuffing even though it's in a pan and not a bird, but we've agreed to disagree), greens, sweet potatoes (she swears by the kind from Honeybaked Ham so that's what I bought instead of making my own; we'll see), rolls, and...ok, I know there are sweet potato pies and my cake for dessert as well as a million other things, but I'm drawing a blank. It's too much food though, trust.

Oh! I did contribute cans of cranberry sauce, too. Because this girl here? Likes to cut the jelly along the ridge lines. I will never not like to do that. Fancy homemade stuff is fine and all, but I needs me some ridge-lined jelly.

I spent some time yesterday brainstorming on holiday card ideas. For a sorta-Scrooge, I am way into that and I can't even explain why.

We have lots going on for the next month. Good stuff to wrap up the year quite nicely. I even have a dress to go with those sparkly shoes and I can't wait to put them on together to ring in the new year while celebrating the nuptials of a good friend. Yay for parties and glitter and new beginnings!

I'm looking forward to today. And many tomorrows.

I hope that you are, too.

And please hope along with me that today is NOT the day that my cake decides to suck. Does anyone else get nervous like that when bringing food to someone else's house?

And Now, Some Words from Our Sponsor

My turn again. BD dropping in for his once a year check in. The one day of the year you have to deal with my poor English and pitiful writing skills. We’ve had one interesting year.

How time flies. This time last year I was sitting on an aircraft carrier listening to airplanes crash land on top of my head. I was off “saving the world”. It’s my job or something. My job also called for us to completely uproot ourselves and try out some new scenery to call home.

As fun and exciting as traveling around the other side of the world is, being away from the Momma and Playette always makes me sad. I know they don’t see it that way, but these 2 ladies are my world. I’ve been on deployments away from the US before, but this was the first time I had to do it since these ladies came along. It is a much different experience trying to be a husband and father from the other side of the world, with little to no internet and extreme conditions on every day. Just getting to talk to them for a few minutes every couple of days was great motivation to keep going over the entire stretch.

I was very impressed with how my wife managed to hold it all together while I was gone and then again as we moved. Having to be a single parent on random notice for weeks to months at a time is an extremely hard lifestyle that the majority of people aren’t capable of. The fact that she’s committed to doing it for the benefit of my career just shows how awesome a woman she is. I’m very lucky to have her! Love you babe!

The little one continues to grow and impress. She’s amazing to watch and an extremely cool kid to just hang with. She’s my partner in crime and every minute we hang together is just the best thing on earth.

Going away is never easy, but as they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and that has definitely been true this year.

Every time I come home to them I realize there is nothing better than their love.

BD Signing out. See you next year peeps.

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2008
2009
2010

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Giving #47 the Side Eye

Dear Extra Chromo,

I go back and forth regarding how I feel about you. In some ways, I do believe that you help my daughter to be the very person I adore and if you were taken away, would she be that same person? If I had that choice to make, would I?

In the past, I’ve always said that I would, if I could. I don’t think that’s changed for me, really. The decision’s just more complicated by the good things that come along with this new community that I was ushered into over four years ago unaware. There are lots of wonderful things I like about that.

I love the people I’ve met, the places I’ve visited, the things I’ve learned.

I appreciate my increased level of patience and compassion. I look people that are different in the eye. I say “hello.” I understand their value in this world.

I enjoy celebrating the accomplishments of not only my child, but the children of others who also have similar unique needs because I now understand what level of determination, passion, and commitment it takes for them to reach that milestone.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I crave the fire that the fight for my daughter’s basic rights brings to my being. It makes me feel alive and purposeful.

But.

Then I think about how you stripped away the joy that others speak of when they first held their child after it was born. That “love unlike any other” feeling? I didn’t have that. I was afraid. I was sad. I was completely and utterly devastated by the unknown. You did that.

I think about how people look at my daughter and feel pity before ever giving her the chance to show who she is and what amazing things she can do. They lump her into categories reserved for what they believe to true about all people with Down syndrome. No wait: “Downs kids.” You did that.

I worry and have sleepless nights, scared of what might happen if she stays so friendly and continues to never meet a stranger. People prey on such things. You did that.

I want her to succeed academically, but then think that, if she does, and she’s fully included that she’ll only be patronized and not truly be accepted as a peer. You did that.

I can’t stand in line at a restaurant on family night without someone feeling like they have the right to come up and tell me that my child, who they have never met, “…might read one day. Just not at the level of a normal child,” all the while making sure to remind me not to keep my expectations too high because some parents are uppity like that and think their kids are higher functioning than they really are.

The features that revealed my baby’s inner struggles and opened up the door to insensitivity and presumptuousness are thanks to you.

