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...

when our lives changed

October is Autism Awareness month in Ontario.  Today, I am sharing the beginning of our story...

It was at my nephew's birthday party that it became undeniable that Josh was somehow different.  At the time, terms like Aspergers, autism or nerotypical were foreign to me.  But seeing Josh - even at the age of two, almost three - with a group of his peers, I knew something wasn't right.  That day at the party, the other kids played and interacted with varying levels of success.  However Josh did not; and I could see that it wasn't that he wouldn't, it was that he COULD NOT.  Socially, even at this young age, I could see he was lost and terrified.  He cried and threw at fit, and neither John or I could comfort him.  Besides being embarrassed, I was heartbroken.  My sweet son was lost and afraid and there wasn't anything I could do to help him - he wouldn't, couldn't let us in.

There were clues before the party.  As they say hindsight is 20/20, and looking back there were signs right from babyhood.  He would scream and panic at bath time - trying to bath him was like bathing a cat.  He was happy to sit all by himself for hours at a time.  Just sitting - staring off into space.  When he finally started crawling, he would crawl off to the toy corner and look at the toys.  He didn't play with the toys, just looked at them - occasionally he would line them up.  And if someone would come to interact with him he would have a melt down.  Most of the time he was in his own world. 
 
After we arrived home from my nephew's party I was emotionally exhausted.  Once the kids were in bed, I turned to John and asked if he was feeling what I was feeling.
"Do you really think there isn't a problem?" my eyes were pleading with him to understand what I was saying.
"Maybe there is." he said.
That night we had a long talk.  John admitted that he was afraid.  Afraid of what might be wrong.  Afraid that if we went to professionals for help, that we would look like incompetent parents, and our kids would be taken away.  We agreed that we give Josh a little more time.  And if there still wasn't improvement, would start by taking Josh to our trusted family doctor.

The next morning, I woke up feeling refreshed, hopeful even.  I was not in this alone.  We could do this together.  Together, we could pull Josh out of his world and back to our family.  I convinced myself that maybe John was right - all Josh needed was a little more time.

It's odd how life unfolds.  During this wait and see period, the local newspaper wrote an article on Autism.  I read it and it struck a chord.  The article struck a chord with others as well.  Two ladies I worked with, my mother-in-law and my own mom all called and suggested I read it.

I didn't wait any longer.  I called our family doctor and got Josh an appointment.  At the appointment I answered questions about Josh's development thus far.  I explained that it wasn't just his development delay that I was concerned about.  I told him that I realized that all kids develop at their own pace, but what I saw with Josh was different.  Odd.  I asked if he thought it might be a hearing problem.  Our doctor agreed that we should have a hearing test done.  As well he was going to send us to a developmental pediatrician.   I glanced at the chicken scratch notes Dr.C was jotting down.  PDD?  Phew, I thought to myself - he doesn't think it's autism. 

When I got home, I looked up PDD in my What to Expect - The Toddler Years, my heart sank.  There wasn't an entry for PDD, but it was mentioned under the autism entry. 

Autism- What is it?  A syndrome (a group of symptoms) rather that a clinical disease or condition.  Autism is the most common form of Pervasive Developmental Disorder or PDD.

My head was spinning.  Is PDD autism?  Are there other PDD's?  I couldn't just sit around, waiting for appointments.  I needed answers.  I found myself on the phone with the region's  intake services.  When the intake worker on the other end asked how she could help I stammered, "umm, could you tell me the difference between autism and PDD?"

This kind angel woman stayed on the line with me for over an hour.  She explained to me that PDD was an umbrella term.  All the developmental disorders stemmed off under the PDD umbrella.  Autism wasn't the only developmental disorder, PDD-NOS, Aspergers and Rhett's were some of the others.  She put me on wait lists for speech and language services, a behavioural screening, preschool  services and special services at home.  When I hung up the phone, I was drenched in sweat.  I looked at Josh, who was zoned out in his own little word.  He was oblivious to what was going on, but I wasn't.  I sat there and and cried.

