The checkout lady in the grocery store notices that I've bought every brown banana on discount, every bag of wrinkled mushrooms or bruised tomatoes or yellow squash just about to turn, plus every item in the sale flier including a half-gallon of ice cream.

"Three boys," I shrug.

Once upon a time I'd feel the need to explain, going into great detail about the whole thing: twins, preemies, Down syndrome (which always prompts raised eyebrows, "Twins? And one with Down syndrome?"). And I'd want to mention my oldest boy too, Carter, not to leave him out. And on and on until finally, I made myself sick with it. Who cares?! There's a woman in the line behind me with a half-gallon of skim milk and she's tapping her foot impatiently and I need to get going, already.

"Three boys," I say, and leave it at that. It's the only fact of us that matters in the grocery store check-out line. My boys, eating up all the milk and bananas and whole wheat bread this little store has to offer. I imagine the clerk, the week we came to town, noticing us without really knowing it was us; thinking, Wow! We're sure going through a lot of milk these days! And bread, too! I can't restock fast enough.

These are the small ripples of our circle of influence. At the post office, too--the packages and letters addressed to the boys (extra work!), or Tom's magazines that were so ordinary at home; now, when hand-delivered by the salt-of-the-earth postmaster, they seem frivolous and wasteful.

The same life, seen through a different lens.

I have a friend who is also a mother to a child with Down syndrome. Their family recently moved into a new neighborhood. She found herself, for the first time ever, feeling shy. She didn't know why the neighbors seemed distant. Was it because she spent the work week at a busy office in a nearby city? Was it that her husband stayed at home with their children? Was it the Down syndrome?

I didn't know what to tell her. There are so many ways we divide ourselves up, as parents. Working in the home, or out of the home? Nanny? Daycare? Discipline? Vaccinations? Television? How about cloth or disposables?

And even within the special needs community: how much early intervention are you getting? When did you start? What kind of doctor do you have--DS specialist, pediatrician, or regular old GP? Ear tubes or not? Tonsils, in or out? What about the vitamins?

My friend with the child with Down syndrome isn't just worried about her new community; when she asks about her situation, I see that she's asking about the bigger things in her life: is it wrong for her to love her job so much; will she find good friends in her new neighborhood; was it a mistake to move? And the big one: will her family be judged because of her child's extra chromosome? I know what these things feel like, because I've felt them all at one time or another, too.

The grocery store's sale on ice cream included Neapolitan, which seems to have been created especially for my boys, who each love one kind the best. After dinner but before baths, in that quiet time of the evening when no one is too tired and no one is hyper, I plan to surprise them. I'll scoop the ice cream into the glass dishes from the second-hand store, and it will feel like a little party.

It's one small thing I can do, my little circle of influence. A dish of ice cream and the whole world's troubles melt away. Smiles and happy, milky faces. Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, each boy gets his own favorite. And for myself, it's impossible to choose. I want a little taste of each--like my boys, all different and perfect at the very same time.