Angst on Mother's Day

There is nothing like a designated day of recognition to drive the economy. Oh, I'm sorry, is it meant to stir the emotions?

In 2008, I wrote about the origins of Mother's Day: ancient Greek Goddess day of worship, centuries later turned into the servant's day off to see their families and "Mother" church (for servants often lived with their employers), and finally in North America an attempt to improve sanitary work conditions for women in the Civil War and later a political movement for women's rights. In 1914 it transformed again into a day of recognition of women who lost sons during the war. And in 1923, the commercial enterprise of "buying gifts to show you care" had all but eradicated any of the origins of this day.

But that's not my focus for today. In previous Mother's day posts, I've reflected upon how my experience with an extremely premature son altered my sense of motherhood. My first mother's day, Torran was still in the hospital and I barely felt like a mother. I'd missed the entire third trimester. I never had a baby shower. I couldn't even hold my son without some kind of medical intervention and supervision. On that mother's day, I gave my tribute to the nurses who looked after him the most: Jenn, Jen and Nancy, and all of the nurses who made a difference in my son's survival. Without them, I could not go home a mother with a child to care for.

In the following years, Mother's day always came with an emotional set-back related to that traumatizing experience. As I watch and read a Jennifer Wells` TorontoStar.com article for Mother`s Day about newborn twins and Kangaroo care, I cry and then hug my little man, so grateful that he was able to come home. I don`t know how long it will take for me to move beyond this reaction, or if I ever will. However, this again, is not what vexes my enjoyment of Mother`s Day.

Sadly, this year there is a situation which seems insurmountable between my mother and our family (my sister and hers being included in this as well). In a way, I feel like I am confessing an embarrassing secret that has polluted our family for years.

And even now, I type and the completely re-edit what I have written to preserve her dignity when what I want to do is express myself unreservedly.

Her hospitalization of 2012 brought to light circumstances of her own design that I cannot integrate into my concept of her as a mother or a grandmother. I also have come to accept and believe she has an undiagnosed personality disorder of some kind. I think she has had it for years but I was unable to realize it. My lifetime experiences with her were not always idea, typical or acceptable. But she is my mother, so I took it. Until now. We have not spoken in a truly sincere way since May of last year, when she was still in hospital and not herself. In fact, the last time I had a coherent and kind conversation with her, one that she could remember, was probably December 2011.

My heart is so hurt that I have lost the ability to see past the problems and be loving towards her. And I refuse to expose my son to them. I am thankful for the direction she gave me in my youth, and the joys she fought for her children to have, but now I question so much of my early childhood experiences, that I risk toppling my sense of self. My mother has lead by example and by anti-example. Life was not always horrible, but I cannot emotionally keep up with the strife of this unhealthy interaction. I do not wish my mother ill. In fact, I want her to have more health, direction and joy in her life. I simply cannot provide that for her, nor do I want to any more.

Mom, I hope you are well, but I will not be joyful about you today. I'm sorry.

Seeing Red... Reno Day Number, oh Hell I've stopped counting

The rumours are true. Our proverbial end may be in sight. Last week a storm brewed over our household, namely the one caused by Hurricane Bruce and Typhoon Lesley. We reached a point where cabin fever combined with a longing to see ourselves back upstairs sleeping on normal beds, with organised closets, came to a head. As a result, we were less than gentle with each other when expressing opinions or planning our final weeks of the renovation.

Previously, Bruce sent an "antsy" email about the finishing date. When our contractor Stan Boigon of Renovation Experts suggested an end of May completion date, well let's just say it didn't go over well with either of us. Mostly because we are impatient to get back upstairs but also because we are approaching the two month mark. Typical of Bruce and I, we had a difference in opinion as to how that finishing date was decided upon, and what to do about it.

Short and loud, the disagreement brought us to sending another email, resulting a face-to-face finishing meeting with Stan. The clouds parted and the end came in sight!

Our new bed arrives on the 13th. Stan is going to give us two functional bedrooms by then - or at least two rooms for us and Torran to sleep in. Whether or not we will have the closet organisers installed is another matter (I think we are going to use the ClosetMaid system from Lowes). The kitchen counter, provided by Interstone, cut and installed by Latitude, is scheduled to go in on May 15th. These, and our aching bodies, are the driving factors for the next couple of weeks of work. The cabinets built by BCKC Inc. are almost complete. Our small problems with the design were sorted out and now we`re just waiting on the very top cabinet doors and the front panel for the dishwasher. Appliances are ready and waiting in our garage. We changed over to a gas top cooking range, and I have to admit that I`m a bit nervous about using it!

Then it is just a matter of getting storage for the craft room (ack!!), getting curtains and wall finishings up, installing the stain glass art by Michaela Helliwell the artist of Yew Tree Studios and finally, moving of our stuff back upstairs. Oh yes, and there is the small matter of making a control panel for the space themed bedroom for Torran!

Some pictures of stuff in progress:

looking a little dusty, but cleans up well: Brazilian Cumaru  wood (Brazilian teak) stained espresso coffee, supplied by Big Box Flooring and installed by a team from Stan Boigon, Renovation Experts

crown moldings around the support beam in the living room (and its evil twin) installed by  Michael's Unique Crown Moulding. Wall colour: Benjamin Moore Silver Satin 856 and ceiling colour Benjamin Moore Moonlight White OC125. I love how the crown moulding pops out painted a brilliant white.

The new colours of my craft room and the crown moldings installed by  Michael's Unique Crown Moulding who also did   the master bedroom (photos to come). The floor is covered with paper.

The new front entryway tiles supplied by Factory Tile Depot and installed by Nush from Renovation Experts (Stan Boigon).  I do not think there is a before picture, but believe me, the linoleum was pretty awful and well worn.

Now we are seeing red! Benjamin Moore Million Dollar Red. Their web site does not give the colour justice. Electrical work by Orion Electric

The cabinets in the process of being installed. BCKC Inc builder and installer.

Bianco Antiquo granite, more chunks than flecks in the grain. Fabulous! I love granite shopping. Supplier: Interstone; fabrication and installation: Latitude.

Our supervisor, checking out the back portion of the  newly modified closet (makes a small walk in)

Finally, I embarked on a little project. I found a dining room chandelier with a shade and crystal balls on Kijiji which probably retails for at least $250-300. I removed the covering on the shade which appeared too blingy for our project and replaced it with red duponi satin. Co-incidentally, this satin is the same one I wore on my wedding dress, and is also featured on the mattes of my wedding photos.

templating the new fabric with the previous material

Applying the silk to the shade drum

testing the illumination. Next step: hang it with crystals

40 by 40

That's me from moments ago. I sweat. A lot. I don't care that it doesn't look attractive. It doesn't matter to me that my hair won't stay in place and my face is beet red. And make-up? Forget about it.

