The Skating Rink

We’re all about adventures.

Starting on New Years Eve. (We didn’t wait for some silly date on the calendar to regroup our family this year and it was WONDERFUL).

So despite a terrorist issue in Rochester on Dec. 31 (sigh), we trekked out as planned to the nearby skating rink for our family’s first ice skating adventure.

Addie has been gliding around the house in her “skate shoes” (Elsa sneakers) for weeks now and was completely in awe when we told her our plan.

If you wanted to fast forward about 10 paragraphs, you’d learn this:

It was an incredible experience in the end. But it took some work.


We were toying with over-stimulated children, funked-up routines and the beginning of bedtime, not to mention potential crowds and a new activity. Scott and I hadn’t been on ice in probably 10-plus years and the kids have never seen it other than at a hockey game a couple of months ago.


The crowds weren’t too bad and we got our admission and skate rentals with little fuss or delay.

And then the skates.

I feel like one of the many parenting classes they should offer when you decide you want to have children (in addition to Do You Have Common Sense and Don’t Do Stupid Things That Will Get You on the 5pm News) is How to Put Skates on Young Children While Maintaining Some Calmness and Not Creating a Scene.

Addie’s went on relatively easy, especially once I reminder her that she’d be on the ice in a few minutes. She stood right up and was walking in the skates like it was no big deal. Shaking my head, I tell ya, this kid.

But we had some trouble with Zack. Our initial pair we got was too small. He was already in Meltdown Mode after the first attempt and nearly lost his mind wailing on the carpet of the locker room as we waited for Scott to return with the second pair. It’s all good, because we got them on and soon enough, we were marching to the Kiddie Rink like the Jets and the Sharks in the opening scenes of West Side Story. I’m pretty sure we thought we were a big deal, with a bit of swagger and some cocky smiles. Fools!

Scott took Zack and soon realized the Z-Man was not going to do a thing. Not one ounce of balance or coordination and 40 pounds of scrambling, laughing kid in his arms. Addie wasn’t too bad, but just got way too excited and was pretty much attempting a triple axel on her first step on the ice. I was much worse a skater than she was, so our first lap (OK, our first eight) were PAINFULLY slow.

Scott was so worn out from essentially hunching over and carrying Zack on the ice that the two guys took a break. As Addie and I came around the straightaway towards them I saw Scott and the grandmother-woman-watcher next to him interacting and she was waving towards her granddaughter and family on the ice, using a red chair-like device that’s an option for teaching skating.

And she gave us their red chair. She grabbed my hand as I steadied my hand on the wall in front of her. Scott was positioning Zack in the red thingy-ma-jiggy and I was trying not to feel the screaming chant of “Down Syndrome comes to skating rinks, too!” And this stranger patted my hand and said “Your family is beautiful. I hope this makes your night a special memory.”

And then Scott’s back was less sore, Zack was giggling lap after lap and Addie was showing off for the five older girls she had already made friends with. And I was there, the mother of this crazy clan, taking it all in. And trying not to fall down and really ruin the moment.

The craziest part of it all?

That we’re looking into ice skating lessons for BOTH kids.




Battles, Barf and Busy

If you’ve made it past the title, congratulations, you’re a true friend, haha!

But it’s the three “B” words that best describe my past few days.

We’ll start with the least appetizing.

Both kids woke up with a little bug this morning. A morning that I had intentionally started peacefull, slowly, calmly (because I felt the other two words creeping in like a heavy fog). A morning that began with pep talks and a few extra minutes to myself. I even put on mascara. And I brushed my hair! I began to feel like a human again. I found my Pinterest board with quotes and images I’ve collected over the years that fall under the title of “Smile.” I published a photography blog post and reminisced about the couple and their wedding day. I even patted myself on the back from my improvement in photography over this past year.

And then the screaming. And that sound you hear as a mom that lets you know all bets are off and all plans are out the window. The sound that signifies loads of wash and Lysol sprayed on every crevice in the house.

How cruel and torturous that when I finally pick myself up and get myself moving in the right direction, the, er, puke hits the fan. Or at least the floor.

But let’s back up.

