Labor Day Work Weekend

A very pretty ninth grader, middle child in a large aggressive sibling group, who struggles mightily with academic subjects, her teacher called to tell me she'd not turned in an assignment that they spent three days in class working on together.

"Why not?" I'd asked in disbelief that afternoon. "Why are on earth did you not turn in your work? Who gets an F in a dance class?"

"I didn't want to get up and talk about it in front of my whole class," she protested.

Interestingly enough, that was also my third grader's similar explanation regarding his crying fit at school on Friday. "I don't want to talk in front of everyone," he'd later howled to me when I questioned him about his unacceptable behavior. His teacher had echoed this in an email to me.

Jeepers y'all. Loud and excitable at home, can't they channel it for school? I don't think so.

I occasionally get asked to speak before groups about my adoption experiences and I never want to do so. I'm not a speaker, I don't want to leave the kids (well I do want a break, but there'd be hell to pay when I came back home), and I don't think I could acceptably gather my blurbling thoughts and present a good talk without rambling, backtracking or babbling. It just isn't my gift.

But I still need to instill enough confidence in my children to participate in class enough to get a decent grade. Doing what you have to do to get the job done.

We, as a family, only miss church about once or twice a year, today's fixing to be one of those days. Taking Labor Day literally, we'd emptied and scrubbed down our garage yesterday, making two trips to the dump and ferreting out our rodent problem. We've had so many field mice lately and I found a hole in the sheetrock we'd stuffed with a wire pad. When my retirement check hits the bank, I'm heading to Lowe's for more home improvement fixings.

As Chuy tore out an old cabinet with an axe, I again foamed in the brain thinking about the deliberate damage a bipolar son had done to our house. He'd flood an upstairs bathroom repeatedly just to watch the water pour through a vent into my pantry, rotting the walls, the sheetrock growing mold, and me cleaning and repainting angrily each time. My blood pressure boils just remembering the years of destruction he'd inflicted upon us just because he could. That was always his response to my perpetually anguished, but always unanswerable, cries of "WHY?"

"Because I can!" he'd chortle.

I've since heard he was unable to make bail on his latest aggravated assault charge.

Suits me, he's better off when locked up, as he's been unable to maintain any semblance of a living arrangement in the nearly two years since he unwisely chose a homeless shelter over living here with such stupid rules that included not destroying property.

Again I literally despair over his future. These aren't necessarily rational choices he makes, but rather his feeble attempts at coping with life when his mental faculties are less than intact. I have no answers or solutions, just prayers.

I'm also praying for southern Louisiana which has Hurricane Gustav bearing down on them, and particularly my oldest best friend Barbara and her family. Barbara, if you are reading this, we have room for you all on Grandma's side of the house. Please come on.

Lifting A Claw

I perused 'leathers sofas' on the internet trying to get an estimated value for this sofa that Chuck had once rescued from a dump death. It was so heavy, he'd come over here to get Sonny to help, but one can't just walk away from such a deal. $1200 is about the average price I'm seeing for non sectional sofas and I'm being very fiscally conservative.

Melissa commented on her first placement and the honeymoon period which I'm glad she sees it for what it is, something that would never have occurred to me had not my caseworker pointed it out. There I was thinking I must be all that or something, only to crushingly discover it was only temporary.

With one very young child, who went to time-out 23 times within her first four hours of being my daughter, plus my irate goose bit her in aggravation, I should have sensed a problem was looming.

But in every single placement, my joy at being their mom always overlooked their initial terror at yet another placement. It took me a very long time to understand that which my caseworker patiently explained to me over and over. Sometimes I can be blindingly optimistic.

Way back then Sonny'd immediately torn up three pairs of brand new jeans given to him by his foster mom upon arrival at our home. Coming from inner city San Antonio to our wide-open spaces had so exhilarated him that he flitted from bicycle to swing to the meadow and back again, wildly excited at so many opportunities to play.

Poor Yolie, back then hating to have flown from El Paso and the very dry air into our late September still absolutely sweltering swampy environs, she was vastly offended that even our air sucked. Tense as a jackrabbit, worried over her two very rambunctious brothers, as if visibly fearing I'd quit being the parent she didn't want then anyway if they acted up at all, and boy howdy they did act up.

It's only been 17 years, seems like 47 in many ways, hard for me to remember my life when I wasn't their mama. Today both her brothers are happy that UGA football begins, the sale of Yolie's house closed yesterday...something none of us figured out, but her home had been purchased by one of Javy and Mayra's teacher, who'd just that morning called me about a missing assignment that resulted in Mayra missing the football game as a consequence.

My sweet daughter, Carolina, is filling in and working for my son-in-law's mother's elderly caretaking job while she's out of town. Certainly a convoluted relationship, but easy for us to manage, and Carolina's blessed to have this opportunity for a salary while Big Jose is still gone.

Soccer practice is all morning, then the Bubbas and I are tackling a garage clean-up, knowing we need to find out how these stupid, but smarter than us, field mice are getting into the house while our barn cats laze on their tubby butts and don't lift a claw to help.

Tia

After 16 years, our attic fan's motor burned up. Quinton got it replaced and he fixed the last two broken light fixtures. More amazing was the fact that we hadn't broken anything else since he was last here two weeks ago. Or maybe more entertaining was his 70 pound terrier dog, sitting in the car seat like a way better behaved version of any one of my Bubbas.

