Pumice, Well Sort Of......

Gosh, I hope my mother is not reading my blog today. She's in Little Debbie Cake Heaven--that's mean---"regular" Heaven is what I meant-- but I know that she would kill me for what I'm about to write. Jumping right into this (are you ready?): My mother never talked to us about sex. Nope. I can't really remember either of my parents sitting on the edge of the bed saying, "Honey, there are birds and there are bees." What I remember happening is their taking us all into a train station in Washington, D.C., saying, "Go in there, read everything written on the walls. When you come out, and if you have any questions, we'll answer them." Was she kidding?? You think I'd ask my own mother (who would not say the word pregnant out loud) about any of those bathroom wall words! Not hardly.
Which, of course leads us to my poor birds-and-the bees skills with my growing handicapped son. I know you're going to want to read this next sentence twice. Down Syndrome males are sterile but not impotent. Is that cleared up now? So, yes, Taylor has more testosterone in his little finger than...oh, I won't even finish that sentence. Let me just say that part of our raising and educating Taylor has been to teach him what is private about his body and what is not. Of course...all with not shame. Good luck, right?
Early on, Taylor's word for penis became pumice. Who knows why. It's a bit awkward to not only write about this, but to teach him about.....well.....the pumice.
Come on, now...how'd you do with your own children? Basically, what we really needed Taylor to know was good-touch/bad-touch stuff: "It's your pumice. Nobody else's." And go to your bedroom for anything private. (Pretty good advice, huh.)
He's done great. He's appropriate and knows all the "rules" about PDA.
The only thing that has backfired is when any word that sounds vaguely similar to penis (peanuts, peas, please us, etc), Taylor reprimands everybody in the room for "talking dirty." We're dead in the water if anybody ever asks, "Hey would like some hummus and peanuts?" Don't Say It. Go Nice. (Ibid. Op Cit. Benedictus other blog post.)
Whew. We've got this conversation started. There's more. Mama, go distract yourself in the angel kitchen. She does not want to hear the rest of this. Good reader: Are you squirming yet? I'm blushing. Penis. Pumice. If Taylor could read, I know I would have sent him in to see those words on the walls of that train station. I wonder if pumice is written anywhere. OK, you can laugh now. Aren't you glad it's me and not you? (Just send money.)

Shut Up. Don't Say It.

There are four words that, when Taylor hears anywhere, he adamantly admonishes, "Don't Say It!" Here are the trigger words: Shut up, Stupid, Penis, Bosom.
If you stick with me long enough, I promise you I'm going to write about stupid, penis and bosom. Today, you'll have to settle for: "Shut Up. Don't Say It."
It should not take a "retarded" person to have to remind the rest of us folks that it's not polite/nice/loving to tell each other to, "Shut Up." Actually, those words are so offensive to me when spoken out loud that I just cringe when I hear them coming out of anybody's mouth. Of course, mostly said in anger or with the defensive tone, they just totally dismiss and shame the 'hear-er.' It's like: You are not even worthy of my noticing that you are here with me. Just mean words. Hateful words. Dismissive and rude words. And Taylor knows it.
I guess you've caught on to me by now and can see that I'll try to lead you down this other path--inward...outward. It's the second part of Taylor's response that is really the most crucial. "Don't say it." My older son has reminded me often when I've made remarks, "Mom, you can't un-ring a bell." No indeedy---we cannot take back words. They resonate in our heads, our psyches, our hearts for years and years. OK, let's do an experiment right this minute. Think of one thing that somebody in your life has said to you that made you feel like just awful about yourself. You may need to go back to when you were 4-5. It may be something that your husband/wife/sister/brother said in jest. More than likely it's something your mother or father said to you years ago that plays over and over again in your adult brain.
I am here to ask you....what if those hurtful words had not ever been spoken? What if we (yes, me and you since we're the only ones here right now) had not made those words define who we were/are? What if we had not let them mean something bad about us? Holy Toledo!! We would have so much more love for ourselves. That would be a good thing.
Dr. Phil told a parent on his show yesterday, that "It takes 10 atta-boy’s to erase one negative comment." At least ten would be my guess. I am pretty good about being kind to children, but I lose total custody of my tongue when I talk about some adults. I am here to ask you, "Does that count too? Talking "bad" about people?" I'm sunk. Are you? OK, just for today, Let's do a Jenny Craig "diet" of harmful words to others. Shut Up. Don't Say It. Oh Lord, I know I'm going to cheat on this diet too. Darn. How about you?

