Neat Feet

With the emergence of the sandal season slowly making it's appearance up in the northern hemisphere, I recently took it upon myself to pack my darling children up and head into the big city in search of some charming footwear that don't resemble mukluks or ski boots.

After silencing the chorus of whines with threats of bodily harm bribes of fast food for good behaviour, we finally got down to the business of shoe shopping. Shopping for shoes is serious business to me. My reputation as a mother is largely based on what type of foot wear my children toddle about in. (At least in my mind.) I try to hide from the world the fact we are a family of rednecks by shodding my children with good shoes.

(I no longer use animal skins and twine. It tended to be a dead giveaway, even if it was cost effective.)

Shoe shopping also has a more personal meaning to me than just buying the cutest footwear in the market.

After living through the trials my Shalebug endured, and the hell his own feet put him through, I see a shoe and appreciate how fortunate my children and myself are. We can simply try on a shoe. And walk, run, jump. Not everyone is so lucky. A shoe to me, is a reminder of health and how fragile it can be.

My son was born with stubborn bilateral club feet. My first glimpse of him after pushing him out of me with Herculean effort was his twisted purple feet. I knew immediately upon seeing them that my life would never be the same. I hadn't yet seen him, but the silence in the room was deafening. As I anxiously waited to hear his first cry (which came MONTHS later) the only part of his body that wasn't shielded from me by the worried backs of the nurses and doctors and his father were his tiny twisted feet. Which were so bent they almost touched his bum.

Months of casting and tendon releases followed with years of physiotherapy and multiple surgeries, eventually lead to bone removal and permantent splints. All of which did nothing to correct the curvature of his stunted little feet.





I still have that razor sharp 4" long pin.

Feet that at first scared me and repulsed me. It wasn't the tubes or the breathing apparatus, or the bald patches shaved into his precious hair that made me fear this unknown baby. It was the grotesque nature of his hooves that freaked me out and made me doubt my ability to love and ultimately parent this child who was so different than my previous babies.

But like all things new and strange, time and understanding lessened this fear. Soon those feet became the focal point of my love for him. The first thing I kissed when he woke up in the morning, the last thing I kissed when he went to bed.

Those crooked tootsies represented all that he was and who he would be. Instead of curled feet I saw strength of spirit, resilency and the fragility of life when ever I massaged and stretched them. Those feet became part of who we were as a family unit. Everybody understood what those crooked feet meant.

Those feet meant love, understanding, patience and tolerance. Except for when he used them as weapons and would kick them at my glasses. Then they were a big pain in my ass. Or when he was casted and I took all the kiddies to the Shriner's Circus and he decided it would be great fun to bump his casts into the man's head who was seated directly in front of us. Then they were a source of amused embarrassment. Oops.

Those diminuitive little feet meant so much. When they grew strong enough to support his weight we were able to celebrate his fragile first toddling steps at the age of four. When they were gashed open and missing bones, they represented the hope for a brighter future. When they were finally fitted for his first pair of shoes months before his death, they were cause for celebration. Through it all, they were hurdles to overcome, challenges not to be forgotten.

They were his feet; they were my reminder of so many others out there who were not as blessed as I.

As Fric and Frac were ripping apart the shoe rack in search of the coolest, fastest and prettiest sandal out there, his angel feet were a reminder of who was missing, who is still loved, who is not to be forgotten.

The kids and I found our booty (get it...booty? Couldn't resist) We walked to the front of the store and paid for our shoes, all of us excited by our finds. But as we walked out to our car, there was a little girl in leg braces similar to Bugs, being carried in by her father, with her mom walking wearily behind them.

I saw in that mom the same love, strength and fear I see when I look in the mirror. I knew the pain she would feel when she tried on endless pairs of shoes on her daughter, hoping to find ONE pair that would fit around those plastic pain's in the ass. I wanted to tell her not to bother, just go get custom shoes made, as we had to do.

But I thought better of it. I didn't want to intrude. I didn't want to take away the hope she harboured when she saw those cute pink sparkly runners she would pray to fit her daughter. To make her daughter look more "normal." To make herself feel more like the average mom.

