I have three nannies. They all give great care to Addison, but each one is different. One nanny is like a grandma, one is like an aunt, and another is much younger and more like Addison’s big sister. She also accompanies him to school. She takes a lot of pride in what Addison learns. She fiercely defends Addison as one of the most normal, if not more than normal human beings on the planet.

Do kids really know what we are saying? When speech is not mimicked back, it can be harder to find out if a child is comprehending what we adults say. However, Addison can hear a song once and repeat it. Not in words, but in the hand signals and motions. He nods his head to the beat and knows exactly what line is coming up. In his class one day, a teacher was teaching the kids yoga. You know that one where you sit cross-legged, pinch your fingers together and humm? With a prompt from his nanny, Addison was doing yoga. He pinched his pudgy little fingers together, looked up to the sky, and hummed. Is there any chance at all this kid gets it?

The question is one posed by Jill Bolte Taylor - the singing scientist who had a stroke and became her own best experiment. She lost the ability of her left brain. She couldn’t speak or create labels. Life had to be learned from the ground up; the left brain life that is. On the other hand, her right brain was there, being all-encompassing, passionate, present, and flowing with the great life force of the Universe. At least, that’s how she explained it. In her book, My Stroke of Insight, she explains that we need to “step to the right of our left hemisphere.” Bring our presence to each other - not our labels; not our egos.

Addison understands this left brain language. And he is teaching me how to communicate, this time without that part of my brain (which Dr. Bolte Taylor explains is the size of a peanut. A peanut!!) driving me insane with a crazy crop of voices in my head always in charge. Down Syndrome kids, or any child or person with so-called “brain deficiencies,” can easily be tossed aside as not “getting it.” I am afraid this kid gets more than I may ever know.

Amidst even quite times, there’s always something there to remind me of how quickly brightness can turn a little dark. I promised an evening out with the kids. My daughter was giddy with joy. Addison only knew he was going to get in the car - one of his most favorite things in the world. After packing up our gear and managing not to get too wet as we loaded and unloaded our group into the shopping center, we walked around and even had the delight of meeting some good friends.

Coco’s “buy-me-something” mode was subdued, and she was thrilled with a notebook she got to pick out. We walked past bored vendors hanging around outside their store as business was slow. All the female clerks know Addison since he comes to this mall about two or three times a week to play on the dinosaur park play set. He flirted with all the women and blew them kisses. He has a way of driving women wild. Our meal was acceptable and no one spilled much of anything.

We bought a few other things and head for home at the late hour of 6:30 p.m. My garage is skinny and getting in and out takes a lot of traffic management in order to open doors and unload children from the back of a two-seater car. Addison is learning to get out of his car seat and walk over to me so I can lift him out. He stood at the door and played peek-a-boo with the nanny and Coco as they stood in single file down the slender slip of space between the car and the wall. I picked up Addison and pressed my back against the wall to shut the door. I looked down and saw Addison’s foot caught in the door.

Emergency management with children requires the ability to subdue panic and proceed with intelligence, speed, clarity, and calmness. Easy? No. I don’t know why I have this particular talent - it’s not really one I can put on my resume.

Hobbies and talents:

In case of office emergencies - ranging from paper cuts to falls on slippery ceramic to heart attacks - I can attend to the sick and the injured with a the expedience of a paramedic and just the right mix of a mom.

But this I can do. I’ve tended to dying dogs, sprained backs, raging fevers, and major surgeries. For some reason, I just don’t panic. I’m sure the trait comes from my mother. She grew up on a farm where life shows it’s cycles without sparing us our feelings. And she’s lived through a lot with that same matter-of-fact temporment. I knew, without looking, that Addison’s foot was caught in door. When the language caught up to my tongue I yelled:

His foot’s in the door!

Before I finished speaking, I had the door open. Our giddy moment was over as he screamed in pain.

Addison’s legs hang from his body when he’s held. He often goes without shoes. If he had had them on, I’d have never been able to shut the door on it. I carried Addison to a chair, and I held him as he cried that distinct cry of: Man this really hurts! A cry that is much different than: I’m tired. Or, I’m mad. The good thing about Addison’s softer muscle tissue is that his foot bent with the car door like a Cabbage Patch Doll’s would. I could tell the door hadn’t caught that big bone across the top of the foot. He’d be left with a bruise, but no bones were broken.

In just thirty minutes, Addison was laughing and playing with his sister. He downed some coconut water while listening to his favorite High Five song. As the nanny and I marveled at his recovery, he knew we were talking about his feet. He pointed them, in harmony as if to say: Yup. I’m just fine. And with that the darkness turned light again.

After hours of listening to my daughter sing to many varied renditions of You’ve Got a Friend. Addison decided to join in with his version by Elton John.

Vendors beckoned people in the mall to try their product. And, it was crowded. I needed to pay a bill and pick up something at the grocery store, so there I was, one of the many.