I look this way because I just finished a hard work out. I am moderately, or maybe very, unfit and overweight. Even so, I'd look the same if if I was fit and slim. I am just a sweaty person when I exert myself. There's nothing I can do about it.

So, why make something like this a blog entry? Accountability.

Many years ago, one of my first forays into the bloggerverse was keeping a journal entry of my weight loss and fitness. The web site no longer exists, although somewhere I kept the data contained therein.

I lost 90lbs or so over about a year, with hard work and low carb nutrition. It's time I do it again. I made a commitment to myself this spring. To lose 40lbs by the time I'm 40 years old. That'll be August 7th. That's 3 months and its a very hard lofty goal.

But I have to do it. Although my weight has not stopped me from enjoying life (save for a couple of exceptions), it is not enough. I pleaded/begged/cried/worried that my son would be able to walk. Together we worked for hours on his motor strengths and skills so that he can run with or without his braces despite his lack of coordination and balance.

Now I want to be able to run with him.

I lost 20lbs last year, but was never really committed to looking after myself. This year, I want to work harder to re-discover the sexy, curvy woman my husband married. There she is:

I am tired of selecting the most slim pictures of myself, or even hiding from the camera. When other people tag me in photos, I am tired of cringing at what they see and I have refused to see. And I want, although I never though I'd say it, to be able to keep up with my son.

Besides, I still have that sexy gal's wardrobe.

When We Played Russian Roulette, We Didn't Expect This!

My Blog Entry on Friday March 14, 2008:

Do you want to remove your son's life support?

You are told that there is no right or wrong answer.

You are encouraged to take your time to decide.

You are reassured that the process has to reflect your family needs and capabilities.

You are not told how to stop the anticipation of your child’s death or disability.

You are not protected from the grief that tears your heart out of your chest.

You are not able to look into the future to direct your path.


Torran, Bruce and I shared our worse moment today. The repeated ultrasound showed that Torran’s bleed increased on side of his head to a grade 4 level. This means that the blood has extended beyond the space in the brain called a ventricle and he had bled into the surrounding brain tissue. The blood is in an area involved with movement, and he faces a high probability of being permanently paralysed on one side of his body, arm and/or leg.

The other side of his brain may continue to bleed further, also making it a grade 4. At present, it remains grade 3, but the ventricle into which the blood is located is bulging slightly. If this continues, the increasing pressures in his brain will interfere with brain tissue growth and development. This will lead to further developmental problems, and/or the need for brain surgery at about his third month of life (which would be when he would have been a full term baby). He could develop hydrocephalus and require a shunt to remove excess fluid from his brain and put it into his abdomen. If there is blood in his brain at the time of his surgery, this hightens the risk of blocking this shunt, and further cause him brain damage and/or life threatening problems.

We received the information at 5pm after enjoying Torran’s first relatively stable day. The staff physician made herself available to discuss the result with us in private, accompanied by the physician who follows him daily, as well as his nurse. Sitting at the same conference desk where some seven years ago I learned how to use the hospital’s blood sugar machines, we were told that there is a window of opportunity within which we could withdraw Torran’s life support if we so chose.

We were being given the option to remove the little tube that goes through his nose into his mouth and provides him with most of his breathing. Torran’s precious lungs are not strong enough to continue without this technology. Essentially, he would die without it.

Seven weeks ago, we were told that it would be unlikely that he would be able to breathe at all. Termination of my pregnancy seemed like the only option that we had to prevent the pain of losing a child.

At 34 minutes past midnight on the night of his birth, our little man breathed on his own for a full four minutes before his body revealed that he needed the assistance from the medical team by being intubated (the tube in his nose).

Although he continues to need mechanical ventilation and adjustments to his blood chemistry, he is functioning as well as could be hoped. After resting his bowels for a night, the team doesn’t think that he has necrotizing enterocolitis. He finally had another couple of meconium poops, but remains a little jaundiced. However, he’s only required one of the three lights for phototherapy. His blood sugars are stabilizing, as is his sodium level.

And when he opens his eyes and looks at us, it is the most beautiful sight we have ever seen.

We informed the team of our decision.

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to us.

Torran is the best thing that has ever happened to us.

We choose the unknown path, which is flooded with our tears, and refuse to pull the tube out.

Fast forward to May 01, 2013

There are events that you can forget in when you're in the NICU, but that day was not one of them. Before Torran was born, the option to terminate my pregnancy because of the oligohydramnios was touched upon by physicians twice. Both times, I could not bring myself to make that a reality.

On March 14, 2008 the doctors confirmed that Torran had internal bleeding in his brain. The brain does not like to be exposed directly to blood as the blood essentially eats away the brain tissue. We were told Torran's intraventricular (IVH) level 3 and 4 bleeding was more rare in occurrence but more damaging. In particular, the damage was to a motor part of his brain and would likely cause paralysis. However, they couldn't tell how much of his left side would be affected, or how extensive the paralysis would be.

For the first time in his NICU admission, we were offered to remove life support to "save" him and us from this unknown life. I don't blame the doctors. They did this because other parents who felt they were not given the choice resented the outcome and pursed the hospital for compensation. If a child is not on life support, you see, the doctors can't stop the child from living if things are not going well. They said, this is the only time that this "choice" can be offered. We took the Russian Roulette wheel for a spin, without a map of directions.

Every time I saw a young person in a wheelchair or walking with braces/canes/walker I wondered, what will my child have to face? What will it look like when *he* tries to enjoy the world? For every physiotherapy I took him to, exercise I forced him through and stretching session I negotiated him into, my heart leapt with every stride and broke with each setback.

Torran has worked so hard to get his mobility and functionality. A diagnosis of Autism smacked me hard, even though I knew his cerebral palsy and hydrocephalus would only be only the start of his medical challenges. The ASD causes Torran anxiety over changes and very low frustration tolerance (hence he does not want to try new things). Yet, with each progress, I raised my bar of hope. Would he, could he reach it or was I being too demanding? Pessimism and Optimism remained...correction, remain my constant conflicting companions.

And then, five years later, suddenly and without priming, cues or practice, Torran gave me the best Mother`s Day present I could ever hope to have. Grab a tissue, and enjoy this brief window into my elation.

Mealtime Planning... or Something.

The conversation is typical and goes something like this - all without eye contact:

Me: Torran would you like meatballs for dinner?

Torran: No.

Me: What would you like to have for dinner?

Torran: Beu-beu (his nonsense sound for an entire dictionary's worth of words).

Me: Meatballs?

Torran: No.

Me: Then what would you like to have for dinner?

