I am a paranoid mother.  Ok, so I don’t know if paranoid is the psychologically correct term, if you are into that kind of thing (being psychologically correct), but  I do get nervous.  When confronted with a situation or a proposition, I think to myself, passively at first, “oh, what’s the worst that could happen?” 

At that point, my thoughts inevitably lead from a simple afternoon outside in the backyard, to one of my children being kidnapped and then who-knows-what else while I spend the rest of my life in an agonizing search for the baby I lost when I let him step out that back door.  So, the passive question, ”what’s the worst that could happen?” turns into a small anxiety attack, when chances are, that  whole mother’s worst nightmare scenario really isn’t going to happen.

My neighborhood has got to be one of the safest places in the world, my neighbors are lovely, and the crime rate resides at approximately non-existent, but is that enough?  Do the crime statistics, and the lack of a registered sex offender in my hood provide my with a false sense of security?  Is my optimism another form of ignorance?  Ugh, my crazy rantings sound even worse when they are staring at me on a computer screen! 

I don’t want to be a helicopter mommy.  You know them, the moms that hover over their children at the playground, never letting them experience so much as a scrape or skirmish.  But, I have this innate urge to protect my offspring.

Last week my kids were watching Winnie the Pooh.  I never thought that silly old bear would teach me so much.  In that particular episode, Rabbit had grown the perfect pumpkin.  The pumpkin was so perfect that he just HAD to protect it.  The gang started building a variety of contraptions to protect the pumpkin from all the ills of the world, but with each finished contraption another weak spot was revealed.  For instance, they built a fence all the way around the pumpkin, but it was left vulnerable on top.  Their efforts eventually led them to building a completely enclosed structure around and on top of the pumpkin.  Nothing could get in.  Nothing could hurt it.  I’m sure you can see where this is going, but I’ll finish the story anyway:).  Rabbit quickly realzied that his pumpkin was getting weak, the lack of sun, water, and fresh air made it frail and start to wither.  It turned out that smothering the pumpkin was actually killing it, not helping it.  And so it goes. 

If my kids are never able to spread their wings, take a risk, and be exposed to life, they will never be able to flourish.  If I never allow them to feel defeated, how will they know the joy of success?  I could do my best to never let them scrape a knee, or stub a toe, but at what cost?  What journeys will they be missing, and will they really be growing?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I firmly believe that there are times that I will need to walk along side my kids, I will arm them with the protection they need to fight their battles, but eventually, I’ll have to do it.  I’ll have to let go.  And I know if when I do, I will be better for it, and they will be too.

So until that day comes.  The day that I’ll have to let go, I’m going to do everything  I can to put all of my crazies aside, and watch my perfect pumpkins grow.

In my last post I featured the amazing Jen and her beautiful clan.  As I’ve said before, I think Jen is amazing! Not only is she a fabulous mother to her three beautiful children, she, along with her husband and family, have opened their heart to a beautiful little girl half a world away.  Baby Sofia.  Jen has been keeping a blog, Saving Sofia, documenting their journey towards adoption.  Her stories and feelings are poignant and captivating.  I know my feelings of anticipation about bringing Sofia home to her forever family are likely very dim compared to Jen’s, but as I read her blog, I can’t help but feel the anticipation grow within me.  Again, her blog is Saving Sofia, be sure to check it out, their story will inspire you, that I can promise!

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Can I just repeat what I said yesterday?  I am SO excited about having the opportunity to feature Jen Sanchez and her blog Three’s a Charm.  Jen is married and has three GORGEOUS children.  On her blog she writes about the joys that accompany motherhood as well as her journey with her youngest son Joaquin, who was diagnosed with Down syndrome when he was three months old.  The Sanchez family is also in the process of another noble and fabulous event, which will be featured in pt. 2 of this series.  

As I read through Jen’s archives, there were many posts that I fell in love with, but The Boy That Never Was went straight to my heart.  I love Jen’s sincere and honest account of her feelings and emotions during the first few months of Joaquin’s life, and the invaluable lessons she has learned from him.  Don’t forget to check back to read the second part of the feature about the Sanchez family and a beautiful little girl named Sofia.   

The Boy That Never Was

When I look at my son’s face, I cannot imagine a more perfect little boy. He is exactly as he should be.

