Blue, Blue...Old Blue Jeans (Uh-huh)

I have worn blue jeans for almost a bajillion years. True story. As the ’south side’ of me expanded sometime between Thing 1 and Thing 2 (and thereafter totally gave up the ghost after Thing 3), I’ve outgrown many a pair. Depressing. But because I have always worn my jeans all the way through the year - yep, even in summer - they have always been a staple item in my wardrobe and thus I was never really concerned with spending up to $80 per pair, as I knew I’d get tons of wear out of them.

However.

Now I can’t bear to throw those stacks of old jeans out. I must have at least ten full size adult pairs and a few children’s pairs to boot. Some I could donate (and still might) but other pairs have minor holes and are unsuitable for that, so I was thinking about recycling them into something in the new year, but I don’t know what. All the tutorials I can find online centre around the very, uh, trendy ‘back pocket change purse’ or ’seat of pants handbag (purse)‘ trains of thought. That might be fun under normal circumstances but I’m also completely useless with installing zippers. And I doubt I’m going to need more than one each of those.

So, I’m relying on you, oh fountains of knowledge, to help me come up with some ideas. I’ve considered a jean quilt but I know if I go to all the trouble of cutting out millions of squares of denim I’ll probably lose interest when I could have used all that fabric in one bigger piece to make something unique. So before I cut anything, I’m gathering the info. The only stipulation is that the project be relatively easy. I can normally fudge my way through the basic level tutorials but essentially, the easier the better :)

Help!

Something To Believe In (iPod Shuffle Meme)

Thanks to Rachel at Musings Of A Future Pastor’s Wife for this one!

The Rules:

1. Put your iTunes on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag 10 friends who might enjoy doing the meme as well as the person you got the meme from.


IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
Learning To Breathe- Switchfoot

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Bring Me Back To Life - Evanescence
What’s this supposed to mean? That I’m dead? The film clip freaks me out anyhow.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
I Need You Tonight- Backstreet Boys
Don’t judge me for having a little of the Boys on my iPod!

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
The Space In Between Us - Building 429
There are elements of hitting the nail on the head with this one.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Hold Me - Savage Garden
To be held? To sing in an unnaturally high voice?

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
The Woman With You- Kenny Chesney
Um? I think the YouTube poster meant ‘woman’, as in singular, not ‘women’ as in plural. That would make it an entirely different kind of song. Nice lyrics though.

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Not A Day Goes By- Lonestar
The rest of the chorus continues with “When I don’t think of you.” Of course my friends would think like this. I’d totally expect them to!

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
What If- Nichole Nordeman
Oh, snap! Snappity-snap-snap-SNAP!

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Be With You- Enrique Iglesias
Now technically Talented Hubby is my best friend so the title does seem very appropriate. Except the lyrics actually go “Now that you’re gone, I just wanna be with you.” Um, I’d kind of like to keep him please.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR SPOUSE?
I Miss You - Darren Hayes
In light of the last song, I’m starting to get a bit scared…

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Crazy - Simple Plan
LOL - great title for my life, and actually decent lyrics.

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
I’m Already There- Lonestar
I first heard this song a few years after 9-11 (was it written specifically for that? I’m not sure) so in my mind it’s a song about a father dying. The chorus is just beautiful though so I guess if I projected myself into the song I’d like to think I could influence and affect my children and husband in the same way - minus the death part though. Or something like that! (Did that make any sense?)

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE YOUR SPOUSE?
Your Grace Is Enough - Chris Tomlin
Sweet lyrics.

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Only Hope - Mandy Moore
What? I’m their only hope? LOL.

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
I Love The Way You Love Me- Boyzone
This is one of the appropriate songs, LOL. I always adored these lyrics (in reality, I walked down the aisle to Bryan Adams’ I’ll Always Be Right There. It has to be the live version from his Unplugged album though, LOL).

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Time Stands Still - All American Rejects
Why yes - yes it will!

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
So Long Jimmy - James Blunt
Um, okay? My hobby is to find random men on the street named Jimmy (or James?) and then tell them goodbye?

