Doing All Of The Things

img_7310

Our babysitter was telling me about how she was excited to see a friend that she hadn’t seen in a while. The friend said, “Can we do all of the things?” And our babysitter replied, “Yes, we will most definitely do all of the things!”

Every time I think of this expression, it makes me laugh. I guess it’s a new expression that means “doing everything we love to do”?? I guess??

Sometimes I’m tempted to use it in conversation, but then I think people would accuse me of trying to be younger than my years…

But I do think of this in terms of Emmy. I want her to do all of the things.

I want her to play sports, go to dance class, take an art class, participate in the various clubs at school…

She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t WANT to do. But I want her to have the opportunities that any typical child has.

Some experiences have been easier than others. We have a gymnastics studio near us, and the teachers have been awesome with Emmy. She takes classes with her peers, but the teachers will modify a little bit for her. One student might walk across the balance beam on her own, while Emmy will get a little support from the teacher. One student might do a cartwheel flawlessly on her own, while the teacher might hold Emmy while she practices her cartwheel. But she does everything that everyone else does, and the teachers have been very happy to accomodate for Emmy’s needs. I didn’t even have to ask them. They just did it.

On the other hand, we have had a doozy of a time with dance. I enrolled Emmy in ballet classes at a very strict studio. It wouldn’t have been my preference, but Charlotte really liked the studio at first, and she wanted to go there. I’m a big proponent of having Emmy try everything that Charlotte does. So I signed Emmy up for the class, but I also told them that she has Williams syndrome because I knew that the standards of the studio are more strict than others. For example, a student would have to pass a “dance test” before moving to the next level.

The receptionist gave me the side-eye and said, “We can put her in our youngest class…We’ll start her there…That’s as young as we go…”

This was one of those situations that made me very uncomfortable. I could feel the judgment. I knew that the kids would be younger than Emmy. But I also felt that this person wasn’t keen to have her in the dance school — period — and this was a way to get her in. After all, the aim of this school is to build up dancers in a very strict, professional atmosphere. If Emmy couldn’t perform the steps, how would the teacher react?

But, on the other hand, Charlotte took a practice class, and the teacher was great. I really wavered back and forth on this, but I signed Emmy up nonetheless and put her in the youngest class.

The interaction with the receptionist made me feel “less than.” It made me feel as though I had to apologize for intruding on the professional atmosphere of the school. It made me feel as though I had to make excuses for my child who was born as she was — through no fault of her own.

I should have known *at that moment* that this wasn’t the right place for us. But, you see, I want Emmy to do all of the things! I want her to wear her little ballet outfit with her hair up in a bun. Mostly, I want her to have the exact same opportunities that Charlotte does. If Charlotte is accepted into the class as a typical child, I want Emmy to be accepted as well.

Here’s the irony. The class ended up being a disaster but not for the reason I imagined. It wasn’t because Emmy couldn’t keep up with the steps. In fact, because the kids were younger than Emmy, they were totally out of control! They didn’t follow directions. They cried during the whole class and ran out of the room constantly. I don’t blame them one bit. They were quite young! But that wasn’t the class for Emmy. Just because Emmy has some challenges doesn’t mean that she should immediately be placed with younger children. It was really illuminating! Emmy surpassed these kids in maturity. I asked the teacher to move Emmy to the next level, and she declined. She said Emmy was placed correctly. I kindly disagreed.

This is a dance school that many people praise, but we ended up leaving. It just wasn’t a good fit.

That interaction soured me to dance for a while, but it was something that continued to eat away at me because Emmy loves to dance. I didn’t want to deny her the experience of a dance class just because of this one situation.

After a few months, I decided that we should try a free practice class at another dance studio near here. It’s a very popular studio, but I’ve heard that it isn’t as strict as the first.

Everyone seemed very nice — the owner, the receptionist…we were off to a good start! This time, I didn’t tell them that Emmy has Williams syndrome. I didn’t want them to put her in the younger class again. I couldn’t risk another experience like the previous one.

This class was for five to seven year olds, so both Emmy (at age 5) and Charlotte (at age 7) would be in the same class. It’s an “acro” class, so it’s like “acrobatic dance.” Charlotte would look out for her sister. This seemed like a good set-up.

