Please don’t feel ashamed of my daughter’s difference

Please don’t feel ashamed of my daughter’s difference

Christmas time is synonymous with crafting when you have a young child or a toddler. Making paper chains, baking festive cookies or making the obligatory hand and foot print Christmas cards for the family.

I had a lot of fun this year working out how to incorporate both Hero’s left hand and her lucky fin in her handprint Christmas cards. Looking at the shape of her gorgeous little nubbins (I still don’t like that word, but neither have I found a better alternative!) I decided that her little handprint would make an excellent crown. Embellished with my appallingly childish artwork (I can’t wait for her to be old enough to draw for herself) we put three lucky fin prints, side by side, and lo! The Three Kings were crowned. Her left hand then took the place of the star. It looked really quite cute, until I tried to add the rest of the detail, that is!

IMG_2545
I haven’t done art since year 9….

We also attended a festive craft session for the under fives in the weeks before Christmas. Of course, no Christmas craft session would be complete without turning your handprints into Reindeer antlers! When I came to collect her I couldn’t help but notice that everybody else’s reindeer had a left and a right hand print atop their heads. Hero’s had two lefts. That made perfect sense to me. I’d obviously have preferred a lucky fin reindeer, but I felt that the minor ruffling of my feathers probably had more to do with my own sensitivity than with the choice they’d made to only use one of her hands.

However, as I was chatting with the leader afterwards, I admired the artwork they’d done with the toddlers and he said to me:

“We decided to do Hero’s with just her left hand as we weren’t sure if you’d want her other one printed.”

He said it with genuine concern. I smiled and laughed, as is my go-to reaction in these situations and I reassured him that we loved both her handprints. I told him all about our own Christmas card adventures. Despite leaving the group a happy bunny,  the comment turned out to be one of those insidious thoughts that return to you again and again long after the conversation has ended. I’m always a bit of delayed processor of emotions, but by the time I’d gotten home I was feeling the hurt. I was just crushed by the idea that her little hand could somehow be something shameful and that her own parents might not want to see artwork with it on.

Now please be assured, I know with all my heart that that certainly wasn’t the intent of the leader’s decision. But I wasn’t preoccupied with the intent; I was preoccupied with the message that a decision like that might send to my increasingly aware daughter. A message that said: “You’re different, and we should probably hide that.”

If I’ve learned anything over the past two years, from our twenty-week scan to the running toddler I have before me now, it’s that being different really is awesome. I’m fiercely proud of Hero’s uniqueness, her abilities that blow us away every day, and I can only hope and pray that one day she will feel the same way too.

IMG_2543
My favourite piece of artwork Hero made at a baby group last year 💖

Parenting is all about learning on the job. Add a difference or a disability into the mix and that sense of flying by the seat of your pants is increased. We’re not only getting to grips with our ever-changing child, but we’re also learning all about a world of different abilities that we knew nothing about before. I’ve learned from my chat with the craft leader that maybe I shouldn’t assume that everyone else has the same levels of confidence and comfort around her difference.

I now know that the message I need to spread to her future teachers and caregivers is: please don’t be ashamed of my daughter’s difference. Instead, celebrate it. Celebrate it in artwork that is as one-of-a-kind as she is. If that means her reindeer has wonky antlers, then rest assured that that’s the only reindeer her parents really want to pin on their wall. The reindeer that is as special as she is! And if you still have any doubt at all: ask! Don’t ever be afraid to ask. The differences of our children aren’t as new to us as they might be to you, and we’re highly unlikely to be offended by any kind of polite curiosity. And, while I’m not speaking for every parent of a child with a difference out there, I’m speaking for myself and maybe even for a few more: Celebrate, ask and then celebrate them some more!

24068149_2034906229859571_8068708896958306645_n
This is my favourite quote. It’s from the wonderful creator of the awesome Lucky Fin Project and it couldn’t be more true than in this situation.

 

 

 

 

Finding the perfect response to an imperfect situation

Finding the perfect response to an imperfect situation

A few weeks ago we had a pretty unpleasant experience when a group of people laughed at Hero’s little hand. It was a group of adults, and they actually laughed. What made it worse was that they had a child with them who, following their example, strained across to stare as well.

