Raising Up The Next Generation of New Age Photographers

I made a mistake the other day. I gave Micah my camera to take a picture of me with.

I don't know what I was thinking, so don't even ask.

Now Micah wants to take pictures all the time. This is alright when I'm right there and can highly supervise what he's doing with my baby, but I fear what he'll do when I'm not there sometime. I keep my camera under a close watch at all times.

Micah likes the clicky-clicky sound that the camera makes when it takes a picture. To hear this, he holds the camera up to his ear. This, in turn, makes it difficult for him to look through the viewfinder to see what it is he's taking a picture of. For this reason, the person he's taking a photo of is in charge of putting themselves in the photo. If you're aware of this, it works just fine. If not, well, there are other things to take pictures of and Micah gets those instead.

Becky was his first victim. She's aware that she needs to get herself in front of the viewfinder, but sometimes it's hard to get there before the shutter does that fun clicky-clicky thing.

He was generous and allowed her to try again. She was pretty well within range, and got her most important feature photographed. That would be her cell phone. Ready for texting, even.

Luke did incredibly well getting himself centered.

This is the first photographical endeavor to get Josh. He is somewhere below those clouds.

The second time, when we told Josh that he needed to get himself within range, he did much better.

This is a picture of Sam. He was wearing a gray shirt that day. Obviously.

And this would be me. Or at least my smile. I am now thinking that I should use a good whitening toothpaste.

When Micah takes pictures, it's a lot of work on the part of the one being photographed, but it's worth it. While I love my camera and guard it myself day and night, I think it's important to let the kids experiment and play.  He's the next generation of budding artists, learning to get people in their viewfinder.

Happy Halloween

Saturday Shots



Talk To The Hand



Helping Hand

Milk Weed

Orange

Halloween Costume Tutorial

Tonight was the night we took the kids trick-or-treating. That means that today was dedicated to making costumes. I rock procrastination like nobody else can. Mind you, I'm all about asking the kids what they want to be a good month in advance. I encourage them to nail it down no sooner than 2 weeks out. This obviously isn't so that I can get a head start on making it. It's all in the planning, you see. I think through every detail so that when I sit down to accomplish the task, it's only a matter of execution.

Becky wanted to be a ballerina this year. Remember that prom gown of hers that had 10 yards of tulle in the skirt? It got repurposed. We cut that skirt into strips and tied them onto an elastic band. Since she wanted pink, we spray painted it.  Add black tights and a long sleeved tee and you're in business. She didn't have black ballet flats so we found a pair at Salvation Army in brown and spray painted those as well. Bingo. The flats cost us $2, the paint $3.50.

Josh wanted to be a mobster. We picked up a striped suit at the thrift store for him (it's a bit big, but works) along with a white tie (so Capone). We spray painted a foam hat from Dollar Tree and Sam made a tommy gun for him to carry. Josh had quite the spendy costume at $14.

Luke was a knight in armor (shining was optional) so we hit Dollar Tree for the breastplate and helmet. (The helmet was a bit small, but when knights shop at Dollar Tree they're not so choosy, nor as protected as those who shop at Armor Be Us). He donned black sweatpants and a gray long sleeved tee under the armor, I wrapped thin cardboard with duck tape and duck taped it onto his arms and legs for additional armor. The finishing touch was a skirt of mine turned inside out and pinned to fit. Sam made him a sword which the boys will play with for years to come. Luke's costume cost me $2.

Micah, of course, was Woody. We're really getting some mileage out of those pajamas we got from Disney for free.

After a few hours of work, the kids spent the next few hours complaining about itching and poofiness and discomfort. I think in future they can go as ghosts, draped in bedsheets. I'll make them wear the Scooby Doo ones, just for spite.

My Daughter, She Was a Doozey

Becky was a fun child. Let's just say that her taste in clothing and accessories left a bit to be desired. I understand that little girls are all about bright colors (or Bright! Colors! as the case may be) and jewelry (as much as they can possibly wear at one time, all of it made of plastic) and prints. Oh, the prints. Stripes and polka dots and anything that looks like the 80's regurgitated into the 21st century.

Not my daughter, though. She wasn't about Hello Kitty or Tinker Bell or stripes and dots. No, my daughter was a Ho In Training.

