Smoke Free - By The Numbers.

• 134 -  days being smoke free.
• 2376 - cigarettes resisted.
• 8 - pounds gained.
• 5 - pounds lost.
• 3 - major temper tantrums 
• 4 - days spent in full mental breakdown mode.
• 5 - sessions with a qualified therapist (see above.) 
• $1046 - saved. 
• 23 - days of life expectancy gained.
• 1 - exercise program implemented
• 2 - hours I can stay awake longer each day.

Welcome Summer Twenty Twelve

I finally sat down and wrote our family's 2012 Summer Bucket List (not to be confused with my Summer To Do List, which is not nearly as fun.)  I can't wait to start crossing these off.  Let the adventures begin! What's on Your Summer Bucket List?

It's been quite a while since I've written a post; I never anticipated that I would be away so long. But regardless of what I had anticipated, four months have passed since I have written a post at The Patch.

When I started this blog, it was for my photography; I didn’t know that my story couldn’t be told with pictures alone. As an introvert, I thought that I was somehow excluded from my belief is that everyone has a story, and we all want to be heard, seen and ultimately understood. But I was wrong and it’s this belief that motivated me to write.

I write to document my story. And yes, I write to be seen, heard and understood. Although for me, writing is more than just being seen, heard, or understood. Writing is more than just an expression of my thoughts. Writing helps me to clarify my feelings - to understand my life in a richer way than thinking, talking or even capturing images does.

I didn’t start out to become a writer and I never dreamed that I would be known among my family and friends as one. I had been given this title, and like a girl trying on her mother’s dresses it fell off my shoulders - it was too big. A writer. How could I possibly be a writer? Writers’ ideas flow freely and their fingers dance over the keyboard. Writers don’t have issues with spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Writers don’t feel as though they are naked holding a big “look at me” signs every time they publish a post. But most importantly, the reason the dress was too big, why the title didn’t fit was because I believed that writers have graduated high school. I hadn‘t.

So, four months ago, I decided to do something about that. I signed up at the local adult high school. I needed four credits to graduate and one of them had to be English. When I drove home after my first meeting with the guidance councillor I was able to fight back the tears, but as soon as I pulled my mini van in the driveway the meltdown began. And I am not talking about one or two pretty tears that gracefully roll down your cheek. No, my cry that morning had both tears and snot rolling down my face; it was messy. I was crying because I was stepping out of my comfort zone. I was crying because I was choosing to believe in myself. I was crying because I was ashamed that it had taken me so long to do so.

But I had a plan. My plan shed my shame and to graduate high school. My new school’s motto is: “Whatever it takes.” If it took swallowing my fear and shame then so be it. I wanted to take the Writer’s Craft course and a photography course because I thought that it was an extension of what I was already doing here on the blog. But I couldn’t take the Writer’s Craft course without taking the prerequisite English course, so I signed up for that too. Later, I decided that I could use my volunteer work at Charlie’s school to get my final credit as a co-op. I went from being a full time mom to being a full time student. The adjustment was difficult, and both my family and I felt the burden. I struggled to keep my head above water and I dropped any extra weight that might have caused me to drown: the knitting needles were put away, visits with friends were spaced farther and farther apart, the house was cleaned on a what absolutely needs to be done basis, my 365 project became a series of crappy snappies, and the blog went dormant.

Pictures from the Patch is the safe place that gave birth to my written voice. Sometimes that voice was a whisper, sometimes a plea and sometimes a yell, but with every post I have been searching to believe that the dress fits. That I am enough.

In the past four months, I have grown into that dress. I no longer feel like a little girl pretending to be something she is not. I have succeeded. At the end June, I will graduate. I will stand proud and search the audience for the faces John, Kenzie, Josh and Charlie - my family who believed in me, even when I didn’t. The funny thing is: the more I become, the more I grow into myself, the more I realize that I’ve been enough all along. My worthiness is not based on if I feel small, hurt, and afraid or if I am standing in my best light. Either way, I am enough.