I’ve been busy. We’ve all been busy. We’ve moved, begun looking into schools and therapies for Zack and learned our way around a new city and series of suburbs. I’ve photographed four weddings, five engagements, three family sessions and one senior session. I’m designing albums and ordering prints and creating blog posts and all the other evil necessities to restart a business. I’m teaching numbers and colors and manners and breaking up fights and tackles.

And that’s OK.

Because I learned long ago to make sure your “work busy” never interfered too much with other busy things.

Like being busy with quick notes, surprise packages, little texts and surprise phone calls and FaceTimes. Even if I neglect a load of laundry. Or take three days instead of two to deliver a gallery.

I’m grateful for my other creative friends who let me be a part of their busy. And the family that answers my random texts about house decorating or Halloween craft ideas.

Because mommyhood can be a lonely, isolating job. One that’s busy and in-your-face and deprives you of so much ‘You’ Time and privacy that you feel foolish for ever thinking you were busy before. It forces you to be selfless and work tirelessly. To receive no concrete reward, other than the survival of a hard day and the belief that you’re doing alright.

Let’s face it, womanhood is a crazy job. There are some days I just want to scream, then bawl, then eat an entire bag of M&Ms and then drink tons of water and do an hour of Pilates.

So I really could have lost my mind when the pukey situation came to the forefront. I almost did, too, but a couple of things happened.

Firstly, Scott came home. Just for an hour and just for moral support more than anything else. But I heard the doorknob turn10 minutes after texting him my dilemma in taking care of two ill kids on two opposite ends of the house while avoiding our crippled dog that needed to pee and the dirty wash I just kept throwing into the hallway. The cat wanted fed and I hadn’t even started the Keurig machine. But then that doorknob turned and simply having him in the house for that hour told me he understood the difficulty of my job, too, and that his work was far from being more important than his family.

And not too long after that, I leaned my head on the just-completed washing machine and texted one of my new friends.

She keeps me in line and humble and reminds me that faith can be a pillar of support, too.

“Somehow the Lord has a plan, my friend,” she said. “Even if vomit is involved, LOL.”

I laughed, changed the laundry, kissed my hubby and sent him on his way. And then I put down the phone for a while, closed up the laptop, and just snuggled. Massive cuddles. I braided hair, held hands, watched more cartoons than I’ve seen in six months and just… just was.

I realized not too long ago, sitting on our couch with two little whiny kiddos in each arm, that I forgot the most important B-word:


I can face battles, clean barf and overcome the epidemic of busy.

And I can welcome the blessed feeling. The knowledge that I am lucky and fortunate and loved.

And I can make those around me feel that way, too.

Starting with the two little snugglebugs.

So, go adventure — in a car or in your home. Alone or surrounded by the most annoying people in the world you have to call family. Life is a grand adventure. Sometimes, within yourself. My journey continues.

I see you…

You’re over there, pushing the cutest little blond boy on the red swing. He’s smiling a sleepy, peaceful smile that gets bigger when you surprise him with a tickle up his legs.

I see you twist around anxiously to watch a ponytailed three-year-old hop up fearlessly to the top of the tall slide, the one you think she’s too small for, but can’t convince her otherwise. I can actually see you hold your breath as you let her have this independent moment and try to keep it cool for the giggling boy next to you.

I see you.

You’re glancing at the little boy’s almond eyes with such a mix of love, compassion, worry, fear, hope, I can almost feel the heaviness in your shoulders. My gosh, that love. The pride you have when he makes a statement third-person about “Zacky” wanting to swing or needing a drink. You love those muffled words, those little phrases that you understand better than anyone else and that have taken hours upon hours of therapies and practices.

You’ve scooped up Miss Ponytail, twirling her and brushing back the fine strands that never stay in place. Her laughter inspires your laughter and Big Brother travels over to join the fun.

I see you.

Your embarrassment over the tantrum that was much worse to you than anyone else.

The mix of fear and exhaustion when he runs away, not understanding danger. You understand it too well.

I can imagine you holding a dance party in your living room. Some CCR on Pandora and four little hands mimicking your shakes.