Becky was drawn to things like fishnet stockings and press-on nails (pre-painted bright red, no doubt) and leopard print anything. We heavily monitored what she could and could not purchase, and for very obvious reasons I rarely let her choose her own clothing. It it were up to her, she would have worn high heels, fishnets, micro skirts, hot pink leopard print shirts, red nails long enough to scratch her kneecaps without leaning over, and enough rhinestones to look like a Bedazzler attacked her. And because that wouldn't have been enough all at one time, she would have topped this off with clip on earrings that were either larger than her head or hung to her waistband and jingled when she shook her head. Oh, and makeup. Tons of it.

That would be my daughter. We're grateful that she outgrew this stage because we priced a steel cage to encase her bedroom with. We simply couldn't afford to lock her away from the world until she became an adult.

The ironic thing is that Micah is pretty much the boy equivalent of his sister. The boy even wears skirts. Big, full, twirly ones. And he has a thing for Becky's small gown collection. He tries them on weekly to see which one fits better *this* time. He wears cowboy boots with shorts, and pajamas in public, and neckties with t-shirts and sweats. And we let him.

I have to wonder what the difference is in my parenting. Is it that I'm so much more seasoned after all these years and realize that a happy kid is a good thing and clothes are just superficial? Or is it Micah that changed me, making me realize that I need to celebrate who the kids are, no matter how their choices differ from mine?

But for the record, I won't be making that up to Becky. I still won't let her be seen in public in fishnets and rhinestone encrusted leopard print leotards.

Huh. Maybe I haven't changed all that much.

Getting a Christmas Picture Is Ridiculously Hard. Who Knew?

Family photos are elusive things to get. You'd think it would be easy, wouldn't you? I mean, you plunk the kids down near each other, ask them to look in your general direction, and snap a picture. And trust me when I say that I'm not a perfectionist in this area. I love the photo that shows some character and personality.

But seriously, kids? Out of 385 that I took today, we got 6 that are workable. Six. That's like a 1% success rate.

I'll be quick to admit that this is a stellar shot.

Except that one of the kids walked right out of the picture.

This is typical in our family.

And when you try too hard, you end up with something like this.

And because we have boys in our family, this is almost a given. I'm threatening to put it on Christmas cards.

And to prove that one good photo exists, here it is. Happy Halloween, and Happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. And Happy Easter. And Enjoy This Because It'll Be Another 5 Years Before It Happens Again.

Shopping for Maternity Wear

When you walk into a maternity boutique with your 15 year old daughter and your 57 year old friend, the saleslady automatically focuses all her attention on the teenager. This is a sad sign of our times.

Granted, the 57 year old is not the obvious customer, and apparently, even looking 10 years younger than I am, I look too old to be having another child. Or maybe it's because I have a teen with me and they assume that one just doesn't space their children that far apart. Or maybe it's just because I had a teen with me.

I don't look that old, right? Right?!

And does my daughter look promiscuous?

You'd better answer no. Of course, if you think she does, maybe I'd better hear it from you instead of total strangers. So yeh (deep breath), be honest.

While my 57 year old friend was shopping for pants with a panel to go well over her abdomen so the waistband wouldn't lie on her incision site from cancer surgery, I found a new favorite place to shop. Sad, but true. Maternity was made for high waisted, big chested girls. That's me.

But all that aside, what family would show up en-masse to buy maternity clothing for their unwed, pregnant 15 year old? Who in their right mind says, "hey, let's invite Grandma to go maternity shopping for our licentious daughter!"

Yoi. And double yoi.

It's a Bifecta. I'm Lacking A Third Element.

"Sam, you're sitting down. Get this. I think I'm going to buy a completely different kind of calendar this year. It's an organizational one that doesn't even have pictures."

He was duly shocked, as he should have been.

If you don't know me, I'm sure you're thinking that this is the weirdest statement ever. If you do know me, you're entitled to think the same thing. But the truth is, I'm a calendar freak.

That might be an understatement.

I am an organizer. The things that are all my very own and I have complete control over are uber organized. My sewing room has shelves of fabric stacked in rows of designer/non designer, solids/prints, yardage/fat quarters. (Sorry, did I lose anyone there?) My purse has a pocket for everything and everything is exactly where it should be. My closet is hung not only in dresses, skirts, jackets, shirts order but also by color in each of said categories. Shirts are further broken down by sleeve length.

If it's a sickness, I don't want help. Organizing makes me very happy.