Torran: Beu-beu.

I hold a laminated picture of "I don't know" in front of him, as a suggestion for a more expected response (expected, appropriate, whatever)\

Torran: I don't know.

Me: What would you like to have for supper?

Torran: Not meatballs because they are no good. Sausage casserole.

Me: I can't do sausage casserole tonight, maybe tomorrow. Or we can barbeque them. Tonight  you have a choice, you can have chicken wings or meatballs.

Torran: Meatballs.

Me: Excellent choice.

(no, we don't have a functional kitchen yet. Crock pot curry chicken was the night before last. I am jonesing for a stove... or an oven).

Double dose of unexpected joy!

I watch how children play. I watch them a lot. Many a source advises, don't compare your child to others. I can't help it.

So there's a little tug in my heart when...
I see friends' children scampering up and down wooden stairs without assistance, wobbling or stopping to stare at lights or the ceiling...
On  play date the kids from school are playing hide and seek and my child ignores them all for a small train set...
Four year olds run all over a soccer field with laughter madly chasing a ball in their ever so cute uniforms...

It is a daily experience and some days are worse than others.

Once in a while, though, my little man, who has already been through so much and has a farther rougher road to travel, does something which comes naturally to other children. And that makes me elated!

This weekend, I got a double dose!

On Friday, Torran and I were in the basement (well, I don't have many other places to go in my house at the moment) playing "restaurant". For us, playing the game looks like this:
Torran sets up a table, grabs bowling pins and labels them each with a flavour and the grabs balls and labels them as ice-creams. His dialogue is a constant stream, without waiting for response or input from me. There is no reciprocity when he says "this is for you". He sets the item on my table and moves on. We've played this way for about a month now. If I don't "lead" the play, asking him questions or providing direction, I may as well not be there. He won't do it with stuffed animals though (like a "tea party").

Perhaps it was the grey weather outside, but sitting back and letting Torran direct the play (which I've been advised previously to do) just got plain old fashioned boring for me. My back hurt from sitting on the floor and eventually my mind started to wanted to the perpetual "to do" list. I got up and sat at the computer, sending the message that seemed so pressing all of a sudden.

Torran came through and asked me to stop being on the computer. For the first time, I told him that when he plays by himself without playing together with me, I don't find it very interesting. He said "I want to play with you". Ok, I though, let's give this a go again.

Upon returning, however, Torran started the same pattern of self-focused play. When he sat down in front of me and started banging on his legs, I asked him what he was doing. "I am banging" he replied. I explained that "I am" is not "we are" and that it is not playing together.

He decided to toss a ball of ice-cream at me, saying "catch it" after it had hit me. Despite my elated shock (he's NEVER tossed a ball to us before unprompted), I told him that he was throwing it at me if he didn't ask  me to catch it first.

What an amazing thing happened next... not only did Torran ask me to catch the ball before he tossed it, he then held his hands out ready for me to give it back!

Yeah, so what? You might think. He's playing ball. In the five years of his life, Torran has never initiated playing ball or any interactive sport. He's asked us to kick or throw a ball, but not to him. He only played ball under step by step direction from an adult, and the passes have maxed out between 10-15 times. Playing ball games requires an understanding of turn taking, the self-control to not have anxiety or frustration if he can't catch the ball, and the ability to engage in a game that requires waiting (i.e. for his turn...waiting is an abstract concept, you can't see, touch or feel "wait"). It demands a level of eye-hand coordination from him that he often lacks, and makes him act out in frustration/behaviour problem when it doesn't give him what he wants.

We did it another four times with the other balls, each time with a bit of prompt from me ("catch it Mummy" I model, "wait until I say I"m ready", etc). Then he became dis-interested and moved on.

But for this precious golden moment, Torran wanted to throw a ball to his mother, and catch it back from her!!

After raving about my son when I was at work on Saturday, I barely recovered from this breakthrough when, during the afternoon play date, he spontaneously did this:

When he finished eating his lunch, he went up to the baby whose sleepy demeanour turned into a "get me outta here I don't want to sleep" cry, and started to rock her and sing to her. This is my child, who concept of other people's feelings only shows up when we're reading books, or when Mummy and Daddy are "cross" and he'd rather us be "happy" - usually because it means we're cross with him. He understood that her cry meant she was somehow upset or unhappy and he wanted to improve that for her. Usually, he is self-focused and is not bothered with other people's feelings or needs (which is partly typical for his age but it also speaks to a concept called Theory of Mind, when a person has difficulty appreciating that other people have their own feelings/hopes/dreams/beliefs/etc ). He was gentle with the swing and although he was distracted by the lights/sounds/fish they did not possess all of his attention. Torran even engaged in eye contact with the baby from time to time, who was so captivated by Torran that she stared at him directly throughout the interaction.

Wow! Just Wow! A great way to start the week!

Something Cool Happened in Space...and Etobicoke

I know many talented artists. We hired one of them to paint Torran's bedroom as a space theme. It is awesome!

To inspire our wee hero, and to encourage patriotism, Desiree Kern of Greyscale Studios painted the International space station and Canadian Commander Chris Hadfield inside it, waving from the window.

Feeling a bit like a "fangirl" I posted it to his Facebook page.

A Canadian astronaut high above the earth enjoyed the fantastic art in my humble home. It may sound silly, but I was so excited this morning when I found out that, among "others", Col. Chris Hadfield "liked" my Facebook post to his wall.

THAT IS SO COOL!!

Now I want to be an astronaut when I grow up.
I hope Torran does too!

The Other Guy

Yes, we started out house renovations on the wrong floor. At the time, having a fully functional basement was the priority, and we didn't have the moula to get the big open plan kitchen we always intended for this house.

In 2008 we hired a man to renovate our basement, including a bathroom. Boy, did we learn a thing or two in that process! I haven't been able to talk about it much, despite our combined fury at the circumstance. Our first "real" renovation went so terribly wrong! And we are still living with remnants of it today. At first our basement pretty much looked like this:

The box of a bathroom you see belonged to the handiwork of the previous home owner. We wanted to take it out, expand the bathroom, move the washer and dryer under the stairs and finish the walls and floor of the rest of the space to make it useable and comfy. I have memories of my grandmother's unfinished basement and the creepy feeling it gave me being dark and cold with cement floors and poor lighting. Definitely not what I wanted my child to grow up with. Besides, it was the only space for us to put guests!

The first man who came to give us this long-awaited living space failed completely. Initially, he was a nice enough person who I think had good intentions. In fact, I don't think he really knew what he was doing and took on a bigger project than he could handle. On the other hand, we were too nice to put our foot down when our guts started telling us something was wrong. After lots of wasted time and wasted materials, we ended up with crooked walls, ruined tiles and a bathtub that drained into the bathroom floor via the shower because the plumbing wasn't done properly. The incomplete project ran at least a month over time, causing us to loose functionality in our basement for Bruce's parents when they arrived. And then the "handyman" asked for more money.