Hero had been sucking her little hand like a dummy. It’s happened before, when someone reacted with innocent wonder at the idea that she could somehow fit her entire fist into her mouth. It’d certainly be some party trick if it were true! Only, on that occasion, the person in question had the decency to be deeply apologetic when they realised that she didn’t actually have a fist to fit in.

Unlike that previous time, this one was a whole different kettle of fish, causing a cascade of emotions that knocked me for six for a while and seemed to encompass a whole spectrum of bewildering feelings.

Disbelief

When I first noticed them laughing and pointing I just stared in horror. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Surely, surely, people don’t still do that kind of thing? The world’s moved on from the medieval times, when being different singled you out. Now we have disabled presenters on TV, we have a whole raft of paralympian role models. We have no room in our lives for ridicule and prejudice like that anymore.

And then of course you have to ask, what exactly was funny? What could possibly be funny about child who was born without a hand? It’s not tragic. It’s not terrible. It’s not even bad, despite what they might think, but it sure isn’t funny.

Rage

This one is obvious. I couldn’t just stand by and watch someone ridicule my daughter. I was obviously going to march right up to them and say… what exactly I would have said in the theatre of my mind, I don’t know, but it involved a lot of gesticulating and unrepeatable words.

Needless to say, I didn’t march across the restaurant and start swearing blue murder at these people (although a tiny piece of me wanted to). My intense hatred of conflict aside, I tried to picture Hero doing that. I pictured her marching up to someone, her face contorted with rage, reeling off a load of swear words and giving them what for.

What a horrible thing to imagine. That aggression and that anger is the last thing I’d want Hero to parrot. And we are, despite not having a clue what we’re doing, her biggest role models. She will look to us for how to react in these situations and I won’t teach her manners as poor as those who were laughing. We don’t want her to have to live in a world where feeling that level of rage is the norm. Right now, she’s so innocent and sweet and lovely. To see that level of anger and rage mirrored in her face would feel like the end of her wonderful childlike innocence.

Heartache

I’m not sure what word to use in this context. It’s not grief, but I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t ache. It did. A lot.

It was heartache at learning that someone could be so utterly cruel to my beautiful, talented and just all-round awesome child, that they could be so cruel to anyone’s child. It was heartache at realising that, despite having been lulled into a false sense of security, she is going to have to deal with incidents like this throughout her life from time to time. I dread the day when our wonderfully happy child, who loves almost everyone she sees, realises that somebody is laughing at her or judging her unkindly. It was the understanding that she will have her own demons and insecurities to overcome and that, no matter how much we build her up, idiots like that might be able to knock her down in a careless second.

Understanding

After a ten-month honeymoon period, after ten months of hearing nothing even slightly unkind, to learn that this stuff will happen was frightening. And worse than the knowledge that this kind of thing might happen, is the fact that we will have to deal with it when it does. We can’t deal with it how we might want to, as over protective and instinct-driven parents. We have to deal with it in a manner that we’d like to equip her with. We need to model a response that shows her how to take the moral high ground.

Although we might want, even if just for a second, to leap hell-for-leather off of that moral high ground and drag any unkind and insensitive soul into the mud – we just can’t. Although we might want to just cry hysterically and let those people make us feel  less than we are – we just can’t. We have to be better than that, because she deserves better role models than that.

We want her to know that it’s ok to feel upset, that it’s ok to feel angry from time to time, but that you cannot let those emotions rule you and dictate your actions. You can wallow when you need to, but you shouldn’t make decisions that you might regret based on those flashes of red.

What happened next…

In the end we chose to walk away. I hung back, allowing the party to depart before us so that we didn’t have to bump into them on the way out. By the time we got to the car I was shaking and crying as all of the above started to rush about my head. I didn’t know how to react then and I still don’t now, because I’m not just responding for myself anymore, I’m responding for Hero as well. That complete immobilisation is something we as a family now need to find a solution to. Will we come up with some choice educational phrases or will we simply learn to ignore it? Is there a perfect response to an imperfect situation?

Finding an answer to this is made a little more complicated by us both approaching the situation from entirely opposite directions. My husband wasn’t as upset as I was and, from his foundation of self confidence, he won’t ever be as upset about that kind of experience as I will. He’s much more able to separate himself from the unwanted opinions of unknown people, whereas I will always take them deeply to heart. His upset will come on the day Hero understands what’s happening, the day she is upset is the day he’ll be upset, where as I will feel it all in advance as well.

