I pick up my daughter who has Down syndrome from school, she sits by her teacher, waiting for me. “Nichole had a great day!” her teacher says, “I wrote you a note about it, but I have to tell you now.”

My daughter is in Kindergarten, she is six years old. The kids in her class are very sweet to her. Many of them find her after school to get a goodbye hug. They notice her, in a good way. They know she is different, it is obvious she is behind them in development, but to them she is Nichole, just Nichole.

All the kids get different jobs during the school day. Nichole’s job for the day was to read her classmates names. When the name is called, the student can then choose a center. Nichole sat with the bucket on her lap, and proceeded to pull out a name, and to everyone’s surprise, she read it. Then she pulled another name, and she read it too. She couldn’t read all the names, but those she could not read, she sounded the first letter of the name.

The teacher then described the response from her friends. The awe, the cheers, the claps, the words of affirmation. Nichole really struggles with her speech, but she was not only saying their names, she was reading many of them!

“Nichole you can read!” They said.

“Mrs. B Nichole knows our names!”

And my daughter enjoyed the moment, she beamed with pride, and I can picture it. I know her so well that I can see her smile, her gleaming eyes, her giggle.

I feel so incredibly proud of her. For her accomplishments, for her tenacity, for showing everyone that she is as capable as the other kids.

I feel this pride when she is able to cope in situations that can typically be a struggle for her. I make a big deal out of them, I want her to know that I am so proud of her, and I know she is proud too.

The pride I feel over her small accomplishments is fueled by the immense love I have for her. I feel it when she is counting to five, coloring a page, her obsession with letter sounds, or trying so hard to get dressed independently. Yet most of the time, I am proud of her simply because she tries, not because she masters the new skills. She tries harder than I ever have to try, harder than I am sometimes willing to try. She doesn’t give up like I do. She is my role model.

When we get home from school, she takes out her folder, and hands me the note from her teacher.

“I’m so proud of you rascal!” I say.

“Yeth!” she smiles at me.

“You were reading your friend’s names!”

“Yeth. I read!” Her smile lights up my world.

Then she hugs me, covers my face with kisses, and I think, I’m the luckiest mom in the world.

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