Awareness

October is Down syndrome awareness month.

Four years ago, I had no awareness. I knew very little about Down syndrome.  All I knew was that the baby boy I was carrying had a 1 in 12 chance of having it. 

I was aware that the doctor I was seeing wanted me to have an amniocentesis to be certain about the chromosome count. I was aware that if the test came back positive, he'd want me to terminate. I was aware that he thought I was very foolish to be almost 40 and having a baby. And even more foolish to be refusing the amnio. 

I was aware that the doctor thought a child with Down syndrome would be a burden on our family and that allowing that wouldn't be fair to my other children.  I was also aware that many, nay, most people in the world agreed with him. 

I was also aware, very powerfully aware, that this baby was deeply loved and desperately wanted. He had been a part of our family since before his conception. We would welcome him with whatever chromosome count he showed up sporting. 

I'd be a liar if I told you that when Kelly was born, Down syndrome didn't scare me and make me grieve for that child without any disabilities for whom I'd prayed. It's an unknown. Uncharted territory. It's terrifying. 

But then, I got to know Kelly. 

He's a quirky, funny kid. He loves to make people laugh and will go to great lengths to make that happen. His giggles are infectious and he has a different smile for each occasion. 

This is his smile for Sister because she's taking you on this little bitty baby train and she'd rather not because she's not a baby, thankyouvermuch.

And this is his smile for Dadda because if you do then you may be able to climb down off his lap and throw other people's shoes over the cliff down to the bottomless pits of Seoul while the fireworks are shooting off. 

Yeah. That kid. 

But the good Lord knows the child isn't always happy. I swear, when I hear people say "Oh, they're such happy people," I just want to slap them across the face and hand him off to then for the rest of the day. Happy? Yes. Happier than any of the rest of us earthlings?  

Well, you tell me. Does he look like he's happy here?  All this because I wouldn't let him throw money at the swimmers while they practiced. 

Yeah, he's a mischievous little inquisitor. Always looking for trouble to make. 

His kind of havoc doesn't just happen. It takes careful plotting and planning. Can't you tell?

His hijinks are nothing to snort at. This is, after all, the kid that dialed 911 TWICE!!  And dumped an entire shelf of shampoo bottles at the store. And posted embarrassing pictures on my Facebook. And threw his metal sippy cup at a passing taxi... multiple times. 

Need I go on?

He's like Dennis the Menace if Dennis had 47 chromosomes. 

He's Kellster the Kranker. Oy. 

He's a boy. A B-O-Y boy!  He loves trucks and helicopters and guns and his penis. This is the kid that will wind up driving to a hunting cabin in a tricked out speedster with one hand on the wheel and the other on his junk. 

He loves to tackle and wrestle. If you are ever in his presence, don't find yourself sitting on the floor. To Kelly, that's an open invitation for some hand to hand combat. 

Given the fact that his biggest weakness is gross motor skills, it's surprising when I tell people that Kelly is my most athletic child. But it's true. He has a natural inclination towards sports. 

These kids at the playground cannot play soccer when Kelly's there. He interrupts their game every few minutes to practice his kicking and passing. He's determined that one day soon they will let him play. And they might. Just so they can continue their game. 

We took him to an indoor adventure park for the under 10 set. We tried the bouncy houses, but he doesn't yet have the core strength to keep his balance. We tried the radio controlled race cars, but, while he loved watching them, the concept of driving them around was lost on him. 

It's in those times, those rare times, when Kelly just isn't able to do the fun things that other kids his age can do, that my heart breaks a little. 

Just a little, though, and never for long. Because he's always surprising me with what he can and will do. 

Like marching straight over to the zipline, picking up the equipment, and putting it on himself. And when I figured I'd just get a cute picture and then we'd take the equipment off and turn it back in, he pointed to the zipline and climbed up the stairs ready to fly. 

And fly he did. 

http://youtu.be/EXrXQE6xw3k

I wasn't sure if the tears streaming down my face were joy, sorrow, or relief that he'd made it safely to the other side. They soon dried up, though, as Kelly continued to zipline for the next hour, straight. Over and over and over again. Fearlessly. Confidently. Loving every single second of it. 