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Mr Mom- Lonestar
My biggest secret dream (that counts, right?) is to see Talented Hubby live out this song. For even a week. That would be awesome! Seriously though, this is one of my favourite ‘housework songs’, LOL.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Almost Here - Delta Goodrem & Brian McFadden
Apparently I have absentee friends. Well, there is the case of the unanswered text messages Chrissy! Not that I’m dwelling on that or anything. Nooooo… (LOL)

WHAT’S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
In Another’s Eyes - Trisha Yearwood & Garth Brooks
I both like and hate this song because of its subject. Which makes it an appropriate choice for this question. It really would be nearly the worst thing that could happen.

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
The Wonder - Alex Lloyd
People are going to wonder what happened? People will be amazed at my passing?

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
Gotta Be Somebody- Nickelback
This is a song about searching for true love. Since I got mine, no regrets!

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
The Day You Went Away - Wendy Matthews
Oh, this one should have been for the next question! It’s soooo sad! It’s a bit older but one of those songs that seems to stand the test of time.

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Bop Bop Baby- Westlife
I’m told Westlife has that effect on some people. Namely Talented Hubby. Except in his case, the crying would be because his ears were bleeding. Pffft! Though I’ve more or less moved on from the ‘Life, I’ve still got a dedicated folder of the boys somewhere on the iPod.

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Cinderella - Steven Curtis Chapman
Oh, a stab to my heart, on two levels. First, because my daughter growing up scares me witless, and because of the subsequent events SCC went through which really would be soul-destroying. Losing a child is a paralysing thought.

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
Something About You - Five For Fighting
I’m an enigma so hard to understand it’s not ultimately clear whether I have any friends or not?

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
How You Live - Point Of Grace
Isn’t this a great little song? It’s like a list of things to do to enrich your life. So if I haven’t done some, then I’d go back and tackle them. Reminds me of I Hope You Dance by Le Ann Womack.

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Right Here Waiting - Richard Marx
This is the first song I can ever remember loving with my whole being. Don’t mock me. You know you loved it too, LOL (and Oh My Gosh folks - THE HAIR!)

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?
Something To Believe In- Bon Jovi
Not exactly the nicest song around despite the title.

That was fun! Plenty are not-so-accurate (just listen to the opening lyrics of that last one!) but there are enough totally apt ones to make this a cool exercise!

Oh, and what is up with all the country songs coming up? Out of 700+ songs on my iPod I managed to score three by Lonestar. The universe is trying to tell me something perhaps?

I tag everyone!

They've Got Jam In Them, Thanks For Asking

I’m not the only mother who has ever put a batch of muffins into the oven at 11:30 at night, am I? Anyone?

Time management issues strike again!

I’m so going to bed. No, really.

Lemme just read these here blogs for an hour twenty five minutes…

In other news…has anyone noticed that there’s a MERE MONTH UNTIL CHRISTMAS DAY? I have not shopped. At all. This is terribly unlike me. But this year I just realised buying stuff simply for the sake of ’tallying up’ over the holiday period is a complete and utter waste of money. I know. I’m a slow learner. This year, the only things on my ideas list for the Piglets were bikes, desks for their rooms (one each) and a puppy - and even then, the bike idea will probably be passed on as an idea for the grandparents. This puppy will cost a bomb, some of which will of course have come out of our usual Christmas budget, but it’s more about the simplifying this year. I must admit, it’s rather liberating not to have a ‘wish list’ from each kid in my purse at all times (in case I see ‘the’ present while I’m out and about), or to be rushing around getting to this or that sale. I’m not completely off the hook - there are still extended family presents and stocking stuffers to get, but we take it pretty laid back in that department around here :)

Raindrops And Respite

I have a confession to make. I’m no martyr. In fact, there are days when the absolute last thing I want to do is to be a parent - shhh, don’t tell anyone!

Whilst I love my kids to bits, the reality of having a special needs child is that it’s exhausting work. You have to think ten steps ahead at all times. You can’t do as many things together as a family. Cinemas are out, restaurants that don’t include cookies on the menu or plastic play equipment are a no-go and a ‘real’ holiday, one where you go a bit further afield than Grandma’s, seems impossible.

