I stacked the empty cereal bowls and dumped a mush of soggy Cheerios into the garbage. Throwing the spoons into the sink, I filled a mug with boiling water and reached for the jar of coffee.

The phone rang.

I recognized the ring. It was part of my morning ritual, the sugar cube for my coffee.

“Hi, Yiddes,” I greeted her, before she could say anything. “What’s up?”

“Baruch Hashem. How was your night, Mommy?”

“Fine, the usual, baruch Hashem. No more getting up for babies or anything of the sort, but I got to bed late. The Berliners made a wedding last night.”

“The Berliners? Who got married, Goldy?”

We schmoozed pleasantly, catching up on the news as I sipped my coffee.

“How are you spending your morning, Yiddes?”

“Nothing special. I have a lot of laundry to catch up on, and maybe I’ll go out if I manage to finish before lunch.”

“Okay.” I stretched, winding the phone call to its predictable ending. “Have a great day. Hope you get to go out.”

“You too, Ma. Regards to Tatty.”

Returning the phone to the base, I smiled with satisfaction. There are certain things you don’t take for granted.

Even when they happen every single morning.

I was a young mother, 21 to be exact, when I went into labor with my second baby. A flutter of excitement brushed my heart as I folded little Esty’s blanket into the handbag where the rest of her stuff lay ready. Diapers, bottle, pacifier; we were ready to leave. Dropping my baby off at my sister’s house, I called the doctor that we would be there soon.

As memories go, I clearly recall every detail: the room, the doctor’s voice, the escalating intensity of the experience. And at long last, the climactic moment of birth, that thin, newborn cry piercing the room.

I lay back, feeling the tension drain, as I smiled in exhaustion. We now had two little girls, a year apart. I was happy for Esty. I knew what it meant to have a sister close in age.

My husband, too, was beaming. He seemed as delighted as I was with another daughter.

“Can I go make the phone calls?” he asked, hesitant to leave me by myself. Back in those days, before the advent of cell phones, telephone calls could be time-consuming.

I nodded my consent. I was happy to close my eyes and relax a bit after the stress of the past few hours.

Moishy checked his watch.

“And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue on to davening. It’s pretty late for shacharis. As soon as I finish, I’ll bring you some breakfast, okay?”

I nodded again, smiling weakly. Breakfast was the last thing on my mind. The baby had been taken to be weighed, washed, and checked. I was free to relax.

Floating on a cloud of drowsiness, I envisioned my mother smiling at the sound of the news. Thoughts of my sisters and Esty mingled with each other, as a light sleep overtook me.

I was jolted out of my dreams by the rustle of some papers near my bedside. A smiling nurse was marking something down on my chart.

“Hi honey, congratulations.” she said pleasantly, “How are you feeling?”

I smiled in response.

“I’m gonna transfer you now, hon. Your husband said he would come back to get your stuff.”

Before I knew it, I was being wheeled into recovery. Colorful curtains partitioned the room into separate cubicles. The nurse got me settled in and imparted some instructions in hushed whispers. I was left on my own.

Not for long.

As I strained to find a comfortable position in my new surroundings, a doctor poked his head in and asked permission to enter. His demeanor seemed serious, even a tinge sad.

“Good morning, Mrs. Braun,” the doctor greeted me. I noticed that he sported a yarmulka. My eyes shifted to his identification tag: Dr. Steven Moskowitz, Pediatrician.

“Mazel tov on the birth of your daughter. I presume you fed the baby already?”

“I actually haven’t,” I replied, instinctively stealing a glance at my watch. Indeed, they should have brought me the baby, I calculated.

“Hm,” he answered thoughtfully. He seemed thrown off.

I suddenly felt a premonition of doom. I had no recollection of being visited by a pediatrician after Esty’s birth. What was he coming to tell me?

Dr. Moskowitz rested his brown eyes on me for a moment.

“Mrs. Braun,” he said gently, “I wish I could do away with this part of my job, but I can’t. We’re not a hundred percent sure, but we have a strong suspicion that your baby was born with Down Syndrome.”

