Happy Canada Day!

Happy Canada Day from Down Wit Dat!

Bonsey is ready for a rainy day. 
[Photo description:  Skeleton on a deck style porch wearing a red cowboy hat
with a white maple leaf, a lei made of red leaves and white flowers
and holding a red and white umbrella that is shaped like a baseball cap.]

(Those of you in the know may recognize The Umbrella.  If not, here you go.)

(Not So) Idle Hands

I woke up yesterday morning to the sounds and smells of a summer that is almost here.  I lay there, delightedly breathing in wet-grass-laced-with-peonies while four separate bird songs rang out against the background hum of early morning traffic.  It was a beautiful kind of morning, one that I have not only found again, but also re-learned to appreciate.  The gentleness.  The sweetness, made extra so by the sense of stolen time as these moments were fleeting and would end suddenly as soon as the twins woke up.   My regret for leaving my bed faded as I slipped on my gardening clogs and headed outside to plant before it got too steamy and our morning too busy.

Normally my garden would be in by now.  Although our growing season is shorter than our southern neighbours, we generally have things in the ground after May 2-4 weekend (Victoria Day--the third Monday in May) as that is usually a good landmark for last frost.  Usually.  This year wasn't the case so initially it was good that I was behind schedule, but now that we are looking at the middle of June, those extra three weeks could make the difference between an extra batch of canning or not.  Normally, I would be panicking and in full grown "shoulda/hafta" mode... I should do this... I "shoulda done" that... I hafta do this... I DEFINITELY hafta do that... and so on.  Not this year.  Not this year by far. 

This year I wouldn't even have a vegetable garden if it wasn't for my brother and my Mom.  My mother starts all her seedlings herself and she sent some leftover plants down.  My brother also had a few left over that he had purchased commercially.  Most of them had sat on my front porch, "hardening" well beyond the point that they should have.  I decided on this gorgeous morning that I was going to take the time and put them in once and for all.

I carried my seedlings out back and took stock of what I had.

Plants from my Mother
[Photo description:  many tomato seedlings in labelled plastic drinking cups.  They are very green and healthy.]

Plants from my Brother [Photo description:  Several tomato seedlings in two square plastic commercial pots.  They are not as green and healthy.]

From Mom I had a couple Roma tomato plants, several Glamour (bright red, medium tomatoes), and a some called Canabec (which is a shorter growing, pinkish tomato), a black cherry tomato plant and something called "Matt's Wild Cherries".  I'm not sure who Matt is and why his cherry tomatoes are wilder than other people's, but hey.  Free tomatoes.  My brother gave me some Sweet Million cherry tomatoes and five Yellow Boy tomato plants.

Usually I have vegetables and herbs but this year I am just doing tomatoes.  First rule of gardening:  only plant what you desire and have time for.  I divided the tomatoes from the cherry tomatoes and started pulling weeds and preparing the soil to transplant.  As I was doing so, my mind wandered.  That's one of the best parts about gardening actually, the ability to allow your thoughts to meander gently in all directions as you connect yourself physically to the earth.

As my mind drifted, I thought about my kids and my advocacy work and how lately, my heart has not been into maintaining my online efforts.  They too have gone fallow in spots, overgrown with weedy spam in others and not as tended to as they should be.  Again, I would normally launch into another round of "shoulda/hafta", and a lot of guilt and self-loathing but not this time.  Not this time by far.

I started thinking that my garden is a larger metaphor than I ever imagined.  If I cultivate here, put my efforts there, something else is going to do without.  It's a metaphor for my own life, and in turn rather a microcosm in a much bigger one.  I know a few of you are now scratching your heads and wondering what I've been smoking, but bear with me for a bit.  Right now, I'm taking the "English Garden" approach to most of my online efforts, hacking away at major issues here and there and generally leaving them alone for a while to divert my attentions elsewhere.  I just make sure there is a path through the taller foliage.

Instead, I'm cultivating my family and myself. 

It's an exciting time for all the kids:  Wyatt is just on the edge of walking and comes up with new words every single day.  Zoe continues to astound us with... well, everything about her, really, while Quinn is finishing second grade and constantly offering up facts about the most random things that amaze all assembled. 

Me?  Well, I'm coming along fine, thank you.

There will be plenty of things to write about and this blog will not slowly recede into the creeper and the ivy.  However, the subject matter will continue to blossom beyond my son's chromosomes, to include disability, mental health/illness and more.  As it should, because ultimately this blog is about a family, not just one boy with a diagnosis.  Many things grow in our garden, some exotic, some more familiar, some toxic, some therapeutic.  It's really just a matter of perspective on each of these things as well, as what is poisonous to some is healing to others.

