An Anniversary

Some fourteen years ago I went to work one morning not knowing that I'd bring home a new daughter from an emergency shelter. Fortunately I had an updated home study at the time since I was in the middle of an adoption from Texas. Carolina, pictured here behind her oldest daughter Baby Yolie, has truly been a blessing to our family.

Today though is Jonathan, Paloma, Chuy, Javy and Pepe's sixth anniversary. Some adoptive parents call this their Gotcha Day, which I like, but the word anniversary is one my children have latched upon. Tony told me someone laughed at him at school for having an anniversary, "You're not married, boy," he was told, but since I'm not married either, Tony didn't understand what the kid was saying.

If the four of these children, now 10, 11, 12, 13 and 14 (Pepe is 13), can decide on a dollar theater movie, then that's where we'll go to celebrate.

My expectations are changing now in our seventh year of being a family together. My most challenging children here at home now are Jonathan and Paloma. It's time to step up their therapy, hold them more accountable, and to expect improvements in their behaviors. There should be less acting out, less temper tantrums, and a clearer comprehension that we are a family now.

Will it be so? Nah, they have limited capacities for this kind of higher order thought processing, but all-in-all there will be continuous improvements eventually.

It rained hard last night, likely we received an inch of rain, but we are so terribly immersed in drought conditions that we need oh so much more precipitation to be able to see any results.

I have an old compost heap that I've not turned, not tended to, and not used. I slung the 20 pounds of coffee grounds from Cristy yesterday over the top, knowing that the rain would wash it through the dry vegetation and result someday in decent, rich garden food. This is where I must get the patience that is necessary for the long haul in adoptions.

Ya think?

Are You KIDDING ME?

Cristy sent me this shocking link.

Dadgum, once about 38 children ago I ate one of these all by myself. Chili's Awesome Blossom. And it was Good with a capital G.

203 grams of fat? Shocking. I don't eat that much fat in a week, much less in one sitting at one meal - well except for that once, but I was in my early 30s and could burn it off faster.

Still Working On My Comprehension of Death

Shoot, Daniel's gonna hear about the death of Uga VI way out there on that army base, it's all over the news and a very big deal here. Ray threw himself on his sofa, crying over the news. Somewhere we have a picture of Ray and Uga from a couple of years ago. Everyone in Georgia likely has a picture with Uga.

Cristy just brought me what must have been twenty pounds of coffee grounds from Starbucks this afternoon. I'd gone to the Starbucks kiosk at Kroger earlier, the cute young girl recognized me and remarked about what a flirt Fabian can be at times.

"You oughta see his brother, he's a world class flirt," I'd responded.

"Oh I know Edgar."

My phone had rung, "Is this Cindy?"

"Yes Ma'am," I'd steeled myself, somehow knowing what was coming, and she then told me my Uncle Joe had passed away, "I can't reach Bay (AKA Grandma), will you let her know?"

My Uncle Joe was widowed, childless, orphaned and an only child - at 86 he had a cousin who died last week and he had my mom, his sister-in-law. That's it, three more in-laws. I can remember his parents, back in my childhood when they were still living. I'd see them during our trip to Greenville, South Carolina every summer

I was headed out the door this afternoon, still in my church clothes. to the funeral of a young lady who'd once been in youth group with Cristy, her older brother was Sarah's age. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, brain swelling and an enlarged heart - a terribly sad situation, and her mother is a friend of mine from way, way back.

I always have a problem with death, I just don't understand so much. I want my sister back, I want my friend Chris to have his wife back, I want to rewind life at times - a do over if possible. The finality of it overwhelms me.

What To Do?

I'm posting, with permission, an email I received last week or so. I don't have answers, maybe some of y'all do. What I find so across the board here is that this letter could have been written by dozens of us as we all find ourselves all too often with broken hearts when we are so mistreated by those we have cared for and love so deeply.

"You mentioned a child who married someone you couldn't stand and later divorced him. My son is marrying a girl next month (come hell or high water he's absolutely determined) who our entire family loathes. She lived with us (dating my son but separate from my son - no hanky panky going on here) for a few months due to some major family problems. We listened to her troubles and encouraged her to go back home, deal with her parents and their issues, be compassionate - the whole deal. She just loved us then. She wanted us to adopt her (yeah, sure) and kept telling us how much she admired us, etc. etc. I wasn't born yesterday and I definitely saw many traits in her that I had seen in many, many foster children before (although, sadly, she was a child who slipped thru the cracks, as her parents are both very unstable in every way). I gave her alot of support and valued her as a person, but emotionally kept a little more distance than I might have otherwise due to a lot of red flags I was seeing but not quite believing/understanding. After about 4 months she moved in with her grandfather, but was over all the time. One weekend she was VERY rude to my bio-daughter and I had just about had it with her snide little remarks so I told my son that he needed to inform her that she must apologize to my daughter and make things right before she came back over again. It was at a point where I was FED UP with my bio kids getting abused by the kids we were trying to help - be it foster, adopted or some kid in the community - you know the deal. So, in response to this request, she e-mailed me some very hateful letters and turned our family into DCFS for abusing my younger son! She claimed we were abusive, scape-goating him, and starving him (he has FASD and is very small in spite of the tens of thousands of calories he eats daily). It was a month of HELL. The case was not substantiated because, well, for one thing, it wasn't true and we had tons of documentation of the things we had done to help my younger son - she knew this, just wanted to torture us. That being said, this happened about 14 mos. ago and we are all suffering PTSD still. I cry at the drop of a hat, some of my kids are so angry with him, they have not spoken a word to him since he moved out (when this all hit the fan he moved in with her), no one wants this wedding to take place, but we know we are talking to a wall when we try to talk to him about it. He has maintained minimal contact with us (comes over for a few minutes on holidays while she waits in the car) and we were sent a wedding invitation. This feels like a big "SCREW YOU" from her. She has tried to apologize once but it was not an apology, it was a "I'm sorry I had to turn you in for being such a terrible parent, but I had to do the right thing, I'm sorry you are so abusive" - not an apology in my book. She truly thinks she did the right thing (or talks like it), but I KNOW she would never have done this, had I not made an issue of her behavior. This was revenge for me expecting her to be a civilized member of this family as opposed to the nasty, hateful, back-stabber she was showing us.

After all this, we do not wish to attend the wedding. I cannot see myself getting through the service without having a nervous breakdown. I'm always told what a strong person I am, I have weathered so much crap in the past year that I have been imagining a hospital stay as a "vacation". Other extended family members do not know about this and are planning on attending their small wedding. We just told my brother and mother in law in the past month what happened because, well, this was not something we could even talk about a year ago - we were devastated, and still are. They may understand, but they'll still go - we aren't trying to turn anyone against him, we love him no matter what, but just can't support him in this. I can't imagine not being at my son's wedding - it is SO not what I imagined in my life. I am so stuck here. I know that I should just go and get through it, be there for him, but I don't think I'm strong enough anymore and I'd be going alone since my husband and kids are absolutely refusing to consider going. I am heartbroken. They're getting married on Aug. 3rd and instead of praying for the strength to go, I've been praying for God to show him the truth so he calls off the wedding. What should I do? How did you get through your daughters' wedding/marriage. I really wish they'd elope if they were going to do this so it wasn't such a public thing. Our families will never understand our not going and that's not something I can do anything about (or much care to at this point), but it's just one more type of alienation. I already feel like we've lost so many relationships because of my adopted kids behaviors, our dealing with RAD or FASD or ADHD. Not being able to go anywhere they may end up overwhelmed, our decision to homeschool, and on and on. We're already the odd ones in the family, this is just isolating us further when we need people the most. WHAT DO I DO?????"

Lord, Please make It Rain....

You know I could spout my 'where'd the time go?' tired routines, bemoan the flying years, or simply celebrate the birthday of such a happy, well adjusted child who turns eight today. Jack has lived here all his life and has been a blessing to my parents who've often despaired aloud, regarding the difficulties here in my home of raising such deeply challenged children.

Linda Up North wrote a great post on what'll we do later with children like this? Parents of normal birth children may have a difficult time comprehending the level of rage, violence and hatred we adoptive parents of older children often live with...emotions that literally have nothing to do with us. Imagine waking up one day with half-grown strangers in your house, a nice home where you've agreed to provide love, support, nurturing and commitment to those who would steal from you, attack you, and constantly assail you with negative emotions. Sometimes it's a little hard to get up and face it day after day.

