Yeah, I know, I’ve missed a few Wednesdays. I totally had ‘that thing’ happen. The one where you have something on your mind and you really want to say it – but it’s such a big friggin’ downer for you and everyone else that you don’t say it. And then, as it’s all you want to say, you can’t think of anything else to say, so you just say nothing.
Yep. I’ve said nothing these past weeks because I don’t want to actually commit these words to print “it’s just not the same”.
There, it’s out there now.
I have had a vast number of people remark about how the motherhood journey is a common experience (and if you’re one of them, I am SO not calling you out in particular) and the more I hear it from Moms – typical everyday Moms – the more isolated it has been making me feel.
Partially this is my fault as I tend to gloss over the sheer logistics of tending to Obi’s needs. I am also guilty of attempting to adopt a normalcy to her condition which then leaves people without a sense of how far from normal her first year has been and what that has meant to our family. Even as I’m typing I’m cringing at my own words – really, what is NORMAL anyway?
But, truth be told, as someone who parented a typical child before Obi came into our lives, having her is just not the same as a typical kid. The “hopes and fears”, the “good days and bad”, the “just trying to get by sleep deprived” and the “constant worry” aren’t the same.
I hope my child will speak. I fear my child won’t walk, or eat solids that aren’t pureed or every be invited to a birthday party not thrown by someone who is like family. On good days I have been able to get food into her, I have not missed an appointment, followup, received bad news or thought too much about her future. On good days we learn we don’t have to come back to a particular specialist for a year – unless we see any of a set of scary symptoms. On bad days we learn she isn’t seeing well, had flunked her hearing test again, her calcium levels are rising. On bad days we get referred to rule out potentially debilitating seizures, get the run around for therapy funding, realize we have no idea what the future holds for her. On bad days people ask what’s wrong with her, if she’s going to be ok, if she’s ‘healthy’, if she’ll ever walk or talk and I have to answer we hope so.
In 12 months she’s slept through the night 10 times. The three months before that, she didn’t wake up. The rest of the days she got between 3-5 hours of sleep between 8 pm and 8 am. We take turns.
With my typical child I worried about eating, sleep, development, if he should have screen time, if he was being spoiled, was he likeable. Now I worry about hearing, sight, mineral levels, blood pressure, muscle tone, tippy toes, W sitting. I worry that she will never eat a cheerio, that she will be bullied, abused, invisible. I worry that I won’t live long enough to take care of her as long as she needs care, that she’ll wind up in poverty somewhere, that, once her brother has a family of his own, she’ll be alone.
I just worry.
I manage her schedule of what will soon be 12 doctors, specialists and therapists. Some she sees by-weekly, others quarterly, others yearly. I keep track of research, minute shifts in development, growth, eating habits, sleep habits, tests, procedures and behaviour that might indicate a need to see one or all of the 12 professionals that tend to her care.
I find foods to try, toys recommended by therapists, routines that might help promote sleep, cups she might hold, groups that will welcome her.
I work. I parent another child. I cook. I think about cleaning…
I love her without question and I do all of this and would do 10 times more…if required.
I’m not amazing, or a super hero or anything like that. I’m just doing what I need to do. Or rather, what she needs me to do.
I’m a mom. And I know we mom’s are a time a dozen.
And it IS true that, like others moms, I have hopes and fears and dreams for the future.
But it’s just not the same.
It’s just not.
Have you given thought to the change in how the people see ability? When I was growing up, people who had differences, physical and developmental were kept away. They went through school in different classes. They weren’t playing sports at the same venues or in the same dance classes I took. Every one who was with me was like me, and everyone who was not like me was somewhere else. This magnified the all the ways we were different.
When I learned about Obi’s condition and every day since I’ve fretted about all the ways she’ll be different. From her peers. From her brother. From us. All they ways we won’t really be able to understand what she’s going though. All the ways other people will see how she is not the same.
This week I had an epiphany. It was Facebook’s doing. You know how everyone is sharing those Facebook Anniversary movies. Well, watching mine I had the first real moment of realizing how much Obi looks like her brother. Not just in features, but expressions as well.
I’ve spent months and months noting how much she looks like a ‘Williams’ kid. I was so blinded by this ‘difference’ caused by the deletion of 28 genes on chromosome 7, that I was completely blinded by what was happening on the other 22 chromosomes.