Happy Birthday Grandma.

 My daughter and I were chatting the other day about how often you should brush your hair. We both agreed that even though it's not recommended brushing 100 strokes a day, it just feels so good.  I was reminded of a time where my hair was brushed over and over again.

I remember sitting on my grandparents front porch.  It was coffee break on the last day of my week long stay with Grandma and Grandpa. I sipped my lemonade from the orange plastic tumbler, while she and Grandpa drank their coffees.  I sat one step down, between my grandmother's legs, while she brushed my hair dry in the summer sun.  I didn't have what you would call pretty hair.  My hair was wavy and coarse, a mousy shade of brown.  To top it off, literally, I had a double crown, so it looked like I had a small squirrel on top of my head.  Anyways, that day sitting in the sun, sipping lemonade, with Grandma, I felt pretty.  I don't know if I have ever felt more loved. 

I think about Grandma a lot but especially at this time of year.  Yesterday would have been her 88th birthday, but that's not why autumn reminds me of her.  Fall was Grandma's favourite season.  Thinking of the fall, without thinking of Grandma would be like fall with out the brilliant colours, or fall without the crisp cool temperatures.

With apologies to all the rock stars in my life - my husband, my parents, my children, my best girl friends, I am going on record as saying my maternal Grandmother is my all time favourite person.  If you met her, you'd know why.

She was born Angelina Tibando.  Being of Italian descent during a war where Italy was your enemy, couldn't have been easy.  Not one to hang her head in shame, Grandma signed up to help the war effort.  It was her army girlfriends who renamed her Cora - but I'm not sure why.  The army was where my grandparents met. Grandma had slipped and fallen into a mud puddle, and Grandpa helped her up.  They were married six weeks later.  

When I think of what love looks like, I think of my grandparents.  They loved each other beyond words.  You could feel their love when you were in the room with them.  When Grandpa died, Grandma slipped their love letters in his front pocket.  "Grandma," I said to her, "Why are you sending them with Grandpa?  Don't you want to read them?"  No, she wanted to send them with Grandpa, that way when she's gone, none of us would be able to snoop. I assumed that the letters were filled with cute little I love yous, but the way Grandma blushed told me I was wrong.

The other thing I remember about Grandpa's funeral, is that Grandma asked us not to wear black.  She herself wore a yellow dress, the exact same shade as a Black Eyed Susan.  Grandma was sad, but strong.  I knew that she would miss my grandfather, but I also knew that she was going to be okay.

Of course she would be okay. She wasn't about to sit around and wait to die.  Seriously, this is what she said to me when I remarked one visit that I thought it was neat that she was trying to root a rose she had been given.

I don't usually remember Grandma with sadness.  I miss her, but I know she would want us to remember her in her yellow dress, laughing, trying new things and exploring her world.  

me and my pet squirrel.

grandma and I at the "falls"

a love beyond words.

Five Years.

I got off my bike and looked out at the vacant picnic area.  

A family should be here, enjoying the last days of summer, laughing, playing, making memories.

Once upon a time it was our family that would have been here. Once upon a time. When we were whole.  This weekend marked the fifth anniversary of my mother in laws passing. 

There could have been 100 families here, it wouldn't have made a difference to how I felt- Empty and hollow, missing her so much.

Because my daughter misses the sound of her slippers scuffing across the floor.  Because amid the clutter on my teenage son's dresser is a picture of his Grandma.  Because a little boy holds on to the memory of a Grandmother who would give him treats in a Ziploc baggie each time he left her house.  Because another little boy doesn't remember her at all.  Because Charlie sleeps with the Bunny she gave him for Easter.  Because her grandchildren have missed out on one of life's great treasures, but holding on to the few memories they have as tight as Charlie hangs on to Mr. Bunny.

Because Because Ray is now a widower.  Trying to fit into a world of couples.  Because he goes to the cemetery on Sunday mornings.  Because he's alone.


