calligraphy print on paper
Photo by Donatello Trisolino on

I’ve had the itch to write creep back up on me lately, but the voices of discouragement are loud, and they come from within.  What I find so worthy of the written word is not really my experiences; the worth lies in my subjects – my husband, my children, my new friends at the assisted living center we have been frequently lately.  They don’t ask to be written about, and yet the stories of the part of life they share with me simply must be told.  My husband’s presence is the loudest, so I will spare him the infamy that comes from the dark chasm of internet blogging.  Just know he is relevant and so very loved.

My teenagers come next – only to be referred to by age and only with their permission.  All children who have not reached teenage status yet are fair game – just don’t tell them I said that.

And my friends from the assisted living center will be given pseudonames – I’ll just have to be careful to remember who is who – my memory has gotten so bad, I think I would fit in to their world just fine.

So without further adieu, I will write.

My first thought – when I pulled up my blog tonight to see if I could find my way back to it – perfection!  The boy whose face leaps off the screen – the boy is perfect.  His face is perfect.  His hands are perfect.  His eyes – the purest picture of perfection I have ever seen.  Even the streaks of dirt on his face and hands are perfect.

How ironic.  So many hours are spent trying to fix Noah.  Could we just fix his speech?  His weird clothing habits?  His suppressed cognitive skills?

And yet, as I look at that picture, so far removed from the difficulties that each new day brings, I am reminded that having a child born with Down syndrome did not break our family, it made it whole.






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