The curtains were drawn around us. There was no one else within earshot. He was talking to me. I felt the rosy euphoria of the past few hours dissolve as the two ominous words punctured my consciousness: Down Syndrome. The dream of my two little girls, picture-perfect sisters, was suddenly gone. My baby wasn’t normal. She had Down Syndrome.

How could it be? I wondered. I was only 21, barely playing house. The compassionate doctor standing beside my bed didn’t fit into the script of my existence. Though barely two minutes had passed on my watch, I felt as if I had just walked over an unmarked threshold, the invisible line between childhood and adulthood.

My husband arrived, holding a bag of fresh bagels. I took one look at his face. He avoided my gaze. He knew already.

“Did you tell my parents?”

“I told them we had a girl. The doctors are still unsure. Maybe it’ll turn out to be nothing, yet.”

We both knew it was a futile hope. Doctors didn’t unnecessarily burden parents with baseless suspicions. Much as we wished it, it was too late to crawl back into our innocent oblivion. We were the parents of a Down Syndrome child.

My mind churned with a million questions. How would we ever manage to raise a special-needs child? What would I tell family and friends? Everyone else had normal babies; why did it happen to me? My heart ached to cry, but I felt strangely numb as I watched my husband unpack the bagels and set a carton of orange juice on the metal cabinet. It was almost an exact replay of Esty’s birth a year ago, the bagels, the orange juice, the bed next to the window. Only the festivity was gone.

Some visitors burst into the room with helium balloons and flowers. There were shrieks of delight, kisses and hugs. I looked at my husband. Their gaiety seemed so out of place in our little corner.

My husband asked me how I was feeling.

“Okay,” I sighed. Was that a tear trickling down the side of my cheek? So the shock was wearing off. I would have to brace myself for my emotions.

I felt an instinctive need to protect my husband. He looked so crestfallen, so sorry for me.

“We’re going to manage, Moishy”, I whispered. I didn’t trust my voice.

“Did you see her yet?”

“What exactly did the doctor tell you?”

We spoke quietly, alternately lapsing into pensive silence. The minute my husband left, I reached for the telephone at my bedside.

“Mommy?”

All at once, my veneer crumbled. I was once again a little girl, running to find comfort in my mother’s arms.

“Can you come to the hospital,” I blurted before I broke down, “I have to tell you something.”

My mother sounded taken aback.

“What’s the matter, Chumy?” she gulped.

Then her maternal practicality took over.

“Do you want Tatty to come, too?”

I nodded, afraid to talk.

“Yes,” I finally managed, “please.”

My mother didn’t press me any further. She assured me that she and my father would be over right away. If there was one thing that got me over that first wave, and over the many, many waves to come, it was my parents’ support and wisdom. At the time, I didn’t even pause to think that I might be overburdening them. Calling my parents was a reflexive reaction to my pain, and my parents responded in kind.

My mother embraced me lovingly, my father bowed his head in a show of empathy. And in that paradoxical compassion of true Jewish parents, they both exuded an aura of acceptance. Acceptance of my feelings, acceptance of their new granddaughter, acceptance of Hakadosh Baruch Hu’s will. They didn’t say anything profound, but their presence soothed me.

“She’s the Ribono Shel Olam’s child just like any other baby,” my father said softly.

“It isn’t an easy thing to face,” my mother commiserated, “but you’ll see, you’re going to love her just like any normal baby, if not more. You’ll get special kochos to raise her and you’ll have exceptional nachas from her.”

I took comfort in my parents’ words. Indeed, soon after my parents left, a nurse brought me the baby to feed. I experienced a mild surge of relief. The words Down Syndrome sounded so big, so forbidding. This soft, snuggly bundle looked so tiny and fragile. She immediately captured my heart. I picked her up and looked at her. Her eyes were barely open, but I sensed her innocent trust. She was counting on me to love her, to raise her, to wipe her tears and ease her hardships just as my own parents had always done for me.

I would rise to the challenge.

(As the years passed, I realized that having a special child was inherently no different than any other challenge we face as parents. The difference lay in the way the difficulties are presented to us. While Hakadosh Baruch Hu staggers our hardships, providing us with the strength and the love to handle things as they come, a diagnosis at birth hits an unprepared parent all at once with a lifelong prophecy of doom.