The fear, the guilt, the pain. Sure, maybe I would feel that in some instances had my child been born like the other 690.

All parents wonder. All parents feel like they can do more. At one point or another, we think we’ve failed and are grateful for second, third, fourth and many more chances.

But some days I just have to think that it’s more for me because of you.

That’s why I don’t like you.

That’s why I’d let you go if I could.

But I can’t. I know that. And I deal. And I’m probably a lot stronger for it than I realize.

I do the best I can and I don’t dwell on the “why?” anymore.

I’ve passed the phase of trying to answer the question of “How dare you make an appearance in my life after all of the things I’ve been through?!”

I understand that we are a part of the “why not?” club.

The only criteria for membership is you.

I’m sure we’ll struggle, you and I, over the years. Many days, I’ll accept you wholeheartedly, not caring at all that you exist.

And then one day, out of the blue, you’ll sneak up on me, tapping my shoulder with an aggressive reminder of all that is different, all that is more difficult, because you exist.

I hate to give you so much attention. Really, I do. It probably makes me look weak and puts you in the position of appearing more powerful in my life than you really are.

But I’m confrontational like that. If I didn’t tell you, you’d never know.

I love my kid.

I’ve got my eye on you,

Life Snippet

Me: (while braiding her hair before her bath) Do you know I love you so much?

Playette: Yeah.

Me: Do you know what that means?

Playette: Yeah.

Me: What?

Playette: (paraphrased) It's a song.

=====

This chick cracks me up.

While that's not what I meant because I was actually having a super mushy mama moment (where is my icy heart, anyway?), she's right about it being a song. I sing that to her a lot at night before bed. She loves it when I do.

Sidenote: I used to not like that song AT ALL. It's on this really annoying kid song cd that we have somewhere (hidden or lost, thank goodness).

But then, one day in the summer of 2010, on Lisa's blog, I heard her sing it to Sheridan right before he went in for open heart surgery and it totally changed my mind. Her voice and all the emotions of the moment replaced my memories of the other version and it came back to me with a brand new meaning. I actually wanted to sing it to my kid after that. So I did. Again and again and again. I don't think I ever told Lisa how much that touched me. Obviously, it did.

The Ride Home

Today was unique in that BD and I didn't carpool. Also, I got to drive the nicer car. The one with satellite radio. That really, really helps with the commute.

And my swag. I am much more fly when I drive the car. It's been scientifically proven.

Before I got in the car this afternoon to head home, I saw that my friend had mentioned on Facebook that one of Playette's favorite shows was acknowledging Down Syndrome Awareness Month. I made a mental note to turn to Kid's Place Live as soon as I started my drive.

It doesn't bug me to listen to that station, even when Playette's not around. I've caught myself on a few occasions singing along before I realized that I, as an adult, did not have to listen to "Crayola Doesn't Make a Color for Your Eyes" for the 1700th time. Even when I have the option to switch it off, I sometimes stick around because, honestly, I kinda like it. Or, at least, I'm not horribly annoyed.

With that said, I was really anticipating hearing what the host had to say today of all days.

Right after I started the car, I heard her ask for callers who knew someone with Ds. Maybe a sibling? A friend? Or even yourself? What could you share with the audience about that person?

I figured I had a few minutes before the responses started coming in, so I switched to something more adult-friendly for a bit.

When I came back, I heard a little girl's voice. She was talking about her brothers. One of them with Ds.

What was most interesting to me about this scenario was that I recognized their names. And then I recognized hers. She was the daughter of my friend several states away. The friend whose announcement led me to turn to the show in the first place.

This little girl talked about what her older brother liked for a few moments and then she said something that has stuck with me all evening:

"He's the same and we love him."

I think that's what it's all about, peeps.

We're the same in that we're all unique. Every one of us brings something to the table of life. Whether one has 46 or 47, their life matters.

And we all need people to love us.

Thank you, Kit.

Sunday

Another glorious day here, weather-wise. I did my best to soak some of that up because, before you know it, I'll be complaining about the cold.

Auntie left this morning and Playette was none too happy about it. She had her backpack donned and was all ready to go with her. She wouldn't even say goodbye at first. Poor chile.

Shortly thereafter, I began the Quest of Failed Self-Improvement.

BD dropped me off at the hairdresser, but I got tired of waiting, so he came back to get me before I ever got started.

Later, I decided that maybe a pedicure would make me feel better about myself. So I drove to the shop only to find it was closed.

I am still just as much of a mess as I was when I woke up this morning.

In the middle of all of that somewhere, I decided to check in on the TMR boards.

Because, you know, it's been a while.

I don't know what I expected, really. I think that I'm probably still naive enough at times to believe that, generally, people are more informed. That, regardless of whatever choice they make for themselves and their family, they're doing it with the total of the info available to us in 2011.