In short, it was a disaster!

 

 

We had to fire him and when he didn't return to fix any of his errors, we were forced to negotiate the legal system to get some recompense from him. The black tiles all needed replacing because they were covered in unwashed grout and mastik. Of course, any of the tiles on the areas of plumbing needed to be redone because the plumbing was not vented at all. No, he didn't get a permit and we didn't push it. Had we done so, an inspector would have come and identified that a) he wasn't legally allowed to do that work and b) he'd done it wrong.

In Feb or March last year, more than a year after this happened, we had an uncomfortable meeting with legal representatives from both sides to discuss the lawsuits days before going to court. He'd counter sued us for "wages due". Interestingly, the math in both his reply to our suit and then in his counter suit were not the same.

At the time there were other very stressful events happening in our lives. So when his lawyer threw the statement “My client is retiring and a judge might not give you anything“ in our faces, I gave up. In part, I wish our paralegal had more gumption to tackle the other lawyer head on. But for all his talk, our paralegal clammed up in front of the lawyer with the more expensive car. At least (after pulling more teeth), we got back all of the money we paid the so-called contractor and $1000 on top. As we bought our own materials, it did not cover all of our losses. But it helped to pay off the money we borrowed to get it right.

Stan Boigon and his team from Renovation Experts saved our basement and our bathroom!

In fact, we thought they did such a great job, that we had them finish the basement reno on the other side, and then do our upstairs bathroom with a functional shower. Originally we took out the bathtub in the upstairs bathroom because it could house a Ewok, but not the Wookie that is Bruce. The photos for that I have to hold on posting - I cannot find a photo of the finished bathroom and right now it is serving as storage area for our biggest and latest reno (also being done by Stan and Renovation Experts).

We learned today that we *could* have replaced all of our lead and clay piping when we did our basement those years ago. If we had, we likely would not be having the issues of water backing up that we are having yet again. Maybe it is just an unlucky combination of a lot of workmen in the house, low flow toilets and old pipes that is causing the aggro.

Whatever the cause, it made for a frustrating time of after bath for me and exciting for Torran though as I tell him to sit on the floor in the only dry corner of the bathroom...
Torran: am I in timeout Mummy?
Me: no Torran. This is an emergency. Sit on the floor and listen to instructions.
Torran: I can make tracks with my fingers!
Me: Torran please sit criss-cross applesauce
Torran: (grabs a hand towel and wipes the water as I throw linens on the floor to slow the flow) I am a good helper!

Needless to say I chucked him out into the basement to dry himself off (i.e. which means he ran around butt nekkid until he was dry) and get himself into his pyjamas (again, which he did not do until Bruce came home 20 minutes after the deluge started and I could hover over Torran).

Stress?....What means this thing stress?

Reno Adventures: Day...Um... 16? Poop and Progress

Our home during the house inspection, pre-purchase, in 2005, original kitchen on the left, living room on the right.

There was much smash-age, a temporary wall, HUGE beams and eventually...

ahhhhhh!!!...

...an open space filled with light. Goodbye to the house Mrs. Plummer knew. She and her husband owned the place before Bruce and I. She'd been moved out of the house due to infirmity of old age before we even did a house inspection, so we never knew her. Ironically, I got more mail for her today.

Unfortunately for us, the remaining vestiges of the original house that are causing us problems is the plumbing (not Plummers, get it?). Last night, we found out why our toilets are slow to drain every so often in the last few years. The clay pipe has shifted just at the front concrete foundations. It doesn't block the drain completely or cause sewage to flood into the house, but it causes a build up of materials over time... and *that* causes a back up into the house. We've narrowly avoided it being a sewage problem into our basement!

Visualizing the pipes confirmed that we otherwise have good flow to the city pipes. That's a huge relief considering the first foray into using a hired "contractor" resulted in $25 000 damage and a law suit! His crew washed concrete down our new drains and nearly blocked them up! There's little evidence of his "handy" work left in the drains. Too bad we still have to live with some of it on our walls... but that's a blog for another day.

In order to fix the shifted clay pipe, which can happen in any older home (in fact, it has happened to some of the people we know, so Norm and Sue, best bide your time!), we have to dig down to the line as it exits the house for a spot repair. $2500 thank you very much... plus an additional $2000 + sub-floor, carpet and wall repair if they have to get into the house. The Mr. Rotor guy offered to replace the whole line out to the city junction, where there is also a small problem, for a mere $7500, but since I want to complete my home renovation and move out of my basement, that's not going to happen juuuust yet. Did I mention that the plumbing line lies UNDER the driveway. I mean, really... does that make sense??

However, the day ended on a high note with a visit from the electrician and artist Desiree Kern of Greyscale Studios finished the north wall of Torran's space themed bedroom... he wanted a spiral galaxy and she brought it home. Literally! She got a great compliment from the electrician - he thought the floating pen was real! "I would have died if I had a bedroom like this when I was a kid!" he beamed. Yeah, me too.

The Hypocrisy Of My Unconditional Love

There are moments in life when you can expect to be truly introspective or philosophical, such as after reading an autobiography of a person or story of note, or attending a seminar on the diversity of the human spirit, for example. Heck, even a well written film or television program (read: not reality programming) can make you stop and contemplate your role in the world.

However, I never, EVER, would have expected a deeply philosophical thought to smack me in the face when driving home after a busy evening shift, exhausted and worn out from persistent exposure to the baser nature of the human condition.

When he was in the "box", I promised Torran that I would love him unconditionally and accept him for who he is. A typical mother statement, yes, but mine was loaded with anticipations of cognitive impairment, wheelchair bound living, or at worst, burying my son in his early years because of some un-defeatable medical problem. Even before Torran was conceived I knew that I would support his sense of self in gender identity, and his choices for a carreer path (although I`d be hard pressed to let him live at home fully supported by me as an out of work 30+ year old).

I planned to show instill in him through example a passion for the enjoyment of life and travel, tempered with the understanding that hard work gains the dividend of hard play, and that excesses in any pursuit of enjoyment could lead to epic failure. My only guarded limitation on said enjoyments would be the consumption of alcohol because I do not know how that would affect his liver and health, given he only has a right lobe

Explanatory Digression: the left is the bigger in most people - Torran had a clot in his blood vessel after the IV in the umbilical cord pierced it and now his left liver has shriveled up with atrophy and does not function). The portal vein thrombosis could lead to portal vein hypertension and bleeding in his esophagus which could kill him if left untreated. Portal vein hypertension occurs in people who drink excessively, even without blood clots. So I do not want him to do anything that would put him at risk for developing the problem. Mind you, I wouldn't love him less, I'd just be really pissed.

