Am I an Atheist Christian?

Do I believe in God? I have no idea. I think the problem is I don’t believe in believing.

I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t know what it means to say that I believe in something. What happens if I don’t? Does it *poof* go away?

Do I believe in good and evil? Of the two, I choose good. Does that make evil weaker? Is belief like voting? Is belief off in the wings, waiting for enough of us to choose wisely? After the votes are in, will the winning belief take the stage?

Is belief like wearing 3-D glasses? It’s the same stuff in the movie but with belief you get a heightened experience?

Do I believe in spring because it keeps coming? Do I believe in winter because you can’t stop it anyway? Do people in Arizona not believe in winter? Did they stop believing and their winter went away?

Does Arizona believe in my snowman?

Can I believe in sounds? Symphonies and speeches and heart-moving sermons? Do I have to believe in the air that carries the sounds? – because some days I can’t tell the air from nothing.

Kids believe in Santa Claus. Some of them get toys, some of them don’t. The child with the scooter believes. The child with the empty stocking, used to believe.

If I believe in soap, does it clean better? Am I absolved from bathing? If I believe in hot baths should I walk around carrying a bucket of hot water and a towel, because that’s who I am, that’s what I believe? Should I lug the towel and hot water around in case someone needs them? Does that make me a believer? Or a lugger? Can you be a believer and not a lugger?

Is it my great privilege to still be entertaining the idea of belief at all? Does that mean I haven’t had enough crap happen to make me give up this topic all together?

But there has been a lot of crap. About a wheelbarrow and a half. It might have been halfway into that second load I started to wonder…what is all this open and shut belief? Believe in God and nothing bad will happen to you?

And when the hard times come, if you have a lack of belief, then you know what your problem is. Ye of little faith, if only you’d believed. The crowd says tsk.

Is belief like a really, really long wish? A wish you wish your whole life? A good luck charm. Hold it tight in your palm and shut your eyes and imagine what you want, imagine it so so so so hard.

Do I believe in things because I love them? Do I believe in people because I love them? Because I need them? Do I believe in God in case no one else cares about me? Who wouldn’t pick God to be on their side? Who wouldn’t pick the biggest, strongest, smartest deity on the block. OF COURSE you’d say God was on your side, pulling for you night and day.

Do I believe any of what I’m saying? Do I believe in myself? Do I believe in the cancer that grew in my neck? I saw my lymph node. It looked like baloney. Did I believe in the doctors? I don’t know if I did, but I thought it important that they show up. I didn’t believe God was with me or watching me or teaching me a great big fat lesson. It just happened. I can tell myself it happened for any reason, I can tell any story, quote any book, tape any psalm on my bathroom mirror. The belief can’t make it real, not if I curated it. The story – the thing I tell myself so I can breathe, so I can hug my children good night and ever let go – that story is my story. I write it, and re-write it, every morning, so that I can get out of bed. Which means, it’s a story. I made it up. I made 3-D glasses and put them on. So I can stand to look.

Maybe I believe in stories. Maybe I’m believing in myself as the creator of my own stories and not thanking God for giving me the ability to make them. Or maybe I’m cutting out the middle man.

Is there still time to become a believer? Could things go smoother here on out? Could I save myself a lot of trouble? I see the believers at their party. My old neighbor, she checked in with God on the tiniest decisions, God told her the answer, and she never looked back. I say, lovely. How nice to think belief is driving the minivan, while I’m back here piling rocks behind mud-stuck tires.

I can’t conceive of a life where I don’t question: everything. I believe in the questions. If I believe in anything, it might be them.

Maybe it’s not clear. Except for a time in my twenties, I’ve gone to church all my life, quite often thought to be a place for people who believe in God. Yet the more I attend, the less and less I believe. I’ve been told by a religious person this is okay. (Thank you, Episcopalians.)

And if I understand less than ever, there’s a contented sense of wondering. Maybe it’s moving farther away from categories, the yes/no’s, the columns. Heading out into the Great Something, something you feel in your gut. You are in some kind of communication with it, no? So what is that?

I’ve made some sort of loving liturgical commitment to my gut.

When I had the cancer, I was 25. A few days after the diagnosis, I sat on the edge of the bed. The shock was there but I was tired of crying. I looked out the window and it was a sunny July morning. Like you couldn’t believe. I tried to pray but shook my head, fuck it, and then I had this weird experience, a feeling and an image in my head of the prayers and church and God as I’d known them as so much scaffolding, and that scaffolding just buckling and falling slowly and gracefully and beautifully to the ground. And THAT was a peace that surpassed understanding. Peace like a semi-truck. Like wasabi lighting up your head.

