Forrest has exceptional social skills. He frequently tells people "I am a big fan of food!" when he meets them. It a perfect icebreaker. It's one of his learned conversation openers that really works, after all everyone has something to say about food. If you are socially challenged, you should always have a few of these one-liners in your pocket. Forrest gives you permission to borrow his. Especially on Thanksgiving, which is today.
Yesterday we drove to Seattle to celebrate the holiday with family. As we piled in the van Forrest was doing his excited hand clapping gesture. It's kind of like a dolphin clap, you know with dorsal wrists together...a classic retarded kind of clap. Thing is, you should try it, really it actually MAKES you happy. I call it the Forrest Mudra. Stiffen your hands with fingers bent backwards and tap your palms very rapidly while sitting up very straight. Your eyebrows should arch upward and a big grin with appear across your face. Are you trying it? Do it now.....
See? Auntie Kathy dictated this thanksgiving letter this morning, as we were waiting for blueberry pancakes....after reading this, maybe you'll write your own thanksgiving letter
Dear Mom,
my stomach is talking to me
and I can't wait to eat food (do the the Forrest Mudra here)
I love you like the sunshine through
your lovely eyes.
I've been thinking a lot lately
I'm thankful for the guys in the army
coming back home.
I'm thankful for your smile.
I can't wait until the pancakes are ready.
And also I can't wait until I have BACON
sausage, ham, porkchops, lambchops and
cordon bleu and biscuits and gravy. (try the Forrest Mudra here too)
Happy Thanksgiving,
love,
god in us,
Forrest
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
"Regular"
One day while driving around Portland, Forrest pointed to a busy bus stop and said "I want that." We were driving by a group of people waiting for the #75.
I asked "You want to ride the bus?"
"No" he said, "that guy."
I saw a handsome mid-twenties fellow, holding a sleek shoulder bag , nice jacket, and knew instantly what Forrest wanted. I pushed the heartache back inside and asked innocently, “What?”
“I want to be regular. Like that guy.”
Oh shit, I really didn’t like this part of parenting a young man with Down Syndrome. “You want to ride a bus and look like that guy?” I said with a really annoying cheer.
Forrest was sad, “I want to be like that guy and have friends who come to my house and just hang out and watch TV and have fun”.
Oh God, I could tell what was coming out of my mouth and couldn’t stop it “Oh you are a great guy blah blah blah, and you have friends and a TV in your room blah blah!”
“NO!” he cut me off, “I want to be like him - Regular!”
Ouch. I composed myself, tears sucked backwards like the Wu Li master-mamma I am. Inside I screamed “me too!” Platitudes be damned. Being retarded sucks. No matter how “slow and beautiful” I regard him, Forrest is no dummy. Who wouldn’t wave the magic genetic wand and poof! Forrest the cool “regular” guy. He wants what THAT guy has. Or what Forrest imagines he has: a real life filled with freedom, cool friends, a flat screen TV and wallet full of money…..hey….wait a minute.
My Tourettic impulsive monologue starting coming again, “Well that guy has a job and can’t play video games all day and has bills and has to worry about money, has to make his own food and he probably doesn’t have a mother living nearby to help him--”
“SO?!” was all Forrest said.
Okay, I was being an idiot. Would I ever have the courage to simply say “Yeah, me too”? I do wish Forrest could to go to college, travel the world, have a loving relationship, and yes, enjoy great sex! But here we are. I looked at the cool young man at the bus stop and imagined him my son for a moment. Would I trade that regular son, for Forrest if I could?
I once boasted a bumper sticker that read “Why be Normal?” Well, there are lots of reasons Forrest could tell you. But driving by the bus stop on that morning, all I needed to say was “Yeah, me too.”
I asked "You want to ride the bus?"
"No" he said, "that guy."
I saw a handsome mid-twenties fellow, holding a sleek shoulder bag , nice jacket, and knew instantly what Forrest wanted. I pushed the heartache back inside and asked innocently, “What?”
“I want to be regular. Like that guy.”
Oh shit, I really didn’t like this part of parenting a young man with Down Syndrome. “You want to ride a bus and look like that guy?” I said with a really annoying cheer.
Forrest was sad, “I want to be like that guy and have friends who come to my house and just hang out and watch TV and have fun”.
Oh God, I could tell what was coming out of my mouth and couldn’t stop it “Oh you are a great guy blah blah blah, and you have friends and a TV in your room blah blah!”
“NO!” he cut me off, “I want to be like him - Regular!”
