A Letter To My Kindergarten Son With Down Syndrome

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.

 While I waited impatiently for your voice 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.

 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. 
And you were always listening.

 Sometimes, the cup has to run over.