ghosts of Christmas past

   At one time I fancied myself a fairly good photographer, but now I leave that to the professionals. I take pictures, (lots of pictures), to preserve my memories.  I look at pictures to conjure up those memories.  This weekend I spent time remembering the ghosts of Christmas past.

1st Santa, 1st Christmas

sweet temptation

 

notice that the tree is in the playpen, Emily still managed to eat a light

                                                             never afraid

 

 

                                       Emily & Seth, what a hoot, that pair

                                                

                           

                                                   Anne & Emily

The year she cut her own hair - Emily & Santa at school 

                                                    

        

 at the Annual Mileur Christas auction, Emily won this bid



    Memories are fickle things. They slide in and out of my consciousness, much like I image a ghost would enter and exit a room; sometimes invited, sometimes not; sometimes fleeting, sometimes lingering.  Often times the memories bring a smile, other times a tear and sometimes both. Sometimes they're as welcome as an old friend, and sometimes I'm haunted by the could'ves, would'ves, and should'ves. But they're always welcome because, whether the memories are pleasant or not, they're better than nothing.
   This will be the 6th Christmas without Emily, the 2nd without Mom and the first since Pop died. Although last year I put up decorations, this year I haven't and probably won't. I mourn the time- honored traditions that are lost. My heart is fragile again and mostly, I feel numb.  

    But as I write, I realize that I am not the only person who juggles the past with the present.  Each of us have memories that play in our head while we live in the present. 

   The Word says in Ecc 3:4:  There is a time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.   This message sets me free!  It allows me to remember and grieve the past, and yet, it gives me permission to celebrate the present.  This is the Christmas to make new traditions and to make new memories.

.

 

Imagination & experts

When Emily was very little, I was told by one of the "experts" that kids with DS have little imagination and tend to sit listlessly unless stimulated. hmmmmm,   I guess Emily sure showed her.
That girl had a vivid imagination! She talked non-stop to her imaginary friends. We buckled them in seat belts, set their plates at the table, and waited for them to finish their turns. She was their teacher, their parents, their boss.

Each of these blocks had a kid face on one side.  These were her audience, her students, her friends.

Emily's favorite toy was a stick, any stick. I've seen a stick transform into a microphone, a baton, a crutch, a sword, a horse, and a musical instrument.   Placed on her shoulder, like a hobo, her stick held her bags. Oh and talking about bags.... Emily was a bag lady. She loved anything with a handle and regularly packed everything out of her closet.                                                                             

 

making noise (otherwise known as music)

                                                 

  She also loved to dress up.  To keep her out of my closet, I went to the local goodwill and bought an assortment of dress up clothes.   No imagination?

                                             

                                                        
 If the experts were right, then Emily was an exception.  But what I know now, they weren't and Emily wasn't.  I have met many kids with disabilities and have found that each has their own strengths and abilities that make them unique.  Exactly like every other kid.

   If I had to do it over again, I'd listen less to the experts and more to myself, less to the professionals and more to Emily.  I would spend less time chasing the elusive dream and desire for normalacy  and spend more time enjoying, appreciating the gift of her reality.

                           IMPAIRED
   She entered my life a broken treasure;
   My dream for a child exchanged for the nightmare of a diagnosis.
   The doctor's words cursed her life
   Sentenced her to be less than whole.

   But the 'who she is' becomes larger than the 'what I fear',
   And the verdict fades 'til I forget,
   I find it's we who are impaired.
   For lack of sight, we miss her gift.
                                 Annemarieke, 2003