It’s taken me a few weeks to process what was a few short minutes of experience, to distil it into something I could put into words. I too wanted to follow my own advice; I didn’t want to commit my flash of rage and deep upset to the pages of time. I wanted to slow down, to take a step back and to understand what had really happened. Initially people told me to feel sorry for the people in question, but a few weeks ago I simply couldn’t do that. Time is a miraculous soother, however, and I now see the point people were making. How much poorer their lives must be, as well as the life of their child, living in the world of intolerance they’ve created. At the end of the day, it’s their loss and not ours. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Perhaps more helpful to remember, both for Hero and for myself, is that for every one person who is mean or insensitive, there are hundreds of thousands, if not more, who are are accepting, curious and kind. May the odds be ever in our favour!

 

 

 

Sticks and stones

Sticks and stones

Some times you’re cruising along, as happy as Larry, when something someone says hits you right out of the left field. Some times you don’t even realise until much later, that the words have sunk deeper than you could have imagined and caused a rush of emotions you never expected.

Until recently we’d been incredibly lucky to have never been on the receiving end of any negative or hurtful comments about Hero’s hand. We have had a few flippant comments (“At least it’s just a hand!”), but generally her lucky fin has been met with curiosity, wonder and affection. The outside world, as well our circle of friends and family, has always been a reflection of my own outlook and the outlook we hope to foster within Hero.

This weekend, for the first time, I’ve been really shaken by something someone said. The comments came from a child, and I think were both innocent and well meaning. She was just making an observation and a judgement, as children do and probably adults as well. At the time they were spoken I didn’t really react, I brushed the comments aside with a joke and thought nothing more of it for the rest of the day.

Then I got into bed that night and those sentences kept coming back again and again. I just cried. My heart ached because I realised that I can’t protect her from comments like that. As she grows in independence and confidence, as she spends more and more time away from us, I can’t just hold her to me and shield her from things the world might say. Nor should or would I try to do so, as much as my emotions might protest.

I can’t walk up to every single man, woman or child that might come across her path, grab them by the collar and say, “please don’t hurt my child.”

I hope that we, her parents, her family and her friends, can instil within her such a sense of stability and self worth that these comments will just roll off her like water from a duck’s back. Because they certainly don’t roll off mine. The experience has taught me that I need to come up with a response. I’m a writer, not a speaker, and have always needed time to process my thoughts and reactions. Only now I may need to create a stockpile of responses which are both affirming and educating so that I can turn these comments around into something positive. Isn’t that what I’d like Hero to be able to do after all?

I hope that she never feels the same heart ache those comments have given me. I hope she can laugh right back at them knowing that she might look different but that’s ok. That’s more than ok. To the people who matter she’s perfect.

A letter to when I was a limb-difference learner

A letter to when I was a limb-difference learner

As Limb Difference Awareness Month has ended, so too has another chapter of my life. But endings are not necessarily sad things. To quote a popular cliché, ‘when one door closes, another door opens’, and this particular opening door is one most welcome.

April has been a big month in the Though She Be But Little household. Our lucky fin baby has gone from crawling, to standing to thinking about trying to walk (albeit with a lot of wobbling and support) and, perhaps the biggest of all, she’s also learnt how to hold objects with her little hand. These massive milestones have closed the door on a chapter that, for me, started just over a year ago. It was a chapter I never saw coming and it was a chapter of worry.

All these wonderful changes have got me thinking back to the old me; large, pregnant and beside herself with fears and emotions she didn’t even understand. Now that I’m here, I wish I could reach back over the past year, back to the Spring of 2016, and tell my old self some things. Some things I know that she wouldn’t be ready to hear just then, but that she would be ready one day, in the not too distant future.

  1. You won’t regret your choices.

For the rest of your pregnancy, you won’t shake the notion that there could be something else wrong with your baby, something they haven’t picked up on the endless scans. All these scans (you’ll lose count of how many by the end, but it’ll be somewhere near 20) tell you that the doctors think there might be something else to find. Each time you go for another scan the news will be different, one day she’ll be too small, one day she’ll be fine, one day her arm will be tiny, the next day it won’t. Worst of all, these scans are happening because you rejected one invasive but conclusive test. When you’ve been told your baby is 1 in 32,000, the 1 in 100 odds of a miscarriage caused by an amnio test seem frighteningly high. Despite all the subsequent investigations, scans and consultant visits, you won’t regret not having that test. You know it could have taken away much of your stress just like that, but right from the moment you first saw her jumping about on the screen, your baby’s safety was and always will be worth far more than your own fear and worry. You are right to follow your instincts, they are the best and most comprehensive parenting resource you’ll ever have.

