Footprints

Taking your new baby out into the world for the first time is like opening a soda can that's been rolling around in the trunk of your car for a week: equal parts unnerving and exciting.

Ava Leigh and I began venturing out last week, beginning with a little mommy/ daughter lunch date one wet afternoon at Brew Heaven.  While I warmed myself with some decaf coffee, she charmed the pepper outta the waitstaff.  Near closing time, she calmly took her bottle and drifted to sleep against my chest as I watched the rain fall and enjoyed a rare moment of thinking about nothing in particular.  When you've existed in a constant state of panic for months, such moments found in the absence of adrenaline can be almost bewildering when you discover yourself in the midst of them.

Since then, we've had a few brief family outings - Wal-Mart, the bank, Lowe's, even the mall (which was bustling with tax refund millionaires, as Ava's Uncle Bud aptly put it when we went to see him there at work).  While I've had the typical Mommy apprehension about bringing her around a large group of people, I know that it will do our hearts some good to see that she's fussed over by perfect strangers and accepted into society as any baby would be.

I wonder if most parents of children with special needs share these concerns with me... Will people see her as the pretty girl with large blue eyes and warm porcelain skin whose wide-eyed gaze can melt your defenses, or will they look at her and see that she's a little different than most?  My first response to the possibility of rejection is to be instantly defensive. 

 I wish that I had a window into others' minds so I could be forewarned of who might unfairly judge her.  I'm afraid of her being written off with labels: Challenged.  Diagnosed.  Special.  While I know that there is truly no shame in these descriptives, to know Ava Leigh in her completeness is to see her as the sweet spirit she is -- the baby who smiles in her sleep and makes unflinching eye contact with whomever holds her.  The infant who was expected to have little muscle tone, who now turns her head or kicks wildly when she hears her Daddy's voice.  The child whose broken heart can be mended easily with just a snuggle.  To me, some of the characteristics that clued the doctors into her extra chromosome aren't something that lump her into a diagnostic category.  The splice between her first and second toes, her funny little raspberry tongue that sometimes peeps out at me... These things and many more all contribute to who she is to me, and I treasure them.

I remember when they showed me her footprints in the hospital, and I thought that it was an adorable thing that one of her inked big toes had been spread so far away from its mates.  While the doctor who was on hand was quick to point out that it was a characteristic common to children with Down Syndrome, I couldn't conceive of it being anything other than HER distinctive trait.  I decided at that moment that if I were to get another tattoo, it would be of that footprint. (Yes, I already do have a tattoo, and NO, you'll never see it.  Unless you're my husband. Or a surgeon. Or I've lost an unwise bet.)

Wearing that symbol of her uniqueness forever would be a tremendous source of pride, and a good opportunity to reiterate how important it is to value the individuality in each child, whether they are typical or have special needs.  It would be a badge or an armor of sorts for those days when I'm afraid of the world on my child's behalf. Not everyone WILL see her as the beautiful girl that I do.  But if they can't, I know that it's due to their blindness, and not mine.