Posted by: halliesklar | March 2, 2015

A Belated Letter To Jo Jo On Her 7th Birthday

Dear Jo Jo,

This past Friday was a very big day. It was your birthday.

I woke up at 6:30 in the morning to a familiar sound: you singing. I can’t always make out the lyrics, but I usually lie in bed listening to you for a few moments, savoring your voice, until I drag myself out of bed to start my day. But this morning was a bit different. I heard the sound of footsteps and giggling and then I heard two little voices screaming at the top of their lungs, “Happy birthday, Jo Jo!”

When I came into your room, you were sitting on your bed like the Queen of Sheba, Teddy and Geoffrey embracing you on either side and Ivry standing in front of you wagging her entire body back and forth like a giant swaying sausage on four legs.

It was an heartwarming picture, but it only lasted for a minute. Geoffrey decided he wanted to sing you happy birthday in Hebrew. Teddy disagreed. They started arguing, someone pushed someone else off the bed, and then someone trampled on poor Ivry’s paw. But there you were, in the midst of all the screeching and barking, determinedly belting out “Happy birthday dear Jo Jo.”

Why not? It was, my darling, your moment.

I’ve been thinking a lot about your actual birthday recently. There was a big kerfuffle on social media about a month ago, when an Armenian mom allegedly abandoned her baby with Down Syndrome. One of my editors asked me to write an open letter to her. I did, here: Writing it was hard. I don’t often like to think about those first few days when you were born, although I have to say, I remember them as vividly as if they just happened a week ago. I don’t like thinking about that time, it was so scary and I was so afraid, not just because of your diagnosis but because I was so terrified I’d never truly able to love you and feel bonded with you.


Well, that all happened, of course. It took time, but we got there. I try to be as open about it as possible, because I want other moms to know they’re not alone in what they’re feeling. Post partum depression happens to about 12 percent of new moms, after all. And while I got some nasty comments, I was heartened by the women who came out of the woodwork to email me letting me know they’d had the exact same experience.

But I also heard from other women, moms who live in other parts of the world that aren’t as progressive as the United States, moms who are struggling with the shame and stigma of giving birth to a baby with Down Syndrome. They live in countries that don’t have the resources and support that you and I both had to get us through the first few years. One mom told me she hasn’t gotten one baby present for her daughter, who’s six weeks old, which broke my heart. As hard as those first few weeks after your birth were, I remember all the designer clothing and monogrammed diaper bags and personalized baby books that arrived. Someone sent a fur lined sleeper that was the talk of the Columbia NICU. You were five days old and already achieving your fashionista status!

When I took you home from the hospital at 2 ½ weeks old, you had appointments already lined up with some of the top geneticists and feeding specialists in the area. You were registered for Early Intervention. I had info for Down Syndrome support groups, general new mommy support groups, and just about every baby centered music and gym class you could imagine.

I can’t imagine what I would have done if your grandparents, instead of insisting on coming to see their new granddaughter immediately, insisted I put you in an institution. I remember getting annoyed at Nana for shoving swim suit catalogues in front of my face when you were only 3 weeks old. She wanted to know if I thought your scar from intestinal surgery would have faded enough by summer that you could wear a bikini. A bikini? For a newborn? A newborn with Down Syndrome? I thought Nana had completely gone off her rocker. But you see, in Nana’s mind you weren’t just a baby with Down Syndrome. You were her first grandchild, after all, and what Jewish grandmother in her right mind wouldn’t insist her beloved granddaughter wow the beach in a Ralph Lauren bikini?

So now, looking back at your birth, and all the wonderful things that have happened since then, I can say that on your birthday I’m grateful for how far we’ve come as a society in terms of accepting children with disabilities. Grateful for the fact that tonight, in the midst of an unexpected snow storm, eleven other little girls from your class showed up to celebrate your birthday with you. Grateful that you have friends like Lily and Madison and Abby and Leila who see you as an equal and push you to do things that you sometimes are hesitant about, like reading and dancing and playing hopscotch.



Grateful for the fact that you performed in a performance of the Nutcracker this past December with the New England Ballet troupe and other kids with disabilities. Grateful for your special ed teacher at school, who spent two days observing you on the potty and “collecting data” so she could figure out how to get you to go on your own without any extra assistance. (I thought she was joking when she told me but she wasn’t—she mapped out 20 steps you’d need to master to go potty by yourself. Who knew?). Grateful that you go to Sunday school at a synagogue that automatically assumes you’ll be having a bat mitvah and that part of their job is to make sure you get there.

As hard as this road is sometimes, and as hard as I’ve had to advocate for you, I can’t imagine what it would be like if parents hadn’t started fighting this fight a half century earlier.

I’m thankful that you’re growing up in a time where your role models can be amazing women with role with Down Syndrome such as actresses Lauren Potter or Jamie Brewer or long distance swimmer Karen Gaffney. It’s no longer a question of if you’ll go to college, it’s where you’ll go. It’s no longer a question of if you’ll live to adulthood, but what you’ll do with your life when you get there.