Maybe she would have better luck than I ever did, in search of the elusive shoe to fit my special child's special feet. And if she didn't she may not welcome my advice, my taking away her search for normalcy with my insight, my knowledge.

I didn't take into account my children's interest in those shiny purple plastic splints. They raced right up to that brown haired girl and her parents and struck up a conversation.

"My brother had club feet! Does she? His splints were purple too! But they had stars on them, not kittens."

I held my breath for a second, wondering if this family would resent my children honing on their child's obvious disability. But the dad just bent down and looked my kids in the eye and asked about their little brother. They yammered away to these strangers outside the shoe store, spilling their brother's and now their story and how when Bug was finally able to get shoes he started to walk. They gushed on in the way excited kids do that once this little girl got her shoes soon she would be walking too.

I don't know if that would hold true for that little girl, but I certainly wished with all my might that it would. The little girl was fascinated with my kids, excited that some big kids were interested in her. My heart broke a little when I realized Fric and Frac missed their brother so much that a child with similar splints would speak to their hearts so deeply.

The mom reached down and stroked my son's prickly head and told them how lucky their brother was to have such nice siblings. She then scooped up her daughter and told the kids they were blessed to have such a special brother with such neat feet.

I couldn't have said it better myself.





I miss those toes.

Looking For a Hand Out

Note: Updated below...if you can make it that far.

Three times this week, during the quiet hours of the evening, while I have been ensconced in what ever brilliant piece of literature I have been reading (read: Cheesy romance novel describing the penis as a throbbing steel rod of manhood and the vagina as the soft folds of a feminine flower...) the telephone has rang. While this in itself is not unusual, the callers have all been three different telemarketers haranguing me to buy their credit cards, their long distance plans or their vacuums.

Three different times this week, I have been forced to tear myself from said brilliant literature to politely decline their offers. Last week I was inundated twice for different charities. It seems every time the phone rings these days, someone is looking to take my husband's hard earned money off my hands.

Well, now it is my turn to flip the tables. I am sitting behind your computer screen with my hand held out, batting my eyelashes, trying to relieve you of some of your dough. Because after all, I know you are all hiding money trees out in your backyard and you just aren't sharing.

Today is the Global Make A Wish Day for the Make a Wish Foundation. For 27 years this foundation has been granting the wishes of children with life-threatening medical conditions to make their dreams come true.

I have had several opportunities to meet children who have been granted their wishes. A couple little friends of mine wanted nothing more than to go to Disneyland, while another wished for a therapy pool to relax his muscles and relieve the pain in his back and legs. One very special little girl that I had the pleasure of meeting and befriending wanted nothing more than to ride in a fire truck and play firefighter in her home town, some three thousand miles away from where her family currently resided. She missed her old friends and family. Her wish was granted and three weeks later she passed away a happy little girl.

Most of us don't think about the children out in the world fighting their battles with disease, congenital deformities and onset of sudden illness. Occasionally, we are reminded by media, or when we see a child who is obviously ill or handicapped in the supermarket, that there are hundreds of children in our communities who fight a war they won't win, one we will never really understand.

We duly donate a dollar with a purchase at Walmart or McDonalds, drop our spare change in the box next to the register and sometimes we even make monthly donations on our credit cards if we are fortunate enough to have the cash to spare. But do you ever think about the child that would benefit from your generosity?

I never did. I just did it out of obligation, some small guilt that niggled at the back of my conscience, thankful that it wasn't one of my children that needed such services.

Until one day it was.


Then it became a whole different ballgame. I was thrust into a world where there was so much need, and not enough money to fill those needs. Hell, if I had to donate to every charity for every diagnosis my darling son received, my husband and I wouldn't have been able to diaper the little dude.

But in the course of his life I met many children who had such health problems it staggered my soul.  Some children never leave the hospital in the course of their short lives, others like my Bug, could go home only to return days or weeks later. It is as though there is an invisible chain tethering them to the damn hospital.

