Joy Ride

This may look like the face of an innocent, but I assure you, it is not.

No, this is the face of someone who did his level best to talk me out of the electric cart I was using in Walmart.

"Owww, my foot hurt," he said, hobbling along beside my cart.

Whaaaat? His foot was not hurting.

"Ooooo, hurtin' me in my side," he wailed.

Nice try. Nothing wrong with his side either.

So he followed along behind me as I set out in pursuit of the Hardware Department to find a screwdriver.

But first, I'd have to find a way to get to get there. Not that I couldn't walk it, but I'm due a cortisone shot and what may seem like a short jaunt to you seems like a cross-country hike to my knees.

Somewhere during our Walmart excursion I asked Charley if he would like to go to the front and bring me one of those electric carts. "My knee is in bad shape," I said. "I don't know if I can walk all the way with this cane, and then back again."

Off he went. And where he went, who knows. Around the corner, down the aisle, around another corner, down who knows how many more aisles, while I stood in the main aisle desperately searching with my eyes. Where. Is. He?

He had to be somewhere, but where?

Finally, just as I was about to commit the ultimate embarrassment sin by having him paged, here he came. Big as day, happy as could be.

"Did you think I sent you to get that cart so you could take a joy ride?" I asked, tapping my foot as he approached.

"I having fun, Mom," he said, grinning that grin of his.

"Well get off, I need the cart." I'm sure my tone was curt.

"Be nice, Mom," he said.

So off we went, heading to the back of the store. 

That's when the limping began.

First he held his foot, then, his knee, then his hip. 

"Cut it out," I said. "You're not injured." 

"But I want dat cart. Please...I want it bad."

"I know, but you can't have it. It's for people who have trouble walking."

He sat down. Right in the middle of the aisle. "My foot bwoke."

"It is NOT broken. But I know something that will be, if you don't get up." I glared at him.

He grinned at me.

We resumed our trekk to look at screwdrivers.

And speaking of drivers, did I mention that someone had a screw loose? That would be me. That would be the moment I turned my back to you-know-who and resumed my journey to the hardware department with full confidence that he was right behind me.

Suddenly the hobbling ceased. So did the whining.

Did I mention that when I turned around, Charley was following right behind me? In his very own cart?

I nearly fell out of my seat. 

"Where did you get that?"

"I no know," he said. Like sure. That cart just appeared out of nowhere for your traveling pleasure. Keep your hands inside the ride...

"Well you had to get it from somewhere."

"I bowwote," he said as he pointed toward the paint supplies, and vroom, off he went.

I followed close behind, then made him follow me to make sure he wouldn't mow anyone down.

I couldn't help thinking about how it must be for Charley, seeing all the guys his age drive, knowing he can't. Wishing he could ride off into the sunset with his arm around some girl. I know that's what he envisions, because he tells me so all the time. I feel for the guy. I really do.

But not so much that I couldn't wait to get my hands on him. We had a little talk about those carts, and how taking someone else's cart probably left them in a lurch. I wasn't proud of that. So we went all over the store once more, looking for who-ever-it-was he'd "bowwote" it from. After all, they had it first. And worse, what if they were stranded? 

"When we find who that cart belongs to, you are going to apologize; you got that Mister?"

"Ok Mom. Sorry..."

Never did find the poor soul. Part of me hoped they'd gotten a ride to the check out, and part of me was afraid we'd come face to face and I'd have to admit that my son was the culprit.  That I qualified for Worst Mother of the Year. Shame overload. That this 25 year old opportunist with a beard had hopped on their cart and left them in his dusty trail. Worse, that I hadn't taught him better. Pastor's wives (spouses)...are you with me here? Our kids are supposed to be perfect, right? Eh...not so fast...

I tried, believe me, I did. But even with everything I've attempted to do right as a parent, and in the backdrop of how wrong this was on so many levels, all manners and consideration for others go out the window when faced with a go-cart and a store that has morphed into a race track. What I wanted to do was clobber him (after I stopped laughing - to myself of course). But since I'm a better shammer than clobberer, I would just have to wait and fuss in the car. (Which I did).

There was only one thing left to do. Get the heck out of the store. 
"Start your engines," I said. 

"Woohoo!" he squealed. If he'd had long hair it would have been flapping in the breeze. And off we went, heading toward the entrance where hopefully some other shopper would be able to salvage their knees.