That doesn’t mean there’s not a dark side. There are still cases like Ethan Saylor’s that highlight the social injustice people with disabilities still face. There are ignorant, inaccurate, possibly even fabricated “essays” such as the drivel Yahoo published a few weeks ago ( I worry about the fact that you have 20 times the risk of developing leukemia as a typical child, or the fact that you have a one in four chance of showing signs of Alzheimer’s in your 40s.

But part of learning how to be your mother has been my learning how to accept what I can and cannot change. I can’t increase your IQ by 50 points or assure you’ll live a long life and make sure you can live independently. I can just do everything in my power to make sure I’m giving you the tools to make sure you’re the best Jo Jo that you can be.

It’s 2015. The world is your oyster, my darling. Embrace it.




Posted by: halliesklar | September 21, 2014

Brotherly Love

Last weekend, the kids went to a fair. And came home with balloons, which is always a recipe for disaster.

I was making dinner when I heard squeals, a loud th-wack, and then hysterical screams coming from the playroom. I raced over to find Johanna on the ground, cradling her head, sobbing, an upturned chair next to her. Geoffrey was standing above her, legs wide apart like a crazed Viking, his balloon rising up from his arm (we’d tied it onto his wrist earlier, so it wouldn’t fly off) like a Raven banner.

“Jo Jo tried to take my baa-oon,” he said when he saw me, by way of explanation.

I knelt down and gathered my daughter into my arms.

“Did you hit Jo Jo?” I asked. She snuffled. She seemed okay; more scared than anything else.

He nodded.

“Did you throw this chair at her?”

He nodded again.

“Geoffrey,” I said sternly. “You DO not throw a chair at your sister. You DO not hit your sister. You could have seriously hurt her.”

“She took my baa-oon,” he said somberly.

“I don’t care,” I said. “When something like this happens, you tell mommy and let mommy deal with it. You don’t yell at Jo Jo and you don’t hit her and you certainly don’t throw chairs at her.”

His lower lip trembled. “I told her, ‘Jo Jo give it back,’” he said.

I grabbed his arms. “Listen to me,” I said. “You cannot hit your sister. You cannot hurt her.” I was beside myself and had no idea what to say. Teddy would never have done that to Jo Jo. Even before he took his first steps he was protective of her and here was Geoffrey, thumping his chest and throwing furniture at her in some form of preschool vigilante justice.

“Time out,” I said.

He went and sat on the steps obediently.

I walked over to him and took a good sniff. He’d loaded his pants again. At almost 3 ½, Geoffrey was still showing no desire to start potty training.

I knelt down. “You need to be kind to your sister,” I said. “The world can be an unkind place to her and it’s up to us to protect her. We don’t treat her with disrespect and anger. We treat her with love.” I paused. I hadn’t meant to say all that and I wondered if that was too intense to say to a 3 year old.

He just looked at me.

I sighed and went into the kitchen to order more diapers from

A couple minutes later I smelled something. I looked down. Geoffrey was standing silently in front of me, holding his balloon. Obviously he’d decided to take himself out of time out

“I want to give Jo Jo my ba-oon,” he said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head.

I started to sniffle a little. “Geoffie, that’s really lovely of you,” I said.

“I know,” he said modestly, and then, “take it off,” extending his wrist.

I slid it off and he proudly walked over to Jo Jo, extending the balloon like a peace offering.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“You’re my sister, Jo Jo,” he said. “I love you.” And then, “Mwah,” pressing his lips against her cheek in an open mouthed kiss.

They both stood there, beaming at each other. It would have been a beautiful moment if there hadn’t been that stench. I ran to get the diaper wipes.

I thought about it all during dinner and while I gave Jo Jo her bath. Geoffrey and Jo Jo have a wary relationship. Geoffrey plays more with her now than Teddy does, but they also fight more. A lot more. Somehow even when Teddy was younger he never got upset that Jo Jo took his toy and bonked him with a board game or refused to follow his orders during dress up. But Geoffrey plays hard and fights harder. The two of them can go from a peaceful playroom coexistence to an all out battle involving hair pulling, scratches and even a strategic bite or two, all within 30 seconds.

But on the other hand, there were a few times when Geoffrey had shown a protective streak. Last spring, my nanny, Ingrid came home from the park stunned. Another child had been bothering Jo Jo. It hadn’t seem to have sprung from cruelty—it was pretty clear the kid had his own sensory and/or developmental issues. He’d been following Jo Jo around, banging into her and otherwise invading her personal space, much to her annoyance. Then he’d pushed her, hard.

Ingrid didn’t even have time to react before Geoffrey flew onto the scene, landing on the boy—who was twice his age and twice his size–with a flying leap and pummeling him with his little fists.

It was pandemonium. Ingrid pulled him off. Geoffrey was wide eyed and shaking and screaming “no one messes with my sister!” until she finally calmed him down by plying him with cheddar bunnies and a juice box.

It was the talk of the playground—how this toddler in diapers had leapt to his sister’s defense.  But I wasn’t sure if it was protectiveness or just possessiveness: ie, no one else could mess with his own personal punching bag.