Theresa often describes her days that resemble mine, as do Claudia's days all too often what with court dates, probation and out-of-home placements for terribly unruly, disturbed children who, on some level, really do actually love us back, but if they admitted that fact to themselves, then they'd have to confront their uber painful feelings about their origins. That's where therapy is a MUST HAVE, and don't expect miraculous results instantaneously, this takes years and years and years.

I've been fairly clear about our difficulties - no likely I've sugar-coated them due to confidentiality issues. I can't vomit out every thought I feel, nor every challenge we've faced. At least not yet, not until more time has passed and more healing has been allowed.

Even folks who know us very well will call or email with questions when I've had to be vague. Dr. Mandy wrote, "...the blog wasn't clear (as I'm sure you artfully intended," regarding a situation. Dude, I'm artful??? Ain't that a hoot? I'm such a clod at times that I'll sail along on this unintended compliment today. I'm blunt, often insensitive and rarely able to contain my feelings enough to formulate better responses to situations. I'm learning more calmness and an ability to step around stuff but look how long this has taken me?

Lily picked jalapenos that CW professionally diced and served atop our whole wheat spaghetti noodles last night, smothered in Vidalia onions. "Mom, these taste super earthy," Lily exclaimed.

You know that's not the case. Not earthy, but flavorful - something that's sorely lacking in food that's been grown commercially with chemicals, picked too early and shipped thousands of miles in refrigerated containers. Jalapenos should be served at room temperature not as slimy, tasteless worms that were picked and grown somewhere else. When my homemade Fire Hot Pepper Sauce ran out, we'd resorted to store bought peppers - girl, it just ain't the same.

I'd have to convert a lot of land into potatoes in order to have enough for such a large family. It's very tempting to do so, knowing how chemically doused the commercial potatoes are, it's a labor intensive BIG Job, but the flavor in homegrown potatoes is surprisingly noticeable. I planted what will likely measure out a couple hundred pounds - but that simply isn't enough, won't last past summer with the appetites around here.

Sarah sent me yet another thought-provoking Michael Pollan article that I lost the link to. Yeah, we'll pay hundreds of dollars for a cell phone yet we balk at paying organic farmers more than pennies for their hard work that provides us with nutritious, safe food? And how 'bout those farmers who grow their own food organically, yet spray their commercial crops?

I've never met Linda Up North, nor Megamom, nor Paula nor my dear friend Merilee, nor many others, all moms who work hard in their gardens to provide nutritious fare for their acting out children who resent everything anyway, just like some of my own kids. Well heck kids, we're gonna feed you right in spite of yourself.

Sarah just learned that Michael Pollan is Tracy Pollan's sister, you know the lady married to Michael J Fox? An interesting note, I didn't know that either.

Dee's growing a garden and praying for rain as well over in Atlanta. They've had slightly more than we've had, rain seems to come from the west, hit Atlanta and dissipate. A meteorologist spouted off on TV, "Who's running this radar? David Copperfield? Making ALL the rain disappear?"

My son-in-law Chuck mused aloud, many years ago, his theory that the heat and artificiality of Atlanta sucked most of the rain our of the clouds and I believe he's correct. I check the radar screen more often than my email, every time I come inside, watching for a figurative pot to boil, hoping against hope for water from the sky, watching the midwest flood woes and wondering how to better channel all that water, to divert it to the eastern half of Georgia?

Now I best go figure how to get twenty something kids dressed and out the door for church this morning.

Platforms

Tabitha's brush with poison ivy ballooned up her face to the point that when she awoke this morning, after I'd already returned from yard sales, I felt compelled to run her to our local doc-in-a-box who's the only one open on Saturday. They're one of my favorites anyway with an awesome nurse and nurse practitioner and are always so positive in their interactions with our family. Tabby was in dire need of steroids, but thankfully neither her breathing nor her swallowing was affected.

A big Duh, a smack me upside my big head moment, "Why didn't I think of that?" when I found a $10 platform bed at a yard sale. My children destroy metal frames about 2-3 minutes after we get them put together, wooden frames last about an hour longer but this platform was indestructible. I got a nearly new Queen mattress and box set, dirt cheap of course, for Martin to loll about on like a king.

Still no rain, my grass crackles and breaks when we walk on it, only the wood chip mulch is in any possible way, allowing my garden to survive but not thrive at all.

Sarah blogged an ode to cucumbers. I beg to differ with her as I've never, ever tired of them for any minute of my life.

Documentary

So now there's a documentary video of the Dervaes family and their urban homesteading. Here's the trailer.

Weighing Basil

If I knew enough about aesthetics I might not have chosen this large ugly monster of a pool slide. Our pool is almost invisible otherwise, tucked up the hill, surrounded by a fence that can hardly been seen due to the vegetation that's wrapped around it. Ray earned the privilege, from his mom, of climbing the ladder alone this year, not being tailed by a Bubba.

I sat in The Big Back Garden at twilight last night, listening to the distant thunder that tantalizingly teased me and still didn't supply any rain, but I'm as pleased with my endeavors this year way more than ever. The last dozen years with infants and toddlers, raging disturbances, and demanding children has pre-empted so much of my time, leaving me still with tomatoes and peppers, cucumbers and squash, but I want so much more.

The garden even has the ability, at times, to sooth the burning fires of anger from within Paloma. I stood by a 30' X 6' raised bed full of Kennebec potatoes and thought, 'Dig now?' but before I'd formulated an answer even to myself, Paloma wanted to plant something somewhere. I gave her some sunflower seeds, "Just tuck them in anywhere there's a spare inch, they'll grow," and I thought of how many of you guys had emailed about that video from Path to Freedom, y'all were equally knocked out by its power. Here's the link again.

Because Sarah knows grocery prices so well, keeping a nerdy notebook like the accountant she is anyway, thank you Terry College of Business at UGA, she estimated I'd given her $50 worth of basil to preserve the other day. All great gardeners keep records, I'm apparently mediocre, I call it busy, and while I certainly wish I kept records, I can either choose to eat or weigh produce. In a couple of years, when more kids are grown, I'll be more meticulous. I'd have a hard time convincing my renegade pickers, my little ones, to weigh it all before they eat it anyway.

Daniel called me late last night, irked at UGA for losing the College World series, amazed at the temperate climate in coastal Washington, south of Tacoma. We're used to very high humidity, sweltering furnace blasts of heavy, moist air, so this really was a change for him. I've not run my AC yet. I will do so eventually, but I'm so reluctant to crank up my carbon footprint, jack up the electric bill trying to cool off a house in which no one remembers to shut the doors. That said, when the kids are grown, I doubt I'll ever use it. I just don't like canned air that oppresses me, makes me reluctant to go outside and work because it has paralyzed me into inaction in the house.

Eccentric? Maybe. "A typical central air conditioning unit uses 3,500 watts of energy when running. A typical ceiling fan uses 60 watts of energy, even when running on high. Thus, if you ran your ceiling fan all day and it managed to decrease your home air conditioner use by just thirty minutes in a twenty four hour period, you’ll end up saving significant money over the long run with a ceiling fan." From my hero over at The Simple Dollar.

Yolie just battled an horrific bout of strep throat, I haven't seen her in a week, that's very unusual for us. I'm leaving soon to go pick up my eight middle schoolers from Church Camp. I'm trying to take Fabian out this evening to celebrate many milestones in his life, such vastly improved behavior, such manliness in a once furiously violent teen. Miss Kim let him off probation six months early...yet another significant achievement. Javy, younger and larger, emotionally close to Fabian will join us. He's been a delightful son, why not celebrate that as well?

Seed Germination

Thinking about Pepe all last night, wishing I could sit in on other juvenile hearings, or more importantly other hearings involving kids needing mental health services, thinking if parents don't push, then children won't get served.

Even though we have such a wonderful judge, there's only so much she can do with so little funding and so few available slots. I'm thinking though, without an involved parent, a child's future can seem so dim. There are so many children in the foster care system and so many children with marginal parents - what happens to them? When I think of all the resources I have poured into my own children who still make poor choices at times, how much more so for children who have no guidance?

