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Posts Tagged ‘determination’

A Gift for Daddy—A Gift for All

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2014| 3 Comments »

There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. There are seven million. (Walt Streightiff)

Ella runs into our house. Enthusiasm exudes from her being. She carries a present for her daddy’s birthday—from her. The package is about the size and shape of a pound of delicatessen hamburger; it is gift wrapped in her artwork.

Daddy Steve laughs. “She told me in the car what it was: coffee.”

Of course we can’t wait for the traditional present-opening moment: dinner and then a loud rendition of the birthday song, careful cake slicing that gets messy anyway, followed by ice-cream scooping. “Do you want to help Daddy open his present now?” I ask.

A spoken answer is unnecessary. Her jump into action is response enough. A bag of bold-flavored coffee appears under the wrapping. And Ella doesn’t know that her real gift is the love of a blonde five-year-old girl with a spirit that could charm a wolverine.

She will need that power soon. Ella was born with an A/V canal defect. Only half of her heart worked. Her surgery was successful. She plays with the same vigor any other young child displays. However, a routine echo cardiogram showed a blockage. It is causing no apparent problem now, but as she grows it will interfere. She faces open-heart surgery again after the first of the year.

Her surgeon has an excellent reputation. In these days open heart surgery is almost a routine procedure. However, the gentleness of her heart requires no repair. She draws people to her with gravitational power. She gives lessons: in patience, spontaneity, forgiveness, and resilience. Moreover, she charges no fee, only a willingness from her observers to change, to be aware of perspectives, to see hidden beauty that has always been there. Unnoticed.

I think about how I felt as a child as I stood, the top of my head at a grownup’s belly button. A higher stature seemed unreachable. Moreover, I felt perpetually unworthy. An adult was another species, a creature-from-another-world who didn’t spill juice or make too much noise in church. The importance of rules of behavior was ingrained into my soul long before I could read or prioritize. So, life’s directives were vague, negative, built on shame.

Since then I’ve learned to see differently—I don’t live in the past. It’s simply a place to visit now and then. However, I make sure that my grandchildren and I live on the same planet and that we learn from one another. As an adult I may have the advantage of years, but my granddaughters offer freshness.

Ella has Down syndrome. Many people may look down on her because of it. But those who look into her eyes know that she offers all that she is—and she doesn’t even know that is unusual.

when a child gives you a rock

 

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The Generation Bridge

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on October 16, 2014| Leave a Comment »

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­C­­­­orrection does much, but encouragement does more. (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe) 

“I have to read to a grownup for homework,” Rebe says. Her sister, grandfather, and the television create a distraction so we go to the computer-toy room, door closed, her idea. She lies across a pillow on the floor and I sit on the rug. She can’t see my smile as I revel in her first-grade-cadence: the words she amazingly sounds out, and the ones I’m surprised she misses. To me the particulars are not as important as the privilege of hearing her enter the world of books.

I stroke her hair. It’s thick, wavy, a dark red, but it isn’t any physical feature I’m admiring. I relax in this grandma-granddaughter moment.

“You have to sign this paper and write how I did when I’m finished,” she tells me.

At my granddaughter’s age I read extremely well. However, I doubt that I would have been open enough to encourage anyone to write a solitary word of criticism about my performance. First-grade Terry wasn’t that secure.

Of course I also remember being on my own most of the time, too, as far as achievement or anything else was concerned. My parents were too busy with their own chores, with staying out of debt, with the day-to-day struggles of existence. Perhaps that was the way of the times. Children were meant to be seen and not heard.

I loved my maternal grandmother and was absolutely certain she loved me. She made an aqua dress in my size based on a design I’d drawn and then left lying around. The dress was a surprise, created without a special occasion. However, snuggling and compliments, sharing of our ideas and lives rarely happened.

My granddaughters and I have options. We pretend, swim, crack eggs for breakfast and jokes on the way home from school. When the playground isn’t crowded I have even been known to climb next to Rebe on sturdy equipment. I think about that as I watch her close one thin book and open another. She is doing well. Perfect isn’t necessary—not the way I thought it needed to be more than a generation ago.