I hoped it was the former. I really did. But while I was helping Teddy with his bath I heard screaming coming from Jo Jo’s room. I ran in to see Geoffrey on her bed, trying to wrestle his balloon from his sister’s grasp. It seems it had only been on temporary loan and he’d decided it was time to get it back.

I jumped on the bed to intervene. There was a lot of shouting and hair pulling and dog barking as I pulled them apart and then suddenly a large POP! We all stared at the remains of the balloon as it floated down onto Jo Jo’s pink Laura Ashley duvet.

“My ba-oon!” Geoffrey wailed and then suddenly they were in each other’s arms, consoling each other.

Teddy raced in, dripping wet from his bath. “What happened?” he said worriedly.

“Geoffrey tried to take the balloon from her and they got into a fight and the balloon popped,” I told him.

He stared at them. Jo Jo was sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut and little round tears sliding down her cheeks. Geoffrey was hugging her, giving her those same open mouthed kisses. “Don’t cry Jo Jo,” he said, and then, “we can go back to the fair and get another ba—oon tomorrow.”

“It’s okay, Mommy,” Teddy told me. “Geoffie’s taking care of her.”

I looked at my oldest daughter and my youngest son. They had calmed down and were lying on the bed together. Geoffrey had one arm casually thrown around her shoulder, stroking her hair while the other hand clutched his blankie. Their heads were touching and they both seemed at peace. At least for the next 60 seconds.

“Yes,” I said. “He is.”

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Posted by: halliesklar | August 29, 2014

School Daze

Today was a big day. Jo Jo started first grade, and Teddy started kindergarten.

A new house, a new school, a new community.  It’s hard for me to wrap my head around, even though my kids seem totally unfazed by it. Eating breakfast and chattering about school as if they’ve done it forever.

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Walking to the bus stop was huge. There were tons of other elementary school aged kids lined up all up and down the road, standing with their parents patiently.

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When the school bus arrived, I watched as my little guy climbed in, his spider man backpack perched precariously on his shoulders.

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“Is he in kindergarten?” the bus driver asked and when I nodded he boomed, “all kindergarteners sit in the front!” Teddy looked at him like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes wide. I was ready to get all mama bearish and jump onto the bus to rescue him when one of my neighbors yelled at her 4th grade daughter, “help Teddy out.” I watched as my small son was led to his seat, then the yellow doors closed and the bus drove away with my baby inside.

We raced back to our house, put Jo Jo on her bus and then Geoffrey and I were off, driving away to North Stratfield. We’d been told that the first day of school was a BIG DEAL. All the parents show up to take pictures of their kids coming off the bus, held back by orange cones and school administrators while frantically snapping photos of their little darlings like crazed paparazzi.

We had to park a half mile away from the school. By the time we made it there, and through the crowd, Jo Jo, as befitting a cosseted celebrity, had already been whisked inside. It was unclear about Teddy. He’d left before Jo Jo, and as I watched the buses pull up and unload their small, shrieking cargo, I had a sinking feeling that I was too late.

But when the last bus pulled up and I saw the number eight, I realized I hadn’t missed the boat (er, bus).

“Teddy! Teddy!” I screamed like a groupie, jumping up and down.

And there he was, peering out the side of the bus door, an uncertain smile on his face. I couldn’t tell if it was a I’m-so-happy-to-be-here-smile or Oh-my-god-these-people-are-friggin-nuts-what-am-I-doing-here-grin.

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But when he saw me, his face broke out in a huge beam and I knew he was loving every minute of it.

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I watched as the principal and one of his kindergarten teachers leaned down to talk to him.

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He listened intensely before obediently following the other children through the crowd of teachers into the school.

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Then he was gone, leaving me bawling intensely behind my sunglasses.

“First day of kindergarten?” one of the other moms asked sympathetically.

“Yeah,” I croaked.

“He’ll do great,” she said reassuringly. “This school is awesome.”

It’s hard not to worry, though. We’d had a whole tour of the school yesterday. Both kids met their teachers and saw their classrooms, and we met all of Jo Jo’s therapists and her new aide. But while I knew Jo Jo would be getting the red carpet treatment and a lot of attention, I wasn’t sure about Teddy. Kindergarten’s a big place, and he might just get lost in the shuffle.

When the bus pulled up to our stop this afternoon, all the neighborhood kids piled out except for Teddy. This was sort of alarming. “Where’s my son?” I asked the bus driver, who motioned me on. “Teddy!” I hollered in my panicked voice before I saw him, sitting in his seat twisted around talking to the kids across the aisle from him in earnest conversation.

“The kindergarteners don’t always know when to get off,” the bus driver said helpfully.

I watched him for a moment and suddenly had a mental picture of him in ten years, a sophomore on the school bus so busy flirting he forgot to get off at his stop. Then he turned and spotted me. “Mommy!” he said, looking surprised. I wondered if I’d embarrassed him, showing up on the bus like this, but he grinned and raced towards me, grabbing my hand.

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“Where’s your backpack?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said sheepishly and ran back to get it.

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We walked across the street and back to our house, hand in hand. “How was your first day?” I asked him.

He looked at me solemnly. “It was good.”

“What did you do today?” I asked.