Go Nice

Taylor just hates it when I fight with anybody. Fighting to me means saying ugly things in a syrupy voice or saying nice things in a very condescending and ugly voice. No matter how hard I might try to disguise my anger/resentment/discontent, Taylor unwaveringly pipes up with, "Go nice, Mama." Damn. I thought my snarkiness was pretty well covered up--camouflaged---and undetected. But, no, until he hears a change in my voice (and in my attitude), I am coaxed unwillingly into "Going Nice."
I hate that. Sometimes I really just need to chew out my "Step-Husband." I've had fights with my siblings, my other son, telemarketers--you know...people----within earshot of Taylor. I can see this look come over his face that asks, "Can't you find another way to work that out??"
Oh, it makes me so mad. It irks me because I know he's right. He's right and I have work to do---on myself. (Here we go again. Does it ever end?)
Taylor's brother and I have had our squabbles and both walked away feeling unresolved and angry. On several occasions, Taylor has actually physically pulled us back together, turned our bodies towards one another----face-to-face and said, "Talk." Yes, talk it out. Work it out. "Listen it out" for as long as it takes. People aren't supposed to treat each other like this. Listen to each other. Hear one another. It's like Taylor's form of mediation asks, "What is it that he needs for you to know? What do you need for him to hear from you...about you?" Oh my goodness, Taylor knows--knows on the deepest level, that loving human beings are here to work things out. Face-to-face with people we love means hearing, listening, talking, and then listening some more.
It's a bit hard having my very own "Go Nice" police hanging around me 24/7. Hard as I try to "fake him out" (Say nice words in a mean way), his Go Nice detector is unfliching--relentless. I sometimes have an "itch" to be mean. Don't you? But, here's yet one more slugger: Why do we ever need to be hateful? Determined? Yes. ("Yes, you will provide services for my son.) Mean? No. ("And, besides that, you look awful in those pants!")
Being kind basically boils down to this. Go Nice. Pretty simple. In life, get the job done. But, always, Go Nice.

Taylor's Brudder

I never had a brother like Taylor, so I can not really speak to what it must be like for Taylor's older brother. As I sit in the other room when C. comes home to visit with Taylor, I hear this conversation:
T: My brudder
C: Hey Taylor
T: My Brudder. Boo
C: Hey Taylor. What are you doing?
T: My Brudder. Boo.
(Copy and paste that about 100 times and you've got the entire conversation.) I know that this must be frustrating and probably a little sad for my (wonderful!) oldest son. There must be some longing in him that craves a regular brother-brother relationship. Even though it's totally irrational, I feel responsible that C. was robbed of that complicated, irreplicable experience that having a normal sibling brings. He can't rag on his parents. There are no, "Remember when mom set the cat on fire!?" stories. Who does C. turn to when he sees one of his parents loses it?
Again, I don't want to speak for C., but I know this life must have been hard for him.
When Taylor was born, people asked us constantly, "When are you going to tell C. that his brother had Down Syndrome?" Uh, well, let me see. What exactly is it that you want C. to know about his brother? Won't he figure a lot of it out and don't you think it'd be best to answer questions as they come up?
Along about 4th grade, C. came home from school and said, "Mama, my friends say Taylor is retarded. Is he retarded? Gulp. Breathe. Here it is!! The BIG question. "Yes," I responded calmly and gently. "What do you think retarded means, C?" Without skipping a beat, C. exclaimed, "Oh I know what it means. It means Taylor is either bow-legged or chicken-toed!"
"EXACTLY!!" I replied. Exactly, my wise son.
Taylor's older brother is an incredible human being. He is the most compassionate (and witty!) person I know. He both loves Taylor with all of his heart and mourns the loss of the "normal" brother that did not show up. C. is as brilliant as Taylor is intellectually challenged. Is some ways they are complete opposites. In ways of the heart, they are identical twins. They are brothers. Taylor could not have chosen a better big brudder to accompany him through this life. It's probable that C. ended up choosing just as well. Bow-legged or standing strong--gifted both. And, in so many ways, each a gift to one another. (Is anybody besides me hearing the swell of the violins right about now?}
Yes, he's Taylor's brudder.
My brudder. Boo.

