A couple of weeks ago I called the small business owner who cleaned our windows last spring to schedule an appt.  The man with whom I spoke didn’t sound familiar and so I asked if he had recently bought the business.  He proceeded to tell me that the former owner had “passed away.”  I was shocked by that news because the former owner had been only a year older than I (that would make him 32 today if you’re curious).  He was young and vibrant and seemingly very healthy.  What’s more is that he was a very, very cheerful kind of guy.  While he had cleaned my windows last year he’d been nothing short of delightful, engaging, and so very positive.  You can imagine, then, how puzzling it was to find out that he’d committed suicide.

I didn’t know him really.  We spent just the one afternoon in conversation as he scrubbed away at our grimy windows.  But I’m saddened at the loss of him.  Mostly because–judging from my own experience with him and that of the people who signed an online obituary guestbook–he hid his pain so well.  My short encounter with him left me with the impression that he was an adventurous spirit.  The kind of guy who would skydive on his 80th birthday.  An optimist.  An encouraging friend.  A lemons into lemonade kind of guy.

Clearly I missed something.

The whole thing makes me want to pay more attention though.  Offer more smiles.  Extend more patience.  Spread more joy.

Not that a simple gesture from a stranger would have changed anything in this case.

But then again, you never can tell.  You never know how a warm smile or an understanding glance or a moment of conversation might change someone’s outlook.

Someone whose outlook you didn’t even realize needed changing.

Cass has been a part of my life for nine years now.  And in those nine years I’ve become accustomed to the nuances of parenting a child with special needs: translating for people who can’t understand her, looming disasters that can occur if I take my eyes off of her for even a second in public, strangers who feel compelled to offer her a hug.

These are things we face and deal with each day.  Things I’ve come to understand.  Things that have become habitual.

And then there are those things that throw me for a loop.

Like hearing the doctor say that Cass is developing cataracts.

Cataracts.

Not such a big deal in the grand scheme of things.  But something that caught me quite off guard.

I expected a routine visit, maybe a stronger prescription.  But cataracts?  C’mon.  Really?  As if she doesn’t face enough as is.

I wish I could lift those struggles from her–take them on myself.

She’s been poked and prodded more times than any child should be.  She’s faced hospitalizations and therapies that exhaust her.  She struggles to learn the most basic concepts.

And those things don’t even touch on her future.

Yet I’ve always parented her as if there is no difference between her and and her siblings.

Little things like what the doctor told me today serve to draw an undeniable comparison.  One that I can’t ignore.

She is different.  In so many ways.

I still don’t understand why she was born into the body she was.  Why it had to be her.

And though I don’t understand, I’m not angry.  Or bitter.  Or regretful.

Just heartbroken.  Sometimes.

When I was very little, I went to church most Sundays.  As I got older that slipped a bit and we became more like the Easter/Christmas church family.  But Good Friday services were always included in our Holy week churchgoing.  And it’s something I’m very grateful for.  Attending that dark and somber service on Friday night made the sunrise service on Easter morning that much more joyful.  I truly believe that in order to fully appreciate the miracle of Easter, you have to be “witness” to the event that occurred three days before.  Only once you see and feel the contrast can you even begin to grasp the magnitude of God’s grace.  That’s why my family and I will be headed to Tenebrae services tonight.  To remind us why we don our Easter best and spend Sunday celebrating with eggs and bunnies and new Spring toys.  To remind us that–like at Christmastime–there is deeper meaning behind the gifts and the big family meal.

One of my favorite worship songs says it best:

I’ll never know how much it cost
To see my sin upon that cross.

That is why we celebrate.  That is why we remember.

If you’ve read my 100 Things About Me post you know that I cringe at the sound of the “R” word.  Likewise, I also take offense when I hear jokes being made about the “shortbus” or Special Olympics.  You can imagine, then, how appalled I was to see the President of our country mock Special Olympians on national television.  If you haven’t seen it, it will take but 29 seconds of your day to watch this clip.

If your life has not been touched by a person with developmental delays you may not understand why those of us who have are deeply offended by the callous words of a man with such great influence over so many.  Allow me to explain.

