Sunday, December 05, 1999
Child proves life is good
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
Jillian has learned to tie her shoes. The other morning before school, she summoned me to the chair in the family room. “Dad, come here quickly,” she said.
She took the strings to the sneakers, crossed them and pulled. She made two loops and crossed them, high in the loop the way I'd told her, so there would be a hole underneath big enough to pull one of the loops through.
Jillian nimbly stuffed one of the loops through the hole and pulled it tight. “See?” she asked.
It wouldn't have been a big deal if we hadn't been working on it for months, or if Jillian had offered the same no-big-deal attitude most kids pose who learn to tie their shoes. Or, I guess, if Jillian didn't have Down Syndrome.
As it was, it was a big deal. It was a work of art. In the last few mornings, I have watched attentively as she has repeated the shoe-tying process over and over.
“I did it,” she'll say. “Just like a big girl.”
The little things bring the greatest joy. The off-handed I-love-you from my 13-year-old son, the feel of my wife's hand across the back of my neck, a round of golf in the quietly beautiful last days of fall. The thrill in Jillian's eyes after she has tied her shoes.
Everyone is here for a reason. Everyone has a purpose. Jillian's purpose, one of them, anyway, is to put the magnifying glass to the ordinary joy of living. It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive, is what Bruce Springsteen sang. He had it nailed.
A few months after Jillian was born, I wrote a piece for Cincinnati magazine. Jillian was the best and worst thing to happen to our family, I suggested. “The prize of our lives, who breaks our hearts every day” I wrote.
I had it half right.
You don't have to coax joy from the ordinary. You just have to observe and accept. Every child's life is jammed with surprises we've come to take for granted. With Jillian, I take nothing for granted.
She's 10 now. I was amazed when she read The Cat In the Hat. I was amazed when she made her first A-plus on a spelling test. We were having words at breakfast the other morning when she balled her fists, looked me in the eyes and said, “You wanna piece of me?”
What am I supposed to say to that?
Jillian isn't jaded or cynical or blase. She sees the world through her own, unique prism of happiness. She is a bright and shining package of authentic joy. She likes everything.
Life is good. Jillian never forgets that. She never lets me forget it.
If we are too busy or too preoccupied to enjoy the little triumphs, we lose the foundation for the larger successes. What were routine rites of passage for the 13-year-old — brushing his teeth, making his bed, dressing himself — are singular accomplishments for Jillian. Just as they should have been for the 13-year-old. I didn't realize that, until Jillian came along.
I still ache for her, in the times when she could use a friend, or on the rare occasions when kids are cruel to her. I still dread the day when Jillian wants to know why she's different.
But for now, I've reached the happy conclusion that if life is OK with her, it's OK with me. And, like her, I'm going to enjoy every last minute of it.
Riding a two-wheeler is next. We're working on that. Jillian can go about 20 feet on her own now, before she realizes she's doing it without help and starts getting nervous.
She works hard on the bike. She works hard on everything. She gets the most from herself. That's all we can ask of anyone.
Jillian still crashes her bike after those first 20 feet. But there will come a day when she won't. She'll go for a good, long ride. When she does, I'll be there, watching the joy in her face, absorbing some for myself.
Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454. Fair Game, a collection of his columns, is available at local bookstores.
Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454.
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