Despite the people at genetics telling me over and over that she is more than the diagnosis, despite loving her absolutely in spite of her diagnosis, I have been completely and utterly guilty of allowing it to overshadow other parts of her.
As soon as the light bulb went off, I was reminded of the time after my dad died.
I had this long stretch in which I could only remember him in that moment. My whole experience of him was whittled down to that brief fleck of time that was his death. At some point, (quite some time later), the shadow that had fallen over the rest of my memories of the time we had spent together lifted, and I was able to see that instant as such a small part him and me. Just a blink. Although his death was so present, so looming, I realized I needed to remember all the days he lived to put the one day he died into perspective. After I did that, joy started to seep back into my life.
Once again, I can now clearly see the magnitude of the shadow that has fallen. It’s been a f$#%ing hard year.
Those differences – they take up a lot of time. Appointments, therapies, exercises, explaining her delays, little pity parties – all about the different.
But sweet Obi looks a lot like her brother. She lights up when she sees him the same way he lights up when he sees me. She likes to ‘dance’ with this crazy wiggle then stop and wait for you to do the same. She has my hands. She has so much in common with her dad, her brother and me. We’re more alike than we are different.
I’m gonna make an effort to me more present for those – the alikes. I need to. And more importantly, I think she needs me to.
One year ago today was your due date. You were born almost 6 weeks early, and despite what everyone said at the time, you haven’t ‘all but caught up’ by your Adjusted Birthday.
You’ve checked all the little boxes for 8 month milestones and have, just in the last couple of days, finally checked off the first ones for 9 months. You’ve now clapped and banged objects together. You reached your hands up to be picked up this week too.
Although they are not on the list, last week you gave me my first official hug, and today you gave me my first licky kiss. Amazing.
I can freely admit that it stings to watch all the babies pass you by. It really does. But as you slept curled up on my chest yesterday morning…when I should have been working, I got to enjoy the flip side. This baby time is so fleeting. And the mom’s of all those other kids have already started to say goodbye to the magic of these very firsts. The toothy grins, the first peek-a-boos. The snuggley sleeps that fit right on my chest, with a neck nuzzle and tucked up knees. A warm little bundle, still wearing 3-6 month clothes (depending on the brand). Still my little baby.
That’s what I celebrate today. So, so many unexpected things have thrown curve ball after curve ball since I learned that this day should be your birthday.
But having a sweet baby, my last baby, just a little longer than most is the bright side.
Happy One Year Adjusted Birthday little one.
Sweet, sweet dreams.
…that you maybe haven’t given much thought about. This past week we had the 1 year anniversary of Obi’s homecoming after 25 days in the NICU.
We had no idea the journey that lay ahead. Realizing that Obi was not coming along like a typical baby, identifying possible causes and bringing them to her doc’s attention, wading through genetic testing, learning her diagnosis and diving into the steep learning that comes with a complex syndrome like Williams – what a year! I was inspired by this post today on Cheering on Charlie to share some of the thoughts and experiences that have stood out for me so far.
1. It is unbelievably isolating. Charlie’s mom mentioned the same about her micro-preemie experience. In my case, not only are the other cases few and far between, but because it’s a spectrum syndrome, no two cases manifest in exactly the same way. While there are many people who want to help and want to listen, at the end of the day, it’s a journey one undertakes alone. No one else can really know what it’s like. Even my DH and I are experiencing it differently.
2. There is a vague understanding about what her life will be like, but there is no one road map that you can look at and say, I understand how this will go. While this is true for all kids, there is a widely accepted norm for typical kids that is simply absent. Of course no one knows what the future will bring, but I really, really don’t know. It makes living in the moment incredibly important and horribly difficult.
3. There is worry and fear unlike anything I experienced with my typical baby. There is worry about every meal, every sound, every movement. As each and every baby we know flies past her in development, those that are the same age, those that are 6 months younger, the impact of her condition becomes more tangible. What will this mean as the months turn into years? There is fear of tomorrow, next week, the week after that and every week from today until the end of my time, and then there’s the worry for the time after that. It is ever present and unrelenting.