It wasn’t that long ago though that I mourned the boy that never was. I was inspired to write this after reading Adrienne’s blog post at Our Unexpected Journey. She gave me the courage to write about my early thoughts after receiving Joaquin’s diagnosis when he was three months old.

When I was pregnant with Joaquin, I fantasized about having my third boy and I was quite proud and excited to add yet another handsome, smart boy to the family. When we first came up with Joaquin’s name, I googled it to see if there were any other Joaquin Sanchez’s in the world and I was surprised to find a gorgeous and talented soccer player in South America. I immediately had images of my third son following in these footsteps- possibly becoming a famous athlete some day. I fantasized about the three of our boys taking care of us as we grew older, watching over and protecting their mom. I had the whole image in my head. That perfect little family picture.

Would he be the one to follow in his grandfather and great grandfather’s footsteps and become a doctor? Would he be the smartest of my three boys? Would he be an amazing athlete? Would he be even more good looking than my other two boys? I’m embarrassed and ashamed to even admit this stuff. It sounds so superficial now and it was.

Then, shortly after receiving the diagnosis of DS, I thought to myself….well, maybe Joaquin will be a superstar with DS. He will overcome all his obstacles, meet his milestones faster than most, and he would be different than others with DS. Again, I’m embarrassed and ashamed to admit this. It was almost as if we could wash away the DS part of him. I even flirted with the idea of testing him for mosaic DS because maybe somehow this was better than true Trisomy 21. What on earth was I thinking? I was still caught up in that perfect family image.

I would also stare at his face those first few days after the diagnosis and think, he’s so beautiful but would he have been even more beautiful if he didn’t have DS? I fought with my own thoughts about accepting and loving the face I was looking at but at the same time trying to imagine him without the extra chromosome and the tell tale facial characteristics. I found myself focusing on the photos without his tongue sticking out or without the crossed eyes. The ones where the DS was not noticeable. Maybe it would magically disappear. I’m certainly not proud to admit this.

Thank God I was given the opportunity to see what really is most important. Although I mourned the possibility of what I thought was a perfect child, my eyes have been opened to the fact that Joaquin and his “flawed” genetic makeup is more than perfect. He is beautiful. Inside and out. His true beauty comes from within and shines bright in his presence. He has already taught us more than we will ever be able to teach him. He may never be a doctor or a famous athlete but he will change the world. He already has. Our eyes are open to the richness and beauty in life that is unexpected. It’s like my buddy Forrest Gump said so eloquently, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.” And when it comes to chocolate, I have yet to meet a piece I didn’t like!

Now I want to share Joaquin with the world. THIS is the face of Down syndrome. THIS is what so many people fear. THIS is what some “caring” professionals want to eliminate with earlier prenatal testing. I want the world to see and know what I know now. THIS is the son I never knew I wanted or needed in my life. The boy that never was IS the boy that was supposed to be. Thank you God for blessing me with Joaquin. I am forever grateful.

A couple weeks ago, I posted a link to thisblog.  I have been reading Kelle’s adventures with her spunky almost 3-year-old Lainey, and new beautiful baby Nella for quite a while now.  If you have read her blog, or Nella’s birth story, you already know that Nella is a beautiful little baby who happens to have an extra chromosome. 

I have since heard that there is magic in that extra chromosome, and I have to tell you. . .I believe it. 

I have felt such an overwhelming feeling of awe towards Nella and the sense of perspective and hope that she brought into the world with her, that I have been pursuing more blogs written by parents who have BEAUTIFUL children.  Beautiful children who also have Down syndrome.  Again, I am in awe.  These special little children, along with their special families have taught me so much, and I have been nothing but a distant spectator admiring them as I lurked through the pages of their blogs.  I have been so inspired that I wanted to do a special blog feature mini-series highlighting one of these amazing families.  I am SO thrilled to have this opportunity. 

I was hoping to get the features up by March 21st which happened to be World Down Syndrome Day, but even though that day has come and gone, I hope that we can all become more aware of the fact that the people who happen to have an extra chromosome are more like us than we may realize, and that there truly is magic in the 21st chromosome.

I will be featuring a post tomorrow written by Jen, the author of Three’s a Charm.  Check back, it will be well worth it!

