I received the call on my cell phone as I was standing next to parents on the kindergarten playground. We were smiling and chatting about the fact it was Friday. The spring weather, the fresh breeze, and Friday approaching Saturday and Sunday were ours to anticipate.
I stepped away from the parents to answer the phone moving to a corner of the fenced playground so I could hear, “Hello?” I said.
“Hello, this is Susan from the hospital I.C.U. calling to speak with Diane from the Down syndrome support group,” she said.
“This is Diane, I suppose you are calling to tell me a new baby was born,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered, “The baby was actually born about a week ago.”
“How wonderful, a new baby!” I said, “I will do my best to keep information in my head before my daughter is released from her class in just a few minutes, then I will return your call in about twenty minutes when I am home to take down the details.”
This call was reason for celebration. A new baby had been born and the nurse or social worker was calling to talk to me about supporting this parent.
I hugged Hannah as she ran toward me, popcorn bag in hand from their celebration movie for a bonanza reading month, backpack straps on her shoulder, and her lunch box hanging around her neck down to her waist. She unloaded her goods into my hands and I deftly placed the backpack on my shoulder, the lunch box on my other shoulder, and held the bag of popcorn while she logged precious moments on the jungle gym with her friends.
After a few minutes of play time, and a moment to myself to take the news in, I approached the playground structure and looked up to Hannah on top of the slide platform, “A new baby was born today,” I said.
Hannah knew what followed this news, “A new baby?” she questioned happily, “Can we see it?”
“Yes, will you help me make a Hope basket?” I asked, knowing she would be happy to assist.
“Sure,” she said, scooting down the slide and off of the structure in minutes to hold my hand and leave the playground in record time.
As soon as we arrived at home I walked over to the phone and picked up a pen and paper. I listened to the voice recording on my home phone where the nurse first tried to reach me. Hannah would be upstairs changing her school clothes for a chunk of time so I had to phone while I could.
“Hello, may I speak to Susan?” I asked.
“Hello, this is Susan,” she said.
“Hi, this is Diane from the support group. I can speak to you now that I am off of the playground.”
“The mother is here now. Would you like to speak with her?” she asked.
I felt the excitement rush over me as I was about to speak with a new mom, a new sister, a new friend, who had no idea how loved she was at that very minute.
She answered the phone and we exchanged hellos and polite introductions, but I walked to the kitchen table to sit down, to be quiet, as I heard her sobs through her words.
“Lillian, this was surprising news for you, wasn’t it?” I said, exhaling the air I was holding.
“We knew something about it, but I really knew the minute I saw her open her eyes to look at me,” she sobbed.
She told me about her family, her children all waiting to hear the news, waiting for the story they anticipated. She asked me, “How do you tell your children?”
I said, “You just tell them as a mom loving her little girl, loving the sister you gave them, that they have a new sister...and she is adorable.” I explained that the words Down syndrome may or may not register with them right away, but tell them, and they’ll have time to learn about the unique abilities and characteristics of their sister.”
Lillian asked another question about spreading the news, “How do I announce we had a new baby and she has Down syndrome.”
I smiled and leaned forward to make a point, lowering my voice to speak directly to her... so she would hear me, “When you leave the hospital with your baby people aren’t going to say, ‘Look at that child with Down syndrome,' they are going to say, 'Look at that mom who loves her baby.' I know," I added,"Because I had the same fears, Lillian, but everyone will know your love for your child and they will support you, as we are here to support you, as I’m talking to you right now.”
We continued talking about her children and her family and I shared my family with her. I spoke of how each family member had been changed by Hannah, and how each person was sharing their best with her. “You have been your baby’s advocate,” I said, “And each person in your family will advocate for her as she grows and becomes her own advocate.”
Lillian’s voice became stronger as she told me about the fact that suspicions she and her husband had when she was pregnant wouldn’t have changed the outcome. She wouldn’t have aborted her child. She said, “But why am I so sad?”