All of this sounds well and good, so you might wonder what vexed me on the late night tired drive home.

My unconditional love means that I won't intervene to "correct" him if he identifies as being gay (he is only five right now and doesn't have a rigid sense of gender identity, but I try to be as neutral as possible about it without having the convictions of Beck Laxton), or not be academically motivated or have the capacity for higher education, or chooses a profession that is not what I think is best for him but makes him feel happy and satisfied.

But, in regards to his Cerebal Palsy and Autism, am I trying to make him something different than what he is? I defiantly use the word "typical" instead of "normal" when talking about development and how Torran is different and/or has the potential to be different. Yet his daily interactions, his extra curricular activities, his IEP at school, and even simple play dates are geared to move him towards a standard of "typical" which may be unlike he is now.

He has trouble with eye contact. I make him look at me to talk to me and won't answer him until he does so. Torran has anxiety over mechanical things and the noises they make. I intentionally expose him to it incremental amounts to challenge that anxiety. Furthermore, I won't allow him just to break down in tears and wailing to express his fear. I insist that he uses his words to tell me "I don't like that noise". In every single car trip, he tosses his head from side to side as self stimulation. In every single car trip I nag him from the front seat `head still please`. 

To help him be successful in society at large, I have to be a hypocrite: I love you. I accept that you are different. In a loving way, I will help you change yourself so you can get by in the world without being so "different".

As if I didn't have enough mother guilt.

Moments of Joy

Are you proud that your kid can play? I am. Playing isn't just fooling around. It's a childhood developmental skill, with stages that need to be achieved in "normal" progression towards maturity. Children with some kind of alteration to the typical development, be it physical, mental or emotional, sometimes can't reach these goals. Would a parent who doesn't have to watch their child's development in microscopic detail have a heart bursting with pride that their child *finally* talks to inanimate objects in an "interactive" way? I don't know. Mostly, I suspect not.

Earlier this week, I had the honour of sitting around a foot stool with four inflated super sized bowling pins, some of whom I named, and some of whom Torran named. There were also two imaginary people present who Torran "walked over" hand in hand. Torran was our waiter, chef and bus boy. He asked me what I wanted to eat and waited for a response. Then he'd turn to the bowling pin, ask him/it, lean in and wait for the answer and repeat it out loud, writing it on his menu pad. He did this several times.

So? You might ask. He's a kid. They play.

Mine hasn't done this before! I didn't know whether or not he would achieve this level of play skill. It demands attention focus, social ettiquette, reciprocity in speech, and breaking the "rules" of what the bowling pins are (i.e. the concrete object is for bowling, not being a pretend person). He had to come to grips with the understanding that some of the bowling pins didn't want what he suggested they wanted (that was me practicing flexibility and theory of mind with him). And he had the desire to do this repeatedly (seven dinner guests!)... as well as the skill of remembering the sequence of who ordered what.

I nearly cried.

But, wait, it gets better! (And no, I`m not channeling a t.v. ad).

Yesterday we visited a friend with a daughter who is prone to being rough. The kids were in the play room, and the parents in the kitchen down the hall having a coffee. I heard Torran being upset. I thought that perhaps he was playing with a certain toy and the other child wanted to play with him in a way he didn`t want in his rigid way of playing.

The shock and delight was mine! The girl had been hitting Torran with the stem of her fairy wand. I expect it was a fair whack because he was tearful. He was standing in front of her, looking at her (!!!!) and trying to get out words to tell her not to him it and that it hurt. He didn`t shove or hit her. He didn`t hit himself (he does that instead of using words sometimes - hits himself again where he has an injury saying). He used the right prepositions (you instead of I). He wasn`t just vocalizing screams or noise. Of course, he had a hard time talking because on top of thinking about what to say and how to say it, his poor wee brain had to configure pain and emotional upset on top of everything.

I was absolutely floored!!! And so incredibly proud that Torran demonstrated the ability to reason and problem solve without outbursts or lack of control.

Big Scooby Snacks for you buddy!!!!

(Edit: in my rush to put this post out, I forgot to mention the starkly different and more common reality that was Torran's play skills two days earlier. He had a play date with some of his school chums - technically, I'm the chum and he is in class with the kids because everyone in JK is a "friend". He spent most of the three hour visit toodling about with toys on his own. Even when the kids played hide and seek, he had no interest. I muscled him into playing, hyping it up, hiding him under a bed... and then he proceeded to remove himself from the bed and return to the "My Little Pony" train set for independent play.)

Reno Adventures: Day One - Basement Dwelling

This morning, Torran and I are camped out on the living room floor waiting for the delivery of our appliances. He's uber cute hanging out in his pjs, eating dry letters cereal, showing me all the letters as he names them. We are the epitome of a feel-good commercial.

From Thursday onwards, we slept in the basement as we continued to make the upstairs naked in preparation for our renovation. Neither or Bruce nor I slept very well the first couple of nights, nervous that Torran would panic during the night if he woke up, or that`d get into something not properly secured against an exploring tactile child.

So far, so good. He had a short anxiety episode on the first night about where his bed was supposed to be - part of the rigidity of Autism. The Rule is: my bed is in my bedroom. We broke that rule taking his bed downstairs. As we played tetris with sleeping arrangements, we further pushed his tolerance by asking him to sleep on the air mattress. He does not like the sound of the air pump, so he associates that negativity with the bed itself. It took some coaxing but he managed to get into it and sleep.

Of course, we changed it for him again last night, putting him on his mattress on the floor and using the air bed for one of us. I don`t know whether it was the return of his familiar mattress, the change in bedding which made him warmer or his later bedtime last night, but he slept quite soundly that I had to wake up him an hour longer than he usually sleeps (could be the time change affecting him too). 

As for me, I slept on the sofa bed. I tossed a lot, but that might not be an indication of its comfort (my in-laws say they are perfectly happy sleeping on it). Perhaps my body was just enjoying the freedom of rolling over without getting a black eye from the bent elbow of the albatross arm span that is Bruce... who sleeps with his hands behind his head!

The demolition was meant to start on Monday, but it got pushed back to Wednesday, which actually worked out better for us. Our initial start date was actually next week, so nae probs! 

Now that we have fulling situated ourselves downstairs, we will take the next days to tweak the accommodations, give ourselves some time out of the house to clear our heads and try desperately not to overwhelm each other!

Happy 5th Birthday to my Super Hero!