Nothing Human Is Foreign To Me

Well, I just gotta tell you that the picture you're looking at makes me cry. It's been two years since Taylor's second major spinal surgery, but I see that picture and my heart relapses right back to that space. We thought Taylor's first 20 years were hard until we got to year 21. That year, we were flung wildly off a cliff. Long about then, Taylor's spinal cord began compressing. When your spinal cord compresses, it basically cuts off breathing and all of your bodily functions. Taylor's entire life changed. Our family's entire life turned upside down--again.
Many of you who are reading this have had a child, a spouse, a relative who has endured life with chronic pain. For those of you who have not been through this, take our word for it: It's awful. My Taylor was in chronic pain, but he could not tell us. OK, that falls under the category of "Feeling Helpless/Hopeless."
My brave little soldier/son, has had not one, but two major spinal surgeries. (For you medical types: Occipital Cervical Fusions) The first surgery was criminal (another blog) The second surgery saved his life. Our hero, Dr. A.H. Menezes (Iowa University Hospital) repaired and restored Taylor's spinal cord. Gosh, I love that genius doctor. There's really not a "but" here, BUT, Taylor had to wear that brace you see for one year.
You got it. If you think slanted eyes, a big tongue, and thick neck turn off people in Cracker Barrel or at a Christmas parade, just add that Minerva brace into this equation. I felt like a leper. I cried. Taylor hurt physically. But, here again is the miracle. Listen carefully. Taylor never ever ever stopped looking lovingly into the eyes of those who looked at him with such revulsion. Taylor was the one wearing the brace, but it was others who were really trapped and imprisoned. Constrained by their own fear, restricted by their own belief that such imperfect people should not be allowed amongst us--confined by, "He's not one of us"----they missed this holy, loving human man-child longing to be free. Freely loved---by me. By You. Take off your brace.

Om.....Om.....Om...

I bought these subliminal therapy "self-improvement" tapes a couple of years ago. These Beta/Theta/Alpha brainwave messages were geared towards weight loss and improving self esteem. My dog, Murphy, was always next to me as I lay there soaking in those profoundly wordless, "I See My Body Thin" and "I Am Capable" unspoken mantras. Within two weeks Murphy had lost 8 pounds and had enrolled himself in Dogs Can Do It! I, on the other hand, gained 3 pounds and still felt like sh**.
Although I am a big fan of arguing with G_d.....at the end of the day, I have a deep belief that he knew what he was doing when Taylor was assigned to me in this life. I think he was put in my life, not so much for him....but for me. Evidently, my very own soul has some major healing that needed/needs to happen. Va-Voom! Planted. Born. Alive. Here was an imperfect, oft-rejected, divine little soul--right at my elbow. But, holy cow, I was too afraid to see it. (True confessions: I am a big scaredy cat. I hate to dig deep inside of myself and see what's really there.)
My sister told me today on the phone that, "What we judge in others is a disowned part of ourselves." I hate it when she reminds me of stuff like that. If we do not have compassion for all traits in ourselves, how can we ever accept them in another person for heaven's sake?
So here's what I've disowned in Taylor that I must really be afraid of in myself:
1. Not being smart----fear of being stupid 2. Not being included/invited--being rejected (Enough said.) 3. Not living up to expectations...I am not enough. Oh now, please don't you go and stop reading and think that this is just psycho-babble. It might be, but I also think I'm on to something. Hear me out. Don't gag. I'm almost through.
I ask you, my friend and fellow travelers: What traits do you see in retarded people/handicapped people (or any people)that you are afraid to own in your very own self?
Gulp. Help. Oh, I hate this entry. I wish she'd stick to fun stuff. I'm trying to. Heck, I'm getting ready to go watch Beauty and the Beast for the 100,000th time. That's fun. I just thought of this, no kidding: What happened to the beast when he gave and received love? What if you/I loved the "beasts" inside of our very own selves? OMG...Sing with me now from our other movie today..."I've Got Chills; They're Multiplying!" Love the beast in you. Love the beast in others. Tall order. You may now begin this test.

