This post is for our new churches in Kentucky. We can't wait to become a part of your family!

Every year at Christmastime I repost this story.  This adventure of Life With Charley began in 1990 when Charley was our Christmas present to ourselves.

I wrote my book "Life with Charley: a memoir of Down syndrome adoption" when Charley was 21. He is 28 now. The book is out of print right now, but I'm working on editing to reprint.

Until then, this is the first chapter...it’ll have to do ya...Thanks for reading! Blessings from us Palmers, warts and all. And remember, we are flawed, but God is not.





A Christmas Stocking for Charley

It was the best thing we ever did.It was the day the two of us became three. The day a blond-haired,ocean-blue-eyed, angel-faced, baby boy with Down syndrome wiggled his way into our hearts. That’s the day he becamethe rest of our lives.
We had been married for six years, during which headlinesincluded such historical events as the Space Shuttle Challengerdisaster, the release of Nelson Mandela after twenty-seven yearsin captivity, and the invasion of Kuwait by Iraqi troops, setting offthe Persian Gulf War.1Life Goes On was on primetime television,starring Chris Burke as Charles Thatcher, a teenager with Downsyndrome. And somewhere in Texas was a Desert Storm babyin a foster home. He was soon to be ours. We would name him“Charles” in honor of “Corky,” Chris Burke’s character.We couldn’t wait to call our folks. We’ve all been there. Youpump yourself up and blurt out the words, but the party on theother end of the phone isn’t sure they’ve heard you right.“Mom, Dad, we’re adopting a baby. Oh, and by the way, he’sgot Down syndrome.”
Silence.“Mom? You there? Say something.”Was it my imagination, or did Mom hang up on me? Well,maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration. She did, however, handthe phone to Dad.
Ring after ring, Mom’s friends called to deliver the bad news.“These kinds of babies require work,” they said, as though we’dbought the defective model and could still take him back tothe store.“All babies require work,” we said.“You sure about this?”“Yes, we’re sure.” I couldn’t help but chuckle while adding,“Tell Mom I said hi.” Some of these do-gooders chuckled too.“Team Mom” continued to call. Surely we would come to oursenses. Or not.Ring.“Do you have any idea what you are getting into?”And each time we answered, “No. No, no, for the last time,no.” For that matter, does anyone ever know? Does any child comewith an instruction manual? And if so, what would it say? Proceedwith caution? Open at your own risk?What did we know of Down syndrome? Not much.What did we get? More than we ever hoped for.Ring.“There are institutions for children with these types of disabilities,”one caller said.Somewhere between amusement and irritation, Brad and Igrinned at each other. “Thanks, but we’re keeping him.”
We lived in New Orleans. It’s a fun place to visit with the FrenchQuarter restaurants, its Muffulettas, its powdery sugar beignetpillows that melt into your taste buds, and its crawfish raging with fiery spices so lethal that your angry lips throb until dousedwith ice cubes. For the homegrown folk, it’s standard. But forthe occasional visitor not equipped with a cast iron stomach? It’sgood-bye happy tummy, hello Tums.
What is it they say about never, ever, say never? New Orleanswas my never-land. I never wanted to live there, so far away frommy folks. But then, I’m not the boss. I don’t get to say where welive, or for how long. I am, after all, married to a pastor, whichI said I’d never do either. Me? Marry some stuffed shirt of apreacher? Fat chance. No way, no how, no thanks.But I did. I married a cloth-man. Dad was just fine with that.He said, “Okay by me, won’t it be great to have someone in thefamily who can marry and bury us?”
We moved twice before we were destined for the great cityfamous for its Creole cuisine, its Mardi Gras parades, its BourbonStreet, and its drive-through daiquiris. How was I to know thevery place I said I’d never live would become my reason to live?My purpose? My call? How was I to know that this city they callThe Big Easy would manifest itself in a world of big blessings; aworld in the form of motherhood?
It is a twelve-hour drive from the Pelican State to the BluegrassCommonwealth of Kentucky, where our folks live. The onepromise Brad made when we married in 1985 was that if I wouldfollow him wherever his pastorate called, he would take mehome for Christmas. And he did every year. Whether it involveda twenty-hour drive from Oklahoma or the twelve-hour drivefrom Louisiana, we would be there for Christmas dinner with thefamily. This year would be no different. We would make it home,only we wouldn’t be driving. This year we would fly. And this timethere would be three of us. Not two.
