Putting it in Perspective

You know it's a funny thing: how drastically your perspective can change about something.  Sometimes it's simply time that changes it, but I think more than that it's the things we see around us and our life experiences that really alter perceptions.  Like my perspective of things as a parent versus the judgey opinions of a single, young twenty-something is comical.  iPad at the table in a restaurant? Sure, if it means Sean and I can shovel a semi-warm meal down on borrowed time!  Cheese for dinner? Vitamin-D and calcium are in those, aren't they? And you're eating something without me begging too hard so.....Perspective, people, it's all about perspective.

About 2 years ago, Sean and I were sitting by the phone waiting for the results of the genetic testing on Jack, praying that the first round was wrong, that we were worrying for nothing.  It felt like the world was falling apart; how could we handle a special needs child? Finding out our sweet boy did, without a doubt, have Down syndrome was devastating to me at the time.  I can vividly remember thinking, "Everything we had dreamed of and hoped for him will never happen," and believing that with every fiber of my being.  My perspective was shaded and shaped by things I knew from the past: special schools, institutions, limited life skills programs, and simple jobs to help keep busy; this is what I thought was in store for my baby boy: a limited life expectancy and a world that did not hold much promise or opportunity for him.  It's no wonder I cried my eyes dry.  As I read everything I could, scoured websites, and spoke with advocacy agencies and parents of children and adults with Down syndrome my perceptions and perspectives changed drastically and with such an intensity that I wanted to time travel and slap the me of two months prior silly.  Was it going to be challenging? HELL. YES. Tears? Most likely.  But as the mother of a beautifully bold, precocious, and lively then two-and a-half year old our life is full to the brim of challenges and mommy-tears already. 

When Jack died, the fire in my heart went out.  I felt ashamed that there had been a time where I was worried about his abilities and disabilities.  We didn't have him at all now and I had had nerve to cry over perceived imperfections?  I hated myself and could barely look in the mirror.  I thought, "Go ahead, cry, because this is really what you should have worried about all along, his health, not beautiful almond-shaped eyes, and how fast or slow he'd walk or talk, you stupid girl."  We would have taken him at his worst and loved him fiercely just to have him with us at all, again changing my perspective.

As two yearly has ticked by, sometimes painfully slowly and others flying by in a blur, this gradual shift in perspective has surprised me the most, probably making others think 'yea right, easy to say that now in light of everything that happened'.  But as I continued reading and following the lives of other families and parents touched by Down syndrome, still feeling connected to them despite the absence of my son, I couldn't help but feel something that I couldn't put into words until last night, when it hit me like a ton of bricks reading something another mother said about her own little boy.  Jealous.  I feel jealous.  And no, it's not a jealousy in that they have their children and I don't, that unfortunately is inherent in our situation and is not something I can rectify-that will ease up only with time and acceptance, I'm afraid.  No, it's not that.  It's a jealously in the utter fullness of their lives and the people in their lives, forever changed by the their amazing babies, children, and grown adults with Down syndrome.  I believe you can only be made better by being in the presence of individuals that work so hard for every single thing they achieve.  These parents, siblings, family members and friends, changed for the better in a nothing-short-of-magnificent way by their experiences of watching the challenges that are overcome and the achievements that are reached by the amazing, determined individuals they have the honor of loving.  I root for them, cheer them on, sending all the love and positive vibes I have within me.  But I would lie if I said it was not without a pang of jealousy and longing in my heart.  And this, all because of perspective. 

So yes, my perspectives have shifted. They have, in many cases, absolutely exploded and been reborn; as a parent, as a parent of a special needs child, as a grieving parent.  I don't know what the future holds for me, but I'm sure it will involve some sort of change.  After all, if things are not changing, we aren't really living. 

Perspective, my friends, it is all about perspective. 

Memories for Sale

There is something about yard sales that always makes me feel a little sad.  I don’t actually know if sad is the proper adjective to use; nostalgic maybe?  Either way, sifting through someone else’s things makes me feel like I’m either invading their privacy, judging their sanity (that is to say, “why in God’s name did you ever own that?!”), or getting a glimpse at who they were at one point or another.  This weekend it was the Doyle’s that were on display in the neighborhood.

I not-so-secretly used to wonder, often aloud and full of scorn, how my parents had acquired so much crap in their house.  Well I ate a big ‘ole slice of humble pie as I recently looked around my own basement and wondered, aloud and wrought with that familiar scorn, how we had accumulated so much of our own shit in the basement of a home we had only inhabited for four years.  My parents had at least taken a good thirty or so years to do their damage but I felt like at the rate we were travelling, I was well on my way to an episode of hoarders.  So, yard sale it was. 

We put out tables and tables of items that had at one time seemed like great little home additions- lamps, framed art or decorative quotes, a yo-nana (the frozen “yogurt” maker-that-uses-bananas-but-I’m-the-only-banana-eater-in-the-house-and-so-it-was-solely-a-dust-collector-investment...don’t you judge us), etc.

We were shocked each time a car drove off with things that we couldn’t imagine anyone would want.  More than that, the mix of people that stopped by entertained us.  I can’t tell you how many well-meaning older ladies commented after seeing some of the baby items we had for sale, “Oh you’re done having babies?”  I wanted to say, “I don’t know but this crap earned its spot on the table because I learned only by trial-and-error how ridiculous that trendy eco-friendly bathtub is and my incredibly overpriced stroller was awful to push and had no shock absorbency and woke my sleeping baby every time I pushed her in it and hit a bump and I am hoping that I can try and recoup my bad investments by making them seem appealing to you!”  Instead I just smiled and said, “For now!” because I may be a lot of things but I am certainly polite above all else.

