Home.

Hush, little sugar beet.... We're on our way...

Dear Ava.

At 6:26 p.m. on Groundhog Day, we left the hospital with you swinging from Daddy's capable hand in a carrier.  We were still  bit dizzy from the sudden onset of freedom - freedom from wires and leads and tubes for you, and the freedom for your parents to feed and care you on our own sleepless schedule. 

It was all a bit surreal.  Of course every new parent dreams of the day they set out from the hospital with their slumbering bundle nestled securely in their car seat for the ride home.  When our moment came, though, it felt as if no mother who came before or will thereafter had dreamed about that moment more fervently than me.  

Although I never voiced this fear to anyone but Daddy, the most terrifying thought that crossed my mind before your birth was the possibility that we might come  home empty-handed to this beautiful nursery full of lovingly chosen decorations and gifts from so many people who already love you.... That mental image to me was so clear and so possible, according to some doctors.  I was so grateful for your every strong, defiant kick in my womb during those days of uncertainty.  Each movement was a declaration of your intention to stake your claim upon the life prepared for you.

Sometimes you put so much effort into preparing yourself for heartbreak, you hardly know how to absorb the happiness you're handed instead.  Even when you were born and my heart was exploding with happiness, I could hardly allow myself to cry. For at least a week when you were in the NICU and your surgery went flawlessly, I kept my emotions at arm's length.  

But now that we're at home, away from gawking crowds and concerned medical staff, I'm trying to figure out what to do with all those tears that I've saved up.  And there are so many different kinds - tears of grief for how much your little body has been through; tears of frustration for trying to keep my head above the flood of paperwork required to get you the care you need; tears of pure joy just for having a daughter. 

Then there's a whole other list of causes to which a mother might normally owe a deficit of tears which I've deemed unworthy of crying over.  For instance, I know that it's very normal to mourn the dreams a parent has for a typical child whenever a diagnosis like Down's Syndrome is thrown into play, but I haven't felt the need to yet.  I can't say that I never will, but the possibility of losing you put an extra chromosome into perspective REALLY quickly.  Add to that the modern attitude shift in favor the mainstreaming of developmentally challenged children within today's society and the benefits shown through early intervention therapies... I have no doubt that even beyond our home, there is a place for you in this world where you will be happy and fulfilled.  

There's so much more to life than putting you on the college track from birth, anyway.  When we're home and we're playing, when I'm watching you big blue eyes dance as they absorb everything within your sight, I look back on my previous hopes for you and I'm a little ashamed of myself.  Where as I once would've taught you for my own vanity's sake, to be able to say, Oh, look how quickly she catches on!  She must be the most brilliant baby ever born!, now I play with you just for the sheer fun of it.  There will be time to learn, my love.  I don't think I could prevent it, anyway.  For now, just be my little moon pie and we'll celebrate your freedom one bottle at a time.

....