On my heart
I love a good, dull story.
I like hearing stories, for example, about how many hours my sister's boy slept in the night and how many times he's pooped in a day, and that he rolls over now. I like to imagine how her day goes. And I like hearing about my friend's daughter's first day of gymnastics or my baby sister's first volleyball game of the season.
We devour the details of each other's lives, not because the details are particularly interesting, but because we love the people experiencing them. We love feeling connected. We love having a cloud of witnesses. We listen and respond and validate and encourage. We make each others' lives feel meaningful. We feel meaningful ourselves.
So all parties interested in the mundane details of my children's lives? I count you all friends. Stranger in the Trader Joe's meat department included.
When someone stops to ask me how Kaleb is doing, I spin tales of first steps and first words and first play skills. I might talk a little too long. I am so proud of that little snippet of a boy with the wispy blond hair, and the questions are an invitation to brag.
Often, though, I get a response I don't usually hear after I share "boring" stories about the girls: "That's great! It sounds like he's developing ahead of schedule!" or "It seems like he's doing so well. That must be encouraging to see him accomplishing so much!"
There was a time when I thrived on this kind of feedback. It made me feel as though I could pat myself on the back for all our extra hard work with him. It also made me feel as if we were defying the odds--something that was important to me for far too long. What parent doesn't love hearing their child is above average? But with Kaleb, my excitement stemmed from a secret desire that he would show the world that Down syndrome isn't what most people assume. It stemmed from a hidden hope that, ultimately, his diagnosis wouldn't affect his development at all. Now, I have to confess, the comments on his pace of development and his place on the spectrum of Down syndrome hold little weight, and I am more inclined to brush them off in conversation.
It doesn't matter to me that Emelyn isn't reading yet or Audyn isn't fully potty trained; I admire, respect, delight in, and love them the same no matter what. It's one of the reasons we parents continue to tell our "dull" stories to one another, and why we all delight in hearing those tales of kids being naughty, and kids becoming independent, and kids saying funny things. We're passionate about the characters, not about the details.
The same is true for Kaleb. Whatever he accomplishes or doesn't accomplish, whatever odds he beats or doesn't beat, he's still our Kaleb. My love doesn't ride on the swell of pride I feel when people notice his accomplishments. It doesn't matter to me anymore if he defies his diagnosis with superhuman feats.
As Emelyn loves to remind us, "Kaleb is the best brother ever." Since she's been telling us this since the day he was born, we know her opinion of him is born of love unclouded by expectation. This is the love I am learning to claim for myself as a mom to all three of my littles. Love without expectation is always delighted, always surprised, always enamored of the beloved. If I could tattoo that truth on my heart, I would. But no matter. It grows there, a fragile shoot getting stronger, keeping pace with the daily grind, with the regular and the real.
We affirm life and living when we share experiences. The good, the bad, the dull, the thrilling--it all has value. Today I may tell you he fell ten times. Tomorrow I may share he took ten steps. Today you may tell me she drove you bonkers. Tomorrow you may wipe a tear sharing her sweetness. Either way, either story, we'll love them just the same.
I like hearing stories, for example, about how many hours my sister's boy slept in the night and how many times he's pooped in a day, and that he rolls over now. I like to imagine how her day goes. And I like hearing about my friend's daughter's first day of gymnastics or my baby sister's first volleyball game of the season.
We devour the details of each other's lives, not because the details are particularly interesting, but because we love the people experiencing them. We love feeling connected. We love having a cloud of witnesses. We listen and respond and validate and encourage. We make each others' lives feel meaningful. We feel meaningful ourselves.
So all parties interested in the mundane details of my children's lives? I count you all friends. Stranger in the Trader Joe's meat department included.
When someone stops to ask me how Kaleb is doing, I spin tales of first steps and first words and first play skills. I might talk a little too long. I am so proud of that little snippet of a boy with the wispy blond hair, and the questions are an invitation to brag.
Often, though, I get a response I don't usually hear after I share "boring" stories about the girls: "That's great! It sounds like he's developing ahead of schedule!" or "It seems like he's doing so well. That must be encouraging to see him accomplishing so much!"
There was a time when I thrived on this kind of feedback. It made me feel as though I could pat myself on the back for all our extra hard work with him. It also made me feel as if we were defying the odds--something that was important to me for far too long. What parent doesn't love hearing their child is above average? But with Kaleb, my excitement stemmed from a secret desire that he would show the world that Down syndrome isn't what most people assume. It stemmed from a hidden hope that, ultimately, his diagnosis wouldn't affect his development at all. Now, I have to confess, the comments on his pace of development and his place on the spectrum of Down syndrome hold little weight, and I am more inclined to brush them off in conversation.
It doesn't matter to me that Emelyn isn't reading yet or Audyn isn't fully potty trained; I admire, respect, delight in, and love them the same no matter what. It's one of the reasons we parents continue to tell our "dull" stories to one another, and why we all delight in hearing those tales of kids being naughty, and kids becoming independent, and kids saying funny things. We're passionate about the characters, not about the details.
The same is true for Kaleb. Whatever he accomplishes or doesn't accomplish, whatever odds he beats or doesn't beat, he's still our Kaleb. My love doesn't ride on the swell of pride I feel when people notice his accomplishments. It doesn't matter to me anymore if he defies his diagnosis with superhuman feats.
As Emelyn loves to remind us, "Kaleb is the best brother ever." Since she's been telling us this since the day he was born, we know her opinion of him is born of love unclouded by expectation. This is the love I am learning to claim for myself as a mom to all three of my littles. Love without expectation is always delighted, always surprised, always enamored of the beloved. If I could tattoo that truth on my heart, I would. But no matter. It grows there, a fragile shoot getting stronger, keeping pace with the daily grind, with the regular and the real.
We affirm life and living when we share experiences. The good, the bad, the dull, the thrilling--it all has value. Today I may tell you he fell ten times. Tomorrow I may share he took ten steps. Today you may tell me she drove you bonkers. Tomorrow you may wipe a tear sharing her sweetness. Either way, either story, we'll love them just the same.