I read Megamom's struggles in Florida to get help for her daughter, feeling her pain and praying for relief for their family. She's fighting hard for services, what if this young lady had never been adopted? What then? With two dedicated parents it is still a long, bitter fight for them to find humane care and understanding for a very challenging child who is no less deserving of the best that a child with a mongo impressive IQ.

I'm very weary of all the fighting for the right thing, it seems so uphill and logic constantly eludes me, just out of my grasp, and I want to holler at the injustice of it all.

Miss Kim tried to prepare me in the hallway, "Part of this decision I like, and part of it I don't, she explained. It was convoluted and she had to explain and re-explain it patiently to everyone involved, several times before any one of us actually comprehended. I find myself idiotically repeating the same mantra, "He is a dangerous child to the family," over and over; frustrated that our safety is not of paramount importance.

It boggles my mind to think of all the cases these same folks deal with, day in and day out. Both Kim and an adult P.O., Jeanne, tell me, "I don't see how you do it," referring to all my children, but I find their professions equally as daunting. I need to ask Kim how many success stories are there, such as Fabian, who may still make bad choices. I don't expect perfection from him, just improvement.

The older I get the less I feel I truly comprehend in a world that makes so little sense at times. Craving simplicity, a hand in the production of my own food, and simply peace vs stress in my life, I can't begin to fathom how challenging life must feel to some folks.

My 100 foot diet could easily be accomplished if it were just me to take into consideration. I ate huge bowls of home grown potatoes yesterday for two meals, mounds of Swiss chard for a third meal, but I used grated white extra sharp cheddar cheese that obviously didn't come from my garden and aged balsamic vinegar that was store bought. Then there's the sea salt and the sour cream. This won't be easy but just to make me more mindful will be a first step.

I waded through some interesting homestead blogs as homesteading was my original plan for life that became derailed decades ago with the arrival of so many children into my life. Through it all though I kept gardening and living beneath the radar, choosing simplicity and thrift, almost always in a rural setting. I got too busy to recycle (which was wrong of me) and at times I gave in to white rice and pasta when I'd been given it in food donations but a couple of years ago I changed back, reverted back happily in that area and took back my recycling this year.

Sarah remembers the years of canning our produce and baking our bread, even Yolie remembers when I used to sew dresses for the girls when I only had 8 daughters.

I wouldn't have spent a dime yesterday if the truck and the van didn't need gas - guzzling down $172 total, but that'll last awhile. I ate blackberries last night while I worked outside - I don't delicately munch, I stuff my face with bucket loads -praying for rain and wishing I'd limbed up several more surrounding trees, mentally making notes of projects for fall and winter.

Sarah babysat while I went to court yesterday. I came home and held Hazel who was grumpy from teething, and I happily watched Ray, Tommy, Kortney and Tabby play. Mae, pictured above, such a sweet baby who'll soon move into her dazzling new house on our dirt road, gives me such hope for the future. Knowing I worked so hard in this middle generation, knowing I'll have to fight for years and years, but also comforted by the grandchildren generation that won't have so many bumps in the road, that will have been parented and nurtured, that will not have been so hurt and damaged by the system...this all keeps me going, this ability to defer gratification while demonstrating it to my children, often to no avail at the moment, but knowing I'm planting that seed in them that will germinate later.

If Women Ruled The World

Because I have a JoJo, Joe, Big Jose, Joey and Little Jose (Pepe), life can get complicated. Three of these children have been rather difficult to raise, the jury's still out on JoJo, and Big Jose is a star in our family. He's my son-n-law who's momentarily stuck down in El Salvador.

My Little Jose, who we call Pepe, had a court date today that I was dreading. I can't blog half of it as it was officially 'off the record' when we went into the judges chambers to hash it all out.

We have a superb juvenile judge, she SO gets it, she's insightful, smart and on the side of children, trying to get them the help that they need. I literally adore her. Pepe had a lawyer that initially irked me, calling Pepe a 'deprived child,' prompting me to politely object to the term. "The kid has a mansion and a swimming pool," I protested and the judge reassured me it was just a term that we could use to get help.

Miss Kim, of DJJ, is incredibly good and absolutely under appreciated. I adore her as well. I got aggravated with her superior as Kim's the one on the front lines, she does all the dirty work, knows the situations, and gets unnecessarily second-guessed by others who only want to protect policy. The supervisor came on speaker phone and verbally demonstrated how little she knew of these particular details.

DFACS also was called in, as was required in a 'deprived child' situation, they gracefully refused to get involved - there was no point in them being involved as this is a mental health/DJJ call. They were in on the meeting, as they should have been under the circumstances, but were clearly wanting to be uninvolved. Like they don't already have a heap of other issues to plow through? Jeepers.

When I'd pointed out the obvious, that OTP turned him down, saying he needed a more restrictive environment, his attorney retorted, "well maybe it's just a lack of funding," prompting Kim to wave the turn down letter that clearly stated his needs.

Will Pepe make it? Will he lose his violent, aggressive anger? Will his severe mental health issues ever be resolved? I don't know but I'm unwilling to go down without a fight although I bent the ear of a local bulldog attorney out in the hall of the courtroom. "Should we sue Texas?" I asked him, "It may end up being a last resort option."

In the chambers a plan was proposed, off the record, that made too much sense and everyone was in agreement. If only women ruled the world...we got this all worked out to everyone's satisfaction, it took a couple of hours and several phone calls on Kim's part

I'm more than willing to work any program that accepts Pepe. I don't really want to throw the baby out with the bathwater but I insists on help for him, he won't make it otherwise. If I'd folded, agreed to take a chance on allowing him home, we'd have never found help and someone would have been hurt here at home the first time Pepe snapped. Then DFACS would HAVE to be involved in protecting my children from such a violent offender. I'd rather be embarrassed or humiliated, I'd rather have him thought of as a 'deprived child' if that's what it takes to get him help that he may or may not eventually respond to some day.

The judge also commended Fabian for his progress, making Fabian blush with pride in himself.

Our local Mental Health facility has been working on Jose's possibilities as has the state expediter, but we've so far received two turn downs on applications. The state expediter emailed a compliment that I've retold to Fabian also...again making him grin so happily. He's been the recipient lately of so much positive feedback that his head is swollen, but that's a really good thing.

Bagging Groceries In Front of Hot Girls

Sweet Jack has overcome his swimmer's ear issue this week, ready for the pool once again. Good because I prefer ceiling fans to air conditioners, factor in the pool and we can cool off.

Fabian has totally morphed into his birth brother, Edgar. From a once severely angry, violent and confused adolescent into a fairly mature, handsome, charming, eager to please young man who goes everywhere I go. He's accompanied me twice this week to camp, on every errand I've had to run for months, and today he's asked me if he can go to court with me regarding Pepe's long term whatever today.

It's a cross between looking after me and feeling in control, knowing what's happening constantly within our family, and his own macho pride in knowing he's playing a huge part in everything. It's still amazes me to see such appropriate behavior coming from a kid who'd spent so much time in lock-up facilities. I'd once despaired of ever seeing anything resembling normal behavior in him, so furious he was back then.

I'm not parenting him any differently now than I was when we needed the deputies out here to control his destructive, dangerous rages. These are his excellent choices now just as it was then his terrible choices. He's learned somehow that two plus two equals four. If this, then that. Good choices equal good consequences.

"My feet are killing me!" he exclaimed when I picked him up at 11 last night after a seven hour shift bagging groceries.

Tell me about it I thought, remembering the years and years I'd come home from work to a full house of children that immediately wanted supper plus there were still all the chores to do. I forget how blessed I am now to be retired from the school system, to be able to be a stay-at-home mom to such emotionally demanding children.

Fabian talked the entire way home, regaling Javy and I with stories of every minute on the job. "It was way more fun than I thought it'd be. I was afraid I'd bag the groceries wrong in front of hot girls from school who'd laugh at me," he seriously explained with a straight face.

"Yeah right son. Hot girls go to the grocery store just to do that. To find a hapless, first day employee to harass. You're it today."

Telling us that he had to push the grocery buggy to the car for ladies with kids and elderly folks, I asked him to define the word elderly.

"Your age and up," he immediately responded, cackling and happy that he'd got me back in retaliation for the hot girl crack I'd made at his expense.

Fabian ate a box of cereal at midnight and is headed out the door right now to his second-to-the-last day of summer school. Grinning happily, supremely proud of himself, looking good and understanding so much more now about my commitment to him, eight long rough years into the placement.

