One day, a neighbour came by to hang out with Joel, and Amos—compelled by his love for guests—welcomed her with jangling props and a bizarre dance. Joel said his brother was excited because that day was his birthday and he had turned 7. A congratulatory remark, even a casual one would’ve been nice. But the neighbour, being a kid, started thinking aloud why Amos wasn’t in primary school when he ought to be. And Joel responded as adequately as he could: Um…Down syndrome? Special needs, remember?
“Special needs?” she wondered, and as if struck by an epiphany, was quick to conclude, “Then he’s dumb!”
“Amos isn’t dumb!” Joel rejoined to his brother’s defence.
We caught the whole thing, Amos too, who kind of tottered away when the conversation took the unpleasant turn, but was soon back in his usual frisky self and we weren’t sure if it was a result of his resilience or poor comprehension. It probably didn’t matter. Kids are kids. Only that this was probably the most eventful thing that happened on his 7th birthday.
After all, these are Covid times. The days are quiet.
We began our blog as a journey through a life with its whims and challenges so that people who share in them could find solidarity along the way. The solidarity is important because the journey is often a bumpy and lonely one. The months leading up to Covid had been rather draining for us. We’d been caught up in the flurry of administration to defer Amos for Primary One registration, and more recently—to get him back in. There was the usual form-filling, referral letters, doctor visits, the dreaded psychological assessments for which Amos’ flippant behaviour and short attention span didn’t help.
Then there were the usual recurring spells of illnesses that stuck with Mummy and the boys. We zapped one another all day with the thermometer and every little sneeze had us pricking up as if the oven had exploded. Amid all that, Joel picked the perfect time to begin the tweenish phase of his life by mutating into this strange, after-school grump with the “I’m-moody-and-I-don’t-know-why" syndrome and strings of brazen, nonsensical retorts.
And as if struck by a fiery streak of independence, Amos mysteriously morphed from a darling into a mischievous little imp who wanted to do everything his way; refusing to change out of his pyjamas and spending 10 minutes on a single shirt button. We’d put on his socks and shoes and he’d pull them off and spend another 10 minutes putting them back on. And if that wasn’t enough, whenever we tried getting him somewhere he didn’t want to go, he'd go limp in our arms and hang there like a runny slab of dough. We call it the flop and drop—a most maniacal manoeuvre guaranteed to boil blood and pop veins. Triple that on Monday mornings. Soon, we began receiving phone calls from his teachers telling us just how challenging Amos has become over the span of the year-end holidays.
Ah yes. The flop-and-drop. What else?
Just as we were begrudging our unfortunate plight, Amos’ quiet 7th birthday brought us unexpected warmth.
Amos loves parties (if we haven’t already told you this). He loves celebrating birthdays at both schools with both sets of classmates and with both sets of grandparents and he loves being around people and being outdoors and at playgrounds. But Covid-19 changed all that. We fretted over his birthday preparations, decided that we weren’t going to do much and asked Amos if he wanted a cake to celebrate it at home.
He put a finger to his pixie little chin and considered (or acting like he was).
We didn’t think much of it—until he requested for the usual slice of Oreo cheesecake from Seeds, his favourite café at Rainbow Centre. We thought he might have got the occasions mixed up because apart from his birthday, he was also due for his café-and-cake chillout for completing his toileting “loyalty card”, where he'd be allowed to put a stamp for each toilet visit he initiated and accomplished independently. We thought he wanted his loyalty reward more than his birthday because he’d been looking forward to it all week.
Then came his second request: sing him a birthday song at the café with the Oreo cheesecake.
This time, we checked in with him just to be sure. At the café? A birthday song over a slice of cheesecake? No doubt about it. That was exactly what he wanted. Awkward as it was, we went ahead with it and nestled ourselves in an obscure corner of the empty cafe and sang what might have been the most mellow birthday song ever—in a low whisper and over amused, bashful grins.
But the smiles Amos gave were absolute sunshine.
We left soon after and the brevity of it all was dampening. Even Joel asked, out of a quiet moment, “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Mummy answered.
In case you're wondering - here's Amos' toileting "Loyalty Card". He's completed it!
We are often discontent over anything less than the ideals we carry in our minds, and struggle to come to terms when life fell short of our expectations. The day of Amos’ quiet 7th birthday did not feel as special to us as we wanted it to be.
But to Amos, it was as special as ever.
We were silent on our way home. In the backseat, Amos was grinning like a Cheshire. Then as we watched Amos unwrap his presents after dinner, we were blessed once more by the warmth of genuine delight and his exclamations of “wow” and “nice” and “Buzz! (Lightyear)” and “Paw Patrol! And his sole desire to enjoy his birthday no matter how anti-climatic it might have appeared to us.
If that isn’t contentment, I don’t know what is.
In these trying times when the world plunges into post-truth confusion and bemoans its woes, we are reminded—on Amos' birthday—of the quiet glow of thankfulness that turns our souls around, and of a quiet endurance that begets enduring peace.
For only in moments like this could we hear the things that truly matter.
"All at once, a strong wind shook the mountain and shattered the rocks. But the Lord was not in the wind. Next, there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. Then there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.
Finally, there was a gentle breeze, and when Elijah heard it, he covered his face with his coat. He went out and stood at the entrance to the cave…"
1 Kings 19:11-13