“I played outside, on the playground,” he said proudly. “And I ate mozzarella sticks, for lunch.” And then he was off, telling me in a rush about his day. He’d looked for Jo Jo on the playground, but he didn’t see her, so they must not go outside at the same time. He’d drawn a picture. He’d met a lot of kids, but he couldn’t remember all their names.

I’m guessing in about seven years, he’s going to want nothing to do with me when he gets off of the bus, when the sight of me jumping up and down like a crazed hyena snapping pictures will send him shrieking straight into therapy.

For now, he’s still my little boy with the spider man backpack and light up sneakers who insists on holding my hand, even in public.

Such is life.

Hello, kindergarten.

Dear Daddy,

Today would have been your 71st birthday.

A couple months ago, Jo Jo learned how to read. At first, I thought she was just memorizing, parroting words back. But one night I took out a Dr Seuss ABC alphabet book. You used to read it to her and Teddy, before you went blind. She hadn’t seen it in a couple years. We started the book, going through the letter sounds, and those first few words she got, “baby,” “bubbles”, and “bumblebee” I assumed were just dumb luck. But by the time we got to “horse” and “hay”, I realized she was actually sounding out each word, struggling through the syllables but reading nonetheless.

I started to cry. It brought back a memory of sitting in your family room when she was ten weeks old, holding her and sobbing because a geneticist I’d just brought her to had opined that her small head circumference boded poorly for her cognitive development. No, there was no research to back him up, but in his anecdotal experience the children with DS with such small heads never learned to read. Or write their names. Or even really to talk.

You sat across from me in the big striped ottoman and said quietly, “She will learn to read.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she is her mother’s daughter, and she has your determination,” you said.

You pegged my child right, even at barely three months old.

I wish you could have seen Jo Jo this year, Daddy. She learned to read, to finally write her name, to swim on her own in a pool without the safety of a turtle shell. I can picture you in the pool with her, beaming as she swims towards you, moving backwards slowly inch by inch until she finally paddles across the length of the pool on her own.


And the boys?

The boys are doing great. Teddy has inherited your love for numbers. He’s discovered how to add and subtract, first using his fingers and then realizing he can figure it out in his own head. He’s a little human calculator. I can picture the two of you, sitting on the old ratted sunroom green couch, earnestly discussing why it’s impossible to count to infinity.


Geoffrey has become enamored of puzzles. He will spend hours putting them together, his head tilted at just the right angle to amplify his vision. He loves building things. Legos. Train sets. Forts out of sofas. I look at him, tongue between his teeth in concentration, and I puddle up because it’s so clear that he’s 100% your grandson.


I took all three to Legoland a few months ago. Jo Jo was indifferent, the boys were enthralled. I cried when we walked into Miniland, a room filled with sparkling replicas of New York City icons. I could see you taking my two little boys by their hands and walking them over, patiently explaining the significance behind each landmark: the first time you saw the Statue of Liberty with your own grandfather, memories of going to baseball games at Shea Stadium, the fact that their great great grandparents had entered the country through Ellis Island. They would be excited, their voices rising over each other as they asked questions, and you would kneel down to their height and say solemnly “one at a time please” before hustling them over to the toy store to buy their own little Lego versions of the Empire State Building and White House. There would be more squealing and screaming followed by admonitions followed by ice cream and then we’d return home, where you’d spend hours helping them assemble their masterpieces.

And I’d watch and laugh, thinking, poor Daddy, after years of being forced to play Barbie Dolls with two girls he now has grandsons to build Legos with and take to baseball games and shoot basketballs with. He complains about his back hurting or how he’s too old to be down on the ground wrestling with two little boys but he’s really in pure heaven.
But of course, you’re not here. Teddy asks where you are and I try to explain that you’re in heaven, looking down, that you may not be physically here but that you see us and everything we do. He furrows his forehead and looks concerned. “He’s up in the sky?” he asks, and then, “how many miles away is Pop Pop?”

I say I don’t know.

He doesn’t like this. “500 miles? A thousand.”

“It’s further than that,” I say vaguely.

He frowns. My son wants specifics. A million miles? A trillion?

“Maybe it’s infinity,” he says.

“Yes my love,” I say. “It is.”

He looks pensive. “But where is Pop Pop in the Universe,” he wants to know. “Is he closer to Mars, or closer to Uranus?”

At times like this I want you around more than anything. I know you would cuddle with my small son on the couch and explain the metaphysics of the afterlife so much better than I ever could. You would discuss the planets and how they turn and the concept of the Milky Way and all the different galaxies. The two of you would sit side by side talking earnestly—carbon copies of one another—and I would see by the slight smile at the edges of your mouth that you are relishing the way your first grandson’s mind works. It is, after all, an analytical mind much like your own.

I miss you so, so much, Daddy.

Happy birthday, wherever you are.

Cape Vacation June 2010 100


Posted by: halliesklar | February 27, 2014

Today, I am grateful

Jo Jo turned six today.

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Her birthday always evokes a maelstrom of emotions for me, most bittersweet. It is hard for me to acknowledge that her birth was both the most wonderful and the most wrenching day of my life.

