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!



Buddy Walk 2015

I first learned about Buddy Walks the summer Baker was born.

 

How sad, that for twenty-seven years, I didn't know such a wonderful event even existed.

 

I count it all joy to be able to participate and walk alongside my one and only Baker Boy!

 

 

 

Baker and Barrett holding hands.

Oh. My. Heart.

 

Baker entered our world in May, and we entered our first Buddy Walk in October.

 

Little did I know the big love and support surrounding our little family.

With a few little blog posts and some especially special people, we raised over three thousand dollars and took a team of over 70 people to walk with Team Baker.

 

It was seriously one of my best days ever.

 

I felt surrounded.

By family.
By friends.
By faith.
By complete strangers woven together in this beautiful tapestry by a common thread of love, acceptance, and advocacy.

See our Buddy Walk 2012 here.

When my friend Mollie asked if we would join her and Team More Alike than Different for this year's Walk, I couldn't respond quickly enough!

Yes.
Yes.
YES!!

What a privilege to walk with Baker, Kirill, Gracie, Hanna, and Wren at the 2015 Buddy Walk.

 

 

 

 

Buddy walking with his favorite buddy!

 

Barrett is sporting his Team Baker shirt;

the same shirt Baker wore at our first Buddy Walk.

Talk about feeling all the feels.

 

 

Thumbs up for a perfectly perfect day!

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

The Talk (not that talk, the special needs talk)

This summer is the first summer Baker has been three.

(Photo creds: Katie Thompson Photograpy)

Silliest of statements, I know.
Of course this summer is the first summer Baker has been three.
Hear me out.

Three year olds get to play with the big kids.
Three year olds are no longer considered babies and given the grace babies are given.

Babies are allowed to sit quietly.
Babies are allowed to keep to themselves.
Babies are allowed to play in their own safe area.

There are no expectations surrounding play with babies,
except that babies will be babies.
Babies do what babies do.

Last summer, and the summer before, and the summer before that, Baker was a baby.

This summer is the first summer Baker has been three.
This summer is the first summer Baker has gotten to play with the big kids.
This summer is the first summer Baker's play has been laden with expectations of looking and sounding a certain way.
This summer is the first summer Baker has been noticed as different.

Before, Baker could sit on the sidelines.
Before, Baker could bounce on my lap and giggle and coo to everyone's delight.
Before, Baker was a baby.
Before, it was okay that Baker could not talk, could not run as quickly, could not jump as high.

Before, none of the other kids saw Baker any differently than they saw their baby sister or little cousin. He was a baby (and a darn cute one). He did what babies did. Because of his different abilities, some of it came at a slower rate, and took much greater effort. His hypotonia caused his chubby little legs to frog out when he slept and his little body to collapse into mine winning him all the awards for world's greatest snuggler. He was a baby, and everybody loves a baby. Especially Baby Baker.

This summer is the first summer Baker has been three.
And because of that, this is the first summer our little sphere has been expanded.
And because of that, two things have happened to this momma's heart.

It has experienced both unspeakable joy and unspeakable ache.

My heart has threatened to overflow watching Baker create new friendships.
I have been so encouraged as I have listened to other mommas enlighten and empower their children with knowledge about Down Syndrome as questions have presented themselves about why Baker's play and talk differ from their own. I have loved watching the innocence of children, as they love with their whole heart, without judgment and with unhindered acceptance.

My heart has also threaten to shatter into pieces as I see other children notice Baker's different abilities. "Is he special ed?" one asked innocently. Others can't understand his fascination with perfectly folding all of our beach towels instead of bounding down the slide like all the other children. Why, when their conversations flowed as easily as lemonade on a summer day, did Baker prefer silence? Why, when he does speak, does he often do so first with his hands and then with words that sound so differently than our own? Why does he often drift to the perimeter when all of the action is in the center?

Why is he different than me?

Could you answer that question?

Little more than three years ago, I would have stuttered through it,
preferring to brush it under the doormat, or
opting to combat it with the eye that commanded silence
instead of opening doors to a conversation of acceptance.

As the mom of a seriously great kid, who happens to have unique needs, I beg you to have the talk.
The talk about alikes and differences, and how often we're more alike than different.

If you need a name, use Baker. If you need a face, I think his is pretty perfect. If you need words, use a picture book (spoken like a true teacher, ha!). I love "We'll Paint the Octopus Red."

Your children won't mind if the words aren't perfect or eloquent or include textbook terminology. They can be simple and succinct and from the heart.
From the bottom of mine, thank you.

More than you know, thank you.