If someone had dumped my entire family on me at the age of 20, I would have buckled under the burden. If someone had told me all the ups and downs we would endure with each of our children, I would have doubted my ability to cope. I learned to feel the same way about Yiddes. She was, first and foremost, my child. I got to know her and love her like any baby. Then, one at a time, I dealt with the unique challenges of raising her, the way I did with each of my children.)

A social worker came by, a tall, thin woman holding several files, mine amongst them. She gingerly approached my bed and asked me how I was faring.

“I have some information that may be helpful to you,” she offered.

She then proceeded to explain what I could expect of my baby, and what I, as her mother, could do to help her development. She gave me a few pamphlets with information and telephone numbers that I would need.

“You seem to have a positive attitude, and that’s what counts most,” she smiled.

Fortunately, little Yiddes had no medical problems to complicate her diagnosis, and we were able to take her home a few days after her birth. Entering our little apartment with the baby, it was hard to believe that we had left that very same place only a few days earlier, eager with anticipation. We had left as carefree parents of a one-year-old girl; we were coming back, the members of a special league, the league for parents of Down Syndrome children.

I got settled into my routine like any normal mother of two babies. I took little Esty back home and introduced her to her little sister.

“Baby!” she pointed, delighted with her new companion. She saw nothing unusual about little Yiddes. To her, Yiddes was a baby just like herself, just like any other. She kneeled near the infant seat, curiously poking the baby’s eyes and nose, toddling to fetch the pacifier whenever she cried. In my mind’s eye, I saw my vision of two sisters slowly come back to life.

To say that Yiddes’s infanthood was easy would be whitewashing the truth. Feeding time was a nightmare. It took Yiddes about 40 minutes to drink two ounces, and then another half an hour to burp. Often, she would spit up the feeding, after which it was time to start the ordeal all over again.

My husband was instrumental in getting me through those rough beginnings. Whether it was another pair of hands to burp the baby, or a word of support or empathy to raise my flagging spirits, he was always there, the wind behind my sails.

By the time Yiddes was a year old, she had a little baby brother. She made no indication, however, of relinquishing her status as the infant of the household. Sometimes it seemed that all I did all day was feed bottles to babies. Little Esty, all of two years old, wasn’t about to be left out. She would get into a prone position and entreat, “Mommy, feed me,” a request I would laughingly fulfill.

The feedings, though, were benign troubles next to our constant concern over Yiddes’s health. All through that first winter, we lived under the threat of pneumonia. Yiddes was chronically feverish and congested, suffering regularly from bronchitis. Doctor Moskowitz’s words rang ominously in our ears, as we struggled to get the antibiotics down. “If she gets through her first year without pneumonia, she’ll be fine. Pneumonia in Down Syndrome babies can be fatal.”

When Yiddes was eight months old, going through one of her bouts of bronchitis, I suddenly noticed that her face had turned ashen and she seemed completely apathetic. Frantic, I called my pediatrician.

“Any fever?” the secretary inquired.

I replied in the negative.

“Then don’t bring her in. Dr. Zoldan is very busy this afternoon.”

I hung up and checked Yiddes again. Something about her deathly pallor scared me. I grabbed my coat and stuffed her into a snowsuit. In less than ten minutes, we were inside the doctor’s office. The receptionist took one look at the baby and grabbed her from my arms. Barging into the examination room, I heard her blurt something about pneumonia. I felt my head swirling.

Yiddes was hospitalized immediately in the pediatric intensive care unit, where she was put on oxygen. It was erev Pesach. For my husband and me, though, time was suspended. We were fiercely aware of only one thing: Yiddes had to make it.

By a miracle, Yiddes emerged from the ordeal. She was frail and scrawny, but she was a survivor. She had challenged the medical odds and had triumphed. It was a victory for all of us, a thumbs-up signal from the One Above.

Aside from the physical challenges of having a Down Syndrome baby, there was the emotional aspect to face. I had two children; one of them was normal, one of them was different. The term “special” had not yet been coined.