Adrenalin junky.

In fact, he prefers it when his siblings push him on the swing. They push a hell of a lot harder and higher than Mama can handle. 

Although, his newest passion is sitting on the big kids' swing and pumping his legs to swing himself. He gets a lot of satisfaction in doing things his way. 

And he's clever about it, too. 

I wanted to help him with his cold, drippy push up pop. He told me, "No, no, no."  Then took off his shoe, then his sock. Frustrated with him, I walked away to the toilet. When I got out, this is how I found him. 

Genius, I'd say. Pure genius. 

Kelly truly is gifted. 

He healed my broken heart and made me whole again. If it weren't for his coming along when he did, I don't know how I would be functioning at this point. He picked up the pieces by just being here.

The happiness he brings our family is immeasurable.  No other member of our family has this gift.  It's a gift that prior to Kelly, I was unaware existed.  

So, awareness. 

Awareness of Down syndrome. There is a lot to know about it. Medical issues and cognitive delays, childhood leukemia and Alzheimer's disease, disability rights and special education. 

But that's not Kelly. 

This is Kelly. 

Carbo Korea

Every Monday I start a diet. It's a ritual I started when I was in the 3rd grade. As you can tell by looking at me, it usually only lasts till noon. 

Today, being Monday, I devoutly ate my meager breakfast then put a healthy dinner in the crockpot. For reasons still unclear to me, the meat didn't cook through by dinner time, making it necessary for us to eat out. 

Fortunately, I'd gone off the wagon at lunch. 

We supped at a local BBQ joint, feasting on rice and potato salad and grilled pork marinated in a sweet sauce. 

A carbohydrate addict's dream. 

Then, on the walk home we hit up our favorite bakery. It's a tiny little shop, no bigger than our kitchen at home with a bohemian feel. It's artsy and homey and wonderfully simple. 

Even the name:  Bbang. It means, plainly, "bread." 

 

And they have the most amazing bread. And muffins. And cake. And cookies. And bread. 

Did I mention the bread? Several different kinds of bread.  Their old fashioned white bread is to die for. Exactly how you remember grandma's bread tasting. 

Tonight we tried their berry bread as dessert. 

What I don't get, however, is how the owner stays so slim. How?  Does she not eat bread? Or rice? Or potato salad? 

It's a real mystery. One I intend to solve. And to do so I will have to keep going back there. To research. 

Every Monday. After noon. 

Carbs don't count if they're ingested in the name of science. I'm pretty sure. 

Know Your Tribe

Growing up, I never really fit in anywhere. A square peg surrounded by round holes, I would cling to the edges of various groups, trying to meld. 

It never worked. 

In college, I found many like minded, accepting people and the courage to just be me. I stopped trying to fit in and instead created my own fit. 

And I found Mike. 

Still a misfit, but paired with another. It was as good as any fit could have been. 

Then one day, while living in Korea, we walked into a pub in Itaewon, Seoul and found a cast of characters so odd, so colorful, with such depth and diversity that I felt I was finally home. Imagine the tv show Cheers with many more players and far more interesting plots. 

Everyone had a unique backstory that brought them to Itaewon. There were soldiers and retirees, English teachers and journalists, embassy staff and entrepreneurs, expats and Korean nationals.  There were people escaping bad family situations and money troubles, recovering from broken hearts, abusive relationships, and drug addictions and those just trying to find themselves. Some were very wealthy with drivers and trust funds. Some were broke and borrowing their next beer. There were those who'd landed in Korea and became tied down to it, and those who desperately wanted to escape.  

These weren't your typical white picket fence folks.  They were different. All of them. Mike and I soon found ourselves knitted quite nicely within their expat community. 

The ringleader of this crazy circus was a German Aussie named Gunter. He owned the pub which was the headquarters of the crew.  Mike and he quickly become "best mates."  

Long after we left Korea and Gunter retired to Thailand, they remained close. Every Christmas they played a beer drinking boot game over Skype. They did the same for each of their birthdays.  

With our return to Korea this summer, Gunter decided it was time to pay Itaewon a visit. We hadn't seen each other face to face in almost 8 years. 