As a parent it is easy enough to forget that your child is a child when you are struggling with their health. Worrying about whether they have the opportunity to play in the sand on a sunny day is not high on the priority list when you have medications, therapies and appointments just to keep that child alive, with you one more day. The stress of having a medically challenged child in a home takes it's toll on every one, not just child.

But a sick child is still a child, as my Bug's laughter would often remind me. And every child deserves a dream. Sadly, the severely ill child often does not have the simple benefit of health to be able to chase their dreams like most children. They simply lack the time.

Bug was granted a wish. I was honored and yet dismayed, for I realized that this meant he really was fragile. It was a harsh reminder of just how fleeting his life might be. But it was an amazing gift that would not only benefit my sick child, but my two small others, so often overlooked because of their baby brother.

Boo and I decided to make the cliched trip to Disneyland. Shalebug was especially fascinated with people stuffed inside mascot costumes and he loved the thrill of the more gentle rides. We would take Fric and Frac and create the memories a child could dine on for an eternity. It would have benefited the whole family.

Sadly, Bug's time ran out, and his wish was not granted.

But I still sit here, smiling pretty, asking you to think of all the children out there who may never have an opportunity to embarrass themselves on national television to chase their dreams of stardom. I'm asking you to think of the kids who will never get to run the diamond of a baseball field, or sit in the bleachers next to their parents who are chugging back the beer.

I want to remind you there is so much out there most of us take for granted on a daily basis; normal everyday things like going on a class field-trip to the fire-hall to sit in the fire truck and then eat icecream with twenty other kids with sticky fingers and silly grins.

The people with the Make a Wish Foundation haven't forgotten.

Please consider supporting them. I'll even jump through hoops of fire, naked, if that's what it takes to make you donate.

Now I'm standing up and brushing the dirt off my knees. This begging stuff is hard on a girl's back.

Update: The sands in the hour glass have slipped through the glass and it is no longer April 29. While I'm still sitting here with my palm out, looking to grab your cash, I understand a lot of people don't have the means to support a charity of any type while struggling to make the bills. I do ask, however, that you think of the kiddies out there who aren't as fortunate and as healthy as most of ours. Sometimes the simple kindness of a smiling stranger is all it takes to make their dream come true.

Now I'm coming down from my soap box (albeit with absolutely no grace or dignity left intact) and I'll be back tomorrow with the funny. But I wanted to thank all of you who took the time to remember my Bug, and donated. It's not too late. I, er, they will take your money anytime!! Thank you so much for allowing me to hit you over the head with my personal two by four. Your generosity and support is amazing.

A Lasting Darkness

When the power went out for two days last week, I was forced to not only live like a pioneer woman, bond with my children and eat nothing but dry cereal all day long (really, I am ASHAMED. The sugary goodness of the Fruit Loops call to me in times of crisis), but I was forced to reexamine my life and mull over the choices I have made. I had nothing better to do at the time, courtesy of the black out.

Since my son died 18 months ago, I have tried to fill my life up, tried to quiet the noise that rages inside my head during my waking hours. I knew I was doing this, but I seemed unable to stop. The pain was too great. The first four months after his passing, it simply hurt to breathe. I sat on the couch where him and I would snuggle and watch soap operas I mean, the birds outside our window and I would breathe him in, knowing how blessed my life was, how full. Suddenly, I was alone on this couch, and my life was obscenely hollow.

I knew that I was sinking deeper in my grief every day and I was harming my older children by just sitting there in my blanket of sadness. When a family friend tossed me a life line and offered to put me to work, I reluctantly grabbed it. I didn't want to work, I didn't want to see people and have to explain all over, everyday, and endure their looks of pity and sympathy. But I didn't want my kids to grow up and tell their spouses and children about how the death of their little brother wrecked their mother, their family.

So off to work I went. And it was bloody hard work too. Working at green house is physical. But I was surrounded by friends, and I found that it actually helped to tell people my story. It was cathartic, and I was healing. When that job ended, as all seasonal jobs must, I took in my nephew, The Worm. It was now summer break, and I was surrounded by my kids and a four month old Worm, and life was too busy to have time to break down.