But today, when I walked into her bedroom and saw her lying on her bed, sunlight in her hair, watching her languidly stretch, I had to wonder what I was so afraid of six years ago. She blows me away with her loveliness.


In no short order, all of the things I am grateful for.

I am grateful that she is learning to read. She knows all her upper case and lower case letters now, and all her letter sounds. She is beginning to recognize sight words. We fully expect her to be reading by the end of the year.

I am grateful that she is so beloved at school. I was apprehensive when she entered kindergarten. I didn’t know how the other kids would react. But when I see her walking down the hall, holding hands with two other little girls, when I hear about how her other classmates cheer when she stands up and answers a question, when I get emails from other moms saying their daughter is dying for a play date, I realize that inclusion really works. And it is a beautiful thing.

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I am grateful for swimming. She walks unsteadily still on land, but in water she is a little nymph, moving gracefully through the pool and I can only imagine how weightless and airy she feels.

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I am grateful for her team at school, who have pushed and encouraged her much farther than I even would. I am grateful for the school psychologist, who, after having done cognitive testing, said, “Don’t pay attention to the number. Jo Jo has so much more potential than that.”

I am grateful for her little brothers, who make a point of unwrapping her presents for her when she struggles with the wrapping and then tenderly hand her each gift like they are the Crown Jewels.

I am grateful for the Nutcracker, and Barbies, and Mommy-and-Daughter lunches at tea houses.

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Most of all, I am grateful for all the love constantly being bestowed on her. Today when I walked into school with her birthday cupcakes, she was hugging a baby doll, a gift from one of the school administrators. When I walked into her office to thank her, she said simply, “Thank you. We are just so lucky to have her here.”

She is beloved, she is adored, and most importantly, she is thriving.

Happy birthday, my darling.

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Posted by: halliesklar | February 5, 2014

Death By Chocolate


In an apparent suicide attempt, Ivry overdosed on a 3.5 pound bag of chocolate chips from Costco this past Sunday morning.

Now before you all freak out, I just want to reassure you—she’s totally fine.

But still, when the family dog attempts to (literally) bite the big one—well, it’s an enormous wake up call. Clearly, our canine is experiencing some issues.

Is she going through a midlife crisis? Is she freaking out about her new silvery gray muzzle? Have those snide comments about her girth taken a toll on her self-esteem? Does she sit on the faded, ripped green leather couch in the sun room scratching at her ears thinking, “my grandmother was an award winning agility dog, while I’m just a fat suburban house pet?”

(Ivry and I are roughly the same age—she’s seven, or, in dog years around 42—so excuse me for projecting a bit.)

The facts are as follows:

I brought the boys home after dropping Jo Jo off at Sunday school. As soon as I walked into the house, I knew something was up. Ivry was prancing around on all fours snorting and pawing like a crazed bull in heat, which, given her age seemed unlikely, but I figured maybe she was having a hot flash.

She was so hyper we brought her outside, where she began racing up and down the lawn like she was on speed. The boys tried to engage with her, but Ivry refused to play ball, literally. She scampered around, banging into trees like a drunken sailor.

And then she started puking. Copious amounts of diarrhea-colored puke all over our recently seeded front lawn.

The boys went crazy. “Ivry’s pooping! Ivry’s pooping out of her mouth!” they chortled as I raced inside the house so I could call the vet.

When I stepped into the family room, I saw a sight that froze my heart:a formerly gigantic 56 ounce plastic bag of chocolate chips, sitting on the floor, ripped into shreds. A couple small gobs of brown were left on the carpet, but it was pretty clear—the dog had devoured everything.

“Oh my god,” I said, staring at the mess. Then I realized the pantry door was open. Ivry had managed to paw her way in and had treated herself to a morning of binge eating. Two half eaten loafs of bread lay on the floor as evidence.

“Ivry, what were you thinking?” I asked my agitated dog, who was pacing the floor, clearly in the midst of chocolate induced hallucinations.

She looked at me wild eyed and vomited on the carpet.

I started to panic. I had to be back at Sunday school to pick Jo Jo up and then I had to give a presentation about Down Syndrome to a group of bar mitzvah candidates. Chocolate’s extremely toxic to dogs. Ivry had devoured half of a chocolate cake almost three years earlier and emerged unscathed, ( but this was clearly more dire. I imagined returning with my brood later that afternoon, only to be greeted by the sight of Ivry lying on her back on the floor, paws frozen in rigor mortis. The kids have had to go through a lot this year. I didn’t want to add the death of the family dog on top of it.

So I did what any desperate suburban housewife does in this situation—I called my soon to be ex husband and begged him to take her to the vet.

He did.

He called back an hour later. Ivry would need to be hospitalized for her attempted overdose, with treatment involving emergency IV fluids, charcoal administration, and stomach pumping, all for a grand tune of between $1200-$1800.

“Are you sure?” I kept asking the vet. “It seemed to me that she puked most of it back up.”

“I have never, ever seen a dog consume so much chocolate before,” she said flatly. “Never. It’s remarkable that she’s still standing.”

I sighed and gave her my credit card over the phone.

