Now We Are Six

But now I am Six,
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.
--From "Now We Are Six," by A.A. Milne

Six years ago this morning, on a day that was very much like today (insufferably humid, cloudy and overcast) a doctor leaned over my shoulder in the delivery room and told me he thought our baby had Down syndrome. What should have been one of the happiest days of my life had been transformed forever.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a sentimental person. Even though Leo is six today, that fateful moment when Dr. No Tact made his announcement before I even got to hold my baby could have been yesterday. Leo’s birthday still chokes me up a little. OK, a lot. It’s not because I’m sad though. It’s because we’ve come so far in six years. I’ve come so far. I look at pictures of newborn Leo and want a "do-over." I want to hold him again when he is just minutes old and know what I know now. That sure, things might be hard sometimes, or different than I expected, but everything is going to be just fine.

Today I took Leo to school as I do every day. He helped me carry the casserole dish full of cupcakes he’ll eat later this afternoon with his classmates. They are pink and yellow (per his request) and I stayed up until 11 p.m. last night frosting each one. I had to work late and I was tired by the time I got to the little frosting project (thank goodness I had the foresight to make them the night before). The cake that I made along with the cupcakes (for tonight’s family celebration) is a bit of a disaster. I’m fairly confident that it tastes better than it looks though and luckily Leo is not a pastry critic. Yet.

The crooked cake? It really doesn’t matter. Because all I could think about last night, as I wiped the powdered sugar off the counters and soaked the frosting coated beaters was how happy I was. How normal everything seemed. And I thought about how six years ago last night I was oblivious to the roller coaster ride of emotions I was about to take. In the morning, life as I knew it would be over (as it is for any new parent, Down syndrome or not). Now, it's difficult to believe there was a time I doubted I would ever feel "happy" or "normal" again. ("Normal" being a relative term of course.)

Leaving Leo at school this morning, the tears came for me. It was six years ago I cried because my new baby, the baby I was terrified of and grief stricken over was downstairs in the neonatal intensive care unit. In a little more than a month my “baby” will enter first grade. Did I mention that sometimes I really want to stop time?

This has been a huge year for you Leo. You went from a small private school of less than forty children to a huge public school of over 500. You graduated kindergarten. You learned to read and speak in sentences without prompting. You can write, you’re beginning to learn to tell time, count money and you are an expert at coloring. You also really love to draw.

You have a lot of loves in your life and you continue to be a person of extremes. When you enjoy something (scrambled eggs, cake, grapes, watermelon) you enjoy it. But when you don’t want it (pretty much anything green), look out.

You adore your sister Ellie, who you have started calling (along with the rest of the family) "Ellie-Belle." Unlike many words you can say this one clear as, well, a bell. You are a fiercely protective older brother, already. The other day when you two were eating lunch outside and Ellie wandered off to play mid-meal (as she is prone to do), a fly landed on her pizza. You were incredulous. You yelled “My Ellie-Belle pizza, my sister!” Yes, you yelled at a fly.

You value family above everything and get giddy at the mention of “Grandma” (both of them) or Grandpa. You love your home. In fact, most days I think you’d be happy to just stay there, play with your trains and cars and Little People and put blankets on your dog Ruby while she “sleeps.” Sure the zoo and the park and taking Ruby for walks are all great fun but you’re also perfectly content to build hayrides and draw and do puzzles and read books. Lots and lots of books.

You could also play ball for an entire day, I’m pretty certain, and did I mention you have a fabulous arm? Really, people comment on it all the time.

Your stubbornness (when you don’t want to do something you don’t want to do it) is matched only by your incredible sweetness and sensitivity. I’m pretty sure that if your Grandma Eleanor was here she would say that when you are good you are very, very good and when you are bad you are horrid (see above regarding extremes). But don’t worry, she said this about me too sometimes.

You have a sharp little sense of humor and you love to make people laugh.

You continue to teach me to see the world in a way I never thought I could or would. You have introduced me to patience I didn’t know I had and have brought grace and compassion to my life. I did not know what these words really meant until you.

You surprise me and make me laugh every single day. I am so very proud of you and you are only six. I can’t wait to see what else you do! And even when you throw dish towels at me and cross your arms and scowl when you don’t want to do something, I love you.

Love,
Mommy