Except that is what I did. I barely remember the summer, the heat, anything. I remember changing diapers and smelling the sweet spot on the side of The Worm's neck and wishing for the millionth time that it was Bug I was smelling. But the demands of an infant and two active children didn't allow for me to wallow in my misery for long. Soon autumn rolled around and when the kids went off to school I filled up my days with blogging and reading blogs, and the Worm.

Every day seemed a bit better, a bit brighter. I was starting to untangle my sadness. I was able to remember how to feel joy and not just pain, remember how to love, not just my children, but myself. I was able to forgive myself for the ultimate mommy failure: The death of her child.

Intellectually, I knew I was not responsible for the death of my kid. I did everything possible to prolong his life and make it the best little life possible. But while my heart was secure in the knowledge that I loved him enough, gave enough, sacrificed enough, my brain would not stop with the What If's.

Busying myself helped quell those nasty little What If's. I barely wrestle with them anymore. They have been mostly banished to the great outdoors, along with my fear of spiders and mice. I try not to worry about any of them anymore. But then suddenly, I lost the Worm, when my blog became public. Family politics prevailed and my sister and her child were caught in the middle. Now I was truly alone, since those first four months of Bug's passing.

I thought I was coping well; I was still being funny, I was still blogging. My kids were reasonably happy, my dog well fed. But I was still doing what I had been doing after the first four months. Busying myself to avoid my grief. I focused on my friends, my blog, the upcoming adoption. Anything but me. After-all, how many times can a person wonder if this pain will go away?

Turns out, a lot.

The power outage took away all my distractions. I had no computer, no telly, no music and no phone. I was stranded in my drive way, unable to leave or have anyone enter my snow covered home. While I sat there and tried to entertain my kids with endless rounds of Scrabble and Monopoly, I wondered what life would be like with Bug if he was still alive. Would he still walk? How tall would he have grown? Would he be able to sit on a chair with out me having to strap him in? Would I still want to adopt a new child? The questions raced through my mind, until I was desperate to drown out the noise.

Sitting there, with my kids, trying to make sure they didn't maim one another, I talked to them.  And listened.  I heard how much they missed their brother still, and I realized, it wasn't just me struggling with this heavy bundle of pain. They talked about how scared they were bringing in a new little kid, wondered if they would love it, worried that I would be so busy with the new child that I wouldn't have time for them. They remembered how much time I spent on Bug; they haven't forgotten all the things they missed out on because of their little brother.

They worried they wouldn't be a part of our new family. I listened, and I tried to reassure them, but when they lost interest in what ever game we were playing and wandered off to wrestle, I sat back and examined what they said. I worry too. I worry I won't be able to love a new child the same way I loved Bug, I worry I may resent the new child and the constraints he or she will place upon me with their needs. I worry I want to adopt to try and fill the vacant hole Bug's absence has created in my life.

Boo feels the same way. The closer the adoption creeps towards us, the colder our feet become. Is this normal? Are we just psyching ourselves out? I have voices screaming inside my head, all arguing over top of one another, clamoring to be heard. I don't know which voices to drown out and which to heed.

I fear ramming a child down my kid's throats and having them resent me forever more, repeating the cycle my own mother and I seem trapped in. I don't want to hurt my children by placing my own needs before them. Being a parent means sometimes letting go of your personal dreams and doing what is best for your children. Is this one of those times, one of those dreams?

I am listening to the quiet now. Trying to sort out the voices, the doubts, the fears. I am trying to face my grief once more, while marveling at the lasting power of this pain, this sadness. I wonder how long will it be before I can remember my child and all I gained and derived from him with out succumbing to the overwhelming sadness and hurt of his absence.

I am very aware I am standing at a crossroads, and the direction I take will not only impact my life and my husband's, but that of my children as well. I must not sacrifice my family as they are now in an attempt to recreate the family I had once. I must honor all of my children, not just the ones who passed.

So I must busy myself once again. But this time, instead of filling my hours trying to avoiding my feelings and fears, I'm going to try and embrace them. Maybe, finally, I will know what direction I am supposed to go.