Years later, I can’t begin to describe how beautiful it was. I still remember it, though I’m older now, the upstairs bedroom with the creaky wood floors, a crack moving diagonally up the wall, and, that weird dusty peace streaming in the window. Peace that was utterly familiar. And completely unknown.

I think of that peace sometimes. It lets me come in and visit, again and again. And every time I can get there, it’s like the peace was waiting for me to come back. Like it knew I would. Like it believed in me.

Celebrities: We’re Just Like You

Celebrities. We need gas. We need groceries. Our kids want to go to the park. We push them on the swings. Sure there are some divas, but a lot of celebrities are pretty down to earth. And it’s the same for families with Down syndrome.

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. We’re just like you.

We’re in line at Starbucks. You see us. We see you see us. We see the stare that lasts a half second too long. You look away. But you’ll look again. You have to. You have to be sure of what you’re seeing. Something at once familiar and new.

Wait? Is that…?

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. It’s hard not to look.

Some of you want to talk. We have something in common and you will tell us what it is. The checker at Fred Meyer lights up to see my daughter. One look at her uncorks his memories of working with adults with disabilities. It was amazing. It changed his life. A transformation. All these years he’s never forgotten. He shakes his head, remembering.

But we only came for milk.

We didn’t tie our shoes this morning and say, okay family, let’s go out there and show them what a family with a disability is. We don’t wear badges, we’re not official representatives. We have school. We have work. We have seven errands on our to-do list and if we stop and Have An Experience with every person we encounter we’re not going to make the dry cleaners by five.

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. Sometimes we just want to walk down the street, like a regular family. Sometimes we want to blend in. But you can’t put the cork back in the bottle.

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. You think we remember you. From a concert, a train trip, the taqueria. From my daughter’s school. Four hundred children, of whom 300 and their parents greet her by name, while I look blankly at their child, hoping to return the greeting. I have no idea. I’m so sorry people. What are we calling you now? Regular people? Civilians? Typicals? I have to tell you a secret. All you non-disableds? You all look the same. I can’t tell one blonde-haired girl in leggings from another.

What’s the alternative? People could ignore us? Turn away in horror? We could go back to segregating people, locking us in categories—physical, social, economic. Adjectives for all. Adjectives that unlock some doors, double-bolt others.

This all sounds really ungrateful. Would it kill me to listen to some lady at the MAX stop talk about her niece while her dog sniffs my shoe – is that my re-payment for having a child who wasn’t whisked away at birth? This might sound selfish and entitled but being grateful that my daughter lives her life in full view of society feels a little like being grateful I was never sold as a child bride. Um, sure, but in Portland, Oregon, kind of removed.

Undoubtedly someday, too soon, I will miss people talking to us. Stopping me to tell me how adorable my daughter it. We hear it all the time. The person at Powell’s has no idea we just heard this in World Cup and before that in the Rose Room and before that on the streetcar.

What a luxury to complain about someone complimenting your child. First world problem? First and a half? And it will seem either a paradox or disingenuous when I say that I appreciate every comment. I know that doesn’t make sense. Parents of other kinds of children assuredly hear familiar comments that fit their child’s “category”–twins for example. Parents in general hear many of the same comments over and over. “Got your hands full,” is a popular one.

Given that children with disabilities were until embarrassingly recently hidden away, blotted from existence, being noticed in public perhaps has a special resonance. And I don’t blame the public. The public hasn’t had much practice. And the fact that so many people aren’t sure what to say and reach out anyway carries special weight.

So while this will seem hypocritical, I thank people from the bottom of my heart for trying to connect with us. Maybe they’re trying to make up for the past. Maybe they are acknowledging the recent injustice. Maybe they see the little social triumph that is my daughter, in her pink flowered flip-flops stirring her hot chocolate to cool it down. And if they want to offer a little thumbs up? What crank could have a problem with that?

Not to mention, my daughter, is pretty adorable. But she’s six. Heading toward seven. One day 10 and 11, the awkward years. She’s going to be an adult. People can’t call her adorable when she’s forty. She’s going to need to be noticed for her other characteristics. She is also kind, thoughtful, silly as a snail sandwich, and as I tell her multiple times a day, a hard worker, which is the understatement of all time.