I remember coming home from the hospital and saying over and over to myself, “My baby is retarded. My baby has Down Syndrome.” I was determined to immunize myself against the pain of those statements. I repeated them over and over again, as I washed the dishes, as I folded laundry and diced onions, until I could say them without wincing. During those moments, I thanked Hashem that I didn’t yet have a household full of children to contend with. Though there was sadness in the fact that we were so young, I appreciated being able to air my feelings openly and honestly.

My mother constantly reinforced the notion that Yiddes was nothing to be ashamed of. Her outlook was one that kept me on track throughout the years and later infused many parents and grandparents of Down Syndrome children with the strength to go on.

“Children are the Ribono Shel Olam’s handiwork,” she’d remind me. “He’s the one who makes them either perfect or imperfect. A child’s gifts are not his parents’ credit and a child’s limitations are not his parents’ shame.”

I tried to integrate this mindset until it became part of my being. Had I ever thought to question the fact that Esty had been born healthy? Had I ever asked what I had done to deserve a normal baby? Like most parents, I had happily acknowledged the fact that children were gifts from Above; we didn’t deserve them or earn them. Now I would have to struggle to maintain that attitude. I had received a gift from Above, albeit a gift in a different wrapper.

Though pediatricians in those days recommended that infants be put on their stomachs, I purposely kept Yiddes on her back, where she was visible to all. I didn’t want anyone to think I was hiding her, or that her presence made me uncomfortable around other babies. People around me, however, didn’t always take naturally to the situation.

I remember one Simchas Torah, when Yiddes had just turned two. We had recently moved to a new community and I was visiting the local shul for the first time.

“Can you hold Yiddes?” I asked my sister. “I’ll be right back. I only need to take Esty to the bathroom.”

My sister graciously acceded, and I was back in no time.

“Tell me, Chumy,” my sister whispered uncomfortably, as I took Yiddes back into my arms. “Is something wrong with my sheitel?”

“Your sheitel’s fine,” I assured her, “what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know; everyone seems to be staring at me.”

“Oh,” I laughed, amused by her bewildered expression, “that’s because you were holding Yiddes. I’m so used to it, I don’t feel it anymore.”

When Yiddes was six weeks old, I started taking her once a week for therapy. The therapist taught me various exercises to strengthen her muscle tone, and she urged me to help prepare her mouth muscles for speech. At the therapy center, I also learned various educational concepts and tools, among them the idea of setting short- and long-term goals.

Nowadays, these behavioral concepts have become lay terms tossed around by mothers the world over. In the seventies, however, when Yiddes was a baby, they constituted a discovery to me. Separating the immediate tasks from more long-range objectives helped make the challenges appear less daunting.

When Yiddes was six months old, I dared to set my long-term goal: to see her walking, talking, and toilet-trained. In my rosiest fantasies, I couldn’t dream past that.

Though Esty had been chattering at a year, Yiddes barely uttered a word at two. She showed no signs of walking, either. Her brother, a year her junior, was already taking his first faltering steps while Yiddes crawled laboriously on the floor.

Apparently, though, she wasn’t content with the situation. As Shloimy teetered across the floor to our applause, she would crawl right up to him and pull on his pants, tripping him. This happened several times before we realized that Yiddes was protesting the reversal of nature’s order: Older sisters walked first.

Two years old was actually a turning point in Yiddes’s life. Though frum schools for special children didn’t yet exist, we moved to a community that had an excellent self-contained program within the public school system. Yiddes blossomed there. By the time she was two and a half, she had mastered quite a few words, albeit unclearly, and by the time she turned three, she was putting words together. In fact, incredibly, by Yiddes’s third birthday, she had achieved all three goals I had set for her. She was walking, talking, and had just been toilet-trained. I felt like I had reached the top of Mount Everest.

The rapture of success sparked new ambitions. “Ribono Shel Olam,” I implored, “You’ve brought us until here, when I thought no more was possible. Let Yiddes scale new heights. Give her access to the legacy of every Jewish daughter; let her learn to daven from a siddur.”

I knew it was a bold plea. At that point, I couldn’t picture Yiddes mastering the English alphabet; the thought of her learning a second set of letters and an entirely different system of phonetics seemed as impossible as teaching a five-year-old computer programming. I knew, however, that dreams were comprised of the impossible.

I also knew that prayer could turn dreams into reality.