It was like a homecoming of sorts. An older, wrinkly, gray haired homecoming without the fancy dresses and a whole lot more beer. But still. Homecoming. People we hadn't seen or heard from in many years came out to play. Once again, I felt I'd found my fit. 

New feats of strength were endured and conquered. 

Please note that this enormous glass of beer was shared by many players. Mike did not drink this alone. We are no longer young and foolish. Just foolish. 

We ate late night Korean BBQ with the ever present soju. 

There was American Idol, the old folks in Korea version.  

No longer the Dancing Queen, young and sweet. But still fun!

There were a few hatchets buried, too. 

Because who has the energy to keep up with old grudges or the breath to argue when you're busy blowing up condoms on your head?

Or kissing on your best mate?

Or drinking out of what is affectionately called the Sa, or death, Glass. 

Again, lots of beer shared by many players. Still, I don't recommend you try this at home. Not without proper training. 

It was a truly wonderful weekend, reminding me of what I love most about Korea. 

Korea is where I found my tribe.  

As most expats throughout time will tell you, we are a hodgepodge lot, full of heart and passion and depth. 

And beer. Lots and lots of beer. 

Coming home to my tribe brought me so much joy. Seeing these guys together again feels right. Very right. For the first time in years, it's right. 

The best part is seeing my kids find their tribe here, too.  They are making friends from all over the world, enriching their lives and broadening their views. 

A simple trip to the neighborhood playground is like a UN convention. 

South African, Canadian, British, Korean, Thai, French, German, Chinese, Argentinian, Russian, and American.

Each discovering the world and each other while making lifelong connections in this crazy place called Itaewon. 

So know your tribe, my friends. 

They'll always have your back. 

For What It's Worth, It Was Worth All The While

                                               "Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)"

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right,
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos and memories and dead skin on trial
For what it's worth it was worth all the while

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right,
I hope you had the time of your life.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right,
I hope you had the time of your life.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right,
I hope you had the time of your life.

Freyja Spring

In the Spring of 2008, in an attempt to coerce our children into behaving during mass without having to spend money, we offered to stop at a PetSmart holding a pet adoption day.  The Virginia German Shepherd Rescue was representing with several dogs.  Like the suckers we are, Mike and I fell in love with one particular girl named Betsy.  She looked just like our Alyx.  Black and tan and tiny for a GSD.

The only problem was that she had already been snatched up.

After we had expressed interest in Betsy, we found ourselves on the rescue group's radar. They sent us a photo of a beautiful 16 week old pup named Misty.  Misty had been relinquished by her owners in West Virginia.  They were backyard breeders and couldn't sell her because she was too aggressive.  The rescue group said they saw no aggression, but she was neglected and half starved.

We agreed to meet her, piled the three kids into the van one rainy afternoon and painfully drove one mile in an hour and a half before turning around, defeated.  Ah, yes, but DC traffic was not going to foil any plans the rescue group had of giving us one of their dogs.  If we could not come to Misty, Misty would come to us.

The next day, she was delivered to our backyard with a new name, "Freyja" as in the Norse goddess, and an $800 adoption fee because goddesses don't come cheap, apparently.  

They also don't come easy. 

Within a few weeks, I knew we had a problem.  Freyja would growl, hair sticking up, teeth bared any time any of us came near her while there was food in her bowl.  She lunged at our neighbors when they were in their backyard and she'd nip at the kids' heels as they played.  She was out of our control, unwilling to calm down enough to even take direction.

I did some research and we stopped putting food in her bowl.  Instead, come meal time, we would all take a handful and she would be forced to eat directly out of our hands.  It didn't take long for her to associate food with our presence.  She stopped her food aggression and I found hope.

We hired a hippy-dippy, feel-good behaviorist who came to our house and mapped out, literally on poster board, a course of action based on positive reinforcement and the administering of Bach flower essences.   The former had no effect whatsoever. The latter made her vomit blood.

It was after she took off with the double jogging stroller with all three kids inside to chase after a squirrel, and then lunged at a baby strolling by on the sidewalk, that I decided something drastic needed to happen.  I sat down late one night and searched the internet for something, anything I could do.  Mike was gone in Afghanistan.  I was alone with 3 kids, little in the way of a support network, and a dog who was completely out of control.