I grew up in Louisville, home of what is known as the mostfamous two minutes in sports, in the same house where lovedones still gather for holidays, known to us as “8612.” It may looklarge from the outside, but the two-story red brick Dutch colonialis dwarfed by the combination of my mother’s Baldwin babygrand piano, my grandmother’s antique couch, and the monstrosityof a computer desk that shrinks the den—making it claustrophobicat best. But that doesn’t stop us from rubbing shouldersat the dinner table, squeezing into the matchbox quarters as Bradbows his head to give the blessing, and then swapping stories andlaughing until our cheeks hurt.
One of the highlights is gathering around the room and handingout the Christmas stockings, each of which has been handknitby Mom, complete with a fuzzy angora Santa beard and thename knit into the Kelly green, white, and rich red heirloom. It’sa unique gift, which she makes to welcome newcomers to thefamily, such as spouses and grandchildren. In our house, a newstocking is an initiation into the family. It says, “You are now oneof us.”It was only natural that I would long to see a stocking forCharley. He’d come into our lives just eleven days earlier at thetender age of two months.
I was thirty-six then. I’d struggled for years with endometriosis,eventually undergoing ovarian cyst surgery, which left mewith half an ovary. The doctor said I could still have children, butI wasn’t so sure. Uncontrollable bleeding was becoming a way oflife, so much so that the subject of children took a back seat to mymonthly visits to the emergency room. Not that we didn’t want afamily, but we weren’t in any rush. If it was supposed to happen,it would.The kind of job I had didn’t help either. I was working as aconsultant for a nursing home company, traveling to several different states and spending at least three nights each week awayfrom home when one day, out of nowhere, Brad said, “You needa baby.”“Is that so?” I said.“Just think about it, okay?”
Surely he was joking. Or was he? The anticipation in his eyespleaded otherwise. My God, I thought, he’s serious.To make matters worse, I was a minister’s wife. And thatmeant certain things. Babies. Toddlers. Casseroles. Sundayschool. Diapers. At least, I thought those were the expectations.By then we’d served three churches as a clergy couple. Onein Oklahoma, and two in Louisiana. First stop—Oklahoma, anda small white church three hours from Oklahoma City in themiddle of what I called “wilderness central,” twenty hours awayfrom loved ones. My first church as a pastor’s wife, and what didI know of that? Nothing. How could I? I’d tried on religions likemy sister tries on shoes.
As an infant, I was presented for baptism in the CatholicChurch, but grew up Episcopalian. Later, I returned to theCatholic Church while in college at Eastern Kentucky Universityso I could play my guitar during mass and withdrew when thepriest hurt my feelings one Ash Wednesday by denying me communion at the altar. The next day I walked into the Baptist StudentUnion, where I turned my life over to Jesus and was baptized forthe second time in my life, only this time it was a conscious decision.Over the next two years, I drove my family crazy trying toevangelize them every chance I got as if they didn’t already have achurch of their own. “Are you born again yet, sister?” I’d say. “Godwants you to give your life to Him, little brother!” I still believeit. God does want us.
I don’t remember how it came about, but during my sophomoreyear, I found myself spending time with a crowd that spokein tongues. I never did, though. Not that I dispute things like thatcan happen, but it wasn’t for me.On Thursday nights, I stood outside the local bar with mynewfound holy friends shaking my Bible at people passing by.“Jesus is the way!”“He’s your one-way ticket to heaven!” I still believe that too.
By the time I met Brad, I attended a small Christian churchin Lyndon, Kentucky. It was an active church with a young adultsingles group and I sang in the choir. Once again, I was baptized.Secretly, though, I was beginning to wonder how many times Ineeded to be dunked to prove my faith.Then Brad walked into my life. I was drawn to him instantly.With his quick wit and a booming laugh that drives my mothercrazy, Brad was anything but a stuffed shirt and unlike any ministerI’d known. And yet, he was everything a minister should be.As our pastor friend J. Pat Kennedy says, “Brad has a minister’sheart.” There’s little you could tell him that would shock him, andthere’s nothing you could tell him that would make him judgeyou. He is a God-man—but doesn’t beat you over the head withit. When I attend church I want to be challenged by the message,but I also want to hear that God loves me. I don’t want tobe yelled at from the pulpit. Or scolded. Or threatened. I knew inmy gut that Brad was the guy for me the first time I heard himpreach. Whether or not I was clergy spouse material remained tobe seen.
