Re: I think this is awesome

[Guest guest]

What? The article is a beautiful account of a Mom and her mom when her child was born with down syndrome. It really brought back memories for me, and made me grateful for Steve's mom. I was scared she would be disappointed too, but like the mom in the story she came in with open arms. This blogger is an amazing writer and it seems she is in my own head sometimes.Begin forwarded message:Subject: I think this is awesomeDate: May 29, 2012 10:41:38 PM CDTTo: Mom Borkowski Smart and BeautifulBy cori • May 28th, 2012 • Category: The Momoir BlogBy Ellen StumboMy mother always told me it was better to be smart than to be beautiful. “If you are smart, eventually you will be able to afford to be beautiful,” she said. A successful career could result in enough money to buy the right clothes, get the perfect haircut and any plastic surgery I want. According to this wisdom, all I needed were the brains, and someday, I would be a dashingly beautiful lawyer.I was an only child until I was six years old. My mother and I walked the streets of Mexico City visiting every museum and historical place. She worked at a TV station and I would come along and watch the magic of filming TV shows, along with the horror of Big Bird taking his head off to reveal a sweaty, ugly, scrubby man. But all the same, I was learning.<little-girl-smiling1-150x150.jpg>I was reading classics at an early age: Jane Eyre, Little Women, and my favorite, Mark Twain. Bilingual at an early age, my mother began to feed me those classics in English as well, although Mark Twain was never a book I willingly picked up to read in English.When my father’s railroad business failed, I was able to continue at one of the best bilingual schools in Mexico City, thanks to a scholarship. Scholarships followed me into middle school and high school. When we moved back to my dad’s country – the US, I went into psychology. My mother, in her dreams for my life, did not see psychology as a good choice, but I was like her, strong willed to the core.But that change was just the beginning of shattered dreams my mother had for my future. I married young and worse, I married a kid who wanted to be a pastor. She loved Andy dearly, but she would ask him occasionally: “When will you have a real job?” I finished my degree and worked as a social worker, but when I had my first child at age 24, I quit my job. Then at 26, another baby girl joined our family, except this baby girl was different. She had Down syndrome.How would I be able to break the news to my mother? Her words echoed in my mind: “it is better to be smart than to be beautiful.” I knew what smart meant in the context of that statement, and I doubted that my daughter with an extra chromosome would meet those expectations.I decided to tell my mom when she got to the hospital. But first, I needed time to gather my thoughts. I wanted to own the words I would use when I delivered the news. I was afraid — afraid of the stigmas of our Mexican culture, afraid because my mom looked away from people with disabilities, afraid that she too, would see Nichole as broken, one that would never be smart, or beautiful.My mother arrived at the hospital mid-morning, ready to meet her new granddaughter. She smiled and awed at how beautiful Nichole was. She took her from my arms and settled in the rocking chair by my bed while Andy took a break and went for a walk. She rocked my baby back and forth, back and forth.I wanted to tell her that God had picked us for a reason. To tell her that somehow this was part of God’s plan. I wanted to justify that it was okay for my child not to be smart. I sat at the edge of the bed, watching them. Watching my mom, her expression. “She has Down syndrome,” I blurted out.My mom continued to look at Nichole, continued to rock, the same smile on her face.“I know,” she said.She knew. And nothing changed. I watched them, rocking together. Grandmother and child.“Take a picture of us will you?” she asked, “I want to remember the day that God sent a little baby girl to change my life.”More than anyone else, I cared about what my mother thought. Maybe because I knew I was so much like her. Maybe because if I saw strength in her, I knew I could be strong too.Four years later, Nichole runs to my mom whenever we see each other. “Ga-ma!” They hug, kiss and Nichole buries her fingers into my mom’s hair, twirling her fingers in her grandma’s dark curls. And I hear my mom say to Nichole, “You are so beautiful Nichole, and you are so smart. You are teaching me so much about life.” Then I see her wipe a tear from her eye, and grandmother and child embrace once more.Ellen Stumbo is a wife, mom and freelance writer. Down syndrome, Cerebral palsy, and Adoption advocate. Coffee drinker and Nutella lover. Blogging about finding beauty in the broken places www.elliestumbo.blogspot.com