I dropped the girls off in the class and was lead to an area where I could watch them. As the minutes passed, I almost cried. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could see how the teachers were treating Emmy. When she couldn’t get into a straddle perfectly, they stood over her and admonished her. When Emmy did a bridge (which is really hard for someone with Williams syndrome!! Really, really hard!!), I could tell that they weren’t impressed. They weren’t kind. I walked back in the class, picked up Emmy, and carried her out of the room. The teachers saw me and completely ignored me. Charlotte came running over and said, “This isn’t going well.” I asked her if she wanted to leave, but she said she would finish out the class. I watched the rest of the class while holding Emmy in my arms. I was fuming.

After it was over, the teachers walked out of the room and looked at me with disgust. They didn’t say anything to me and just marched by.

“What happened in there??” I asked Charlotte.

She was rattled. “Mom, they were so mean to Emmy. She did that bridge, and it was AMAZING! Emmy said, ‘Am I doing a good job, teacher?’ and the teacher said, ‘No.’ Can you believe that? I WAS SO PROUD OF HER!”

She continued. “I could hear the teachers talking about Emmy. They said, ‘What’s wrong with her?’ And ‘I thought she was supposed to be five years old?'”

Charlotte was very upset. My seven year old knew this wasn’t right.

I was appalled by the way they treated Emmy, and of course we didn’t go back. Friends told me to contact the owner and express my disapproval. I haven’t done that. In the past few weeks, I’ve heard similar things about this studio, so it makes me feel as if this is the atmosphere, and I don’t know that things will change if I speak up. But maybe they will. I don’t know. The whole experience really upset me, and I kind of just want to move past it.

But I want Emmy to do all of the things! Just because other people don’t know what class she fits in or don’t understand her challenges doesn’t mean that she shouldn’t have the opportunity to do all of the things, right? The Americans with Disabilities Act is something with which I have become very familiar. It protects my daughter. She should be able to experience everything that everyone else does. However, the Americans with Disabilities Act doesn’t change people’s reaction to her. While she may be able to DO all of the things, she may not be viewed in the same light  — or with the same promise — as the other students. That part is rough.

You know what? Third time’s a charm.

A mom told me about yet ANOTHER dance studio that just opened. The owner, she said, is fabulous — very kind and understanding. I pushed my misgivings aside and only saw hope. I emailed the owner and explained our situation. I told her about Williams syndrome, and I also told her briefly about our past two experiences. I told her that I don’t want Emmy to be automatically put with the younger kids, but I also don’t want her to be admonished for not doing the steps properly when she ALWAYS, ALWAYS tries her best. I asked if we could figure out a class that might be right for Emmy.

She called me right away. She told me that my email broke her heart and that she would absolutely find the right class for her. She did, and Emmy loves it. It’s another “acro” class. She is with her typical peers that are her age, and the teacher helps her when necessary. She gets some modifications. When she has trouble with a big cartwheel, she tries a small cartwheel. And her bridge has only gotten stronger and more beautiful. The teacher consistently praises her effort. It is a wonderful experience. They have made us feel welcome and included.

I don’t know why every place isn’t like this. It took us three chances to find a place that would accept us as we are. It’s not that I’m being difficult or that I’m expecting special treatment. I just want Emmy to be able to do all of the things that everyone else does. I think that’s reasonable. In fact, I know it is.

A New Twist

IMG_5847

So here’s a fun, new, little twist. We found out that Emmy has Celiac disease!

She’s always been petite, which we attributed to Williams syndrome. But she’s also fatigued most of the time, which we also thought was related to Williams syndrome (and the low muscle tone that comes with it). Stomach problems were only an occasional thing, so Celiac disease never crossed our minds.

I brought her to a new doctor to discuss Emmy’s growth, and she asked if we have any allergies in the family. I have a sensitivity to gluten and dairy, but other than that, no formal allergies. The doctor said, “Well, since we’re getting her blood taken, let’s check her for Celiac disease because of your gluten sensitivity.”

During that time period, our attention immediately focused to Emmy’s heart because a few doctors heard a heart murmur (which hasn’t been heard since before her heart surgery in 2013), and there was a scramble to get an appointment with our cardiologist. I was totally focused on her heart, which is ok — thank goodness, and I put the discussion about Emmy’s growth temporarily out of my mind.

