I sat down in Addison’s school and watched the children stream in for morning classes. Tiny tots kissed their mother or father good-bye and grasping the hand of a teacher, following the flow of students to the garden to play in the morning sunshine.As I waiting for a free moment to talk to Addison’s teacher, another mother sat next to me. Her daughter, Sophia, had Down Syndrome. She was a beautiful girl in pink stripes and pink tennis shoes. She hung close to her mother as she too watched the children pass.The mother explained she was there to look at the school; her daughter was already enrolled somewhere else. A teacher reached out her hand and Sophia walked away to take a look at the school.What to do we talk about? Us "Down" mothers? Instead of the discussing shirt sizes or what words our children are saying, we share stories about hospitals, therapists, and tongue size.So, did you spend time in the hospital?Does your child have small ear and nose tubes?Does she sleep through the night?Does he walk or crawl yet?Swallow food?Special shoes?We nod in acceptance of each other like two old war veterans sharing a story that we can only understand. So much goes unsaid and instead passes through our hearts. Addison’s teacher arrived and Sophia’s mom wandered off to find her daughter. Funny, when Addison enrolled in this school, there were no children with Down Syndrome, now there may be three. I always knew he’d be a ground breaker, a leader in his field. And I’ll keep bringing up the troops to support him.