A re-post from Torran's Birthday:
http://realwomendrivestick.blogspot.ca/2008/03/labour-day.html

Labour Day

Yep, you've read that right...and I don't mean that first Monday in September!!

On saturday afternoon, I had another gusher bleed with a big clot. After three continuous hours of this, painless though, the on call OBGYN did an ultrasound, determined that the baby was fine and the placenta wasn't detatching, however he still sent me to labour and delivery for constant monitoring for three hours.

During that period of time, I had some intermittent cramping start, but it didn't follow a pattern and was certainly quite bearable. Since I'd had "uterine irriation" before, much stronger though, I thought it could be the same thing. After a late night finishing the Harry Potter series, cramping episodes ongoing, I went to bed at midnight ("old" time).

I woke up at 4 am, per usual, but the cramping was a little harder now, and would stop me from drifting back to sleep. I didn't consider it worthy of medicating at first, but finally conceeded to a gram of tylenol at 6am. Needless to say, it didn't help much, and I couldn't get back to sleep.

Now, earlier in the day on Saturday, I was not disheartened too much that Bruce wouldn't be able to come in on Saturday evening, being that he was barricaded by snow and exhausted by his work schedule. This chipper attitude came about because we'd found out that Peanut was in the 80th percentile for size last Wednesday. An estimated 2lbs 2oz at that point.

After work, Bruce joined me on Sunday afternoon, and was about to go home when all of a sudden the cramping that had been mild and every 10 minutes or so since taking the tylenol started to crescendo quickly. By 7pm I was calling my nurse and requesting morphine. At the time, the doc said my cervix was closed, and they monitored me in my room for thirty minutes.

fourty five minutes after the morphine, which not only acts on the pain but also relaxes the smooth muscle of the uterus to relieve the actual contraction, the pain was getting worse. My night nurse, having looked at me and continuing to monitor me said, you may be going into labor. The next member of the OBGYN med team confirmed it. My cervix was starting to open and was almost completely softened.

Having been in denile that at 27 weeks our little Peanut was going to make an appearance, Bruce and I both burst into sobbing tears. This was too early! We'd been pushing mentally for at least 28 weeks because babies do better after this point...with fluid they have a 50/50 chance we were told. Less so without fluid. Bruce was kneeling on the floor beside my bed telling the baby through my tummy "You show them! You show them!". It was not the time for a British "stiff upper lip".

By this point, the pain was also increasing dramatically. So my crying in fear for my little baby combined itself with the regular cramping that was hitting me in a single crescendo wave every four minutes. One nurse heard me from the hallway, part sob and part painful emoting, and rushed into the room to find out what was going on. However, at the point, the team looking after me was already well into action.

While the nurse arranged to have me taken over to labor and delivery, the physician confirmed with a bedside ultrasound that the Peanut was head down. This meant, if the baby tolerated it, I could delivery vaginally. It would be healthier for both of us. A sidelying or upside down baby, or a baby not doing well, would have immediately meant a surgical c-section delivery. Higher risk of complications all round (although some women swear by it, and are entitled to do so).

My sense of timing is a little of through this period, but by about 10pm we were in the labor and delivery "case room" waiting for an anesthesiologist to put in an epidural. These rooms are directly across from the neonatal resuscitation room and the operating theatre - less room to get the patient and/or baby from point A to B. However, there were also three other patients with critical needs who'd come over from my unit at the same time. Thankfully, there was a full good team on last night, and although I had to suffer through some horrible horrible cramping, the anesthesiologist put in the epidural without mucking about and with some strong but brief discomfort to my back.

Funny enough, the doctor was asking me questions to determine what kind of pain control I would need, as we hadn't planned this out yet (yes, we were REALLY unprepared for this baby to come). However, when she saw my reaction to the 9 out of 10 level of pain, she interrupted herself and said "I'm going to give you an epidural".

Epidurals are my friend! After fifteen or so minutes, and several decreasing cramps later, I felt only twingeing on my left lower side of my abdomen. Once I informed my WONDERFUL labor and delivery nurse, she said, "those are you contractions", I said, "then bring it on". The next half hour brought a series of contractions during which the Peanut started to progress lower and lower to the birth canal. This kid was moving fast, but without fluid, was bound to get stuck and need a little help. So when the contractions started seriously hampering its heartbeat, the nurse knew it was time for me to push the baby out. I didn't feel any sense of pressure in my bowels (like the need to have a BM), and that's typical for epidurals.

The first few pushes were coached by the L&D nurse, with Bruce holding my hand. I crushed his hand now not for pain, but for the encouragement of human contact to give me the strength I needed to move this unseen and unfelt object in my body. Finally the baby was about to emerge. Just at that moment, yet another OBGYN doctor came into the room, having just been pulled out of the surgical room across the hall from a C-section delivery (another doctor was there still). When the doctor's companion phone rang off, and the nurse answered it for him (his hands were busy getting ready for me), he asked whether or not he was being paged to come to my delivery. The nurse confirmed yes and in a dry voice he replied, "tell them I'm not going to go". The humour was well appreciated!

A few hard pushes, hand squeezes and deep breaths later, this tiny little body, covered in blood, popped out between my legs. And then the most beautiful sound, the strangled little cry of a baby whose lungs were not expected to work well, if at all, from it's first moment of life outside my protective womb. Our baby, a little boy, gave a quiet little sqeak, his mouth full of blood. Quite quickly, the doctors clamped and cut the umbilical cord and his very tiny arms and legs waved about. The respiratory therapist from the neonatal resuscitation team had been standing by at the door, ready to whisk him away to the group that would start the first phase of his fight for life in the outside world. As she held him up for us to see before she dashed across the hall, he opened his wee little eyes and looked at mummy and daddy.

And for the second time that night, we cried in concert, because we had just witnessed the birth of our little miracle. The child that might not have been given a shot in this world if it weren't for the inspiration of another like him, the love of his parents and the many hopes, prayers, well wishes and positive thoughts of the friends and family upon his parents shared their story.

Torran Bruce Peter Victor Donaldson was born at 0034 on March 10th, weighing in at a solid 2lbs 5oz.

and his first breaths he took on his own.

Twenty minutes later, the team took the unconventional route of allowing Bruce in to see his son before the intravenous lines had been inserted. Bruce was told that Torran was a fighter - he'd been trying to pull out the tube in his nose that had been helping him breath, the tube in his mouth which suctioned out the blood, and the wires on his body that were his monitoring equipment.

So yes, he was showing them!

And then, a moment that Bruce has repeated stated he will never forget, his little boy held one of Bruce's finger tips in his entire fist. Father and son connected for the first time. Stoic daddy happily cried.