On the same day the echocardiogram of her heart came back ok, we got a call from the first  doctor to say that Emmy has Celiac disease, and her numbers are off the charts! (They don’t even need to do an endoscopy to confirm the results because her numbers were so high.) I was shocked but also so incredibly relieved about her heart that I thought, Hey, we can handle Celiac disease. No big deal. Especially because I’ve been gluten-free for a while, so I already had some familiarity with what it means to eliminate gluten.

Then, as the days passed, I realized:

  1. A child going gluten-free is totally different from an adult. I’m ok with salad and nuts. Emmy wants mac-and-cheese and chicken fingers.
  2. Eating out will never be the same. We can no longer just grab something anywhere at anytime.
  3. Birthday parties are going to be a bear for her. When the other kids are having the standard pizza and cake, I’m going to have to find an alternative for her. (Incidentally, am I supposed to show up with my own pizza and cake?? This is going to be a weird situation and has the potential to alienate her from her friends. I’m nervous about this one…)
  4. Classroom parties at school are also a problem. For her St. Patty’s Day party, my husband Dan had to quickly bake some gluten-free cupcakes.
  5. Emmy has a severe level of Celiac disease, so she has to wash her hands after touching something as innocent as Play-Doh (which has gluten apparently!), and we have to read every label to make sure that the food wasn’t processed in a facility that also processes wheat.
  6. My very first blog post, Green Bagel Morning, takes on a whole new meaning. When I wrote that, I never would’ve thought that we’d have to stress about something as simple as green bagels three years later.
  7. Oh and…I’m going to have to learn how to cook. Ughhhhhhhhhh. And BAKE. UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

About that last one… I’m an ok cook, but it doesn’t come easily to me AT ALL. If you want to see me pull my hair out, give me a recipe. It’s all so overwhelming. I actually go into panic mode. I will read a recipe ten times and still not know what I’m supposed to do. All the words start to blend together, and I begin to have a mini panic attack.

If you don’t believe me, consider this. The other day, I asked Dan if we have a Cuisinart. He started laughing and said, “Of course we do! We got that for our wedding!” Then I asked him to show me where it is. And because it all became so daunting (with the blades and everything — yikes!!), I asked him to just take out the Cuisinart and leave it on the counter. It’s been sitting on the counter mocking me for about a week. I haven’t touched it…

But I can throw together an ok meal (usually sans recipe because I just go for the trusty olive oil and seasonings). However, baking is a JOKE. Here’s a secret: I have not baked anything from scratch ever. EVER. EVER. EVER.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I did try once. When we were trying to sell our house, I was thinking of ways to make it smell nice for a showing, and somehow I came to the conclusion that baking brownies was the answer! Because recipes make me panic, I just casually glanced at a recipe and then threw the following in a pan: eggs, butter, cocoa, baking powder, and something else (maybe milk?). I stirred it all together and baked it! Ok, I have to say that it smelled AMAZING. It actually smelled like brownies, and even our realtor commented that the house smelled great. I thought, This baking thing isn’t so hard after all!

But when Dan came home, he made the mistake of taking a bite. I think he’s still recovering…

That was the last time I attempted to bake anything.

The picture at the top of this post was taken when I discovered a gluten-free bake shop! It’s an hour away, but I’m willing to drive. The kids loved it!

So here we go on our new journey. Hang on tight! 🙂

Starting Over

IMG_9238

One week before Emmy’s first birthday, we were headed to Boston for a “vacation.” A mom asked me why we were vacationing in Boston. Did we have family there? Were we going to take the kids to the Children’s Museum?

I was vague with my response. “Oh you knowww…the usual stuff people do…”

If I had told her the real reason — that we were going to the Williams Syndrome Association‘s National Convention — I would’ve had to tell her that Emmy has Williams syndrome. And I wasn’t prepared to do that.

Very early on in Emmy’s diagnosis, we met with many doctors to find out more about our little girl. One of those doctors advised us not tell people about Williams syndrome right away.

You see, right before Emmy was born, we moved to a new town. So nobody knew us. And the doctor wanted people to get to know Emmy, and our family, first — without the label of “Williams syndrome.”