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. It’s good to have a fallback, after the looks fade. One day the smiles will dry up, the comments, the conversations, the adorables. Just like they say you’ll eventually miss every aspect of parenting you currently struggle with, I will hate myself for complaining, for not realizing it could be so much worse.

What if my daughter grows up and no one notices her? What if someone gives her a hard time, makes a rude comment, and no one looks, no one sees. And I’m nowhere. No one who loves her is anywhere. And the smilers? Well, lady, you told us not to. You told us to leave her alone and let her live. We’re just treating her like we treat everyone else. We’re busy and we’re tired and we don’t have time to notice anyone. So welcome to the club.

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. It’s a tough game. You catch us in isolated moments. Sweet moments. Awkward moments. Unglamorous moments. Maybe you think the moment stands in for the whole story. But even we don’t know the whole story. We are stumbling, struggling, piecing it together, while the opinions, the trolls, come quick and furious, darts at a dartboard.

Celebrities. And Down syndrome. Images in the public’s eye. Skin deep. One-dimensional.

Take a look.

A deeper look.

Beliefs

I don’t believe in God the Father or God the Mother, but more the Mother than the Father.

I believe in God my piano teacher who made ham and Miracle Whip sandwiches and Scotch Broth for lunch and her husband who said they called it Scotch Broth because there were wee little Scotsman in the can.

I believe in God the newspaper, crisp and clean until the moment it’s unfolded.

I believe in God the tufts of grass poking up through the cracks in the cement – cement! – and still it grows. I believe in God like that, that you could pave the whole world and all our hearts and still the grass, the thin, thin green, would find a way through.

I believe in God my grandparents and an impromptu picnic at the Legion of Honor all in our sunglasses and a Coca-Cola for everyone; I believe in God the best friend and sleepovers at her house and her dad playing Creedence Clearwater in the morning and feeding his parakeets; I believe in God the yippie dog who won’t quit and God the cat who could give a crap; I believe in God who didn’t create Earth, or will us here, I believe in God who is here like water is here, like helium and maybe arsenic are here, because they’re just here and we’re here and why not – why not try if it makes me one inch kinder than I am now.

I don’t believe in God with a map and a plan and making bad things happen to you so you can learn something. I don’t believe in prayer. I don’t think the imaginary letters get read but I think it matters that we write them.

I believe that you often get more than you can handle.

I believe in the God of questions, the God of no answers, the God of you think too much and why not close your theology book and give that man a sandwich.

I believe in God the flat and colorless, the bland and cardboard box. I believe in God the kazoo and upside-down soup pot banged on with a wooden spoon.

I believe a lot of things sound better when you bang on them upside down with a wooden spoon.

My daughter is banging on this world with a wooden spoon.

Saying, “Here. My life is your life. Believe it.”

***

IMG_0373A version of this piece was produced as part of Just Like You, a theatrical performance of stories written by mothers of children with developmental disabilities though a partnership between Well Arts and the Northwest Down Syndrome Association. The show ran January 10-18, 2014 at the Firehouse Theatre in Portland, Oregon.

I am posting this 11 days before her IEP meeting at Westridge Elementary School in Oregon.

My Personal Confidence is Leaking

I think it’s safe to say I’ve never scared: anyone.

Five foot five. Birkenstocks with socks. My wrists have the circumference of an Oreo cookie.

Not scary.

Or am I?

It’s a quiet moment in the restroom of a charming professional building in Portland, Oregon. Flowered wallpaper and cozy, golden sconces.

Then I turn my head. The alarm sounds.

PLEASE DISPOSE OF FEMININE PRODUCTS IN THE RECEPTACLE PROVIDED!!!!!(The bold, all caps, and garden trail of exclamation points are not mine.)

I’ve seen these signs all my life. Haven’t you? I see them so much I don’t see them. They blend into the woodwork.

And if you haven’t seen one of these signs, they’re not talking about “feminine” products like tiaras and toenail polish. They don’t mean glitter.

This is what those signs mean. They mean blood comes out of your body and, unless you’ve been shot, that is disgusting. Any items you use to deal with this blood are disgusting. Before you use them, they are embarrassing. After you use them, they’re embarrassing and disgusting.

No one wants women to be disgusting. Not when we need them to be soft and pretty and ready to be a helpmate. Blood ruins the illusion. Blood makes women people.

Please! Our pipes are old. Nothing down the toilet but toilet paper!!!