Not too long ago this man would have been crazy to even have dreamed of holding the office he holds now.  There was a time when men and women who share his skin color and have similar heritage were mocked, beaten, and segregated based on their pigmentation alone.

One would think that the struggles and pain of those who share his African American background would have given this man great insight as to the underside of discrimination.  One would assume that knowing what he knows, this man would be especially compassionate.  One would hope beyond hope that this man–especially this man–would be capable of leading honorably and setting a strong example that all Americans could follow.

Unfortunately though, this man has fallen heinously short.

There is nothing funny, cute, or endearing about the mocking of an organization as instrumental as the Special Olympics.  Special Olympians are heroes who’ve faced tremendous struggle and great hardship and have come out stronger for having done so.  People with developmental disabilities should not be used as an easy target for quips.  Especially by the President of our country and especially when a national audience is tuned in.

I can think of a word that conjures up hateful connotations towards a huge population of ethnic people in this country.  It’s a word that you or I would be ashamed to use, ashamed to teach our children, ashamed to have heard in our homes, schools, and churches.  It’s a dirty word, not because of its meaning, but because of its history.  Its a word that has historically been used to inflict pain on an entire population of people.  People who did nothing to deserve the treatment that fell upon them.  People who were persecuted for simply BEING.

It’s a word I wouldn’t dream of using.

I wish that Mr. Obama would pay me the same courtesy when it comes to being sensitive about the struggles my family faces with regard to my daughter’s disability.

Like him–like each and every one of us–she had no say as to the mental, genetic, or physical state she was born into.  But with each label that is slapped on her, with each disparaging comment that is thrown around, she is made to seem less worthy than she really is.

I am saddened and disheartened that the President of our country would stoop so low as to disparage people who have done no wrong.  I am appalled that there has been no public outrage over an incident that so clearly deserves it. I shudder to imagine what would have happened if our previous President had gone on national television and said the same thing.  Can you even imagine the outcry that would have commenced had that happened?

Whether we are talking about people with developmental disabilities or members of any ethnic group, discrimination is a wretched thing and should long ago have been abolished.

There is something each of us can do to institute change.

We can pledge to stop the frivolous use of the “R” word in our homes and in our families.  We can stop using terms like ‘shortbus’ because they garner us an easy laugh.  We can respect the Special Olympics organization as a great resource for children like mine, not an easy target for jokes and mockery.  Together, we can change the way our society reacts to demeaning usage of the “R” word.

YES WE CAN.

And I hope you will.

Cassidy had a dentist appointment today.

A dentist appointment doesn’t seem like that big of a deal really.  And for most kids it probably isn’t.

This dentist appointment was  a big deal though.

Two months ago when she went in for a cleaning the dentist suspected a cavity.  I say suspected because he couldn’t verify it with x-ray because Cassidy wouldn’t dream of letting him anywhere near her mouth with that big, scary x-ray machine.

The dentist also recommended the extraction of four stubborn baby teeth that were clinging to life, refusing to let her permanent teeth come through.

We made the decision to allow the dentist and his team to put her under general anesthesia to facilitate the extraction of those four teeth, the taking of the x-rays, and the filling of that cavity.

It was the first time any of my babies were put under general anesthesia and I was a little beside myself.

I know.  I know.  It’s not that big of a deal.  Not like open heart surgery or something.

But I held her as the anesthesiologist administered that shot in her arm that initially knocked her out.  I held her as she went from adamantly refusing a band-aid, to talking gibberish, to completely unresponsive.

Once she fell asleep they asked that I step back into the waiting room while they went to work in her mouth.

Jeff was waiting in the front room.  I tried to tell him about how Cassidy went limp in my arms, but I couldn’t make it through the story without crying.

There’s just something about holding an unresponsive child, my unresponsive child, that doesn’t sit well.

The procedure didn’t take long at all.

Before I knew it they were calling me back to the recovery area so that I could be there when she woke up.  The idea being that she’d never know I’d left at all.

The waking up was scarier than the falling asleep.

