FREE SPEECH ZONE | Rogues Gallery

When Sarah Palin announced her Going Rogue book tour was swinging through the Mall of America on Dec. 7, I wondered if her son Trig, who was born with Down syndrome, would be joining her. I, too, have a child born with that same extra chromosome. His name is Ryan and he is 23, the fourth of my five children. I suddenly envied Palin, who left her governship of Alaska for a book tour and speaking engagements.

I was 33 when Ryan was conceived, so I wasn't in the "better have her checked out" age. Nothing in mine or my husband Russ' background indicated any concerns, and no amniocentesis or ultra sounds were ordered. After Ryan's birth at Fairview Ridges hospital, I was in denial until a pediatrician confirmed the diagnosis. My mother demanded to know why prenatal tests hadn't been done.

When expecting our fifth child, Russ and I requested every test possible. Unlike the Palins, we were prepared to terminate if a DNA disorder was discovered, and I didn't feel connected to that pregnancy until we were told everything was fine.

While Palin enjoys celebrity status and her million-dollar book deal, Ryan's frequent emergencies and hardships prevented my holding a full-time job for two decades.  Like the time Ryan was stripping in the men's bathroom while at his sister's dance competition with dads running out screaming "who is his parent?" Admitting I was his mom, I tried to find a kind male to help me coax him out. Other times I went in and retrieved him myself.

When Ryan turned 16, he decided he should drive, too, like his siblings. He found my hidden Tracer station wagon keys, started the ignition, and drove full blast in reverse. My car, with Ryan in the driver's seat, ended up backward in our neighbor's house across the street. Inside her bedroom.

Ryan's siblings were often embarrassed. He popped the heads off his younger sister's Barbie dolls, so I bought him his own action-figures which he still plays with. His siblings' friends stepped over him in the middle of our living room floor, glancing at Ryan involved in a mock SmackDown wrestling match between The Rock and Big Show. While he may get on their nerves, Ryan's siblings defended him from bullies, chased after him down our block, and held his hand in hospitals while he battled pneumonia, intestinal ailments, and a non-functioning thyroid.      

Our neighbors became used to Ryan. They called me when he was walking in his underwear, looking at tree damage after storms. They phoned when he was in their yard turning on their garden hoses. Ryan even managed to put garden hoses through our neighbor's window wells.  

I became a volunteer president of the Minnesota Down Syndrome Association. Our support groups were a brief respite where parents talk about life with special needs kids and the latest government service cuts. County social workers told me Ryan was a state client while the state told me he was a federal client. Then the federal agency told me he was a county client. Social workers stop by every November to make sure Ryan is "still disabled." (Had he grown-out of Down syndrome this past year?).  

I have attended heartbreaking Minnesota public school conferences on why Ryan didn't "fit in," and ended up suing Ryan's school district for "failure to educate." After we won, I painted lipstick on my lips and walked past teachers who had said to me "he doesn't belong here." Ryan gave the commencement speech at the high school we sued to get him into and as he spoke, my mascara smeared through my tears.

Although I had big career ambitions myself, I worked part-time in guest services at the Mall of America for ten years so I could stay with Ryan and help him cope. I finally left that job and returned to Normandale Community College. At the same time, Ryan enrolled in a Chef's Assistant program at Hennepin Technical College.  He was very excited to tell people "both mom and me are in college."

After my last child, Kelley, started the University of Minnesota, I accepted a fellowship to attend The New School University and finish my media studies degree in New York City. I was finally living my fantasy life in a dorm in Greenwich Village that I shared with two college-age roommates.

It was the first time Ryan and I lived apart and our separation was hard for him. His case manager at Lifeworks, the rehabilitation program he attends five days a week, emailed to say he had regressed since I went away. "He hid in the bathroom again and refused to answer the door," she wrote.    

Ryan and I talked daily on our web-cams. I reassured him I wouldn't be eaten by subway rats or need his Triple H wrestling action figure to protect me. This summer, I made the difficult decision to return home to Minnesota where I enrolled in full-time online classes and I am completing my last semester.

Like Sarah Palin, I am the mother of five, one with special needs. Unlike her, I don't have superstar notoriety or a million dollar book deal.

Barb Teed

Barb Teed (barbteed@tcdailyplanet.net) has a Bachelor's degree in Media Studies from New School University, NYC and is enrolled in a graduate program at Hamline University in St. Paul.