Maybe it was my imagination but didn’t all ministers’ wiveswear polyester jumpers and have a baby propped on one hip?At least, that was my perception. Well, not me, buster. “I don’thave time for a baby,” I said. My time was spoken for. I wasMrs. Church, Mrs. Potluck Casserole, Mrs. Preacher’s Wife,Mrs. Nursing Home Do-gooder, Mrs. Working Woman, Mrs.Busy-Busy-Much-Too-Busy.
“I don’t do kids,” I told him. There’s a word for people like me:coward. Thing is, kids scare me. Had I neglected to mention thatwhen the church moms asked me to teach Sunday school, and Isaid, “No, it isn’t my thing,” that it wasn’t my thing? I knew nothing about kids. And for good reason.
My babysitting days ended with a pot of boiling milk. I wassixteen, standing at the stove making hot chocolate for the threekids I was supposed to be watching, stirring the milk as it came toa rapid boil. And who was watching them? Don’t ask me, becausewhen I lifted the pan to pour the milk into a cup, one of the kidsran under my arm. There went the boiling milk, all over littlePammy’s head. From then on, I begged Mom and Dad for a loanwhen I had to, but never set foot in babysitting territory again.
I should have told the church moms that, but didn’t know how.What would I say? If you allow me to supervise your kids, we’ll see who can make it to the emergency room first? So, no. I had no intention of doing wee worship, or whatever they called it. To teachSunday school would be perfect-pastor’s-wife suicide, so I saidno. No. No. No, thank you, no. But church people have a way ofwearing you down, and I should have stuck with the word “no”instead of allowing them to beg until I caved and said, “I’d love to.”
The poor mothers. How were they to know I was telling a bigfat lie? I’ve never figured out how to contain a room full of squirming toddlers when one is threatening to eat glue, another is calling me “fatso,” and another is having diarrhea, all at the same time.
I did my time, though. For six months, I did the cliché. grinand-bear-it. No, I take that back. I grinned, and the tiny totsbared it (well, every time one of them escaped and ran aroundthe church without their Huggies). And what did this get me? Acommittee of young mothers (in the Presbyterian Church thereis a committee for everything) who felt the need to suggest (andnot so nicely) that if I intended to teach Sunday school (morelike toddler patrol), it might be a good idea if I would stop runningaround the room like a beheaded bird. 
If I had to pinpoint when my preacher’s wife paranoia began,this was it. I don’t care if people talk about me behind my back.But when they say it to my face? That’s when it hurts my feelings.And say it they did. “You might look like your the one incharge.” Which brings me to my next point. Who said I wantedto be in charge?
I thought about this. Perhaps it’s my approach. Perhaps I shouldact a smidge more authoritative, so I plastered my face with thehappiest smile I could plaster, opened the door to the Sundayschool room, and announced, “Okay, kids (ankle biters), let’s trysomething new this morning. You will shut your little yippeeyaps, and you will mind me so I don’t look like an incompetentwingless wonder in front of your parents. Anyone attempting toleave this room will be caught. And we are all going to have fun.Do you understand me? Fun.”
A half an hour later the little half-pints were running throughthe sanctuary while I took little Susie to the bathroom, again.Before I knew it, the other mothers were assisting me in theSunday school class. From then on I was honest about my Sundayschool teaching disabilities, and when I said no, I meant it.My people-pleasing-at-church days were over, at least untilthe next time. For the time being, what they had was a made-from-scratch, non-cookie-cutter minister’s wife. Whatever weirdailment I had that made me desire kids was rattled out of me onSunday mornings. A miracle cure, that’s what it was. But just sothe parishioners would think I was anything resembling normal,I’d say, “I love kids.” If only I knew what to do with them.I never even knew I wanted a child. Or did I? Maybe I justdidn’t notice.
Brad, however, did. He noticed every time I walked out of theroom when a baby commercial came on TV, and by the gracefulway I declined invitations to baby showers. He noticed the way Isprinted past the baby clothes in stores, and how I barely held mynieces. He noticed when my lifelong soul sister, Barb, called todeliver the news that she was pregnant. “That’s great,” I said. “I’mso happy for you.” I swallowed the lump in my throat.“Barb’s going to be a great mom,” I said to Brad.“She sure will,” he said. “What about you?”“Don’t be ridiculous. I have all the babies I can handle.”“But you stopped teaching Sunday school two years ago.”“Drop it, Brad,” I said. And he did. Well, until I brought it upagain.“You’d think a person is only half a person unless she’s got ababy,” I told him once, after seeing a commercial for baby wipes.He cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, what about that.”