So of course, being an organizer, a calendar is one of my best friends. Choosing a calendar is a Big Deal. There are so many factors to consider. I mean, one does not flippantly walk into a calendar store, see a cutesy picture on the front cover, and just buy it. My word, the insanity! Every single picture has to be one that I love. I have to look at it for an entire month. If there is a picture that is Meh, it goes back. It's that simple. And the numbers have got to have large enough numbers for me to see the whole way across the room, but be placed discreetly in a corner of the box so as to leave plenty of space for writing in appointments.

There's more, but I'll spare you the gory details. I'll also allow you to stay home with my dear husband when I go calendar shopping. I spare the people I love that way.

And you're all in luck. I've found what looks like The Perfect Calendar on Amazon. The good news is that it's half the price of the ones that I normally buy. The better news is that my swagbucks points will be paying for that calendar and it'll be free.

If there's one thing that I love more than organizing, it's free.

My word, life is good.

Photography Class 101

This week's photography assignment is called Journey.

This path holds memories. So many memories. It's located in the cow pasture of my parent's farm, and I've traveled it many times as a child.

We journed a quarter of the way around the world after marriage, and have come home to the same well worn path I knew so well.

*I used manual settings, ISO 200 (for outdoor light). And someday I'll look back on this and think, "gosh, there's so much I didn't know, and that picture could have been so much better." That's the joy of watching myself grow and learn.

Saturday Shots

 Barrelling Through

Caught Up

Fenced In

Cleaning Supplies



It Rains In The Bathroom

In addition to this being National Down Syndrome Awareness Month, it's also National AAC Awareness Month. In our little world, these two go hand in hand. Funny how Micah seems to be at the center of so much in our corner of the universe.

For those who may be new here, AAC stands for Augmentative and Alternative Communication. This would be Micah's Voice, in the fun go-green color.

Shockingly (or not) I have a story to share about this very topic. It was shared by my mother-in-law, who kept Micah and Luke over the weekend.

My MIL and I were just talking about Micah and how he's doing in school. It's hard to answer that question. I mean, there's no doubt that  the boy is a smart cookie. He instinctively knew how to use his iPod Touch without anyone showing him, and that's just one example in a sea of many. Yet, when asked to find the color yellow out of a lineup of 6 colors, he'll mostly point to the right one. The odds of him getting a correct answer diminish some when you ask him about numbers or letters. And that, my friends, is the extent of his school knowledge. He's in second grade.

The very next day my MIL informed me that Micah took his Voice into the bathroom with him Sunday morning. He went over every screen at least twice looking for something specific. He was sure it was on the Health page as that one was explored more than any other. When he couldn't find what he wanted, he went to Weather, then Rain.

Hand up the one who guessed that my boy wanted to take a shower.

It might just be the proud mama in me, but I'm thinking that's rather genius. Thinking skills, right there. Grasping concepts, relating one thing to another. Problem solving.

So where would one put Micah's IQ at? And how much does he really know that he's not letting on? Maybe colors and numbers are too easy for him and he just wants to mess with us. And why don't I have Shower on his Voice?

So many questions, and no voice to answer with.

Have I mentioned lately that I love this boy of mine, even without a voice to answer so many questions?

Biblical Translation 101 And How It Relates To Kids

Luke 11:8
I tell you, though he will not get up and give him the bread because he is his friend, yet because of the man's persistence he will get up and give him as much as he needs.

The above referenced passage is part of a parable about a man who has friends stop in late at night. He realizes that he has no bread to serve them and can't go to the local 7-11, so he knocks on his neighbor's door.

Said neighbor goes to bed early and just doesn't want bothered with this kind of stuff when all he wants to do is sleep. (He probably has small kids of random ages. The baby takes the 9-midnight shift of Lets Keep Mom And Dad Awake, the toddler takes the midnight -3 AM shift, and the preschooler takes the 3-6 AM shift. The kids graciously let the parents sleep after that, knowing full well that the alarm is set to go off at 6:30.)

So the neighbor is just plain tired. Exhausted. Beat down from years of sleep deprivation at the hands of his wee precious children. He's in bed, darnit, and he's not getting up to share bread. He chooses to ignore his neighbor's pleas for help, accompanied by the mad knocking on his door. If he can sleep through the dogs barking nightly, he can most assuredly sleep through that pesky bread-hungry neighbor.

But the knocking continues. And the yelling begins. And by golly, if that neighbor wakes the kids (who are sleeping for the first night since I Can't Remember Because I'm Perpetually Sleep Deprived) there will be consequences to pay. Consequences. Big ones, too.

So the sleep deprived neighbor does what anyone would do in this situation. He wishes that the earth would open up and swallow his neighbor. He's willing to deal with the gaping hole right in front of his door, but please just make that neighbor go away.