Back in the case room, I was no so priviledged, because my placenta was not coming out. Without fluid the placenta can pull away from the uterus wall abruptly or it can be very well bonded in place. Although it is likely that I had a marginal life, my placenta was more than happy to spend a longer time inside. However, I continued to bleed. Furthermore, the cervix in a premature delivery can close up quite quickly, as mine did, so the doctors initially couldn't get past it. After passing a significant quantity of clots, the team decided to take me into the surgical suit to further numb my lower body and manually remove the placenta.

I was also started on medication that induces labor to help relax the cervix and open it up. Fourty minutes later, on what should have been a five minute procedure, the three doctors, two anesthesiologists and two nurses finally managed to remove the last of Torran's placenta (it was all being monitored under ultrasound). That was more activity than my lower body had seen in months! Although I was completely numb, I could feel various pressures and hear the hushed conversations that expressed the frustrations the team had. Of course, with a breathing baby in the other room, and not having any pain whatsoever, I was happy to let them go about doing what they had to do without any interjection. I even offered to help in some way...after all, I am a nurse.

My euphoric bubble was almost popped, however, when the neonatologist from the NICU resuscitation team came to talk to Bruce and I about Torran upon my return to the case room. The doctor had not met us before, so he didn't know what had been previously discussed. He just about began at the "beginning" of what kind of problems Torran would face. In my frustration, aching to know whether or not my baby was breathing any more, I interrupted him and said "I'm a nurse, I understand". Basically, Torran initially responded well to the tube in his lungs to help him breathe. But as the amount of oxygen was turned down, his blood levels of oxygen dramatically decreased. Changing the type of machine being used to encouage his breathing did not help, as at a 100% setting, he only incorporated 60% of that oxygen into his bloodstream. The doctor was being as kind as he could to prepare us for what we were going to face. I respect that.

However, in my panic, I just wanted the bottom line. Of course, I also didn't think to realize that a "code pink", which in hospitalese means a neonatal patient not breathing, had not been called on the overhead, otherwise I would have heard it in the surgical suite.

Luckily for us, Torran was the only baby in the NICU resus room, so they wheeled me on the stretcher to see my little man. I was unable to walk at this point from the lidocaine freezing in my epidural, and would run the risk of dropping my blood pressure from the fentanyl pain medication I'd received if I stood up.

He was the most beautiful little thing I have ever seen. And he was moving about quite frequently, obviously not yet content with his surroundings. Then, his oxygen level in his blood suddenly jumped from somewhere in the 60s to somewhere in the 80s. Now whether this was because of the medication he'd just received to help his lungs, or because his mummy was now at his bedside, we may never know. However, I do know which of the two I wanted it to be! And as I held the tiny hand of my little man, my big man, humbled by this minature version of himself, had another little happy cry, unseen by others in the room (he told me about it later). Me, I cried on and off throughout the day... and it wasn't just because of hormones.

I was able to spend more time with Torran that night, watching his increasing improvement on the nitrous oxide before I decided that I needed rest time. Of course, where my body has been desperately craving rest, neither my brain nor my ears will sufficiently comply. Honourifically, Bruce managed all of this stress on a 24hour day, including a full shift at work. Most importantly, he didn't faint when that baby came out, or when he was face to face with my "naughty parts" still having umbilical cord hanging out (before the placenta was removed).

We have spent the day thriving on both adrenaline and the love for our little fighting man. Torran was stabilized enough during the night to be moved to the level 3 high NICU here in the hospital. During the day, they've managed to wean down the amount of nitrous oxide he required. And whilst they did have the oxygen level lower with higher doses of medication, the monitoring nurses and respiratory therapists have had to keep that level fluctating to suit his needs.

Torran looks very cute, and very comfortable in his humidified darkened incubator. We are not allowed to handle him yet. However, all things being well, that time will come soon enough. And I think he definately is his father's son. He prefers to sleep on his left side, like daddy. And despite the chronic bend that has develped in both his elbows (which will improve with both the room for movement and physiotherapy) he likes to raise his hands over his head during his sleep, also like Dad. I can't tell you how many times I've woken up to an elbow mere centimeters from my nose (or actually in my forehead for that matter).

We made the right decision to bring this little man into the world and give him a fighting chance at life.

Yes, it will be a big fight, and I doubt that any of us are looking forward to the impending roller coaster.

However, Torran deserved this opportunity, and we will give him our strength and love every step of the way.

I am recovering well from delivery and hope that Tuesday sees me at home for the first time in three weeks!

much love and thanks from a very exhasuted but jubilant trio
Lesley, Bruce and Torran, the Peanut

Oh I Love Rigidity

For those of you who know anything about Autism Spectrum Disorders, you'll know that means nothing at all perverse or profane.

Rigidity, the inflexibility of the mind to understand a difference or change in an event or situation, is a key characteristic of a person with an ASD. We didn't use to think of Torran as particularly inflexible. However, we're rapidly learning the finesse to which this behaviour expresses itself in him.

Torran doesn't care what he eats for breakfast, as long as he gets to eat. I give him a choice of two breakfast cereals every morning to help him feel empowered and independent. After all, there is so much of his life that he does not have a choice in. Every morning he asks for Shreddies. Sometimes it's a different flavour that takes his fancy. If you offer him eggs, he's all over it like . He might get upset that we switch it up for him on purpose, or by accident if we haven't shopped, but he doesn't have a melt down about it.

We could change his routine and he might complain for about it, but he would go with the flow. If we changed direction whilst driving, he'd say "No, you're going the wrong way" (when, in fact, we were correcting ourselves) but after being told that Mummy and Daddy made a mistake, he would echo it back to us and appear content. I purposely changed up his dishware, drinking glass or meals to teach him about change without nary a complaint from him.

All this time, we've been fooled by the seemingly adaptable child with autism.

Torran is "high functioning" with his Autism, which (realistically) translates into "more like normal behaviour". However, that doesn't mean life is not problematic for him. Lately, I almost feel like Torran is "growing into" his rigidity. Or, at least that's the way if feels because of the frequency of what we're seeing in his behaviours.

For years, we've worked with Torran to help him develop interactive play skills. He's progressed from solitary play, doing his own thing regardless of the actions of those around him, to parallel play - playing alongside other children, often doing what they are doing but not interacting with them. Whilst other children moved on, Torran stayed at parallel play as his main play skill. He tolerated other children being near him, even touching him or taking toys from him, but he wouldn't interact with them (not even to say "no it's my toy"). He'd even approach a group of children doing an activity, but then he'd either do his own thing, or the same thing as them whilst ignoring them. It wasn't until he was 4 years old that he soundly integrated imitative play into his skill set: doing what others were doing in a group setting. And even then, it was sometime hit and miss. For example, we went to a birthday party and he'd stand when the performer asked the children to stand, jump when I prompted him and then stop participating like the rest of the kids (without my prompt to continue).