Although Yiddes’s school was at the cutting edge of special education, it pained me that she spent her days in non-Jewish company and that none of the warmth and beauty of Yiddishkeit infiltrated her classroom. I became a teacher in my own right.

As I went through the daily rituals with the little ones, I tried to teach Yiddes about Shabbos and brachos, modeh ani, krias shema, negel vasser. Nothing transferred by osmosis. I repeated things as many times as she would listen, demonstrating, singing, and acting.

When Yiddes was seven, the gates to paradise opened for us. A frum school for special children was in the planning stages. As soon as we got wind of the news, we contacted the founders and threw ourselves headlong into the project. The school opened with an enrollment of five students, Yiddes being one of the lucky five. We were elated. When Mr. Lefkowitz, the founder of the school, asked me what I considered the goal of this new educational setting, I replied,

“Believe me, Mr. Lefkowitz; if Yiddes says modeh ani every morning and nothing else, I’ll have considered the move successful.”

The school, in fact, far surpassed those expectations. When Yiddes was eight, she was introduced to the Aleph-Bina. I never once looked to the end. Just watching the glow on her face as she strained to discern each letter was a reward in itself. No child rambling off the aleph-beis had ever tugged at my heartstrings the way Yiddes’s painstaking enunciation of each letter did.

Even her younger siblings looked on in obvious admiration. They knew Yiddes had limitations and they respected her perseverance. It wasn’t unusual for one of them to come running to my husband or me with the news of their older sister’s accomplishments. Yiddes, in turn, adored her younger sisters and brothers, and never showed a hint of envy for the things they were able to do faster and better than she.

Looking back at the mountainous terrain of Yiddes’s childhood, I know that raising her would have been impossible without the help and support of the community.

When Yiddes was about seven or eight, I found myself facing a dilemma. Shabbos afternoons were becoming an impossible juggling act. Esty wanted to invite her friends, the little ones needed entertainment, and Yiddes had her own social needs. Being that her school was out of town, she had no real friends to interact with on Shabbos. Though she would have been happy to join Esty, I felt it unfair to saddle the older one with a tag-along sister. Esty was always so considerate of Yiddes; Shabbos afternoon was her time to spend alone with friends on her own wavelength.

When Rabbi Mendelsohn, the principal of my daughters’ school, called me with a proposal that eighth graders come spend an hour or two with Yiddes on Shabbos afternoons, I experienced ambivalent feelings.

“Go for it,” one part of me urged, “It’s the salvation you’ve been praying for.”

“Me?” another part of me recoiled, “become the neighborhood pity case? Yiddes is just like any other child in our family. We’ll take care of her on our own.”

Rabbi Mendelsohn sensed my hesitation.

“You’ll be doing us a favor, Mrs. Braun,” he assured me. “Trust me, the eighth graders stand to gain more than Yiddes. It’ll give them something constructive to do on Shabbos afternoons, and it will leave them with invaluable lessons for life.

“A Yid is part of a tzibbur. The tzibbur has the responsibility of sharing the burden and the privilege of joining in the rewards,” he added.

I was swayed. Swallowing my pride, I acceded to the idea. The rotation program succeeded beyond anybody’s expectations. Yiddes looked forward all week to her grown-up Shabbos friends, and the eighth graders, in turn, showed amazing sensitivity and understanding. They took Yiddes outside, played board games with her, and gave her a wonderful time.

Very soon, Yiddes became a popular figure in the neighborhood. Her eighth grade friends lent her an aura of importance and her charming nature quickly melted the children’s initial reservations. She was fun-loving and easy to converse with, making friends with young and old alike. By the time Purim came, the many mishlochei manos sent for Yiddes by far won her the vote of popularity in the family. Yiddes beamed as she returned each delivery and showed off her loot to her siblings. In my heart, I thanked Rabbi Mendelsohn, who had been the catalyst for this wonderful turnabout.

When Yiddes turned 13, I was invited to see the unfolding of the impossible, the realization of my innermost dream. After five years of laborious effort, Yiddes was the first student of the school to complete the Aleph-Bina.