Knock, knock, knock. POUND. POUND. "Bread! I just want one loaf! I know you're in there and you can't be asleep yet because I see your eyes glaring at me in the dim nightlight you have."

Curse that nightlight, along with the neighbor.

At this point, the man has no choice but to get up and hand out bread like Halloween candy. If it comes to waking the kids or losing a few minutes of sleep, it's a no-brainer. He rolls off his floor mat, gingerly steps across sleeping bodies, opens the pantry door, and tosses bread out the window.

"...because of the man's persistence he will get up and give him as much as he needs."

Why is it that kids instinctively know this verse, and grasp it's full meaning?

MomMomMomMOMMomMomMoooooomMommyMomMom

GAH! If you'll just stop with that insanity I'll give you the bread already!

See? Genius. Kids are brilliant.

Learning To Say, "Gosh I Love Myself" Isn't As Easy As It Sounds

Insecurities can wreak havoc with our psyches. It's nothing short of insecurity that makes us rush out and buy a new dress when we're invited to the Big Shindig That The Husband's Office Is Hosting or finds us at the salon getting a pedicure before going to the beach (as well as hitting the tanning bed - to go to the beach, no less). Insecurity will make you re-style your perfectly coiffed hair so that you can take your kids to the stylist for cuts. (Heaven forbid the stylist see you in anything other than perfect hair. My word, what will she think of me? That I can't do my own hair without her help?) (Okay, it's true. Still, I'd rather she not know that.)

It's funny how insecurity is something that we learn as we go along. How many toddlers run around wondering if their diaper makes their butt look too big? (And while it totally does, why is a big backside just darling on toddlers and not adults?) How many stress that Spider Man was so yesterday? Exactly. Kids do what they want, regardless if it's yesterday, last year, or 1987. These are people who play with boxes and sticks for hours on end, not caring if their nose is visibly dripping and they have bedhead. (At the same time.)

In fact, toddlers take things one step further and will insist that not only do they not care if their tattered gray sweatpants and Sunday church shirt and tie don't match, they still want to wear them to school. (True story.) (That was last week, and yes, I let him.) (He's been wearing a tie every day to school since. Not a single one has matched anything. And he's ditched the oxford in lieu of a tshirt.) (My boy rocks.)

Somewhere along the line, kids learn that there are rules. Rules for manners, rules for dressing, rules for having friends. I'd like to blame the rules for imposing the insecurities on us, but in reality it's the kids doing it. Kids are such rule followers. Once they know about something, they become Enforcers. The Enforcers are the ones who point out that "she has a booger!" or "his clothes don't match!" And what starts out innocently as simply pointing out something that shouldn't be (remember when your kid first yelled in his great big loud outdoor voice that someone in the grocery store was old or overweight or a different skin color?) then turns into ridicule. The child that broke the rules is shamed, and their world will never be the same again. Those little barbs of truth hurt, and go in so deep that as adults we're very afraid of being different.

We don't wear white after Labor Day. How many decades did we adhere to that silly rule before someone had the guts to say, "there's nothing wrong with doing this. I will wear white in winter."

We see models in magazines and actors onscreen that are a smaller clothing size than the mannequins in stores, and we realized that we are obese in comparison. As a whole, women are ashamed of their size because they are not a 0. Not before childbirth, and certainly not after.

We see these same people with perfect hair, all the time. We do not have a team of professional stylists following us around with a can of hairspray and a brush, ready to fix any stray hair the instant it strays. We hate our hair because it isn't picture-perfect. Sometimes it's flat, or fly-away, or anything other than we think it should be.

We learn to avoid mirrors and cameras. If we don't see ourselves, there will be less loathing. If we never allow ourselves to be photographed, there will never be evidence that our hair wasn't perfect and we weren't a size 0. Nobody will ever remember that we wore anything other than designer clothes and carried handbags that cost more than South Pacific islands.

I believe that each of us is made to be exactly how we should be. Tall or short, thick hair or thin, it matters very little what anyone else is. What matters is what I am, and what I do with myself. It is not my responsibility to make myself into someone different. It is my responsibility to be happy with myself because I was made with a purpose. I can control small things like restyling hair or losing a few pounds, but in the end it's what's inside that shapes us. If I live with disappointment and frustration over what I see in the mirror, I will reflect that in my relationships with others.