Ouch. I composed myself, tears sucked backwards like the Wu Li master-mamma I am. Inside I screamed “me too!” Platitudes be damned. Being retarded sucks. No matter how “slow and beautiful” I regard him, Forrest is no dummy. Who wouldn’t wave the magic genetic wand and poof! Forrest the cool “regular” guy. He wants what THAT guy has. Or what Forrest imagines he has: a real life filled with freedom, cool friends, a flat screen TV and wallet full of money…..hey….wait a minute.
My Tourettic impulsive monologue starting coming again, “Well that guy has a job and can’t play video games all day and has bills and has to worry about money, has to make his own food and he probably doesn’t have a mother living nearby to help him--”
“SO?!” was all Forrest said.
Okay, I was being an idiot. Would I ever have the courage to simply say “Yeah, me too”? I do wish Forrest could to go to college, travel the world, have a loving relationship, and yes, enjoy great sex! But here we are. I looked at the cool young man at the bus stop and imagined him my son for a moment. Would I trade that regular son, for Forrest if I could?
I once boasted a bumper sticker that read “Why be Normal?” Well, there are lots of reasons Forrest could tell you. But driving by the bus stop on that morning, all I needed to say was “Yeah, me too.”
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Counting Retarded - the Beginning
I love the word "retard". Okay I think of my french teacher and say it in his accent, try it with the rolled "r's" "rey- tarrrrrrrd". And in musical notation, the best part of the song; to slow it down and make it beautiful, sweet...aaahhh... "Retard".
That's what I told my son when he finally asked what it meant, "Slow and beautiful" I told him. Then he'd say "well I am not retarded" and I'd say "oh yes you are!" and he'd say "no, you are"
Me,"no you are"
Forrest, "no you are"
Me,"you are"
"no you are..... no you are!"... until we rolled on the floor laughing.
I once asked some high school kids to count how many times they heard they word "retard" or its variations (that's so retarded, etc) in one day during a typical school day. 72. One student, 72 times. Yes, that's right. Okay, you have walk into a high school between the 5 minutes classroom bells and listen really well in the halls with lockers slamming. If you put yourself in the crowded common areas during lunch, especially around the freshman boys, you can hear all kinds of foul language too. And girls, they tend to call themselves retarded in a self effacing apologetic way as in "Oh I forgot to bring _____, I am so retarded". Or in the bathroom when they comment on retarded hair and clothing.
And people aren't just retarded. Ideas and behaviors are retarded too. Teachers, parents, and any kind of rules are at the top of the list.
My son Forrest doesn't want to be retarded any more. He wants to be "normal" he tells me. Well, he is 24 years old and likes Spiderman stuff and coloring books. That's not retarded, that's cool, in a six year old kind of way, I say.
I will tell you a Forrest story: he was born with crooked little pinkie fingers and very almond shaped eyes for a Caucasian baby. Yes, an extra "arm" on the 21st chromosome...47 chromosomes altogether (You and I have 46) giving him the genetic anomaly "Down Syndrome"
Forrest and the Dali Lama are very similar. Besides the shape of their eyes, they do not worry about the past or the future. They refuse to hurry. They have little concern for material wealth and rarely count money or time correctly.
That's what I told my son when he finally asked what it meant, "Slow and beautiful" I told him. Then he'd say "well I am not retarded" and I'd say "oh yes you are!" and he'd say "no, you are"
Me,"no you are"
Forrest, "no you are"
Me,"you are"
"no you are..... no you are!"... until we rolled on the floor laughing.
I once asked some high school kids to count how many times they heard they word "retard" or its variations (that's so retarded, etc) in one day during a typical school day. 72. One student, 72 times. Yes, that's right. Okay, you have walk into a high school between the 5 minutes classroom bells and listen really well in the halls with lockers slamming. If you put yourself in the crowded common areas during lunch, especially around the freshman boys, you can hear all kinds of foul language too. And girls, they tend to call themselves retarded in a self effacing apologetic way as in "Oh I forgot to bring _____, I am so retarded". Or in the bathroom when they comment on retarded hair and clothing.
And people aren't just retarded. Ideas and behaviors are retarded too. Teachers, parents, and any kind of rules are at the top of the list.
My son Forrest doesn't want to be retarded any more. He wants to be "normal" he tells me. Well, he is 24 years old and likes Spiderman stuff and coloring books. That's not retarded, that's cool, in a six year old kind of way, I say.
I will tell you a Forrest story: he was born with crooked little pinkie fingers and very almond shaped eyes for a Caucasian baby. Yes, an extra "arm" on the 21st chromosome...47 chromosomes altogether (You and I have 46) giving him the genetic anomaly "Down Syndrome"
Forrest and the Dali Lama are very similar. Besides the shape of their eyes, they do not worry about the past or the future. They refuse to hurry. They have little concern for material wealth and rarely count money or time correctly.
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