With eight children at camp this week, one would think life here at home would be calmer, but even Scotty has been acting up, missing Sabrina, his emotional glue, and sending his skyrocketing anxieties down the bloodline into Nando. Tabby has been a basket case, manifesting her fears and insecurities into defiance, resulting in time-outs and being sent to her room several times.

Conversely Jonathan and Paloma have been right good. Go figure.

One Hundred Foot Diet

I'm so there. Sign me up. This makes my whole life make sense, yet another reason to never leave home.

However I need to go to the Time Store and cash in all my fictitious treasury bonds to buy a non-existent commodity...something no one has enough of...free time.

What with 20 something folks wanting to eat 3 meals a day plus countless snacks, all that laundry and housecleaning, nose-wiping and hug dispensing, my garden time shrinks in response to the demands.

After driving Miss Skanky Pants WannaBe to church camp, of all places, "You think anyone else there is gonna have their butt cheeks hanging out and smiling at the world? I don't think so," getting Fabian to work, coming home to referee, I then bounded back outside with Paloma, Lily, Jack, Scotty, Jonathan, Tabby and Nando who watched in awe as I dug up half a garden bed of red potatoes. "Sweet!" Nando screamed in delight.

"We can eat these?" Tabby asked in wonder, as they were picture perfect taters, still surprised after three years of living here that there is so much food outside, such wonderful food. She soon lost interest in the potatoes and went after the blackberries while I set up hoses and planted more cucumbers where the potatoes had been. Like anyone can have enough cucumbers?

Jonathan got me more wood chips and Paloma ate more strawberries. My kids rarely help in the garden. They, my children, never weed. Never, ever as I'm too worried they'll pull everything up, sometimes they'll water but they barely focus, sometimes they'll hang and talk to me but they quickly complain about the heat, leaving me to the one place on our property that is usually fairly quiet.

No wonder I garden.

The 'Why I Garden So Seriously'

Drop what you're doing to watch this for a spell. Especially Sarah.

I'm drowning in a sea of sweat, thinking it'd been easier to go buy strawberries that would only taste nasty and irk me at their expense. Ok, I get it, I'm on board, and thankfully I grow wonderful strawberries that make me sweat in the process.

Stupid Drought

I do not know how to explain this picture, Sabrina took it and maybe Monica had stopped the hand-holding, jump-in, only Ray Ray was left to be tempted? The other children are staring reproachfully after Monica.

Our pool area has an eight foot high fence surrounding it, it's black chain length, substantially ugly and when Edgar's sib group, all seven of them, moved in eight years ago, I'd planted another 7 plants of autumn clematis that has taken over and grown wildly, blooming oppositionally in late August when everyone is back in school.

There are two large garden beds on each end of the pool that are weedily neglected as I've way over-planted more than any human could keep up with even if they didn't have 39 children. I keep thinking, when the kids are grown, I'll have more free time, but that probably won't be the case as I'm so tight with so many of my grown children. I'll just have to live with the fact that I'll always be chronically behind in my efforts.

Checking yesterday with Cristy over which job she chose, Joey calling about a gash in his foot, "What do I do Mom?", Monica calling me at one in the morning over an earache - hers, not Alana's ear - I'd sat up and tried to think what I could run to her house. She's still nursing Alana so that eliminates so many options. I came up empty handed.

This is the Year of the Basil. We call Sarah's little girl Hazel Basil, her given name is Hazel Bay. I'd picked a huge sack of this wonderful Lettuce Leaf Basil for Sarah to take home - this crop is a drought-defying winner, something I'll plant forever so prolific is it. Lily, Tabby and Nando went outside with me after supper wandering down the pathways, picking blackberries and strawberries (a late variety that is still producing) while I ate tomatoes and weeded out the over-abundance of rudbeckia that reseeds everywhere. Like Morning Glories, it may be beautiful but it'll take over a garden in a heartbeat as have my four o'clocks also attempted to do.

A postcard from Ireland from Daniel's girlfriend, Lauren, while I wonder if Daniel is getting the scores from the College World Series during Army training. UGA won again. I had secondhand info regarding my daughter in Atlanta who is not on her meds. She's refusing contact with me and her birth brother as we're both clear about her probation violations, both of us stressing she needs to turn herself in, while logic and safe options continue to elude her.

Mayra will complete summer school today and I promised I'd drive her mean, rude self up to church camp. Lord knows she'd benefit from some positive interactions, even if it means a couple of hours of me driving while wishing I was working in the garden. Her deep sighs will signify her disgust at life, she's too cool for any of us...OK, Call me later and tell me how that pissy attitude and ignorant mindset works out for you Miss Thang.

Jack's swimmer's ear needed a doctor visit and a prescription yesterday and even though I left 7 kids yesterday at camp, with Carolina and her five kids living here with us, we're still a full house with the usual, repetitious demands on my time. Ray rode with me yesterday while Lily went with Sarah for a haircut, meeting back here afterwards to switch the children with each other.

Our drought sucks. Some predictions are that it'll be a four year long occurrence. Thank God I mulch my gardens. My friend, Marcella in KY, suggested in an email that all that hoeing keeps me skinny. Get this - I don't own a hoe, I use a hand fork and a spading fork, rarely even a shovel. Permaculture is the bomb and I'm not skinny anymore, I'm average - a solid 129 on 5'6 1/2" - the skinniness and emergency surgery two years ago was due to very extreme stress.

About 20 garden beds out back are brick lined, a collection of bricks I've worked on for 30 years, and each path between the beds now has concrete pavers. The beds are never stepped on, the paths don't need weeding nor watering, and each bed is a raised bed due to years and years of adding manure, wood chips, compost, grass clippings, leaves and whatever else I've happened upon. I organically feed the soil, not the plants with synthetic chemicals that advertisements stress are so important.

I'm headed outside to weed while wondering why the drought doesn't take its toll on the weeds, I'll spread more wood chips, pick more tomatoes and use my rattley lottery system in my head to decide which plants will get watered today as water conservation is a mongo issue. I'll spend all my time obsessing even more about these folks who have impressed the pea turkey outta me.

I haven't seen Yolie in several days as she's fighting what could be the flu, here in summer it seems all the more insulting.

Camp Time

Eight kids leaving today for middle school church camp. They're all excited, been packing for three days, leaving the younger kids here somewhat brain-scatterminded, feeling as if they're being abandoned, fearful and full of trepidation.

Fabian started his new job yesterday at Kroger where I think Tina's son still works, just three doors down from where Miriam works at The UPS Store. This Kroger has a Starbucks inside of it so I'll console myself by picking up coffee grounds each time I take Fabian to work. He'll work from 4-11 p.m. tomorrow night...just when I was thinking I could get to bed early one night since the middle schoolers would be gone. Guess it's not to be.

He brought home his Kroger policy employee handbook. I love reading these. "You're such a nerd, Mom," Fabian offered up when I excitedly asked to read it. Associate Resource Handbook: Welcome to the Kroger Family, 75 pages of safety rules and employee conduct expectations. Ya think Fabian doesn't need me to reinforce all this when he tries to snow me with stupid stuff? "Honest Mom, these bluejeans with holes in them are fine." Nope, son, page 8 says Khakis.

I'm waiting for the pediatrician's office to open because Jack has an earache that needs attention. Swimmer's ear I suppose, but nevertheless it's painful and not going away with over the counter stuff.

I've read about these folks before and I spent some time yesterday exploring these pages , (the frugal blogroll). I'm always so fascinated by how others live. Considering how little I drive off of our dirt road, it's no wonder I'm so clueless about others.

This Pasadena family is extraordinary, if only everyone, at least, grew their own tomatoes - in tubs, in a box, wherever, just a few plants would do, think how many gallons of diesel fuel could be saved in the shipping alone? These people have the 100 foot diet going on for them. (Sarah - I have an idea).

Tabby is wide-eyed in my armpit, a velcro child, "I don't want Memaw to leave," she's whining, sure she'll never, ever see her, Memaw, again in her entire life. By contrast Sabrina is dancing up and down the hall with excitement at getting to do something for several years in a row. Such consistency, such stableness in a child who arrived here 3 1/2 years ago, rattled from hundreds of moves and constant separations from her siblings.

Tabby's beloved teacher, Miss Donna, is compounding this, sending her teenage son with our middleschoolers. Fortunately Dewayne's daughter, Kortney, is here for the month, distracting Tabby from the frenzy that is surrounding her while also keeping her out.