Just so you know...that's not the case.

I read a lot of ignorant stuff today about children, people, with Ds. Stuff that people really and truly believe. Some of which was delivered to them on a silver platter by medical professionals so it must be true.

At one point, I looked up from reading and directed my gaze three feet down the couch at my daughter.

I wanted to keep an open mind while doing so.

I wanted to see if she was, in fact, suffering and maybe in my own selfishness I hadn't noticed.

I wanted to see if the feeling of her being a burden washed over me.

I wanted to check for every serious medical issue that some of those posters affirmed would occur with every single child with Ds ever born.

And you know what?

I just didn't see it.

I did see a four-year-old girl smiling back at me, in anticipation of whatever I might say or do next.

Her white shirt was stained by the red juice she had had earlier. Her socks were just begging to be pulled off and thrown on top of the shoes she had already discarded on the living room floor. She had an excited little bounce to her, as she usually does.

She was just the way I thought she was before I had started reading.

Happy and healthy and just where she belongs.

And thennnn....

1. Ok, so she totally came home with a huge whole in the side of her brand new dress. I wasn't mad, but damn. Was she trying to ruin it just to make me look foolish?

Totally fixable and probably wouldn't even be noticeable if it were sewn by anyone other than yours truly. Me? I'll probably make a mess out of it using a hotel sewing kit.

2. Thank you so much to all who left comments on the behavior situation. It really means a lot and I find your feedback helpful. Just knowing that I'm not alone in this is huge.

That reminds me of something..."behavior" was a topic that was never addressed in the sharing session of moms of 3-5 year-olds at the NDSC conference. My biggest gripe about the weekend was that time period. We essentially spent the entire 1.5 hours introducing ourselves, which helped no one. Wouldn't it have been great if this type of thing could have been explored instead? Or any of the other 15 or so things that people said they'd like to talk about? Ugh.

I think it's important that when we have golden opportunities like that, with just us moms (not friends and therapists, like what they allowed this past time - no offense to the supporters), that we seize the chance to talk about the real stuff, the nitty-gritty, the "my special angel isn't acting like such a special angel anymore and I'm no longer feeling like such a special chosen parent to my very special kid" type stuff. (gag @ all the specialness of it all)

We all know that we all love our kids. If we didn't, chances are high that we wouldn't even be at an event like that, y'know? We probably don't need to spend the entire time telling each other that we love our kids.

Obviously, I'm frustrated. It feels so big right now that we missed it. We really missed it in that room that day.

I'm thinking of all the other moms who left that room not getting what they needed, moms with issues that might have been more hearty than my own, and it's breaking my heart.

When are they going to get their chance? Do they spend another 1, 3, 30 years feeling like they're failing?

I hope they're able to find the support they need.

Thankfully, I have you all.

3. And, uh, the weather and seismic activity around here is pissing me off because I don't know how to deal with it. Especially not all at once.

When More is More

Today, the Littlest decided that she'd spice it up a bit.

Maybe she's trying to remind me of what things will be like for me when I go back to working full-time outside of the home next week.

I pulled a new dress out of her closet this morning for her to wear. It was one of those moments where you have to weigh out the pros and cons...

Yes, if she wears this, it may get messed up during the school day.

But, if she doesn't, it may end up being one. more. thing that gets outgrown with the tags still on it.

I threw caution to the wind. We'll see how that turns out.

But here's the thing, much like the participants in any number of makeover shows, once she had that new dress on, her whole demeanor changed.

She went into her closet and grabbed her laptop.

Then she went into my closet and snagged a purse.

Partner those with her (old) glasses and she was ready to go.




I hope that I'm half as put-together on Monday.

=====

I cried at drop-off today. I couldn't help it. It was just a few tears, but I couldn't hold them in.

The teacher, who I appreciate very much, was telling me about some of the behaviors that Playette has been exhibiting lately.

Now, I had heard the other teacher mention some things yesterday during pick-up, but I think she was trying to spare my feelings a little too much and kind of acted like things weren't as bad as they are.

The morning lady (they work together in the room for most of the day) was a little more blunt. Which was fine. It's just that I guess that I've been living in a bit of a fantasy lately. I mean, I have this kid who has been just...nice...for so long and hearing that she's pushing and hitting other children? Ugh.

I understand that her chronological age does not match her developmental stage, but still. I thought we got the "terrible twos" thing last year. Apparently not. That was just a preview. She's exhibiting that sort of behavior now in the classroom and I realize that I'm not taking it well because I really, really want her to just be.

Do you know what I mean?

I don't want her to stick out (more).

I don't want her to become a problem.

