On socks

Re-posted from Facebook today, March 22, 2013

Yesterday was International Down Syndrome Day, as you know.

Despite my natural inclinations to live in the future (I am forever planning trips that may or may not actually happen, or thinking about tomorrow, or the next weekend, or the next), I am not one of those moms who thinks of the kinds of details that truly amazing moms do. I remember homework and Picture Day and am already planning my kids' summer, but I don't ever think to bring treats for Moriah's class or to plan very far ahead with Halloween costumes or play dates.

Maybe when I'm no longer a doctoral candidate, these things will occur to me. Maybe not.

This explains why, when I dropped off Moriah at daycare yesterday morning, I suddenly blurted out to her daycare provider, Julie: "Oh! By the way! Today is International Down Syndrome Day!" And then I sort of mumbled: "I guess I should have thought to do something for that...sorry, Julie."

Yesterday afternoon on my way to an appointment, I received a text. It was a photo of Moriah's entire daycare, socks on their hands and feet. "Extra socks for an extra chromosome!" Julie had written, referencing the sock campaign that many folks celebrated yesterday (see more about this here). I couldn't believe it. How had she even made time, with a houseful of kids, to look that up online? And how had she rounded them all up for a photo op? It was amazing, and truly touching.

But that wasn't all. This morning when I brought Moriah back to daycare, I thanked Julie for the photo she had texted me. And that's when I got the full story: Julie had not only looked up about International Down Syndrome Day and seen the sock campaign, but had taught an entire lesson about Down syndrome. She pulled out pairs of socks, 2 for each child, and 3 for Moriah. And arranging each pair so they looked like chromosomes, she and her husband had talked with the kids about chromosome pairs, and how Moriah had an extra "sock." She answered questions the older kids had about what the word "syndrome" meant, and where our chromosomes are, and why Moriah was different--and not--from everybody else.

And then they put on their crazy, mismatched socks and took some photos, celebrating Moriah and her uniqueness the entire time. And some of those kids didn't want to take off their mismatched socks, and went home wearing them.

The day that Moriah was born--and the very difficult weeks spent in the ICU afterwards, followed by her open heart surgery, her seizures, and these years of illness and emergencies--each event in Moriah's life has presented an opportunity for me to be seized with fear. What will her life become? What if she doesn't make it this time? Will she always be cared for in this life? Who will befriend her? Who will understand her, and accept her?

I've gotten a lot better at choosing not to fear and choosing to trust. And on my really good days, I dare to hope that it's not Moriah who needs other people, it's other people who need Moriah. I dare to believe that she has great gifts to offer the world--gifts of spirit, understanding, acceptance, love, slowness, spunk, patience, and joy--and that those who love her will be very blessed for having dared to do so.

Thank you, Julie, for being one of Moriah's greatest advocates. And thank you, thank you for teaching a houseful of kids to love a kid with Down syndrome. I can only believe that your work is changing the hearts of the kids who are blessed enough to encounter you and David, as you (and your socks!) foster the sort of radical acceptance we can all choose to have for one another. The sort of ferocious love Moriah gives us all. I am so very grateful.