I want my kids to see that they are beautiful just the way they are. I want them to know that this is a choice they have to make for themselves, and at times defend it. I want them to be comfortable in the knowledge that everyone is made differently, but there is no right or wrong. I want them to love themselves, and I want them to learn it from me.

I'm Attending the SACERMUSANTSSATE!

It's funny how life changes you. When you're a teen, all you care about is the latest fashion and gossip. (Unless you were me, in which case you'd spend all your free time in the stable, or in the woods.) When you become a parent, your focus suddenly shifts to things like bottle vs. breast, or cloth vs. disposable, or jarred vs. homemade. Things that didn't matter to you suddely have taken on front-and-center priority. Things that you didn't even know about are now what you must have and do. (Hello, Boppy Pillow. How easy you made life after your invention.)

After 3 kids, I saw my life taking on a pattern. As we planned our fourth, I was looking far down that road ahead, seeing us with teens. Watching our family grow and mature. Imagining the future we saw in our heads. And then we realized that we weren't going to be walking down that straight road but instead turning at the crossroads. The destination is the same, we just got to take a detour in life. It's not better or worse, just different. Being one that relishes in back roads and scenic routes, I'm not complaining. But once again, life has changed us.

Now, instead of focusing on our growing family and the Next Big Step (whatever that may be), we're learning and growing in ways we never dreamed about before. I have learned, over the past 7 years, what Early Intervention is, and have experienced OT, PT, and ST through my son. We're in the MHMR category which qualifies us for things like IEPs and TSS's and wraparound services. And because of his lack of speech we've also been introduced into the world of AAC devices.

I know it's a lot of unexplained random letters, and words without meaning to the general public. If you want explanations, I'll be glad to tell you. But most likely you either already know or just don't care, which is my point. We've been changed by our youngest son. We've grown to become interested in things that we didn't even know existed, and now are part of our everyday world.

And that explains why I'm super excited about this.

The Sixth Annual Center of Excellence for Remote and Medically Under-Served Areas/National Telerehabilitation Service System Assistive Technology Exposition.

I'm going to be there for an all day conference. And it's going to rock. Seven years ago I wouldn't have understood many of the words in that title as they related to each other, nor would I have cared enough to try to dechipher them. But today? Seven years later? I'm all over that kind of stuff. I'm like a special needs geek, and loving every minute of it.

This is certainly not the life I envisioned when I dreamed of becoming a parent. But it's funny how life takes twists and turns unexpected, and we realize how much better it is than what we originally wanted. God is good that way.

(And who the heck names an expo that? What kind of PR person do they have working for them? Geesh.)

Listen Closely, Mama, I Promise You'll Be Amazed

When he wants to make a point, or be sure that he's heard, Micah will grab my face with his little hands and turn my head so that I'm looking directly into his eyes. If I'm already looking at him, he'll simply hold my face there so that I don't accidentally lose interest in what he's saying and be distracted by something shiny elsewhere.

So today Micah walked up, grabbed my chin in his palm, and turned my head from my book to his face. Instead of pointing somewhere, or showing me something, his face went completely dead. My mind was thinking, "huh?"

I know, I'm so profound. Even my thoughts are deep.

And then I heard it. The reason Micah wanted my full attention. After the explosion from his backside, his face broke out in a huge grin. And I was there to witness his pride in his latest accomplishment.

Boys. They are all the same. And they never grow up.

Sunday Morning Biscuits

Feel free to follow along as I learn more about photography. See the link at the top called Oooh, Pretty Pictures? Click over and watch me grow.

Photography Class 101

I have found that the best way to learn to take better pictures is to simply take pictures. Use the camera, get to know the settings, experiment. Over the past year I've drastically improved my knowledge of the camera and editing techniques, and look forward to learning and growing in the future. There are so many wonderful photography sites out there full of information and help, and I plan to follow their lead here. One site will post a theme that I may use, one may ask me to edit a photo, many will most likely be way over my head and I'll struggle to keep up. But that's where the learning comes in.


Feel free to follow along as I learn and grow. At the very least, there's bound to be an interesting picture every now and then.

****************************

Digital Photography School posted an assignment called Treasures this past week.




This would be my treasure. I love little hands and feet. These are the smallest feet in the house, and they're none too small anymore. I'm treasuring them for as long as I can before they grow up to be too big to tickle.

