A Letter To My Kindergarten Son With Down Syndrome

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By Kat Abianac / August 24, 2016

As I walk through the kindergarten gates, I hook it under my foot and unlatch the lock one handed as I’ve always done. And my mind says ‘open-shut! Good boy!’ Because I’ll be saying it shortly.

We have so many small rituals, Parker.

On one of your first days of daycare, a mum walked her little boy in while chatting away brightly. ‘Help me open it. Ok, now shut. Good boy!’

I was overwhelmed. I looked at her son, not much larger than mine, walking and talking. I felt you’d be this small forever. A babe in arms, Down syndrome impeding your size and growth.

I waited so impatiently for your voice to come. Your gross motor, your laugh and your independence. I watched as you finally find your feet and walked at 2 and a half. I still wait.. but now, I’m OK with what’s to come.

And now you’re three.

I walk into your new kindergarten room. I watch you play outside with your friends, and stand on this side of the glass while you shout and bounce and pull a fairy dress over your head while slapping on a cowboy hat. You’re always the sharpest and most colourful dresser.

I complete our ritual- I approach you, you ignore me and flirt with the closest teacher. I pick you up- after a token struggle, you blow kisses to every teacher on the playground while waving furiously. I miss a teacher, you yell at me, we spin so you can blow the final kiss.

You wrap your arms around my neck and I collect my kisses. If you’ve had an extra spectacular day, I know to expect a nose rub too.

I watch you pack your name tag away in the basket, and try valiantly to find your socks so I don’t get cranky about another pair being eaten by lost and found.

You may not communicate often with words, but you are a cup I cannot come close to filling. Input and output are like giving and taking. They don’t always have to come out even. But sometimes, your cup will unexpectedly run over- and fill mine with joy.

With emotional intelligence beyond your years, you sometimes pre-empt my needs before I’m conscious of them. I get an extra hug today, for putting your backpack on you.

We head to the exit. I open the gate with my foot, because I’m holding you on my hip. I’m distracted, because I’m thinking about your missing socks. I shut the gate.

You pat my cheek and swivel my face around. You always command nothing less than my undivided attention.
“Goo-boy,” you say to me.

Just once, because that’s my ritual.  Our ritual. And you were always listening.