“I’m proud of you, Rebe,” I say. And I hope she knows those are not cut-and-paste words suited for any occasion. A forehead kiss serves as a kind of softened exclamation point, something like interpreting expression in dialogue, the kind the reader needs to discover—learn as she goes and grows.

 raise words not voice Optimism Revolution

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What Do You Want To Play—Who Will We Be?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 10, 2014| 3 Comments »

If you see the world in black and white, you’re missing important grey matter. (Jack Fyock)

Ella’s charm draws to her at least seven children from the YMCA pool.

“Will you play with me?” one girl asks, and Ella nods.

“What do you want to play?” the girl asks.

Ella hesitates.

“How about pretending to be frogs?” I suggest, slowly stepping away, giving the kids space around my precious granddaughter.

“Yeah,” this leader girl answers. “Frogs!”

“Hop. Hop,” Ella says moving along in the shallow water.

One boy with black curly hair shows me his swim vest, his ebony face bright with pride. “I brought it from home.”

“Looks great,” I tell him.

“Are you her mom?” one blonde girl asks me. I grin, grateful for her edited eyesight.

“No, I’m her grandma.” I wonder if grandmothers are supposed to hop like frogs in shallow water.

One look at the clock tells me this time will be short. Ella and I need to meet Grandpa in the lobby in about twenty minutes for our picnic lunch before Ella goes to afternoon pre-school. “Ten minutes and then we have to get dressed,” I tell her. “I brought tortilla chips today.” They are one of her favorite snacks. I hope they are enough encouragement to get her out of the water.

“No,” Ella responds.

“She can stay here,” one of the children offers.

I smile at the boy’s innocence.

“Is she a baby or does she just talk like one?” another boy asks. His voice indicates no condemnation, only curiosity.

“She isn’t a baby…but she is learning…” I answer, without any hint of censure in my voice. I don’t explain the what-or-how-of-her-struggles-or-accomplishments. The boy doesn’t pursue the issue with further questioning. Besides, I’m not sure how to answer. Each person learns at a different rate anyway. Ella has been reading for months, at least. Someday I hope to catch up with her when it comes to acceptance of people as they are. However, fine-tuned tongue movements and some motor skills may take her a bit longer to master.

Our little girl is a fresh five-year-old. She has not yet faced the full brunt of prejudice inherent to the life of anyone born outside the so-called norm. The little folk in the pool have not yet learned to recognize the facial characteristics of Down syndrome. Besides, our granddaughter wears them beautifully with her sunshine-white hair and huge blue eyes. They defy the brightness of a perfect summer day. Her smile could melt an iceberg. The children seem to recognize that gift intuitively, knowing she is real and a dependable friend.

The children wave good-bye. Our Y friends stop by our lunch table to say hello, more to Ella than to Jay and me. And that is okay. Ella isn’t worrying about what happens tomorrow—or the next day. She cries when she needs to cry and the tears end easily. She laughs when she recognizes the humor in life. And that happens often.

I’m not saying that every day is easy. But few things that are worthwhile come without effort anyway. I guess Ella is my constant reminder that the world in black-and-white misses out on a lot of color—as well as grey matter. Later I have the opportunity to leave the house to go to another exercise class, if I want to go. But, I don’t want to miss an extra minute with Ella. Not today. She may have a life lesson I will need to use later.

flying turtle

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Lively Conversations on a Dead Cell Phone

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 2, 2014| 1 Comment »

Innocence is one of the most exciting things in the world. (Eartha Kitt)

My old cell phone hasn’t had a battery for who-knows-how-long. However, five-year-old Ella picks it up and brings it to life with her imagination. She mimics the motions she has seen in adults, complete with subtle movements and voice tones. When her conversation has ended she closes the flip top slowly, deliberately. I’m the follower in this scenario, the fortunate observer. Ella understands but is not able to fully verbalize what she knows.

I guess the phone has rung again as she says, “hello,” hands the blackened screen to me, and adds, “It’s Dy,” short for Daddy.

