This morning I sat at my dining room table sipping my coffee, watching my seven-year-old daughter eat oatmeal. I smiled when she looked at me, almond shaped eyes behind perfectly round glasses. She smiled back and then took another giant bite, sweet drips of cinnamon and sugar milk on her chin.

She’s the eldest of three and mornings here can be crazy. Yet, I find myself day after day taking the time to sit and watch her and marvel at the simple gift of sweet cinnamon oatmeal.

She taught me how to do that. How to stop. How to slow down. How to enjoy something as simple as oatmeal for breakfast.

My daughter has Down syndrome.