Dear Sophie,
I’m sitting at the kitchen table on the day before your 18th birthday. No one else is home. The dogs are asleep, the cat’s outside and I can hear myself think – not necessarily a good thing.
In a lot of ways, I’m ready for your birthday. I can smell the chocolate bundt cake cooling on the counter and a box of gifts is waiting to be wrapped. Spoiler: You’re getting a bikini — and sippy cups to hold your beloved cranberry juice. I found a sushi restaurant with a patio for dinner tomorrow night so you can order as much sticky white rice as you like, and we’ll spend the day at the pool.
You are definitely ready to be 18, I know that much. You have talked about this day for so long. Birthdays are always a big deal in our house but this one is truly momentous.
Sophie, you are now an adult.
I know this really isn’t about me, but the truth is that I’m not ready for your birthday. Not at all. We decided during the pandemic to give you an extra year of high school, and I’m so glad — a reprieve. But the world is coming for you. And every day, more and more, I realize that the world’s not necessarily going to meet us halfway. Not even a quarter of the way. Maybe an inch.
This morning you swiped one of my legal pads and wrote “to much,” holding it up for me to see. I was on the phone working on a story about disability. You don’t like to talk about that much — or hear about it — and I don’t blame you. Sophie, you are so many things that have nothing do with Down syndrome. You are smart, brave, sweet and silly. You are a good dancer, actor, singer, Yahtzee player, writer, student, friend, sister, daughter and granddaughter. You can hold up your end of just about any conversation. I’m pretty sure if I have to hear the High School Musical soundtrack one more time I’ll stick a fork in my ear, but I appreciate that you are a loyal fan.
When I look at you, I don’t see your diagnosis. I see your newly blonde hair, your pretty skin, my old Birkenstocks you insist on wearing even though they are three sizes too big and the Dunder Mifflin tee shirt you adore. You have topped out at 4 foot 5 inches, but I don’t notice that, either. Sometimes the world does. I watch people try to figure you out. It’s harder with a mask. In a way, the masks have been a gift — people see you before they see Down syndrome.
As much as I can’t wait to see what you do with your life, I’d like to stop time today, the day before you are officially an adult.
I remember worrying so hard when you started kindergarten. In fact, I started this blog to document that year. Someone said, “Kindergarten? That’s the easy part. Just wait.”
Now we are here, and I get it. Kindergarten was easy. This is not. A lot of times, these days, it’s “to much” for me, too.
There won’t be a big birthday party tomorrow; we are all just barely getting out of the house. I promised you a huge bash next year, to celebrate your 19th birthday and your high school graduation. Hopefully we’ll also be able to celebrate your plan, whatever it is — to go to school, work, live at home, move away. It’s your choice, my grown up girl. Your dad and I are here to help, the best we can.
I hope our best is good enough. You deserve that — and more. I know that you want all the opportunities your big sister has had, and why shouldn’t you? The truth is that if anyone’s going to make it happen, it’s you. You’ve always been your own best advocate and I know you’ll keep fighting for yourself. I just wish you didn’t have to.
You have taught me so much, Sophie. You have made me a better person and in a lot of ways, we’ve grown up together. You’ve raised me — and now, whether it’s ready or not, I know you’ll raise the world.
Happy birthday.
Love,
Mom