I took that to heart, and I didn’t tell anybody. Only our immediate families and a few friends knew. As time passed, I used to think, “Gosh this is starting to feel very uncomfortable and secretive.” But so much time had gone by, and I hadn’t said a peep. So it felt strange for me to now say, “Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for the past year…”

It was a cycle that fed upon itself. The deeper I got into the secretive nature of it, the harder it was to say something.

And then, when Emmy was 1.5 years old, and we were a few weeks away from heart surgery, I FINALLY opened up to a neighbor. She was so incredibly sweet about it, and I wondered why I hadn’t just told her all along.

At that point, I kind of began “The Big Reveal” and started telling people left and right. But at this point, it was odd because everyone thought that we were just a regular family going through regular family stuff. And I would say, “Sooo you know us very well by now…but there’s something surprising I have to tell you. Emmy is going to have heart surgery next week” [which was met by complete shock and, sometimes, horror] “and she has something called Williams syndrome, which is very rare, and comes with all sorts of implications” [which was met with more shock followed by kindness].

If I were to do this all over again, I would’ve kept it a secret until I got a better handle on it, and then I would’ve told people. So maybe 2-3 months. After a year and a half, it came across as very shocking. And I think people also wondered why I had been hiding it for so long. When I think back on it, it’s very possible that the doctor meant for me to keep it a secret for 2 months and not a year and a half. But I didn’t think to ask about the exact timeline. I was just trying to process it all myself.

So after “The Big Reveal,” everyone knew. And I actually felt more comfortable with people knowing than not knowing. We needed a lot of support during and after her heart surgery, and people were there for us in droves. I was glad that I shared it publicly (I started blogging a little before then) because we couldn’t have gone through heart surgery without that support.

I was very comfortable with Williams syndrome, very accepting of Emmy, and very open about the diagnosis.

And then we moved.

And I never realized that we would be starting over. We would be back to a point where no one knew. I didn’t even have time to think about all of this before because we moved so quickly. And then once we were here, it hit me. All new people. None of them with any clue about our little family and what we’ve been through.

And now I would have to start telling people again. If I had thought about it before, I probably wouldn’t have imagined that it would be a big deal because I’m so open about Williams syndrome. But, somehow, it ended up being a big deal. Because I’m back in that same picture that the doctor painted early on. I’m new to a town. Nobody knows us. And, yet, we’re carrying a label.

Shouldn’t people get to know Emmy first before I hoist this label on top of her? Shouldn’t people get to know our family before I say, “My daughter has a syndrome that you’ve never heard of…” What would they think?

It’s been so long since I’ve thought about what others think when it comes to Williams syndrome, or how our family will be perceived, or the implications that a label would have on Emmy.

Things have changed because she’s older. She’s 3.5 years old, and she wants to play with other kids. She’s no longer a baby. She’s much more aware of how she’s treated by others and more aware of the reactions she gets. She can read people’s faces now. She can feel how they relate to her and can tell if they’re comfortable around her.

Keep in mind that Emmy doesn’t know what Williams syndrome is. I’ve told her, but she doesn’t understand it yet. Charlotte, my five year old who is typical, doesn’t really understand it either. So it’s a lot to take in. But I think that Emmy can feel that she’s different in some ways. She knows that she takes longer on the stairs when other kids just race down. She knows that she stands in the front of the line because she’s so tiny. I think she knows that there’s something there, and I think she is perceptive about how others relate to her.

So I find myself in the same place but a different circumstance. I’m in a new town where nobody knows about Williams syndrome…but now my child is older. And my mind doesn’t go to, “What will people think? How will they react to our family?” My mind goes straight to, “I just want to protect her.”

My instinct is not to tell. I want to protect Emmy, and I worry about how others will treat her. Not everyone understands what it means to have special needs. Not everyone grew up around someone with a disability. I, myself, had no clue about any of this until she was born.

But, even though my instinct is not to tell, when I finally told people before, life got a little easier. I wasn’t carrying around a secret, and I wasn’t silently censoring myself in every conversation — wondering if I gave too much away.

It might be better for me to tell.

Another Williams syndrome mom said a while ago, “It’s a great way of weeding people out. You can see who you really want to be friends with very quickly.”