I want everyone to wish that they had her in their classrooms.

It's that thing about being different already and not really wanting to give her the leeway to be the same as other children in that kind of way.

While it's fine for any other child to have behavioral issues attributed to the stage they're in, for a kid that's already set apart, it's just another strike in my mind.

It's kinda like me not being able to be relaxed in college about breaking a rule....there was no one that anyone could confuse me with as I was virtually the only Black female for most of the time I was there.

So, yeah, it's deeper than "we don't hit" for me.

It's more like, "Please, baby, be nice to your friends today, ok? Be on your very best behavior, alright? Look at me. Can you do that for mama? Please? No, really, I'm serious. Look at me. Do you understand? We're nice to our friends. Hands are not for hitting. Let's use our words today. Look at me. Tell me you understand. Ok? Can you promise me that you'll be the best girl today?"

Ugh.

That is so unfair. I know that.

But that's real life.

A Day in the Life

Today was a day much like many others in so many ways, but there was a little something special about it, too.

Playette and I got up and going early. She helped me check things off of the to-do list, one by one. She charmed the people we encountered at Kinkos, Weight Watchers, the Post Office, Exchange, Commissary, and even drivers in their cars that we pulled up next to at stoplights. We had lunch out and had the good fortune (??) to run into the local cupcake truck I'd been hearing about. Cupcakes weren't on the menu for today (that's tomorrow), but I'm a sucker for tiramisu, so when I saw that flavor, it was a wrap.

I have no good reason for the second cupcake other than I am a glutton. And I'm still going tomorrow. Baby steps.

We came home and watched a movie or slept on the beanbag or left the room and brought back random household items depending on who you were and what point in time it was. But we got through the whole movie, so that should count for something.

We walked around the neighborhood, enjoying the cooler evening temps, and then headed home for dinner and a little playtime before bed.

It was nice. As regular as regular can be. And I soaked it in like sunshine.

rOTten

I had to fire the Occupational Therapist yesterday.

It was our second visit with her. I thought it was bad last week, but this week was even worse.

I thought she couldn't remember my child's name because they had just met. I gave her some leeway. Even though I corrected her over and over and over again.

I allowed her to discount what I knew to be true about my child only so that she could eventually figure out that I was right after all.

I sat in the room, amidst total chaos, and realized that there was no way that my daughter was ever going to be able to focus in this environment.

I heard her say that our chief concern was something that she had no idea how to address.

I watched her get frustrated when my child didn't answer when she continued to call her the wrong name.

I saw her watching the clock the entire time and then end each session early.

I heard her ask me to change our appointment time and then look bothered when I said that would not be possible as we had a conflict.

I saw her discount my child's abilities. "Oh, that's much too difficult for her," she said. "Really?" I replied. Because she does something similar at home and has been for months.

I'm sure there was more.

But any of these should have been enough.

So, in my most calm voice, doing my best to protect her from my truest emotions, I politely told her that we would no longer be needing her services. She was welcome to do whatever she had planned with that precious 45 minute slot after all. Because we wouldn't be back.

See, here's the thing. My child is almost four. She's been seeing therapists in some capacity since she was six weeks old. This was not my first trip to the rodeo.

As much as I don't want to be that mom, that mom gets things done. She knows that her time is precious, as is her child, and wasting resources gets us nowhere.

It's tiring, draining, being that mom.

But that mom? She's getting 45 minutes of life back next week.

Maybe we'll go get ice cream instead.

Using a spoon counts as OT, right?

In all honesty, I'm proud of myself. Part of me wanted to just give it more time. Maybe another session or two. This place is so close to the house. They're just getting to know one another. It'll be awkward when we come back to the office for Physical Therapy. Maybe I'm just being too quick to judge. Are my expectations too high?

And then I came to my senses.

Trust yourselves, ladies.

You have instincts for a reason. Your kids deserve the best and so do you.

And here I was thinking that it was just my kid that was getting therapy.

Lessons are everywhere.

The Great Race to Nowhere

That's kinda how I'm thinking of potty training/toilet learning. Whatever it is you want to call it, the bottom line is all the same: The lack of need for expensive incontinence products.

Wait. Unfortunately, that's not it. That would be too easy. What I've learned is that not only do you get the pride/bragging rights that your kid can pee or poop in a pot, but a completely whole new world is opened to them.

Did you know that? I didn't.

I think it's crappy that my kid is not able to join a class at school or get involved in a rec center program or a myriad of other things because she happens to wear a pull-up or, on a great day, panties covered with a bulky plastic overlay.

See, my issue is that if she can count and knows her alphabet in two languages and gets along well with others, WHAT THE FLIPPING FLIP DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH WHETHER OR NOT SHE TELLS US SHE HAS TO GO?! WHY DOES SHE NEED TO BE IN A CLASS WITH TWO-YEAR-OLDS?!

