Worth.

 Dear Ava,

Two weeks before you were born, a clear-sighted specialist ran a wand over my pregnant belly and discerned what those before him, for whatever reason, could not: according to the constellation of signs and measurements, he gave you a fifty percent chance of being diagnosed with Downs Syndrome at birth.  As as I imagine most parents in our situation would react, Daddy and I thought to ourselves, "Well, that means there's also a fifty percent chance she won't."

Given our strange talent for dodging bullets, I reasoned within my heart that surely this would be another exit on the road to normal family life that we would bypass and look back upon with private relief.  When they handed you to me and announced your surprisingly high APGAR score, I gazed into your puffy eyes and examined your perfectly peach-soft form, resting in the self-assurance that you would be no more challenged than the next baby down the hall.  You had demonstrated the lungs of a Metropolitan Opera soprano, the grip of a rock climber, and an unwavering gaze which fixed itself upon my face and studied it with focus unfazed by birth.

You could imagine my surprise when an apologetic looking-doctor appeared at my bedside and told us that it appeared you possessed what he called "markers." The palmar crease.  The slightly almond shaped eyes.  The gap between your first two toes.  

The truth reached my ears, but didn't quite make the extended trip to my brain.  I don't think I could've been more surprised if they'd shot my epidural full of Mountain Dew.  And for some bewildering reason, all I could think of were literally the Crayola markers I treasured as a kid.  The fat kid-friendly ones, the ones that I used to draw horses and portraits of my elementary school friends with great 90's hair.

I watched you lying contentedly on my chest, and you met the concern in my eyes with an unflinching calmness.  You didn't seem upset about the news.  You almost looked amusingly defiant of it.  I held you a little tighter, as if I could protect you from the tidal wave of reality that was poised to smash into us.  

I wasn't afraid of who you were.  Your Daddy or I did not want you to be any different. The current of fright that coursed through my body at that moment was plugged into the acknowledgement of way the world might treat you, or rather, mistreat you.  As a former aspiring child superstar (cue pitying laughter *here*) and chronic people-pleaser, I was sensitive to how your life might be designated by others as possessing less worth than someone with greater learning capacity, entertainment value, sex appeal, or earning potential.  Welcome to modern America, sweet baby.

And now, part of me is relieved that it will be very unlikely you will agonize over the things that held me prisoner as a child.  You have much better odds of living a joyful, social life than your mom has dared to.  Chances are you'll probably dodge the inherent tendency to become depressed over politics, squandered educational opportunities, or diminishing skin tone as I do. And if you continue to enjoy the health and willful strength you exhibit now, you'll get to spend your days actually participating in the adventure of your life instead of concocting it in the safety of your head behind a keyboard.  

In short, there is a legacy of joy that awaits you -- one which has eluded me, and is tuned to perfect pitch by many of your chromosomal brothers and sisters:

Your heart will dive into the deep end with gleeful abandon, while the rest of us struggle in the shallows.

*~*~*~*

I had a dream a few nights ago that tidily summed this up in the metaphor runes of my subconscious.  (Geez, I just made it seem so complicated and mysterious.  It's really only as absorbing as watching a poorly-edited cable series.)

In this dream, I visited two neighborhoods -- one broad street lined with mansions, and the other a meandering suburb dotted with humble post-war construction.  

The former neighborhood's row of grand estates was an impressive sight at first glance; each featured every impractical luxury and architectural frippery ever contrived.  In contrast, the insides were a ramshackle mess.  Abandoned rooms, unstable foundations, cobwebs, crumbling plaster, dangerously exposed wiring -- I expected Edward Scissorhands to emerge from a shadowy corner at any moment.  

He didn't, but there was little evidence of other life to be seen.  The few who dwelt within the first house I approached were immobilized by a dim existence, one defined solely by the expulsions of a droning television.  I spied on them through the shattered pane of a stained glass window and thought, How can someone accustom themselves to this ruined version of domesticity when their homes possess so much potential beauty?

The latter neighborhood -- the one with modest yards and simple construction -- was bursting with the colors of carefully tended landscaping and freshly painted exteriors.  The smells of bacon frying and buttery sugar burning drifted down the narrow street, and friendly pets roamed from yard to yard in search of a cool porch or a willing playmate.

As for the residents, their homes were not lorded over, they were shared.  The particular bungalow that caught my eye was the scene of a glad party, where women traded clothes and passed around pitchers of lemon tea as they wandered from room to room.  Everything about the place was comforting to the senses as well as the soul -- from the deep couches and the smooth hardwood floors to the cat contentedly napping in the windowsill.

Somehow, I got the sense that this was your house, or rather, you WERE the house.  The house was your life.  It was vibrant.  It was bursting with friends, with refreshment, with graciousness.  You accepted your house/life for what it was, and made it something unique and welcoming.

When I woke from this scene, I knew I had been baptized into a new understanding of you.  

There have been many unexpected aspects of our lives together that I've easily accepted, and still others I've agonized over in fear of the future.  Would you be healthy?  Would complications from Downs prevent you from leading a productive life?  Now, I want to kick my scaredy-self square in the hams for thinking that way.  I mean, what IS a productive life, anyway?  By whose concept of productivity would we measure its worth?  And who am I to dictate the worth of a life, regardless of its intellectual or physical capacity?  After all, I'm not the one living the life I stand in judgement of.  I'm sure you will believe your life is very worthwhile.

You are pointing me toward a new set of values, daughter -- one that prizes the talents of friendliness, determination, genuine sweetness and ecstatic response over others which serve to exalt only their possessor.  Your talents draw the best from those around you -- your parents included.  

In return, we try to give you the gift of support.  We want to arm you with the capabilities you'll need to pursue the aspirations seeded in you.  

Even if you were silent.

Even if you could not get around easily.

Even if a smile was all you could offer.

What you give us of yourself is more than enough to prove your worth.