And, dear reader, before you try to help with well meaning comments like "but all children...", "my child did the same thing and grew out of it...", "he's a boy...", "he's an only child..." etc, please understand that in order for Torran to "grow out of" something, his parents, therapists and teaching have to guide him out of that thing or into the next thing. He may or may not find it on his own. Based on children with similar problems, likely the latter. The problem is, if we don't guide him to the typical developmental path, and he is not internally driven to find it, what seems like "typical" pre-school behaviour will emerge as undesirable behaviour later on his life. Why would I want to wait and see if that will happen?

Ok, back to play skills and rigidity. At 36 months, most children are ready for "co-operative play". Torran is just getting there - and it's very instructor/parent led at present. He will talk to other children now Yay! But he's often just telling them what to do. And it's not that he's being bossy. He has to structure the play according to the way his brain tells him it has to happen in order for him to participate in that play with other children. What does this look like? Instead of just taking a ball and walking away with it (which is what he`d do previously), he'll tell the other child that it is a "moon rock" and they have to put it somewhere. But if the other child wants to play catch, Torran will get upset and say "no it's a moon rock". If the other child doesn't want to play moon rock, Torran will walk away.

If he doesn`t walk away, he might turn off whilst standing with a group. At swimming there are three children who are always in our personal space and very demanding of both mine and Torran`s attention. Yesterday Torran wanted to chop imaginary vegetables whist waiting for the classes to start. The youngest two children joined him and simulated chopping. The oldest child started to climb on the stool. Torran lost his cool and started yelling at him. The other mum guided her child whilst I told Torran that everyone had their own place to play on the stool right in front of him or her. We all started to chop vegetables (the other kids following me at this point). But when the other children chimed in with different things to do to make food, Torran progressed from not talking, to not doing the hand motions, to starting off into space and then finally walking away. His play was not turning out the way he was comfortable.

Perhaps because of the upheaval in the house due to our preparations for renovation, or because of some other influence(s) (which I may or may not discuss later), Torran has become increasingly obvious in his rigidity of late. He had a yelling session at me which did not respond to regular calming techniques because he wanted to stay wet after swimming (despite the chill). When he creates songs of gobbledy-gook he wants you to repeat them and gets upset when you can`t. I tried to create a simple song about his recent returned obsession with waterslides and he got quite mad at me that I wasn`t singing his song his way. He could not understand that songs could be different about the same topic.

As part of our re-vamped financing we`re going to look into the very expensive private therapy market. It can cost $60 000 or more for private therapy. We also have to consider more parent training, since we are the ones living with him most of the time. Training independently by reading articles about teaching change and formal classes offered by TPAS. Torran is going back to a social skills group, this time twice a week, starting in April, but that sponsored funding only covers one aspect at a time, so they won`t be dealing with behaviours directly, per se.

It`s frustrating because it almost feels like for all of the gains he has made, he is regressing. And I know, I know, I know, that we have an advantage with him and his level of functioning in all his various diagnoses that some people do not and will not ever have. But living comparing ourselves to those who are struggling more than us is no way to live with a more positive attitude.

Giving Birth...

I am giving birth to an idea, a feeling, a dream. That's right, I'm getting renovations done!

We aren't having another child. After a year and half of trying early intervention reproductive technologies (we can't afford IVF) and two miscarriages, we've run out of the drive to keep at it. Besides which, we'll likely face the same major issues: risk of prematurity because of my "hostile uterus" and risk of Autism which has hereditary links. And, I'm going to be 4.0 this year...and, statistically, all of these problems fall too close to unacceptable risk.

Instead, Bruce and I are creating a home that is well and truly US, OURS, HOME. Of course, we would trade it ALL for a healthy baby, to be sure.

But, like many people we know, we have to accept that which is not ours to have and move on. To that end, I am using this renovation as positive reinforcement against my negative thinking (i.e. the bitterness that follows me around on a regular basis since my loss of a third trimester, the loss of my experience of a lifetime "milestone" and the angst of being a parent of a child with different, special, exceptional needs, however the individual person wants to phrase it).

We bought this house a little over seven years ago, a 1950s suburban bungalow in Etobicoke. It came with a lot of needs and we embraced its potential. Recently, we were able to get through a financial hurdle that prevented us from making the house more to our ideal home (in so much as we haven't won the lottery yet). The timing, balanced against the emptiness of what I pictured my life to be, is perfect.

And everything about our home is changing to support our new paradigm of only we three: Mummy, Daddy & Torran. We originally purchased our dining room set to accommodate an anticipated family of five plus extended family members for holiday dinners. It's gone bye bye. Who needs it when there's only going to be three of us for every day use? With the new design, the existing set does not fit. It's also a potent reminder of what we aren't going to have.

Earlier in our married life, we thought about putting a second story on the house for a larger family. Now, it's not going to happen. Although the grander spaces would be nice, who's going to need all that house with only one kid? Instead of knocking out a window in one room to turn it into a doorway, I made the window bigger and will turn what was going to be the "future" entryway room into a room exclusively for my crafts and hobbies (to which the design of the room will support the endeavours therein).

A kitchen renovation was always going to be in the cards for this house. The man who sold it to us tried to make the grotesque shellacked original cupboards of value by describing them as "pine cottage look". The coating was practically orange from age. I sanded and repainted it all, trying to extend the life of the wee prison the local builders called a kitchen in the 50s. Torran arrived, and his autistic repetitive actions further destroyed the lower cabinetry (open bang open bang open bang open bang open bang). We both *hate* the existing kitchen and have for several years.

Most of all, both of us prefer the ambiance of an open plan. You can be in the kitchen popping food on a plate and still carry on a conversation with your guests. We feel safer when we can see what Torran is up to when we're otherwise occupied with domestic chores. So this Monday, like Jericho, the walls will come tumbling down.

Last year was a very unpleasant one for both of us; me in particular. In fact, we feel like we haven't caught a break since the news of "good news, you're pregnant" in 2007. So, Madame Fate, it's time to get off our backs. This renovation brings with it the hope of contentment, in our personal space and our daily activities, insofar as we are able to control our environment. Instead of cursing because a door won't close, or threatening each other with a pasta-ing because our kitchen is so confined, we will feel rejuvenated at the graphic movement in our selected counter top (the stone is fantastic!), or laugh at the wanky-ness of the laser light in our dishwasher.

(Yes!! We are getting a dishwasher finally!! See what I mean? Pure joy.)

The colours are chosen, the trades persons booked, and almost all of the shopping is done. In a little over two months, all that will be left is living happily in a beautiful home where we can keep at bay the dogs of stress.