I don’t think any mother ever felt her heart swell the way mine did as Yiddes walked across the stage to receive her first siddur. I sobbed silently as I watched her clutch the treasure close to heart, face wreathed in smiles, palms sweating with excitement. Ein tefillah chozeres reikah. No entreaty goes unanswered. My prayer had become a reality.

When Yiddes turned 18, I was faced with the most difficult decision in my life.

About a half a year earlier, one of the founders of Yiddes’s school in Monroe had approached me about the idea of a group home for mentally retarded adults. At the time, I had responded enthusiastically, sure that a number of years would certainly elapse from the conception of the idea to its fruition. I would have time to face the decision when the moment came.

The phone call caught me unawares, one innocent morning, exactly six months later.

“Mrs. Braun?” I immediately recognized Mr. Fishman’s voice. Before I could respond, he dropped the bombshell.

“The home is ready.”

I felt the floor spinning beneath me. How did they do it so quickly?

“The home may be ready,” I wanted to scream, “but I’m not ready yet.”

Mr. Fishman understood my reservations, but he needed to know whether to keep a slot for Yiddes. Feeling strangely detached, I told him we would get back to him as soon as we had made our decision. Instinctively, I did the same thing I had done 18 years earlier when Yiddes had been born. I called my parents.

This time, my husband and I were sufficiently collected to drive over to them. We had grown inconceivably since that fateful day nearly two decades before. Still, whenever we felt those pebbles loosening underfoot, we instinctively grabbed for the sturdy ropes lowered by our parents.

My parents knew and loved Yiddes. They had accepted her from the moment of her birth and had showered her with warmth and encouragement as she had grown older. More than anything, however, my parents were parents. They understood my emotional turmoil; they knew what it meant for me to contemplate sending Yiddes out of my nest.

My parents had never told us what to do. They had always listened, understood, offered support. This time, however, my father was unequivocal in his opinion. He emphatically felt that the home was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance we couldn’t pass up on.

“I understand your feelings” he empathized, “but letting go is a natural part of child-raising. You’ve done it with Esty, because you knew that it was best for her.”

I opened my mouth to interrupt, but my father continued.

“I know Yiddes has a special place in your heart, and that this is different than marrying off a child, but Yiddes is not a child anymore. She has to move on.”

I fingered the doily on the end table as I reflected on my father’s advice. I knew he was right; what was it that was still nagging me?

“Yiddes is not Esty, Tatty. She really is still a child in a certain way. I know eventually, we’ll have to make the move, but why can’t it be in another five years, when I feel a little more ready?”

“Chumy,” my father met my gaze, “now they’re asking you. In another five years, you’ll be having to beg them. Do it now; don’t wait.”

My mother brought in some fruit, and the men got up to daven mincha.

As my father put on his coat, he turned to me once again.

“Chumy,” he exhorted me. “Listen to me. Don’t say no to the home.”

My husband and I drove home feeling lighter. Though my heart was still churning with indecision, my mental blinkers were flashing in favor of the home.

Two days later, my beloved father passed away. Just like that, without any warning.

As I got ready for the levaya through a haze of shock, the scene of two days earlier kept replaying itself before my eyes. My father, putting on his coat, twisting around to me with conviction in his eyes.

“Listen to me, Chumy,” his voice echoed in my ears. “Don’t say no to the home.”

The tears flooded me. I wouldn’t be able to consult with my father ever again, but I had received my final missive. No matter how difficult it would be, I wouldn’t say no.

The shiva passed. As I slowly released my grip on the mourning, I was once again confronted by my ambivalent feelings regarding Yiddes’s future. I’d catch myself staring dreamily at Yiddes as she went about her routine in blissful oblivion.

“Mommy, do I need a scarf?” she would turn to me as she buttoned her navy coat.

“A scarf?” I would echo dumbly. My eyes followed her fingers distractedly.

“She still needs a mother,” my heart protested. “How can I send her to unfamiliar surroundings?”

Logic, however, finally won over. Reflecting on the wisdom of my father’s advice, my husband and I decided to go ahead with it. Struggling to keep my voice steady, I informed Mr. Fishman of our decision.

“Please reserve a place for our Yiddes. We’re interested.”

My heart pounded wildly as I put the receiver down. How would we introduce the idea to Yiddes? I pictured her open face puckering up in consternation.