She woke up yelling.  Or crying maybe.  Basically she had outbursts of a yelping sound.  Her eyes were unfocused.  Her mouth gaped.  Her lips were crusted with blood.  Her skin was mottled, splotchy red.  She seemed to be awake but she wasn’t herself.  She was far from herself.

After having just signed a consent form that informed me of the possible risks (to include hospitalization and death no less) you can see why I was concerned.

I had momentary flashes of a catatonic Cassidy, trapped inside a body I’d consented to have irreversibly damaged.

I was scared.  And very, very regretful.

Within fifteen minutes she began to wake up more.  She recognized me but couldn’t get the word “mommy” to come out right.  She whimpered and clung to me.  She flung her body around haphazardly, presumably trying to get it to respond the way she wanted it to.

Even when the doctor told us that her condition was temporary, and completely normal, I couldn’t let go of those ugly flashes in my head.

Within twenty minutes of leaving the doctor’s office she began to return to her normal self.  She started forming real words instead of those gibberish yelps.  And when she insisted on watching Monsters Inc. on the DVD player in the minivan (and stopping at Starbucks for a frappuccino btw) I knew she was going to be just fine.

She’s resting at home now, watching Monsters Inc on the couch as I type these words.  She’s groggy, but completely fine.

Experiences like this one remind me how blessed I truly am. 

I sometimes sink into those “why me” moods when I wonder why my baby girl was born with a disability and has to struggle so hard to do and learn the things that come so naturally to her siblings.

Those moods don’t last long though; something always happens to snap me out of it.

Something like what happened today.  Something that reminds me that despite the hurdles in her path, this little girl of mine is a miracle.  We’ve been so richly blessed in that Cassidy is far more alike a typical child than she is different.  Seeing her in that strange in-between state today reminded me that even when she is driving me crazy with repeated questions and won’t-take-no-for-an-answer requests, I need to choose gratitude. 

I need to be thankful that she has the wherewithal to be insistent.  Thankful that she has words to express herself.  Thankful that she has the energy to bounce off the walls.  Thankful that she has the will to do all that she does.

Everyone needs a reminder from time to time.  Mine came today.

My mind is preoccupied tonight.

I sat down intending to write a post that would have been almost identical to this one.  It appears as though Amy saved me the trouble though.  Apparently wise minds think alike.  Gotta love her. 

We’re watching election results roll in.

Both Pennsylvania and Ohio have been projected to be Obama states.

That’s really bad news.

Really, really bad news.

My stomach is turning.  My shoulders are tense with worry for what is almost sure to come.  My heart is incredibly heavy.

I don’t know what to say.

I wish I could be more faithful.  Like Jo-Lynne was when she said this.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that what she says is true.  Somewhere down deep I know she’s right.  And yes, I’m comforted by it.

But, alas, the flesh of me worries on.

I’ve always been a glass-half-empty kind of girl.  No doubt about that.

Right now I’m worrying about Torri’s college education fund.  And our already faltering economy.  And too many more things to document.

I certainly won’t go so far as to say that I’d rather move out of the country than live in a nation led by Mr. Obama.

I love this country.  And the ideals it was founded on.

I love capitalism and the opportunities my family and I are afforded by merely being Americans.

That is why my heart feels the weight of this outcome.

I worry that under this man’s guidance, our great nation will lose much of what our forefathers worked for and believed in, and ultimately gifted to us.

I mourn for the nation I idealize.  The nation I believe our founding fathers intended.  One in which Americans work hard and are rewarded for their efforts.

I fear wealth distribution.  I fear it not because it would drastically affect someone with an income as modest as ours, but because of the precedent it sets.

I fear a government run health care system.  I’m a former military spouse and having been part of a universal health care system I can definitively say that privatized health care is a far, far superior system.

I could go on.  But I don’t want to.  I feel an ulcer developing.

I know that come tomorrow morning I will wake with that uneasy feeling that something terrible has happened.  And for a moment, before I fully shake the haze of sleep, I won’t be able to place that apprehension.  Soon enough though I will remember.  I will remember the outcome of this election and the reasons for my anguish.

