Mr. Prom

It's Prom time. That coming of age rite of passage, where the stars shine on those decked out like princes and princesses. Its a night of hopes and dreams. A night of formals, hairdos, tuxedos corsages and bling. For us parents of special needs individuals, the anticipation is enough to kill us. Please God, let the phone ring. Please God, let my daughter, (or my son) be asked to the prom. Please God, don't let my child sit home alone while everyone else has a date. We all know that prayer. It's silent, yet so loud it screams. It's also a time to breathe. That bottomless exhale when the look on your kid's face says there's an invitation on the other end of the phone. That's the way it was when Karri called. I knew she was calling. She's told me. I was so excited I thought I might burst. So I waited. Knowing the call was coming. You know that moment when the phone rings and it's for you? That moment when there's an angel face on the other end wanting to know if you will be her date to the prom? Yeah, that moment. That's the one I want to freeze in time. The one that makes you pinch yourself as a reminder not to embarrass him with over excitement. He hangs up the phone. "Whelp, I got me date," he says. "How many proms does one guy need?" you ask him.  "Stop it, Mom." It's not like this is his first prom. Far from it. He went last year.  He went the year before that. There's a reason we call him, "Mr. Prom." And each time, he's managed to get a date. But not just any date. Each girl, Jordan, Miranda, and now Karri, were the girl of his dreams. The stuff bragging rights are made of. Nice going, Son. And what about that moment when he comes to the library where you work and whispers to you, "Mom, I take a shower," and you know that's his "man-moment," when you don't have to tell him what to do because he's already manned up.  There will be none of that kid stuff tonight. Tonight is for men. Not little boys. And what about reminding him to use soap? Forget about it. That was yesterday's kid. Tonight he's sporting his man face. See the pride? Tonight he's not that special needs young man, he just a man at a dance. And what about that moment when you slip him a wrist corsage to present to his date and he says in your ear, "Her gorjust!" "Tell her that, Mr. Prom." you say, and you're not sure, but is he blushing? See the twinkle in his eye? "Stop it, Mom," he says. And that moment when he flashes that smile for the picture, but you'd best not push it because time's a wastin', there's serious dancing ahead.  But even so, there's a moment reserved for you. That moment when the last thing he does on his way out the door is turn for one last look at his Mom and blows you a kiss. And what about that moment when he bursts through the door following the prom with story after story about his "good moves" on the dance floor and how he danced to "Grease Lightening," and how he "had a beer!" And he waits for your reaction, and he holds up a can of root beer and grins. And at the end of the night when he's stretched out on the couch, and the dance is hours old, but the dreams still linger, and he gives you that happy grin and whispers,"Pssst...Mom. I had fun." You know he did. He's in his happy place. That place you live for. That place that makes every minute of every day with worth it. You wonder if Karri knows. Does she have any idea that she did this? That the smile on his face belongs to her? That no matter how bright the stars shine, no matter how they light up the night, that she is the star that lit up his world? His face? Does she know that because of her, his dreams will be a little sweeter tonight? She is the one who could have entered the dance on any arm, yet his was the one she chose. Does she have any idea that because she shined her light on him, the last words he said to me tonight were, "I'm happy, Mom."? That makes two of us. Sweet dreams, Mr. Prom. Mr. Prom himself! What's better than dancing with one girl? Why, 2 of course! Grease Lightening! Charley showing off his "beer" *   *   * Note: The young lady on my son's arm is Karri Byrd. Charley met her when she was a Peer Tutor at Gibbs High School. Karri is now studying to be a Special Education teacher. She'll be good at it, too. She is a remarkable person who is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. Karri invited Charley to the Prom for Special Students that was organized by the Teachers at Gibbs and Carter High Schools. This event is one that takes a great deal of planning and effort.  I hope that this blog will let all involved in this effort know just how special it is for the students, and how much us parents appreciate all they do. I am in awe of their generosity and kindness, and how they love their students and create every opportunity for them. And one more thing...even though Charley graduated from Gibbs in 2013, the teachers and peer tutors have not forgotten about him. Thank you. All of you. Charley's life is full because of you. _________________________________________________ A note to you, the reader: Thank you for taking time to read my blog. If you liked this story and would enjoy more, please read "Life With Charley: A Memoir of Down Syndrome Adoption." You can find it at: http://www.amazon.com/Life-With-Charley-Sherry-Palmer/dp/1937365700/ref=tmm_pap_title_0 Thank you!

Stranger Danger

Have you ever known someone so sweet that they have no fear?

