Passing T.ime

So, yesterday was Jared's 19th birthday. I went through the day, kind of in split-screen mode: one side on the day and the other side on a day 19 years ago. It went something like this:

Yesterday: Jared woke around 5:45, as he always does, made his own breakfast and got ready for school, walking out the door before 7 with his tupperware of chocolate gluten free cupcakes.

19 yrs ago: The doctors and nurses came in to tell me that my baby had many features associated with Down Syndrome. One doctor told me that we couldn't be sure that the child would talk, or when he would walk.

Yesterday: Mid-morning,Jared shared his cupcakes with his friends in science class.

19yrs ago: Mid-morning, I attended the "new mom" orientation (the one you had to take before leaving the hospital) with my baby, but making sure the blanket covered much of his face. I didn't want those moms, the ones with the perfect babies, to see mine.

Yesterday: Jared went to his work study at the nursing home, where the staff sang to him and an elderly gentleman slipped him a 5 on the sly for his birthday.

19yrs ago: I sat, crying in a hospital room, thinking that very little good lay before this child.

Yesterday: Jared took the bus to the YMCA, where he swiped cards for people and then worked out with his friend.

19yrs ago: The word, mongoloid, still lived in the reference books about our children.

Yesterday: At dinnertime, we dropped by the Y to get Jared on our way to his restaurant pick. As I walked in to get him, he was already heading out to meet me. I asked him how he knew I was coming. He said, something told him I would be coming and he wanted to meet me half way.

19yrs ago:  At dinnertime, I fed my son for the first time, and when we locked eyes, something must have told him that I would be meeting him; it would take awhile, but I would eventually meet him half way.

Yesterday: In the car on the way to dinner, Jared gave his brothers presents: a pack of m & m for his little brother, Bray, that he had received at his work study, and a watch for his other brother Jake, the one with the alarm that he can't seem to figure out.

19 yrs ago: Jared gave me a present that I wasn't ready for: a life where I would learn patience, compassion, and grace.

Happy Birthday to my son.

Growing up With Jared: When the Polish Chips and Fades

Growing up With Jared: When the Polish Chips and Fades: My hands tell a story, I think. You know how you can look at someone's hands and even if their face looks young, it's the hands that give ev...

When the Polish Chips and Fades

My hands tell a story, I think. You know how you can look at someone's hands and even if their face looks young, it's the hands that give evidence of how many years have passed? So, I looked at my hands today. While the world can look at my face and see this cheerful, lighthearted person,  my hands tell a different story. Don't get me wrong; I'm happy, blessed in a multitude of ways, but I would be lying if I said that having a child with special needs was not stressful at times. These last couple of weeks, with the applications and forms that come with  Jared's growing up, have been a little rough, to say the least. And it is my hands, my dry, cuticle shredded hands that are telling a story of their own. So, what do I  do? Yoga? Wine? Continue to chew my nails? No, I think I'll take the wine, and perhaps the yoga. But, I will also look at my children, my husband, all around the table tonight, and I will count my blessings. And for all you other mothers out there? It will be ok; you might just have to get a manicure or two...I guess that wouldn't be so bad now, would it?

Growing up With Jared: The Broken People

Growing up With Jared: The Broken People: We sit among the broken people, young, unwed mothers with babies not much younger than they, a gentleman just out of a correctional facility...

The Broken People

We sit among the broken people, young, unwed mothers with babies not much younger than they, a gentleman just out of a correctional facility downstate, a widow, twisting her hankerchief, my son and I.  The conversation goes something like this:

Jared:  I don't want to go away from you and John.  Who will take care of me?
Me:  Don't worry, Jar, even if you move away from us, we will always take care of you.
Jared: But what if you die?
Me: Then John will make sure you are ok.
Jared:  But what if John dies?
I turn in my chair and face my son, a promise in my eyes as I say:  "promise you that you will always be cared for. If we leave, then there will always be someone to take care of you, to make sure you are safe. To make sure you are happy."
Jared: OK, mom

And we sit, for another hour while the papers we brought with us, the ones that declare my son as a person with a disability, are shuffled through, copied, then paperclipped again, then  handed back to me to be put in a folder labled, Jared-SSI.
Jared notes that the folders I hold are really thick.  "Do my brothers have as much paperwork as I do? " he asks. "No," I tell him. You are the lucky one, the one with the most papers. " And we sit. The man from prison assures the young social worker next to us that he was discharged from that facility downstate, that he would have brought the papers with him if he knew they would be needed.  We sit, next to the young Asian boys, fingers furiously playing at their laptops, as they converse animatedly in their native tongue, procuring the proper paperwork, that I assume allows them to stay here to continue their studies. We sit, as a young mother, barely 15, comes in with her son and his suspicious cough.  So much struggle in this space. And to be a part of it yesterday was exhausting, yet another reminder of our differences, Jared and me.
And finally, we leave; the proper papers have been filed. The appropriate questions have been asked.  We've supplied the answers they require.  We ride the gray elevator down four floors and walk toward the metal detector. Jared reminds me to pick up my phone from the armed guard standing near the door.  And we walk through, my son and I. We walk to the car, get in. I turn on the music, and it's a song that Jared and I both love. As we drive, I reach over, ruffle his dirty blond hair, and we look at eachother and smile.

Growing up With Jared: Trimming the Tree

Growing up With Jared: Trimming the Tree: Every year, it seems that the time to decorate the Christmas tree comes faster and faster and the boys get bigger and bigger. This year was ...

Trimming the Tree

Every year, it seems that the time to decorate the Christmas tree comes faster and faster and the boys get bigger and bigger. This year was particularly poignant in that much of the decorating of the tree has become the their job. Yes, I still am a bit controlling about where the hockey player ornaments hang (bottom bows, near the back of the tree), but you know what I noticed? I didn't move the ornaments as much as I have in past Christmas seasons; you know the move: when the kids aren't looking, you surreptitiously move a particularly heavy ornament from a weak and droopy branch to a sturdier one on another part of the tree, or you come down early the next morning and "re-hang" the ornaments where you "really" think they should have gone in the first place, or certain ornaments that were there last year (the scary looking reindeer with one eye missing or the chipped gingerbread man, you know the ones I mean) fail to find their way out of the box. But not this year. This year, the ornaments are staying right where the boys, our growing and busy boys, chose to put them. Our youngest had a conference with my husband about the best place for those hockey players before setting up a scrimmage under a needled roof. Our middle child reached the tallest branches for us. And Jared carried up the heaviest boxes from the basement for me, claiming, "Geez Mom! This isn't heavy at all!" And for him, it wasn't, not anymore, not this year. At one point, Jake asked my husband and me how he would have enough ornaments for his own Christmas tree when he grows up and moves out.  I told him not to worry; ornaments have a way of accumulating over the years. That's the fun part of it.  But it struck us; the boys are growing up. It won't be too many years before they are hanging their own ornaments on a tree that they pick out themselves. I'll probably give them each a hockey player.