Eight Months

Eight months.  Right on the day.  Yipee!

This is the point where I can admit that I’m completely behind on the baby book, right?  Or the little calendar-thing where you can write in “first haircut” and “first swing at the playground” and “sitting.” I would have put all of those little stickers in this month, if I was keeping up.

With Toby starting school, you’re figuring out the routine of having mama alone every morning.  We’re getting to have a few of our own adventures, just the two of us, at a slightly slower pace.  When Toby is around, the two of you are figuring out how to play together.  He’s sometimes too rough with you, but you just keep on egging him on.  Listen up, kid, if you keep encouraging him I’m not going to protect you much longer.  It’s not very credible for me to say “Stop kicking, poking, or shouting-at your brother” when you’re sitting there giggling and reaching out for more. 

Just in the past few days you've figured out sitting.  Yes, you still need a few pillows behind you to slow your fall, but you're staying up long enough that I think we can call it official.  In any case, you've learned that it's a fun position for playing with a ball, grabbing baby puffs at your high chair (you can palm them, but then you can't get them out of your hand and into your mouth, poor thing), or pounding on all the annoying musical baby toys we seem to accumulate.

If your smiles are any indication, then your two favorite things are 1) Getting strapped into your carseat (Yay! We’re going someplace!) and 2) Getting out of your carseat (Yay! You didn’t forget me!).

Oh my goodness, that tongue.  You've got the happiest tongue ever.  And if you're really excited we’ll hear your “rock star grunt.”  That’s the tongue out, down to his chin AND a big ol’ grunty “AHHHHH!”  You’re ready for the road, little boy.

Fairy Tales in Sunday School

I love teaching UCC kids.  Today was our first day of Sunday school.  And since we’ll be learning about the Bible, the curriculum started us off with the question, “How do you see the Bible?”

The middle school handout gave four suggested answers: Fairy Tales, History Books, Instruction Manual, or Sacred Story.

You know you’re in a United Church of Christ congregation when half of the class answers A) Fairy Tales.  We’re a skeptical bunch.

Ah, but when I asked them how the Bible is like a fairy tales, they didn’t jump to “made up” or “childish” or “unreal.”  They told me “It has a moral or a meaning.” “You can apply it to your life.”

Adults in the UCC aren’t much different.  We believe more than we admit.

And the things that we do believe in—well, we might get a little wishy-washy around appearances and miracles—but the things we do believe in are just as unrealistic.  Peaceful solutions to problems.  Full inclusion of all of God’s children just as we are.  Questioning hearts searching for authenticity.  The necessary bonds of a community worthy of fellowship and sacrifice.  Just like those first Christians who thought the end was coming tomorrow, we’re trying our darndest to live as if God’s Kindom has already arrived.

Anyone with their feet firmly planted in the see-it-to-believe-it camp could easily tell us that our hopes are fairy tales.

Milestones

When we first heard the words Down syndrome, the delays in early milestones were the farthest thing from my mind.  I didn’t even know that early physical delays were a part of Down syndrome.  Several doctors mentioned getting us signed up for early intervention services, a few made mysterious comments about how, “it might take a bit longer, but he will walk.”  Wait, what?  Of course he will walk.  I’d never met any adults, or children for that matter, with Down syndrome who don’t walk.  I wasn’t thinking about crawling or walking or rolling over or head control.  I was thinking about the cognitive disabilities that usually accompany Trisomy 21, and I was thinking about their long term impact on me.

So, I’m surprised how randomly the pain of missing milestones hits me.  Most days it doesn’t.  Most days I don’t even think about it.  But then I pick up a newsletter from my church about teaching my 8 month old about Jesus, and it mentions that “babies this age” are using their pincer grasp. Or I see pictures in my due-date-message-board of babies Max’s age who are sitting up or crawling or pulling to stand.  And most days it rolls right off, I know in my head why Max is moving at a different pace.  But every now and then I get sideswiped.  The reference to “normal” comes out of nowhere, and it’s like a hit to the stomach.

Maybe it’s because, all of a sudden, I remember that we’re not just talking about whose baby sits first.  We’re talking about a lifetime of moving on a different timeline.  A timeline that I want to love and respect, but that I am still learning to understand.

To those of you with babies the same age (hi Lauren!) please don’t stop bragging about your baby’s new skills.  They are wonderful, they deserve it!  I don’t want to be cut off from your joy because it is sometimes uncomfortable.  And I’m finding that the best medicine for my worries is exposure.  The more happy babies I see sitting and rolling, and holding their heads up without a bob—the more comfortable I am with my own little guy doing things in his own time.

Welcoming in Baptism

Last weekend we celebrated Max’s baptism.

I understand the reasoning behind adult baptisms.  And hey, it was good enough for Jesus, and everyone in the early church, so you don’t have to convince me of its merits.  But y’know what?  I love, love, love the idea of baptizing babies.  There’s no greater reminder, in my mind, of how we are loved and included unconditionally—both by God and by the church.

The two are equally important to me as I’ve watched my sons’ baptisms.  As amazing as is to contemplate God’s extravagant love, I find the community aspect even more inspiring.