4. Knowing she will always be ‘different’ is a hard pill to swallow. As someone who has always been a little odd, one would think I would have an easier time embracing this. And yes, I have hoped for my kids to be the ones who march to the beat of their own drums. But knowing she will have no choice in the matter, that children may point, that adults may stare or worse, that people will avert their eyes and look past her, and that she will have no ability to fade into the masses if that is her only wish, makes me sad. I have read that lots of individuals with Williams Syndrome are wonderful, bright and loving and people are drawn to them but not being able to picture just what her version of Williams Syndrome will be at 8 and 16 and 23 and 40 – I fear that she will feel her difference and experience isolation and loneliness because of it. I hope I am so very wrong about that.
5. There are moments of mind blowing clarity when I look at my little critter who seemed to defy the odds at every turn. She fought her way into existence. and continues to fight to conquer even the tiniest milestones, ones so small you don’t even notice when a typical baby just sails though them. She proves every day that while, she may be a mystery, she is no mistake. She, just in being, makes me want to be better. If I could have half the fight and determination she’s already shown? Well, I should be so lucky.
I have a confession to make. I seem to have a large foot stuffed in my mouth over and over again. I keep saying the wrong thing -particularly to one parent who has an older boy with significant physical disabilities and a second, a typical child Obi’s age. See, even that, is that the right way to say that?
The most recent foot-in-mouth incident arose when I was piping up in a conversation between said woman, another woman with a boy about Obi’s age who has similar developmental delays and myself.
The woman with the boy close to Obi’s age was asking the other about making the decision to have a second child when the first one has special needs. My addition to the conversation was that you’re making the decision knowing what lies ahead and what it means for your family. I found that when I had one typical child already then learned that Obi had special needs, I worried for the first. How would this change his life? What does it mean for him? We knew that we were pushing pretty hard to have #2 – (you can read all about that here) I wondered if we should have…
Now woman with older special needs boy and typical girl said “well it will only make him a better person” and walked away.
Hmmm. Didn’t mean for that to happen. Also didn’t mean to say that he wouldn’t be better for the experience of having Obi. Just meant to say that you have all the same doubts and feelings of guilt whether you plan to have a second after you have an extraordinary child or you find out that your family has grown by one and it’s taken you in an unexpected direction.
Just meant to say that when you’re in the throws of the ‘poor me’s’ a lot of things go through your head. For me, I wondered if it was my fault? (It wasn’t). If I had just been happy with one child would we have been better off? (We wouldn’t have.) Will Big Brother resent us and his sister later? (Perhaps, but if she was an Olympic Gymnast, one of those crazy med-school-at-15 kids, a kid who’s allergies keep peanut butter out of the house, outgoing while he’s shy…he might resent us/her too. Siblings resent all kinds of things.) If we, our family, our marriage, if I would survive this. (Well I will, our family likely will and our marriage? Well the statistics say no but I’m choosing to remain optimistic)
I was trying to say, there’s no right answer. You just have to do what feels right for you.
Instead she walked away and appeared appalled that I could ever thing my sweet baby was ‘less than’ and by association her boy was ‘less than’. (maybe I’m reading too much into that. maybe her baby girl, who wandered off, needed her).
Regardless, the moral of the story is We, us parents of special needs kids, we get it wrong too. When you’re talking about a child with an unfamiliar diagnosis we ask stupid questions we regret later. When we’re in a group with a child that exhibits behaviour that’s different or unexpected, we look ‘too’ long.
But we still ask. We still look rather than looking away. And that’s what we want you to do. Sure, you may stuff your foot in your mouth time to time. Been there. Done that! But please, ask questions. Make positive comments. Choose to learn rather than look away. When I say things that come out all wrong, I hope the parent knows I have the best intentions even if I don’t have the best expression of them. Just as I know you have the best intentions too.
If we get it wrong, you’re bound to get it wrong sometimes too. We’re all human. All just doin’ the best we can. So I urge you to keep trying to connect – foot be damned. It’s the only way any of us is ever gonna get it right.
PS: Mom at group, I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. It was certainly not my intention and I think my words just didn’t accurately express the emotion I was describing. People say stupid and inappropriate things to me all the time. But as long as they are trying to get it right, I keep listening. I hope you can understand this apology though my foot.
So a week ago today I posted here about a Random Act Of Kindness. I urged readers here and on Facebook to join me in voting for a photo in the Virginia State Parks First Hikes contest so the family could win a 1-week stay in the park of their choice.
I found a blog post on the Love that Max Link-UP from the blog Cheering On Charlie about the photo contest she’d entered. When I read this “At first, I wasn’t sure I wanted to enter the contest. Quite honestly, I have become afraid to hope for things.” I thought, I know exactly what she means.
There were also a whole bunch of nice words in the post about all the people she knew that had come out of the woodwork to vote – most of whom she hadn’t spoken to in ages… again – know how that feels.
She was really excited about all the votes she’d already received and was very much hoping that she could win first place. In that one post, I felt like I’d found a ‘kindred spirit’. I jumped around her blog and read more about her daughter, a micropreemie who has overcome some great obstacles to grow and thrive. I read about her challenges with being a special needs parents and I read about her hopes for Charlie. And then I decided that I could help her and her family win that prize. And, if I shared her story, you guys would help too.
Well, talk about a landslide of kindness. The photo, “Woodland Creature”, racked up vote after vote.
With my post here and the posts of others, Charlie’s mom caught on to our helping the cause and wrote about it here… which caused even more people to jump in to help.
Still, the nearest competitor was really on the ball. WC would go up, the other guy would go up. WC would get 10, 20, 100 votes and the competition would do the same. It was seriously stressing me out!
Then suddenly, I got a message from a friend who was helping me rally the troops that mentioned this blog post comment:
“Hi “Woodland Creature’s” mom. My name is Sarah, and I am the other high voting opponent in the VA State Parks first day hike contest (“Best friends that hike together…”). My husband (in the photo) and I decided to lay off the voting spree and concede before this contest has ended. It should all be in good fun anyway, and we had a lot of fun rallying our FB friends and co-workers to vote for us. You were such a tough opponent, matching us vote for vote or out voting us, that I had to do some Googling to see what who I was up against! After reading your blog about Charlie, my husband and I have decided that your family deserves a cabin stay more than we do. Parenting in so hard, and you’ve had a bit more on your plate than your average parent has. You were such a touch opponent, and Charlie deserves the win! I am a new mother myself, and I just couldn’t continue on for the win after reading your blog. Warm hugs to you and Charlie from Elsa (my daughter) and I. If you ever want to say hello, you can reach us over at oakwoodhouse.wordpress.com. Have a great cabin stay!”
This came from Sarah who conceded the contest so that Charlie and her family could take the prize!
I wrote to Virginia State Parks to let them know how classy the 2nd place finishers were and after reading the final results post, it seems I wasn’t the only one.
They were awarded a special 2nd place prize of a 3 night stay.
I want to thank you very much for taking the time to vote for this family and I hope you had the same case of the feel-goods that I had during the voting process. Charlie’s mom is thrilled that they’ll be enjoying a getaway this year and is oh-so-very-grateful for the role we all played in their journey to the top.
My biggest take away is that I will always be able to find a way to shake the blues by reaching out and doing something kind for others – even if I don’t really know who they are. Even if they live 1000 miles away.
We did good.
It’s finally being released across the country! Gabrielle, Canada’s Oscar submission for Best Foreign Film opens in Toronto at the Tiff Lightbox and in Ottawa today, and in Vancouver and Winnipeg on the 24th.
Back in September I had the pleasure of seeing Gabrielle at the Toronto International Film Festival. Directed by Louise Archambault, the film stars Gabrielle Marion-Rivard, a Quebec actress making her film debut who also happens to have Williams Syndrome. The cast was present for the screening and I had the pleasure of speaking very briefly to Gabrielle and her Mom after the Q&A was finished. She was lovely in person and her Mom was also most gracious. There was at least one other family with a child (young adult more specifically) with Williams Syndrome who asked some great questions at the Q&A – most importantly, the young man wanted to know if Gabrielle was single and if she was interested in a date, which caused much blushing for both parties. Ah, young love.
The film, a coming-of-age romance is, at times, heart-wrenching and at times, uplifting but that’s where the ‘typical’ ends. The two main characters meet in a choir for young adults with developmental disabilities.
The sweet love that grows between them is as pure as it is troubling to his parents. We see Gabrielle float between woman and girl, craving independence and needing support, finding her own way and getting lost metaphorically and literally. It is both riveting and hard to watch. But you can’t help but cheer her on in her fight to be heard and to experience love and life to the fullest.
I’m no film critic, and to be honest, I was watching the story unfold through the lens of a parent with endless questions about what will come to pass for my own daughter, so you may want to read what some others had to say about the film.
The Ottawa Citizen says “Gabrielle, the character and the performer, is someone to root for.”
The Toronto Star says “Gabrielle reminds us, through love and music, that perception is not reality and that prejudice is an attitude, not a truth.”
And the Montreal Gazette says “On the surface, it’s a simple love story: girl meets boy, girl likes boy, girl kisses boy. But Louise Archambault’s Gabrielle is much more. The Quebec director’s second feature is a deeply affecting tale of difference, dignity and the healing power of song.”
You can watch the trailer here.
I have a pair of tickets to see the film at the TIFF Lightbox for one lucky reader here in Toronto. Head over to facebook.com/mommydoCA and and leave a comment under the post for this blog entry. I’ll do a random number draw tomorrow, Saturday, January 11 at 12 noon, and notify the winner. Then we can arrange how I can get the tickets to you in a timely fashion. You must live in Toronto to win.
Even if you don’t win, I strongly urge you to check out the film, if only to gain greater understanding of Williams Syndrome and my little Obi and enjoy some great Canadian movie magic.
Something nice happened when I learned I had a child with Williams Syndrome.
I became a nicer person. I became a person who couldn’t afford to be completely self centered (though I am ashamed to say, I found those 40 self-centered years to be pretty fun. And I never really gave any thought to why there was a problem with that). Overnight I came to understand that I would not make it through this process alone – that none of us makes it through this alone. Oh, and that there were people I should have tried harder to be there for that I never even thought to reach out to. (That part still makes be feel bad.)
I also realized that the past is the past but there are things, big and small, that need doing now. And if not me, then who?
In order for my child to grow up to be loved and accepted in society, I believe folks need to have some awareness about her syndrome. Someone should really work to raise awareness on her behalf, and on behalf of all individuals with Williams Syndrome.
And if not me, then who?
There are therapies and specialists – so many it makes your head spin, and someone needs to understand how they all work together. And needs to be able to share this info with the next parent who feels lost and alone.
And if not me, then who?
Someone really should make people understand it’s not ok to say ‘retard’, ‘retarded’ or any other derivative of the word.
And if not me, then who?
Someone needs to let other parents of kids special needs know they are not alone.
And if not me, then who?
That’s the reason I took it upon myself to Cheer on Charlie in the Virginia Parks Photo Contest (in which they netted the most votes, by the way). Because they were a nice family who needed a break. Because their story touched my heart. Because someone really needed to drum up some votes so the little family with the cute little girl who goes though a number of the same therapy sessions as Obi is now who really wanted (needed) to get away had a fighting chance to do a ‘normal’ thing.
If not me, then who?
Well, in this case, it turned out to be me, and a whole bunch of you. Which is also nice.
Remember that feeling of being a nice when I come calling for my first Williams Syndrome Awareness Event. Know that we may have the only WS kid there…I don’t know any others in Toronto yet. Given the probability of having a WS child – between 1-7500 to 1-20,000 – statistically only 19-50 will be born in Canada this year.
According to those stats, there are only 2000 or fewer individuals with WS under the age of 20 in the entire country. That makes it rare. Like, really really rare.
But Williams Syndrome being rare doesn’t make it any less of my reality or her reality. It doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t learn more or accept more.
It doesn’t mean she should have to live less of a life because she’s only one of a few that has these 28 less genes than you or me.
She, and all the other little peeps with Williams Syndrome and a host of other little peeps with countless other conditions and syndromes need all of us to make sure that everyone gets to live their lives to their fullest potential.
If not us, then who?
I took a little blogging holiday over the holidays. There was a lot to process and I couldn’t quite bring myself to form my thoughts and feelings into words.
First, I found myself reliving my delivery and NICU experience as we celebrated Obi’s first birthday, only now I was able to apply the Williams Syndrome lens to what happened. This made me feel the need to go back over every painful moment to see if knowing about the WS might somehow change how I felt at the time or the decisions we made. Those were dark days, and reliving them was no better. I don’t know what difference it would have made, other than giving me something else to worry about.
Then there was Christmas. For me, the holidays are steeped in tradition. From the cookies I bake to the ornaments I hang on the tree to what we eat at meals, tradition rules the days. I was reminded time and again as I went through the rituals, that sweet Obi may never follow in those footsteps. She may not be able to make cookies on her own or whip up a turkey dinner. She may not be shopping for gifts – reveling in the thrill of the hunt – designing wrapping schemes and sneaking around.
She won’t have kids of her own. She won’t be Santa. She won’t have a home of her own to put up a tree and hang the ornaments that my grandmother gave to me.
I totally get that lots of people don’t have these things. Many of my favourite people don’t have kids by choice or by circumstance. Some people just don’t like to bake, can’t cook, hate Christmas, marry into another faith and choose not to celebrate. There are no guarantees. But knowing already. Knowing now that it may not be up to her…that these thing may simply be out of reach for her, well it nearly broke my heart in two.
We had a wonderful Christmas. The company was fabulous. The food was fantastic. The boy was filled with glee. Santa was generous.
Even so, it was a hard time. It’s been a hard year. There’s no way to know if next year will be better or worse. I know so much more than I did sitting in the NICU trying to get a 3 3/4 lb baby to eat. But in knowing I have learned how little I know.
Sigh. I’m hoping for a better year.
I wrote an entirely different post. But when I read it, it was well… sad. You see, it was this time last year that things started to go south fast in my pregnancy. Warning signs lead to tests lead to hospital bed rest lead to more failed tests lead to worry about baby’s safety lead to emergency c-section lead to Christmas, New Year’s, my birthday in the NICU lead to home on RSV season house arrest lead to a laser focus on Obi’s delays lead to tests lead to diagnosis lead to more tests, therapies, adjusting to the new normal.
It’s been a year filled with the unknown, worry, disappointment, grief and challenges. It’s been a very, very long year. And when you stop there, it sounds like that’s all it’s been.
Which is far from the reality. As with any new baby, there have been all these tough times, but there has also been unimaginable joy. I suppose this is also the real lesson I’ve learned as a parent of a special needs child. It is true that the lows are lower. The hard times are harder than with a typical child, there’s no question. But these don’t take away from the splendour or the majesty or the joy. I think they probably make it all a little bit sweeter.
The calendar is triggering all these memories of how things went from what I expected when I was expecting to this giant uncharted sea that is Williams Syndrome. But the calendar is also signalling my most favourite time of the year. It’s easy to stay at the pity party and wallow in the woe-is-me’s, but that’s not gonna help anything AND it’s going to mean next year I’m looking back at this year as another one that fell flat.
So to try and move past what happened last year and embrace THIS season, I’ve decided to stuff my advent calendar with little reminders of all the magic that happened this year. To actually count my blessings – 25 of them – and take 25 days to reflect on what a wonderful year it’s been. Really, learning my child has Williams Syndrome is just ONE thing that happened. This also happened:
1. Our infertility journey came to an end when we welcomed the sweet baby girl that completes our family.
2. We were fortunate to spend our NICU time in an incredible environment and never worried for one minute about the love and care Obi received.
3. Although Obi ultimately didn’t become a ‘nursing’ baby, the time we spent trying was filled with sweet bonding moments.
4. My eternal newborn still has that sweet baby smell, at almost 1 year old.
5. The boy has blossomed as a loving and nurturing sibling.
6. Obi’s first smile very nearly melted me into a puddle of goo and every one since has been glorious.
7. I have learned are really good people in the world whose sole purpose is to ensure children shine.
8. I got to experience the feeling of holding a new (day-old) baby again when there had been many days I thought I never would.
9. People have been gentle with me when times have been rough.
10. My business is fine despite taking a backseat.
11. I realized how grateful I am that we live near Sick Kids.
12. Obi saw many specialists but so far has no concerning health issues.
13. Obi laughed and it was magical.
14. I learned that small babies stay ‘babies’ longer – and I love babies.
15. I took a stand against something and found others stood with me.
16. Through Mommydo, I came to feel I am not alone.
17. I got to take long walks with a sleeping baby in a stroller.
18. I got to watch a lot of great TV while a baby did not sleep at night.
19. I made new friends that I would never have met if things had been different.
20. Obi sat for the first time and I thought my heart would burst with pride.
21. I made nice with my bre.ast pump and have met the goal of 1 year of bre.ast milk for my little miss – a huge accomplishment.
22. I brought a tiny human into the world and she has changed me and all those around her for the better.
23. I learned what unconditional really means.
24. We gained a whole new ‘family’ in the Williams Syndrome community.
25. With Obi’s arrival I experienced sorrow, but not as deeply as I experienced JOY.