Landlords, maintenance staff, wastewater treatment facilities – I wish you no harm. That’s why I also don’t flush facial tissues, baby wipes, cotton swabs, diapers, phones, or puppies, which have also been found in community wastewater.

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I’m curious about the “only”. If you put a paper towel in there does the can explode?

I would guess that the number of exclamation points in the sign correlates to how many plumbing backups have been experienced at a given property. Water seeping into the cracks in the linoleum. Cupboards rotted. Floors ripped out. I could really screw this up for someone. Some landlord, building manager, superintendent. Flooded. Broken. A city block brought to its knees.

Again, I wish no one any harm.

It’s just that, to be feared. It’s so new. Women spend so much time being scared. Mostly we’re trying not to get raped. It’s a fear we accept. Girl Power, Title IX, college, Sheryl Sandberg, and…all the while…don’t get raped! Like a lifelong simultaneous hobby.

It’s not like bloody tampons turn the tables, but just for a second I have to hmmmm and raise an eyebrow: Ladies…what have we here?

All those tampons we stash away. Hiding. No one taught you exactly, but we know to hide them. Even clean unwrapped ones. Just their existence is embarrassing. No one wants one to fall out of their hobo bag in a crowded Starbucks. You don’t tuck one behind your ear like a cigarette. (Even though smoking actually is disgusting.)

And it’s funny because the culture splashes women’s bodies everywhere. You’d think we loved women’s bodies. Especially boobs. Boobs in shirts. Boobs in shirts sell hamburgers, pickup trucks, gum. The only thing you can’t do with a boob is feed a person. That’s disgusting.

Women’s bodies. Hot. Sex. Mine.

Bodies doing what they do. Disgusting. Alone. Yours.

The woman on the cover of Sports Illustrated this year pulling her swimsuit bottoms down so far you can see her pubic bones. Does anyone wonder if this person on the cover of the sports magazine plays a sport? Does anyone wonder if the woman in the swimsuit, I don’t know, swims?

What if I told you she was menstruating? What if under that bikini suit she was wearing a bloody tampon. That as you ogle, she is shedding unused uterine lining!!! Would you keep the picture around? Or would you put her away? Until she can be good and sexy again.

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There were teenage boys in the aisle when I took this picture. I was so embarrassed. Luckily, I didn’t exist.

When I started my first office job after college, I learned how to conceal tampons as I walked from my cubicle to the restroom. I tried to make sure I wore pants with pockets when I was menstruating. But when I forgot I would slip the tampon up the sleeve of my suit jacket and sort of hold it against the inside cuff. Just one finger tucked up so that it didn’t look like I was clenching my fist. All the while I strode down the hallway hoping my boss didn’t stop me to chat about the new marketing initiative.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s property. But maybe just one teeny time, just for practice, we could stand tall in restrooms across the city, and make people pay attention. Listen up city, I got at a network of weary, slightly anemic menstruating sisters. We’ve all got a jumbo box of Supers from Costco. We can stand here all day and twenty-eight after that.

And not to be a snot, but what do you have, monsieur? A little sign you printed on your printer and hung up with Scotch tape? You got “please” and seventeen exclamation points?

Here’s a secret. You don’t need to make signs.

The women who disobey your sign aren’t going to obey just because you added seven exclamation points instead of three.

And the women who wouldn’t flush a tampon down your creaky rusty stupid pipes because that would cause trouble and trouble isn’t nice —those women will wrap a used tampon in ten yards of toilet paper to try to un-disgust it before contorting themselves to reach the tiny feminine garbage can six feet away from where they sit with their pants down around their ankles.

And I would just like to suggest here in what I’m sure shows only my bitterness and lack of maturity but NO MAN WOULD DO THIS. A friend said, you know how they have those new toilets – flush up for pee and down for poop. She said a man would have another button for flush sideways for tampons. Flush diagonal for maxi pads.

You know what else clogs toilets? Giant poops. Does the men’s room have signs:

PLEASE GENTLEMEN DO NOT FLUSH YOUR OVER-SIZED POOPS!!!!!

Like the airlines with the carry-on luggage. “If your bowel movement cannot fit in this box, please see an agent.”

And I’m not trying to get all over this but men are disgusting. They blow snot out their nose and it lands on the sidewalk. They hack up huge globs and hurk them out the car window. In front of other people. They leave the seat up and don’t even notice what is on the seat – grime and curly hairs and coagulated pee.