She grins when I say that he is playing baseball and not at work. Daddy is working, but explaining an office setting to a five-year-old doesn’t create fun play.

“Should he stop at the store and get bananas on the way home?” I try for mock seriousness and hope she buys it.

“Yes,” she answers.

“What else?”

“A bike,” she adds.

I refrain from laughing. Nothing seems random in a child’s world. After we finish with several quick turns saying hi, bye, and what-are-you-doing-now, we enter a pretend playground where Dora, the Explorer; a tennis ball; and a plush ladybug all take turns going down a plastic slide. Reality is suspended for a while.

And I feel strangely free, privileged, invited to this spot on the floor surrounded by toys on an ordinary Thursday morning.

The folk who read my blog regularly know that my youngest granddaughter has Down syndrome; Down syndrome does not own my granddaughter. She continues to play as I get her ready to leave for the day. I have trouble getting her shoes on properly. They need to give her adequate ankle support. She seems to understand my frailties and doesn’t fuss. I thank her for her patience and wonder how much she intuits. This little blonde with the huge blue eyes is amazingly easy to love.

I envision her at Daycare after school some day as she plays with a toy phone. Does she ever say, “Hi, Mawmaw?” This isn’t the kind of thing I am likely to know. My hearing isn’t that good within the same room, with amplification, much less from one part of town to another. Nevertheless, I smile thinking about it.

She smiles back now. That’s more than good enough.

the world as it should be

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Grounded—Temporarily

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on September 29, 2014| 2 Comments »

 Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life, and when it comes, hold your head high, look it squarely in the eye and say, “I will be bigger than you. You cannot defeat me.” (Ann Landers)

Four more hours to wait at the Philadelphia airport. September 25, 2014. Our last flight landed around noon. Although the numbness settling through me makes time seem like an illusion. Jay and I sit in the restaurant area. I read, The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein, and my husband loads our vacation photos onto our faulty laptop using Wi-Fi that fades in and out with the reliability of a light bulb with old, frayed wiring.

At least my book is riveting, a tale told from the point of view of a dog with twice the wisdom of a human being. Enzo approaches the end of his life and anticipates re-entry on the earth as a man. The notion does not come from his imagination. In Mongolia a dog is buried on top of a mountain so that no one can step on his grave. If the dog is ready, and worthy, he can return as a human being. Enzo is ready. He has learned and served well.

I would like a taste of Enzo’s understanding about the meaning of life as I stop to look at my watch, again, and then see how my mate is faring with our laptop. An attractive young woman pauses close to the table where I am sitting. She surveys the area.

“You can sit here,” I say gesturing to the chair across from me. “I’m just taking up space while reading. We’ll be here a while. Our flight has been delayed. Twice.”

“Mine has been canceled,” she answers.

“Don’t you just love it?” My question is both rhetorical and sarcastic. I don’t expect a response.

“No,” she answers. “I have an appointment at eight tomorrow morning.”

I mark my place and close my book. I learn that this young woman has an appointment to get into medical school at Yale. She asks how far it would be to drive to New Haven. Jay looks it up on the computer—it responds in almost reasonable time: a three-hour drive.

The young woman says she hasn’t eaten all day; it is now after 4:00PM. She chooses a salad and eats first before calling for a rental car. I hear her name as she calmly makes arrangements on her cell phone with the rental service, but I’m not relaying that information here; I don’t have her permission. However, I choose to remember it because I connect her with the unflinching control she exhibited during an untenable situation.

“Thanks for your help,” she says.

“You are welcome.”

“I guess my little drama puts a perspective on your wait.”

I smile, the toothless kind that holds back more feeling than I want to show. The wisdom I discover in “Racing in the Rain” stands before me in a young woman with both determination and perspective.

“During your interview you can tell them you have resilience,” Jay says.