That whole afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about my dog. Was Ivry perhaps so depressed about all our recent household changes that she’d eaten an entire bag of chocolate (and almost two bags of bread) in an attempt to self medicate? Was this a call for help? Or had she secretly plotted a suicide attempt in an effort to reunite her humans in a smelly vet hospital waiting room, aka Parent Trap?

“I don’t think so,” my sister said when I called her after the kids were in bed. “She’s just a dog. She smelled chocolate and couldn’t control herself.”

Still, I spent the rest of the night eating my way through a tin of my kids’ leftover brownies and bawling over old puppy pictures of Ivry on the internet. Memories flooded back. Her third night at home, when she escaped Houdini like from her crate only to appear covered in poop on our bed. Those sub zero January nights lugging a 16 week old puppy down the elevator of our NYC apartment so she could make wee wee. That evening when she was bored and decided to eat part of our living room wall. The fateful night before we moved to suburbia when Ivry came down with a mysterious raging fever and had to be hospitalized for thousands of dollars at Animal Medical Center.

I called at 9 pm to check in on her.

“She’s fine,” the nurse said brightly. “She’s just lying here, looking at me.”

I wondered if all her fat had acted as a buffer to absorb the chocolate.

“Can I Skype with her?” I asked.

The nurse was silent for a moment. “Why we’ve never had that request before,” she said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have Skype here, so no, I guess you can’t.”

“I miss her,” I said, tearing up. “Can you at least put the phone to her ear so she can hear my voice?”

“Our phones don’t reach that far,” she said warily.

The next morning, the newspapers were filled with news of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s drug overdose. But thankfully, unlike certain aging celebrities, my dog survived. I picked her up the next morning. She was definitely subdued. I couldn’t tell if her mood was pure melancholia or simply exhaustion from having spent the whole night being force fed charcoal. She seemed slimmer, probably due to the fact that she’d essentially undergone a canine colonic for the last 12 hours.

We passed the newly opened Dinosaur Barbeque on our way home. I debated stopping. Maybe Ivry wanted a side of ribs after her ordeal? Then I nixed the idea. It seemed the equivalent to bringing an alcoholic to a bar immediately after they’d been discharged from the Betty Ford center.

Ivry’s been home now for almost 48 hours. That first night, she was on doggie lockdown. She was only allowed to eat chicken and rice and I watched her like a hawk (although at one point I caved in and shared a chocolate chip cookie with her. I ate the chocolate chips, she ate the white parts.) The kids have been instructed to keep pantry doors closed and to no longer feed her from the table. The point is, whether the overdose was accidental or deliberate, the dog’s well on her way to becoming morbidly obese. This binge-until-you-burst mentality has got to stop.

Still, I can sympathize. As another middle aged woman going through some major life changes, I’m well aware of the urge to overeat when you’re feeling down in the dumps and stressed. I’m on my way to Salt Lake City for a work related trip now, but when I return Ivry and I are going on a cleanse. Plenty of fresh healthy food and long runs to keep our spirits up so we don’t self-medicate with tins of brownies or fresh baked cookies or bags of chocolate chips.

And if that doesn’t work, I’m sure there’s a canine 12 step program somewhere. Or doggie rehab.

Posted by: halliesklar | October 30, 2013

A different voice

photo (6)In honor of Down Syndrome Awareness month, I have a guest post up at my friend Ellen’s fabulous blog, Love That Max, about my fabulous little guy, Teddy. You can read it here

Posted by: halliesklar | September 6, 2013

Grief, A Year Later

My father died a year ago today, the second day of Rosh Hashanah.

I dreamt about him earlier this morning. I was walking with Jo Jo in a parking lot towards our car, and as we approached I realized he was sitting in the left rear back seat, right behind the driver’s seat. It’s usually where Teddy sits, but instead of my four year old son bouncing up and down in his car seat there was my father, wearing his red checked short sleeved shirt and the trademark pen and paper in his front pocket.

Somehow the window was down and I reached through and grabbed his hand. He felt firm, his fingers so strong. I could see the freckles on his arms and the slivers of gray in his hair.

I know we talked for a few minutes, although I can’t remember what we said. He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. I could feel his warm breath and feel the cold metal of his glasses against my face.

And then I woke up and he was gone.

Teddy was lying next to me, his mouth slightly ajar, faintly snoring. He opened his eyes and we stared at each other for a second.  “Meow!” he said solemnly.

Then, “is it morning yet?”

I fumbled around for my glasses and phone. 6:03 AM. “Teddy, it’s not morning time yet,” I said, and then stopped. A year ago I’d woken up around the same time to hear my four year old niece crying, and then a minute later we’d gotten a call. We knew who it was, of course, before my mother even picked up the phone. My sister, telling us my father had just passed away. At 6:03 AM.

“It’s morning, little one,” I said, and Teddy snuggled up against me and we lay back down. He’s been coming into my bed now. I’m not sure if he’s wandering in in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning—when I wake up, he’s there.

It’s been a long, hard year. I grieved my father but I also grieved so much more—the loss of my marriage, the loss of our home life as I’d known it. And I wanted my father around so much, for his quiet reassurances, for his stoicism as I tried to navigate myself down a path I wasn’t quite sure was right.