Because her kids had to grow up in an instant.  Because living without your mom, your cheerleader, your guide and compass is hard.  Because time makes it easier, and then it hits you just how long it's been since she called your name or you heard the sound of her laughter. 

 Looking at where we once played, I felt so alone, and missed her so much.  

Finding Our Groove :: an update

We are a couple of weeks into the school year, and dare I say that we are finding our groove. 

Charlie is now a full time student.  In our school board, junior kindergarten and senior kindergarten are full day, every other day programs.  Going every day without a break in between has been an adjustment for The Little Man and his class mates.  Seriously?  You've got to be kidding me?  And, Again?  Were some of the responses that the moms and I heard as we would wake our kids up in the morning.  I'm pretty sure that Charlie has accepted this as his new normal.  His only hope now, is for a snow day.  Yes, one and a half weeks into school and he is praying for snow. 

I fully expected a phone call from the high school on the first day about Josh.  Instead, it was Kenzie texting me from the office.  Apparently, she had chosen the wrong business course and had to make adjustments to her timetable.  Kenzie is not the kind of kid who likes being in the office for any reason even if it's only a timetable change.  Things worked out and she enrolled into another business course.  It's a much better fit - the course content focuses on how business works.  Speaking of The Kid and the business world, she is beginning to look for a part time job.  Another milestone - time keeps marching on, nothing stays the same. 

As for Josh, karma couldn't have been kinder to him on the first day.  True, he left the house alone.  But somewhere in between our house and the school, a few girls (the pretty, popular girls) called out to him and they all walked together.  SCORE one for the little guy.

Josh's favorite subject is drama.  In drama, his words and actions are scripted for him.  For a guy who gets tounge tied, and can't find the right words or actions in everyday life, drama is a safe place to be.   His first journal entry for drama made tears come to my eyes;

"Today is a beginning.  I'm trying to have fun and I think I will achieve it.  Drama is one of the apples of learning but this one is golden.  I went with drama because I hope to learn something, to face my fears and to make my start wonderful.  I would definitely go in tenth grade drama - honest truth."

I'm certain that there will be lots of bumps along the way to next June.  But we've begun.  And the start is always the hardest part.

First Day

I’m trying to tell you about my life,

My tongue is twisted, more dead than alive,

My feeling have always been betrayed

I was born a little damaged man

Look what they’ve made.

Don’t you find,

That it’s lonely.

The corridor - you walk there alone

Life is a game you tried.

If life is a game, you’re tired.



Velvet Morning by The Verve.



Josh left today for high school. My tears came in waves last night. I’ve spent the better part of the last year focusing on making Josh’s transition to high school smooth. Working with the school so that resources and support would be put in place for him. So much planning and preparing. The tears came last night when I realized that none of it would help him on the first day. I realized that he will have to walk alone. I could do nothing more to help him.

His tears came this morning. I gave him a hug, and told him it was okay, that crying now was good because it meant that he was getting it out here at home in a safe spot. He calmed down and went back to his morning routine.

Just before it was time for Josh to leave he and I went out back to take a picture for his scrapbook. After our mini photo shoot, he turned to me, sad and scared and said, “I have no one to walk with.” I don’t know where I found the strength, but I didn’t cry. Instead I told him he would be fine, that I believed in him and that he wouldn’t be alone. Everyone was nervous today.

Josh and I went back inside to say good bye to the rest of the family. Kenzie gave him her words of wisdom - you have to talk to someone, don’t wait for people to talk to you. John gave his fatherly pep talk - just remember, everyone feels a little anxious, everyone will be thinking the same thing as you.

What is Josh thinking about? Gravy. One of his favourite things. That is what will get him through today. Gravy. There is a good possibility he will blurt out gravy.
I don’t spend a lot of time playing the blame game. Josh is in the autism spectrum. There is nothing I can do about it, and I don’t even know if I would try. It is part of who he is.   Part of what makes him sweet, kind, trusting and truthful.

