Many moons ago, almost seventeen years now, a bouncing little baby arrived into the world, joined our family. We didn’t know pink or blue, but delighted to discover a baby boy in the delivery room.

Can’t Buy This by allie taylor

Fast forward several years. “We” are expecting again. (Nuthin’ “we” about it, folks.) My nervous thought: what if it’s a girl and all the baby clothes and nursery are blue? (Horrors! Ha.) Maybe we should find out pink or blue this time around. So we do. Ultrasound definitively says boy. OK. Twinge of “pink would be nice” thoughts, but yay!

What a blessing – two boys to grow up together, sweet. Very sweet. Blessed and thankful.

Five years later. Another baby on the way. Really needing to find out pink or blue at this point! We’re tripping over baseballs, basketballs, soccer balls. And blue, a recurring theme at every turn. Ultrasound tech says snips, snails and puppy dog tails. Very blue. OK, wow. So three boys. Exhale. I am to be the mother of three boys. So I’m way outnumbered here, but ok. I’ve grown quite attached to little boys and certainly three boys will be a grand adventure. It’s December now, and our Christmas tree, nothing but a sea of trains, planes and sports balls. The time has come to start representing myself. Five months pregnant with my third boy, I buy a pink, blown glass Christmas ornament on clearance at Target. It’s not even pretty. But it’s pink.

Four year later, once again, “we” are expecting. Our fourth. People hint, perhaps we don’t know where babies come from? We smile. “So, you think it’s a girl?” they hopefully suggest. Lots of speculation early on. I talk like I don’t know, but in my heart of hearts I know it’s my girl. I’m finally gonna get that sweet little girl to dress up, take shopping, go to lunch. Someday we’ll cook together, paint nails, maybe a long weekend away, do girlie stuff.

We go in for the ultra-sound. The ultrasound tech, she smiles. Cheery, with congratulatory gusto, she announces:

“It’s…a…BOY!”

I swallow hard, lump in my throat. Weakly smile, brush away the tiny tear that leaks out. How I wanted that girl. But God said no, you shall be mama to four boys. Others console my fourth boy news with “doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or girl, as long as it’s healthy.” I smile, like it’s ok. And I slowly come to terms with being the mother of four boys.

I adjust my gratitude attitude, because I know I’m so blessed to be the mother of four precious children. Yes, four boys will be absolutely wonderful, an incredible gift. I imagine four boys playing games, wrestling, watching football together, hiking…having each other for life. What a wonderful future lies ahead for four brothers who have one another.

That fourth baby boy arrives. But he’s not bouncing. He’s in distress, comes by emergency c-section. He’s headed to the NICU. He’s got breathing issues, can’t make red blood cells. He’s jaundiced, low muscle tone, feeding tube, can’t nurse. The doctor says something’s different, something’s very wrong.

Says the doctor: “Can I see pictures of your other children? Might be something genetic.”

I look down, drink in the perfect profile of my precious little baby boy, a clone of my other beautiful newborns.

I don’t think for a second.

I blurt:

“Does the baby have Down syndrome?”

“Yes, I think so,” says the doctor. “We’ll need to do genetic testing to know for sure.”

My world stops spinning on a dime, starts spiraling. In that millisecond, my dreams of four brothers magically experiencing life together crash and burn.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or girl, as long as it’s healthy.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or girl, as long as it’s healthy.”

The words echo in my ears, a growing cacophony.

“As long as it’s healthy.”

He’s my precious little baby boy. Hudson Fall Taylor. My beautiful baby, bundled in my arms. But he’s not healthy. He’s not healthy at all. He’s very sick. He needs emergency red blood cell transfusions through a PICC line in his tiny skull to stay alive.

One day, I stop on the way back from the NICU to pick up milk, a few groceries for the waiting boys at home. The cashier, she snaps the gum, flirts at the bag boy. Offhandedly, “How ya doin’?” I have no answer. My eyes brim.

We slowly whisper the news aloud to family, friends. Haltingly speak those strange, unfamiliar words  out loud: “Baby Hudson has Down syndrome.” So much kindness, support: e-mails, cards, Facebook messages, phone calls, visits, meals.

And a few, “It’s all good.” What? I’m foggy, confused, shell-shocked, sleep deprived. It certainly doesn’t feel good. (Tell me, for whom is it all good?)

Days turn into weeks and baby Hudson comes home. We all adjust. Our world changes. Time heals.

We learn to love, care for Hudson, to interact anew as a family with our special needs baby finally home. Everyone pitches in. These are hard days, sleepless nights, priceless moments. We all grow, stretch because Hudson has joined our family.

Fast forward four years, to just last week. Jonathan (16) at a physical therapy consult, follow up on recent ACL replacement surgery. Hudson and I in the busy waiting room. Waiting. Hudson, yelling out unpredictably, throwing toys we bring from home… basically the terrible two’s at nearly five. I work with him, but still, the longest forty minutes.