Before I leave you to work on the other two pieces of writing that occurred to me as I pulled weeds, transplanted, prepared the soil and marveled at the warming breeze that cooled the sweat on my back, I told you all of that to tell you this:  Life, especially mine, is very much a garden.  Some years you have good weather and a long growing season, some you don't.  Sometimes you get hail or high winds or blight that takes out your whole crop.    Sometimes you have to leave the soil fallow for a whole season, barren and naked to the elements and allow for renewal.  Some years you have to pay for the excesses of others and nurture the soil, adding nutrients, destroying pests and cultivating a rich medium in which to grow.  You grow what you can manage, sharing the excess with family, friends and neighbours.

You get some surprises too:

There will be those that volunteer to help:

My surprise "volunteer" tomato [Photo description:  tiny tomato seedling that grew in the garden of its own accord]

 Those that visit for a time:

Feral kitten that hung out with me before vanishing through the fence [Photo description: tiny grey striped kitten calmly sitting upright underneath a child's raised sandbox]

Those that you thought gone, yet make a surprise return:

Rosebuds on the bush I thought I lost [Photo description:  rosebush stem with 5 rosebuds on it]

 And those perennial friends that are faithful no matter what.

White peonies [Photo description:  White peony bloom with bud surrounded by green leaves]

There are also spiders and ants and earthworms and other somewhat icky things that have their role, just as much as the dirt and sweat.  But together, this garden, this life is a beautiful thing.  You just have to take a deep breath of the morning air, step back, behold the wonders that it offers... and occasionally prepare to get your hands dirty.


[Down Wit Dat Will Return...]

Happy Easter!

(What?  You thought we'd forget Mr. Bones?)

Love Letters

Today is a very special day in my house.  Today the twins, Wyatt and Zoe, turn three. 

Three is such a transition year for us.  They are not babies any more (although I still slip and occasionally call them that), nor are they toddlers any longer.  Now we're entering the world of preschooler, which is both wonderful and terrifying at the same time.  If you'll excuse me now, I'll be in the corner pulling on a bottle of JD and alternating between contemplative silence and hysterical laughter on that one.

As the distance grows between this point and what I am now calling their post-birth freakout, I've come to realize--with the clarity that only time brings--that the source of all the grief wasn't what I thought.  It had nothing to do with Wyatt having Down syndrome.  It did have a little more to do with him having an Atrioventricular Septal Defect and Zoe having an inguinal hernia that required surgery at six weeks of age.  It had a lot to do with the suddenness of their arrival, the major abdominal surgery that brought them into this world, the routine and nature of the NICU and the litany of growth charts, imposed feeding regimens, assessments and appointments.   Plus:  There.  Are.  Two.  Of.  Them.

Never, ever, underestimate how busy parents of newborn twins are.

But, here we are. 

Three. 

Holy fuckballs.

As this day grew closer, [read: last week some time] I decided that I wanted to write my children each a love letter of sorts, something that they could read in the future.  I saved sharing them until today, simply because I didn't want them to get mixed up with the hoopla of Valentine's Day.  These are love letters of another sort.  Ones that go a little beyond cutesy hearts and flowers.

For Zoe:

For my daughter, my mini-me.  You resemble me more than just with the shape of your face and your dark eyes, love... I recognize that heart as it is a piece of my own.  Your strength goes so much deeper than your physical prowress.  You are funny; quick and darling; all rolled up in a ball of glorious noise.  You sing along to Led Zeppelin, Stevie Nicks, Joni Mitchell, The Ramones, Heart, Janis Joplin and anything else I throw your way... and dance without hesitation.  Whether as princess or a pirate, you are as fierce as my love for you.

From your stealthy refusal to be captured on ultrasound initially, to your refusal to even be born, you have demonstrated time and time again how strong you are.  You were not much bigger than my hand when you were born, in fact your entire hand gripped the first digit of my pinkie finger.  I was terrified the first time I went to hold you, until you started to wail with a volume that beat against my ears.  I had concert ring for the first three months of your life.  There is no doubt in my mind that you will ever have trouble making yourself heard.

May you never squander your gifts on anyone less deserving.  Let no one or no thing ever dim that fire that burns bright within you. 

Always be you.  No one else.