That's when I stumbled upon Daniel Rice at Braveheart Kennels.

During our initial interview, Dan asked me to tell him the problems we'd been having with Freyja.  I rambled on for several minutes, listing just a sampling of her transgressions.  He then asked me to tell him the things I liked about Freyja.

"She's a beautiful dog," I said.

"That's it?" he asked.

And I burst into tears.  

He had his work cut out for him, but Daniel Rice knows dogs like few other people I've met.  He's tough.  He works his dogs like the alpha of the pack.  There's positive reinforcement, but there are painful negative consequences as well.  Coming from me, who wouldn't even use a prong collar to control Freyja, to Dan who uses electric shock collars was, well, a shock.  To all of us.  

When I returned 6 weeks later to receive my own training from Dan, he told me, "Freyja's a great dog, but she needs strong leadership.  If you can't lead her, I don't believe she'd be safe in your home and I won't let her leave this facility.  Are you willing to do what I tell you?"

I nodded.

Freyja was sitting beside me, a rope around her neck, looking calm and obedient. 

"I want you to take this lead and give it a yank.  I want to hear her yelp," he instructed me.

"But she didn't do anything wrong," I whined.

"I don't care," he said.  "She needs to know you're in charge.  I need to know you're in charge."

"But it'll hurt her," I argued.

"You ever spank your kids?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, hesitantly.

"Ever make 'em cry?" he continued.

"Uh, yeah.."

"So what kind of a mother would spank her kids and make 'em cry, but not want to make her dog cry?"  

It was the zinger that he knew would motivate me to do what needed to be done.  And with that, I snapped the rope.  Freyja let out a yelp, came to attention, and sat by my side, waiting for a command.  We were a new team, she and I.  We worked together with Daniel showing me how to lead and reminding Freyja how to follow.  

Over the years, we continued our teamwork, she and I.  Oh, sure, there were times when she frustrated the hell out of me.  Like the time she pulled a 5 lb roast out of the crockpot while it was still cooking.  Or the Christmas she ate 3 and a half dozen chocolate chip cookies.  But she more than made up for it by providing our family safety and security with her mere presence and German Shepherd Dog nature. 

From the time we adopted Freyja, till her death, Mike deployed to Afghanistan four times.  In addition, there've been literally dozens of other trips he's made for weeks, sometimes months, at a time.  I never once during that time had a sleepless night, frightened that someone might break in.  I was pregnant, had three young children and Mike's elderly parents while Mike was in Kabul and we all slept safely and soundly knowing that Freyja was on the job.  

Once, I had a flat tire on my jogging stroller and I couldn't get the pump to work.  I took it up to the local gas station just blocks from our house to throw myself at the mercy of the mechanics that worked there.  

"Can somebody help me fix my jogging stroller?  It has a flat tire and my husband is in Afghanistan and won't be back for months.  I live right up the street, there, and it's just me and my kids and none of us know how to fix this.  We're all alone till my husband comes back, but that's not for 4 months and I don't know what to do..." 

I trailed off, suddenly realizing that I had just announced to group of men I didn't know that not only was my husband gone and the kids and I alone, but that I lived just a hop away.  As I mentally berated myself for my stupidity, I realized they were paying no attention to me.  They were all staring at something.  I followed their gaze and saw that Freyja had jumped into the driver's side and was hanging 3/4 of her torso out of the open window.  She looked fierce.  Nobody was going to come near me, my kids, my house, or, sadly, my jogging stroller while Freyja was on the job. 

Our neighbors hated her.  She took her job of securing the perimeter very seriously.  If even I was on the other side of the fence, she barked.  Freyja particularly didn't like one neighbor, Billy.  The feeling was mutual.

"I'm going to put a bullet in that fucking dog's head the next time she's out here alone," he threatened one beautiful, sunny afternoon.

"Your aim isn't that good.  You couldn't get close enough," I chuckled.  "She's trained to keep people like you at bay."