Saturday Shots

Melted Candy Corn



Scuffling





Red



And This Is Where You Can Get Involved

One of the first things that I learned after Micah was born is that Downs isn't caused by anything that the mother did while carrying her child. As any mom knows, if you can eliminate guilt from the start, it's a very good thing. While I never smoked, consumed alcohol, or took recreational drugs, I wasn't that faithful at taking my prenatal vitamin.

The thing I learned was that Down syndrome is caused by a faulty egg. (The medical books won't tell it so bluntly, but that's the long and short of it.) The medical society will tell you that there are many factors that contribute to this genetic malfunction.

1. A mom who has smoked for too many years. (I've never smoked. Unless you count that second hand smoke addiction I had while pregnant with our 3rd. Yoi.)

2. A mom who has been on birth control pills for ten years or longer. (I was sporadic with this, on a year or two, off for a few more, for a total of 7 years.)

3. And especially a mom who's 40 or older. (While I can see how this applies - I mean, at 39 I'm already seeing things fall apart and deteriorate. That's just the outside; I can't imagine what the inside of me is doing - still, I was 32 when I had Micah. That would make me 31 when I conceived him. That's not old by any stretch!)

So this puts me right back to Square One, wondering how on earth we were blessed with Down syndrome.

I have a theory.

I was under a boatload of stress when Micah was conceived. While our family unit was as stable as it ever was, other factors most certainly were not, and the stress was overwhelming at times. I learned with pregnancy that stress affects your body in ways that you can't control. If I saw outward signs of the effects of stress, there had to be internal issues as well. If stress can cause ulcers and acne, it can most certainly affect the manufacture of eggs. A genetically "enhanced" egg could easily be the byproduct of stress, am I right?

So here's where you come in. I have said for years that I would someday conduct an informal survey to determine the validity of this point. If you have a child with Downs, please weigh in on whether or not you remember being under any stress around the time you became pregnant with that dear little one. You don't need to tell me the details, a simple Yes, Now That You Mention It, There Was Stress Involved will suffice.

And please feel free to share this post link with anyone you know of with a child with Downs. I really would like to test this theory to it's fullest and need as much participation as possible. What better time to do this than during National Down Syndrome Awareness Month?

Thank you. I appreciate it already.

* Michelle pointed out that Downs can also be caused by abnormal sperm cells, so it's not always the egg. (See? There is no end of learning in this world. Hello, National Down Syndrome Awareness Month.) But this also fits in with my theory. Stress can affect men just like it does women. Maybe your husband was stressed? Feel free to share. Again. Please.

Raising Awareness One Blog At A Time

October is a crazy busy month. There are some very important things happening in October, like leaves coloring, and Halloween, and National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. There are a lot of bloggers out there supporting and promoting breast cancer awareness, and it's a wonderful thing. I love those bloggers for doing that. Even the ones that I don't know.

Something that you may not know about the crazy busy month of October is that it is also National Down Syndrome Awareness Month. I think it's obvious why this is a big deal to me. Sadly, it's nearly mid-month and I am just now making mention of this fact. (See the crazy busy part I've mentioned.)

So what does this mean to you and me? Nothing really. For me, it means that I will look at my son daily and know that we are living a completely different life than what we thought we would when I was pregnant with our 4th child 8 years ago. You know, just like every single day since Micah's birth. Nothing different. For you, it means that I will post every day in October. The only difference is the addition of Sundays, and because that's typically my day off, you get a picture. See? No different.

Except.

Except.

Every now and then I will feel the need to tell you what living with Down syndrome means. Sometimes I will share the fact that it's hard, and unexpected, and frustrating. Often I will share what it is to experience joy like I never knew before, because being touched by someone who has absolutely no guile and is bubbling over with love for life is infectious.

But then again, I do that on a regular basis anyway. I think this blog has been a supporter of National Down Syndrome Month from the beginning. I just fail to recognize the beginning and ending of the month of October, because when you live with someone with a disability it's not for a season. It's for a lifetime.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've said it before, and it's worth repeating. Micah is not what we had planned, but he's exactly what we wanted. We thank God daily for blessing us with Downs. We simply cannot imagine what life would be like without our spot of sunshine.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes it is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12

That's my boy. While we were heartsick over his diagnosis, he has become a tree of life to our entire family.

Lord, we never thought to ask for Downs, but we're so grateful that You've chosen to bless us anyway. Micah is so much more than we had in mind when we thought we lost our fourth child to a disability. We are so undeserving of your mercies.