“Go ahead and cry,” I said, “Cry and cry some more, Sweetheart, you thought you were going to have the perfect child for the entire time you were pregnant....and you did, only this child is perfect, and different from what you expected.”
“I know, she is perfect, and she is different, but I love her,” she said, “I just have to cry.”
“I want you to take the time you support yourself, cry, write...write it all down on paper to let your feelings pour out of you,” I said. “I’m still writing it all down, but I’m so darn happy right now that my little seven-year-old is reading! She’s reading up a storm!” I laughed.
“She is?” asked Lillian.
“Yes, so many things will amaze you every day about your little girl, just hold onto your seat and get ready for the ride.” I said.
We will meet each other tomorrow, or the next day. I will have my posse of friends, a few mothers and sometimes a dad of a child with Down syndrome. We will go to the hospital to hug this new family and give them our Hope basket, full of gifts for the baby and news about our affiliate group, and the associations, NDSS and NDSC.
Until then, I will think of her, the entire family, and make the basket with Hannah as I promised. I will be quiet, reviewing the conversation, writing, praying, feeling the blessing that has come over me first-hand from God. What a gift. Thank you for this new baby today, Lord, thank you!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Bread for Life
Do you do this? Do you make a mental list of things you need to do and follow it up with a written list with little boxes on the side so you can check things off? I feel so organized and in control of life when I plan out the jobs I rarely like on paper. The priorities of the day, the things that do not go on the list, are checked off first by the actions I take to accomplish them.
I have a few women (40ish is a few, isn’t it?) coming over to my house for a Cursillo gathering in March. You would think that would be incentive enough to get busy. It is great motivation to make everything comfortable and serene, as well as tidy and clean, but ohhhhh, so difficult to actually do it.
I started in the kitchen, my comfort zone of sunshine and space. It is easy enough to de-clutter a kitchen and feel successful. I pulled out one plastic container after the next of leftovers from the refrigerator shelves and made decisions about each one.. The crystallized apricot jam, gone, the tablespoon of sweet pickle relish, gone, recycle jars and refresh each shelf by disassembling the refrigerator and cleaning it to a sparkling state.
The packets of yeast dated ’08 left me little hope that anything would rise, being a waste of time and resources. Chris Brown played on in the background giving me enough reason to pick up the step and finish the job. I was actually enjoying this experience, seeing progress before me with each horizontal shelf secured back into its place.
I was down to the butter loft that actually lifts to reveal the treasure behind. That is where I found the three attached packets of yeast that would respond until 2010. “Go for it!” my mind cheered. Get out the recipe book and start browsing for something easy, not too complicated, a recipe for success.
I found the book, complete with old photos my mom stuck inside for safekeeping. I saw her face holding Hannah on her lap, as if that was just what I needed for encouragement. I read the heart-to-heart talk James Beard gives at the beginning of his book, Beard on Bread. He talks about keeping it simple and making a product that will take you back to better tastes, and less hurried ways of enjoying life. It sounded like the perfect antidote to the stressed pace of every morning and evening of the past week.
I put two bowls on the counter, opened the yeast packets and poured one into each bowl. I split the remaining packet as evenly as I could between the two, not bad for guessing. I pulled out my containers of flour, sugar, and salt knowing that I had jumped in with two feet to a project before me that wasn’t on my list. Whatever disorder or diagnosis this was I was going for it with gusto. Chris Brown’s, “With You,” kept the motions flowing and I couldn’t stop.
I proofed the yeast by adding the sugar and warm water and watched the explosion build to a full froth. I mixed my unbleached flour and wheat flour with the salt for a healthy twist that would come to no surprise to my family, and added the flour mixture, a bit at a time, until I was ready to move the dough to the granite surface. I placed the stiff dough, sticky to the touch, onto the floured granite and began to knead away.
Kneading is exercise. I felt the heat and imagined the muscles bakers must have. My mind wandered and I felt calm in the process of adding flour to make the dough less sticky. The folding, pressing, working with wrists, forearms, and all of the strength in my arms, checking to see if I could last for the ten minutes the recipe requires, kept me focused on the outcome.