So there I was, last Friday, talking to a mom in our new town. A possible new friend. She asked me casually about Emmy’s therapies, which she gets in school. So I replied, “Emmy has something called Williams syndrome.” My explanation of Williams syndrome is still lacking. It comes out in a rush like: “It’s a very rare syndrome that no one has ever heard of and has lots of implications…but she’s doing great!”

I have to work on my explanation. It’s a lot to take in.

But the mom smiled and said, “Oh, ok.”

This is where we are — starting over.

Change

IMG_0629

A couple months ago, we were driving back from visiting my sister, who lives near a beach. While the kids slept in the backseat, Dan and I talked about how relaxing it felt to be by the water for a few days. For years, we’d been saying that we’d like to move near a beach. But it just seemed so impractical. We had built a life elsewhere. A move would be difficult, especially with three little kids.

Finally, one of us said, “You know what? Let’s just do it.”

But we had said this many times before…and then life happened…and we pushed that dream aside. However, this time seemed different. It felt like we were finally serious. Within a few days of getting home, Dan called a realtor about putting our house on the market, and we started to research houses in a town near the beach.

With the wheels actually in motion, my initial excitement turned into nervousness. I had fears — lots of them! We would have to take the girls out of a school that they love. We would be moving farther away from family. We would have to change doctors and dentists. We would have to leave Emmy’s wonderful music therapist. We would have to work with a new school system to arrange physical, occupational, and speech therapy. Overall, we would be leaving everything that was familiar.

One day, when we were scheduled to meet with our realtor, I broached my fears to Dan. “Is this really a good idea? I feel like I know this area so well. I’m nervous about making such a big change.”

He reassured me that everything would work out. And I realized then that if I always listen to my fearful side, I would never do anything. I would stay put exactly as I am.

I actually had a lot of trepidation about starting this blog a year and a half ago. I knew I wanted my blog to be very personal and honest, so I worried about the reaction that I would get. I worried about “putting my business out there” for everyone to see. And, most importantly, I worried about posting pictures of my children.

I really hemmed and hawed on the pictures issue. Should I just take pictures of the kids from behind? Did I really want to expose their faces? What about the creeps out there? The thing that tipped the scales for me was that Williams syndrome can be a very overwhelming and scary diagnosis. I wanted to show newly diagnosed parents what Emmy looks like — how beautiful and sweet she is. I felt like you might be able to get a more accurate impression of who Emmy is from seeing her face. See how Williams syndrome isn’t as scary as it sounds? 🙂

IMG_9795

So I pushed past all of those fears to start this blog, and I’m happy that I did! I love hearing from people who find my blog. I love showing what Williams syndrome is, and I love writing about how Emmy has changed all of our lives for the better.

I didn’t let fear hold me back with the blog, and I wasn’t going to let it hold me back with the move either.

I emailed a realtor who was familiar with a town that we liked and wrote: “We’d like to move, and we’d like to do it quickly. We have three little kids and the holidays are coming up, so we want to just go for it sooner rather than later. Can you help us?” We lucked out, and she was awesome. Soon, all of the pieces fell into place for both the selling and buying of our old and new houses. With momentum on our side, Dan and I moved at warped speed to move before the holidays.

And we did! We’re in the new house in a brand new town near the beach!

We have floor to ceiling boxes, and we still have a ton of unpacking and rearranging to do. But we’re here!!

I think that our biggest concern this whole time was for Charlotte. We were pulling her out of a Kindergarten that she absolutely loves and transferring her to a bigger school with brand new teachers and friends. My own family moved when I was going into sixth grade, and I have to tell you that I was TRAUMATIZED. The memory of the first day of school still haunts me to this day. I can feel my palms getting sweaty just THINKING about it. Ugh. So we felt terrible about changing Charlotte’s comfortable surroundings.

But on the first day in her new school (this past Monday), a little girl brought in a picture frame that she made over the weekend for Charlotte! I couldn’t believe it. Several other kids brought in cards that said things like: “Charlotte — welcome to our school.” Those kind gestures helped her so very much on what would’ve been a difficult first day. I vowed that when I hear there’s a new kid coming to town, I’m going to encourage my children to make cards for him/her. It was really, really sweet.