The next day, without my knowledge, he contacted an adoptionagency.
That fall we attended a Thanksgiving dinner with other familieswho had adopted special needs children. As I sat there wonderingwhat in the world I was doing at such an event, I lookedaround the room. It was packed with kids crawling, rolling, andrunning around all over the place. Mothers everywhere. Dads.Kids with squinty eyes. Downy fluff. Ambrosia with feet.The director of the agency had a ten-month-old. For somereason, I reached out and took her out of her mother’s arms, andthe strangest thing happened. It felt like a bolt of lightning wentright through me because the instant I touched her I rememberthinking, “This is what I am supposed to do.” 
Imagine that. Me, a mom-to-be. Who knew? The Holy Spirit, that’s who. How do I know this? Because from that moment, everything fell into place.
One morning about a month later Brad and I found ourselvessitting across the desk from a social worker who explained thatif we planned on adopting a “normal” baby, it could take months,maybe even years.“Well, that’s it,” I said and picked up my purse. “No babies.Thanks for your time. Come on, Brad, let’s go.”I got about as far as the end of the couch in her office whenshe said, “Would you consider a baby with special needs?”Brad and I answered at the same time, “Yes.” We looked ateach other, surprised. Had we forgotten to talk about this?“What type of special needs would you be willing to take?”she asked.Again, we answered at the same time, “Down syndrome,” andthen our mouths dropped.
Two Tickets to Texas…
Another month passed. I was in a staff meeting when the speakerphonebuzzed, and then, the secretary’s voice. “There’s an emergencyphone call for Sherry.”
I braced myself, picked up the receiver, and gave a shaky,“He-ll-o.”Brad was on the other end. “Hi, Mom.”“Excuse me?”“I said, hi, Mom.”“Knock it off, Brad, I’m in a meeting.”“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re going to be a mother.”What the…“The adoption agency called and said there’s a baby availablein Texas. The only thing is, we have to tell them we want himtoday because if no one claims him the state is scheduled to takecustody of him tomorrow.”What was I supposed to say? “We’ll talk about this later overdinner?” I was at my company’s corporate office in Shreveport,and Brad was six hours away in New Orleans on the other endof the phone.“Sherry, are you there?”The faces of my coworkers and my bosses blurred into a seaof raised eyebrows, all waiting to know what the emergency was.“I don’t know, it seems so sudden,” I said, barely able to breathe.“What do you say, honey? This is our big chance.”“What do we know about him?” I asked.“Not much,” he said. “He’s two months old and has Downsyndrome. The agency says he’s been in a foster home since hewas born. His birth mother is a college student and has had noprenatal care. That’s about all I know.”
Thump, thump. My heart hammered the walls of my chest.I tried to swallow, but couldn’t.My face was wet. Was I crying? And in a business meeting?Everyone in the working world knows you don’t cry at work.Even if you are celebrating what should be a private momentbetween you and your husband.
What would it do to my career? I was all about work—suitsand low pumps, pantyhose designed to cut off the circulation tomy fat little thighs, briefcases, making it to the plane on time,jet-setting off to the next work assignment, and knocking myselfout to impress the boss. I’d come a long way from activity directorto corporate consultant. I had arrived, and I wasn’t about to giveit up now. I wasn’t the diaper bag, sterilized-bottle-toting type.Was I?
I sat plastered to the chair, everything around me suspended.The color must have deserted my face because someone sat acup of water in front of me and then I heard myself say, “Listenhere, you. I don’t make decisions that fast. You call that socialworker back right this minute and tell her we’ll take him.”I tipped the cup and sipped the water.My boss looked at me for a moment and then said, “Sherry,what’s wrong?”“Brace yourselves,” I said. “I’m sort of pregnant.”The room exploded. People were on their feet hugging me andasking, “So when are you due?”“As soon as we can fly to Texas and pick him up.”
And just like that, our destination became our destiny: ourbags got packed, and operation adoption was set in motion. Wewere about to meet the rest of our lives. The tiny human beingwho would permanently shape every thought, every decision, andevery minute of every day. Forevermore, we would look at theworld through a pair of crescent-moon-shaped eyes—the eyes ofDown syndrome.