“A home? But why? I have a home already.”

A surge of maternal love rose in my throat. I longed to hug Yiddes in my embrace and keep her there forever.

When she came home from school that day, I found an opportunity to broach the subject.

“Yiddes,” I turned to her. My casual tone belied the emotional turmoil going on inside me. “Remember how much you enjoyed going to camp the last few summers?”

Yiddes poured herself a cup of milk. A flicker of a smile played on her lips.

“Sure I remember. It wasn’t so long ago.”

I chuckled. She was so on-target sometimes.

“They’re opening a home in Monroe, like camp all year long, except that you come home for Shabbosim and Yomim Tovim. Would you like to go, Yiddes?”

I held my breath.

“You let?” Yiddes looked at me incredulously.

I hugged her. The innocence!

“Well, it’s going to be very hard for me to miss you all week long, but I’ll be happy knowing that you’re having a good time. And then, when you come home for Shabbos, you’ll be all mine.”

“Okay,” said Yiddes simply. “I think I want to go.”

Scene over.

I felt my heartbeat slowly regulate, as Yiddes slurped her milk nonchalantly. Setting some cookies on the table, I looked at her wistfully. How much longer would I have the pleasure of serving Yiddes chocolate chip cookies on a regular afternoon?

I’ve been at many graduations. I’ve attended Pre-1A performances and twelfth grade ceremonies; I’ve heard a variety of songs and speeches celebrating these milestones. And though I’ve always been moved by the realization that my child was up to the next rung on the ladder, never have I experienced the feeling that overtook me as I found my seat at Yiddes’s graduation.

My eyes swept the stage and I caught Yiddes’s smile. For the two of us, the date held special significance. It was Yiddes’s twenty-first birthday.

As the strains of music filled the hall, I was suddenly transported back to that dismal hospital room 21 years before.

“Mrs. Braun, we’re not a hundred percent sure, but we suspect your child was born with Down Syndrome.”

Memories flooded me in jumbled succession. Yiddes saying her first words… Yiddes taking a pumpkin pie to school for Thanksgiving… Yiddes struggling to learn the Aleph-Beis… Yiddes making friends with the neighborhood kids… Yiddes playing Memory with her brother ten years her junior… Yiddes dancing at her younger sister’s wedding…It was as if I was riding a chairlift over the rugged terrain I had toiled to climb over the past 21 years.

Looking down, I saw the anxiety and frustration, the physical depletion, the milestones and victories along the way. I glimpsed twinges of pain alongside the weight of decisions, the sweetness of achievement tempered by the rigors of juggling the rest of the family’s needs.

And as I got closer to the top, I felt the exhilaration of acceptance, the beauty of a landscape unpolluted by rivalry or malice or ill will. Touching down at the peak, I knew I was getting one of those rare glimpses of the world, downside up.

In that sweeping moment, I saw the jutting imperfections of status and success tripping climbers all the way up. And at the height of the mountain, bathed in a halo, was Yiddes’s smile, dazzling and pure, radiating the perfection of contentment and love.

Epilogue: Yiddes is now 30 years old and spends her week at the home in Monroe, a beautifully kept place that exudes a homey aura. There, she enjoys the shared duties of keeping house with friends who have limitations like her. She is still a cherished member of her family and takes tremendous pleasure in participating in family simchos. Yiddes’s aunt proudly relates, “I mailed out 500 invitations to my wedding and I received one call to thank me: Yiddes’s.”

Yiddes speaks to her mother every single day and is the most sought-after aunt and babysitter when she comes home for Shabbosim. Though her sisters and brothers-in-law haven’t grown up with her, they all have a special place in their hearts for Yiddes. Perhaps an anecdote that took place recently best mirrors her family’s attitude.

When one of Yiddes’s younger siblings heard about the birth of Down syndrome baby in the neighborhood, he turned thoughtfully to his mother. “Do goyim also have Down Syndrome babies, Ma?”

“Yes, sure,” was the puzzled response. “But why?” Yiddes’s brother wondered quietly. “It’s such a special zechus. They don’t deserve it.”

Reprinted with permission from Yated Ne'eman ©

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