That’s Charley.

Everybody’s friend

And, as far as he’s concerned, everybody is his friend, too.

Here’s how things work at my house…

Charley is the neighborhood greeter. He stands out on the front step and waves to everyone. "Hey fwent!" 

Sometimes they wave back. Sometimes they ignore him properly.

He watches everyone.

“Look Mom, dat guy over dere.” Meaning, that guy is mowing lawn.

“Dat guy got da mail.” And so should he.

“Dat guy work da house.” Meaning, that guy has power tools. They make lots of noise. That makes him cool. Maybe he’d like to come to our house and tell us all about it.

And so it was.

I’m busy doing laundry, and sit down to take a break. I’m bending over, rummaging in my knitting bag for my latest project, and better hurry with it, or Mom’s birthday will be here before I’m finished.

“See? Dat my Mom,” he says.

I look up. There’s a man with long curly hair standing in the living room.

Oh Lord.

The man introduces himself as “Ron,” and squats down to pet the cat.

We chat for a moment, but inside I’m freaking out.

A man in the living room.

A man I’ve never seen before.

The man tells me he is working on the house across the street, building a play room for the new neighbors.

He seems nice enough, but he’s in my living room and I’ve never seen him before.

“See?” Charley says to me after the man leaves.

“Charley, you know better than to invite some stranger into the house like that.”

Or does he?

I remember telling him over and over not to open the door to strangers if they knock.

But did I ever tell him not to invite someone in?

How many times has he been in the living room and I’ve brought a friend home. Someone he didn’t know? True, I didn’t flag them in from off the street, but still, he didn’t know them. And what did I do? I introduced them. "Say hi, Charley."

Charley has a dilemma. He sees what I do. Then I tell him not to do it.

He’s 24. Should he be able to invite a friend in?

He has no concept of my-stranger-is-ok, but-yours-is-not.

As Charley gets older, I admit I let my guard down more than I used to.

I let him go outside by himself more. He empties the garbage. Most of the time he comes back. When he doesn’t, we go fetch him.

Sometimes he takes a detour, such as to the house across the street to invite “Ron” to the house.

It’s scary to see a stranger in your house.

Now, you must understand, I’m not afraid when Charley’s around. At least, I try not to be.

He’s strong and even though he is smaller than that guy, I have no doubt he could beat him up and leave him begging for mercy if provoked. All those years of carrying the TV from his room to the living room and back again every 15 minutes because he couldn't decide where he wanted to watch it didn't leave my son without muscles. 

Not that I want him inviting the neighborhood into the house, but if he decides they are all to come calling, then so be it.

The thing that gives me pause is this…Charley has no fear. No filter. No what-if?

What if that guy isn't a good guy?

What if Mom doesn't want to entertain right now?

What if I get in trouble for bringing ol’ Ron into the house unannounced? 

It's not a good situation, this open house, come-on-in. This Ya'll-com-back-now-ya-hear? No, it's downright dangerous. I've spent countless times explaining how he could get hurt. How I could get hurt. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that it doesn't register. 

I'll say, "Charley, inviting someone to the house that you don't know is dangerous."

He looks at me and grins, like, Dat guy? Can't you see how nice dat guy is? And he says, "Come on..."

It makes no sense to him. Such is the communication gap. The schism of reasoning that sets Charley apart from other thinkers. He wants to be regarded as a man, and most of the time he is. But it is times like these when the innocence of that 21st chromosome gets in the way. 

That being said, stranger danger and all, I have to admit that even though he sometimes scares me to death, I try to remind myself to look for the good. There has to be something good about this, and there is. He sets an example with his neighborliness. His unconditional acceptance of his fellow man.

 I admire him. 

I often wonder what it must be like to be Charley. To live your life as if everyone has your best interest at heart.

What if we all lived our lives like that?

What if we all treated strangers as if they were our new best friend? 

What if we brought them fried chicken on the first night in their new house? Brad did that the night they moved in.

What if we invited people in?

Most of us keep the world out.

We keep ourselves closed.

What if we were a little more neighborly? What if we approached the other guy like Charley does...why can't we be fwents?

What if we walked across the lawn and said, “Hi” ?

If we did that, the stranger in our house wouldn't be so strange after all.

And just to clear this up, no, I don’t particularly want a strange guy in my living room.

Charley and I will have a little chat about that.

Right after I walk across the lawn and meet the new neighbors.

*  *  *

Sherry Palmer is the author of Life With Charley: A Memoir of Down Syndrome Adoption, available on Amazon.com