It's a Par-TEE!

I now have a four year old and a one year old.

Excuse me while I uncurl myself from the fetal position.

 

What a wonderful whirlwind of a week it's been.

 

On Wednesday, Baker turned FOUR!

We had a fabulous celebration of all things HIM!

 

If anybody knows how to celebrate, it's Baker Bell.

 

Boy knows how to party.

 

And yes, that's a brownie for breakfast.

But I did slather natural peanut butter on it, because everybody knows we need protein for breakfast.

And chocolate comes from cocoa, which is a tree, that makes it a plant.

Chocolate is a salad.

So even though it was his birthday, he had salad topped with extra protein.

 

Because, Mom of the Year.

 

We also celebrated his teacher, Mrs. Nicole, who shares his special day!

We love her fiercely!

Then, despite all my pleas and begs, Barrett turned ONE on Sunday!

 

Talk about hitting a momma where it hurts.

Two birthdays in four days.

Ouch.

 

I still remember my ninth grade Biology teacher telling me it was a woman's perogative to change her mind. And by golly, I am all woman and put this to the test every single day.

 

It still baffles my ever-loving crazy mom mind that this idea stuck.

 

On May 17, 2015, we were released from the hospital to bring Barrett home.

On the way home, I said these exact words to Brian,

"Next year, we can totally have their parties together and even though I don't know the first thing about golf, let's do a golf theme.

Barrett's hole in ONE and Baker is FORE.

We can call it a Par-Tee, you know, "par" "tee.

Get it?

We can have Arnold Palmers to drink and club sandwedges,

and chips and mac and tees.

It's gonna be so fun."

 

I really amazed myself at all of the golf puns my sleep-deprived-hopped-up-on-new-baby-hormones  brain was producing. I would have high fived myself and done a little skip if all my nether regions didn't feel like they had just been run over by a Mack truck after delivering every single delectable ounce of a nine pound juicy baby boy.

Instead, I think I cried. "But I don't want him to turn one. And Baker, I'm not letting him turn four.

Why do they have to grow up? Why does time have to go so fast. It seems like he was just born yesterday."

 

Mind you, this was two days after he was born.

I still had 364 days to come to grip with this. 

Praise all things good and holy for Leap Years. 

 

My precious husband didn't know what to do.

Calm the screaming baby in the backseat,

throw me some Xanax,

or leap from the moving vehicle and sacrifice scratches and scars for sanity.

 

Fortunately, he didn't jump and I survived birthdays one and four.

 

And a whole year later, we did just that.

We had a Golf Par-TEE for our boys.

 

Baker is FORE and Barrett's hole in ONE!

 

It was perfect.

or PARfect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

  

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

    

 

 

Caddy Buffet:

Cupcakes - Vanilla Cupcakes with Toppers

Chip Shots - Bags of Chips

Club Sandwedges - Ham and Turkey Club Sandwiches

Par-Faits - Key Lime Parfaits

Birdie Nuggets - Chick-fil-A Nuggets Platter 

 

Party Favors:

Thank you for Playing a Round with Us tags on bagged personalized cookies

 

Printables: Amy Tippins at One Good Name 

Cookies: Cookies by Caley

Photographer: Corey Morrison

Birthday Outfits: Sew Whimsy

Cupcakes and Smashcakes: Publix

Location: The Rise School

 

 

More than Mere Words

Three words together.

 

My heart could burst.

 

"Raining. Daddy. 'Brella."

 

Oh the prayers that have covered his lips and tongue.

The pleading I've done with God to hear his voice.

The thoughts birthed in his brain,

etched on his heart,

seemingly stuck like glue to the back of his throat.

 

They're coming.

Baker is leading our happy dancing and keeps saying, "'Mommy, proud. Daddy, happy."

 

"Yes we are, Buddy.

So proud of you.

Every single day happy you are ours."

 

 

Four Year Flashback

Tonight, I told Baker the story of this day four years ago.
May 4, 2012.
My language was a little more kid-friendly, using less technical terms.
But the message was the same.
You are chosen. You are loved. You are enough. You are ours.

It was a warm May Friday and I was feeling every bit of the 35 weeks pregnant the calendar was proudly beaming.
Brian and I had both taken off work for a day trip to Birmingham.
He drove, but my mode of transportation would generously be described as a waddle.
We went because I thought I needed to know.
My planning, often controlling self, had to know if there was any truth to the suspicions of Down Syndrome our doctors had warned.