I nod, wishing resilience were as contagious as a virus. I should be the one thanking you, I think as she disappears down the long, echoing hallways of the airport…

dancing in the rain PIQ

 

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Clearing the Way

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2014| 5 Comments »

Do what you can, where you are, with what you have. (Teddy Roosevelt)                      

I am in the process of returning the smaller items to their place in our house after our floors were refinished: the good dishes, books, our beloved wooden bird collection, and family photos. Our second floor storage area is temporarily in danger of mimicking scenes from Keepsake, by Kristina Riggle. Trish, the main character, is threatened with the possibility of losing custody of her son, injured by boxes stacked to the ceiling—although she will not admit that she is a hoarder. She doesn’t have time to organize. She tells her son, “Mommy isn’t perfect.” Her son accepts their life as normal.

No one, fictional or shouting into a microphone over public media, has arrived at a be-all, know-all state. My husband and I could have hurried less when we shuffled our possessions out of the way of the going-to-be-there-tomorrow work crew. However, we were also packing for a trip to the west coast as well as babysitting for our youngest granddaughter. Now I look at the boxes, stored by what I could name the Helter-Skelter-Give-It-To-Us-And-We’ll-Lose-It Storage Company­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­. Where should I start? One step at a time seems the only way to go. If I attempt to embrace the whole I could give up before beginning. I have decided to simplify, choose only a few items for the windowsills, breakfront, and coffee table. But which items?

To discover what matters and what doesn’t—this is my current focus. As I read Riggle’s story I see layers unveiled: dirty corners inside rooms and hurt corners inside lives. I can view a situation and think I know what is there, yet be unaware of how the essence of it works. Deciding what goes where is relatively simple; why people do what they do may or may not be.

I decide not to rush. The need is no longer present. The floors are finished and gleaming. On the haphazard second floor I am mining for gold; there is treasure in this pile of stuff. In a corner I find a pitcher painted by my husband’s grandmother. I never met her. She died long before I dated my husband. Her work is exquisite. She stopped painting after she married. As an individual with a creative nature I am saddened that she saw it as an interference in her role as wife and mother.

There is no point in investigating what cannot be changed, except perhaps through a wildly disguised fictional story. Her beautiful pitcher hid on top of our breakfront for years before we had our floors refinished. I decide to give her work prominent placement, closer to the bright floor, to where we live—a metaphor for cleaning-up the basics first, choosing the best and starting from there.

As I position the art on the open surface I pray that I live each day well enough that I leave something good in a corner that repels the dust and shines out.  Distant tomorrows are not my business. Using this moment well, is.

 

Isabelle's pitcher

 

 

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When I Grow Up…

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 9, 2014| 1 Comment »

I am different, not less. (Temple Grandin)

 If I could I would shout Temple Grandin’s statement across the Internet, national news forecasts, and local gossip networks: “I am different, not less.” Autism did not prevent Grandin from earning a doctorate degree. Actually, when I grow up I hope to be just like my youngest granddaughter, Ella. She has Down syndrome.

Some people turn away when they see someone with a disability like Down syndrome, as if the tripled twenty-first chromosome were contagious, or as if communication with an individual with a rounded face and slightly slanted eyes were similar to interaction with an alien from another planet. Organizations such as the National Down Syndrome Society have helped alter that notion. Efforts to change attitudes toward folk with other disabilities continue. The Autism Society explains how a person with autism perceives reality.

I have to admit that I have learned more from Ella than she has learned from me!

Our little girl has charisma. Her mission begins with a smile that reaches into the heart, an acceptance that doesn’t judge. When Daddy and Cousin Kate stopped by the daycare center to take Ella on a trip to visit her great-grandmother, the other children formed a circle around her, keeping Ella captive. They were unwilling to relinquish their princess. Daddy needed to trick the children into a race so that he could grab his daughter and run.

Ella does not present herself as better—or less—than anyone else. True, her life has barely begun; she needs to double her age to reach double-digits, but I have never seen any signs of ego, impatience, or striking-out-in-uncontrolled-anger. Oh, she knows the word no and uses it often, but not as a weapon. She seeks independence the way any other child does.

Our granddaughter has had three surgeries, two that were serious; she is terrified of medical settings. However, after each visit she recovers into her smiling self with remarkable speed. She lives in each moment; now is the only time that offers usable power.