　



　

　
 

My father warned me just after Kenzie was born that now that I had a child of my own, time would fly by - and it has.

On Sunday, Mackenzie will turn sixteen.   Even with the warning, the years have flown by faster than I thought possible.

In the past few weeks my heart has been flooded with memories.  In my minds eye I can see a little girl, skin speckled with mosquito bites making mud pies in the backyard.  Kenzie always had dirt under her fingernails, and her had was forever a tangled mass.  I remember brushing hair, the back so curly and fine that it was impossible to get the tangles out without hurting her - and I tried so hard not to hurt her. 

I also remember how cautious she was when she attempted a new skill, like her first time crossing the street by herself.  We had given her instructions to make sure she looked both directions.  Kenzie looked to the left, she looked to the right - no cars, she looked to the left, she looked to the right - no cars she did this over and over until she was confident that it was safe to cross.  And then a car passed by.  So she had to start the process all over again.  The poor thing stood on that corner a long time that day.  But she didn't give up, she didn't ask for help.

Another time Kenzie showed determination was when she taught herself to ride a bike.  At seven, John and I could see that she was no where near ready for the training wheels to come off, she just didn't have the balance.  But when she asked her Dad to take off her training wheels, John decided to give her a chance.  Kenzie tried for weeks to get the hang of it.  Over and over she would peddle a few strokes, then loose her balance and have to steady herself with her feet.  The neighbourhood all watched her try and fail, try and fail.  One neighbour came to me and suggested that we just put the wheels back on.  I didn't want to do that to her.  Because even though it was hard, she wasn't giving up and I wasn't about to give up on her either.  When she eventually did ride, I couldn't have been prouder.  It didn't come easy for her and she didn't give up.

Witnessing my daughter grow up has been one of the great gifts in my life.  Kenzie has a strength that I admire.  Because of her I want to be a better woman myself.   

Sixteen.  It's a big year.  She has been studying her driver's handbook, and has her first job.  At sixteen, she could meet the love of her life (I did) or have her heart broken for the first time.  This week, she brought home paper work for a SHSM (Specialized High School Major) in Health and Wellness.  Kenzie is planning long term goals that aren't so long term anymore.  I feel like she is on the cusp of something great and this will be the year she will soar.

I think that Kenzie believes this herself.  She has choosen One Little Word for 2012 as well.  FORWARD.  Seems appropiate.

Happy Birthday Kiddo, love you. xoxo

Connections

The house was as clean as it was going to get.

The groceries were bought and the food prepared.

I was freshly showered, dressed in my casual but approachable outfit.

My face made up, my hair blown dry and straightened.

I had resisted the urge to google:

meeting my half brother - adoption reunion etiquette.

ok, that's a lie. I googled it.

Adrenaline pumped through me. 

I was excited and nervous, and happy.  I felt uncomfortable buzzy.  I wanted to release some of my extra adrenaline, but the problem was,

 I wasn't sure if crying, laughing or squealing like a fifteen year old girl at a rock concert would give me the release I was looking for.

So I paced.

I fidgeted,

 and yes, my favorite anxiety buster,

I swore. 

A lot.

Fuck, that's going to make a great impression.

  

Once my Mom and my sister arrived, I felt better.

Or, at least I didn't feel so alone.

Mom watched the window for Jon to arrive.

When he pulled in the driveway, she waited at the door.

And Jon he came in,

my mother embraced her son.

Her child who she had waited forty six years to hold.

The energy was magical,

 just as pure,

just as beautiful

 as when any mother holds her child for the first time.

We visited.  We cried.

We laughed and shared.
And it all felt so easy.

I came away from meeting my brother wanting more.

More stories.

More conversations.

More time.

More connections.

I realized my fear, my anxiety wasn't

What if he doesn't like me -

or

What if I don't like him -

What I was worried about was
despite all of our courage

we wouldn't connect.

and then I realized with a smile on my face this morning, that I had
 

Underestimated the power of family.