Call Waiting

Looks like we're getting down to it. You know, when you start sharing about your family, you can only tell camp stories for just so long. So, here's what I want to say. I always hated it when people told me how blessed I was to have Taylor. I hate it when people say, "Oh, God always gives those babies to such special people." Something inside of me just wants to scream, "Horse S***!"
Let me clarify.
When Taylor was born, I guess I was pretty spoiled. I wanted perfect children just like you. I expected perfect children--you know 10 fingers/toes, high IQ, good reflexes on the Apgar Scale. I could tell by the doctor's face that we hadn't done so well on that very first test. (Precursor of things to come?) I felt like I had been hit by an emotional Mack Truck. I can tell you now that I am not proud of the way I felt. But, I was who I was.
Everybody who came to the hospital--and for years to come--told us how "blessed" we were. Blessings all around. Blessings this. Blessings that. I just wasn't buying it. If I was so blessed, why was everybody crying? Finally we put a big sign on the door that read, "Please do not use the word blessings with us today." What I really wanted to tell them was that I wanted God to have their phone number. I mean, how did he get mine? Why did I pick up? I wanted God to call you--and not me.
It has taken me a long while, but now I am finally understanding that gold is mined in the dark. In our deepest wounds, there is always wisdom waiting to be un-covered. And! There are gifts from our wounds waiting to be claimed if we're brave enough to look.
So, bring on the blessings. Let 'em flow! I'm wearing my mining hat. But, let me just warn you; I am still giving God your phone number. I wonder what he'll want you for. Hmmmm. Call me. Let me know.

God's Wife

Yep! I bet you didn't know this, but I am God's Wife. Well, I have not received official word from THE CHIEF, but the paper work is pending I am certain. How do I know I'm God's wife? Well, heck, I have set myself up as master judge and jury of all of life. I have to help God know what's right and what's wrong---naughty or nice ---if you like to sing.
Seriously, I judge poor black girls who keep having babies. I am hard on people who are too rich or too thin---and G_d help you if you're both. I have secret disdain for people who don't work hard or who break in front of others in line. I totally dismiss anybody who drives a Hummer. (Oops! Just lost some readers!) OMG!(Yes, Oh My God) to all of those people who think they're entitled. My judgment just does not ever seem to end.
That might be ok if I were living on a desert island (with ice cream sandwiches and a naked man-----ok, skip the ice cream sandwiches) and no children to raise/influence/lead/guide/love. But I'm not on an island and it does matter what I think and what I feel. I know that my outer world really does reflect my inner world. (Spend an hour ruminating on that today---I dare you.) Everything we think and believe shows up some place in our lives. Just look. Look carefully.
Poor 'ole Taylor. Here he is this completely open, honest, pure, accepting human being and I just layer him up with my own judgments. He'll point to a store, a church, a place, an event, a club and I'll jump right in and "corrupt" him. "Oh no, we won't fit in there. And besides that, we don't like them/it." I mean, what does he know? He operates from a place of unconditional love. What in the world is wrong with him???
Oh Lord, what I'm thinking now is that it's high time I look at my judgements straight in the eye---with love, of course. Do I really need to be God's wife?
I'm just curious, faithful readers (or not faithful readers), what are your judgements? Am I alone in this? Does God have many wives---or is it just me?
Are you brave enough to share? Anybody? God's wife?

A Walking Litmus Test

Anyway, I don't know why I'm sitting here in my kitchen thinking that I have the market on "tragedy." Oops, that's such a pejorative (GRE) word. When Taylor was born, we actually did receive many sympathy cards--with flowers and praying hands, and gilded words that expressed such sorrow. No kidding. I'll show them to you. Gosh, I wish they had just sent me money for a pedicure. The sympathy cards sort of set the stage for what we'd be in for. When a newborn child is described with things like "suffers from" or "afflicted with" you can just imagine what kind of acceptance lies ahead. WHOA! Rough terrain coming right up.
Walking around with Taylor in Kroger or TJ Maxx or (I'm trying so hard not to say Wal-Mart---but, ok) Wal-Mart is like having my own personal litmus test next to me. A litmus test of love. A litmus test of who out there is comfortable in their own skin. A litmus test that detects when people look away, run away, pretend they don't see--because they can't allow themselves to "be with" the imperfections in their own lives. I'm going to just on record here without any PhD empirical data and tell you that 100% of blacks who we encounter always speak, always acknowledge, always extend a hand. Anybody need dissertation research? I don't know why that is, but it has been true for us.
Why do we look away? Why don't we embrace each other's scary parts? When we avert our eyes away from something that makes us uncomfortable, aren't we really averting our hearts..our own humanity? (Don't barf. Keep reading.) Come on, my brothers and sisters, what is it in you and in me that makes us scared to death of "different"? I mean, seriously, this is not something you can "catch." It's not contagious. What is contagious is just acknowledging that we're all supposed to be in this life together. It's a big boat, this life---- but it's all the same boat. Right about now I am trying so hard not to break into a chorus of KumBaYa. I can't get out my bongos right now though, because my 25 year old "litmus test" needs me to help him in the bathroom. So, wherever you're sitting, whatever you have on, could you just sing one verse--with all of your heart-- for all of us? It's a litmus test. Come By Here