So the first full week of school is in the books! Charlotte is starting to make friends and is really enjoying her classes, and Emmy fit in right away. Emmy goes to the preschool program and, if you read about the “Williams syndrome personality,” you’ll see why she’s so friendly and outgoing.

So there we go. Lots of changes! But through all of this, I’ve learned that when I move past fear to take a chance, I will eventually embrace change. 

IMG_2343

Why I Stopped Apologizing for My Child

Apologizing

A while back, I was looking to find a daycare that Emmy could attend a couple days a week. Before I started my journey as a mom, I assumed that my kids wouldn’t go to daycare because I had images of constantly-runny noses, unchanged diapers, and bored staff. Woah, was I wrong about that one! I’ve been able to find daycares that are run more like schools, so my kids are learning, having wonderful social interactions, and making cool art projects. They’ve also become very close with their teachers, and I love to see those special bonds forming. So I am pro-daycare, if you can find the right place.

This happened before I found the right place…

Emmy was too young to attend Charlotte’s daycare, which we’ve been very happy with, so I needed to find a place that would take younger children. And I needed to decide when I would drop the words “Williams syndrome.”

Here’s the thing. Not all parents reveal that their child has a diagnosis. They don’t want a label, they’re worried about their child getting into the school, the don’t want their child treated any differently, etc. I empathize with all of these concerns, and I’ve thought about the same things myself.

In my case, though, I knew I had to tell the school about Williams syndrome. First, I knew that our pediatrician would have to fill out a Universal Health Record before Emmy started school, and that it would say “congenital heart defect due to Williams syndrome.” So the cat would be out of the bag at some point. Second, I figured that the teachers would pick up on her delay and ask me about it. I didn’t want to have to fib my way out of that one. Third, my memory is not great. I would never have remembered who I told or who I didn’t. That’s part of the reason I don’t keep her diagnosis a secret from anyone. I would literally have to carry around a notebook and jot down who I told and who I didn’t — and hope that those people never run into each other!

Ok, so I knew I was going to tell. I just didn’t know when or how.

I called the first school and asked if they had room in their program for her age group. The Director said, “Yes. Come on over.”

I hopped in the car and mulled over how I would tell him about Emmy. When I arrived, he offered me a seat in front of his desk. All I could think was: Williams syndrome Williams syndrome Williams syndrome. He told me a little about the program. I nodded and smiled. Williams syndrome Williams syndrome Williams syndrome.

Finally, he stopped talking and asked me about Emmy. He wanted to know if she was either cruising or walking because that would determine her classroom. They had room in both. At this point, Emmy was barely cruising. She was holding onto furniture, but she wasn’t cruising with ease. I knew, though, that if I didn’t talk her up, he would put her in the infant class with the kids who weren’t walking at all. I didn’t think that holding her back, in that sense, was best for her development. She needed to learn from the kids who were already walking. She was also closer developmentally to her own age group than to an infant.

So I took a deep breath and confidently said, “Yes, she’s cruising. She’s been a little slower in that respect because she has Williams syndrome.”

Cat’s out of the bag!

I swear his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“And what’s that?” he asked.

I told him about Williams syndrome and, in doing so, I realized that I was apologizing for my child. I was emphasizing that she was practically typical and that Williams syndrome was no big deal. Honestly, I felt gross. I was sugar-coating. I wasn’t being real, and I wasn’t being true to my child. When I saw the look of concern on his face, I just kept laying it on thick — how Williams syndrome would be no problem at all. I didn’t dare say that she might need help on the playground or with art projects. I didn’t mention how great it would be if her Early Intervention therapists could come and work with her. I acted as if she would be just fine with no help whatsoever. And then I sat back and waited for his response.

He looked incredibly uncomfortable. He didn’t embrace the situation. Instead, he probably heard nothing I said after the word syndrome. He nervously said, “Ok, let me go check back in with those numbers and make sure that we have room in the cruising class.”

He walked away and came back with a post-it note that had a number on it.

“Turns out we’re at our limit!” he proclaimed. “I thought we had room, but I was wrong. But I’ll certainly give you a call if anything opens up.”

I’m sure he was lying. On the phone, they had room. In person, after my revelation, they were suddenly booked.

I got back in the car, feeling sick, and drove to the next daycare. I debated not revealing her Williams syndrome this time, but I knew I had to for all the reasons I mentioned above.