Whew! One loaf down, and placed in the buttered bowl to rise. The phone rang, and it was Mom, checking in to say, “Hi.”
“Hi, Mom, I’ve got my hands messy with bread dough,” I said.
“Don’t you have a machine that does the hard part for you?” she asked.
“I completely forgot about that after reading James Beard’s trip back in time to simpler ways of life,” I said and added, “Plus, I’m getting a workout and messing up my clean kitchen.”
“A clean kitchen is overrated when you are creating,” she said, with her motherly wisdom.
“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” I said, estimating how long it would take to work the second batch, minus the clean-up.
Two hours later, the bowls contained billowing mounds of soft dough, screaming, “Enough! Get us out of here!”
I cut each mound in half and rolled Play-Doh like snakes, two to a cookie sheet, resting on yellow cornmeal. I drew threw diagonal lines on each loaf and brushed them with the egg wash. Ready to go, the cool oven opened up to welcome them inside.
Hannah and I shot baskets outside and turned the game into soccer, then catch, before we smelled the bread. We came inside and watched the loaves turning brown, smelling the yeasty goodness, and anticipated the first taste.
It was timed to perfection, ready to come out just as we were getting ready to pick up Devon and her friend at the high school. I cut three slices of the hot bread and wrapped them in a paper towel.
“This is mine for the road,” Hannah said.
“Ummm, do you love it, Hannah?” I said. “Is this the best bread ever?”
“I said it was good.” Hannah said, wondering what the big deal was.
“Okay, so the beauty is in the process,” I thought. Such is life!
I have a few women (40ish is a few, isn’t it?) coming over to my house for a Cursillo gathering in March. You would think that would be incentive enough to get busy. It is great motivation to make everything comfortable and serene, as well as tidy and clean, but ohhhhh, so difficult to actually do it.
I started in the kitchen, my comfort zone of sunshine and space. It is easy enough to de-clutter a kitchen and feel successful. I pulled out one plastic container after the next of leftovers from the refrigerator shelves and made decisions about each one.. The crystallized apricot jam, gone, the tablespoon of sweet pickle relish, gone, recycle jars and refresh each shelf by disassembling the refrigerator and cleaning it to a sparkling state.
The packets of yeast dated ’08 left me little hope that anything would rise, being a waste of time and resources. Chris Brown played on in the background giving me enough reason to pick up the step and finish the job. I was actually enjoying this experience, seeing progress before me with each horizontal shelf secured back into its place.
I was down to the butter loft that actually lifts to reveal the treasure behind. That is where I found the three attached packets of yeast that would respond until 2010. “Go for it!” my mind cheered. Get out the recipe book and start browsing for something easy, not too complicated, a recipe for success.
I found the book, complete with old photos my mom stuck inside for safekeeping. I saw her face holding Hannah on her lap, as if that was just what I needed for encouragement. I read the heart-to-heart talk James Beard gives at the beginning of his book, Beard on Bread. He talks about keeping it simple and making a product that will take you back to better tastes, and less hurried ways of enjoying life. It sounded like the perfect antidote to the stressed pace of every morning and evening of the past week.
I put two bowls on the counter, opened the yeast packets and poured one into each bowl. I split the remaining packet as evenly as I could between the two, not bad for guessing. I pulled out my containers of flour, sugar, and salt knowing that I had jumped in with two feet to a project before me that wasn’t on my list. Whatever disorder or diagnosis this was I was going for it with gusto. Chris Brown’s, “With You,” kept the motions flowing and I couldn’t stop.
I proofed the yeast by adding the sugar and warm water and watched the explosion build to a full froth. I mixed my unbleached flour and wheat flour with the salt for a healthy twist that would come to no surprise to my family, and added the flour mixture, a bit at a time, until I was ready to move the dough to the granite surface. I placed the stiff dough, sticky to the touch, onto the floured granite and began to knead away.
Kneading is exercise. I felt the heat and imagined the muscles bakers must have. My mind wandered and I felt calm in the process of adding flour to make the dough less sticky. The folding, pressing, working with wrists, forearms, and all of the strength in my arms, checking to see if I could last for the ten minutes the recipe requires, kept me focused on the outcome.