But although he’s not around physically now, I feel his presence more than ever. And as everything is basically imploding around me, I feel stronger, more confident, more sure of myself and the path I’m going down than ever before.

I know my father is with me. I know he supports the turns our lives have taken. As often as I wax on about how I see my father in my children, particularly Teddy, the truth is I see him in me too. I’m my father’s daughter, after all. I have his stubbornness, his perseverance, and, I’m finally beginning to realize, his moral coding.

It’s been three hours since that dream, but no matter how hard I try, I still can’t remember what he said to me. I can close my eyes and remember how he looked—his grin, the faint bristles on his cheeks and chin, the strength of his grip on mine—but I can’t bring back those words. It’s more a sensation, really, a feeling that he was there, and that I was safe.

And of course he’s not here anymore, but I can take the essence of what was there and apply it to my own life. He was always the safe parent. The one who navigated us through life’s never ending obstacles. The parent who stayed with me all night, even night, when I was eight years old and in the hospital for a week with croup, dozing on a hard backed chair as I lay in an oxygen tent because he knew I would sleep more soundly if he was there. The parent who fished my Harvard application out of the trash and told me if I really wanted to go there, I should apply, because he knew I was capable of achieving anything I set my mind out to do. The parent who looked at me steadily when I cried over my infant daughter and said, “She will be capable of many things, including a tremendous amount of love, which is all that matters.”

He’s gone, but the moral fiber of him remains. It’s in me. It’s in my children. It’s in my mother and my sister and my sister’s children.

I am so blessed to have had this man in my life, to have had the gift of him as my father for 39 years.

I know he’s with me still, giving me courage for the months to come, giving me the tools so that I can be the safe parent I need to be for my kids.

Thank you, Daddy, for everything.


Posted by: halliesklar | August 28, 2013


Yesterday was Jo Jo’s first day of kindergarten.

I wasn’t sure how much she grasped, honestly. We’d been talking about it at home, and last weekend I made a big deal out of showing her her new book bag and her new lunch box and her new school supplies. She’d gone to camp over the summer, but she’d had one of her preschool aides, Ms. Rosie, with her. This was all so, so new to her. And I was excited, but still worried.

She was very quiet at breakfast. I watched her, fiddling with her pancakes, her hair neatly plaited into two French braids.


She looked apprehensive as we all piled into the minivan to take her to school, and once we got into the parking lot she promptly starting bawling.


“It’s okay baby” I kept saying over and over, rubbing my face in her hair. And as I did so I remembered my own first day of kindergarten.

It was a typical New England September day, warm but with just a faint hint of crispness in the air. Usually my mom took me to school, but given the enormity of the occasion my father insisted on taking me himself. I wore a red jumper embossed with three yellow flowers over a white blouse, black Mary Jane’s on my feet, grasping my father’s hand. I remember looking up at him, in his brown hounds tooth suit, trying to keep up with his gargantuan stride. His fingers curled around mine, I felt so safe. Like I could conquer anything, even kindergarten.

As we approached the building, we ran into another little girl and her father. She had two long brown pigtails and freckles on her nose and as our fathers talked to one another, we glanced at each other and giggled. She was wearing a white ruffled dress with red polka dots and I remember looking at that dress with envy. I remember thinking that this little girl was someone special, and that I wanted more than anything to be her friend.

We got to the classroom. My father kneeled down and looked at me solemnly. “You’re my big girl. No tears today, right?” he said. (I’d sobbed my way through two years of preschool.) Normally I would have grabbed onto his collar and held on for dear life, shrieking that I didn’t want him to leave. But today was different. Today, there was the girl in the white ruffled dress, who held all sorts of promises.

I nodded. “Sure,” I said, and then the girl in the white ruffled dress and I looked at each other and began giggling.

Her name was Melanie, and she was my best friend for the next three years. We drowned our Sea Wees mermaid dolls in bubble baths and held tea parties with my Sindy dolls and occasionally shoved our Strawberry Shortcake dolls in the fridge (always a big surprise for my dad when he opened it up for his orange juice at 6 am).  When I was 8, we moved to Michigan, and we lost touch, but we reconnected in middle school and during college and even in our late 20s, when we both were living in New York.

I so want that for Jo Jo. If you were to ask me my one goal for her this year, I’d say, even before all those IEP goals like her being able to recognize and write the alphabet or know her letter sounds or count to 20, I’d say it was for her to find her first best friend.


She’s never really had that. Other little girls adore her—at camp this summer, she was basically the Katy Perry of Sara’s Superheroes crew and they all jockeyed to sit next to her at lunch or hold her hand during music class. But it’s not the same. She’s like a pet, a mascot, and while I’m so, so grateful that they embrace her, I want her to have a true friend. Another little girl to giggle with at sleepovers in her purple Princess bedroom or to play camp with in her pink Princess tent or dress up with the Barbies that are still in their containers in her bedroom closet because I don’t think she’s yet developmentally ready to play with them.