Un-Assisted Suicide

When Taylor was born, I was devastated. Well, that might be a mild understatement. I was suicidal. I didn't want to be the mother of a retarded child. All I could think about was how his tongue was going to hang out. That's about what I knew about being Down Syndrome. So I secretly decided that I would kill myself--unassisted. I just didn't think we could raise a baby like him.
Realizing that I would probably not die if I jumped from the third floor of the hospital, I decided that I would simply starve myself to death. Yes, it would be a slow death, but it would be a death with dignity. I would be dead before anybody could really catch on that I starving (to death.) At 3:00 on the first day of my suicide starvation plan, one of the nurses told me that I needed to drink a milkshake because my hemoglobin was so low. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls: I am here to tell you that it is impossible to pass up a milkshake---especially if it's what the doctor ordered. Day one towards my very own march to death had barely begun when my unassisted suicide plans were foiled---yes....by a milkshake! It was then and there I knew that, "Damn! I'm probably going to live to raise this child. I better get busy."
On the day of Taylor's birth, the only thing I can remember the pediatrician saying in her efforts to give me hope was, "Oh, I know a boy with Down Syndrome who can sing along with The National Anthem at all the football games." Oh great. That was supposed to make me feel better? What about the SAT? What about being on the Homecoming Court? What about soccer and Boy Scouts and Little League? How do you rearrange a life's view that's been blown to smithereens? I was supposed to settle for hearing Taylor sing The Star Spangled Banner on Saturday afternoons? Yes, indeed, that's when the road got bumpy---bumpy-er.
I drank that milkshake. (Six points to you Weight Watcher folks.) My unassisted suicide took a nose dive. The pediatrician was wrong anyway. Taylor cannot sing The National Anthem. And, like the rest of us, he'll never really know what "o'er the ramparts" means. But! He can say a darn good Pledge of Allegiance....."with liberty and jet skis for all!"

In the mirror----Naked.

It's only taken me four days, but it's dawning on me that all of these issues about which I write don't have much at all to do with Taylor; they have to do with me. (Notice that he's not here writing about how hard his life is. I am.)
Ok, so let's talk about getting naked. I mean, getting naked and standing right in front of that mirror and looking straight on at our own nakedness. Yikes! Now add that other thing that seems to be almost impossible: Say only kind things to yourself. Only kind and loving and accepting words. Say them to yourself---
Gosh, does this make you want to throw up yet? You don't want to throw up because what you see is actually ugly---but what we're each told ourselves about our nakedness is so ugly.
OK, punchline time: Taylor loves his body. He never ever has judgement when he sees his whole body naked reflected back to him. He does not think he would be better if only..... his legs or his stomach or his fanny were different. He can look straight on--full monty--right into that mirror and not have one single judgement about who he is as a person. He can see himself naked and still love who he is. The only shame he has is what I have taught him. Ponder. Ponder. Oh S***. Yep, I'm his retarded (loving) mother.
What would we each need to know about the world within us and with-out us to love our bodies exactly as they are on this very day? What belief keeps you and me seeing ourselves--and always trying to fix things. I promise you that Taylor would look at you naked----and think---and know--that you're perfect. Can anybody out there wrap your brain (and heart) around that? Probably not. What does he know that we don't? Is there a lesson here? Why don't I/we learn it? Tell me.
Anyway, I have to go to the gym now. My legs are so fat.

I see me in you.

Day 3. Does this mean I'm an official Blogger? Get in line. We're a dime-a-dozen.
I actually had something on my mind in the middle of the night about Taylor, but when I checked my email, a good friend had commented on FaceBook about my blog. Here is what she said, "I remember our talking after our C. and C. were born -- comparing notes and understanding and congratulating each other. I also remember after Taylor and G. were born -- remember crying, partly in sadness for you, that you had not gotten that "perfect" baby, and partly in thanksgiving that it had been you instead of me. I know that is incredibly awful to admit in public, but it is true." It's so weird. I really appreciate this comment because I know it's so true. I also know the compassion and depth in this woman's heart. I have seen it borne out in a thousand ways. And anyway, I am you. I am that other person who feels just like you. When I was young (er) I used to see a mother at Legion Pool with a handicapped daughter. I would feel physically sick and wonder how on earth--- that mother could love her daughter. I just did not know how someone could reach down into her very cell membranes and find love--and acceptance for somebody so "imperfect." Looking back...yes, always looking back....I see that it was (and still is) my own self that I am afraid of. When we see something in another person that scares us or makes us uneasy, it is always always always about our fears about ourselves. So what was I so afraid of when I saw that "imperfect" child being loved and cared for by her mother? Well, after years of therapy, I am here to tell you that I probably didn't believe that she...nor I...really was worthy of that unconditional love. Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmm.. I am wondering if you know what I'm talking about here. Do you think you have to be perfect? Do you wonder if you're not enough? Do you ever think you're in the way? These are probably my own projections but I also believe that there are millions of us walking around trying to "prove" that we are good enough---worthy enough--valuable enough. Here's what I have learned from my "retarded" son: You already are good enough. I already am good enough. Period. Thank you, Taylor, for reminding us of this.