Whew! One loaf down, and placed in the buttered bowl to rise. The phone rang, and it was Mom, checking in to say, “Hi.”
“Hi, Mom, I’ve got my hands messy with bread dough,” I said.
“Don’t you have a machine that does the hard part for you?” she asked.
“I completely forgot about that after reading James Beard’s trip back in time to simpler ways of life,” I said and added, “Plus, I’m getting a workout and messing up my clean kitchen.”
“A clean kitchen is overrated when you are creating,” she said, with her motherly wisdom.
“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” I said, estimating how long it would take to work the second batch, minus the clean-up.
Two hours later, the bowls contained billowing mounds of soft dough, screaming, “Enough! Get us out of here!”
I cut each mound in half and rolled Play-Doh like snakes, two to a cookie sheet, resting on yellow cornmeal. I drew threw diagonal lines on each loaf and brushed them with the egg wash. Ready to go, the cool oven opened up to welcome them inside.
Hannah and I shot baskets outside and turned the game into soccer, then catch, before we smelled the bread. We came inside and watched the loaves turning brown, smelling the yeasty goodness, and anticipated the first taste.
It was timed to perfection, ready to come out just as we were getting ready to pick up Devon and her friend at the high school. I cut three slices of the hot bread and wrapped them in a paper towel.
“This is mine for the road,” Hannah said.
“Ummm, do you love it, Hannah?” I said. “Is this the best bread ever?”
“I said it was good.” Hannah said, wondering what the big deal was.
“Okay, so the beauty is in the process,” I thought. Such is life!
Monday, March 9, 2009
Love of Language
I sit at the computer and hear the sound of a busy classroom behind my daughter's bedroom door.
"Your turn now, Spencer," she says with authority, "Remember the rule: Share, care, be fair."
Another student must be acting up. I hear her say, "Stop!" in her big voice.
She gently nudges another to participate, and then giggles saying, "That's funny!"
I love her language; the expressions, the enthusiasm, the pronunciations of words like the color, "lello," and a repeating line from a story, "Hulp! hulp! Who can hulp?"
We were driving home from school and she spoke up from her car seat in the back, "Mom, I love you today."
I said, "Hannah, I love you today, too!"
She continued, "I love you to always, Mom."
"Your turn now, Spencer," she says with authority, "Remember the rule: Share, care, be fair."
Another student must be acting up. I hear her say, "Stop!" in her big voice.
She gently nudges another to participate, and then giggles saying, "That's funny!"
I love her language; the expressions, the enthusiasm, the pronunciations of words like the color, "lello," and a repeating line from a story, "Hulp! hulp! Who can hulp?"
We were driving home from school and she spoke up from her car seat in the back, "Mom, I love you today."
I said, "Hannah, I love you today, too!"
She continued, "I love you to always, Mom."
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Hiking with Jeff
It’s Friday afternoon, Jeff’s home from work earlier than usual. The kids are settled and we are off. We drive to the park, lace up our shoes, grab the water bottles, and go. Walking together, our hands reach out, fingers laced in familiar fashion. Our joined hand sways, our comfort, our bond, when we walk together.
We talk of small things, things that matter, the business of the week. The trials, the turns, the unexpected delights, and the fact it is Friday, again, brings energy to our steps.
We pass hikers, runners puffing up the hill behind us, bikers racing down the slippery slope, greeting each one, thankful to be out here in woods and fresh air at week’s end.
Our travels climb up the soggy path, sticky mud gripping our trail shoes. The trail upward leads to looming clouds darkening over the treetops, gray and blue hues magically mixing on their palette in the sky.
Sit for a moment on the bench overlooking the lake to admire the beauty, the stillness, the sounds of birds and an occasional bee buzzing my ear. The lake’s level and damp earth raising hope bringing relief to gloomy thoughts of drought and despair.