Just in case I hadn’t had all the self-sufficiency knocked out of me the first time I birthed a child, Max’s arrival reminded me all over again that I can’t do this alone.  Christer and I can’t do this alone.  We were counting on our family and friends to help us with the transition from 3 to 4 – keeping Toby, bringing us food, sending their love.  We weren’t planning on needing extra prayers for a baby in the NICU, needing extra time from our pastors as we worried in the hospital, needing extra visits from friends while we waited for test results, needing extra support from family when we tried to care for two boys for the two weeks that one was stuck in the hospital.

I suppose that, in theory, I believe that God will support us through whatever challenges Max throws our way.  But in a very concrete way I know that our church will care for Max and care for us as he grows up.

And so, we watched the pastor take him from our arms and walk with him through the crowd—a piece of the ritual that pulls on my heart with even more force than the sprinkling itself.  Your family is bigger than our household, little man.  I can’t tell the future—I don’t know if you will find your own friends and your own faith in this community or in another.  But I have faith in the promises made for you.  You will not be alone as you grow into this world.

Caught Staring

It seems pretty universal among the parents we’ve met—having a kid with Down syndrome means dealing with curious onlookers.

I haven’t noticed any staring yet.  Babies are already so funny looking—cute, but kind of funny looking—that it’s hard to notice those telltale Down syndrome features.  Often Max is hiding under the stroller’s canopy, or sleepy and drooling on a shoulder, so folks don’t see him very well.

But I’ve caught myself staring.  At the state fair a few weeks back we were in line next to another family with a kid with Down syndrome—cute little girl who was almost 3.  The girl approached us first, pointing at Max repeatedly and excitedly.  I was fascinated by her.  She was adorable, and clearly enamored with Max.  And yes, I found myself looking and wondering about Max’s future.  I smiled at her and clumsily started talking to the parents.  They were giving one-word answers.  I asked how old she was, and they answered with a explanatory sigh, “she’s small for her age.”  And that was when I realized that they hadn’t noticed that Max had Down syndrome, too.  So I turned the stroller so they could see him better, and introduced him.

Of course, then the tone changed.  We chatted a bit as our kids went through the exhibit.  We’re members of the club, it seems.  But I’m not sure my curiosity is any purer than anyone else’s.  Just like all the other staring eyes, I’m trying to figure out something that I still don’t understand.

I got the stink-eye from a mom earlier this summer for taking a second look at her teenage son.  Again, Max was asleep, facing away from them.  We were in a crowd, and gone before I could say anything—not that I would have known what to say if I’d had the chance.

I’m writing this to remind future-me that I once stared, too. 

Someday, it’s inevitable, I’ll write a post about how I’m tired of the staring.  I’ll write that it’s not fair that Max’s struggles are written so clearly on his face when the rest of us get to keep our difficulties secret.

I can’t guarantee that this old reminder will make me any more patient or gracious or polite when I catch someone staring at my son.  But hopefully it will at least make me humble, and remind me that I was there once, too.

Seven Months

Another month already? Or, um, another month already a week ago? Sigh. This is what parenting is all about, watching you speed along while I drag behind.

But enough about me.  On to you and your seven-months-plus-some self.

I'm sure you've hit some new milestone or another this month, but more than anything I'm noticing how good you're getting at letting us know when you're happy.  Bigger smiles, single-syllable bursts of laughter, arms wide and waving, and oh, that tongue!  When the tongue is out we know you are pleased.  

You've been eating some solids, of course.  We're all experimenting, trying to find foods that encourage you to grab and play and taste.  You're pretty good at sucking your thumb while holding a chunk of zucchini, you love munching on cantaloupe in your little mesh feeder, and you'll smack away at spoonfuls of sweet potato puree all day long.  Even better than the food, though, you're now joining us at the table in your high chair.  It's fun to have you as an active participant in family meals.

I'm not sure where this month went.  This last month of summer has been busy and lazy all at once.  You've spent a lot of time with Papa while I've been writing.  We seem to be running out of steam for the big summer adventures, but we're still fitting in swimming pools and picnics and trips to the park and the zoo.  There's not as much on the calendar, but every day is full.

You are Oh So Close to sitting independently.  For now, you still need a little support, but it's fun to watch what you get into when you're sitting up.  This month you've gotten more interested in toys.  They don't just go straight for your mouth--you wave them around and bang them and watch how they move.

It's rough work charming us all day long.  Luckily, you're up to the task.

State Fair

I have been writing way too much elsewhere, and not posting enough here, so I think it's time for a post full of photos.  Last week we drove down to the Indiana State Fair, and did all sorts of fun fair things:

Cute piggy smiles:

Fake farm chores:

Big tractors and ice cream treats:

The World's Largest Popcorn Ball:

Cheese sculptor at work making a cheese sculpture:

3D zoetrope.  My favorite exhibit.  I don't know what it had to do with anything else at the fair, but it was so fun to watch:

Finally, a souvenir green-screen photo.  From an exhibit that taught us that genetically modified soybeans are not scary, with the help of a scary gigantic mutant soybean: