A Year in Review (Niets van dat alles)

First snow of the season: just a dusting, gone by 10:30am

I'll start this post in the final hours of 2011, just after putting Justin into bed, though no doubt it will only be finished in the New Year. This is the first time that I have recorded the passing weeks of any year since I kept a diary in my teenage years: whether a coincidence or not, it has also been the most difficult year since then; physically, emotionally, intellectually—supposing, that is, there is anything left of whatever intellect I once possessed. I was listening yesterday morning to Radio 4's 'Book at Bedtime' adaptation of Nancy Mitford's Pursuit of Love. Mitford had many qualities, including wit, self-irony, compassion— considerably more appealing political views than her sisters—but she was not well-disposed towards children, or to parents who brought up their offspring themselves—rather than leaving in the charge of professional nannies and governesses.  'I love children,' she is supposed to have said 'especially when they cry, for then someone takes them away.' The lines that struck home, though were these: 'In Oxford, I've seen the wives of progressive dons bringing up their children: they would gradually become morons themselves; while the children looked like slum children, and behaved like barbarians...' And that was only the wives: presumably Mitford would have regarded hands-on fathers as too alien and aberrant to be countenanced. Yet, despite the self-conscious, anachronistic snobbery, Mitford was right on the mark in one way: as I noted in another post several years ago, modern parenting does gradually transform you into—if not a moron—then someone who is much diminished by the experience of child-care. This year has lessened me more than any that I can remember: I am, as they say, "all in" (Some sources claim that this is a purely American idiom: it sounds so natural to me, perhaps they're wrong, or I've just assimilated it, like gasoline).

Ironically, the phenomenal tiredness I feel as 2011 comes to a close is not due to worrying about, or caring for, Justin. As we celebrated our second Christmas with him in our lives, I was able to reaffirm the growing conviction—which has emerged as the months have gone in—that indeed (as other people had told us 12 months ago when we were still in shock and denial, and which we greeted with disbelief), having a Down Syndrome child is not the worst thing that could have happened. Instead, Justin has brought real joy to us all, and enriched our lives immeasurably. Of course, we have also been extremely lucky that his health and development have both been great so far—I know I would be much less complacent if he were ill. But—if it should help other new parents out there—I can honestly say that I worry less—and am less wracked—about Justin in the short to medium term than about Sean and Julian. And part of this has to be due to the terrible oppressiveness of normality (or normalcy—as George W preferred). People often confuse normality with the status quo, with how things are in typical contexts, forgetting that normal is normative: it tells you how things should be. Thus, I worry about Sean that he isn't yet serious enough about school work (or much else), or about Julian that is much too serious—and sensitive—for his own good, that I have so far failed to teach him how to read at all, in any language. I worry about such things because I compare my own children to "age-matched controls"—and find them and myself wanting, in comparison. With Justin, on the other hand, the bar has not so much been lowered, as taken away entirely. We celebrate every small achievement, all of which we previously took for granted—or desperately waited for in our older children. He's not walking yet, he has no words, but he claps beautifully, can pick up and feed himself small biscuits, and can almost stand, supported by a low table. I have no doubt he'll be able to do most things that typically developing children can do—it will just take that much longer...

[to be continued]