That’s me, practically hurdling the toilet paper display to tell you your baby is beautiful. I see you in the grocery store. I peered into the carseat, and I saw beautiful almond shaped eyes, a little flat nose, tiny ears.
It’s taking everything I have not to hug you. I want to tell you that I know. I want to tell you I am so happy for you, but you won’t understand yet. You’ve just begun your journey.
I don’t tell you it will be difficult and no big deal at the same time. That soon, you will sometimes forget the Down syndrome. It will become an afterthought. One day you will realize that you went the whole day without thinking about it, and that will happen on more days then not.
I don’t tell you that you will be so thankful. That he will make you a better parent. A kinder person. I clench my teeth so I don’t shout that your world is expanding – that he will teach you to see people in an entirely different way.
I want to say, you are as strong as you need to be. That whatever comes your way, you can handle it. I want to tell you that you will learn as you go, that it will be alright – better than alright!
I want you to know all of this. Probably, you aren’t ready to hear it now. It’s too much for someone who might still be grieving. You wouldn’t believe me.
So, I tell you your baby is beautiful, and I mean it. He is. I hope you can tell I mean it, because in this very grocery store, over by the deli counter, a mother told me my baby was beautiful – a gift. I could see she meant it. Now I know all the things she didn’t say. I remember her sincere joy at seeing my little girl, and now I understand she had her own different but beautiful baby at home.