Welcome Jon and Donna

xo



First Born

It was during my first pregnancy that I learned out about my mother's first pregnancy. 

We were talking about the magic of being pregnant for the first time.  It was that day, that my mom felt she was ready to share with me about her first pregnancy.   In the spring of 1965, when my mother was eighteen years old, she became pregnant.  I'm not sure of the details, but during her pregnancy, Mom went to live with another family.  In December, my mother gave birth to her first born, a son that she named him Kurt.  Not being able to take care of her son, but wanting the best for him, she made the decision to give him up for adoption.

Remember that at the time of this revelation, I was pregnant with my daughter.  My first born.  I was shocked at my mother's news, but immediately I felt a pang of grief for her.  A woman's first pregnancy should be a happy time.  One of beautiful firsts.  I couldn't imagine how difficult it must have been, to be away from your family, scared, ashamed and alone.  Growing a little human being, knowing that you would not get to know this little person. 

I've thought of Kurt often.  It's not like I think about him every day, but I would often wonder what he looked like.  I wondered if I passed Kurt on the street, would I recognize a stranger as my brother.  Did he look like us? When I would meet men who were adopted, I would casually ask how old they were, to see if they were my long lost brother.

The years went by.  Mom never gave up hope that one day she would get the chance to meet her son. In December Kurt was on my mom's mind the most (or at least I could count that in December that she would talk to me about him.)  On the years that she could afford to do so, Mom would take a classified ad out in the Toronto newspapers, wishing her birth son a happy birthday.  Mom registered with an adoption agency, and hoped that Kurt would one day register as well.

Last week, I had a call from my mother.  She was crying.  Between sobs, she told me that she had a call from the adoption agency.  She had been found: her son had found her.  The lady from the agency was 100% sure it was a match.  Kurt's name was now Jon.  He grown up in Toronto and had a large family of three brothers and a sister.  Jon now lived in the London area where he owned his own masonry and stone work business.  Mom was waiting for Jon to contact her by email. 

In the days that have since passed, the family have all had Facebook contact with Jon.  We've had a chance to browse through each other's family pictures.  It's been a surreal experience spotting family resemblances with a stranger - my new brother looks A LOT like my grandfather.  It's been an exciting time for us, but most of all for my Mom and Jon.  Soon - in just a couple of days my sister, brother and I will get a chance to see our mother reunited with her first born.  I can't wait. 

Just before I received my Mom's phone call last week, I was outside with my camera and spotted this heart shaped icicle clung to a bush in my backyard.  I was inside editing, thinking about how you just don't know when or where you will find love when my phone rang. 
Trust the universe.

One Little Word::Easy

One Little Word is a class I'm taken over at Big Picture Classes taught by Ali Edwards.  The  concept of One Little Word is that you choose a word to embody how wish live your year.

Last year for my one little word, I choose THRIVE.  Thriving taught me lessons and pushed me to grow into parts of myself I didn't know existed.  But after a year of flourishing and developing vigorously, I'm exhausted.

When I began to think about what word I would want for 2012, I joked that I wanted an easy year.  Would easy be such a bad word?  Easy has so many negative associations but the more I thought about it the more EASY started to make sense to me.  From the Gage Canadian Dictionary:

Easy - {ee-zee} adjective
1. requiring little effort.
2. free from pain, discomfort, trouble or worry: an easy life.
3. giving comfort or rest: easy chair.
4. fond of comfort or rest; lazy.
5. not harsh, not severe: easy terms.
6. not hard to influence, ready to agree with or help. Choose whichever one you wish, I'm easy.
7. smooth and pleasant; not awkward: easy manners.
8. not tight loose: an easy fit.
9. not fast, slow: an easy pace.
10. promiscuous
11. of a money market, favorable to borrowers.