I see you when she jumps up in bed at 5:45a.m., full of energy and questions. Your mind hasn’t woken up yet so its all about pulling her in close and smelling her hair and squeezing her tight.

I can imagine the way you internally jump for joy when, instead of his usual “No Kiss-a Me,” he asks you to stay with him in bed at nighttime and you pet his hair and caress the freckle behind his right ear and sing his favorite song.

I see your hands. That push swings for contented boys and steady brave little girls. That wipe tears and create imaginary pixie dust in different colors to solve different problems. That pick up strewn toys and flatten PlayDoh.

The hips that have held infants then toddlers and now 40-pound kiddos. They handle bouncing camera bags and your treasured DSLR.

Eyes that pore over chromosome diagrams and research papers and photo editing. That attempt the stack of neglected magazines.

I see you. Doing your best and trying so hard. You do your best when you don’t even try at all, when you just let it be, let it happen.

I see you. Do you see yourself?


The FYI and that tree

Kindergarten registration, perhaps particularly for a child with a disability or handicap, is not for the weak at heart. I hesitated writing this post because I know this has been a redundant topic and I fear that it comes across as only negativity regarding Zack and our journey. Not my intention at all.

It was supposed to be 15 minutes of a quick screening, I was told. We were excited to finally have one of us┬ásee the inside of the “home school” for the kids (where Zack will attend is still up in the air). After our issue with the registrar’s office last month, I found my anxiety level in the last few days rising steadily. Still, I kept my chin up and my mind open and drove the mile and a half to the large brick building.

We took a photo out front and marched up the front steps, all three of us counting together. We were greeted in a lobby filled with Cat in the Hat cut-outs and smiling children.

And then we were given a packet, instructions for a six-part circuit in the gymnasium and, right on cue, Zack ran down the hallway and wouldn’t come back to me, smack in the middle of a handshake with the principal. The first stop after scooping him up and talking about danger and listening, was simple — letters and colors and shapes — the table where he’d impress and prove wrong the challengers.

He didn’t speak a single word. Not his favorite color or the first letter in his name. A Kindergarten teacher at the school shrugged it off and told me it was no big deal and sent us to the next station. He wouldn’t even sit down at the table where all he had to do was match letters and name the item in a picture. At the nurse’s station, a middle-aged woman asked questions about immunizations and I don’t know if she didn’t make eye contact because I was already holding back tears or if the tears came because I felt her give up.

At the top of Zack’s checklist, an hour later and now with “yes”s and “no”s alike, was a tiny yellow Post-It. “FYI” in large block letters. And the name of the LifeSkills class in another school miles away. At least they were kind enough to add a question mark, but by now, visions of a dismal, windowless room in the basement were already popping into my mind. The other school, the guidance counselor said as we left, ink still drying on our packet, “could be lovely, too.”

On the way out, Zack counted to 12 on his own and pointed to my Jeep and said “Momma’s white car.” I cried in that parking lot while the kids ate their gifted lollipops and attached stickers to their shirts.

I hated Down Syndrome more than ever before in that parking space under a flowering tree. I never even thought Kindergarden would be a blip on our radar this year. And now, the same strangers who assured us that ZMan could thrive in an elementary school, maybe even a regular classroom, go ahead and go through the process, what’s the worst that could happen? — Those strangers already counted him out or counted on this. I mean, FYI.

It’s not the recommendation that he does X or Y; it’s the getting there wondering if you’ve done enough.

The worst that could happen? This. This parking space and the phone call to my husband. The helplessness and the hopelessness. The reminder that everything is a battle and some battles can’t be absorbed by a lollipop and his Momma.

My friend is wise and calming and she told me today to “try not to borrow trouble.”

So I lay my worries on the ground and cover them up and plant something beautiful in their place. We will cherish and nurture the good that comes out of this mound of dirt and we will see where it takes us in these next few months. And we will grow. Perhaps into a flowering tree to harbor fears and shelter worries.


We grow some flowers

I am certain I’m jinxing us but I’ll say it anyway: I think we are healthy again. After two rounds of a flu-like illness simultaneously battling two rounds of a stomach bug, we bought stock in Lysol, lost school days, got our schedules out of whack for nearly eight days and most definitely lost Mommy’s last shred of sanity. 

