Chasing White Rabbits

When people meet me after reading my blog, they often remark with surprise that I am not a redneck. Usually as they are saying this they are examining my appearance for any signs of evidence of a redneck lurking. I mean, up until last week I had all of my teeth and I've never once in my lifetime sported a mullet.

(I may have eaten roadkill once but it was a pheasant and it was fresh kill and it was delicious. Don't judge me.)

After their surprised declarations they almost always ask why I chose to brand myself with the redneck title.

My answer to that is often boring and uninspired (I wasn't thinking!) but the truth of the matter is, if you saw the apples I shook out of my family tree, there would be plenty of evidence as to why I chose that name.

(Although come to think of it, I should have just called myself a hoser and been done with it.)

It's always interesting meeting and introducing myself to new people. Especially when I am wearing dead gopher feet as my earrings.

Every time I wear them my dog gets freaked out. Wonder why.

But being the redneck mommy isn't all mortification and wide smiling to show I have had all my choppers. (Sigh.) It sometimes means I get to meet really cool and interesting people who, while never having tasted the sweet juices of a freshly roasted pheasant plucked from your truck's grill, are really cool.

People like Andy and Charlie.

People who get me.

And then draw me some really cool cartoons. Which happen to be unerringly accurate and if my Uncle Gord is reading this right now he'll be mighty pleased to see himself immortalized on my page.

It's like Andy has met my family. 

(click the image to make it bigger)

Usually when a new blogger meets me they just hand me their business card and ask me to drop by and read their work. Not Andy and Charlie though. They make me art a family portrait.

Part of the fun of being a blogger is meeting new people, discovering new blogs and finding new and creative ways with which to avoid folding your laundry, meeting your deadlines and paying attention to your farting dog.

Thanks to the How To Be a Dad crew I've fallen down their rabbit hole and haven't looked back since.

I'm chasing white rabbits and laughing the entire time.

I think I've found my peoples. Now if only they didn't have all their teeth.

*You can find Andy and Charlie writing about life and parenthood over here. They're worth the click. Promise.*

Please Live

I've been blogging for over five years about my life, the recovery from the unexpected death of my four-year-old son Shale, the adoption of my youngest son Jumby and everything else in between.

I have been ad free and anonymous. Now I blog publicly with ads on the side bar, donating the revenue to the local children's hospital in my son's name.

I've written about topics I shouldn't have, said things I probably shouldn't have, upset people I love the most.

But I stand by every word I've written, ill advised or not because when I wrote those words I meant every word.

I'm a personal blogger and the things I write about are personal to me and sometimes to others.

This hasn't always been easy and it certainly hasn't been lucrative. I'm not exactly what is considered brand friendly. For the most part this hasn't bothered me because I've always just written for myself. I'm not in this blogging business to become rich and famous or morph into the next Dooce or Pioneer Woman.

I'm just Tanis, telling you what it means to be stuck out in the woods as an almost single mother, missing her husband while raising the wildebeests I calls my children and talking about how damn hard it is to recover from the unexpected death of a child and the joys or raising children, both the special needs and the typical variety.

If I toss in a story about diva cups or blue thunder along the way, I consider it a good day.

But occasionally, I have the opportunity to use my blog to raise awareness for the things that matter the most to me. I use my words to advocate for the wordless and the invisible. I use my blog to support charities like the Make A Wish Foundation and the Children's Miracle Network, even though neither association has asked me to.

When I was approached to write a series of (paid) sponsored posts for Procter and Gamble in support of The Special Olympics, it was one of those unique opportunities I couldn't turn down. I was given an opportunity to passionately support a campaign I fully believe in. It's The Special Olympics. How does a mother of a possible future Special Olympian say no to that?

I realize not everyone enjoys coming to a personal blog and reading a sponsored post. I was prepared for all sorts of dismayed comments, but what I found instead was this amazing gracious support from all of you who have read my posts.

Better than that even, is the support you have all shown for Procter and Gamble and their Thank You Mom campaign on facebook.

This is my last post in my series for P&G, my last chance to tell you what this campaign means to me as a special needs mom.

It can be incredibly isolating and difficult parenting people with special needs. It's time consuming and more often than not, my son Jumby comes first no matter what. His health takes precedence over everything, over everyone. It's a sometimes terrible thing to have to choose between your healthy children and your disabled child and all too often, between Shale and Jumby, my oldest children have gotten the shaft.

I spend my days advocating for my youngest and trying to find ways to ensure my older two children aren't forgotten in the mix of medical crises and therapy appointments. I juggle junior high sports and feeding tubes, hearing aides and soccer cleats, wheelchairs and iPods. It's our family's normal so I often forget it is not everyone's normal.

But more often than I would like, our carefully balanced eco-system crashes around us. We live bound to Jumby's needs and likely always will. There is no freedom from that, nor would I want there to be.

Most parents kiss their kids to bed every night and walk away with nary a thought to their child's next breath.

I kiss my son good night every night and then whisper in his ear, "Remember to live."

Because it wasn't so long ago when I kissed one little boy good night and never had the opportunity to do it again. He didn't live. That is a chain around my neck which threatens to strangle me with grief until I draw my last breath. I don't think I could survive the experience twice.

Please live.

But living doesn't just mean breathing. That is not enough for me, and it is certainly not enough for my children. I want them to be amazed. To feel joy. To marvel. I want them to dare to fail and then succeed.

I want them to live to their fullest and then live beyond even that. Like most parents, I want everything for my children.

For Jumby, everything is often considered unobtainable. Too many view him as disabled, less than. Too many can't see the warrior that lurks beneath his twisted body. They can't see the hero that hides inside his damaged mind.