I'm sure my husband wouldn't mind easy meaning promiscuous. 
But easy could mean so much more for me.   
Easy means letting go of the struggle.  Easy means that I don't define myself with my struggles.  Easy means acceptance, peace and joy.  Easy means rest and reflection.  Easy means laughter.  Easy means finding answers to problems not dwelling on problems.  Easy means freedom.

I'm ready for easy. 

Slowly The Story Will Be Told

It's been a long time since I've posted.  Part of the problem is that for the last few months the only thing I was capable of was living life, rather than writing about it.  The other problem for me, was that I felt like I wrote myself into a corner.

When I started writing about Josh and our autism journey, I thought that one post, maybe two would tell our story.  I was wrong.  To tell our story, I need to use so many more words than will fit neatly into one or two posts.  To tell our story, I need to be open in a way that is a little scary.  And then I got stuck. 

Keep checking back, because slowly, the rest of the story will be told.  But for today, for right now, I'm not quite ready.

Through the Spectrum.

Chapter Two - getting help.

I didn't cry for long. Even if Josh wasn't aware of what was going on, my daughter Kenzie who was almost five at the time was very in tune to my emotions. Besides trying to be sensitive to Kenzie - I'm not a sit down and cry kind of girl. I'm a fixer and a fighter. Even if the situation wasn't fixable, I could learn and research about the beast who was taking over my son.

Information regarding autism was difficult for me to find. I had the newspaper article, and the few lines from my What to Expect - The Toddler Years book. Medical books had little more than what I had already read. Also, money was tight, so I didn't have access to a computer or the Internet. My father who lived on the east coast sent me a package of papers that he had printed out. I read everything I could get my hands on over and over again.

I made made a phone call to our local chapter of the Autism society. Twelve years ago, when I called the society, autism wasn't on the radar like it is today. The Autism Society was a small group of parents who had come together to help their children. Cathy, the president of the society ran the chapter out of her home. Speaking with another mom both comforted me and terrified me. She threw around so many acronyms that I felt like I was being served a bowl of alphabet soup - EA, SERT, ABA my head was spinning. Cathy was a wealth of knowledge, her son was school aged so she had experience working with the regions preschool services and the school board. But the best advice that Cathy gave me was in order to be the best advocate for my son, I needed to get real about Josh's needs. Our natural inclination as parents is to brag about our kids accomplishments. She told me that when advocating, yes be proud of Josh's milestones, but put more emphasis on where he still needed growth. She also warned me that the wait list for services was long.

Her warning proved to be true. It was a long wait. I think the first appointment was months later, at McMaster Children's Hospital for a hearing test. My sister in law drove us, and it was a surreal experience. The three of us were put in a sound proof room. I had never been in a room without sound before -the quiet was deafening. The way the test was carried out, speakers were in each of the corners of the room. The technicians in the sound booth would call out Josh's name from one of the four speakers. The natural response is to turn your head in the direction of the sound. They cautioned us not to move our heads so to be sure we were testing Josh's hearing, not his curiosity. Several times, in several ways they called out to Josh. Josh didn't respond at all, he didn't turn his head.

I looked at my sister in law. Oddly, I was happy that there was nothing from Josh. In my mind, his lack of response meant that he had a hearing problem. An easy fix with a hearing aid or worse case scenario, we could teach his sign language. A hearing problem seemed like a cake walk compared to autism.

Next, the technician chimed a series of bells in different tones. This time, there was a response from Josh. He looked up each and every time a bell rang. After the test was completed, I met with the technician. She explained to me that Josh had perfect hearing. How could that be? He never turned his head when they called his name. She explained to me that the chimes were all tones of the human voice. If Josh could hear the chimes, he could hear us.

Oh.

She suggested that we start speech and language services with the region. And if we were already on the wait list that we look into getting private speech and language services.

I didn't know how we were going to pay for it, but as soon as I got home I cracked open the yellow pages looked for a speech therapist. Preferably one who specialized in working with children with autism.

to be continued...