Push Or Shove, It's All The Same In The End

Living in the mountains like we do, not every parking lot in town is privileged to be flat. Some have more of a slope than others, and then there's the grocery store with the sledding hill. My cousin worked across the road from this grocery once and said they watched a lady's full cart of groceries pick up speed as it rolled away from her. Awesome. Except if you're that lady.

Tonight we were at that store, and Micah was being Mr. Independent I Can Do It (which happens a lot, actually). He helped the bagger (giving a pack of gum it's very own bag) and loading filled bags into the cart. When we were heading out the door, he thought he would be The Cart Pusher. While we may allow him this privilege in a flat parking lot, pushing in The Sledding Lot wasn't happening. Daddy allowed Micah to push while he took the helm and guided. (And by guided I mean that he braced the cart from taking off down that hill and dragging Micah along behind it.)

Bringing up the rear of that wagon train, I watched as Micah carefully guided the cart through the doors, turned right into the parking lot, walked a few feet, then give the cart a firm shove before letting go. (Thank goodness Daddy was at the helm.) Being that the cart was already straining to take off, Daddy didn't feel the shove from the seven year old. He did, however, feel the push when Micah grabbed the cart's handle bar and pushed it with all his might as he walked behind it. If that cart wasn't going to roll down the hill on it's own accord, he was going to help it.

Boys.

I'm now wondering about that lady's cart that ran away while my cousin watched. Were there little boys snickering in a car somewhere, thinking they got away with some mischief?

I Deserve The Sprain From Kicking Myself In The Butt

I am considering Micah to be officially potty trained. While we still have an accident here and there, it's so random that I don't even give it credit. It's also very far between episodes. I'm still just as thrilled about this as I was when he decided to wear underwear all of his own accord that one day this spring that kicked off the whole Lets Get The Potty Train In Gear phenom.

I'm smiling out loud. Can you hear me?

So you can imagine my frustration and disappointment when I caught Micah in the bathroom in the midst of a mess. Just last week I found a little brown something reposing on the floor in front of the toilet (which was the only accident that I remember in the past few weeks) and because of that I felt the need to go see if Micah was sitting when I heard him straining from the other room. (The boy hasn't mastered quiet couth in the restroom yet. Give him time. We're so very grateful for what we do have that we're not complaining about the little things.)

He wasn't sitting. He was standing. There was a puddle right inside the door. And another in front of the sink. And a third by the toilet. His shorts were soaked as were his socks, and I just lost it. "Micah, what did you do? You know better than that! Shame on you. Shame.On.You!" I actually voiced that out loud instead of containing it inside my head like a better mom would have.

It was then that I realized that he was wearing shorts with a button closure instead of a snap. His poor fine motor skills prevent him from undoing buttons, and his shorts weren't loose enough to just pull off without undoing that darned roadblock. I felt lower on the scale than the brown that was inside his boxers. I yelled at my son for doing something that he probably was quite embarrassed about, and just couldn't help.

In future, I'll be sure to inspect all his pants for snaps or elastic waistbands. I will not set him up for failure again. And I'm grateful that this incident happened at home rather than at school. My poor boy. As if he didn't have enough to overcome in the handicap department, he's saddled with a mom who has no forethought on his behalf.

Coming and Going

Micah has his own sense of style. When he chooses to wear clothes, that is. He likes plaid shorts, and oxford shirts, daddy's neckties, and Becky's funky socks. Anything of Luke's is fair game, too. You can imagine, then, his joy each day with Spirit Week at school. One day was pajama day (hello, Woody pajamas!), one day was funky sock day, and mix and match day had him sporting his beloved oxford, daddy's tie, and sweatpants.

He'll never want to wear anything normal to school again.

For church, he is super excited to dress up in his button down shirt and tie. It's funny that he dresses up so when Daddy doesn't. (All daddy's ties have found their way to Micah's dress-up box.) Sunday morning he changed ties twice before he was happy with the look he saw in the mirror. It didn't match that well, which is probably why he loved the look.  He tucked his Bible under his arm and proudly went off to church.

The pastor loved Micah's look. Not many people are tie-wearers in our church anymore. The fact that Micah dressed himself was even more endearing (and obvious). He had Micah walk up to the front of the church and show everyone what a snappy dresser he was. (Micah said, "Hey.") When he came back to sit with the kids in the pew in front of me, I saw the other side of Micah. The one where we have a hard time getting jeans to fit.

It's not just anyone who can pull off a tie with plumber's crack.