Happy Thursday everybody!  I am so excited about today’s blog feature.  I am excited to have the opportunity to feature Lisa from Adventures in Motherhood.  Lisa is a busy mom of six beautiful children.  On her blog she shares many of her joys, and struggles of being a mother.  She has graciously given me permission to feature this beautiful post, when you’re finished reading, please be sure to visit Lisa and her clan over at Adventures in Motherhood. . .

A Little Magic

When Kevin, my 13-year-old, was very small and occasionally had trouble going to sleep, I used Magic Sleep Dust on him. It was so long ago that it’s hard to remember how I even came up with it. I would have him lie down in his bed and close his eyes, and then I would pull some Magic Sleep Dust (invisible, of course) from my pocket and sprinkle it over his closed eyes, ever-so-gently tickling his eyelashes so he could feel it. “Now, you have to keep your eyes closed or it won’t work,” I’d tell him. “You can’t open your eyes until morning, no matter what, okay?” He would nod his little head, with his eyes screwed tightly closed and a grin on his face. And it never failed to work. Of course he would keep his eyes closed so the “magic” could work, and he’d fall asleep.
 
Somewhere along the line, I lost this. Over the large gap of time between when Kevin was very small and susceptible to magic and the time when the next child came along, and amid the ever increasing chaos of bedtime with the steady increase in the number of kids who need to be put to bed, this little magic trick was forgotten.
 
The other day, out of the clear blue, apparently feeling nostalgic, Kevin said to me, “Mom, remember the Magic Sleep Dust?” And a little shockwave went through me as suddenly it all came back to me. Of course! Magic Sleep Dust! How could I have forgotten that? How is it that I’ve never used that on any of the other kids aside from Kevin? It made me feel sad, actually, and even a little mournful, to realize that such a long time has passed since Kevin was still in footie pajamas and open to magic, and that I allowed something so simple and yet so special slip through the cracks.
 
Last night, we dealt with the usual bedtime craziness. A little while after all the littles were tucked into bed, Lilah, our 3-year-old, crept out of her room. “Mama?” she said. “I can’t go to sleep.”
 
So I took her by the hand and walked her back into her room, settled her into bed, and said, “Okay, I have just the thing. Close your eyes, and I’m going to sprinkle them with Magic Sleep Dust. But it only works if you keep your eyes closed all night long, okay?” She had the biggest grin on her face! “Are you ready?” I asked. She nodded “Okay, close your eyes . . .” and I pulled some invisible Magic Sleep Dust from my pocket, sprinkled it over her eyes, ever-so-gently tickling her eyelashes, and then I kissed her forehead and got up to leave the room. I looked over and both of her sisters were sitting up in bed, watching raptly, speechless.
 
I didn’t hear another peep from Lilah for the rest of the night. Of course it worked. A little mommy magic always works.
 
It felt like a gift. Like this mommy still has a few tricks up her sleeve.

~Thanks Lisa!  I am most definitely going to try that one on my own kids tonight!

I am smitten by this blog.  It was there that I read this overwhelming appropriate quote:

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day, I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.”

I. love. it.  I really do.  On this day, this blissfully “normal” day, my four-year-old son rushed into the kitchen and with a sense of urgency declared, “I’m going to be doing something that’s going to keep me VERY busy!”

“What might that be?”  I asked

“Science.”  He responded boldly and confidently

I quickly shot back, “Wow, what kind of science?”

“The kind that has never been done before.”

Ok. 

With that, his older brother decisively declared his desire to join in, then the fun began. 

They quickly got to work gathering their supplies which included: 

• Various Parts of a Breast Pump,
• Several Halloween Cups,
• Bottle Nipples
• Medicine Droppers
• Measuring Cups
• Soap
• Water

What more could aspiring scientists ask for?

As for Ellie. . .She couldn’t have been happier.

This is her best friend, Cow.  Yes that’s right, her best friend happens to be a giraffe.  A giraffe who seems to have no problem being named  “Cow.” 

Thank you normal day.

Sometimes I yell at my kids.

After I do, I always hate myself.

I don’t want to yell at my kids, I try not to yell at my kids, but sometimes I am weak.

It usually happens when I am trying to work, there are crumbled gold fish all over my floor, my laundry is higher than Amy Winehouse, I haven’t showered, every step I take lands my foot on a lego, and my 2-year-old is screaming because her older brother won’t share.