Before long, the wonderful ‘challenged-but-enjoying-it’ attitude you’ve worked so hard to show the world begins to crack. Suddenly you’re raising your voice to the kids. You’re hard-pressed to find the enthusiasm to eat a sandwich, let along prepare meals for the family. Housework is a distant memory.

My husband once mentioned to me a fantastic analogy for stress which I’ll share with you now: Imagine your life as a bucket, and the everyday stresses as the raindrops which fill it.

Every day, even if you don’t realise it, the raindrops add up. Some days a lot - perhaps Junior had one of his world-famous meltdowns in the middle of the supermarket - and some days hardly anything at all. Suddenly you come to the realisation that your bucket is almost full. You’re almost at your limit. Even just one extra drop and you’re going to overflow.

This is where respite care is worth its weight in gold.

Initially I was quite apprehensive about the whole idea of respite care. I didn’t much like the idea that I would be handing over my children into the care of a relative stranger. I was used to our son’s unique personality and worried about the poor respite worker being lumped with his difficult behaviour.

I needn’t have worried. Our respite worker Rose came for a ‘meet-and-greet’ before our first real respite night and she and the kids hit it off immediately. A huge plus for us was also that all workers contracted to our respite program carry a senior first aid certificate and other qualifications such as a manual handling certificate. Not to mention having specific special needs care experience in spades.

Some folks choose to use their allocated respite hours to run errands which they might not otherwise be able to fit in around caring for a loved one twenty-four hours a day. My husband and I have been quite lucky in that regard - we’ve always had various combinations of childcare, kindergarten and now school to give us that break during the day to get the basics done. What we were lacking, however, was time alone in the evenings. So we use our time on ourselves, often going out to dinner and a movie. It’s a wonderful time. Without the use of this respite service, we would have to give most of this up - it’s a rare thing indeed to find a regular babysitter who is both trustworthy and infinitely patient and we live too far from relatives to impose on them very often.

I once read a statistic that said parents of a special needs child have a much greater risk of divorce than the national average of about one in two marriages. Technically speaking, the odds are stacked against us. Having the ability to spend time together, without the added pressure of having our brains on auto-pilot, has been a godsend.

We think of it as ‘emptying our bucket’.

* This is the second in a series I’m calling The Mama Bear Files. Originally written 2005.

Postscript ~ Clearly, a lot has changed since this was originally written. We are still accessing respite care but a lot of the issues that were once prevalent concerning what we could do as a family no longer stand (thank goodness!) J was only 6½ when this was first written and now, at age 10, we’re blessed to have a lovely - and mostly agreeable! - child :)

Miracles In The Flaws

When I was nineteen years old, I found myself taking a front-row seat in an honest-to-God, wish-I-could-bottle-that-feeling miracle.

After a twenty-eight hour labour, an ugly, red, scrawny mess of arms and legs was twisted from my body, four weeks before his due date. The conehead my son sported from his prolonged journey down the birth canal was very pronounced and truly awesome to behold. His Apgar scores were low. He was whisked away for some oxygen.

At that point, I didn’t care where he went, as long as he was being cared for appropriately and I could cover up the bits of my person that in any other circumstance would never be displayed. It is amazing how the most prudish of women can become the most liberal when in the throes of childbirth. There were bits of me that were irreversibly altered by the birthing process but in the end those particular battle scars would fade, and new ones would take their place.

On the second day after his birth, J turned an alarming shade of buttercup yellow which had the doctors scrambling for the big scary humidicrib with fancy lights and cords. You know, the type with holes in the side where distraught parents are permitted to insert only their hands to stroke babies they should, by rights, be cradling in their arms.

My little six-pound-nothing imp modelled a hastily cut blindfold of black vinyl almost every moment of the first week of his life. We were allowed to remove him from the phototherapy unit for feedings and changes only. The rest of the time he was to lay naked and sunbathing, save for his Zorro mask, under special lights designed to speed up the expulsion of the bilirubin from his blood. There’s a reason why babies are meant to be covered up. Meconium poops are legendary, and more so for babies undergoing phototherapy. We didn’t even have the luxury of a nappy to contain it. Every time J wet or soiled, his entire bedding arrangement had to be changed and sometimes, there needed to be a thorough disinfecting of his crib. But this was a good sign – the more explosive the soilings, the less yellow he appeared and the faster he got better.