I hate to admit this, and I know it's wrong, but it was the most fun I've ever had at WalMart. 

Me in my cart, hoping we wouldn't get caught. 
Him, on his joy ride.

***

Sherry Palmer is the author of "Life with Charley: A Memoir of Down syndrome Adoption." You can find it at: 

Life with Charley

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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!

God Things

For some reason, this post will not maintain a consistent font size throughout. That's okay though, as long as you have x-ray vision toward the end of the post. Though tiny, I mean it just as much as the rest of the post - maybe even more. God things come in good packages. Don't adjust your screen - that wasn't a typo. I meant to say God things. Chromosomes are God things.

Sometimes I look into the eyes of my precocious, funny, sweet-natured, son and wonder how the world got so lucky.  How did I get so lucky? God must have loved us all so much to have handed out those God things known as extra chromosomes. True, they aren't for everyone. Only a select few are to know the wonder. The forever innocence. The dance of Down syndrome. 

"But Sherry, you don't know the heartache of waiting 9 months for the perfect child only to have your hopes and dreams crushed by a An extra chromosome called Down Syndrome," you might say.

That's true. Those of you who know me already know my story, how Charley came to live with us. 
Just because I didn't wait for 9 months for the perfect baby doesn't mean I didn't want one. The thing is, in my opinion, I got one. 

When I read about that nut case in Denmark who thought it would benefit the world if those who have been blessed with an extra chromosome were eliminated from the human race, I wept. Then I went directly to Amazon and purchased Mardra Sikora's essay, "Arguing Eugenics." 

Want to know more about this heated issue? Mardra explains it in this well-written essay that is grounded in research and personal experience, Mardra Sikora's "Arguing Eugenics" extends beyond the subject of genetic testing (for the purpose creating a society free from the burden of Down syndrome) and into the heart of a world in danger of eliminating much more than an extra chromosome. As a writer and mother of a young adult with Down syndrome myself, I applaud Sikora's ability to lay out the facts while making the reader think with their hearts through the logic of her son Marcus.

"Arguing Eugenics"(You can find it on Amazon), takes a subject often written about in medical and technical terms, and fine tunes the lens to so those unfamiliar with Down syndrome can see clearly how whole communities would suffer the consequences of eliminating often the most compassionate among us. If I were to sum it up, I would wager to say that a world without Down syndrome is a world in danger of reducing itself to breathing in and out. While Sikora does not glamorize naïveté regarding special needs individuals, be it children with cancer or those who are born with spinal bifida, rather, she is a realist who sees the value in every human life, while charging the rest of us to do the same. What gives anyone the right to decide who has value and who does not? What gives anyone the right to decide that another human being is a burden? I agree with Sikora one-hundred percent, no one has the right to set that criteria. Not Denmark, not anyone.

I found Sikora's essay to be an invaluable piece of research delivered with wisdom. Mostly, however, I found it to be a fair synopsis of the lives faced everyday by special needs families. There is no perfect person. Aiming for a perfect world filled with only perfect people (which means a world without that extra chromosome) is no world I want to live in. I cannot imagine a world without the unconditional love of individuals with Down syndrome. Apparently, neither can Sikora.

There is a society, however that does not agree. If Denmark is knocking on that door, I say don't open it. Be very afraid. When one knocks others do too. Before we know it, Down syndrome will cease to exist, and so will life as we know it for our loved ones who are game changers.

The choice is ours. Want a perfect world? Step right up. Get your one-way ticket to Denmark. Personally, I'd rather count my God things. My chromosomes. Want a world of perfect unconditional love and acceptance? Then send in the Down. Rock on, Marcus. Be that agent of change that Sikora writes about. Be that God thing. And listen up folks, don't even think of sweeping this one under the rug. Sikora is in the house.

We adopted Charley twenty-four years ago at Christmas time. Believe me, there is nothing you could wrap and stick under the tree that could come close to the gift God game me that day. It was the perfect God-thing gift. Did we know what to expect? What to do? How do do it? No. 

But here's one thing I do know. When I count my blessings, I count God-things. That includes chromosomes.

Merry Christmas to me.

                                             

Sherry Palmer is the author of "Life With Charley: A Memoir of Down Syndrome Adoption" (available at Amazon)