I didn't waste any time getting down to it. Warning.

Day 2 of a BLOG. Thank you for checking back. Maybe I should give away door prizes. I'll work on that. I am finding my way blindly through this. My brilliant brother told me to post this picture somewhere other than at the bottom. You know as in, "A Picture Paints a Thousand Words." If you're reading this, then you know me. Eventually, somebody in Kuala Lumpur might find this BLOG and not have a good image of whom I speak.
What comes to mind this morning as I see my followers, is how all of my life I have hung out with the smartest people on the planet. Here's my question to you: What happens when intelligence as a "value" is removed from the equation. Where does that leave us? Come on, now. Haven't we each spent our entire lives trying to get to college, get our kids to college--be smarter, be more educated, be more "degreed." It all matters out there in the real world (the world away from the computer at which you are sitting.) So, raising a son/having a son whose IQ is falls in the moderately mentally retarded range---well, that's a whole new way of trying to figure this life out. My very own thoughts about myself and about what I claim to value in life gets slammed up against a wall. Seriously, now, what is it that we believe about our own self worth? What happens when the criteria is thrown out of the window? I don't think the rest of the world has gotten my own personal memo. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is my memo: Alert!! My son is not running on the same track. But wait! Is there only one track? Just a question. Remember--or believe me when I tell you this: I was scared to death of retarded people for most of my life. I think I still sort of am. OK, it's out there. Whew.
But, here's the other reality: I have to go and take Taylor to his "training facility" where they don't train him for anything. That's a whole other day.
Here's what you can be asking yourself in the meantime: How do you see people who are different? Do you reach out and acknowledge them as real and valuable people---people who are honored for who they are? What if they are drooling? Are you still in?

Still the first day...and I'm already in trouble with my title

Oh my goodness. A friend just emailed me to ask if I had seen the brew-ha-ha between Sarah Palin and Rahm Emmanuel. Emmanuel had called something, "F***ing Retarded." "In a posting on her Facebook page Monday, former GOP vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin called on Obama to fire Emanuel. Palin, whose son Trig suffers from Down syndrome, said Emanuel's language was "heartbreaking" and a "slur on all God's children."
I didn't realize when I began this BLOG (this morning!) that things would get so juicy right off the bat. I thought I could ease into this format. Not. Evidently not.
Here's my stance: I spend just about 24/7 hours/days with my son. He is precious. It's also a hard life. Caring for him is relentless. It's just the way it is. It's my "thing" in life. It's what I was given. I am allowed to say the word retarded. But, here's the rub: You're not. Well, not unless you, too, are caring for (or are) a retarded person. You haven't earned your stripes. (Gosh, there has to be some payoff. Stripes are good. Did you think there was going to be money???)
Anyway, Sarah Palin is not my favorite person on the planet. This is my judgemental self talking, but she left her newborn son to campaign around the clock for months. For being such a family person, she was not walking the walk.
This BLOG is not about SP. I just found it interesting that the word "Retarded" was an exposed lightning rod today. Hmm.

Oh gosh, my first blog ever

It's so presumptuous of me to think I have anything life-changing to say.
I guess I'm thinking that this blog should be worthwhile--or at least funny. It will be funny because I look at life in such a skewed way. My life is like wearing your shirt inside-out. Seams show. The stitching shows. The labels show. All of the loose strings and stains show.
I am 56. I have a 25 year old son with Down Syndrome. If you're reading this and have never met me, you're coming on in the middle of the movie. I'll try to catch you up--or not.
I decided to write this blog because it seems like every day I learn something profound (or that should be profound) from my son---who's "retarded." Ok, you just bristled. That's a word we used to get spanked for saying outloud. I used to throw up when I even saw that word. Now I live with it every day. Here's my new bumper sticker mantra: Don't believe everything you think.
Shift happens.