We had chosen it. But why? Why would we want an infantwith DS? There’s a genetic test called amniocentesis to help parents avoid such things. Perhaps we were asking the wrong question.
Maybe the question wasn’t why, but why not? He was justa baby, not a birth defect. True, he was a baby with Down syndrome, but that wasn’t the issue. The fact was, we adopted because we wanted to be parents. Nothing more. No hidden agendas, no cause c.l.bre.
Where the problem presented was when others learned of hisDS. In those days he wasn’t considered “normal,” whatever normalis. Which begs the question: should any child be regardedas abnormal? Less perfect? Is that what it means to have Downsyndrome? And while we’re at it, what is normal? Does normalmean being a carbon copy of everyone else? And does being aclone mean you are worth more? More worthy of love?
Did we know that other kids would be afraid of him? Whisperabout him? Hide behind their mothers when he was around?Maybe not. Did we know that other mothers would cling to theirchildren, afraid it might be contagious? Probably not. Did weknow that we would put ourselves between him and ogling eyesto shield him from the gawking? Definitely not.
Since Brad and I both worked with people with Down syndromewhen we were younger, we thought we knew all we neededto know, which amounted to knowing a whole lot of nothing.We flew to Texas two weeks before Christmas. It was blindfaith that drove our rental car to the social worker’s office wherewe would meet our future. As Brad and I sat there clinging toeach other, we were filled with questions: Was he healthy? Whatwould he look like? What the heck were we doing?“What if I fail?” I said to Brad.“You’ll be a great mom.” Then Brad asked, “What if I fail?”“You’ll be an awesome dad,” I said, and just then the dooropened. In walked the social worker, holding a bundle.“Get ready for more love than you ever thought possible,” shesaid and handed him to me.I looked into the baby’s eyes, and I heard a voice say, “You’llhave to move out, you know.”What? I looked at Brad, but his lips weren’t moving. Great,now I’m hearing voices.
“You. Yes, you. Move out.”Move out of where?“Yourself. Get out of yourself so we can move in.”Who?“Me and the baby,” the voice said. “There’s no room for us—you are too full of you.”I looked at the baby. He blinked his eyes.
I blinked back.“Why me, Lord?”“Why not you?” He said.“You’re going to have to help me.”“I thought you’d never ask.”
Again, my heart beat. Thump. Thump.The baby studied me. Who was I? What was I? Why was Iholding him?Brad stuck out his finger so the baby could wrap his tiny handaround it. “He’s got quite a grip.”I cried and cried, and finally said, “Hi.”Later that same day, armed with a full diaper bag and babyformula, we flew back to New Orleans to begin our life as a newfamily. I eventually stopped crying and started smiling.I had a baby.Me. The girl who botched babysitting.I was a mother.Me. The girl who said she’d never be one of those polyesterpastors’ wives—part parishioner, part nursery attendant. The onewho was done with Sunday school forever and ever, amen.Me. A mom.
I was overjoyed. I was ecstatic. I was…gagging.“How could you?” I said as I sat in the middle of the floor ofthe ladies room at the airport. The restroom was crowded, butonly three people existed at that moment. Me and him. And thelady bending over me. “What an adorable baby,” she said, and atthat, I burst into tears. “Thank you, I think.”“Well, honey, what’s wrong?” she said.I didn’t dare let her catch my eye. “He’s stinky,” I said.“So?”“So, I’ve never changed a diaper before.”She stood back bewildered. “Are you his mother?”“Well, technically, yes.”“What do you mean, technically?” By now more than one personstood over me.
“I just got him today,” I said.“Today?”“About an hour ago,” I said and told her about our adoption.And God bless her, that woman sat down right next to me (inher dress, high heels, and all) and took me step by step throughhow to change a diaper. I could have just kissed her because I nolonger needed to kill myself. I begged her to please come homewith me for the next fifteen years, but unfortunately, she alreadyhad her own life.After I thanked her and she left, I looked at Charley and said,“You, my friend, are forbidden to ever mess your britches again.”That was the first time he smiled at me, and now that I thinkabout it, he seemed to flash a big silly grin every time I changedhis diapers from then on.
