She had dinner with us, and then she went off to bed. She comes out of her room this morning ready to go to what she calls “schoo,” dressed in a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt, bright yellow pants with a fire-engine-red cowboy hat perched on her head, maybe five sizes too small. Paul smiles at her and says, “Howdy, Tex.” Debi answers “howdy” right back. Paul asks, “You rustling cattle out on the ranch?” Debi smiles. “You funny, B-B-B-Baul. You should be comedy man.” My reaction to her wardrobe is a little less charitable than my brother’s. I’d like to say to Debi, “As a person with Down syndrome already, overweight, stubby, obviously a couple sandwiches short of a picnic, could you possibly make yourself look any more ridiculous?” After Debi’s bus arrives to take her to the Learning Skills Program, Paul and Mom talk in the kitchen before he leaves for school. Paul says, “I’m thinking a little bit about Stanford, more as a baseball school than for football or hoops.”