But today, I blame myself.   I can’t fix autism. I cant fix the way the world sees him. I can’t fix the education system. I can’t give him friends. I can’t make this better for him. Today, as his mother I feel like I’ve let him down. That I passed on a combination of DNA that makes his life, this day harder for him.

The best I can do today is wait.   And while I am waiting, I will make a roast beef dinner, complete with gravy.

My Happy List

1. Kit Kat Bars.
2. Instagram.
3. Camping.
4. Photography.
5. Sitting around the dinner table with my family.
6. Coffee with a friend.
7. Clouds.
8. Slow dancing with my husband.
9. A day at the beach.
10. The change of seasons.

The Runaway Road

In 1980, my mom signed me up for the book of the month club.  I was part of a club - the Book Club.  I felt privileged.  I had bragging rights that a younger sister doesn't often get.  I was a brat.  But could you blame me -I was just so excited to get my books in the mail. The fact that they were hardcovers made them all the more special. 

Sadly, I was never really a book of the month club member.  Mom must have signed me up for the free, no obligation trial offer.  Two books were all I ever got to read. I remember the outrage when a third book came in the mail. 
"I bet they think that the books come and you will feel you have to keep them when your kid sees them.  That's what they are counting on."  Mom said to one of her friends on the phone, "Well, that's too bad, because it's going back!"   I thought she was all talk.  I believed that she would at least let me keep the third book, and cancel after that.  Nope, true to her word the mystery book was returned.  The third book was never taken out of the packaging.   

But it's the second book that I've been thinking about.  The second book I received in the mail was The Runaway Road, by Stan Mack.  The story is about the Puddle Family who are packed up and ready to go on their annual vacation to the mountains.  Just as the Puddles began their journey, the road had other plans.  Instead the road runs away and takes them in a new direction.  The road, who was  sick of the mountains, decides it wants go to the beach.  Metaphorically teaching The Puddles that life doesn't always goes as planned, sometimes even the deepest engraved routines change with life's winding road. 

I can relate to the Puddle family, change is constant.  And I can also relate to the road.

Just like the road in the story, I ran away this weekend.  I made the list, packed the clothes, the toiletries, the first aid kit, the grocerys.  I planned the meals and prepared dinners and salads, then I made a bee line out of town. 

I ran away because in order refuel for life, I needed to separate from it.  I left behind the distractions  - the drama, Gramma's half empty messy apartment, the uncertainty of what September will bring.   I left it all behind and found peace.  When we returned Sunday afternoon I could breathe again.  Ready to handle whatever changes the road may bring.

Remembering Gary

At Uncle Gary's ten year memorial, the family released balloons sent to heaven with messages for Gary.  So many words left unspoken, what did I want to say.

   

Gary was my husbands uncle.  I had been with John for nine years when Gary was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  At that point in my marriage, I had established close relationships with my immediate in laws, but Gary was part of the extended family that I didn't see often.  When I did see Gary, it was in a group setting, a family dinner or birthday party where there was little opportunity for a heart to heart that would allow me to know how special this man was.

Gary will always hold a special spot in my husbands heart.  John's father passed away when he was only eight.  Gary was one of three men who stepped in and acted as a male role model for my husband.  When his uncle was sick, it was important for John to be there for the man and the family who had given him so much support in his grief.  We both wanted to be a safe place to escape when the hurt was overwhelming, just like they were for him years earlier.   

This is how I know Gary.  I got to know Gary through his illness and his fight.  From how he touched other people. From his legacy. I know the huge gaping hole he's left behind.  A hole that time will never fill.  But it makes me sad, I didn't know the man during the best part of his life.

The message on my balloon said "Dear Gary, I miss you and think of you often"  but, I hope he knows I meant so much more.

a letter to my mother

This post is an excerpt from the love letter I gave my mom on her birthday:

Dear Mom, Today as we celebrate you I wanted to let you know how important you are in my life. Happy Birthday. Just like it is hard for me to believe that my kids are growing up, it's hard for me to believe that you have reached this milestone. You have traveled sixty five times around the sun, and with each passing you have learned a little bit more about yourself, with each time around you have grown more beautiful.