Brian quickly tossed on some clothes, while I took a little longer. I had grown quite accustomed to my protruding belly, stopping periodically through the getting ready process to admire it, acknowledge little kicks, and savor the last of an incredibly joyous season of growing a miracle.

We loaded up and began the trip. We alternated reading Happiest Baby on the Block, jamming to the radio - how was I to know that was one of our last car rides without "Wheels on the Bus" blaring through the speakers, and day dreaming about transitioning to a family of three. We did it all. Anything to keep the thoughts of fear from crippling my whole being.

It still crept in.
Often.
When it did, tears would leak from the corners of my eyes, and I would instinctively clutch my bulging belly, reminding my baby boy I would love him. Convincing myself everything would be okay, when I had no idea what okay even meant. Promising him all I ever needed him to be was mine.

We arrived at the specialist's office. A familiar, but foreign place. We had declined an amniocentesis, even when it was insisted several months prior. They cautioned, any later would be too late. It didn't matter. No diagnosis would alter our decision to keep our baby and love him just as he was.

But this day, that was exactly why we went. I would be delivering at a small town hospital in Nowhere, Mississippi and I wanted to be fully prepared, with just the right people, just the right tools, in just the right place. If my baby boy was going to be born with urgent medical needs, we wanted to give him everything he would need to survive and thrive.

Brian's hand was white as I clutched it, void of strength except that which he radiated. He had been my rock, my stronghold. He never faltered. In my fear, he was peace. In my confusion, he was clarity. In my sadness, he was joy.

He signed all of the necessary documentation, and guided us to our corner of the waiting room. He knew which seat I loved the most. The one that gave me the view of the city, the houses built into the mountain. The sun peering through the clouds, illuminating the horizon.

I sipped my water and watched the others in the waiting room. I was too nervous for small talk, so I prayed, but this time, not for us. This time, I prayed for all of the others joining me in the office that day. I didn't know their needs or the purpose for their visit, but He did. So I did the only thing I knew to do, lifted them to the One whose thoughts are greater and ways are higher.

My name was called. Mechanically, I lifted from my seat.

We made the long walk down the hallway, to the large room which housed some of my favorite equipment. Before my procedure, I was going to have another ultrasound.

I was giddy. I had fallen all over again and again in love with our Baker Bell. He was scrumptious and I loved every opportunity to see his perfectly growing body.

I stretched out on the familiar table, and was greeted by the doctors, nurses, and ultrasound technician. We always had an entourage. They started the scan by timing his heartbeat. I will never forget the sound of our baby's heart filling the room with the sweetest melody. Then they measured his arms and legs, which was a task trying to catch them as they wriggled all around. They scanned his brain, calming all fears with their confidence. They moved to his major organs, each measuring perfectly and without blemish.

In those moments, I felt a peace about not knowing. I no longer had to have a diagnosis. Only faith. I trusted in His plan for us and for our baby.

I sat up off the table, uttering something about declining another amniocentesis. They couldn't believe it. They ushered us to a room to ponder our decision. Brian and I dismissed the chairs lining the wall and knelt on the floor. The words wouldn't come, but the Lord heard our hearts.

"In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans."

Romans 8:26

 

We drove home, more excited than ever about meeting our baby boy. Whether he had Down Syndrome didn't matter. He was chosen. He was loved. He was enough. He was ours.

 

Little did we know, Baker would make his debut exactly one week later and surpass our wildest dreams.

 

As I tucked my baby boy in tonight, I was feeling all the feels. The Lord has been faithful to provide in our lives. What a joy the last four years have been. I kissed his cheeks, breathed his scent, whispered prayers over his sweet sleeping body.

 

 

 

PS - If you follow me on social media, get ready! My Baker Boy turns FOUR next Wednesday and our Barrett Bell turns ONE on Sunday! There is lots of celebrating happening around these parts!



I Never Knew I Wanted a Child with Down Syndrome Until I Had One





I had a dream this past week that Baker woke up without Down Syndrome.

 

Like his extra chromosome was absorbed into his plush minky sheets.

Or as if the sandman had carted it off in his knapsack and tucked it beside the lavender he used for lulling.

It was gone.

Kaput. 

Vamoose.

  

His beautiful eyes still boasted their autumn pools, but lacked the almond slant that never fails to draw me in and captivate my whole being.

 

His tongue remained tucked obediently inside his cheek, not once lagging like it does on occasion, especially when he is focusing so intently.

 

His hands hung by his side not in front of his face for signing, as words bounded from his lips articulate and coherent and utterly foreign.

