A few nights back (in fact, in the midst of Hurricane Irene, an inauspicious choice) William said, “Mom, can you take my passy away?” (He still uses a pacifier to go to sleep, and if I were to let him walk around with it all day long, he’d carry it willingly.)

“Sure, William,” I said. “Why don’t I put it here on this table so you can reach it if you change your mind?”

“No, Mom. Can you put it far far away and high up where I can’t reach it?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

So I took the passy away, and he slept, fitfully, without it.

It made me think about what it takes to break a habit. First, there’s the recognition that you want something to change. I think for William that came in watching Penny get rid of her passy (which, yes, only happened a few weeks ago!). Then there’s the recognition that such change is difficult and might necessitate the help of another person. Then there’s the even harder step of actually asking that person for that help. And, finally, there’s the follow through on both sides.

The next morning, when William woke up, he said, “Mom, can I have my passy back?”

“I thought you wanted to be done with your passy?”

“Can I be done on Sunday?”

“William, today is Sunday.”

“Oh.” He stuck out his lower lip. “Then can I be done on Friday?”

He went to sleep with his passy again. Habits are very hard to break.

I’ve written here on a number of occasions about my hopes (and fears) for Penny when it comes to making friends. I try to arrange playdates. I talk to her teachers about her social skills. We practice “using her words” and looking people in the eye. We bemoan how often she just wants to crawl into an adult’s lap and cuddle instead of running around with other kids. And, quite frankly, we generally blame Down syndrome for this behavior.

I do think Down syndrome has something to do with it. Penny didn’t walk until she was two, and even then she required a good deal of physical assistance. She was dependent upon adults for help for a lot longer than other children might be, and much of that came as a result of low muscle tone. And since speech is more difficult for kids with Down syndrome, I assume that Penny’s language skills might impede her ability to make friends.

But then we had a series of guests come to visit over the summer. All of them had big families with three or four kids, all typically-developing. And all of them worried out loud about their eldest child having a hard time making friends. The oldest children, they related, often had friends over to play and the friends ended up playing with a younger sibling. The oldest children preferred adult company. The oldest children preferred to read books on their own over freeze tag on the lawn.

By the time we had heard this story four times, Peter and I started to realize we thought Penny’s trouble making friends was all a result of Down syndrome. We had forgotten that she’s also the oldest child, the oldest grandchild, the oldest great-grandchild, and for the first two and a half years of her life, she received every ounce of familial attention she could possibly want. Yes, she has Down syndrome, and it has contributed in some way to her social development. What seems to matter even more, however, is that she was born first. Go figure.

Who knew that a tropical storm could do this much damage? So here I sit, by candlelight, eighteen hours after we lost power (I’m writing this at 9:00 p.m. on Sunday night, but I can’t actually post it now because we don’t have Internet capabilities at the moment), wondering what the week ahead will hold.

I know what I intended: a tight schedule of blog posting, emailing, and preparations for the launch of A Good and Perfect Gift, which officially debuts on Thursday.

And I know that the past three days have included everything but what I intended—an abbreviated trip to Connecticut and then a day in New Jersey with three kids and no electricity. I can bemoan the inconvenience. We are a bit dirty and weary and our orange juice will probably be bad by the morning and I may need to pack the kids up again and head to my parents’ house if we don’t have power tomorrow.

Or I can recognize a hurricane is yet another limitation on my ability to control my own universe. I can offer up gratitude for the day we just had—for doing puzzles with Penny and William . . . for margaritas with local friends whose refrigerator works (and who took our milk and chicken and cheese until we can take them back) . . . for splashing in puddles with our kids . . . for the look of delight on Penny’s face as we looked at flash cards together and she realized that there are some words, just a few, that she can read by sight—“I can do this, Mom!” . . . for an hour of reading the Bible and praying in bed and happening upon a passage in Exodus about the Sabbath and being reminded that today, Sunday, is meant to be a day of rest and celebration, a sign that we live in relationship to a holy and yet intimate God . . .

I can complain. Or I can be grateful.