You might also like:

What if we have two children with Down Syndrome?
I never knew I wanted a child with Down Syndrome until I had one
A missed opportunity

Waves

I started blogging shortly after Baker was born. It was a wonderful means by which to share our new addition with family and friends, but it was also something more. God called me out upon the waters to be open and transparent about our journey in raising a child with Down Syndrome. He equipped me with a boldness I had never known for His name to be glorified for what he was doing in our lives. Over the next three years, I began to blog less and less about Down Syndrome and more about life because Down Syndrome became less and less our life and more just a part of our life. The emotions and fears that were so raw and so present began to subside and were replaced with encouragement and hope for the future. But some days, even days more than three years later, a conversation, or a seed of discouragement, or a label tossed about flippantly brings back the waves of emotion so big they threaten to pull my feet right out from under me and leave me fighting for breath. 

 

 

 

 

 

"Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders 

Let me walk upon the waters

Wherever you would call me

Take me deeper than my soul could ever wander 

That my faith would be made stronger 

In the presence of my Savior."

 

 

Original post on July 17, 2012.

Emotions, for me, are like waves. Some are so big, they pull my feet right out from under me and leave me fighting for breath. Others are soothing, comforting, rafts upon which I find comfort and solace.

The emotions I have experienced upon learning of Baker's diagnosis have been no different. From the dark December day we learned there was a heightened chance of our child being born with Down Syndrome, to this cheery day with sunshine illuminating all, emotions have abounded. What began as fear, uncertainty, trepidation, bitterness, and worry, intense worry...emotions so strong, they pulled me under, drowning me, have transpired into joy, unspeakable joy, a wave begging to be ridden.

For me, fear lies in the unknown. How will Baker's kindergarten classmates accept him? Will he share his daddy's passion for the outdoors and be able to hunt and fish and do all things boy? Will he drop a love note in his crush's locker? Will he be sent to detention for shooting spitballs at the ceiling? Will I get to see my son wait for his bride at the end of aisle? Will he make me a Nana? Will he? Will he? Will he? All questions a mother asks herself as she anticipates her child's future. When I think about these things, these things that pale in comparison to the one dream I should have for my son, then I worry, then I am sucked under by the crashing waves. 

But when I trust God with Baker's life, He reminds me of my one responsibility as Baker's mommy. It has nothing to do with his life on this Earth and everything to do with spending Eternity with my son. When I focus on raising my boy to live a life glorifying his Father, then I have peace. The worry disappears, and I have faith in God's plans for our lives.

Grab your boards, folks, cause that's a wave worth catching and riding all the way to the shore!

The Challenging Blessing of Down Syndrome

Some days Down Syndrome is tough.

 

Is that one of those things taboo to say?

Like you don't like doughnuts with sprinkles.

Or hot chocolate has too many marshmallows.  

 

Even on days you feel it in your heart, you never utter it aloud.

I have written this post at least half a dozen times in my head, but impressing the words onto the screen has not come easily.

Most days of this journey are incredible.

Each is joy-filled.

All are miracles sopped with His blessings so syrupy I am sticky from its sweetness.

Few are difficult.

The past week has been one of combination days, like my favorite Starbucks concoction. A little of this, with a dollop of that, swirled and frothed to perfection. But there has been something about the past few days to leave me longing, like the days when I forgo a grande sized goodness and regretfully choose the tall. When I finished this day, bedtime prayers were whispered, lullabies were hummed, Baker tucked tightly in his bed, my momma heart hurt and I uttered the words I almost never utter, “sometimes Down Syndrome is tough.”

On this day, I am wishing I could fight his fight.

For 32 months, I have watched Baker overcome.

He is an overcomer.

He has painstakingly endured countless hours of therapy to train his muscles to do the tasks and activities he beautifully boasts with the clumsy elegance of a toddler.

As of today, he has added sitting and standing, walking and running, eating and drinking, and putting on his socks and shoes to his resume as things he can do without assistance. And for that, my heart overflows.

Baker communicates through signs, through his gestures, through his body language so sweet.

I wouldn’t trade the way he shows his love to those he loves for all of the I love yous in all of the world.

I wouldn't, but he would.

He wants so badly to talk. Baker has been in speech therapy since he was 3 months old. He has fought for the day that words would come naturally. He learned a second language to compensate when the words wouldn’t form.

I wish I could fight this fight for him. As his mama, his biggest cheerleader, his number one encourager, I wish I could let this one thing come easily.

My husband so perfectly describes this as the “challenging blessing" of him having Down Syndrome.

And it is.

This journey has been a challenging blessing, with the blessings always outnumbering the challenges.

God's grace is amazing like that.

In retrospect, Baker doesn’t fight for everything. Some things come very naturally for him. There are things for which he doesn’t have to train, or go to a therapist, or work a day to accomplish. Some things he does with ease. Some things he does with an incredibly admirable grace.

Love

Laughter

Acceptance

Giving

Joy

Cuddling

Finding Favor

Generosity

Tolerance

Charm

Embracing

Gratefulness

Grace

Until the words come, we’ll give grace.

When I can’t give him the words to use, I’ll give him grace.

When he can’t make me understand his substitutions for words, I pray he’ll do the same.