Kennedy seized our clean out as an opportunity to evoke her executive veto power in regards to selling anything that she had ever laid eyes on.  Seriously, if she touched it at one point in her life we couldn’t sell it.  So we distracted her and kept her busy hocking lemonade at the bottom of the driveway in order to unload a few things we felt she could survive without-we like to live dangerously, Sean and I.  She was a natural, and made, with the help of one Cooper J-code name Gingersnap, $15 over the two days of selling.  Seriously though, the two of them ate it up, as did the people that downed their somewhat cool lemonade on a 90-degree day. 

My little guy made his presence known when our new neighbors stopped by with their two little kids, a little girl wearing an elephant on her shirt, and a little boy…named Holden.  I held it together long enough for them to walk away without giving them the impression the lady down the block is a lunatic, but I still have goosebumps thinking about it.

We broke up the days with some laughs, dips in Kennedy’s little pool, and freeze pops galore. 

So no, it’s not the things themself that make me nostalgic at yard sales but the memories that are attached to them.  Like seeing the little porcelain boy holding McDonald’s fries doesn’t really do it for me in-and-of-itself but it doesn’t take much for me to remember being the 7 year old girl begging her mom to make the three reasonable (HA!) installments of $29.95 after seeing him in a catalogue.  I remember watching my new little peanut sleep in that stroller on the back deck for hours wondering if I was letting her sleep too long and I remember being so excited to find the adorable canvas of a newspaper-hat-wearin’ pirate when I’d decided that would be the theme for Jack’s nursery.  And really when it comes down to it, you’re selling the stuff not the memories not to mention clearing some space to make some new memories.

little baby Kennedy

In a stroke of luck there were no takers for that because I don’t think I was really ready to let it go-and who knows maybe there is a place for him on my office walls next school year.

One last side note: I bought this from my sister for a quarter.  It is a 25 mL beaker that I will now use as a tiny bud vase.  Why did I have to have this you ask?  Well my rule-abiding-at-all-cost sister stole this from our uppity private high school’s science lab.  And that right there, ladies and gents, is a memory I will keep forever.

Drive-by Judgements

We’ve all been guilty of it at some point.  Ok, well at least I know I have been.  We’re driving along in our car on our way somewhere-work, school drop-off, out to eat, wherever- and we spot some chick running.  Almost instantly we hate her; hate that she is working out and we’re not, hate that she has time to work out and we don’t, hate that she is thin and we think we’re not.  And so we make up scenarios in our head: Must be nice to not have to work, she clearly has no children or she couldn’t have time to be running during the day, she looks so miserable and exhausted.  You catch my drift.  The thing is though ladies, as you judge her from inside your car, it is very doubtful she is running along thinking, “look at this lazy asshole riding in a car,” and is probably has far too much going on in that head of hers to be worried about how you are choosing to get from point A to point B. 

Here is how I wish I could respond to the questions I assign to the various judgmental stares or dirty looks I see from time to time:

I do work.  In fact, I am back to work after taking six months off to recover physically and emotionally after having delivered my son via C-section, 10 weeks early and losing him only less than an hour later; so yes, I work, and some days feel like more work than others.  And children?  I have two.  I have a three year old whose energy level could exhaust you just by looking at her; like most toddlers she is go-go-go from the second her eyes open and doesn’t stop until she is certain I am not coming back after she’s called me 12 times when I’ve put her to bed. And as I mentioned before I am the mama to a little boy in heaven; if you think it’s hard to live up to the expectations of your kids who can tell you if you’re doing a lousy job, imagine the stress of trying to do right by a child who can’t speak for themselves.  I wake up early, far too early for someone who has to work 8-12 hours (depending on how difficult the day in the life of a middle-schooler is on any given day) and come home to continue being a half-decent wife and mother, to pound the pavement while my family sleeps.  And miserable and exhausted? Yes, on that one you’d be correct.  As I try and come to terms with the fact my life will always have an element of sadness, no matter how good it is, I have intermittent moments of misery and exhaustion; frankly, often both.  And yes, my body has begun to take on the lean look runners have, however, don’t worry, I still have the jiggly belly of a new-ish mother even though I have no infant to serve as a clear explanation for why that is, it’s just hidden beneath my loose tank top.

I run to quiet my mind and ease my broken heart. I run to try and prove to myself and my worried family and friends that I am doing my best to move on living my life, no matter how much I want to just stay in bed some mornings.  I run because sometimes, as much as I love my little girl and feel like I shouldn’t take even a moment for granted with her as she is the only baby I have here with me in this world, she can drive me crazy and I need a few moments to myself.  I run because supposedly endorphins make you happy and I’d try just about anything to feel happy again.  I run for Kennedy and I run for Jack. 

So no, I don’t judge you for not running and for choosing to go to work without a beet-red face and a residually sweaty body, with your hair done nicely.  Also, any judgments you may pass on me as you drive by wherever you are headed, I can assure you I am judging myself for things you couldn’t possibly see from your car window. 

Alas, I can't have these conversations.  As quickly as they pass me by, I'm certain these people forget they even saw me, and move on with their day.  I know I always have.  So my friends, I will ask this of you: The next time you pass by a woman running, cheer her on, she could probably use it.