We have a trash ordeal each week as we attempt to cram the trash generated by the 30 people who live on my property into just two cans. It takes a lot of stomping, jumping up and down, plus other assorted shenanigans just to get the job done. Sarah's favorite teacher that she never had, drove up, had a camera on her, and caught these pictures.
I hadn't had a chance to spend a single minute yesterday in my gardens due to court with Teresa, and Joey's buttheadedness that took hours to re-direct yesterday. By 3 p.m. he'd calmed down enough to help me clean the garage and get the trash out.
After supper, it was 7 p.m. before I could even get outside to the back garden for an hour where Vanessa and I caught one of my barn cats trying to rub its head up against the pearl grey guinea hen who was not interested in snuggling with a cat.
The pollen count is extremely high (1200) due to the wonders of my Martha Gonzalez rose bush in bloom along with my Zephrine Drouhin draped over the back garden fence. Some yo-yo vented that whoever does the pollen count must really have good eyesight, over which I'm still sniggering at three days after I read it. Not having any allergies, I can afford to laugh.
Edgar doesn't get home from work until nearly 8:30 each night, his supper is waiting in the microwave, and I was, by then, shutting down my computer so that I could better concentrate on yelling at the Braves who seemed so overwhelmed by the Phillies last night.
An oddly chipper Edgar bounced into the room asking me questions about Sergi, and acting like he hadn't been snarling at me all week. Plopped his happy butt down next to me chattering, but I suggested that he owed me an apology for his crappy behavior this week.
"Nah, I owe you four kisses."
"It's been five days," I countered.
"Nope, I didn't leave the house on Saturday, it's four."
I realize I'm being sucked in, once again, to a stupid argument, so I accept the wrong number four along with a very nice, spoken apology that detailed his hatefulness over nothing, and his very rude and immature behavior for the 19 year old manboy that he is.
"Can this be your final attempt at breaking away emotionally?" I asked hopefully, wanting to avoid a very long separation anxiety as he grows up. "Yolie's lasted three months, Daniel's not at all, and Sergi only stomped off for one weekend basically."
It would take too long to detail the other dozen or so kids. This growing up and separating emotionally from a mom that you haven't had long enough is very tough on adopted children. Sooner or later they do realize that I'm still their mom, even if they've physically moved on. Some of my kids haven't moved out until their early 20s, Yolie left the second she turned 18 but, within three months, she was back living in the doublewide, then a year in the dorm with Audrey, back here with us through the rest of college and her Master's Degree program.
It is much easier for me to bear this process now that I've done this so many times before. I know they'll be back with apologies and hugs, I know that they need to go through this exercise in futility in some way or form. They seem to have a need to make it unpleasant for both me and for them in order to make themselves leave. I've tried logic, discussion, and therapeutic help with Dr. G, but always to no avail, this dance is simply unavoidable.
I told Edgar that I still had so much to teach him as I then was explaining to him something he'd gotten yesterday in the mail. He finds it emotionally comforting, knowing that I just verbalized his need to stay connected. He'd never express it for fear, no matter how unjustified, that I'd reject him, now that he is grown. To have only had a real mom for 68 months out of 19 years, just doesn't cut it. It is so unfair to a child who survived the first 162 months (13 1/2 years) of his life with not only no parenting, but having to take care of six younger siblings. And then I expect maturity? What planet did I arive from?
And there's still Joey...He's basically only had less than 4 years of parenting...with all his other issues. It's like raising Baby Huey.