LEARNING AT THE POTTER'S WHEEL

The emotions swirled around me.

We had plans. Our kids would be on their own in 20 years, and we would be able to enjoy each other in our retirement years. I would luxuriate in the glory that is grandchildren and daughters in laws.

I had plans. . .

With the words Down syndrome, all of those plans seemed to change. I searched for someone to tell me what this meant to me, our family, our future, our child. Clinical descriptions were cruel. I found out later, that most of them were also inaccurate. Developmental specialists were focused on spotting problems. Many parents of children with Down syndrome seemed caught up in a cause or some group support, rather than their own child. Specialists quickly reduced my child to a series of parts and pieces that needed tweaking. He didn’t just need therapy: I was told he needed PT, ST, OT, and a whole lot of other alphabets. Even his heart had a huge ASD defect.

No one was speaking English any more.

I just wanted to know how to be a mom -- IF I could be a mom -- to a child with Down syndrome. I wanted to him to soar to great heights, and I was being told that he was born without wings. “There must be some mistake,” I thought.

One of the best things that happened to us was that we didn’t know Z-man had Down syndrome for the first 5 months of his life. We knew he had trouble latching on and he was growing slowly, but we didn’t know that it had a name. We just treated him like any other baby. By the time we knew he wasn’t like any other baby, he already knew how to roll over, hold his own head, and he was nursing like a pro. The cardiologist just shook his head and told us to keep doing whatever we were doing, because a child that laughed, rolled, over and grabbed his stethoscope while gaining weight was the exception, not the rule. We determined from that moment that we hadn’t become the parents of a statistic, but a child – and we would let Z-man tell us what that meant.

Yesterday, I walked into the boys’ room and caught my breath. There, on the table – the one with rollers on the feet – was my 4 year old. He wasn’t just standing on the table; he was on his tip toes and reaching over his head to put a toy on the top bunk bed. “Z!” I exclaimed, “There was a time when I wondered if you would run and play like other kids! Now I just want you to not break any bones! Get down from there, NOW!” His face shifted from that of concentrated effort to ‘oops!’ He quickly climbed down, and left the room for other adventures.

When he exited the room, I smiled and began to praise God.

Down syndrome may be his diagnosis, but he’s all boy.

He’s my boy. . . AND he has WINGS!