I noticed a boy, about eleven or twelve standing behind his mother. She was trying some new-fangled coffee. He had Down Syndrome. I paused and stood behind a kiosk selling fountains, crystals, and Buddhas. I didn’t want to look creepy by staring, but there is this need to try to figure out in some way what is ahead. I’ve seen hundreds, possibly thousands of photos of kids with trisomy 21, and I’m accustomed to the one-dimensional view. My son is so familiar to me, but sometimes the future seems so unknown. Will he live with me for the rest of his life? Drive? Be tall? Short? I don’t have as much of this feeling with my daughter. She also reveals little glimpses of herself as a teenager by rolling her eyes at me, being a bit snippy with me, or wanting to put on make-up before we go shopping.Addison’s development stays so much in the now, I can’t clearly put this picture together of what is all coming. I mean I don’t have his charts done or obsess what he’s going to “be” or “look like.” It’s just a small curiosity that surfaces, especially when I see another child with Downs.

The woman handing out the coffee gave the boy a yellow balloon. He waited behind his mother as she tried another flavor. The balloon was on a stick and he flapped it back and forth with the intent and focus of a small child that had never seen such a thing before. Then, the vendor asked how he was. He got a little shy and answered and then took a few steps back to his mother. He placed his hand on her back and whispered something into her ear. They smiled together as if they knew some grand secret. Tears tingled behind behind eyes. The mother took her coffee sample and the pair walked off to the next booth. I turned and as I left, I had a better sense of exactly what I was getting into.

At Addison’s last therapy session, I confessed that it just didn’t seem like he was progressing. At times the milestones seem so slow in coming, it feels like we’ve pushed the pause button.

“No. No,” said the therapist as he taped animals and toys to the white board and encouraged Addy to climb up to them. “His development is really good. What Addison has is a lot of quality in each step. It is better to develop slowly and do it correctly than to rush and then walk all funny the rest of his life.”

I know that. I knew that. And I am certain Addison will walk. There’s not a shred of doubt in me, and I don’t walk circles around the house mumbling how slow it’s going. We do our daily exercises; cherish Addy in our little family fold; take baths, play, and eat like other kids. But I never knew it could be this slow. All of a sudden another 3 or 4 months go by and I’m a little surprised he’s not walking yet.

As I watch my son learn to walk, I am humbled and educated at the same time at what an incredible feat it is. I see soldiers come home from Iraq without legs, and they are right in the position of my son. The muscles, the neurons, the balance, determination, and the concentration it takes to connect pieces looks effortless when we have all our parts, but it’s is one of the hardest tasks out there when you’ve got a missing leg or born with an extra chromosome. With Addison’s older sister, I thought about walking for a few months, like every mother does. At eleven months she was up. And down. And up again. Then she was off, and I never had to think about it again.

The parallels I can apply to my own life are endless. And as I watch Addy climb that mountain and come face to face with the ladybug; I learn how to approach my new life with tranquility, even when I fall. And when I stumble so far, so far down that I think I can’t find the strength to put one foot in front of another, there’s my little son leading the way and teaching me how to put one foot in front of the other as if to say: Hit the play button mom! Get on with it!

In order to get my car back it the garage, I needed to connect my dryer. My good, old car works better during the rainy season if she gets a break from the rain and parks out in the garage. (She’s gets touchy around the wires if soaked.) However, during the dry season we’ve enjoyed the extra space of the garage as “that” extra room every family needs for stuff like: bikes, strollers, coconuts, and Addison’s therapeutic jumping machine; old exercise equipment, and bags of old toys I’ll be donating to someone someday.

I was determined to get the jumping machine, which is tall, large, and ugly, upstairs. In order to get it up the stairs, I had to saw off some of the base. After an hour of sawing, I held up the cut off wood in victory. I disconnected the stanchion from the base, and a nanny and I tried to twist and turn it’s way up to the second floor. After scarping the walls and chipping the stairways, I decided it wouldn’t fit. Back down it went. I gave up the idea of a stylish, modern living room and gave in to a having a stylish, modern living room with that tall, large, ugly jumpy thing in the corner.

In order to get the machine in the corner, I had to move a book case. To move the book case, I had to remove all the books. I pushed the bookcase across the room and swept away about 10 ten cockroach carcasses before putting all those books back. (Would someone please tell me why cockroaches ALWAYS die on their backs??)

I don’t believe the person who installed the washer/dryer hook-ups actually ever did laundry. The water spigots are directly above the 220 outlet. And as all of you know, the dryer comes with a really short cord and washers, short hoses. Since the last muchacho installed hoses that exploded due to cheap plastic and fittings that leaked with every load, I plumbed the machine myself with the help of the other nanny and, of course, duct tape. I finally got help with rewiring the 220 dryer connection (as I am terrified of electricity since getting a shock I can still remember when I was 10).

What was left? The bikes were moved to the patio. And now, the stroller has to be collapsed after every use to fit back in the garage. Coconuts? Tucked neatly in a tina - little tub - on the side of the dryer. The car fits. We can’t fully open the doors, and the hood serves as a place to set the laundry baskets between loads, but we’re in.