Ahem.

Obviously, this is an hot button for me today.

And, trust me, I do get that staffing and money drive all of this. You need more people in a class that has children for whom toileting is an emerging skill. The ratio changes. Smaller ratios cost more money. Blah, blah, blah.

But it feels like another acceptable form of discrimination and lord knows we've got enough of those already. ("Will you accept my child with Down syndrome into your preschool program? No? Oh, alright then." - gag)

If my child is developmentally ready to learn age-appropriate things but she can't control her bladder, she doesn't move on. Basically. And I'm supposed to be ok with that.

This all ties into my last post where maybe it wasn't clear but...I am not fine with how that whole thing went down. But finding other placement for Playette? It's hard, yo. Because of all that stuff I just rambled about. No academics for girls that still tinkle in their dipes.

And that makes me think about this long, long road we've been on.

If you'll let him, BD will tell you all about how he was PT'd in the womb or something close to that. No, seriously, he was using the toilet really early.

So, when Playette was approaching two and he wanted to get her started, I was all, "Why not? We're supposed to treat her just as we would if she didn't have Ds, so if he's all motivated, let's go."

She was successful. And those days success looked like timely release. She knew that sitting on the potty meant it was time to go.

That was almost two years ago and we've gone through a lot of up and down since then. There were several occasions when I thought that she was going to be 100% PT'd any day now, and then I was happy with her being "schedule trained" and then there were others times (like when BD was deployed) when I thought that we were all the way back to square one.

We've tried having multiple Ikea potties stashed all over, a soft, cushy potty, inserts on regular-sized toilets, coloring books with stickers, and even an iPhone app that got her to go in a freaky Pavlovian kinda way.

In retrospect, we're just not as far along in the process as I had hoped we would be two years ago. I really, really wanted to believe back then that my kid was gonna be all Superstar Pee Pee Girl, but what I think I did instead was just stress myself the hell out for way too long about something that could have waited.

Every morning for the past few weeks, I've packed up a grocery bag full of pants, shirts, socks, underwear, and plastic covers. The school said that she was ready to take the next step and I was grateful for the assistance and support.

Every night, I did the laundry that came home. For a while, she was coming back to me in the same outfit she left in and I was getting notes that said things like, "She was dry all day!" That felt like good. Like progress. Like I could really start signing her up for classes at the rec and securing placement in an age-appropriate setting that had zero tolerance for teachers with no people skills.

And then, yesterday, on Friday, I got a letter.

"She is not physically ready," they said. "She is inconsistent in staying dry."

The school is giving up.

I know that I can't do the same. I don't know how to just stop when I know that she's trying, that she's proud of herself when she gets all the stars to align.

But I'd be lying if I said that didn't take the wind out of my sails.

Peeing in the toilet does not dictate how wonderful and capable my daughter is.
Peeing in the toilet does not dictate how wonderful and capable my daughter is.
Peeing in the toilet does not dictate how wonderful and capable my daughter is.
Peeing in the toilet does not dictate how wonderful and capable my daughter is.
Peeing in the toilet does not dictate how wonderful and capable my daughter is.

I'll let that marinate a bit.

Oh no - not you, too!

I wrote the following post over a month ago. I've gone back and forth about publishing it.

Something I realized yesterday, though, is that I'm still bothered by what happened. I'm still very hurt when people use the word "retarded" or "TARD" or whatever version they choose that inadvertently hurts people that cannot control their cognitive abilities and the many people that love them.

I'm even more hurt when it's people that I like or admire. And what is the appropriate response when it's a special education preschool teacher that does it?

Oh, God, this fight. Today, and days when I feel like this, which are much fewer and farther between, I wonder if I'm cut out for it, if I'm strong enough.

So on this day, the one set aside to attempt to get people to think more about their word choices, I'm publishing.

And sighing.

==========

The "brief" IEP meeting went well, overall. We were rolling around KeepItQuickVille, making a slight detour onto OhIMeantToAsk Lane, just about to easy into the driveway of Maison de NoSurprises when it happened.

She said it.

I cringe even before writing it out because I know what it is.

Lemme fist tell you this. I know some people want to go all "get a thicker skin" on me and I have to say...somewhere along the way, I have.

I had a friend in high school who called me an Agressive Cottonball. He said that I could dish it with the best of them but I couldn't take it.

I probably pouted when he said that.

Because I'm sensitive.

In case that wasn't clear.

