It’s common knowledge what life is like for the families of children with Down’s Syndrome – just ask anyone. Seriously anyone – some TV personality who doesn’t have a child with Down’s, some religious leader who believes all life is sacred so long as it’s perfect, some actress paid to pout and pose, which qualifies you to pontificate on anything, apparently, or a random old lady who still thinks the ‘M’ word is the correct name for the condition. But I thought I’d share the gory details of my weekend with you, anyway.
This weekend we have been suffering
And yesterday we were just about coping …
I mean, what kind of a life is it for a boy?
Of course, there are no pictures here of my above-mentioned older children, because in order to cope with the trauma of having their childhoods completely trashed by having a sibling with Down’s, one was forced to get good grades so he could escape to university to study Linguistics and beer, and the other was lured into a life of adventure in the Girl Guides, and spent the weekend on a First Aid course at the local scout hut, quite a big deal for a young carer, who has previously never been able to venture further from home than Canada.
So yes, it was just another shitty weekend in paradise. I have to say that: because we, the parents of children with Down’s Syndrome, are duty-bound to uphold the stereotype, apparently; because to hold up your hands and say ‘actually, my life is largely happy, and positive, and not at all shitty’, is heresy.
You’d best burn me at the stake, then, before I spread that dangerous idea any further.
Come on baby, light my fire…