There are so many moments in my life where I felt your love and pride. Moments where you made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. And today, I am wondering did I leave you with the same feeling? Do you know how much I love you, how proud I am of you?

I am proud that you let your emotions flow so freely. I am proud that you are the kind of lady who  laughs so hard she pees her pants.  When something sad touches your heart, you cry just as easily.  You live out loud.  Experiencing your life to its fullest.   

I admire how courageously adapted to the stages of your life.  Whether the changes of your life were new and exciting or challenging and difficult, you have met them with an open heart.  Always remaining optimistic about what the future may hold.

I am thirty seven years old.  An adult.  Gone is the mouthy child who thought she knew it all.  In her place stands a woman who still looks to her mother as a compass when making decisions.  A sail when she needs encouragement.  And an anchor when she needs comfort and stability.  Thank-you for these gifts.    I love you so much, xoxo.





Summer's Growth

Summer is the space between springs promise and fall's bounty.  Summer is the season to grow.

 

As a child I often suffered terrible growing pains in my legs, the kind that would wake you up from sleep.  My mother would give me a baby aspirin and tuck me back into bed.  I would whimper in my bed as I waited for the medicine to work.  This would wake my older sister.  She would get up and wrap my legs in the afghan that Aunt Marg knit.  As long as I could remember the people who loved and cared for me always helped me with my growing pains.

I have experienced so much growth this year.  It's not surprising.  My one little word for 2011 was thrive:

(1) to make steady progress; prosper. 

(2) to grow vigorously; flourish

Maybe I didn't think my word all the way through.  Growth often uncomfortable.  And while a baby aspirin and my legs lovingly wrapped in a blanket isn't going to help my growing pains, it is still my family that I am look to for comfort and encouragement.

When I was editing my pictures, putting together the collages for this post, I felt overwhelming feeling of love and pride.  Seeing us camping, at the beach or just hanging out together, I know that John and I have built a strong foundation.  A strong base that will support all of us as we grow and thrive.  

where to go from here

I haven't posted here in a while.  It's not that I don't have the words, God knows that the words have been racing around my head, yelling so loud that I can't make them out.  I have the words, and yet my voice is gone.

To quiet the noise, I've been working my ass off.  Stripping and sanding a deck, planning birthday parties, packing, laundry, cleaning the kids rooms, anything.  Busy work I call it.  Like if I work hard enough, than that will make me enough.

Enough.  I'm so sick and tired of trying to be enough, and the journey to enoughness.  And enough by whose standards?  Mine?  Theirs?  And who the hell are they anyway?  I've read so many stories on the Internet of women who seem to step into their enoughness effortlessly.  Like they wake up one morning and there they are, fully capable and confident in themselves.  Never stepping back into the shadows of self consciousness.  How is it so easy for them?  What is stopping me from this awakening? 

Is it supposed to be an awakening?  A light bulb, aha moment?  Because if it is, I've had a few of those.  The problem is these flashes of light always seem to dim, and I am left questioning myself amid the dark self doubt that lurk in my mind.  

I question the choices I've made, and even worse the choices I didn't make.  I question why I am where I'm at.  I am stay at home mom.  This has been my job for the last seven years.  In my job there are no pay stubs and no T4 slips.  Monetary rewards are something I gave up in return for the opportunity to care for my family.

I know it was a choice that made a difference.  I know it was enough.  I mattered.  I believe this, and yet part of me feels like I let myself down.  That in caring for my family I lost my voice.

In September my job is being downsized.  Charlie is going to be in school full time.  My job, a big part of my identity will be eliminated.  This chapter of my life is coming to a close and I don't know where my story is going.

I'm not sure where to go from here.

And if all this self doubt talk has you wanting to scream, "You stupid, spoiled girl. Get a grip, pull out your big girl panites and get on with life," don't worry you're not alone.  I've said it to myself a thousand times. 

I just need to quiet the noise in my head to clear so I can hear it.