He was right though. When I was coming up, (and forgive me for not knowing the new terminology that surely exists amongst the whippersnappers) jonin' (uh, who knows how to spell that anyway?) was huge. We made fun of each other for fun. Someone noticed that you were wearing your friend's jeans? Having a bad hair day? Sporting ugly glasses past their prime?

All easy targets.

But let someone say something about me. I may have put on a semi-tough exterior (i.e. not burst out crying on the spot), but it festered internally for...well, forever.

Obviously. Because all of those things were said about me and I still remember them vividly. Plus a whole lot more.

I would love that brain space back, thankyouverymuch.

The truth is, though, that I'm ok about a lot of things now that I just plain wouldn't have been years ago, whether we're taking 15 years or just the few since Playette has been in my life.

I still strongly believe that you shouldn't hurt people by using words that are painful to them. But I don't have the same reaction that I used to and I'm not sure how to feel about that.

I don't get as sad as I used to. It's not even anger, really. It's more like disappointment. Deep disappointment that I feel the need to shake off as quickly as possible. I can't wallow in it...forever. I refuse to.

You know why? And I think this is sad, too.

I won't do it because, MY GOD, she's three.

It's not stopping.

So, yeah, I'll still stand up for my rights and those of others. I maintain to fight the good fight, but I'm putting a protective coating on this here cottonball personality of mine, little by little, for the sake of my own sanity.

That said, I got disappointed yesterday.

It was in that very IEP meeting.

Right at the end.

I may have even begun to gather my belongings.

We were pulling into the driveway, after all. There had been no surprises, no arguements, no losses of control or emergence of expletives. What more could you ask for?

Well, I could have asked for my daughter's very kind and considerate and generally likeable teacher not to use the "r" word.

Stab me in the gut, why don'tcha.

And, like I said, it wasn't the same kind of pain I've felt before. It was different this time.

It was more of a "Dammit, not you, too. I thought I was safe with you. I didn't have my defenses up because we're supposed to be -->here<--. This is a safe zone. I want to like you. I don't want us to have a barrier between us because, ugh, I have no choice now but to address this."

Unfortunately, it's not something I can ignore.

Especially in a situation like this one.

The old me, trust, would have grabbed my kid (who was in the room by this point), ran out crying, vowing to never have her cross such an oppressive threshold as long as there was breath in my body.

You may think that's extra-dramatic, but I'm telling you, I can see myself starring in that scene as clear as if it had actually happened.

==========

And that's where I stopped writing that day.

I can't take myself back to that exact place, so I feel like I'd be doing a disservice to the person I was that day if I just tacked on how I feel today.

In short, I did stop the teacher that day. She was mid-sentence about something totally different. When she had used the word that offends me so much, what she said was, "I don't know why they have this on the form here. It's so retarded."

I called her on it. Very nicely, but I couldn't let it slide. I mean of all things, she's at work, with a parent, in an IEP meeting. You'd think that at least one of those things would have told her to initiate filter usage.

Her reply was a story about how her dad was in a wheelchair when she was growing up and that other kids used to ask her if he was retarded. So, you know, she gets a pass.

Oh. Ok.

We spoke a couple of days later about an unrelated issue. She used that time to apologize. She said that it had been bothering her and she felt really bad. I elaborated as to why some people find that word offensive.

I have no way of knowing if she got it or not. I'm still bothered. Obviously.

Another reality is that I cried last week. I screamed. I cursed. About this very topic. Not the teacher, but other people I looked at as friends.

They got me.

I'm not as tough as I thought.

Recap

Ok, so I've had several requests to provide my perspective on last night's Private Practice episode.

First, let me say that, much like when I watch Army Wives, I wish they would have had a(n) (more influential?) advisor. I can't help but wonder if the actors that have Ds ever venture to say, "But I don't only play with stuffed animals and/or want to read nursery rhymes. I'm an adult!"

And it may be very wrong of me to to even have that thought. I mean, how long did Black actors accept roles that may have been considered demeaning (see: first version of Imitation of Life) just so they could practice their craft, do what they love?

So, yeah, I get that some people with Ds in entertainment is better than no people with Ds in entertainment. There are people that work very hard to help provide opportunities for our peeps to be included in movies, television, and even things like Target ads. I would be remiss if I didn't say how much I appreciate being able to see people that look like my child in the media.

I also realize that I'm the parent of a three-year-old. I have one child and she happens to have Ds. I don't know much in the grand scheme of things. I know what I want and what I don't want for my daughter based on what I know TODAY, at this point in her life. And that's all. I also recognize that all of my expectations aren't necessarily fair to her. I can't expect her to be something she's not and I fear that I do project my desires for her future self on her preschool self. That's sorta related and a whole 'nother ball of wax, all at the same time.