The owner of the practice comes out with Jonathan, explains treatment details. I hone in, concentrate hard to listen. The therapist, he speaks a little louder for a minute, then drops out mid-sentence, hanging jaw. He’s distracted, looks beyond me. I glance back, see what he sees: Jonathan, crutches propped, down on one knee. The good knee. Ruffling Hudson’s hair, softly singing, distracting his little brother so I can hear. Hudson smiling, chortling. The therapist, in shock, he looks me straight in the eye, whispers, “I’d give anything for my son to even talk to his little sister. Boy what a nice kid you have.”

And I tear up. Because I Can’t Buy This moment for a million dollars, reminded anew my children are priceless gifts. All of my children. This moment, it’s free. And I wouldn’t trade an ounce of the pain or hardship on the journey. I was never numb, didn’t block it out. Deeply felt the excruciating, embraced it in time, eventually thanked God for it. And so this moment of joy and gratitude, it saturates me too. I see the beauty, compassion and kindness Hudson draws out in those around him. Another gift, Hudson’s unique needs shaping character, and our family. We’re not who we were before Hudson arrived. And we’re not all that we will become. Thank God.

Taylor brothers, 2010

And I imagine four boys playing games, wrestling, watching football together, hiking…having each other for life. What a wonderful future lies ahead for four brothers who have one another. 

He will make all things beautiful in His time.

Related post: They Didn’t Know

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A truly beautiful and monumental thing happened just this morning. Only Hudson and I know about it. It involved three people, but only two of us “get it”. It’s after lunch now, and I was just pairing up winter boots and gloves by the side door, vacuuming up the salt and grime that comes with winter around here. Tidying up, thinking about what happened today, and my eyes filled and spilled. I stopped vacuuming for a second, looked straight down. So the wet would fall straight down on the L.L.Bean water hog door mat, not ruin my mascara. (I’m just that vain.)

Glimpse of Sunshine by allie taylor

On my fridge door,  five years now…

Hudson and I headed to his music therapy session this morning, just like any other Thursday morning. We were running late, as is often the case in winter. Hudson is resistant (understatement) to hats, coats and mittens, a difficulty in the Northeast. With below zero temps here this morning, these were non-negotiables today.

Music and speech therapy are ways we attempt to encourage speech and communication for Hudson. Children with Down syndrome and other special needs often have difficulty communicating. With Hudson’s fifth birthday rapidly approaching this spring, he can say maybe ten words (or an approximations of ten words). Milk is “elk”. Music, “ick”. Cookie is “ookie.” All very important words in his world!

Surprisingly, Hudson’s actually a little social butterfly who manages to get his point across quite well, but mostly without words. He points, gestures, signs, has a vice grip finger-lock he engages, then gently drags you along where he wants you to go. It works some of the time, but as you can imagine, often frustrates him and us both, as we try to guess his wants and needs. Let’s just say, it’s not a long term workable strategy.

So this morning, hand in hand, we’re walking together across a long snowy parking lot to get back to the car after saying goodbye to Christina at music therapy. Hudson is entranced with the snow on the ground, but concentrating even more on his little suede Stride Rite fire engine boots. The boots are six years old now, a hand-me down from his big brother. The captivating thing to Hudson about the boots is, that at the right time and with the right “stamp”, he can make the little red engines light up. The tiny built-in batteries are old now, mostly dead. But every once in a while with a little luck, the lights still engage. So Hudson is very busy stamping, prancing his way along to the car for the desired effect.

Along our route, a nice lady wearing all black, and a pair of knee high black leather boots, crosses our path. She flashes a radiant smile to Hudson stamping his way along, pleasantly says hello to us. Hudson looks up from the boots, takes the chewy tube* from his mouth, waves, and very clearly and appropriately says a two syllable, halting “Hel-lo” back. He glances up, smiles at me. He gets it. I’m overwhelmed, speechless. (Rare.) She keeps walking, oblivious to the gravity of the communication that’s just taken place, but cheerfully throws back over her shoulder, “Nice to see the sun today, isn’t it?”

Communication for our children is something we take for granted. We often assume they’ll one day be able to express their wants and needs in an often harsh world. But it’s different for parents with special needs children. Because we don’t know if our children will ever be able to communicate or express themselves clearly. But I’m overjoyed and thankful for this fire engine boot-stride of progress today.

She was right on. It’s nice to see the sun today. We all need that Glimpse of Sunshine now and again. To give us hope.

*A chewy tube is used by individuals like Hudson with sensory issues who crave oral stimulation. A chewy tube provides that, and also builds up the muscle tone and strength of his jaw, helping prepare him for speech, feeding and overall motor skills.

Related Post: Glimpse of Sunshine: Part 2

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