Chill Sabrina, you're rubbing it in to Tabby.

Skinning My Knees Still

I often look at these two girls, plus the other two boys, now almost 8 and 12, who are the grandchildren of a lady in south Texas that will never know them at all. I met her in 1990 when her four children joined our family, we've had sporadic phone contact over the years and in the midst of Cristy's raging years, she came here to Georgia. At the time I was shocked and devastated that Cristy wanted to see her, the birth mom fantasy was played out not very prettily, and we've obviously moved on. "What?" I'm sure I then screamed, "What about me? Don't you love me?" Not yet understanding that it surely wasn't about me at all. Looking now though at the next generation I can't help but grieve, on this other woman's behalf, how much her choices have cost her - so far two generations.

I'm personally grateful that so many years have now passed that I'm better able to detach from the wars that wage within my children damaged psyches, that I know that I know, it'll turn out OK someday if I don't give up. I hope I can encourage many of y'all to hang in there through your own grown children's shenanigans and understand that it isn't about us at all. We raised them right, then they can make their own choices, face those consequences and move on. Judging from my email, we're all in this boat together. Very few of us, if ANY of us, have kids who leave home properly and make us immediately proud. (Yes, Gina, I know you did...and Daniel...and Jesse, and a few others but look at all the rest of my kids who amped it up in contrast.)

I had a very decent phone call yesterday from Joey, he has an honest job in construction, which kinda surprised me, but maybe it shouldn't since I'm never unclear about how I feel when my darlings mention law-breaking activities. "You think God's gonna bless you when you act like that?"

I don't care how simple-minded this tact may make me appear to others, it is truly what I believe and it is backed up by my nearly 54 years of life.

Tabby, Tommy, Memaw and Tony were all meandering through my gardens last night, I have permanent paths between the permanent beds, picking blackberries and the remaining strawberries, but in our world, that means immediately eating them, rare is the berry that makes it into our house. I tripped over the garden hose, four kittens and my big ole size eight and a half feet and fell hard, landing on a surprised Memaw (Sabrina) who was underfoot at the time.

I had to quit the garden chores, limp inside and tend to two swollen, banged up knees like I was still in elementary school. Back then I always played hard, still have scarred up knees from my many accidents and today I look like I've been trying to roller skate on uphill asphalt...I look like an uncoordinated kid that I truly still am. "What the crap happened to you?" I was asked accusatorily as if I've planned this to get attention.

I read this aloud to Grandma last night, "A Harvard study revealed a 23 percent higher mortality risk and a 56 percent higher coronary heart disease risk in men who climbed less than twenty flights of stairs per week than those who climbed more." (From Dr. Don Colbert's The Seven Pillars of Health: The Natural Way to Better Health For Life)

My mama has a three story house attached to our house, she's 78 and still gardens hard, plays bridge, takes a dancing class, and gives me hope that there's life after child raising. My bedroom is upstairs and I sometimes think I've bounded up those stairs at least ten times each morning before I've gotten all the kids to school each day. See how my giddy brains shoots from skinning my knees to thinking about stair climbing?

I don't plan my blog topics, I just shoot off my mouth and let my random thoughts prevail. What, me have a point? I don't think so. And then my pithy brain goes to calculating the weight load of all that stair climbing, hoisting my weight with each step, over and over, who needs a leg weight machine when there's life that so easily obliges?

And how 'bout that child-raising time frame? Who knew it'd take me 48 years from my first born to my last child's high school graduation? From 1973 - 2021?

She's the aunt to an official 16 grandchildren, her peers. Pictured here in the middle, she either just farted or they're planning to all jump in together. Alyssa, Tommy, Tabby, Ray and Kortney and their big pool adventures each day.

Taters

Sarah blogged about potatoes that are incredible.

Feeling The Pains of Rejection

When our children grow up and reject us, what do we do? What if we have absolutely poured ourselves into one young lady, and she runs off to shack up with her ne'er do well boyfriend? Almost as if she's choosing to return to her birth mom's patterns and roots? Has that happened to me, I've been asked. Ya think?

What part of anyone thinks I'm, in any way, immune to the bullspit? There ain't no available vaccination for this malarkey.

As I brag about Fabian's turnaround, I am reminded of all our seemingly persistent failures. Fabian also still has a substantial time period in which he could potentially chuck it all. Deep down, once-traumatized children deeply fear success. More comfortable in a devastating cycle of failure and poor choices, I've also watched in horror as my kids have knowingly made idiotic decisions that could undo all I've tried to do for them.

I'm trying to remind myself that just as I try and not blame myself for choices that have put some of my children in jail, Fabian's great, successful choices now are his and his alone. Not mine. He's the one who turned his sinking ship around and I'm very proud at the moment.

Miriam, who recently got an apartment down the highway near Big Joe, came by last night to kiss and hug the brother she's despaired over for so long. His older sisters have conveyed their congratulations over the phone, he's one happy camper.

But his other sister, my Vanessa, has dropped out of high school. That makes me feel terrible, as a retired school employee, this is an area that means a great deal to me.

Some of my kids, most of my kids in fact, take at least one inopportune moment in their lives to hurt my feelings in a huge manner. I need to always step back and remember it ain't about me. They are simply playing out their wrongly perceived roles that have stemmed from past hurts and damage.

Even Yolie briefly rejected me, preferring another family, another lady who let her live with her for several months. This is almost predictable.

I use Yolie here as an example, her rebellion was short-lived but even as intelligent as she is, and I find her brilliantly insightful, she too chose to try and demonstrate to herself that I'm disposable. However she missed us, as we did her, and she returned.

I could use every single one of my children as examples. Although Sarah also was rebellious, it was more of the usual older teen, young adult rebellion, not the deep-seated adopted child rejecting the adoptive parent.

My Monica royally dumped me as did Cristy, Marcela, Deysi and Saray. Carolina had too many other obligations during her teen years, too busy raising her family to wage war with me and Gina, while somewhat detached, acted out her rebellion later by marrying someone I absolutely and totally, unequivocally disapproved of, only to later divorce him.

Did all this hurt me? Of course it did, I'm not that tough even though I do somehow have the ability to step back and usually see it for what it is. I also have an excellent best friend/caseworker/super-educated and baptised by fire best friend who could always dispassionately explain the real deal to me when I'd rage and cry about "all I did for so and so."

One child in particular who shacked up (but later married the man), who went from a strong Christian nice girl to a particularly annoying back stabber, is now facing an ordeal regarding her husband's first wife's bad choices. Long story, a complicated, involved situation, but one in which my daughter is now able to hold her head high, knowing she's done the right thing for quite some time now and there should soon be a favorable resolution. An immature response, an "I told you so," echoing from my big mouth of course and a strong agreement from her as well. A 'glad you raised me right', moment that has taken quite awhile.

Another child though continues to make sorry decisions that affect her and others. She's college educated and way past an age in which this type of foolishness can be equated to simple-minded teenage rebellion.

So to my friend in Mississippi, Honey, I do feel your pain. I know this hurts, I've been hurt in the same manner and I gotta believe for you and for her that this too will pass. You've done all you could possibly do. Just keep the door open for her, the porch light on and I truly believes she'll come home, wagging her tail behind her.

Preaching to Fabian

This time two years ago Fabian was raging out of control; angry, enraged and lashing out at everyone. I stood my ground, held him accountable for everything, found all sorts of help for him, or rather tried everything I could think of, called every possibility available, and with the help of a great juvenile judge and Miss Kim at DJJ, an extended stay at YDC and a behavioral facility of YDC, a ranch program and OTP...FINALLY it is paying off for Fabian. Plus he had years of therapy.

I just spewed out my pride to him, telling him this was all I ever wanted for him, to be happy and whole, to understand he was loved, and that I would not put up with less than that.

Chuck, Joe and Dewayne needed Javy and Fabian's volunteer help this evening at the Veteran's Memorial that Chuck designed for our county. Fabian and Javy had readily agreed and I just told Fabian, "See how God is honoring your willing heart?" after Kroger called, using every possible instance to teach him everything he needs to know in the few years he has left in his childhood.

I can only hope and pray that I will be as successful in finding what my Pepe needs as well.

Thank you Kroger

Fabian just got hired at Kroger. I'm so proud as he's had such a string of successes lately. Now this is how I envisioned his life.