We’ll give grace.

That’s part of the challenging blessing of raising a child with special needs.

 

Besides, there aren't words to convey happiness and joy like these dance moves!!
 

 

 

I was so encouraged by Kelle Hampton in a birthday post to her daughter Nella on her blog.

 

"It’s not that you can’t talk—you can. It’s that you understand one of the greatest secrets of the earth—that words aren’t as powerful as actions. You’ve learned to speak a dying language of deep emotion, and your fluency and expression is remarkable, something brilliance can’t come close to defining. The words you use are prefaced with looks and gestures that tell the world you not only see it but you love living in it. You listen with your eyes and your heart, and you respond—yes, with words—but more so with your grin, your little quick-step skip, and those arms thrown out beside you to hug the world while you swing your hair and twirl, twirl, twirl."

 

Source: Enjoying the Small Things

Maybe we're the ones getting it all wrong - trying to substitute words for actions and gestures.
Maybe Baker is doing it all right.
Dancing instead of talking. Showing instead of telling.
Maybe he knows the greatest secret in communicating is without words at all.

Here I am trying to teach him the world,

when,
in reality,

I am learning life's greatest lessons from him.

 

 

What if we have two children with Down Syndrome?

The question has been danced around,

tiptoed over,

skirted about.

 

What if Little Brother is born with Down Syndrome?

 

Few have asked;

 some flat out, others slightly more discreetly.

 

What are our chances of having two children with Down Syndrome?

 

The truth is, we don't know the answer.

We opted out of genetic testing after Baker was born.

The doctors pushed, insisting we know whether it was us that caused it.

It didn't matter.

Not to us.

Not even a little bit.

 

We knew, long before Baker arrived, there was a chance he would be born with Down Syndrome.

 

We knew, and we chose faith.

We knew, and we chose love.

We knew, and we chose him.

 

We knew if God made a way for us to have another child, the choice would be the same.

 

God has given us the exact family He desired to bring glory to His name.

 

That isn't just lip service.
I believe those words with every ounce of my being.

 

Just as He knows the grains of sand on all the beaches on all the earth,

as He knows the number of hairs on each of His children's heads,

He knows our family.

 

He knew Baker would be a boy.

He knew he would be born with Down Syndrome.

He knew he would have almond eyes, golden skin, rosy cheeks, and the most adorable knee dimples you ever did see.

He knew he would have different abilities.

He knew he would love easy and laugh hard.

He knew that twenty-seven months after we first laid eyes on Baker, we would joyously celebrate the news of Him loaning us another of His most precious.

He knew this child would also be a boy.

All of the other things we tend to question -

will he have his daddy's piercing green eyes and enviably olive skin,

will he have his mommy's right cheek dimple and freckle kissed nose,

will he and Baker have the same infectious personality -

He knows.

 

He has built our family with intention and with purpose.

He has intricately knit us together with unparalleled craftsmanship for our good and for His glory.

 

If Little Brother has Down Syndrome,

or if he is typically developing,

it matters not to us.

He will be loved.

He will be celebrated.

And God will receive all of the glory.

His works are wonderful, I know that full well.

 

He far exceeded anything we could have ever imagined with Baker. I cannot wait to see what He has in store for our family.

 

 

 

"I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."

Psalms 139:14

 

 

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

Romans 8:28

cowboy boots and faith

As soon as we saw certain little anatomy on the ultrasound confirming all things blue,
 we dreamed of a wild, skinned knee, mud-stomping, boot wearing boy.


Baker delivered all things wild, and skinned knees, and mud-stomping soon enough,
but the boots had to wait.


With Baker's different abilities, he requires some different equipment.


When he isn't padding around on his bare tootsies,
he is clomping here and there in his favorite tennis shoes
(most often New Balance 991s) with orthotics.
I posted more about that here.


Brian and I continued to dream about our boy in boots.
And Baker continued slipping his tiny foot into the big leather trough of his daddy's favorite leathers, pretending, as most little boys do, to be just like daddy.


We prayed, with expectation, for Baker's legs to be strong enough,
his ankles to be sure enough,
his balance to be stable enough to wear boots.


Sounds silly, right?
Praying for Baker to be strong enough to wear boots...but we did it.
Just like we prayed for him to crawl, and walk, and speak words, and drink through a straw, and give a high five, and point, and eat with a fork.
Things that might seem menial, but for us, are full of meaning.


They didn't make their debut when our favorite buckaroo turned two,
or on his fieldtrip to the Barnyard,
but finally, on farmer day, they were pulled out of the packaging, and with care, the tiniest cowboy boots were slipped on Baker's feet, and the receipt was finally crumbled and discarded with the day's trash.


We all rejoiced.


Baker pranced proudly around the house, and Brian and I cheered, like we do.
Silly parents, singing and dancing and hooping and hollering, at something so silly as a boy in boots.