This time, I toured the school first and then sat down with the Director who said they had one more slot. Great! She couldn’t back out on me now.

I then told her that Emmy has Williams syndrome and, to my horror, I fell back into that sickening apologetic tone. At one point I even said, “You wouldn’t even know there was anything wrong with her.”

UGH. OUCH. I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth.

The Director smiled sweetly and replied, “But there isn’t anything wrong with her.”

I felt awful. Here was a stranger who needed to tell me that there wasn’t anything wrong with my child. But talking to her made me feel like I was getting somewhere. I felt as though she understood and was ready to accept Emmy with open arms.

She then asked if Emmy had any medical issues. I said that she has a heart problem due to Williams syndrome but, here we go again, it’s no big deal.

Heart problem?? The air left the room. Her attitude of acceptance turned into a brick wall. This sounded like a liability.

“Welllll,” she started. “You know I’ll have to check with Human Resources about that.”

People have since told me that it’s illegal to not accept someone with a heart condition, but I haven’t done enough research to confirm that. All I know is that, when I called her later to see if she had checked with Human Resources, she said she was mistaken and that they actually didn’t have room for Emmy. The class was full.

So the woman who just told me that there was nothing wrong with my daughter was able to find something wrong. Thanks for the life lesson, lady.

I felt disgusted. I had basically sold my soul to explain away Williams syndrome, and both places rejected me. I felt as if I weren’t giving Emmy the credit she deserves. Instead of proudly embracing what was special about her, I was apologizing for her and explaining her differences away. And they didn’t take her anyway! All of my sugar-coating got me nowhere.

So I decided to speak honestly and openly about Williams syndrome. It is harder for her to do things. But, damn, does she try HARD at everything she does. She perseveres like no one else I’ve seen. And her sweet personality is just such a gift. I’m so proud of this girl.

Just as I resigned myself to not finding a place that would take her, there was a phone call from another school that we had been trying hard to get into. We had been on the waiting list for a while. They were packed but found a spot for Emmy a few days a week. The Director was so welcoming and, when I talked openly about Williams syndrome, I didn’t scare her away in the least. She said that she couldn’t wait to meet Emmy and that they were so happy to have her. I asked if we could have some of her Early Intervention therapists there to help her, and she responded, “Of course!” She didn’t freak out about Emmy’s heart or about her lack of walking. She wanted to put Emmy in with her age group, which I whole-heartedly agreed with. It felt good, finally, to be heard and understood.

Thinking back on my “apologies” for Emmy makes me feel icky to this day. Hey, this diagnosis isn’t her fault! She did absolutely nothing wrong. Through a completely random genetic event, she was made this way. And, boy, do I love everything about her.

So this whole experience, while stomach-churning in parts, gives me the confidence to say:

I am no longer apologizing for the special needs of my very special child. 

Love you, kiddo.

Tradition

Tradition

My husband is really into tradition. I mean, REALLY into tradition. Actually, the very first post I wrote was about how he buys green bagels every St. Patty’s Day: https://williamssyndromesmile.com/2013/03/17/green-bagel-morning/

He doesn’t just keep old traditions alive, though. He also spontaneously creates new ones! I was heading home with the kids when he called to say that he put the holiday lights on the house and wanted Charlotte and Emmy to turn them on when we arrived.

“It will be a tradition!” he declared.

I love that Dan doesn’t live by the same imaginary rule book that I have in my head. My rule book says that I preserve the traditions that were handed down to me, but I don’t create new ones. Who am I to create a tradition? Those things were carefully thought out by my ancestors! But Dan has no qualms about creating a tradition TODAY.

And I’m ashamed to say that I kind of brush them off (sorry, babe). Traditions are not as weighty for me. I have a few precious traditions surrounding Christmas that remind me of childhood but, other than those, I don’t really think about traditions for the rest of the year.

Over the weekend, I found myself really appreciating the fact that Dan keeps traditions alive when we got the tree and decorated it. And as the kids put ornaments on the tree, I was so aware of how this tradition forces you to be present. It forces you to put down the phone, look at every ornament, tell stories about the ornaments, find the perfect branch, take photos to capture the moment, admire how your daughter is so careful with the precious ornaments when just last year she would’ve been the opposite, notice how your daughter carefully stands on the stool to reach the top branches, and realize how much taller she is than the year before. When you’re decorating the tree, you are forced to be in the moment.