I study a photo of the toddler son of a friend. He, too, has Down syndrome. He has had multiple surgeries. Nevertheless, he grins at the camera as he waits for his breakfast. I think about how few adults would respond with such enthusiasm. Not only would they be repeating poor me as if it were a refrain in a popular song, they would be wondering why they had to wait to be served, considering all they need to endure. Most folk with a tripled chromosome don’t see themselves with the sun rotating around their needs.

I catch myself fussing with a bouncing cursor that reminds me of a drunk fly circling spilled honey; my irritation almost reaches uncontrolled cursing of another kind. This should not happen!

Yeah, well, I’ll figure it out, eventually. In the meantime, today is a day to celebrate, September 8, 2014. Ella is five-years-old. (Posting won’t happen today, however. I need a day or so to let the words settle before I edit them. I cannot claim perfection on any level. I don’t even feel free to be totally me no matter where I am; Ella is still giving me lessons in that area.)

I am sharing a photo of her birthday cake, not because it is beautiful, but because it is delicious inside and a tad ordinary on the outside. I have never taken a decorating class and probably won’t—I have a tendency to eat too much of the art form. The layer-fit alone disqualifies my creation from any cooking magazine, but I bake from scratch and the frosting contains fresh strawberry.

Happy Birthday, Ella! May we celebrate the differences that make any ordinary individual spectacular.

Ella's birthday cake, five years old

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A Dog Named Spike

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2014| 2 Comments »

A dog will teach you unconditional love. If you can have that in your life, things won’t be too bad. (Robert Wagner)

I’ve often said that I won’t be allergic to dogs and cats in my next life—as if I had a genuine grasp of what a next life looks like, embraces, or involves. I don’t always know where my cell phone is, much less the substance of the infinite. However, I really would love to squat down and call, “Come here, Spike,” and then let my grand-dog lick my arms, neck, and  face—slobber all over me if he wanted.

Spike is an example of acceptance and unconditional love.

My youngest granddaughter is sick. I’m bringing dinner to her daddy’s house. My visiting time must be limited. I can manage short encounters, but as soon as I feel the slightest chest tightness I need to leave the premises, as in immediately. Itchy eyes would be difficult enough; I need to give up breathing to enjoy the presence of a fur-bearing creature. Fortunately, the weather allows us to eat on the patio. Outside, Spike can shed all he wants and the air absorbs the allergens. And I can appreciate him.

He looks for morsels of dropped food, but doesn’t growl when no one gives him a handout.  He already had dinner.  He stops by my chair and looks up, dark eyes begging to be petted. I smile and congratulate him on his many virtues, but don’t make contact with his soft fur. He moves away, patiently lying close to the table and waits for attention.

I think about how unlike Spike I would be in similar circumstances. So you’re the snooty type. Okay, suit yourself. I don’t need you either. Perhaps my grand-dog sees deeper than I do. He settles next to Ella and her daddy as he cradles the suffering little girl in his lap. Maybe Spike is sending positive vibes.

It’s hard to tell what he understands. I don’t speak dog. The folk who have a loyal pet are both fortunate and blessed.

 

Spike is a tad larger, black with white markings, but his expression is similar to this dog’s.

sleeping dog

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Age, Youth, and Discovering the Moment

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 24, 2014| 1 Comment »

Old age ain’t no place for sissies. (Bette Davis)

My 94-year-old mother-in-law sleeps on a narrow couch. She looks as uncomfortable there as she does inside her fragile body. She smiles and seems emotionally touched by the gentle stories I tell her about her grandson and great-grandchildren. But, I suspect she would agree with Bette. I have enough tact, however, not to discuss the obvious.

While my mother-in-law rests I elevate and ice an amazingly painful foot. I injured it the first day we arrived. This isn’t the out-of-town weekend I had in mind.

At the same time I sit with my youngest granddaughter, Ella, on the back porch of my brother-and-sister-in-laws’ house. Ella watches Peppa Pig on my iPad as I watch my ten-year-old granddaughter learn the art of hooking a bass with a lure. Ella and I are at the top of several rolling hills so I can’t see Kate’s face, but I know she has wanted to do this for a long time.

