I’d love it if my son hadn’t needed surgery to help him breathe when he was two.
I’d love it if I didn’t have to supervise the cleaning of teeth even though he’s 13.
I’d love it if he wasn’t still bringing a reading book home.
It would be great if he didn’t relax by sticking his tongue out.
I’d be over the moon if he could control his voice and speak clearly so that not just me could understand him.
My heart would lift if he wasn’t so vulnerable.
If he stopped doing random things in public, I’d be relieved.
Don’t ever feel sorry for me. Don’t ever pity me. Don’t ever feel that I need you to validate him, or tell me that you think he’s gorgeous.
I’m glad he’s here.
I’m glad he’s him.
I’m glad of him.
He is not to blame for a lack of support for parents like me.
He didn’t make a system that penalises the vulnerable and then blames them for not being good enough, or taking evasive action.
He is not responsible for my happiness.
I am responsible for him.
It’s hard, but it kind of goes with the parenting territory.
No-one ever said that I, or you, would be marked out for an easy life.
Stand with me.
The big story about Down syndrome isn’t termination.
It’s acceptance of who we are.