eLLe - 3 years old

Dear Luciya,

Today you are three years and three months old.


In honor of the magic that this trinity of years is brining upon us, let's look at all the ways you're celebrating in triplicate.

Three is the number of parties we had to celebrate your big day. The first was at your preschool, which we're taking a break from for the summer. You brought chocolcate cupcakes (which were RAD, I must say -- the gluten free cake mix was the way to go), wore a purple paper crown, and got to walk around the sun three times. The second party was the quadruple-threat toddler birthday bash, which turned our backyard into a squriming, bouncing, tractor-riding swarm of little bodies, and which was a blast. The thrid party, on the day before your real birthday, was a family dinner in which you received art supplies, clothes, and a purple sleeping bag that's just your size. Needless to say, when you awoke on your actual birthday and I announced the fact you said, "No, it not my birfday, It already happened."



Three is the number of hair lengths you've had since your birthday: Down past your shoulder blades; chopped - for the first time ever - to shoulder-length; and, most recently, bobbed to... a bob. It's a perfectly adorable summertime cut on you. I love it, and so do you.


Three is the number of states of being you have about you:
1) The loving, warm, sweet and helpful, intelligent, huggy day-maker who says and does the cutest things;
2) The incorrigible, irascible, fiery stinkpot pill monster who makes me want to pull my teeth out; and
3) Asleep.


You've grasped the concept of favorites, and if asked your three favorite things are:
1) Animal - Monkey
2) Color - Purple
3) Person - Little Mirabel


Your three favorite questions are Why, Why, and Why. "Why, mama? Why do it do that? Why is it like that?" It can go on forever... and ever... and if I try to turn it around and say, "What do you think?" You'll say "What do I think, Mama?" Stinker.


Three is the average number of outfits you'll go through in a day, especially since when (or IF) you take a nap, you insist on wearing jammies. And when you wake up from said nap, you've selected a new outfit to wear. Your creations are really pretty fabulous, and if they're not necessarily cute, they're very Luciya.


Your three favorite things to do are paint in your art table, jump on your mini trampoline, and roar. I don't know where the "Raaawwwr" came from, but we've had to have some serious talks about appropriate roaring time and place, so now you'll look up sincerely and ask us if you may please go outside and roar (since it's only an outside activity). And we'll say yes, and you'll go outside, and raawwwrr, and then come back in.


Three is how many feet tall you are (plus 2 inches), and you weigh 37 pounds. Your pediatrician warned me about your bmi being too high, but I'm taking that with a grain of salt. You eat very healthily, and rarely have juice or sweets. You are active and happy. You're just... solid. (But, I am more concious of the number of snackies we have in between meals).


Three is the average number of times a day I laugh at or am charmed by the things you say. Some recent favorites:

"When Tutu was born at the hospital you feed Tutu and she started to grow."

"I'm trying to get my hair patches off. I have hair patches like Daddy."

L: "When I was a little girl I live in Heek with my daddy." Mama: "Where's Heek?" L: "You take a left and you take a right and you find Heek!"

"Tuna on the tata! Tuna on the tata!" (After watching a few minutes of Lion King for the first time).

{When viewing the whitewater tumbling down the Payette River}: "It looks like lotion."


And three is the number of bounds it took me to get up the stairs and into your room when you cried painfully out in your sleep a few weeks ago. I laid down beside you, curved you into my arms, and said "Mama's here."


You know it.

I love you, Luciya!

Love,
Mama

Proud Parents

I created these shirts for John and me a couple weeks ago.


I got so much positive feedback, I decided to run with an idea and open a little online shop.

Introducing Ds Baby Shop: "Fun and unique clothing for children with Down syndrome and the families who love them!"

Here are some of the designs I have added so far. Suggestions and comments are welcome! Thanks for taking a look, and helping to spread the word!


I also created a couple designs that are featured on several items:




You can visit the shop here.

You can also become a fan on Facebook.


Many thanks to Mirabel, our beautiful muse, who turned six months old yesterday! We love you, Mirabel!

Mirabel Makes a New Friend

Love the progression.

How to Survive

A good friend welcomed a beautiful, healthy baby boy a few days ago, and I didn't go to visit them at the hospital. At first, I thought it was simply because I couldn't go when John suddenly had to go in to work, but then I realized I felt relieved. I am beyond overjoyed for my friend and her family. This little baby is a miracle for them and I cannot wait to meet him. But my heart was suddenly heavy. Same hospital, same delivering midwife... but not the same outcome. She is there with her baby. In her arms. And with friends coming to see her and wish her well. She is going home with him, and they are content.

And I realized that my experience, in the same hospital, with the same midwife, was too different for me to walk in the doors again without tinges of sadness. I was alone, with no baby next to me, processing the shock of a diagnosis in fight-mode. I still think I'm in that mode - brave face, strong heart, positive outlook. I am not jealous of a healthy baby or wistful that my baby has Down syndrome and hers doesn't. Mirabel is a joyful-jolly-jubilant addition to my life and I am head over heels about her. But I do think there are some unprocessed emotions that got shoved in the nether regions of my gut the very second I heard the words "Down syndrome."

Survive. Make it through. Go. We can do this. Look at her! She's amaaaazing.

So. That day I started feeling a little blue and I couldn't shake it. I didn't join my friends when they went to meet the new little guy. Instead, the girls and I got out of the house and went down to the restaurant where their daddy was bartending. Once we got there, Luciya had to go to the bathroom, so I left Mirabel in her car seat at the table and took Luciya into the stall.

"You go first, mama - "
"Okay, " I said,
" - so I can dance."

And Luciya danced in the stall while I went pee, with her quirky little twirls and wrist rolls, her squats and flounces. When it was her turn to use the toilet she instructed me, "Now you dance, Mama." And so I did. And then we washed our hands, still bopping, and Luciya said, "Mama, dance back to the table, that will be fun." And I did.

The two of us shimmied and bobbed back to the table, sideways diner glances be damned, and when we returned to the table I felt so much lighter. And it didn't escape me that the song that was playing through the restaurant speakers was "Crazy" by Seal (which is, in my opinion, one of the best songs ever in the history of everything). The chorus of the song goes

"We're never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy."

Dance. Shimmy. Enjoy.

Here goes. I feel better already.

We all do.



{And many, many, sweet congratulations to Christina and family. We love you.}