The man staring into his laptop, right next to me in the coffee shop, just sneezed a juice bomb into his bare hands and wiped it on his pant leg. In full view. Smiling before, smiling after.

His personal confidence.

I would flush for it.

My Husband’s New Wife

My husband’s new wife is a peach. I really like her. My husband is the happiest he’s ever been.

She’s the kind of woman I always thought I’d be.

She and my husband have so much in common. If they don’t have it in common, she gets it in common. If he describes the cool way the circuit-amp-breaker-plugs were wired in our new living room she says Wow that’s fascinating and doesn’t excuse herself to watch Downton Abbey.

My husband’s new wife likes war movies. She thinks chick flicks are lame. She doesn’t watch a romance and then sigh and glare at her husband and think not once have you stood in my yard with a boombox over your head blaring an 80s love song.

Even if she did like chick flicks she wouldn’t get annoyed by the term chick flicks and say then why we don’t call war movies dick flicks and my husband wouldn’t have to sigh and think Lord not this again.

My husband’s new wife thinks bacon is a food group. She does not order pizza with zucchini on it. She doesn’t know any recipes for garbanzos.

She never gets PMS. She’s never happy and sad at the same time and all weeping into the salad spinner, not knowing why she’s crying except that love is huge and pain is huge and when it all gets too big it doesn’t fit in her heart and has to come leaking out as tears.

My husband’s new wife owns makeup. And she wears it. She can shade and contour and conceal.

When she’s back from a run she changes out of the sweaty running clothes.

My husband’s new wife says thank you when he unloads the dishwasher,

thank you when he folds laundry,

thank you when he replaces the bar of soap which never happens.

She doesn’t care if he doesn’t change the toilet paper. She just changes it!

If he leaves a wet towel on the bed she just picks it up! Or lets it sit there and grow mushrooms! They eat them for dinner! Wrapped in bacon!

My husband’s new wife thinks, he does so much. He’s a good dad. He is give give give. Why bug him about stupid stuff?

Before she married my husband she dated some real losers. She remembers walking through the city alone, boot-steps on concrete. She will never forget the miracle of waking up to see this incredible person next to her. By what miracle is he here? Sharing life with her. Step by blessed step.

You don’t find this every day.

My husband’s new wife fills his car when it’s on empty. Week after week. She doesn’t say do you ever fill this thing??

She doesn’t say ever. She doesn’t say you always, you never.

When his alarm goes off at 5:00…5:07…5:14…she doesn’t knee him in the back.

She doesn’t save him the last chocolate chip cookie and then resent him for actually eating it.

She isn’t kind and generous and then needing neon signs to point out how kind and generous she is. She’s not writing the invisible book of her loveliness.

When my husband decides he’s going Paleo two days before Thanksgiving his new wife doesn’t think, oh my fucking hell. She orders a cookbook. She makes a pecan pie out of cauliflower.

My husband’s new wife doesn’t talk to him when he’s on his phone. She doesn’t frown and convey her silent judgement that he’s wasting time with this tiny screen that he could be spending talking to her.

When his new wife wants to talk, she waits until he’s ready. She can wait forever.

She’s not younger but she seems younger. She has endless energy. She thrives on tasks. She organizes coat drives. She shapes policy. She has a career she never quit, thinking it was more important to make homemade diapers out of organic cotton that she grew in her backyard. She didn’t stumble out of the preschool years, squinting into the light going, where the hell am I?

She is supremely confident and there’s nothing sexier. Your husband’s old wife would feel confident but then worried that her confidence made her arrogant. She lopped herself. She gave when she had nothing to give. She accepted emptiness.

My husband and his new wife entertain every weekend, drink apple martinis by the fire pit. She invites his college buddies, high school buddies, she doesn’t grumble and say how did she get in charge of his friends what is she his mother?

He stops working on weekends. He stops because she calmly and clearly and showing gratitude for his contributions to the household explains that this is not working for her. She asks for what she needs. And because she can do this, he hears her.

My husband’s new wife plans romantic trips to Colorado or maybe Zurich. It is assumed that time together is more important than elite swim camps for the kids.

My husband’s new wife loves our children, to pieces, but she does not let them dictate their lives. They sleep in their own beds. Their needs are not more important than hers. Or their needs as a couple. How could there be anything more important, she says, than the well-being of the people responsible for the children’s well-being?

It makes so much sense when she says it.

