My twelve-year-old son Alex was born with Down syndrome, an unfortunate name for his condition, for if there’s one thing my son is not, it’s down. He begins each day by rushing into our bedroom and joyfully hollering, “Good morning!” He greets his teachers with the same excitement and never fails to give them a hug. In fact, he hugs just about everyone he meets, seeming to sense which people are most in need of one.
You would be hard-pressed to find a less-threatening hugger than my diminutive, bespectacled boy, yet I am an outcast in the Down-syndrome community because I do not aggressively discourage Alex’s hugging. He will fall prey to a child molester, I am told. He must learn to behave like regular children, they say.