Though it’s hard to see any bright side at the moment, I do believe that we live in the greatest country in the world.  No matter who sits in the oval office.  I’m uncertain though, about our future.  And because I am concerned I will pray, and pray hard, for our President.  That he will lead with discernment.  I will pray for our nation.  That we don’t throw away the ideals on which our country was founded, but rather travel a path to realign with the values of our predecessors.

Mostly I’ll pray for big picture topics.  Really, I will.  But I can’t guarantee that I won’t also send up a prayer that this reign not last more than four years.

Good luck ya’ll.  We’re going to need it.

Yesterday, as the kids and I were returning home after a quick trip to the grocery store, that obnoxious beeping sound interrupted the song on the radio.  You know the one I’m talking about right?  The one that is ALWAYS followed by “this is a test of the emergency broadcast system”. 

Only yesterday, that message didn’t come.

Instead, a woman’s voice came over the airwaves and announced an Amber Alert. 

It was the first time in memory that I’ve ever heard that system actually used for anything other than a test.

The woman on the radio gave great detail, explaining that a three-month-old baby was missing.  The baby had been sleeping in the car when her mother left the vehicle running while she ran into her  mother’s house to deliver a bag of food and let her two-year-old child use the restroom.  She was only inside for a matter of minutes, but that’s all it had taken for the unattended car to be stolen.  

I want you to consider for a moment what that mother must have felt when she returned to find her car gone.  Her infant daughter tucked safely inside.

Can you imagine what must have gone through her head?  Can you imagine how totally and completely crippling that fear would have been?

It’s easy to place blame on that mother.  After all, who leaves an infant in a running car for even a moment?

I have actually.

I live in a very rural dessert area, in a gated community in fact.  I don’t want to be too specific here on the internet but suffice it to say that we do things every single day that could end up disastrous if the circumstances were right.  Or wrong I guess, depending on how you look at it.

Many times I’ve opened the garage door and started my car, with a child or two strapped safely into the seatbelt, only to realize that I forgot something.  So I get out of the car and run into the house without thinking twice about who might be watching.

I can’t imagine living any other way, in fear of what might be lurking.  But then again, after hearing this news story, I realize that I really ought to be more careful.

The three-month-old baby was found a little over an hour after the kidnapping.  When they found her she was still strapped safely into the car seat, sound asleep.

She never even knew she was gone.

But Mom did.  Oh did she.

There aren’t a lot of details being released about the case.  From the sounds of things though the couple that they suspect in the crime didn’t realize there was a baby in the car.  Apparently they were just looking for a car to steal and they found an easy target.

I’m sure that Mama won’t make the same mistake again.

And now I won’t either.

One year ago today I turned twenty-ten.  It was tough on me.  Really tough actually. 

I’ve had a year to get used to the idea of being, well, you know, thirty’ish.  And I can honestly say that this year the date on the calendar (you know, the one proclaiming I’m suddenly even older) hasn’t been that big of a deal.

Is it because the milestone numbers are the tough ones and then the follow-ups just take you deeper?  Perhaps.

I can think of a few reasons why twenty-ten was so hard for me.

1. My son was born when I was 28, twelve (nearly 13) years after my first child.  He left me with a bit more junk in the trunk than my previous three kiddos had.  Yeah.  There are certainly drawbacks to having a baby at 16 but body issues are not one of them.  I can’t say the same for having a baby at 28.

2.  My husband is younger than me and it just doesn’t seem natural.  Luckily he’s only about, oh I don’t know, one year, three weeks and two days behind me but still.  It’s not normal.  Today, for instance, he’s 29 and I’m 31.  It pains me to even type that.

3.  The developing fine lines around my eyes.  What’s up with that?

All very superficial reasons to let a silly birthday get to me don’t you think?  But it did.  Oh but it did.

So here I am, a year later, having braved twenty-ten.  Those fine lines haven’t disappeared.  If anything they’ve spread a bit.  My husband is still younger than me, believe it or not.  Funny how that works.  And that baby belly (which I’ve come to lovingly refer to as my blueberry) is still hanging around.  All the things that caused me such distress this same time last year now seem like insignificant tokens in a life so full and so blessed.

