Will I ever accept it?

I'm a positive person.

To me the glass is half full; life is champagne and ponies. 

I  try to do the right thing, I love to forgive, and people tell me I smile a lot.

But I wrote the following in honesty, to be true to the feelings that sometimes sneak in when I least expect them because I want them to go away.

And maybe if I write these down, I can let them go and move on.

When will I accept that my second daughter has Down Syndrome?

When will I stop reliving the day that she was born and thinking she should just go back inside my stomach - be born another day, another baby. I remember lying on the hospital table after delivery, asking whether all her limbs measured properly. To me, her legs looked short, and mother's intuition had haunted me walking into the operating room that day. None of the specialists thought there was a problem, though.

Elizabeth popped out, but then an hour went by before I saw her again. She was in respiratory distress. I was finally wheeled into the nursery to begin making high-level decisions for her care in coordination with my husband. Several nurses and our pediatrician were already there. It was Dr. Smart who looked into my eyes and gently said, I have suspicions your daughter has Down Syndrome. And I quietly responded: "I know."

Mom's always know.

I dried my tears, waved in my family to capture the moment that I dreamed of - a picture of our new family of four and an exchange of gifts between Maddi and Elizabeth (a wind-up stuffed animal from Maddi to Lizzie; a "big sis" charm bracelet from Lizzie to Maddie). Then Lizzie was whisked away in an infant transport via ambulance to another hospital with Elliott. Lizzie went into NICU for 48 hours.

Even with all this, when will I stop questioning the blood tests that confirmed the diagnosis? Maybe there was a mix-up in the lab? Sounds crazy, but I'm waiting for this call... waiting for someone to say it was a giant mistake.

I am falling in love with Elizabeth. We all are. Her snuggles are endless. We swear to you that this little six-week-old scoots her way toward your body in the middle of the morning during cuddle time to be as close as possible. Her demeanor is go-with-the-flow. She doesn't complain. Last night at six-weeks-old, she slept 9 hours! She's super-curious with wide eyes that want to see the world, and she has fast legs that I'm sure will turn her into a runner someday.

I am equally excited for the joy she will bring us and scared of the anticipated hurt that comes with raising a special needs child. Will she comprehend how much I love her? Will she know that we tried everything? Will she know that she is just as good if not better than someone without special needs? Does it matter?

When will I stop searching for the gap between her big toe and others; or the common crease on DS babies' hands (Liz doesn't have this); or flattened facial features? I don't see any of those. As her mommy, maybe I'm blinded to those things.

How will I ever tell Madeleine? Or does Madeleine already know.

Is there going to be a day when I don't lie with her on my belly, skin-to-skin, shedding tear after tear fearing what comes next; or take my steaming showers with tears streaming down my face in order to hide the sadness from the kids; or toss and turn after Liz's 4am feeding - unable to return to sleep because I'm wondering whether someday she will be able to hear, drive, love art, love another, live a life as full as possible.

Why is this so frightening to me? I have moments of clarity and strength that make me feel like Super-Woman, like this is no big deal and I'm up for the task. In fact, I'm not only up for it - I'm asking for it. Let me help this little human being - that is why I wanted to become a mother. Then I have other times when I'm ready to run and hide, let me be the weak link I beg for just a moment please. At least a minute, then I'll muster up my inner strength again that makes me Jenn.

A year ago, the Colorado community where I grew up tragically lost an aquaintance of mine who I barely knew yet admired so dearly. Jenna Gruben was a speech pathologist and worked with special needs children. She was also an ultra-marathoner and among the most modest, inclusive people I've ever met. I often think of her when I'm unsure how to treat someone or how to approach a challenge. I think - what would Jenna have done - and I often come to an answer. It's not as simple as it sounds but it works. Jenna would include anyone. Jenna would laugh, at everyone else and at herself. If I can teach my kids to accept, include and laugh the way Jenna did, I think I'd be a success.

Jenna volunteered at Adams Camp near Steamboat Springs, and someday we may send Lizzie there. It's a special place for special needs kids. Thanks Jenna for leaving a legacy for so many to aspire to.