How many times do I swear I’ll appreciate every moment–and then still let all of them pass me by?

And how many times do I swear I will PUT DOWN MY PHONE…and then will see it calling to me from the table?

“Put it down, woman!” I want to shout. “Put it down!” Because when I’m looking at my phone, I am anywhere but in the moment.

I think it doesn’t matter so much when I’m in the check-out at the grocery store and the person in front of me has 1,000 bags of candy to ring up, and I am just passing the time by looking at my phone. I think it DOES matter a lot when my kids need my undivided attention.

On Saturday, I was at a kids’ gym with Emmy, waiting for her class to start. I was watching the previous class wrap-up through the large, glass windows. And here was a boy, probably less than 1 year old, throwing a ball to his dad. And here was his dad, looking at his phone. The ball just fell in his dad’s lap, and he didn’t even notice his son’s effort. Ugh. What are we becoming?

So if traditions, like decorating the tree, do nothing more than force me to put down the phone and be present, then I am incredibly grateful that my husband creates new traditions every week. The more, the merrier! This time with our kids is precious and fleeting. The celebrity gossip and articles with snarky comments that I read on my phone will be around forever.

Loud and Proud

LoudandProud

The average person wouldn’t know that Emmy has Williams syndrome. First of all, it’s a rare (1 in 10,000) genetic condition that most people haven’t heard of. And, secondly, to the untrained eye, she outwardly looks and acts like any other child. If you’re not an expert on genetics, you probably would have a hard time picking a child with Williams syndrome out of a crowd.

This applies to many other syndromes as well. Since finding out that Emmy has a genetic condition, I’ve met other families who have revealed their own child’s diagnosis. And, just looking at them, I would have had no idea.

So I don’t have to tell anybody.

Nobody needs to know.

It can be a secret between me, my family, and the school system.

These ideas went through my head in the beginning, when we first found out. Especially because a doctor told me that I shouldn’t reveal her diagnosis until I knew someone really well. She told me that people can be confused and, later, cruel. I became terrified that other people would hate us; hate our family — just because we were different. I had an image of everyone gathered at a neighborhood picnic, and our family showing up. In my head, I saw the heads in the crowd turn to look at us and whisper among themselves that we were “that family.”

I saw it because I knew it.

When I was growing up, we had people in my town who were different. And everyone knew who they were. There was the guy who always walked around town because he couldn’t drive — because he has special needs. I always saw him at the park and the coffee shop. I was aware of the fact that he was different. And I wasn’t anywhere near as open-minded and curious as I am now.

When I was growing up, I casually noticed him, but I never spoke to him. I should have said “hello.” I should have been friendly and welcoming. I have learned SO MUCH about other people and their differences since finding out about my own daughter. That has been one of the many gifts she’s given me.

Recently, I drove around my old town, and I saw that very same guy walking down the street. I swear I cried at the wheel. All of a sudden, I became more aware of who he was. I became curious about his story. And I also reflected back on the kindness of others. I thought about the people who had talked to him at the coffee shop and shook his hand at the park. I now believe that there are more loving and caring people in this world than there are cruel people.

I believe that those who love will embrace our family enough to drown out that small faction of cruelty.

So I write this blog and share our story, loud and proud.

The response has been incredible. I don’t feel like “the others.” On the contrary. I’ve been so moved by the number of people who have accepted us — and appreciated us — just as we are. This is my family. This is reality. I can’t change who we are, and I don’t want to.

When I found out about Emmy’s diagnosis, I had some incredible phone conversations with other Williams syndrome moms, which I will never forget. I remember telling one of the moms that I was too scared to reveal Emmy’s syndrome — too afraid that the other moms on the playground would ostracize me.

She replied, “If that happens, you need to silently thank them. They’re showing you who they are — right off the bat, and you wouldn’t have wanted to be friends with them anyway.”

I take that with me. She’s absolutely right. I wouldn’t have wanted to be friends with those people anyway. And the people I have met as a result of sharing Emmy’s diagnosis? They’ve been amazing.