Morose Monday

It's a shame that we have so much fun around here that no one wants to break the rhythm and return to school.

Too bad, too sad.

I was so exhausted from dealing with Edgar's pushpull garbage that I slept in until 6:30 once again. Windows wide open, but I never heard the roosters.

First load of kids ran out of the house at 7, down the long driveway, to the bus stop. They were buttoning shirts, grabbing bookbags, and hightailing it as fast as they could. I was standing dazed, and guzzling coffee, soon came to my senses, and kept on hollering to get everyone moving.

Digital clocks keep us up minute-to minute, and I usually load up the next group at 7:25 but we were running 6 minutes behind schedule. Which reminds me, I get emails from other adoptive families often, and Kerri in West Virginia was asking about our food and schedules. The key word for me might be routines because if I change anything there is heck to pay. Our morning routine requires me in the kitchen which is central, of course, to our house. Most of them eat before they leave, I sign papers, and listen to what they need for me to do. I try and start a load of laundry at the same time and hang up shirts from the dryer, fold towels, sweep the pantry, bag the trash, fix Lily and Paloma's hair, and make Jack's lunch while holding Tabby who is always grouchy since Memaw (Sabrina) is going to school.

Everyone is dogging me, worrying me about what's for supper while they chew their breakfast. Since it is usually some form of beans, I'm already starting them, and everyone leaves with the smell of garlic in their hair, except for the 6 boys who got haircuts before dark last night, out back, while trampoline dodgeball raged on, and Edgar flounced from room to room.

Edgar and Miriam were the last to leave, Edgar with his proverbial panties in a wad. We'd squabbled once again yesterday over mowing the meadow. Sissy-like, he complained that the grass catcher guard was missing and he couldn't mow until he found it and fixed it. Bull, what a stall. I yelled at him, a 19 year old, to go change his diapers, and I mowed it myself. Turns out I needed several hours on the mower to get my own frustration out. Fabian's been delightful, and Edgar's acted like a baby girl with diaper rash lately

I accidently ran over a turtle, it stopped the blades, and CW, Chuy and Jack performed an animal rescue. They took it to the creek where it ambled off unhurt. I drove myself into several patches of high weeds and dirt, and twice had to yell for CW to push me out. You think I'm gonna holler for Edgar and possibly mess up Mr. Too Cool's hair? But, of course, he bristles at being unneeded so I'm derned if I do and derned if I don't. The emotional acrobatics are strenuous.

Sergi, realizing Edgar was being difficult, offered to help, but I told him just go help Cristy get her cucumbers planted. Heck, Sergi's been in a war, been on duty in the Navy for 4 years, didn't even use up his leave while in Japan for three years, he deserves a rest. Edgar, on the other hand, needs to give his insecurities a rest.

Of course, no goodbye kiss this morning as he thinks he's punishing me for not being understanding. Door slams, he's gone in a huff. Does he think Big Joe never put me through this malarky?

Now that I am never alone, with Vanessa, Fabian and Joey all being homeschooled, I'm having trouble getting to Lowes to get more fence posts to trellis my raspberries. My frustration level over the more than 24-7 company is mounting. All are very difficult, emotionally high-maintenance kids who suck me dry constantly. Javy shadowed me all day yesterday, keenly aware of my disappointment in him from the day before, he did some heavy-lifting garden work for me as his way of apology. He is pictured above, the tall one, the keeper of his 3 birth brothers there with him; Jonathan, Chuy and Jose AKA Pepe.

My church gave Sergi a standing ovation which brought him to tears yesterday. I whispered, "I'm so proud of you," to which he thanked me but I turned it back on him, "No, son, thank YOU!" All I ask is that my kids somehow, someway make me proud. Since I know that they will, I can continue to get up each morning and face the challenges.

I haven't made tuna and rice in a month of Sundays because I hate it. All weekend, like there was group PMS going on, different children were asking me to make it for dinner each night. I use several pounds of brown rice, a sack of tuna cans (yuck) and cream of muchroom soup (double yuck) and mix it all up. To compound the yuckiness the kids then pile on sliced dill pickles, crushed up tortilla chips, and tabasco sauce for a muddle of grub that I can barely watch them eat.

We'd mashed up 25 pounds of potatoes this weekend for potato bar and I hope there's some leftovers in a little bowl in the fridge as I'd rather skip dinner than eat the tuna tork that they want me to make.

Robin, my friend in Arkansas, wanted me to share some recipes...don't try this one, it sucks.

I don't post recipes because I'm not a very good cook. I cook for sustenance and comfort, not taste apparently. I wouldn't cook at all if I didn't have kids...it's too much trouble, and time out of the garden where I can usually eat pretty well without having to come inside.

I cook spaghetti, pinto beans, potato bar, black beans and rice, red beans, corn and rice, lasagna, tuna crap, barley chowder...stuff like that. Nothing to brag about, just regular food that somehow comforts the kids, fills them up, and is nutritious. Sergi missed my food while in the Navy and is happily gobbling up anything I put before him.

I'm thinking I have 25 kids at home once again, people in the county are always asking me how many still live with me like I go around counting or something. It's not the numbers I pay attention to, it's the faces, the needs, the issues, the overly, emotionally needy sons and daughters that I deal with 24-7.

And the grown kids are always here, or on the phone to me, so I feel like I am involved with everyone everyday.