My daughter is three and half years old and a tiny tornado of love, laughter, and light. She can count to 10, and she knows her ABC’s by sight. Some people are surprised that she knows her colors, but I’m not. She knew those first. Her absolute favorite things in life are Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, her dad’s iPad, and Pharrell’s hit single “Happy.” She can dance like nobody’s business.
Her name is Dorothy, and she has Down syndrome.
I try to tell people how cool she is, but if I mention the words “Down syndrome,” I get a lot of looks that imply sadness or even pity. I can’t understand these reactions anymore. Dorothy really is cool. Her therapists tell me she is especially fun. Her school teacher loves her to death, and I can’t blame her.
Every time we walk into a doctor’s waiting room, she runs up to the nearest seated …