Front Page Nando

Monica downloaded 126 pictures onto my computer for me to use including this one of CW and Mayra. Not a one of Nando who is always in motion at the pool - swimming, running, jumping, diving, involved in a game, chasing something - always busy, never idle.

Our weekly county newspaper arrived yesterday with a picture of Nando on the front page at soccer camp. He is so proud of himself.

Our county now has two weekly newspapers for some reason. Nando is not in the OE but in the Leader one.

No Pool Rules

If you can't swim the length of the pool, you need a life jacket. Babies in mother or dad's arms are exempt on occasions. Swim in a T-shirt if you must, or maybe you'd just been pushed in as there's no rule against that move, but otherwise kids, just have fun. NEVER push anyone holding a baby. Don't keep asking me, "How long are we going to swim?" or "What's for supper?" We spend every afternoon at the pool, every day, allowing me the cool of early mornings and after supper to try and make a garden grow in year two of a serious drought.

Since I'm the one always shooting off my motor mouth about McDonalds, it is only fair that I point out someone who lost 80 pounds eating there. Heck, I'd lose all my weight if I had to eat there, not liking anything on the menu - even feeling their black coffee is suspect.

My first thought each morning, as I hop out of bed, is 'what do I have to do today?'

Both Scotty and Nando have been attending a VBS at a Presbyterian church with a family from soccer camp, today is their last day. Yesterday the family swam with us, a super delightful lady and her four children, and most of my kids acted as normal as possible.

Yolie told me that each morning she reads my blog, of course, then hops over to see if Adele has updated, and how much she then enjoys Devin's stories of her six children. She checks Claudia's blog too since she knows her, but otherwise these other fascinating adoption blogs are stressful for her to read, preferring Devin's life that's more unscathed. I call that progress as I remember where Yolie came from many, many years ago.

Yesterday when Sarah called me I immediately said, "Go read my blog and call me back," as I was hoping she'd find yesterday's post about her to be acceptable. She told me later that it was with utter fear and stomach-pulsating dread while she turned her computer on, sure we'd had a very tough night that I must not have wanted to talk about. Our PTSD is family-wide, maybe a very traumatized Sarah and I now have the worst case of it. While the kids heal, we've lost our own resiliency so difficult has the journey been. My twitching has grown worse.

I cut her another sackful of basil yesterday, it thrives in hot, dry weather. My greenhouse collards are now decimated by a cabbage moth (I think) but the Swiss Chard remained untouched. Spring was damp enough to allow the cabbages to head up nicely and now we are starting to get tomatoes that are on the small side due to a severe lack of rain.

I'm frustrated by the lack of help around here, a bunch of lazy kids who seriously revolt at the thought of chores. It's hardly worth the effort for me to ask, easier to just do the work myself, yet I know it falls on me to insist on help, to teach the children that a life of cartoons wouldn't be worth living. Jeepers y'all, let's strive for more, knowing that this higher order of thinking is way too stressful for those who want to only use this plug-in drug to anesthetize their inner pain with such inane, mindless TV. OK, kids, I get that, I understand your past trauma, but it is also time to move on, to normalize and to look to everyone's futures that are so much brighter than when they were in foster care, scared and spiritless.

My Pride in Sarah

Tabby's best buddy here is her niece, Kortney who is two months older. Yesterday Big Joe's daughter, Alyssa, again was swimming with them, holding hands with Tommy and Ray, jumping into the pool together, being too cute in the process. CJ is nine months younger than Alyssa, just a tad too young to join the daredevil bunch, preferring to float through the pool in Lily or Yolie's arms.

The four youngest babies of this family, all between 8 months old and 13 months old have already clued themselves in to our intricate family relationships, knowing who to trust, who's kin to us, and who they can count on. Hazel, the youngest of them all, spotted Tia Carolina in Wal-Mart and excitedly flapped her arms and legs in delight, a trait that is very similar to my niece, Kelly, at that age. Hazel lights up at the sight of family members approaching her in church, she knows who she is kin to.

I was questioned about my adopted children destroying the possessions of my birth child as an act of revenge. Did my birth child get mistreated? How did Sarah handle it?

Yes, of course this has happened over and over and over and I'll say, with pride, Sarah has been amazingly graceful about it all, a true epitome of Southern graciousness, even as a teen. She has been unfairly targeted and put down because other kids were simply jealous that Sarah had it easy by being a birth child. My three grandchildren that I'm raising have also been singled out by other mean kids in my family who are jealous that some kids are more attached.

It makes me angry, as the parent, to watch these four move over in their hearts, accept others into our family, and then to be punished for doing so. Sarah once said, when I'd again apologized for someone's abject idiocy toward her, "Well we wouldn't have all we have if we'd not lived like this," with a thousand embedded meanings, all nice and forgiving.

She's right. In the infinite worlds of maybe, of what could have been, she and I would have lived a much different life. I'd likely have married several more times in my hunt to find out what mattered to me, I'd still have been a devout gardener, but I think I'd have had an emptiness inside of me that needed to be filled in the way that it was filled in our family now. It's hard to explain, to put it into words, but my life needed the challenges it has been given.

Sarah's son Ray has needed Tabby, Nando, Tommy, CJ and all his other buddies. Sarah and I, likely innately selfish, needed the Heavenly sandpaper that God used to change us into who He wanted us to be. That said, I still believe that Sarah needs to be acknowledged by me for her extreme sacrifices. I chose this, not her. She agreed to My Big Adventure back when she was a young preteen of a young mother. Neither of us knew what that meant, greenhorns at best. Optimistic, naive, hopeful and thinking we'd simply share what we had with others and that it would matter to them, that they'd be sweet and grateful, then we'd feel satisfied with ourselves.

Because I was barely 19 when she was born, we've always been very close. We now live on adjoining properties and will do so for the rest of our lives, God willing. Sarah has gained Yolie, Daniel, Carolina, Monica, Jesse, Cristy, Gina and many other major folks, her siblings, in her life through all this, along with the anger and pain that others have caused her, plus she's lived so uneasy in her worry about me, especially over the last several years. Even her husband has had to bear up under the stress as some have also lashed out at him. Heck, even Yolie's husband has been spit on and bitten by Joey years ago. These are some very angry children.

Just as I will ever see much gratitude from my traumatized children, few will ever acknowledge what Sarah's done for them either. This is something we're learning to live with, that all our sacrifices may not have outwardly mattered to anyone. But like me she has a very strong rock-solid faith in God and what He thinks and His opinion of us is what matters to both of us more than anyone else. It has taken us both many years to come to this point. We've struggled. believe me, we have struggled more than humans should have to do. My words now are written calmly after nearly 20 years of tremendous work.

We both deeply believe that God has led us every day in every way. She's living in a previous shack that her husband transformed into a candidate for Southern Living magazine. It is now an incredibly beautiful home. He knew when he saw that falling down house that it was meant to be their house. He chose to live near my sometimes Hell House, and I, like my kids, rarely remember to give him the credit or the gratitude. He's been stolen from and lied to by my other children also. He's felt the insane, irrational wrath that I've faced and his also very strong faith in God gives him the ability to forgive and continue.

See I'm extremely blessed in knowing that Sarah has a handsome, man of God in her life and we both believe that her steps were ordered by God, that she is where she is by the choices she made, even though she's also been so strongly affected by my choices that have also grieved her and pained her deeply over the years.

I'm blessed that I'm her Mom, she's made me proud by being a great Mom to her own children, a superb daughter, and a wonderful sister to some intensely difficult siblings.

35 years ago I was pregnant with her, married to a man I'm still friends with, and I was not following after God at the time. I had no clue. I was in college, searching and wondering where my life would lead me and now I'm starting to begin to figure things out...it's been a wild ride, lemme tell ya and Sarah has always been a very positive influence in my explorations.

Lily's Garden Eyes

The one on the right, Lily, always sweet as she's been here since birth, spared the trauma of multiple moves and breaks with caretakers, is constantly forgiving the one on the left, expecting Paloma to morph into the nice girl she sometimes appears to be.

I, on the other hand, have been teaching Lily to not be so trusting as she's constantly getting her feelings hurt, not just by Paloma, but now starting middle school she's not the trendy, tough Hannah Montana stereotype, but rather a quiet and artistic young girl who follows me into the garden and sees it with interested eyes. Because she is so artistic, and I'm not, she's shown me different perspectives, patterns and designs I'd have never noticed in my constant 90 mph scramble to get the work done.