My son was born at 24 weeks weighing one pound, four ounces. He was born addicted to crack.

He survived.

My son was shaken to the point of death when he was six months old.

He survived.

My son was smothered with bleach, assaulted, shaken again and left for dead before he turned two.

He survived.

The people who were to love and protect him robbed him of any chance of normalcy. Unlike his brother Shale, Jumby wasn't born disabled. He survived; his disabilities are his scars to bear forever.

So when people chose not to see my son, or to limit him, I am infuriated. I want to rage beyond reason, and scream into the wind with the unfairness of it all. My son Shale did not ask to be born different. Jumby did not ask to be sentenced to a life of difference. No person does. And yet, those are the cards that have been dealt.

It is my job, as their mother, to ensure those cards no longer restrict my kids. Not when they are children and not when they are adults. It's my job to show them and the world the possibilities that exist for people of all abilities.

This is why I chose to support and write for Procter and Gamble. Because I am so thankful for the work this company is doing in helping promote people with special needs. With their campaign like the Thank You Mom campaign on facebook and their sponsorship of the World Games, they are raising awareness and hope for families like mine.

They are helping the world see past the limits of disabilities and into the possibilities which exist for everyone. They are helping make dreams come true the way I so desperately want for my own children.

With a campaign like this, I feel a little less isolated as a mother to children with special needs.

Today is the closing day of the World Games in Athens for The Special Olympics. Today the last of these amazing athletes compete to make their dreams come true, to chase their gold medals. It's not too late to show your support for those athletes or their families. It's not too late to show your support for the Thank You Mom campaign on facebook. Every time you leave a comment, like or share the Thank You Mom campaign on facebook Procter and Gamble will donate a dollar (up to $250,000) to support Team USA’s journey to Athens.

Thank you P&G, on behalf of all the moms of the athletes, and on behalf of all the moms of future athletes. For believing in our kids. For helping them shine in front of the entire world.

And thank you to everyone who reads this, for supporting my family and my blog and allowing me the grace to step outside my usual prose and use my words to tell the world how much I adore each of my children.

Remember to live.

Shades of Possibilities

I never planned on being a special needs parent. I planned on raising developmentally normal children who had no disabilities of any sort.

Imagine my surprise when Bug was born.

I was one part relieved not to be pregnant with a monstrously sized belly and one part horrified to discover my perfect baby was not so perfect.

I was heart broken and disappointed and riddled with guilt for feeling anything less than pure adoration for my new child. I carried guilt for gestating this boy who was so broken, for baking him wrong, and I spent more hours of my life than I care to admit wondering what I did wrong in my pregnancy to burden my child with such disabilities.

It was hog wash of course. I did nothing wrong.

He was simply perfect in his imperfect way; biology and fate determined his path and I had no say in the matter.

It was a long road from giving birth to a disabled child to acceptance and then to love. It shames me still to know I felt anything less than the pure joy my son so rightfully deserved. It haunts me still to know I felt sorry for myself for having this less than perfect child.

I was selfish and stupid and narrow minded. I was human.

But with time came grace and for that I am grateful. With every medical battle, every diagnosis, every hard fought step of my boy's life, I loved him more. And the entire time Bug was with his he did one thing consistently and steadily. He loved. Unflinchingly.

It was through my son's life that I learned what it meant to love wholly and completely with no strings. I learned to see past the disabilities and limitations of others and see the grace and joy and purpose that people of every shape, size and ability could provide.

I was a lucky woman, even when I felt my most unluckiest.

With the birth of my third son, I was admitted into a world I never fully appreciated, one beyond the fringes of my reality and one I often turned a blind eye to.

It is a world filled with people of various special needs who all have one thing in common. They are as human as I am.

My son's death almost destroyed me. With his absence he took with him my passport to this special world most people don't enter and I was devastated not only to have lost my child but my identity as a participant to the special needs world.

Many in my real life never understood why I was so heart broken to no longer be involved in this world. They never understood the value of loving and living with a special needs person.

They never understood how living with someone whose needs are so spectacularly different than most could be fulfilling. They didn't understand how stepping outside oneself to cheer on and support a person with different abilities could ultimately redefine everything I knew to be true.

But that is what raising Shale did for me. It guided me to becoming a better mother and (I like to think) a better person. He made me whole in a way I never understood I wasn't whole before.

Jumby's adoption brought that back into my life. Jumby's love has helped heal our family from Shale's death. His joy and his hope have helped knit the scars on our hearts tightly together so that we can feel again.

I will never be whole. My wholeness was shattered irrevocably the moment Shale took his last breath. But the gifts he bestowed upon those who loved him remain. The knowledge we gained living with him continues on and propels us forward.

He gave us hope and purpose and love.

And now it's my job to do the same, to pass that along to the brother he never met and to every other person in the world who is over looked because the world sees them differently due to the nature of their abilities and limitations.

Shale and Jumby taught me the only real limitations in life are the ones you impose on yourself. Learn to dream big, even if it means dreaming differently.

That's what the athletes of the Special Olympics are doing.

Dreaming big.

Dreaming different.

They are dreaming.

And succeeding.

And thanks to Procter and Gamble supporting The Special Olympics,  most specifically the Moms, more people are able to see these athletes see their dreams to fruition. With P&G stepping up to the plate to donate a dollar (up to $250,000) to support Team USA’s journey to Athens every time you leave a comment, like or share the Thank You Mom campaign on facebook more athletes will get to dream their dreams.

More mothers will get to see the joy of knowing their son or daughter have succeeded in inspiring families like mine. Mothers like me who dream in only shades of possibilities instead of improbabilities.

Thank you Procter and Gamble for supporting families like mine.