  1. The emotions you’re feeling now are ok. 

You’re new to this whole limb difference thing, you’ve never even seen anyone with a limb difference before. You’re about as limb different unaware as it’s possible to be. You don’t know what’s in store. Your mind is full of all the other ‘what ifs’ and near misses. You’re terrified that your daughter will struggle through life. You’re devastated to think of the challenges she might face, both socially and physically. And yet you spend so much time feeling guilty for how you feel. Compounded over and over by well-meaning comments. They’re trying to make light of the situation for you, but you’ll feel sometimes that your emotions are being undermined. You will come to understand all of the things they’re saying to you, but you’re not quite ready yet. You’ll learn that the only people who can really relate to you are other parents in the limb different community. Find them, join them and talk to them; they will understand what you are going through better than you do yourself right now (you can check out our links page for some fantastic resources and blogs). You’ll keep comparing your own worries to those of others. You certainly know how much worse it could have been. You’ll worry that because your problems aren’t as severe as others that they’re not worth a damn. Let me tell you now, even though you’ll carry on doing it, that you should not compare. Some people have things far worse, challenges far greater and higher mountains to scale. Likewise, some have things a little easier. Neither side of the equation invalidates how you’re feeling right now. Right now it’s ok for you to fear the unknown and for you to be a little heart broken for your baby. You’ll trawl the Internet for information and you won’t be ready just now to hear the positive news from parents all around the world, but you will be soon.

  1. Telling people is absolutely the right thing to do.

You’ve agonised whether to ‘announce’ to your friends and family that your baby will be born with a difference. Right now it feels like the biggest thing in the world to you. Maybe to others it’s not so huge, even to you, just a year from now, her difference will hardly matter. But right now, at this very moment, it’s pretty huge. Telling people will end up giving you the chance to celebrate her birth without worrying about their reactions. It’ll ease your anxiety once people know. When she’s born, all you’ll see on their faces will be joy and love and happiness. Telling people now will allow you to make the most of those precious months of knowledge that you were given. So many are shocked to discover their baby’s difference at birth. You’ve been given the gift of knowledge; use it in whichever way is right for you.

  1. When you get to meet her for the first time you’ll relax, but only a little bit. 

You will be so utterly relieved in the wake of her birth that her time in intensive care will not stress you out as much as you’d expect. You’ll know that she’s going to be ok. You’ll know she’s safe. You’ll know she’ll be well. However, all that relief and joy won’t quite mask that residual underlying fear. You’ll still worry. You’ll hold your breath every time you spot another consultant around her cot and you’ll chew on your nails whenever you receive a hospital appointment for her in those early months. You’ll feel fraught when she refuses to gain weight and the consultants are looming yet again. You’ll still bristle a bit when people make light of her difference. You’ll still be caught unawares by the little break in your heart when she tries to hold your finger with a hand that isn’t there, or when you see her try to reach out for a second toy only to give up in disappointment. You’ll feel that way for a little while yet, but not forever.

  1. She will blow you away. Every single day she will make you proud. 

Once she’s home, you’ll watch her every movement, you’ll agonise over how she is using her little hand. You’ll fret that she isn’t using it. You’ll stress. You’ll encourage. You’ll cheer. You’ll cry. Then one day, around about a year from now, all that will change. Around about a year from now she’ll climb up onto her knees and she’ll crawl. She might have a few bruises on her head where she’s toppled over her little hand. But you know what, she toppled over and then she got up. Again and again, she got up. This moment will close the chapter on your worry. It’ll close the chapter on your fears for her future and there you will be, sitting beside those other proud parents of limb different kids, and you’ll know in your heart of hearts that she’s going to be ok. You’ll at last understand what they’ve been telling you all along. That one simple act of moving herself forward across the floor, of getting bored almost instantly of the crawl and pulling her self up to stand instead, will change your world. Those two little milestones will shout and scream to you that there is simply nothing this kid won’t be able to do. She wants to play hockey, like her Dad? She’ll make that happen. She wants to turn cartwheels across the floor? No problem. She’ll find a way with your help if need be, but she’ll probably neither need nor want it. You’ll turn around one time and there she’ll be, sat on the floor, holding onto two toys. Two of them. One will be clamped in her fist the other tucked against her body with her little hand. And she’ll have no idea how intense and all consuming your pride is, how immense your relief and how great your joy, at seeing this one seemingly insignificant act. She’s showing and telling you, with every new thing she learns, that she is going to be A-Ok and that it’s time for you to stop worrying.