The action on the porch is different, subtle. Several ruby-throated hummingbirds flit close by. Then other species of hummingbirds appear—long enough for me to see their color, nothing more. A striped lizard makes an appearance. The next heat wave hasn’t passed through yet. The shade brings amazing comfort.

I think about my mother-in-law sleeping inside. My limitation, even though this one seems temporary, reminds me to celebrate what I can do—not what stops me. Sure, I can’t trek through the woods right now, but someone needs to stay with our youngest granddaughter. A four-year-old could create a hazard among swinging hooks. And who would have volunteered to be a companion to our littlest one, even if she didn’t have a foot the color of bad sunburn? Uh, Grandma?

Ella points to the screen as Papa Pig dives into the water without making a splash. She grins. Perhaps she realizes the absurdity of diving anywhere without making an impact of some kind. Ella already knows life isn’t easy. She approaches Down syndrome with an up attitude.

I study the striated skin on my arms. The challenges of aging occur slowly. I have no idea how many losses it will ask of me. But I’m not living in tomorrow. Today a blonde beauty smiles at me with a love of life that’s contagious. She doesn’t count wrinkles; she looks straight into the heart.

I chose to spend time with Kate shortly after she was born because my mother-in-law had bonded with my children. She showed me how much that connection is worth. Nothing less than priceless. That lesson isn’t lost because my mother-in-law is now in the winter of her life.

Here’s to the older folk of the world. We’re all headed that way. Eventually.

enjoy little things words of wisdom

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Simultaneous Dark and Light, Sweet and Bitter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on July 16, 2014| 2 Comments »

You are the sum total of everything you’ve ever seen, heard, eaten, smelled, been told, forgotten—it’s all there. Everything influences each of us, and because of that I try to make sure that my experiences are positive. (Maya Angelou)

Before the temperatures temporarily dropped in my corner of the Midwest, I watched the fluctuating dark and bright skies and wondered if they were playing some kind of game. Either that or the atmosphere has a bipolar disorder with rapid cycling. At the pool on Saturday my husband and I were able to tread water for almost two hours while the sky simply made threats. By Sunday we weren’t in the water thirty minutes before the thunder and lightning started.

Storm and blue sky often coexist in metaphorical ways, too. They just aren’t always as obvious.

I’m trying to figure out a problem with the computer—something like asking a second grader to solve quadratic equations. A message has popped up about the validity of my word processor. My gut suspects it is spam; emotion makes a different response. So, my head suggests that I try the checks I know.

While I wait for my icons to reappear after an update and restart I study my current desktop photo—of my two older grandchildren in matching Sisters-Forever T-shirts. The girls both appear happy, confident in their own styles: Kate’s natural smile shows her readiness to embrace the good in all. Rebe’s closed-mouth grin promises humor, in some form, as well as the blunt honesty innate in children too young to be anyone other than themselves.

Actually I have no idea what the girls thought or felt as the photo was taken. A photo presents only one moment. The observer guesses based on clues.

I’m asking what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-my-computer? I’m also questioning my ability to solve problems. And this waiting feels longer than the minute or two it actually takes to watch for the bizarre message to either reappear or vanish into whence it came. The speed of thought is rapid. It can go backward and forward through decades within sixty seconds.

By the time I was the girls’ ages, I already had accepted false notions of myself. Insecurity could have been my mantra, stated in so many forms I automatically went to the end of the line in almost any situation. If I could I would go back through the years and rewrite history, become a different person. However, that person wouldn’t have walked the same journey, and these two dressed-alike granddaughters wouldn’t exist.

I think about positive attitude all the time. However, the notion that all must be blue skies and sweet-smelling flowers interferes with reality. Sure, I need to have an outlook that says today’s effort is worth it. But, sometimes that effort can cost a few tears—maybe even a complaint or two—before success is realized. No one or no thing is perfect. Sometimes success means choosing another path, without crying, Why me?

So far, so good in the computer fix department, even if I don’t know how I did it. Not sure it matters.

being happy

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