My then-fiancé and I finally took this tiny creature home one week after the birth. To say we were unprepared for life as parents was strikingly apparent about four hours into our first night at home. J did not sleep. Breastfeeding was difficult. We had borne this child smack dab into the middle of a heat wave in a South Australian town noted for its perpetual red hue and blisteringly hot summers. Sleep deprived, emotionally exhausted and just plain stupid, I managed to convince myself that bottle feeding was the far better option and so J was slurping down artificial sustenance even before his official due date rolled around.

The next two years were surprisingly ordinary. We conceived another son, ran away to Bali to get married, saw Kuta in all its muddy wet season glory – not what wedding dreams are made of! - and consequently came home unmarried. Our second son was born in due time and the wedding eventually occurred on home soil, much to the delight of the parents. Later that same year we had a daughter, rounding out the scorecard to three children in three years.

I was barely 22 years old.

Autism snuck into our lives quietly, set up shop without us realising it, and eventually manifested itself in physical symptoms in our son, whom we had diagnosed by a child assessment team at age 3½.

Those first few years were excruciating. We agonised over every small decision concerning our J’s welfare. Every single behaviour, word spoken, instruction performed, everything. At diagnosis, J was developmentally on par with fourteen month old children. Essentially, his two year old brother had overtaken him months beforehand.

But we got through it.

When the Department of Education psychologically assessed him during his kindergarten year at age four, his report was prefaced by the following ‘encouraging’ information:

Half of all students will score in the Average range. Thirty percent of children will either fall in the Low Average or High Average range. Eight percent will score in the Well Below Average or Extremely Low range. We also calculate a child’s percentile rank – if your child scores in the 24th percentile, it means that if we tested 100 children of the same age 24 would test lower than your child.

Our son had an overall score on the first percentile.

When he started primary school several months later and a government grant had to be secured in order to buy the hydraulic ‘doctor’s bed’ needed to create a changing area in a female staff toilet, I swung wildly between despair and indifference. In public, I was a hardened special needs advocate, but in private, I sobbed at the thought of my five year old son still needing nappies in the playground. He would be six years old before we were finally rid of that particular curse.

But we got through it.

Also at the age of five, a speech assessment saw J score between just the first and the fifth percentile for communication – and that was after two years of extensive speech therapy.

But we got through it.

We waded through all the NEP meetings and the special ed classroom tours and the birthday parties comprised solely of children who by no fault of their own, have problems being social. We dealt with the misunderstandings of the condition, the stares, the meltdowns, the accusations, the generalisations. We learned not to take to heart the sixth party or event in a row that we hadn’t been invited to. We dabbled in dietary intervention but forewent medications or strict behaviour programs. We cried and cried until no more tears came.

And then something miraculous happened.

One day, many years into our journey, it suddenly occurred to me that autism was not the first thought that popped into my head when I woke up each morning. I no longer introduced my son to strangers and then, when he was out of earshot, hastily added the “he’s autistic” explanation because I felt as though I should apologize for his indifferent gaze or funny hand flapping. I no longer saw the autism before I saw him.

People are a bit hesitant to talk about miracles these days. We only have to look around us to find all evidence in the world that miracles don’t exist. Children die from cancer. Others are abused. Still others are stricken by horrible disfigurements and left in orphanages to suffer out the rest of their days. Yes, life is unfair.

Most of us prefer logic over faith. If we can’t prove it, they don’t want to know about it. It is no miracle that my son was born. Millions came before him and millions are yet to be created. People endure far, far worse illnesses, conditions, or situations than we have ever had to cope with. There are no miracles in my son’s frustrated howls or in his catch-it-when-you-can affections. People often ask me how, after all the struggles we’ve been through and are yet to face with J, how I can still consider this flawed child, his wonderful yet slightly altered existence, miraculous.

But the miracle doesn’t reside in him.

It’s that I am proud to have been the vessel that bore him.

And the miracle is in that pride.

* This is the first in a series I’m calling The Mama Bear Files. Originally written January 2008.