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.

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!

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.