Alright, I know the people that asked what I thought about Private Practice weren't asking for all of that, but it needed to be said. I can't fully elaborate the full picture of what goes on in my brain, but I felt a preface was necessary in the hopes that knowing something of where I'm coming from will help anyone who reads about where this episode took me.

Plus, this is way awkward because I'm totally putting myself out there on a controversial topic and I know not everyone will agree.

It just happened that I woke up an hour early this morning so I decided to watch before Playette woke up, so it's nice and fresh on my mind.

*sigh*

So the premise was that a mother brought her teenage daughter in to see the doctor because she feared she might be pregnant. Her daughter would usually play in her room, talking to her stuffed animals, but this one time the mother found the noises to actually be due to the daughter having sex with her boyfriend. The daughter has Down syndrome and the boyfriend (played by a Not Currently Diagnosed actor) has different learning disabilities. The daughter has been complaining of stomach pain recently so they check her out via ultrasound. She's pregnant. 11 weeks. The doctors and the mom all look stricken. The daughter doesn't know what's going on.

Now comes the discussions about options. The female doctor is said to be "very Catholic" and seems to be wishing to sway the mother into taking the chance on having the "child she never had." The mom is all, "I had to give up my entire life to care for my child and I don't want to take the chance of that happening again" and, well, my eyes rolled because that's not my life. I haven't given up my life in the slightest. But, as I told a friend yesterday, maybe I'm just selfish parent.

So, unfair eyeroll? Perhaps.

The female doctors is all, "It might not be that way this time! Hold out hope for a "perfect" child! 50% chance of no Ds!"

See, this is what I mean. I have a very cynical outlook. Noted.

The male doctor, the female doctor's ex-husband (or maybe they're still married? I really don't know. He's dating her best friend, so they're not together), is all, "You need to back off and stop trying to push your 'keep the baby' stance because it's not like when our teenage daughter had a baby (I didn't catch if the couple were supposed to be teens or not) because these parents would need help all the time. Besides, what happens when the mom dies?"

The mom, by the way, is said to have Power of Attorney so if she decides that her daughter will have an abortion, it shall be done.

I'm no lawyer, but really? Is that how it works? I mean, I've seen people under 18 have babies and their parents are their legal guardians and all, but they still can't legally force their children to have abortions. Why would this be so different? Does the person with Ds no longer have a legal right to what happens to their own body? Hm. Please, someone tell me that this was just some ridiculous level of creative license.

I appreciated the fact that they seemed to explore the different sides. They talked about how the couple felt (when told at the CVS appointment, after it was done, what it was for - they were excited and wanted the baby), the mother's reaction (she was scared of what this would all mean for everyone involved and agreed to the CVS so that they could know if the baby had Ds or not)...

Wait. No one was concerned about the run-of-the-mill, not described learning disabilities of the father? They seemed very focused on Ds and that bothered me. I know I'm sensitive (and jaded), but it just seemed to perpetuate the idea that if your baby doesn't have Ds, that everything is right with the world.

*sigh and eye roll*

I know by this point that I may be missing something that I wanted to be sure not to forget.

And I know it's just TV and, really, I'm not all riled up and wanting to boycott the show. Not at all. I'm just sharing and in a typing it all out mood, I guess.

Ok, back to the different sides...

There was the male doctor who wanted to keep it all professional and emotion-free. Whatever the mom said is what went. And then the female doctor, whose opinion I've already noted.

I remember at one point the male doctor saying to the female doctor, regarding the CVS, that if the baby does have Ds and there's an abortion that she'll be unhappy because of eugenics and if the baby doesn't have Ds and there's an abortion that she'll be unhappy because she's Catholic.

I'm glad they mentioned eugenics.

So, anyway, the results come back and HOORAY! THE BABY DOESN'T HAVE DS!! OMGZ! PARTY TIME!

(I'm telling this out of order, but still...)

I think my eyes rolled out of my head and across the room at that point.

Female doctor tries and tries to reach the mom to no avail. She then asks the male doctor to come with her to deliver the news in person. He obliges.

But, the mom had already determined that it didn't matter anyway. Her daughter would not be having that baby. They had been unreachable because she had taken her daughter to have an abortion that morning. It was not 100% clear to me, but I'm pretty sure the daughter was sedated and, also, didn't know what was going on.

Again.

Oh, this makes me sooo emotional. Sad? Angry? Defeated? Irritated? All of that?

Like I said earlier, I am not in that mom's position. I've got a ways to go before I even have to begin fighting the battle of hormones and dealing with tough topics. But, damn. It hit me. Right. There.

So this is my life, huh?

But...

It's not today.

And I can't borrow trouble.

(Right, Dub?)

Jack's Big Music Show is on.

I'll go watch that with my baby.