It’s not that I wasn’t aware of my blessings last year; I most certainly was.  But that number was like a giant weight threatening to drop at any moment and squish out a part of myself that I’d always taken for granted.  The youth. 

I think it’s taken me a whole year to get to this point.  The point where I realize that yes, there is in fact more to life than looking hot in a bikini.  I’m ready to move on to another phase of my life.  One that allows me to overlook a body flaw or two (though looking hot in a bikini is nothing to shake a stick at).  One that embraces the year on my driver’s license as something to be proud of.  One that recognizes that without all those years behind me I wouldn’t be where I am now.

Who I am today is someone to be proud of.  I’ve been richly blessed with amazing, unique and beautiful children for whom I couldn’t be more thankful.  I have a hot younger husband who not only appreciates this 31-year-old exterior, but loves the inside part too.  I have friends near and far (okay, so they’re all far) who brighten my days and bring a smile to my face; they’re among the groovies chicks on the planet.  I’m a daughter and a granddaughter and a sister.    I’m a writer and a Disney mom.  I’m a kick-butt cook, an even better vacation planner and a decent keeper of house.  I can’t sing for the life of me but crank up John Mayer and I’ll groove with the best of ‘em.  I’m feisty when the mood strikes and stressed when things are out of place.  I run.  I read.  I love.  The lessons I’ve learned, the things I value, and the woman I am wouldn’t be if not for the years I’ve lived.

I’m 31 today.  And happy to be.

Cass is getting a new parapro (one-on-one educational aide) tomorrow. 

While Jeff and I were grocery shopping last Friday morning I got a call on my cell from the mom of one of the little girls who was in Cassidy’s class last year.  The mom asked if I had a second to talk and then proceeded to tell me that when she was dropping her own kids at school that morning she had witnessed Cassidy being jerked from the playground equipment by her parapro.

Strike one.

The mom approached the parapro and told her that her behavior was inappropriate and that she (the mom) would be calling Cassidy’s mom (me) and informing me of what she (the mom) saw.

You can imagine my reaction to this little piece of news.

Those who know me well know that I’m not one to hold my tongue.

And when it comes to this little girl, well, let’s just say I’m a tad bit protective.

Long story short:

The principal was called.  Our feelings were made crystal clear.  By the end of the school day, the parapro was relieved of her duties (as far as Cass is concerned anyway).  She’ll still be working at the school, only with another child.

I have mixed feelings on this.

I don’t know this woman really well, but from what I have seen she is an older, very gentle, very mild, very nice woman.  I had a hard time picturing her jerking anybody around, much less a child.  But when this incident happened, it seems to me the right thing to do would have been for her to approach her supervisor and let her know what happened.  That way, the supervisor would have been prepared for the call from Cassidy’s parents.

She wasn’t prepared though.  Because the parapro didn’t tell her what happened.

Strike Two.

Then, over the weekend, I came to find out that earlier last week (well before this incident on Friday morning) some of the staff at the school had been asking whether the parapro’s “handling” of Cassidy was appropriate or not.

As in, apparently this type of thing has happened more than once since this school year began on July 16th.

Well, now obviously, that is so totally  strike three.

I’m not sure yet how I’m going to proceed since having acquired this information.  A talk with the principle is definitely in order.  After that though, I don’t know yet.

I can say that I am pleased with the new parapro Little Miss Cass will be working with for the rest of the year.  She is much younger than the original.  That wouldn’t be important but for the fact that Cassidy is wound pretty tight and it takes a supersonic energy level to keep up with her.  The new gal is also very sweet and seems genuinely interested in helping Cass to progress rather than to just make it through the day.

As for what to do about the other stuff, well, I’m thinking on it.  And praying about it.

It’s not something I want to just ignore because that isn’t doing anybody any favors.  But I don’t want to go on a witch hunt either.  It’s proving to be a fine line.  One that I’m not sure how to walk. 

I’m so thankful though for the courage of the mom who did what she did.

And equally disheartened that someone I trusted would treat my daughter that way.

Repeatedly.

What would you do?