The last bits of our climb bring warmth and deeper breathing. Sit to enjoy the coolness of the breeze against our backs. I say, “I’m sorry it’s been busy, fast-paced and crazy. I’m thankful for this moment with you.”
We sit longer to feel the stillness, seeing things we didn’t before, letting quiet invade us.
Ready to follow the trail onward, descending a different path. I start to feel hungry. My mind keenly focuses on bodily cravings knowing popcorn wasn’t enough an hour ago. Snickers, peanuts, chocolate milk...
t-a-c-o...b-u-r-r-i-t-o...
crunching along,
stepping the steps, singing my song,
moving water rolling down,
my mind wanders all around. . .
Stepping onto dry sections of the path, up and over, jumping across, following the rolling river down, down, down. Childhood memories of sailing sticks, leaves, and walnut shell boats down rolling streams flow through my mind. I follow single-file in narrow strips, over red and yellow tones, and lava rocks with histories untold.
Crunching earth underfoot viewing green moss covered rocks with dreadlock wisps. Gnarled oak trees reach up mighty and proud creating picturesque views against the darkening sky. I breathe scents of earth and dusk, moisture infusing gladness in my soul. Gone are the pangs of hunger. My mind is focused on the beauty. Thankful prayers for God’s design a masterpiece before me.
I balance, arms stretched out side-to-side as I scoot over a narrow ridge of dirt and water. Stepping out in front of my husband, I take the lead skipping and stepping bank to bank making him chuckle behind me. Now the path widens with water pools in sections. We come together and connect our hands to continue our walk.
I’m so thankful for this blessing, time unhurried, alone, and together. I am so thankful for God’s creation. Living the moment. I am alive!
We talk of small things, things that matter, the business of the week. The trials, the turns, the unexpected delights, and the fact it is Friday, again, brings energy to our steps.
We pass hikers, runners puffing up the hill behind us, bikers racing down the slippery slope, greeting each one, thankful to be out here in woods and fresh air at week’s end.
Our travels climb up the soggy path, sticky mud gripping our trail shoes. The trail upward leads to looming clouds darkening over the treetops, gray and blue hues magically mixing on their palette in the sky.
Sit for a moment on the bench overlooking the lake to admire the beauty, the stillness, the sounds of birds and an occasional bee buzzing my ear. The lake’s level and damp earth raising hope bringing relief to gloomy thoughts of drought and despair.
The last bits of our climb bring warmth and deeper breathing. Sit to enjoy the coolness of the breeze against our backs. I say, “I’m sorry it’s been busy, fast-paced and crazy. I’m thankful for this moment with you.”
We sit longer to feel the stillness, seeing things we didn’t before, letting quiet invade us.
Ready to follow the trail onward, descending a different path. I start to feel hungry. My mind keenly focuses on bodily cravings knowing popcorn wasn’t enough an hour ago. Snickers, peanuts, chocolate milk...
t-a-c-o...b-u-r-r-i-t-o...
crunching along,
stepping the steps, singing my song,
moving water rolling down,
my mind wanders all around. . .
Stepping onto dry sections of the path, up and over, jumping across, following the rolling river down, down, down. Childhood memories of sailing sticks, leaves, and walnut shell boats down rolling streams flow through my mind. I follow single-file in narrow strips, over red and yellow tones, and lava rocks with histories untold.
Crunching earth underfoot viewing green moss covered rocks with dreadlock wisps. Gnarled oak trees reach up mighty and proud creating picturesque views against the darkening sky. I breathe scents of earth and dusk, moisture infusing gladness in my soul. Gone are the pangs of hunger. My mind is focused on the beauty. Thankful prayers for God’s design a masterpiece before me.
I balance, arms stretched out side-to-side as I scoot over a narrow ridge of dirt and water. Stepping out in front of my husband, I take the lead skipping and stepping bank to bank making him chuckle behind me. Now the path widens with water pools in sections. We come together and connect our hands to continue our walk.
I’m so thankful for this blessing, time unhurried, alone, and together. I am so thankful for God’s creation. Living the moment. I am alive!
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