 

As I reached in to hug him, his body did not collapse into mine, as is my very favorite thing about Baker - the way his low muscle tone makes him puddle into my eager embrace.

He was stiff.

Solid.

Strong.

 

His steps did not waiver, not once did his balance falter. He was sure footed and walked with a stability his little body has never known.

 

In that instant, he became a typical child.

Gone were the thoughts of IEPs.

Therapies were tossed into oblivion. 

His struggles became successes. 

The specialists on speed dial were no more.

 

I sat abruptly in bed. Tears streaming. Faint whimpers escaped my lips.

I navigated through the dark room and padded the familiar steps to Baker's bed.

I picked him up and felt his warm body fold sleepily into mine.

 

It was just a dream.

He was still the same Baker Boy I had read Let me Hold You Longer, while his little body relaxed and his eyes grew heavy.

He was still the same Baker Boy I had rocked and sang "This Little Light of Mine," and to seal the deal, "You are My Sunshine" only hours earlier. 

Nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

 

I don't know who said it originally, but I believe it to the very depths of my being.

I never knew I wanted a child with Down Syndrome until I had one.

No truer words have ever been spoken.

 

He is loved exactly the way he is.

He is one of our Creator's greatest masterpieces.

He was crafted in love.

He was knit together wonderfully.

He is a joy spreader, a light brightener, a glad giver. 

 

 

 

 

Being his mother is the greatest blessing.

Watching his life bring glory to our Jesus is an incredible gift.

 

Just the way you are, sweet Baker, we love you just the way you are.

  

"For we know that in all things, Christ works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose."

Romans 8:28

 

'Round the Dinner Table

When my mind drifts back to my childhood, I can’t help but think about the experiences provided for me that I want for my boys.

Evening bike rides illuminated by the setting of the sun.

Puppy dog baths that turned into an outside sudsfest for all.


Sunday mornings spent worshipping.

Sunday afternoons spent breathing it all in – the aroma of lunch wafting through the air, the smell of all things child – sweat, dirt, cookies pilfered before dinner, and the tiniest of hint of baby soap lingering from the previous night’s bubbles, the heavy perfume from the nursery worker who couldn’t resist baby snuggles.
Sunday evenings spent sipping hot chocolate around a campfire as we try to squeeze the last few remnants out of the beloved weekend.

Warm cookies at the end of the school day.

Bedtime prayers and bedtime stories and bedtime giggles that always worked to delay the inevitable bedtime.

Dinners ‘round the table.

 

No matter the meal, no matter the day, no matter the schedule, our dinners were spent ‘round the table.

My mom was quite the cook; but it’s not the food I remember. I can recall only a few meals; but I can name every person who graced our table over the years.
The people, not the food, made the meal.
Made the memories.

We talked of playground crushes and mastered multiplication facts. We planned adventures. We schemed neighborhood scavenger hunts and slipping notes and sweet treats to our favorite teachers.

We talked about anything.

We talked about nothing.

We talked about everything.

And now, our little family of four does the same. Brian in his seat, me in mine. Baker situated strategically between the two, and Barrett perched happily on the table top. All together.

Dinner is carried to the table, where each serves their plate. Heads are bowed, four eyes are closed (Baker keeps his opened slightly to make sure no one takes his food and Barrett refuses to miss a thing). Prayers are uttered, and a collective amen is whispered.

Sweet tea is poured. Forks are drawn. No morsel is safe.
And then my favorite part, conversation.
The worries of the day are drowned in the chorus of our voices.

It looks slightly different than it looked in my childhood home. Two children instead of three. A table of four instead of a table of five.

It sounds different, too.

The sounds of Barrett cooing and ahhing sprinkle the air and add more flavor to our table than even the tastiest of seasonings.

Baker has begun to contribute to the conversation, adding emphasis and nodding along. Part of Down Syndrome means his speech is delayed and he has to work harder to make his mouth say what his brain thinks. In his own language, Baker tells about his day. My heart swells. In words mostly undiscernible words, he talks.

I can imagine he’s telling us how Harper’s mommy sent cheese puffs while his sent some measly veggie straws. I am convinced he’s reciting the song they sang at music and the instruments he got to play. From the smile on his face and the joy in his voice, I’m quite certain he was the class leader today. I bet he got to peek out the window and give the weather report, lead the days of the week song, and even clean up after play time. He gets uncharacteristically quiet and I imagine he’s reflecting on his day, deciding what detail to divulge next. He nods emphatically, his face growing increasingly more animated. He begins again. His words powdering the room. I listen intently, study his signs, desperate for a clue as to what he’s telling so excitedly. My heart, equally thrilled at how eagerly he communicates and so broken and torn that a barrier as vast as the Great Wall stands between me and my baby boy.