A True Friend Will Carry All His Friends On His Back

Saturday Shots, Hallowboo Edition

Fall Florals

Green Runs The River

Weathered



Capped Sideways



The Original Dimensionals

Raining Down Purple

Luke's Story

The 4th grade class is doing a lot of creative writing this year. I approve. I also enjoy reading Luke's stories. Like this one.

Last night I woke up to find the tooth fairy sitting on my pillow and she shot her little hip-mo-gun at me and I was hypnotized. But it only lasted about 15 seconds because she had to use it a lot already. Then I ran to get a jar because I thought it was a firefly. When I came back I saw her carrying a 100 dollar bill. Then I realized it was the tooth fairy. Then she grabbed her split-o-gun and turned it into a 5 dollar bill. That's when I made a quick move and she froze me with her freeze-o-gun. Next she flew out the door with my 95 dollars! The freeze-o-gun wore off and I only got 5 dollars.

First of all, the boy has quite the imagination. Second, that explains a lot. I've suspected for years that the mythical Split-O-Gun existed, but now I have hard evidence. While I've never had a 100 dollar bill in my wallet, I've found 20's broken so many times. Everyone knows that smaller bills spend so much faster than larger bills, and once the big bills are blasted with that Split-O-Ray, the money is as good as gone.

And now we know, thanks to a 9 year old boy.

Heavier on the Sweet

He dressed himself in a t-shirt and shorts for bed last night. He woke up cold and joined us in bed. He's quite outspoken in his dress.

He's completely potty trained now, and is still new enough at it to point out any solid deposits in the water before flushing. He's proud of his accomplishments, no matter what they are.

He insists on walking himself in to school without me, opening doors, managing his backpack, finding his way to his room all by himself. He's very independent.

He loves dress up clothes, and plays cowboy and pirate just as often as he wears skirts. He's not afraid of being himself.

There are so many things that define Micah. Independence. Pride in accomplishment. Security in himself. I love all this about him, and so much more. But there are so many times every day that I worry. As he gets older he grows in so many ways, and yet he's still such an innocent child. These are the ironies that I'll continue to face as he grows.

Bittersweet. That's defines so much of our life as Micah's parents.

I worry that he'll forever be a child, in the toddler stages. I worry that he'll grow up and not be innocent any longer. I worry that others will take advantage of his trusting nature. I worry about things that were never an issue with the other kids, but are a daily part of life with Micah.

Parenting a child with special needs is so much different than parenting the other kids, and yet it's exactly the same.

Bittersweet Ironies.

I love this life we live, because the boy that makes it ironic and bittersweet is such a big part of who we are. He's shaped us into more than we ever could have been without the daily stress and chaos that he provides. And we're so grateful that for all the chaos, he has also taught us what an unconditional love is.

My boy. Growing us into better parents every day.

Those Eyes Make Me Smile No Matter What Else The Boy May Be Doing

Oooh, GREAT Timing

I had this genius plan to save my swagbucks for our next Disney trip. My plan saw me having about $200 worth of gift cards to spend in the park. That plan backfired when I cashed in some swag points for my first Disney card. Twenty five dollars in hand is twenty five dollars saved toward our future trip (that's yet unscheduled on the calendar). I realized that I can't use swagbucks points to buy gift cards on the Disney.com site. I called the Disney 800 number to verify that. (Something about using gift cards to buy gift cards was prohibited.)

With that $25 credit needing to be spent at Disney.com, I clicked on the clearance section and scored 2 pair of pajamas for Micah and one for my niece for Christmas.  They arrived on Thursday; the same day that Micah brought home the Spirit Week paper for school the next week.

Monday was Crazy Sock Day. Tuesday is Your Favorite Pajama Day. I'm only guessing what pj's Micah will want to wear. The timing was stellar.

I have swagbucks to thank for The Best Pajamas Ever, which will also double nicely as The Best Halloween Outfit Ever.

Rocking Our Parent Roles

The local amusement park dresses itself up for Halloween and hosts fun October weekends called Hallowboo. We took the boys over the weekend (Becky is over things like that, and was a friend's house) and had a blast.

I'm always enthralled by the costumes of the kids, and it was fun watching the never-ending parade of characters walking around. We saw high end costumes, handmade fun, and budget friendly versions of just about everything. Even the parents chose to dress up. I liked the mom wearing a tail, which was used as a handle for her young son to tag along behind. Nobody was happy with the whistle-happy clown. The parents who didn't dress up were in orange, or something very October/Halloween. Sam and I were not. We were dressed up as tired parents, because that's the costume that we rock the best.