Listen to her: she’s right.

FullSizeRender 30
One hand, two toys!

FullSizeRender 29

 

It is not just a hand

It is not just a hand

Over this past week I’ve had three people say to me “oh well, it’s just a hand”, when they’ve met Hero for the first time. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met some wonderful, inquisitive and kind people too, who have somehow managed to convey just how perfectly OK Hero will be without her right hand, without dismissing it entirely.

I know, from the bottom of my heart, that she will be just fine. That she is just fine. I am acutely aware how much worse off people can be. I don’t worry about any of the things that terrified me during pregnancy. I don’t mourn for her loss anymore. I just see before her a world of possibilities. Given the chance, I wouldn’t even go back and change it.

But it is not just a hand.

It might well be ‘just a hand’ to you, who is enjoying the full use of both of yours. It might well be ‘just a hand’ to me some of the time. But to some people, and to me as well on the rare occasion, it’s a barrier that our little ones must overcome.

It’s looking at little kids struggling to do up their shirt buttons, tie their laces, open a bottle top and wondering how Hero will achieve that. It’s not a case of if, but simply of how. It is knowing that whatever she wears, buys or does in order to fit in, she’ll always be a bit different. She might love being different. I hope she loves being different. I do. But it took me a good many years to get to that happy place and deep down, there will always be a tiny part of me that secretly wants to belong.

It might be a small disability. I might well be grateful every single day that it isn’t the ‘something worse’ the doctors threatened. It might be a minor difference on an utterly perfect baby.

But it is not just a hand.


If you’ve enjoyed following our journey, please take a moment to vote for us in the UK Blog Awards 2017!

Follow the link below and select the “Health and Social Care + Parenting” category.

http://www.blogawardsuk.co.uk/ukba2017/entries/thoughshebebutlittle2016

votenow-1-trans

Just Keep Swimming

Just Keep Swimming

Ben suggested that we should decorate the nursery with a Finding Nemo mural after we found out about Baby’s hand. I was horrified. He’d already made jokes about having framed pictures of famous one-handed characters on the nursery wall, from Luke Skywalker (pretty tempting in fairness) to Jamie Lannister (less so).

In those early days, shock still running rampant, I thought that I would raise my daughter to see herself as nothing other than the same as everyone else. Not to see herself as ‘different’. I was determined that she would have the exact same upbringing as every other child, and surrounding her with pictures of one-handed people or fish was going to seriously hamper my efforts.

Yet, if my first baby retail-therapy spree is anything to go by, I’ve changed my mind somewhat as the weeks have gone on. As I’ve trawled the internet, blogs and forums for stories and information about upper limb differences in children, one thing cropped up again and again: Finding Nemo.

I didn’t get it at first. Why all the fuss? Nemo’s “lucky fin” hardly seemed to feature in the film. If you’re asked to recall the story, I’m pretty sure his fin difference would hardly enter into it. Nemo has a damaged fin, he’s protected and closeted by his well-meaning father who frets that his son just isn’t able. However, it turns out that there isn’t a damn thing that Nemo can’t do. Nemo’s different, sure, but he’s not disabled. As the Reach charity would say: It’s his ability, not his disability that counts. Slowly I started to realise that the very fact that it wasn’t a prominent feature of the film was the entire point. That’s why people in the limb different community love it so much. That’s why I’ve found myself obsessing over Nemo baby paraphernalia and caving in at almost every orange be-finned opportunity, when I’ve managed to resist buying just about anything else baby-focused.

IMG_0805 (1)
Thank you disneystore.co.uk!