My husband’s new wife feeds on chaos. It fuels her. She likes when two kids and a husband talk to her all at the same time while the phone’s ringing and the timer’s going off and possibly in the oven is a small fire. Her hair doesn’t pop out on end like she’s been electrocuted.

My husband’s new wife is everything he wanted, all he dreamed of. Everything his mother wanted for him, when she gazed at him in his crib, wondering who was out there for her beautiful baby boy. My husband is happier than he’s ever been. He wonders why sometimes it seemed so hard.

Not any more, dear husband. Your new wife is coming.

2015.

It’s still a new year. It’s still possible.

I am your old wife.

And your new wife.

I’m really going to like her.

I’m going to like them both.

Why You Will Never Be Happy

When you have a baby who has Down syndrome you find out that almost everyone in the world has a cousin with Down syndrome and they all work at a grocery store.

And they’re all incredibly happy.

You know, I hope most people are happy. I hope all kids are happy. And babies.

Are people as a species so unhappy that my now five-year old daughter reading library books on the couch stands out in such contrast?

There are many ways I would describe my daughter – brigadier general comes to mind – but I wouldn’t describe either of my kids as happy. Just like I wouldn’t describe them as people who breathe. Or sleep. Or clip their fingernails. There are just a lot of words I would use first.

I did have a new acquaintance tell me that my daughter was very loving. I looked around to see if we meant the same girl. It was indeed the one dog-piling her big brother. Thank you, I said.

It seems like we all want to be happy. Pills, teas, lavender lotions. Link after book after glossy magazine:

Are You Happy?
Five Signs That You Could Be Happier
Twenty Simple Ways To Get Happy

In the Parenting section is The Happiest Kid (Toddler, Child and I believe Teenager) on the Block.

As a special needs parent, I’m not sure happy is all you’re going for. I’m guessing you want more.

No one watches a nine-year old in a chess tournament and says, “She’s so happy!” The Happiest Child finishes soccer practice, piano lessons and French homework. Then she does her happy flashcards.

Maybe happy is what we work on when the checklist is done.

If you have Down syndrome, no one thinks you have a checklist. You float around finding ways to keep busy while the rest of us have real lives. And the reason we don’t find this a waste is because we tell ourselves people with Down syndrome are: happy.

Do we really want to give away “happy” to a sub-group? Remember the Native Americans who gave away Manhattan. We might want it back. Think it through.

Sometimes I dream that my daughter with Down syndrome will actually become a giant pill. A crank in a beret. I was secretly proud the day she dressed herself in all-black for preschool, Johnny Cash-style.

Do we typicals want to be happy, but only after we’ve earned our PhD’s? How do we want to be described in the Christmas newsletter? “Justin is so happy. He is forty-five years old. And just so darn happy.”

Isn’t it weird how happy can sound pathetic? When it’s on the cover of Cosmo it doesn’t sound pathetic. It sounds hot.

How will we get the right kind of happy? I want the good happy. The best happy. I want the happy that gets me my own parking spot.

Deep down, do any of us ever think happy is actually kind of optional? The icing on our achievement cake? If you had a choice between massive wealth or simple happiness, would any of us hedge our bets and go for the dough? I mean, how bad could it be?

When I Googled “Am I happy?” there were 1,470,000 results.

When I Googled “I am happy” in the declarative-  there were only 1,120,000 results – 350 million fewer. And most of them were the Pharell Williams song.

So I took the Oprah “Are You Happy Quiz?” to see if I was happy. It turns out I am. I was kind of surprised. The dark clouds, the Pacific Northwest rain, after two weeks it already seems endless.

I scored between 52-70. This placed me in the category “Your smile is your guide.” I’m happy.

Then it was my five year-old daughter’s turn. Since she has Down syndrome, I thought I should test this once and for all.

I found out that:

Yes, she feels better when she gives unconditionally to others.
No, she does not dwell on people who disappoint her.
No, she did not feel her life would truly begin only when the right circumstances came along.

She does not think giving a present is better than getting one.

She. should. get. what. she. wants.

Not getting what she wants does not help her develop as a person.

Life is good and she appreciates what she has.

She has no trouble making her health a priority.

All totaled, she only scored between a 30-49. This puts her in the category of “Needs to Look on the Bright Side More Often.” She’s “not miserable”.

But she is not happy.

She hopped off the chair to finish her puzzle. Red barn, spotted cows. A snack bowl of snap peas.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her.