Every time the kids were scared of monsters in their closet or ghosts under their bed, we would bring Freyja in to sleep with them.  When we moved to Illinois, she would accompany them on adventures into the wood line.  Again, her mere presence was enough to ward off the coyotes who lived there.  I doubt she'd ever fight a coyote and if Billy had ever so much as raised a hand to her, she would have cowered.  But she struck a threatening pose and sounded ferocious.  

She kept us safe from threats real or imagined with her facade of savage aggression.  

In reality, however, Mike called her a French Shepherd.  They're like the German kind, but they're pussies.  Freyja was afraid of wind, of gunfire and firecrackers, of small children, cars and trucks driving by, Billy, and the vacuum.  She would whine and cry to come back inside when let out into the yard, and, when on her adventures with the kids in the wood line, would inevitably run back home, barking at me to let her back in.  She fancied herself an indoor dog, for sure. 

When we brought Skadi home at 6 weeks old, I fully expected there to be problems.  Freyja was an attention hound and I figured she'd be none too thrilled to have to compete with a cute puppy.  Oh, how very wrong I was.  

Freyja immediately transformed into a mother role.  She played with Skadi, let her drink from the water bowl first, slept with her, and kept her clean.  I have never seen another dog of mine mother a new puppy like Freyja did.  She stepped up in ways I never imagined she was capable.  They were impossibly close, relying on one another for comfort and support and entertainment.  

So it was that when Freyja was diagnosed, Dan recommended we manage Freyja's pain until we safely got Skadi to Seoul.  He was afraid that Skadi would be sent along on this two day, multi plane adventure depressed and grief stricken.  So Freyja stayed strong for the duration, happy to go for walks and to sleep with her pup in the kennel.  When Skadi arrived here, Dan said that he'd keep Freyja as long as her pain was still manageable.  

It wasn't even a week later that Daniel called me and said, "It's time."

On a beautiful autumn day, our sweet girl, our guardian, protector, and teammate, our Freyja passed from this world to the next leaving our pack heartbroken and mourning.  There's always that inevitable discussion of whether dogs have souls and whether their souls go to heaven.  For anyone who has ever loved a dog, there's no question.  I know I will see my girls again.  All of them.  Patty, Sheba, Vikki, Candy, Alyx, Freyja.  Even Truman, the bastard.  Because, to paraphrase Will Rogers, if they don't go to heaven, then I want to go where they are.  To run my hand through their coats and nuzzle their ears and rest easy with them.  For with a dog, one finds heaven.

My Dearest Freyja,

I am so sorry that I could not hold up my end of our bargain when you worked so hard to live up to your end.  You trained and obeyed and followed us against your nature to become a part of our family.  I was to be there for you when the end came and I wasn't.  Nothing could have changed the way it played out.  I know you were with Daniel and that he loved you like his own.  I know you felt safe and loved with the sun shining on you and a breeze ruffling your furry, diseased, and all too young body.  I hope you saw us in your dreams, knowing that our love was with you, filling your heart.  

Thank you for being you, for keeping us safe, for keeping us on our toes, for making us laugh, and for loving our kids.  Run free, baby.  Mama loves you, Freyja Spring, you naughty thing.  I'll see you on the other side.  Don't eat all the cookies before I get there.

Aloha, 

Mama

A Rookie Mistake Veteran

It was a beautiful day, with that bright blue sky for which Korea is famous. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The air was fresh and the children were not. 

With that gorgeous sky above us, the kids and I set off for supper at our second favorite Korean restaurant, Don Valley. It's an underground restaurant with very little ambiance, but they have high chairs with which to imprison the monkey boy. The quality of the food doesn't matter a bit if you are too busy chasing a crazed 3 year old around a restaurant to actually eat it. 

As we waited to cross the street near the restaurant, I noticed this scene. 

The woman sits on this corner a lot. Pretty much every time I pass. She looks clean, but I'm fairly certain she's homeless and I'm positive she suffers from mental illness. Half the time, she is joined on this corner by an equally ill, but also well washed foreigner. 

But this was different. The man sitting with her in the birthday hat was very typically homeless. Dirty, foul smelling, missing teeth and dignity. 

