Marching On - Part II

Gillian and Fireman Randy

On the second Tuesday of every month, neighbors hold their collective breath as a very large fire department vehicle rolls down the hill and parks in front of our home -- and then slowly exhale as Fireman Randy saunters casually down the driveway and through the back yard.  No emergency.  Instead, on these visits, Fireman Randy is serving as a volunteer for Project Lifesaver, his only reward being a plate of fresh-baked cookies and 10 minutes with Gillian, who greets him with a squeal of delight at the back door (most often in a ballet tu-tu) and then plays a silly game of hard-to-get while Fireman Randy sets down his toolbox, unloads his tracking-device gear, and good-naturedly disarms Prince N, who simply MUST grab everything on the table.  Randy and Gillian are beginning to share a bit of history which centers around the large white tracking device upon her wrist.  I think of it as The History of Marching.  But it began lonnnnnnnngggg before we met Fireman Randy...

Like most children with Down Syndrome, walking did not come easy to Gillian.  Her developmental milestones cannot be taken for granted and are not attained by mere passage of time:  They are earned through perseverance and hard work.  Walking was one such milestone.  If a typically-developing child will walk at age 12 months, a typical child with Down Syndrome will also learn to walk -- but at 24 months.

Gillian took her first real steps on her second birthday.  With her petite frame and wide, tottering gait, sure-footedness was elusive until her baby sister Isabel arrived -- and soon started walking.  With two wobblers in the house,


"Two Wobblers:  Survival of She With the Best Balance"

it became survival of the best-balancer for a a month or two, as they'd crash into and mow each other over like two drunken soldiers.  At 14 months, Isabel bypassed walking altogether and took immediately to sprinting. Gillian, who was turning three, took to marching.  Six years later, The March is still the preferred mode of self-transportation when the perfect set of circumstances present themselves.

Leading up to The March 

The March is what will happen when a small child with Down Syndrome, who habitually clanks locked and baby-proofed door handles, discovers that one suddenly opens.  The March will also happen in public places when one of the ten eyes in the back of a mother's head stop working for one split second.  When the child turns school-aged, it's what happens when the teacher turns her back or the recess aide stops to apply a band-aid to a wounded classmate.  Voila!  The March (aka Wandering).

Presumed Cause 

It's what happens when physical prowess exceeds rationalization skills (where am I headed and what exactly IS my plan?) and sound judgment (is this REALLY a good idea?)

Description of The March

Arms: swinging long and with purpose, like an Olympian race walker. 
Gait: Legs moving swiftly but never quite breaking into a run.   Gait wide.  Little flat feet slap-slap-slapping the ground with purpose, thankfully knocking stealth out of the picture ...
Posture:  Leaning heavily forward in a lumbering fashion, head down, blond pony tail swinging wildly. 
Determination Factor:   Eyebrows furrowed in concentration (uh-oh)
Humor:  Periodic belly chuckles, particularly when being chased!
Attire:  Get-away backpacks may be worn when child is old enough to develop Wandering Aforethought.  Shoes often on wrong feet -- on purpose.

Reality Check!
 

It's a constant topic amongst parents of children with Down Syndrome (more commonly known as Wandering) no matter how cute or well-behaved the child.  It's a phenomenon that has given rise to technological advances in tracking devices and door alarms -- indeed, "wandering off" has almost earned itself its very own medical diagnostic code.

Back to the story ... (Part III coming soon very soon, along with an adoption update!)