But today, my kids laughed their belly laughs and fell back into their old habits. Zack got on his lil van to school and even returned home on it as opposed to sick in my backseat. 

We spent hours outside yesterday, blowing bubbles and playing games and in that helpful sunshine we were all put together again. 

A tentative text to Zack’s aide asking about his day returned a “He did great!” and gave me such relief. 

And while pretending to put her animals to bed, Addie called me. 

“You’re my best friend, Momma.”

When I asked her why, she told me because “We grow some flowers and you take me to adventures.”

One of my momma friends and I were talking about how much you take healthy kids for granted until they are down for so long. And we also take for granted belly laughs and adventures and growing flowers and. Blowing bubbles. 

So here’s another restart, with healthy babies and happy momma. 



And eat it, too

I heard Zack making some noise right on cue this afternoon, signifying the end of naptime.

I slugged one more sip out of my coffee mug, put the laptop away and did a little stretch at the bottom of the stairs. As I rounded the corner on the landing, I stifle a laugh when I see two mismatched Zack socks that have been pushed out from under his door.

I open the door and hear him singing.

He is sitting at the bottom step to his Zook Nook reading and comfy area of his closet, singing Happy Birthday.

He sees me, smiles, and yells, “Happy Birthday, Momma!” (It’s not my birthday, sidenote.)

I tell him thank you and make sure he is still wearing pants. (Pants, no; diaper, yes)

He holds out his hands to me like he’s cupping a secret.

“Present, momma.”

I pretend to open a wrapped box and exclaim my love for this invisible gift.

I ask him what it is as we walk down the stairs.

“Cake!” he says with a smile. “Yum!”

He pretends to rub his belly and I rub mine.

There are a thousand moments like this a week.

A thousand times I pinch myself or say a quiet “thank you” to the stars or tuck away a memory to retrieve in the middle of a horrendous diaper explosion, stomach bug, temper tantrum or begging for a snack.

A thousand times I feel like I shall have my cake and eat it, too. Even if it’s invisible. Especially if its invisible.

Normalcy and the foyer

The other day, Zack returned to school after missing an entire week of school due to snowdays and a cold. It marked the EIGHTH week in a ROW that he didn’t go to his Pre-K program all four scheduled days in a week.

We did the best we could do with cabin fever and crafts, coughs and lots of coffee.

But there’s something about rounding that corner, you know? Everyone has their corner. For a tired, exhausted, overwhelmed mom of two cranky and bored kids in a miserably cold winter, that corner was the bus pulling in front of the house Monday morning and a smile creeping across both my face and Zack’s.

Even better than that bus pulling away and the calming sense of routine returning, was its return a few hours later.

Zack was smiling when I opened the door and yelled, “Call Uncle Brick!” which made me laugh so hard. He insisted on walking to the door, not being carried, and wanted to open the mailbox to check for “Momma letters”, too. I was so giddy with happiness. And it was in the high 40s that day, too! Hooray!

Addie was at the front door, blowing raspberries against the glass. Zack met her on the other side and blew drool all over the window, too. (Note to self: You still haven’t cleaned all those prints, oops!)

We opened the door and she squealed a thousand exclamations.

“Zack, you’re home!”

“I’m so glad you’re home!”

“Come into my playroom.”

And then, she grabbed the zipper on his coat, which he had been struggling with, and said, “I help you?”

He smiled and nodded, leaned over and kissed her forehead.

I froze.

The newspaper in my hand, only one boot off.

She pulled the zipper down, he tore the red and black jacket off and threw it across the room. They both laughed. I couldn’t help but giggle, too. And then he wrapped his arms around her.

“Home, Addie.”

Turned to me: “Schnack, Momma, please!” (Typical, haha)

And she returned the hug. A little ten-second bear squeeze. I still only have one boot on.

And she held out her hand, which he grabbed. And they marched into the living room and sat down at the couch together.

I heard Addie ask him if he was a good boy at school and that laughter from my throat made me take the other boot off, grab the backpack and the thrown jacket and walk back into normalcy, happiness and the appreciation of the little things.