But she had a little spread of food and was feeding him bite after bite with her hands.   She would pop in a bite, then carefully, gently, maternally wipe his mouth. She poured him a cup of makkoli, a milky, sweet rice wine, then handed him the bottle to have him pour her a drink. In Korea, you don't pour your own drink. It's rude. I loved that he took the bottle and proudly poured her drink, with the birthday hat on his head and a toothless grin on his face. 

The scene was just so tender and sweet, I felt privileged to have witnessed it. I discreetly snapped a photo as we walked by. 

Down to our kabli and rice we went. We gorged on our Korean favorites as we shared stories of our day, giggles and belly laughs galore. I paid the bills and we marched up to street level with promises of melon ice cream bars luring the children out merrily. 

When we reached the top of the stairs, we saw that the blue skies had retreated and the monsoons had struck. The world was dark, cold, and wet. Very, very wet. 

We aren't taking about a little rain here. We are talking about those big fat drops that soak you through in seconds. And a lot of them. The streets were already ankle deep. 

And I had made the rookie mistake of not bringing umbrellas. No rain jackets, either.  We were trapped with no way home but through the wet. 

As I stood contemplating this new dilemma, the man with the birthday hat approached. He got into the face of an older lady who shooed him away. That's when he noticed us. 

Gone was his birthday hat and his happy demeanor. He was intoxicated and angry and I was standing alone at the top of a very long flight of stairs with four children. Easy pickings for a pissed drunk with an unpredictable mental illness. 

I kept the kids busy talking of the rain while avoiding eye contact with the man. He got right into Roman's face, but Roman knew well enough to look away and not engage him. This isn't his first ride at the crazy rodeo, after all. 

The man then leaned into me to force our eyes to meet.  I, instead, looked up at the great gray above as it unleashed its weight of water and threw my hands skyward as a sign of love and adoration. 

That was enough for him. He must have thought I was crazier than he. He stepped back, then forward again like he was going to touch Iryna's hair. Before he got a hand close, I cackled loudly. He looked at me again, then horked a big loogie and stomped off. 

And that's when I remembered the emergency ponchos I had in my purse. Just three. But better than nothing. We threw them on and started off toward home. 

By the time we got to the hotel, we learned that those emergency ponchos aren't really better than nothing. They're just about the same as nothing. We were drenched so badly, we had to wring out our clothes. 

Even a monsoon veteran can make a rookie mistake. Next time, we all take umbrellas. And birthday hats. And maybe some makkoli. 

A Bird's Eye Firing

On Saturday night, we were treated to a Korean wedding on the grounds of the hotel in which we are staying.  We had the best seat in the house from nine stories above the action.

The lavish hanbok on the matrons of each family riveted the kids and the adorable little flower girl had Iryna crying that she hasn't had a chance at the role.  The groom was dashing and entertaining; the bride breathtakingly elegant. 

The flowers were beautiful pale shades of ivory and pink, accented with
candelabras and bows. Three musicians topped off the romantic atmosphere with their artistry. 

It was splendid. 

Until the wedding coordinator entered the picture. And by that I mean quite literally entered the picture. 

Every. Single. One. 

That's her in the gray suit. She's arranging the bride and groom before they're even allowed to join hands and walk together toward the minister. 

That's her messing with the minister. 

She was up there in the middle of their vows. 

When the bride went to bow to her new inlaws, I thought the old wedding planner might grab the groom for herself. 

But she had better things to do.  Like this.  Watch.

Honestly, one of the most sacred and solemn parts of a Korean wedding is the uniting of two families showcased with honor and respect shown with this ancient Asian custom.  But there's batshit crazy lady getting paid to mess it all up.  

Now, she did stand respectfully behind the parents of the bride while the bridal couple bowed, but she came up from behind right after to fluff the mother's hanbok and adjust the bride's bra. Yes. Her bra. She did this before the couple's exit as well. 

As soon as they were at the arch, she ran down the aisle to shake off any and all rose petals from the bride's dress and trains. 

I almost yelled down, "Leave her the fuck alone, ya old bat!! She's beautiful and you're a prune!"  I didn't, though. Because I have a filter. See that?  A filter. 

She should have been fired on the spot. Totally ruined the whole thing. At least from the ninth floor perspective. 

I sure hope she didn't direct traffic on their honeymoon. Can you even imagine? Eeeeew......