Like this morning, when Lilah, Finn and I were waiting in line at Starbucks for our - er, my - daily dose of caffeine. Behind us in line was a woman with a baby in a baby carrier and a little girl Lilah's age. The little girl was very sociable and full of questions: "Why doesn't that girl talk to me?" (Lilah was being shy.) "Why is the baby still wearing his jammies?" "Why can't the baby walk?" To that, her mommy answered, "Because he's not ready. He'll walk when he's ready to." She and I had already chit-chatted as we waited in line, and she had asked how old Finn is, and I told her 15 months. I assume that she could see that he has Down syndrome. Her response to her little girl's question meant the world to me. I'm sure it was nothing more than a miniscule blip in her day, but it felt like acceptance to me.
Like this afternoon when I made Lilah's lunch and accidentally dropped a couple of raisins on the floor, and Finn scrambled over to them, picked one up in a near-perfect pincer grasp, and popped it into his mouth. Every once in a while, he shows me glimpses like this, of the possibilities. It's as though all the capabilities in the world are hiding in there, just waiting for the right time to show themselves.
. . . when it feels that all is right with the world.