Just Thinking

Something hit me tonight. Not hard, but more like a nudge. I wonder about my sensitivity to terminology. I wrote this yet-to-be-published-and-I'm-not-sure-why post last week about usage of the r word and how I react differently to its usage now than I did even six months ago.

I still don't think it's ok, but it doesn't hit me in the same way as it did before. To clarify, still don't like, but won't cry over it. I totally have cried over it in the past.

So, seemingly non-related, over the weekend, I watched a movie. It was released in 1934. Imitation of Life. If you've seen it, you know how big a role race plays in the film.

I've loved Imitation of Life for years and years, but not this version. I always watched the one from 1959. But, since BD opted in on a Netflix trial recently, I thought I'd finally give the original a try.

Lemme tell you something: HUGE DIFFERENCE.

I was like "whoa" and cringed quite a few times at the portrayals and the verbiage used in the 1934 version. I'm not naive. I know that was a very different time, but still. Whoa. I found it hard to watch.

At one point, two girls are playing and one begins to cry because the other called her "black." Except, to me, today, she was black. Then, that was an insult. The mother of the little girl who said it told her to apologize immediately for saying such a cruel thing to her friend.

What does this have to do with the r word? Well, nothing really, but it's the terminology that struck me.

Tonight, while in the car, I was listening to Dr. Berman's show for a minute. I came in just as a lady who had called in for some advice was talking about her daughter. Apparently, she wanted Dr. Berman's help with her dating methods. She felt like she was, in her words, "a very good catch" but she had concerns related to her "special needs daughter." She actually said, "She's special needs. She's Down syndrome."

I cringed. Just like I did while watching the movie.

I mean, there's nothing inherently wrong or evil about what the caller said. It's just not what folks in my generation typically say when describing their child. These days, people I know are all about People First Language. I would never (ever ever ever ever ever) say that Playette is Down syndrome. Ever.

I don't really know my point about all of this. I don't have a conclusion, really. I just felt like sharing.

I don't know how not to cringe and I'm not sure if that will ever change.

But maybe it will.

There are just no absolutes. That I do know.

A-ha!

I used to watch Oprah regularly and then I stopped for a while and kept missing good shows every now and again until I finally learned to set the TiVo and watch what sounded good when I had the time to do so.

Last night, as I was cuddling with The Sickest, I checked in to see what the deal was with "The Bravest Families in America."

Wow.

Talk about enlightening.

I mean, there's a lot I'm still adjusting to in regards to being a military family. This is after being in JROTC in high school, going to a service academy, being in the reserves, working as a civilian for two different armed forces, and being married for BD for nearly 5 years.

There's still so much I don't know.

Oprah's topic explored the need for increased awareness of the realities of our country's military families. Her guests were people that served and came home wounded, caregivers, parents who lost a child, the spouses that stayed behind, and those that believed that more should be known about and done for these people.

Again, I was brought to tears. (I cried at some point during every Australia episode. Don't judge me.)

I cried for the people who clearly have a tougher way to go than I do.

I cried for myself because I realized, most clearly for the first time, that I had a right to feel the way I felt when BD was deployed. For the most part, we were isolated. Most people do not get deployed from grad school. There were not supports in place for families like ours. I was fortunate to have friends and respite, but when it came to formal "Now how do I handle this?" stuff, there was nothing to be found.

I wasn't sure what to share with BD or what to keep to myself (Would he feel bad that he wasn't there to help in the bad times? Would he feel bad when he misseed something good?). I was lonely. I was tired. I was running myself ragged, not sleeping, trying to be everything I thought everyone else thought I should be. The perfect wife, mother, friend. I wanted to prove that I was like what I thought every other military wife was: strong in the face of adverse circumstances, never complaining, making it happen at all costs.

I still believe that those women are those things, but now I see that I was, too. I never gave myself that credit. Much like when we received Playette's diagnosis, a new normal was created and the clock didn't stop.

Sometimes you have to give yourself a pat of the back where it's due. This lifestyle may be chosen (BD did not knock me in the head and force me unknowingly into marrying him - he wore his uniform in our wedding. I can't say I didn't know he was in the Navy.), but it's not easy. This is not how most people live. No pity required. Just self-acknowledgement that it's ok to say that it's hard. Some times more than others. And not everyone can relate. The end.

I have to accept that I'll make friends and lose them. I have to suck it up that my career does not take priority. I have to get used to packing and unpacking and fighting battles with school districts any and everywhere as we move just as we start to get comfortable.

But I also realize that we have a good life. My husband is safe and he is well. He likes what he does and I support him fully. There are people I could be supporting better in our community and I will. It's the least I can do.

It was just so nice to see our reality acknowledged on the show.

I needed that.