A task is never disconnected from another; an action always gets a reaction. A butterfly fluttering it’s wings in St. Louis effects the weather in Alaska. Now me and the kids can get in and out of the car without getting soaked, and the old vehicle just might last another season or two. While I put the last of the books on the shelf, I looked at my little corner of the world. It didn’t look so bad. So, CASAVIVA wouldn’t stop by for a photo shoot. There’s always next year. The dryer buzzed, another load was finished; another day was done.

The malls cometh to Costa Rica. Big ones and a few even bigger ones. Most have movie theaters. When I first arrived in paradise, new releases from Hollywood had this time lapse. See the new Batman? Wait six months. See a film other than something from the tanks of tinsel town? Forget about it.

There’s a theater called Sala Garbo where “artsy” films play. It’s downtown and not all that hard to get to. But I shy away from the films made in Spanish because my language skills are more on par with a seven year old rather than a spurned lover out for revenge. I’d never get it.

Now, new movies come out pretty close to when they are released in the States. Someone figured out that it’s easier to sell plastic, useless toys to children at fast food chains if the commercials - many on cable television - lined up with film’s release ALL OVER THE WORLD. In fact, Horton Hears a Who came and went so fast, we missed it.

Unfortunately, the theater close to my home takes no risks in showing films that are anything less than super-duper commercial. Big stars - you know - the formula that brings them in. If I watch closely, I can catch something that is either good Hollywood or a tad bit on the controversial side. The great thing is: it’s cheap. Half of less of what it costs to go to movies in the States.

My friend and I were the only ones in the theater for Charlie Wilson’s War. We had the best seats. Oh, how we giggled, like girlfriends do. Then, like the true mothers we are, instead of mulling over coffee or a drink, we went grocery shopping. The kids still got to get up in the morning. That means so do I.

Don’t worry, be hoppy! Please don’t throw any tomatoes. Just watch. You’ll get it. I did.

PS. The missing sound was an operator’s mistake. But it’s kind of nice like this.

Retarded.

There’s THAT word. Remember the jokes about being “retarded?” The word has become a bit taboo, but it still floats around. We’ve all gotten more politically correct and switch to words like: cognitive disabilities, mental disabilities, and learning disabilities. But THAT word is still out there.

I found most definitions in my research to include the term in some form or the word retardation, which according to an on-line dictionary is listed as follows:

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) - Cite This Source - Share This

re·tard·ed

–adjective

1.	characterized by retardation: a retarded child.

–noun

2.	(used with a plural verb) mentally retarded persons collectively (usually prec. by the): new schools for the retarded.

—Synonyms backward, disabled, handicapped.

And according to associations and books, the definitions usually are something like this:

• Most individuals with Down syndrome have mental retardation in the mild (IQ 50–70) to moderate (IQ 35–50) range,^[4] with individuals having Mosaic Down syndrome (explained below) typically 10–30 points higher.^[5] In addition, individuals with Down syndrome can have serious abnormalities affecting any body system. They also may have a broad head and a very round face.

• Down syndrome (DS) is a condition in which extra genetic material causes delays in the way a child develops, and often leads to mental retardation. It affects 1 in every 800 babies bornDown syndrome is set of mental and physical symptoms that result from having an extra copy of chromosome 21. Even though people with Down syndrome may have some physical and mental features in common, symptoms of Down syndrome can range from mild to severe. Usually, mental development and physical development are slower in people with Down syndrome than in those without it.

So there we have the word I wrestle with - retarded. The other day I was talking to a friend and we were sharing a funny story about learning, specifically crochet, which neither one of us can do. My daughter Coco has taken up the craft. My friend and I were talking about how reading the instructions from a book about learning how to crochet was like reading hyroglypihcs. I agreed. In the middle of our chatting, she used the example that at one point she felt retarded. There was no awkward silence, but an odd air fell about us. But the thing is, I think it’s me that brings in this air. I didn’t get angry or sensitive or indignant, I just felt the awkward moment. I felt uncomfortable that for even a moment my friend would have to feel uncomfortable.

The power of words. Our labels. Look back up at that definition. At the very end it says - backward. There’s the big problem with retarded. Over the years, it’s become a word to tease and judge others who didn’t do things the “right” way (whatever the heck that is).

In Costa Rica, I cringe when people say you are negro after a day in the sun. Yet it just means you are tan. But after growing up in the dawning of Civil Rights in the States, I find I am super-sensitive to terms surrounding that era. When my daughter speaks of the world and skin colors it means nothing to her about suffering, oppression, discrimination or cruelty. It’s just a way for her to tell me a story about a person she’s met or a character in a book. I’m the one with the label problem. I’m the one with the issue.

My son has this extra chromosome. I do have to find out a way to identify a learning strategy to assist him. Yes, part of THAT word is in his library. When I work with educators or talk with my friends, the idea that Addison needs extra time and understanding to do thing, hangs around us like a tag cloud. Its the history of the word and or intent that gives it power to destroy and hurt, or the ability to empower and move on.

I’ll never be able to crochet more than a string. Coco will probably learn to crochet, and then knit, and then, well…that’s the point. I would never limit my daughter, and I would never limit my son even though he has THAT thing. That EXTRA thing.