Her first day of kindergarten was glorious. I couldn’t have asked for anymore more: she’s in a mainstream classroom with her own aide, a loving teacher, and excellent therapists. She’s fully included, which is amazing—that didn’t really happen in Massachusetts in 1978, when I started school.


And I tell myself that somewhere, sitting among the 22 other kids in the class, is my daughter’s very own Melanie, someone to hold hands and giggle with as they stand in line for music class.  If she’s not there, maybe she’s in the classroom over and they’ll bump into each other on the swings during recess. Or they’ll find each other when they’re both pulled out for small group reading instruction.

I have to tell myself this. Just as I have to tell myself that Jo Jo will learn to read and write and ride a bike and do all the things that sometimes seem so daunting and overwhelming.

But it’s the thing I wish most for for my daughter. A friend.


Posted by: halliesklar | July 23, 2013

A Letter to My Teddy Bear On His 4th Birthday

To my darling Teddy,

Today is a big day! Today you are four!


Teddy and his best friend Joshie–who has the exact same birthday!


Teddy with his main squeeze, Sarah.

Boy, do I remember that morning when you were born! I was in labor for what felt like an eternity. In fact, I’d been pregnant for what seemed like forever. I was so sure you’d come early, like your sister (especially since the 32 week ultrasound showed you were already six pounds!) but you waited until the day before your due date to make your appearance. I just kept getting bigger and bigger and the summer kept getting hotter and hotter, until finally you decided maybe Mommy’s tummy was getting a little too cramped for you.

Then when you finally arrived—all 21 ½ inches, almost ten pounds of you—I’ll never forget the doctor picking you up and exclaiming, “He’s a moose! An absolute moose!”

Your birth was a little bittersweet. Your big sister’s birth had been so traumatic, given the fact that we found out that she had Down Syndrome and she was taken away from me immediately for surgery. But your birth was exactly the birth I had always imagined: being pushed in a wheelchair up to the maternity ward with a sleepy, content, greedily nursing baby in my arms. Instead of racing around the NICU, I got to snuggle in bed with you and eat sushi and watch really bad reality TV.

That being said, you weren’t the easiest little guy in the world. You’ve always had a mind of your own! Your second night, the nurses kicked you out of the nursery because you were bellowing like a large drunken frat boy and disturbing all the other babies. The only way I could get you to sleep was if you were latched onto my right boob. You stayed that way for about four months.

I remember marveling at all the things you could do so effortlessly. The way you flipped yourself over at five days old because you were so outraged that Mommy had dared to place you on your tummy. The way you looked up at me on the changing table at six weeks and gave me a huge, toothless, heart melting grin. The way you were a champion eater and could devour everything in sight, even with no teeth.

I think if I had had you first, I would have spent a lot of time obsessing over things like Ferberizing you and the color of your poop. But given everything I’d had to go through with Jo Jo, I didn’t have the energy to sweat the small stuff. Everything about you seemed miraculous and not to be taken for granted.


Teddy and his other charming young lady friend, Ana.

From an early age, you seemed to have such an intense bond with Jo Jo. When you took your first steps at 14 months, you tottered over to her. When you were 17 months, Jo Jo fell into the snow and you were so worried you raced over to her to help her get up. Even yesterday, at your birthday party, the one day it should have been all about you, you were concerned about your sister: when she got too hot and needed to go inside, you insisted on missing visiting the rest of the animals to stay right near her.


A tender moment….


…and then she whacked him!

I used to worry that you were too protective of her, that you were shouldering too much responsibility at an age where you shouldn’t be having angst about anything other than Legos. But gradually I’ve realized that it’s okay, that it’s just part of who you are. You’re like a little man in a preschooler’s body, with your insistence on wearing ties and belts and taking a few minutes to hang back and survey new situations, rather than just jumping into the fray like the rest of your friends.

And you’re so much like your Pop Pop. I don’t like saying that too much, because I don’t want to make you into something you’re not, but everything about you: the way you stick your tongue out in concentration, the way you calmly and methodically attack a project until it’s done, the way you’re so solicitious of others and how they feel. When I went to your spring preschool conference your Morahs mentioned that a few days earlier, they’d been blown away by how well you sewed. They showed me a picture of you, forehead furrowed, mouth set in concentration, and I cried because you looked exactly how my father did and your small fingers seemed miniature replicas of his skilled surgeon hands.



Although it is almost eerie how he is my father’s spitting image, from the cleft of his chin to the ties he always insists on wearing.

Over the last few months, you’ve really come into your own. I watch you as you insist on picking out your own clothes and getting dressed and making your bed and cutting your grilled cheese with your own knife and riding your brand new bike with training wheels and marvel at how grown up you’ve become. You’re no longer a baby voiced chipmunk cheeked preschooler. Your face has thinned out and your gait is more forceful and you drop my hand as soon as we arrive at camp and walk away without so much as a backwards look.


It saddens me in some ways, that you’re growing up so fast, but then you come home in the afternoons and insist on crawling on my lap for a cuddle and I smell the sunscreen on your skin and the little boy sweat in your hair and I know you’re still my baby for a little while longer.

Happy birthday, Teddy Bear. I love you very, very much.


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