That is usually the point that I get weak.  I feel suffocated by my responsibilities.  

Don’t get me wrong I want all of those responsibilities, I respect them and hold my role as a mother in the highest regard, I just get overwhelmed when I feel like I am utterly failing.

Then I yell.

It’s not their fault.

I think I’ve heard it called the “Kick the Dog Syndrome.”  

I feel disappointed in myself so I take it out on my children.  Trust me when I say that I understand how wrong that is.  I really do, and please don’t think that I am constantly berating and screaming at my offspring, the vast majority of the time, I keep my cool.  I am ashamed of the minority of the time.    

On Friday I found myself reaching my boiling point, then I happened upon some pictures of Haiti. 

I call that PERSPECTIVE.

I feel buried in my  responsibilities.  I feel overwhelmed. . . perspective.

I can’t imagine what those poor people are going through.  As I was looking at some of the pictures from Haiti on my computer, I was worried that my oldest son (6) would catch a glimpse of them and be emotionally damaged.  Then I thought about the kids there who are living in the pictures.  They aren’t seeing those heart wrenching images on a computer screen from some far distant place, that is their reality.  They are the images.  Their family members, their playmates, their teachers, they are  the mass graves and the lifeless bodies on the side of the road.

Their mothers aren’t feeling overwhelmed because of laundry.

How shallow am I?

Today I’m not going to yell at my kids.  I am going to hug them and constantly remind them how much they are loved.  I am going to remind myself that while they may be making messes and fighting over broken toys, I am blessed.  I know where my kids are.  They are safe under my roof.  My roof which still stands safely over my head.

Perspective.

Today my baby turns two. 

I can hardly believe it. 

Is it possible that on this very day she has suddenly grown up?  This morning she had a full conversation with my mom on the phone.  It has taken her a long time to develop her speech, so to hear her carrying on a conversation, as simple as it may have been, just about blew me away.  Today her baby girl pig-tails look like little girl pig-tails.  Today she has suddenly transformed from my baby to my little girl.

Crazy.

You may have noticed that I titled this post “Guilt,” at this point, you just might be asking yourself what on earth that has to do with my little girl’s 2nd birthday.  Trust me, the title is appropriate.

When my kids celebrate their birthday, I do my best to make it a special day.  I try to let them do just about anything (within reason) that they want to do.  I try to shower them with praise and love and special attention, and most of all, I try really hard not to get upset with them. 

 Well, unfortunately for both my little girl and me, today hasn’t quite gone as planned.

I have mentioned before that I work from home.  I work from home on my computer.  I don’t have an office, my computer sits on a desk in the middle of the kitchen.  I don’t have a nanny or a housekeeper, or a stay-at-home husband, it’s me. . .at work. . . with my kids. 

Most of the time it works out fabulously.  The kids are great to stay busy putting together legos, playing with their hot wheels, or drawing.  I can step in and referee an argument every now and again, I can change a diaper and refill a sippy cup, and I can hold my baby girl on my lap while I type.

Today is just like any other in the fact that I am once again working.  I am trying hard to make the day special for my little birthday girl, but as I mentioned earlier, today she has transformed.  She has transformed from a baby to a two-year-old, and that has proven itself both good and bad. 

Today instead of letting me hold her on my lap while she just sits there being comforted, she feels the need to repeatedly bang the keyboard with her tiny toddler hand.  Today, on her very special day, she has had three massively foul smelling diapers, she has colored on my dining room table, tried to shave her legs with a razor I was certain was well out of her reach, unfolded every single towel in my house, and threw multiple hand-fulls of noodles on the kitchen floor.

I have done my best to be patient.  I have done my best not to get upset with her, I have done my best not to hate myself because she was able to do many of those random acts of destruction while I was working, but what it comes down to is that I am doing my best. 

So is she.

I am confident that by the time she wakes up from her nap she won’t even remember that I pointed my finger at her and sternly said “No, No!” as she threw the noodles to the floor. . . but I’ll remember, she most likely won’t remember the special pink skirt I, or the  pom pom garland, or the dandelion night light that I have spent hours making her for her special day. . . but I will .  But there is one thing that I hope she does remember, that I love that little girl more than I could ever possibly express.  I love everything about her, ever-single-thing.

Happy Birthday Baby!