When I Signed My Son With Down Syndrome Up for Soccer Camp
He’s tall, dark and handsome. Funny as the day is long. A little cranky in the morning. And most definitely the yin to my wacky, emotional, I’d-rather-be-crafting-than-cleaning-yang. He’s my husband, my partner and, as the kids say, ride or die love. But I have a confession. Another man made me cry today. Even worse? I don’t even know him. Just a random stranger whose information I found on the internet. The shame. What would mama say?
My daughter is a spunky, opinionated 9-year-old little girl who gets great grades, freelances as a kindness warrior and loves soccer. So, as moms often do this time of year, I found a camp where she can perfect her dribbling, goalkeeping and defense skills for four, fabulous mornings this summer. Like every other little brother in the history of organized sports, hers wants to follow suit. In normal situations, news like this would not inspire terror to course through Mom’s veins. But our life is rarely normal.
Our gorgeous, funny, no-he’s-not-always-happy 7-year-old spitfire has trisomy 21. An extra chromosome. The most common form of Down syndrome in the world. It makes things a bit more challenging for him, but also can make the most basic activities incredibly intimidating. Like a middle-aged mom attending a Crossfit class taught by a 22-year-old professional cheerleader intimidating.
What if he gets hit by the ball? What if — like other “professionals” we have encountered — they simply don’t think he’s capable of learning? What if they try to stick him with 2-year-olds like the last Ninja class we attempted? Summoning up my courage (and praying this call will not raise my blood pressure) I pick up the phone at 8:10 a.m. and make a call to the man in charge. I get his voicemail, explain my situation, ask if the program can make accommodations, leave my information and pray for the best.
43 minutes later, I receive a text message from the coach saying he’s busy teaching a class but would “love” to have our son at camp. No request for a doctor’s note. No hesitation. No fear. No need for lobbying from a parent, advocate or (in the worst of the worst cases) legal intervention. In fact, the team cannot wait to meet him.
So here I sit, ugly crying tears of joy over another man. Luckily, I have a very understanding husband.