You would think (hope) that the letter for my son would be same, perhaps with a little tweak geared towards him being a boy and her being a girl.  But sadly, this is not the case.  What I want to say to my son, and what I have to say to him are still, in today's world, two separate things.  To Wyatt, I will have to stress to him, more than the other two, to be wary of strangers.  He absolutely has to understand that everyone that claims to mean him well, won't.  That may mean his teachers, his therapists, doctors and nurses and even the police.  Wyatt will have to know that well into his adult years, there will be people that will treat him like a child, that misunderstand his nuances and actions.  There will be people that write him off completely...  That feel that his life is not worth as much as another, that try and deny him his basic humanity.

[I cried while writing that.]


...Or not.

I hope not.  I hope by the time that Wyatt reaches adulthood, that my pausing here will seem old-fashioned, outdated.  That things like acceptance and meaningful inclusion will be just a matter of course.  That competency will be presumed automatically.  He will be seen as just another flavour of humanity and be allowed the according rights and freedoms.  He will be seen as my son, nothing more, nothing less.  Because that is what he is.

I want people to see my son, for him.  As I see him.  As he is. 

For Wyatt:

For my son, my mini-Sean.  You resemble your father more than just with the shape of your face and your complexion.  You have his gentleness and his sense of humour.  Your will is matchless, your determination nothing short of remarkable.  You are funny; quick and adorable; a complete package of noise and dirt.  You sing along to the songs that your older brother and I sing to you... and cheer without hesitation.  Whether concentrating on a new task or asserting your place in this world, you are as fierce as my love for you. 

From your determination to be born and get this lifetime started, to your complete disregard of any sort of medical predictions regarding your health and development, you have demonstrated time and time again how strong you are.  You were not much bigger than my hand when you were born, in fact your hand almost completely gripped the first digit of my pinkie finger.  I was terrified the first time I went to hold you, until you snuggled into my neck and sighed, as if to say "this is what I was looking for".  There is no doubt in my mind that you will ever have trouble expressing yourself.

May you never squander your gifts on anyone less deserving.  Let no one or no thing ever dim that fire that burns bright within you. 

Always be you.  No one else.

Happy Birthday to my littlest peeps.  You and your older brother are the reason I fight so hard.  May you all know that you are loved and cherished for exactly who you are. 

And always will be. 

Love,
Mom.

What's Up?

"And so I cry sometimes
When I'm lying in bed
Just to get it all out
What's in my head
And I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning
And I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream at the top of my lungs
What's going on?"
--What's Up?, 4 Non Blondes

I feel like shit.

I've probably listened to The Wall eleventy-teen times this week.   That's usually not a good sign.

In the echoes of the back of my mind, where my critics, both real and subconscious live, there is a little (metaphorical) voice saying "Why wouldn't you be?  Look at your life."

I know.

I work too much, I sleep too little.  I am the sole breadwinner for Team Logan.  I spend my one life, working both days and nights where I wade through the depression, psychosis, mania and addictions of a populace.  I then come home to my other life, my three kids who deserve healthy, happy parents, a clean house and all the attention we can give them, instead of a Mom who just wants to flop on the couch, drink Jack Daniels and play Skyrim.

For the record, I love what I do.  I love my kids, my house, the life that I have built for myself and the people in it.

But.

I.  Feel.  Like.  Shit.

As I looked around bewildered one day through some unprovoked tears, I had to sit down and take a hard look at what has happened in the last year.  I spent several months off and on, in a great deal of pain in the bathroom.  After all the tests, after all the procedures, we still don't know what that was... other than it seems to have subsided in the last month. We still haven't hit the one year anniversary of Wyatt's surgery;  although he is doing very well, that experience still haunts a bit.  Work, school, Christmas, money, family, life... When you break it down along the five axes like we would with anyone else, yeah...  I've got a lot on my plate, man.

Not to put a fine point on it, but right now, my coping mechanisms aren't working too well.  Everybody has them, it is just a matter of whether they are constructive or destructive and how well they work overall.  Coping strategies that are negative for you are pretty self evident:  things like alcohol, cutting, drugs, any behaviour that is excessive and interferes with the normal functioning of your life.  The positive ones are not as fun or have the instant gratification as the other, but have longer lasting effects.  Things like distraction, visualization, exercise, going for a walk, playing an instrument, doing a craft, doing a hobby.  The other addendum to that is that when your coping starts to fail, you really don't feel like doing any of the positive ones any more. 

This blows.  Goats for quarters, even.