I worked until dark last night with a dozen kids chattering and stuffing themselves with Navajo blackberries. Kortney, my granddaughter, is entranced with the fact that there is food for the taking; sweet, nutritious food just within the confines of Abuelita's Big Back Garden.

I generally don't like to plant just one variety of anything in case of failure, but these Navajo blackberries have been my staples for 20 years, I've moved them from another house and I've moved them several times around my property trying to allow enough room for their arching thornless branches plus they are also perfectly suited to Southern summers. I'm positive that I bought them through Stark Bros, but I don't think they still carry them. I could eat bucketfuls.

I picked a bag of Basil and Scotty, Jonathan and Jack ran it over to Sarah's house, bursting in her front door, thrilling Ray with a sudden visit. Sarah later brought me her wonderful dish of basil and pasta from Mark Bitten's pages that I so hope she blogs soon. She remarked on how large the leafs were so I checked what I'd grown. Oh...lettuce leaf basil (read the description Sarah about pesto) and I'd grown 36 plants. I think we might have enough this year as Carolina is also eyeing it and planning dishes in her mind.

Yet another wonderful article, extolling coffee - a vice that isn't.

I'd put in two more raised beds in the back of the Big Back Garden, I don't believe anyone can have enough tomato plants. We'd tilled the ground, but I wasn't very impressed with our efforts since we have Georgia red dirt - heavy red clay. I've added grounds for gardens ( about 200 pounds) straight on with no composting it first, believing that worms will do the work, till the soil to a better consistency and I've added wood chips to hold what little moisture there is. So far so good.

I only have four chickens nowadays and I'm thinking of following after Helen and Scott Nearing and not keeping animals. It's not worth the trouble, or maybe I'll do so again when the kids are grown. One of the hens, Miss Houdini, keeps getting out and heading straight for the strawberries. Like I don't have enough rule breakers around here?

I got a letter telling me that Pepe needed a more restrictive environment than OTP plus another letter months ago declining anymore mental health treatment. Yet they expect a fairly small 54 year old lady to manage his murderous rages and keep the younger children safe. Can't be done. My elbow has nerve damage from his last attack on me, it's my right elbow and I have old lady pains in it now, and I can't lift buckets of wood chips anymore, can't hardly hold my coffee cup and I'm pissed off about it. I'd had it checked twice by doctors when it happened, one X-ray to reassure me that it wasn't broken, so badly damaged was it.

I could physically do the work that another 39 children required. I don't mind the work nor the huge sacrifice of my time, but I cannot, nor should I have to try and manage mentally ill children. That is a job for professionals. I'm still emotionally recovering from the Joey years. I was fortunate enough to find massive amounts of help for him, yet all that help did no good. You can't cure bipolar, he won't take meds to manage it, and he has a host of other diagnoses that result in criminal behavior tendencies. All I can do now is to pray for his safety.

But Pepe is only 13. It is my job to keep rustling up help for him.

All Of Our Collective Potential Grandchildren Issues

I really do attempt to constantly crawl into my sweet children's knotty heads and try and understand how, why and what they are thinking. What makes each one act a certain way or decipher life's events in a particular manner? How can we all look at the same situation, yet define it so differently? Walk away with stark, contrasting views of events and choices?

First thing this morning Sabrina is watching a teen sitcom from the 80s I suppose, Saved By the Bell, as I type and wonder what is even remotely entertaining about this show?

My four summer schoolers are out the door, arguing down the hill, to wait on the bus and I'm crawling out of my sleep stained fog, aided by the light of caffeine, thinking I have earned some time this morning in my neglected gardens.

We are nearly a month into summer vacation and I've accomplished few of my goals. Daniel sent me a picture to my computer of a snow capped mountain as he's in some fantastically beautiful scenery in the state of Washington, I'm hoping he got to watch UGA win last night in the College World Series. I'm staggered by my pride in him, yet I'm overcome with emotion thinking about some of my other children and where they are at the moment, both physically and emotionally.

A comment yesterday,"Praying for your friend in Omaha," from my imaginary friend Linda, and my brain automatically responded in my thoughts, "she's your friend too," as all of us adoptive moms are in such similar boats. Some are sinking, some of us are paddling upstream fruitlessly and some of us are giddily in the captain's seat knowing the tide can, and will, unexpectedly change. The most obvious thing, which I should have seen coming, but didn't, is the grandchild phenomenon where many of us are raising our grandchildren.

That's sometimes the best case scenario.

Other times our grandchildren suffer and we despair. My imaginary Omaha friend is previewing your life... and mine. We all have the potential to be where she is now in a dark, hollow place.

Many of you write for advice, knowing I have none, but that I truly do understand and sympathize with you because with 39 children, I'm bound to have spent time where you are now. Being nearly 54 years old has also afforded me a great deal of experience, some frighteningly bleak, difficult times and some joyous mountaintop days as well.

At the moment I'm blessed by grandchildren, yet there are a couple that worry me greatly. Some tenuous situations that I don't discuss here, preferring to concentrate on those that are doing so well, since there may be others that are out of my ability to help in certain situations.

A couple of years ago a son of mine was arrested and his business was in our local newspaper, he was talked about amongst older teenagers and I was simply devastated, as was he. We got through it though. It's still too painful to verbally regurgitate. I suppose my point is that we survived. I thought it couldn't get worse than that time, but it did once again with another child. I'm only now coming out of that crushing ordeal, still not feeling as if I can share either experience yet, even though I know it could potentially help others who will likely face both types of crimes.

Parenting traumatized children can be a generational cruse and a tremendous blessing. It'll trickle down into everything, affect every aspect of one's life, and filter all experiences one will ever face, often affecting the outcome of events so dismally. Trying to keep my own head above water while grasping the slippery fingers of my children at the same time is a full time job with lifelong consequences.

I say all this to reiterate that I share y'all's pain, I revel in your good times, and I pray for us all to be as successful as possible in all our undertakings with such emotionally exhausting children that force us to push uphill through our anguish against some backbreaking, heart wrenching odds.

Especially those of us who feel very called to do this, we gotta remember that we are also so equipped and empowered. I need to be reminded of this every single minute of my life. Y'all have prayed me through some tough times as I've prayed for you also when asked to do so. This Omaha situation has weighed heavily on me, so unjust is it, so painful for everyone involved, and it carries many potential outcomes that we could all likely face at one time or another. It is a situation that could only be resolved through some deep, heartfelt prayers that would move the hands of God.

The picture Daniel sent me last night, posted here, prompted my pea-brain response, "Jeepers, Toto! You're so not in Kansas anymore!" Born in El Paso, raised in Georgia, he's a UGA man through and through, I'm so proud of him and his life. CJ, pictured above, is Daniel's birth nephew and I see Daniel (and Joe) in CJ so often. I'm blessed by this generational experience yet Joey's situation, his alleged son may or may not turn out well for either Joey or I, and I have a couple of other predicaments...as do many of y'all...that are potentially heart-breaking, prompting me to lean always on God.

Cuncle

Baby Yolie observed aloud last night, "What a crazy cuncle I have."

Cousin/Uncle...go figure.

Praying In Omaha, Flying To Seattle

Not the way I like to start my day, saying good-bye to Daniel at the Atlanta airport. He'd called me at 6 to check, knowing we needed to leave by 6:30, I was routing my summer school kids, leaving directions to everyone else, taking Jack and Paloma along for the rise.

"I'm OK today," I self-importantly told my Army man, "But I wouldn't be if I was sending you off to Viet Nam."

"Mom, did you hear what you just said? You said Viet Nam."

"Ok, Ok, Iraq or whatever, I don't want you to go."

The man is in the military by choice, nearly 23 years old, I know he can handle all this, I'm the one with the problem...and Yolie. Daniel could be 43 or 53, he's still our once chubby faced baby.

I thought we'd have time for a leisurely breakfast at the airport after he checked his bags but his flight was so delayed, they changed him to another one, and by the time he'd finished, they told him to run to the gate for an even earlier one, allowing us only a quick good-bye hug and me a chance, at the military security gate, to ask another man in line, most egocentrically like I think the whole world revolves around us, if he too was going to Seattle.

