Sweet without being mushy, just the way we like it. There are more parents out there willing to adopt DS children than there are DS children to adopt -- why? Oh, that's right -- don't want to be punished with a baby, now.
We're dealing with some extra trauma this week: Miranda's pet guinea pig died -- was murdered, really -- by one of the dogs in her house. She lives with her mom and four dogs; when her mom dropped her off for school yesterday, one of the dogs (a one-eye, deaf, baby pitbull) pushed aside the stair gate to get to a stuffed toy. This meant the decrepit beagle could force his way up the stairs, get into Miranda's room, tip over the guinea pig cage, and break the poor thing's neck. We're all very sad about it -- I'm a big fan of guinea pigs, being a former owner myself, but all the anecdotal knowledge I have says that pigs and dogs don't mix, to the detriment of the pig. RIP Sunnie.
First Things (the Catholic journal) features this meditation by Amy Julia Becker on Down Syndrome, perfection, and God. Becker's daughter, Penny, was born two and a half years ago with DS, and here for me is the money quote:
Lots of stuff in life has got in the way of regular contributions to this blog (obviously!). But after the election, we've decided we need to be speaking out again. Look forward to some changes here in the next few weeks and a more regular schedule. Despair not!
This links to something I've read about in passing before: Arthur Miller's put-away DS son. The "the moralist of the past American century" (Denver Post) didn't seem to think anything was awry in putting his son away.
This is a more enlightened age, of course: we kill them now, instead.
Thanks to Mere Comments.
Just a slew of stories in the news recently, about parents who shouldn't be parents.
Crystal meth -- always a happy ending.
Yeah, let's leave the baby with a pit bill. Brilliant idea.
Sheesh!
On an unrelated note, this'll wash that taste outta your mouth; the world's oldest Downie, 71 and doin' just fine, thank you!
I'm afraid life with two little kids and an adolescent, all of 'em in school and therapy, has been chewing a hole into my time for the past few months. There's some breathing time this month (everyone's in summer school), and I realize that I've spent the past three years in a black hole of time -- there are projects I started or bought supplies for three years ago (just before Dot's birth) that have stood untouched since then. It's my hope to resume blogging once I've put a few more fires out!!!
My sermon at St. Swithin's Episcopal Church today.
Several years ago, I took scuba diving lessons. One of my classmates
was a member of a group that all went on adventures together – bungee
jumping, what have you. Scuba diving was the latest adventure they all
wanted to try. The last one they tried was skydiving.
My friend told me that skydiving class was very thorough. They spent
many hours in the classroom, learning the equipment inside and out.
They learned what forces would be acting on their bodies when they
finally took the dive, and how to cope with them. They learned how to
deal with emergencies, what to do if the chute wouldn’t open, and what
to do if THAT failed. Everything they would possibly face was drilled
into their heads, and they were as prepared for this as they were for
anything in their lives.
Still, he said … the day of the first dive … that walk from their preparation area to the plane was the longest walk of his life.
So it's Friday night, and after phone consultation with Dr. Wife, we decide that I'll grab takeout at Sharkey's, one of our favorite "casual dining" places. I wheel Dot in her stroller -- Henry likes to run up and down the ramp inside the restaurant.
For a Friday, it's pretty darn quiet -- only a couple of people at the tables. Ahead of me at the counter: another dad, waiting for his takeout, while his 7-year-old son loads up with salsa in those tiny little urine sample cups.
While the counter staff takes my order, Dot is flirting with the other dad, who flirts back -- she grabs his proferred fingers so he can wheel her back and forth in the stroller. And then it hits me: Other Dad is Bradley Whitford.
(Note: Father C called me last week -- the priest preaching at the 7:45 service bailed, could I fill in? Sure, I said. I didn't know he was sticking me with an apocalypse!)
Advent 1
Sermon at St. Swithin's
Luke 21:25-31
Happy New Year!
No, I haven’t taken leave of my senses, nor have you been in a coma for a month. This is the first Sunday in Advent, and as we light that first purple candle, we start a new Christian year – a time when we gather as a community, open up a new Gospel – Luke this year – and tell our story all over again, from the beginning.
Now, the Christian year does not start with the birth of Christ. Let me digress for a moment: I’m sure you know that Christmas is not Jesus’ birthday.