Three Tickets to Louisville…
The following week we took Charley home to meet his new family.From the initial home study in September to taking him homein December, we’d barely had time to process it ourselves, muchless expect anyone else to. How could they? It’s not as if they’dhad the traditional nine months to get excited about a new baby,and yet here we were, bringing him home for Christmas. We hadno idea how it would go. It’s not like our news was received without reserve. But, since things happen in God’s time (not mine), I would just have to trust that the same family who loves me wouldlove me enough to love him.
Brad and I knew we were asking a lot of our families. Weasked that they accept the fact that they would now have to saythings like, “My grandson has Down syndrome,” “My nephewhas DS,” and “My cousin has Down syndrome.”
Besides Brad and me, Joanna (Brad’s sister) was the only otherperson in our families to have associated with DS. And to myknowledge, no one had ever mentioned the word adoption, letalone special needs. And yet, despite my Mom’s phone callingcampaign trying to talk us out of it, we stood in line at the airport,flying higher than we thought possible, hoping that thingswould click. Praying that Mom would take one look at Charley and fall in love, like an overjoyed grandma. “Here, let me have him,” I heard her say in my self-talk. And in my mind, I pictured her setting the baby down on a freshly laundered towel to change a diaper and blowing raspberry kisses onto the bottoms of his vanillatootsie roll toes as the rest of the family looked on.
But when I opened my eyes, the questions were still there:Will they accept him? Will they love him? Was I asking toomuch? Praying enough? I would soon know the answer.8612 is a backdoor house. No one comes to the front doorunless you are delivering a package or are selling something.Family, friends, neighbors—we all enter through the kitchen, andwhen we do, we find everyone. It’s where you find the iced tea, theblue cheese ball, the munchies. Not that the space is big enough.It’s standing room only, along with the chaos of hugs and kissesas you move from person to person, yakking, helping yourself tothe snacks, yakking some more.
This Christmas visit was no different, except along with thehugs and kisses, there was one tiny tyke, looking up from his carrier from face to face. And the faces? Oh, boy, did they study him.“He’s a big boy,” Dad said.Marcy (my sister) reached out and played with his hand. “Hi,Charley.”Mom leaned in for a closer look. “Hi there.”Brad and I beamed. “Isn’t he perfect?”Marcy and Mom directed me upstairs to what would be ourroom while we were there. In the room was a crib with stuffedanimals. I swallowed hard. They did want him. I wondered whatbrought them to this moment. Was it their love for me? The resignation that there was a new family member, like it or not? Mayas well get on board? I drank in the details. Look at the work thatwent into all this. “Thanks,” I said, and they hugged me.
I headed back down the stairs and into the living room wherethe decorations sparkled with everything Christmas. SouthernLiving, that’s what it was. Collectible carolers in their CharlesDickens outfits warmed the china cabinet with garland and berries(Marcy is quite the decorator) and the table had our traditionalapple tree centerpiece (Mom makes one every year). Thehallway smiled with tinsel and lights, and there, sitting on thetop of the piano was the handmade porcelain nativity set thatMom bought when she was first married. But even with all thetrimmings, as lovely as they were, the display I wanted to seemore than anything was the mantel lined with the dog tags thatbelonged to our beloved boxer Max (they’ve hung there since hedied), and the stockings, hand-knit by Mom.
I felt a pit in my gut. I knew Mom hadn’t had time to makeone on such short notice, but still, I hoped. Please, God, let therebe a stocking for my baby. I braced myself and turned toward themantel. My heart sank. There they were—the stockings, hangingside by side, except for one.
Swallowing hard, I walked into the kitchen, dropped into achair, and wondered how I would make it through the Christmasholidays knowing Charley had no stocking. Why wasn’t it there?Was he that different? Was it because he was adopted? Because hehad DS? Couldn’t they at least have bought him a stocking untilMom could knit one? Tears streamed down my cheeks. Bradwalked in, took one look at my face, and read my mind. “I thinkyou’d better look again,” he said. “It’s there, hanging behindApril’s stocking.”
I rushed back to the living room. And then I saw it—a beautifulhand-knit stocking inscribed with the name “C-H-A-R-LE-Y.” Knit by the same Mom who answered with the silent treatmentwhen I called to deliver the news of our special delivery.Knit by the same Mom whose friends phoned to caution usabout adopting a child like this.
A child like this.
Different? Yes. 
Perfect? Absolutely.
Would she ever know how this moment would live forever aspart of me?
There was room in our family.
There was room in their hearts.There was a Christmas stocking for Charley.

Charley, 28 years old