Like Daniel needed a sitter?

But no this other man was headed to Boston, wondering if it'd be too cold for his Atlanta blood up there. "Yeah, likely," I replied knowing Daniel was hoping it wouldn't rain on him the whole month while conversely I'm praying hard for rain here.

So now Daniel's 3000 miles away for a month, a three hour time difference, not that he'll have access to his cell phone anyway.

And it's not like I'm not super busy, knowing the time will fly and he'll be back for fall semester at UGA. His girlfriend is still in England and I know she and I are both hoping Daniel can get near a TV tonight for this game when UGA plays Stanford in Omaha, then he'll be a way happy camper.

I have a dear reader in Omaha needing our prayers, not for a UGA baseball game, but for a situation involving her grandchildren and doors that seem to be unfairly shutting. These children need to be with their grandparents ASAP and it's gonna take an on-your-knees fervent prayer miracle...but it can be done.

Daniel's The Boss

Not even UGA upsetting top ranked Miami in the College World Series could stop Daniel from firing off this missive to me, "I saw blog pictures, and I'm wondering why there are small toy cars up at the pool that WILL be broken, sucked into the pump and destroy it...

POOL TOYS only please.

Love you"

I read it aloud to wide-eyed kids who DON'T ever want to upset Daniel. When I'd recently told Chuy, in front of Daniel, that Daniel and I had never argued over anything, Daniel explained it as, "That's because you knew I was always right."

That's the truth.

Happy What Day?

Nando made me a card in church today that read, "Happy Father's Day Mom!"

I'm gonna brag here son, I'm more than a Mama and a Daddy - I'm super-intense, over-bearing, high-octane, too energetic to just be one person.

Happy Birthday Joe

It's her daddy's birthday today and he turning 25

A Normal Family - Not Us

Monica, her husband Dewayne and their children Kortney and Alana planned a trip to the Atlanta Zoo with Yolie, her husband Chuck and their kids CJ and Mae yesterday. That's what normal people do. I'm always gratified, of course, to see my grown kids hanging together and that's what they usually do, preferring the comforting company of the others who'd grown up with them, shared their history...such as it was, and understood everything. Monica was only 7 when Yolie joined our family all those years ago.

On weekends I rarely see Sarah who only lives, as the crow flies, maybe a hundred yards away through the woods. Her husband Preston takes their son Ray fishing and yesterday to the movies...like normal people do.

On the one hand, I'm amazed to see my children remember what normal is; on the other hand I, as a human being once, love to watch from a distance, and see normal. Sarah and Yolie especially spend a lot of time here with me during the week, dealing with non-normal, or listening to me cry and whine about it all. I respect their weekend time with their families and I try to let them live these times peacefully.

Miss Kimberly was here yesterday and was in another room when Paloma slapped Scotty for nothing, for absolutely nothing - no reason. A therapist might ask, "What's her trigger?" Not so Dr Mandy who understands traumatized children and the fact that explosions always come from nowhere. Miss Kimberly did witness Paloma sending my new clay pot crashing to the hard kitchen floor - for no reason.

I can't immediately send a raging child to her room, there is NOTHING I can do at the moment that won't set her off further. This is one who willfully breaks windows, hits people and destroys the possessions of others for no reason other than to see them hurt and disappointed by those inexplicable actions. She is not mentally ill, as several of my other children are, but she is severely emotionally disturbed.

Sharon blogged her anguish over her daughter, Ebony, and I share her pain. I've been in her shoes where there are no solutions and absolutely no help whatsoever. None. Hope you don't get hurt in the process, is what is left unsaid by many therapists whose hands are tied.

Claudia's post echoed my own heart this morning as well. We are parents who are watching an impending train wreck in slow motion, we know there'll be a detonation, we know someone will get hurt - likely it'll be the exploder as other won't love them like we do. Others will use a weapon on them later in life as predictably, they can't or won't accept help that is nebulous at best, so then life's later consequences, without us to protect them, will be devastating.

Dee sent me Nurturing Adoptions. I blithely told her I'd read it in parts, knowing I get so overwhelmed by the inability of anyone to help us as adoptive parents of destroyed children, "I'll read it slowly," I'd told her knowing that reading about my own situations is sometimes very painful to me emotionally. (Like it should be about me?) I picked up the book yesterday and immediately started highlighting, nodding my head in agreement, composing my thoughts, thinking to tell my best friend Emily about it who has probably already read it, and of course knowing I'd blog it.

Two thoughts here. One is I am VERY blessed to have Dr. G and Dr. Mandy who understand my children so very much. My second thought though is such sadness at the amount of soul-numbing damage heaped upon children who have so little ability to completely recover. Yes, it is possible as I look at my normal older children, yet it is a long, painful process with no guarantees at all. I don't tend towards negativity yet predictably I can foresee potential, very likely, outcomes that are not positive. This is why I rely so heavily on outside help and resources for my children.

I'll quote a little something here from this book that I highly advise adoptive parents to painfully slog through:

"A traumatic stress reaction is a normal reaction to an abnormal event. The American Psychological Association describes a traumatic event as 'an event that is outside the range of usual human experience and that would be markedly distressing to almost anyone.'

The rates of symptoms in children who have been traumatized by abuse under the age of 14 include the following:

- 77% reported affective dysregulation or anger problems
- 80% were dissociative
- 54% described chronic pain
- 66% reported being or having been suicidal
- 75% experienced hopelessness (van der Kolk, 1994)"

No wonder my last 20 years here at home with severely traumatized children has left me...what's the word?...different. Imagine how my children feel. So thank you Dee, I truly need to read this book, to help understand the massive areas in which I feel so clueless. If 75% of my family feels hopelessness then no wonder life is often hard around here.

Debt Is Slavery

I took a quick break from working on our budget, from patting myself on the back for spending a buck today to get a stainless steel wok, another 3 dollars for six cool blouses for Lily and Paloma, $3 for in-line skates for Jonathan and 50 cents for a hardback book for me. I went to The Simple Dollar, loving this guy, he's singing my songs, reviewing the books that I want to read that seemingly appear at yard sales for a buck.

Debt is Slavery intrigues me.

Too Many Nanoseconds

I insist upon life jackets for my non-swimmers when one is within the pool fence (eight feet high, locked, safety latch and rules-set-in-concrete) but even extra-small life jackets are too large for Alana, Monica and Dewayne's very petite baby who walks and runs. She's usually in someone's arms, but here in one inch of water, we relaxed our stranglehold on her, but not our eagle-eyed attention.

All we do is swim, or rather that's all they do, I lifeguard. If you can't swim the length of the pool, then you're a non-swimmer needing a life-jacket. My pool, my rules.

Fabian earned his learner's permit yesterday at age 16 1/2, about a year and a half later than most teens as I'm scared to pieces to think about raging teens behind the wheel. I just don't believe it is a God-given right to drive, but rather an earned privilege based on maturity - or at least the most maturity that a traumatized teen can demonstrate to me.

Kroger requires a drug test so I took Fabian there yesterday, getting coffee grinds from their Starbucks kiosk and the groceries we needed. Now I'm hoping and praying for a callback from them to Fabian.

Paloma went after Scotty in a fury with a skateboard, after calling me a Bit^% and screaming at me to "go to Hell", this after I bought her everything she wanted this morning at yard sales. If I'm nice to her, she's uneasy and retaliates, preferring hate, chaos and disorder. If I'm strict with her she destroys property, if I ignore her, she attacks others. Always mean to Lily, always despising Lily due to her calm demeanor and unflappable attitude, there's a huge part of me that wants to quit, after six years of Hell, so that Lily can live peacefully. Normal folks don't live like this. Blanca is her second favorite target as Blanca is such a sweet, peaceful girl.

Javy, her oldest birth brother is absolutely disgusted with her, Chuy (2nd oldest birth brother) avoids any and all interactions with her while Jonathan, the baby of that bunch, is wary and frightened of her rages. However he is also easily sucked in at times. "How long before I earn your trust?" he just asked me.

The truth is, I'm afraid to trust him at all, knowing he can turn on a dime and rage and break windows. My reply was, "Let's just go day by day," knowing from long, sad experience that he can explode in a nanosecond over nothing.

Ate my first tomato yesterday, splitting it with Lily late last night when it got dark. The Jalapenos are slowly starting to produce peppers - this in spite of yet another severe drought.