How desperately I long for the day I can understand his every word. The day I can celebrate along when he tells us something good. The day I can heal his hurt when he tells of something gone awry. The day I can praise him for successes at school.

Sitting ‘round the dinner table with Baker, the Lord has taught me many things.

The greatest,

 

we speak with more than mere words

In all the words, in all my life, I have not been able to say what Baker has said in his.

His mouth, his body, his being, his heart all speak love, joy, strength, and hope.

What a privilege to be Baker’s mother. In every way, it is a blessing to be his mother.


My prayer tonight,

Lord Jesus, give me eyes to see and ears to hear. God, in your infinite power, strengthen Baker's muscles so that the words flow articulately. You are bigger than hypotonia. You are greater than a disability.

I trust your timing; for while we wait, we grow. 

Your plan is perfect.

You are faithful and your promises are true. 

Thank you for making Baker so wonderfully. For forming Him in your image.

I pray that you cover him with grace so abundant for him to lavish freely on us as we learn to communicate with one another in a language of love.

You are not the author of worry. You are not the creator of doubt.

I trust you are using this also for your good. So we wait. We celebrate strides made along the way. We glorify you alone for how you are moving in our son. How you are growing our family to look only to you for wisdom.

Lord Jesus, you are good. Your mercies are new every morning. Thank you the privilege to be a mother. Even more, thank you for the honor of being Baker's mother. I am so unworthy, but eternally grateful you trusted one of your most precious to me.

In your most faithful name I pray.


 

New Adventures - Glasses Wearing and Friends Fellowshipping

Last week, Baker and I moseyed up to Birmingham for a day of doctors.

 

The boys' BeBe stayed home with Barrett, so it was a day full of memories to be made for just me and my big boy!

And just when I thought my Baker Boy couldn't get any cuter, this happened.




I'll share more on our new adventure in glasses wearing in a few lines.

 

We stopped at Urban Cookhouse to meet some dear friends for lunch.

Praise all things good and holy for a kid-friendly place that doesn't make moms lose their religion.

Hashtag playplaces give me the willies.

 

Sally was one of the first to reach out to me after Baker was born. Her adorable boy, Walker, was born just two months before Baker and I have loved her (and her more precious than precious little boy) from the start of this joy-filled journey.

 

Baker and Walker acted like lifelong friends.

At some points, Sally and I attempted adult conversation.

IEPs. Fears. Dreams. Development. Therapists. School.

All were topics worthy of our words. 

Other times, our language was lulled and our speech was silenced by the mesmerizing sight of these

two boys.

Our boys.

Our hearts.

The ones we pray for and cry over.

Wish wishes and dream dreams.

They were doing it, right there in our midst.

Living out answered prayers.

 

 When Baker plays with typical children, there is a certain expectation.

Expectations involving play, language, personal space, among others.

I wrote a post about this a few weeks ago called The Talk that The Mighty published and the National Down Syndrome Network featured.

You can read it here. 

 

With Baker and Walker, there were no expectations.

There was just acceptance.

Whole hearted, unabbreviated, need nothing in return, acceptance.

There was little verbal talk, except in a language all their own,

a lot of laughs from two silly boys,

an equal love for macaroni and cheese,

and more hugs than can be squeezed into one day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Could it be that these two big boys were once these two water-loving little babies?

 

 

 

 

Time, you are a cruel and wonderful thing.

 

After a scrumptious lunch date and promises to fellowship again soon,

 we headed to Baker's ophthalmologist.

 

What a gem of a woman and an answer to this worrying mama's prayers.

 

He has been seen since shortly after his first birthday for farsightedness and astigmatism;

however, nothing was serious enough to warrant glasses or corrective surgery.

 

We knew there was a strong possibility glasses were in our near future, and

a school eye exam earlier in the year hinted that his eye sight was worsening.

 

We went through all of the steps.

Dilating and drops and lights and lenses.

And lots of stickers and attaboys.

 

 

 

 

So. Many. Choices.

 

 

 

 

In the end, we walked away with a prescription for some suave spectacles,

and a little dude feeling more dapper than ever.

 

 Doing life with this sweet boy is my favorite way to do life.

 

 

You might also like:

 

Heart Burst - July 2013