Some might readily point to my second born, the one with Down syndrome.  If one were to believe the grief rhetoric that parents have been force fed since... well, forever, his existence is reason alone for me to feel this tired and burned out.  Hell, if I really wanted to, I could blame any sort of thing that I did or felt on his "brokenness".  Don't forget I was warned by professionals that having a child with a disability would break up my marriage.

Um, no.

I'm going to take yet another teaching moment (gah!) and state that I refuse to spin this the other way,  to say that he is my, rock, my salvation with a magical chromosome.  I will say that all my kids, all three of them are the reason that I do anything;  from getting up in the morning to working extra hours to not sleeping, ever.  The idea that one person can cause another's depression is laughable at best and very misleading at worst.  Ultimately, like everything else in life, it all boils down to coping.  How well, when, how in particular and how much in charge you are willing to be of it.  This is not a will yourself out of a rut through the magic of bootstraps thing any more than it is madness, an unspeakable horror lingering just out of sight in the shadows.  It just is.

As a rule, I've given up most of my vices other than the occasional drink (or three) now and again and my Coca-Cola and my coffee.  Oh dear god the coffee.  Music has always been my drug of choice and I utilize it whenever I can.   My sense of humour is also so dark that it's difficult to see most days, but it gets me through.

As I tell my patients, if it's not working, do something else.  I have basically gone from work to home to work and with the exception of a brief trip at Christmas, did not go out at all for months, except for a handful of trips to the grocery store.  It's also minus a million outside and even if I do manage to see daylight ever, it is probably snowing.  So, to offset, I took a little day trip with some girlfriends last week.  At least for a little while, I found a piece of heaven.

But, one afternoon out of 365 is not enough.

If it's not working, do something else.

We frequently re-assess how things are done in Team Logan.  It's time to, once again.  As we do not have a lot of social supports around us and not a lot of opportunity for things like nights off and "date nights" (or hell, "uninterrupted meaningful conversation"), we jumped at a proposal made by Wyatt's worker.  She found a new program through Tourism Toronto that gave parents of children with disabilities a weekend of respite.  Called "Relax, Recharge and Renew", the program utilizes many of the major attractions and hotels in Toronto and creates a weekend away for parents/parents and siblings of the person with special needs.  At first, I was horrified.  However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized, yeah, I do need some respite... 

...From my life, period. 

I do really need a break, from being a parent, as parenting all my kids (like parenting any kids), is hard.  Listening to, assessing and the assisting with the anguish of strangers is hard.  Maintaining a safe environment while still maintaining the privacy and respecting the humanity of a patient is hard.  Dealing with the systemic failures, interdepartmental issues and bullying in a regional hospital is hard.  Dealing with social isolation, dealing with a personality that is very much introverted (believe it or not) most of the time, is hard.  Writing this blog and being involved in the advocacy projects I am in is hard.  Living the double life that my job life and family life are and maintaining some semblance of balance?  Hard.

This weekend is Team Logan's weekend.  From when the car service picks us up Friday afternoon, to when it deposits us back home again on Sunday, we will be hopefully be relaxing, renewing and recharging.  And reflecting and re-evaluating.  And hopefully putting some new plans in place.

To quote Spider-man (or "Spider Ma'am if you happen to be my daughter):  "with great power comes great responsibility".  I lack spiffy powers, but I do have responsibilities--to my employer, my patients, my co-workers and my family and friends--to stay on the top of my game.  I'm not at the moment.  I recognize that and it's time to do something about it. 

I'm hoping this weekend will at least be enough of an interrupt to allow us to make some changes, to allow whatever it is that is chewing my tail to fuck off.  Hell, I'd be cool with 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep, some decent tunes and a good meal.   This weekend appears to be all that and a bottle of wine.  (I'd say chips there but I've eaten far too many of those lately.)

Relaxing, renewing, recharging, re-evaluating.  Yeah.  Sounds just like what I'd recommend.  Life can really grind you down from time to time, even if you are one of the ones that you'd least expect or are well versed or considered the 'strongest' or most brave or some other silly thing.  Lets face it;  there will always be more snow, more bills, more stress, more sleeplessness, more coffee jitters, more trolls, more physical pain, more anguish, more, more, more...  Life is like that.  

Sometimes building a fort isn't enough.  Sometimes you need to step outside, take a deep breath and get some perspective.  

...So I can get back to doing what I love.  

(That may involve coffee and Skyrim too, but you get the point.)