Bit by bit I’ve begun to accept that my daughter is going to be different and, for her sake, I need to enable her to see that for herself. She’s different, and that’s so damn OK. I never want her to feel she has to hide her arm up her sleeve. That she needs to explain things to others. That she needs to justify her own independence or that she has something to hide. It’s becoming more and more obvious to us that it will be Ben and I, as her parents, who need to take a step back. It’ll be us who need to resist the urge to wrap her in cotton wool, to protect her from any hardship, like poor Marlin tried and failed to do at the start of the film.

I’ve been fretting about how she’ll open a bottle, how she’ll use a pair of scissors without another hand to hold the paper, how she’ll do something as commonplace as washing her hands. Now I realise that I don’t need to research it. I don’t need to panic on her behalf. She’ll find a way and it’ll be the best feeling in the world when she does, because it won’t be anyone else’s way. It might not even be the ‘right’ way, but it’ll sure as hell be her way.

Bringing Normal Back

Six and a half weeks.

Twelve scans.

A few answers (but mostly questions).

And I’ve had enough.

At the start we saw no reason to question our consultants when they brought us in for more scans. We welcomed the offer of answers, for more detail on the nature of our little girl’s little arm. It’s taken me until last week, the latest out of a long line of scans, to realise that they don’t have any more answers than I do. That right now, what would be the best thing for me, and consequently I guess, for Baby, would be to just get back to some kind of normality.

The latest consultant scan at our local hospital saw her right forearm measurements drop off of the chart beneath the bottom average length for her age. But we were told: “not to worry”. Try telling any parent not to worry when one of those little measurement dots drops off the bottom of the bloody page!

We were also told that she may yet have a digit or two. Then again, she may not. She may have some wrist movement, then again, maybe not.

Basically, we learnt absolutely nothing new. In a bid to reassure me, with all the best intentions in the world, we were also referred to another specialist clinic to have Baby’s heart checked out. They believe the arm anomaly to be caused by an issue with vascular development and, after a terrifying hesitation over her heart and a “I’ll come back to that,” from our consultant at the previous scan, they felt that ruling out cardio vascular syndromes would be sensible. At the time, still wiping gloop off my thoroughly prodded and poked bump, we readily agreed.

It was only later on that evening that I realised, categorically, without any of my characteristic indecisiveness and doubt that I didn’t want Baby to have a heart scan at all. I didn’t want to know whether there was a risk that there could be anything else wrong with my baby. I didn’t want to go through any more fuss, only to be told that everything is ok (as I feel in my gut it will be. I’ve dreamed all this before, of course). Before this latest appointment I had managed to get myself into a state of blissful calm and excitement for baby’s impending arrival. A couple of days spent in the idyll of my good friend’s home with her beautiful and captivating 10-week-old daughter was absolutely the best tonic I could have had to get me back on track.

IMG_0757 (1)

So we’ve pulled the plug on everything. We’ve cancelled our cardio referral and I’ve told my midwife that I don’t want any more appointments other than the usual check ups all pregnant ladies should have. It feels a little daring, a little rash, but right now it feels absolutely right. At almost 27 weeks we are well past the point of no return, and we wouldn’t have deviated at the crossroads whatever we may have known. If there are any issues with her heart, we’ll find out once she’s born and we’ll cross that bridge then, with her leading the way.

All of these feelings, the decision already made over dinner, were compounded and confirmed when we turned up for our privately-booked 4D scan experience that evening, after the latest raft of could-be/couldn’t-be’s. I had stressed on the phone at the point of booking that I didn’t want all the frills that the 4D scan service provided (including photo key rings, magnets and gift bags) and that all we really wanted was a little reassurance. To see her face was A’ok, to check her little hand and feet were all good, and of course, to see her little arm and to once and for all get an idea of what we were dealing with.

True to form, Baby had her little arm tucked up behind her head and completely out of view. She was very happy to share her feet with us though, and her gorgeous little face (I am over the moon to see she’s gotten her daddy’s mouth and lips). She even yawned three times on the camera; totally surreal. But she would not show us her arm.

And between that, and the photo we’d received earlier that day of her left hand throwing us the high-five, I felt like she’s telling me that enough is enough too.

Stop looking for answers.

Stop looking for solutions.

I’m absolutely OK, Mum.

I am OK.

I’m going to be OK.

I cannot wait to meet you, but all in good time.

FullSizeRender-7 (1)