We've been gifted with six cases of large fresh peaches, ought to last this family through the evening maybe.

Lily's large birthday order of BlendyPens finally arrived so I'm sure she'll be giving Art Lessons here for our three day weekend while I wash the comforters that she, Paloma and Jonathan all managed to puke on last night. Does not anyone know where a bathroom is?

I'd been searching Craig's List and other places for a very small dog for Lily, running into all sorts of 'send your money offshore for a cute puppy' scams on local pages, but plowing through and waiting on just the right dog for her.

This afternoon I found a four year old, four pound Yorkie named Tia with papers even. A purebred dog for us? For free? Wow, what a blessing.

Little three-footed Amelia only weighs 10 pounds but now she looks huge, she immediately took to Tia and the rest of the kids now want lap dogs. Not gonna happen, let's share.

Paloma even helped me conspire to make this be a surprise for Lily who was downright thrilled and overwhelmed.

Updating

Daniel, who'd recently told Sarah she was practically Mexican now, sent me this picture of him from class yesterday. I'm using it to mention that his sister, Sarah, blogged again last night.

He is almost 23 years old, that's totally blowing me away.

I'm Preaching To the Choir - All Us Mamas

I've pretty much worn one outfit all summer, duh, yes, of course I wash it nearly every day while wearing my pajamas, but a fashion plate, I ain't. I'm 54 years old, who cares what I'm wearing?

I was wearing that outfit, at least, when I had to get out this morning at the elementary school and have an emotional tussle with a kid I won't name who never melts down. Never, because he's lived with me all his life and is secure and attached, but when one lives with a trauma majority, one gets somewhat uneasy about life.

Sure that he'd improperly done a project that both Grandpa and I had helped him with, he simply started crying and wouldn't leave the van this morning. I'd emailed the teacher last night about it, and had spent hours reassuring him that I thought it was fine. Remember I'm a retired media specialist with 25 years experience helping kids research their projects - I have a clue.

It is NOT the school's job to regulate, manage nor maintain my children's emotions, they are there to teach, but here on the 18th day of school, sweet Mrs. Wages was stretching out her hall duty into the compassion arena and allowing me to eventually drive off eventually rather than to reinforce this negative behavior.

Mrs. Wages is so insightful, she gets it, she truly understands, and I feel so guilty when she has to expend so much energy over a child of mine when she has another 500 to deal with each day. In every single IEP or SST meeting for the past six years, she's cut right to the chase and taken my long, bombastic explanations and changed them into concise plans for implementation in order to help each child specifically. I tell you, she's gifted in this area.

Miss Kimberly came by yesterday as Martin and I were in the middle of a project discussion. His own teacher, Mr. David is an infinitely reasonable man, a superb teacher who would not have demanded the icing and three types of candy that Martin thought he needed for the project at the last minute. Mr. David plans properly in contrast to my children who tell me at 7:25 in the morning that they need this and that... that very minute.

It's so the end of the month, all our bills are all paid, but we are nearly cashless. Our grocery pantry is full, the van has gas in it, and we are wanting for nothing, because we carefully watch pennies. This isn't a pity post, just an explanation. We're in good shape...plenty of people are broke at the end of the month. Times are tough for everyone right now, an economic downturn, high gas prices, etc.

I despise credit, I fear it greatly, and only rarely, if ever, use it, beyond the mortgage. I had two soccer practices, a piano lesson, football practice and Sabrina cheering at a game to tend to, all between the hours of 4 and 7 p.m. Plus everyone wanted a sit down supper because that's what we do. I didn't have time to drop everything, get a babysitter and run to the grocery store for something I wasn't sure I had enough money for when Martin could have helped me plan better for it if it'd occurred to him. I was a tad exasperated.

OK, I can do this, even if we seemed to have had supper at 3:50 in the afternoon, Yolie'd taken Jack to piano ( a priceless gift of time for me), Javy got a ride home from football practice - it's a mile and a half - he could have walked it, I got both teams to soccer practices on two different fields, and made it in time to watch Sabrina cheer (after halftime when it's free to get in even though I couldn't have gotten there any sooner due to soccer.)

Sweet Miss Kimberly and her wonderful husband, showed up on the soccer field with a cake mix, icing and sprinkles for Martin's project, nearly bringing me to tears of gratitude and surprise.

I'd returned home (Monica and Carolina babysitting the remaining few who didn't have practices) with everyone by 7:30 and nearly had to cook yet another supper so hungry was everyone after expending so much energy. We worked on homework until nearly ten p.m., making my living room, family room and kitchen appear similar to a tornado ravaged community. Rooms I'd swept that morning and picked up everything and plumped the pillows now could have applied for disaster relief funds.

Sometimes I check my referrals and read different blogs that have linked me, happily surprised at the very diverse community of bloggers that'd link a yo-yo like me. Most surprisingly I found that my parent's church had us linked. My first thought was initial alarm, followed by the feeling that more folks are praying over my children, and their emotional healing, that is a very long time in coming.

Two readers emailed me yesterday with stories of their very trying children - dangerous kids that are destroying families. This I understand totally and while there's nothing I can do past my own prayers for them, I hope the support I offer as well as the BTDT stories that I relate will help us all to understand what a very difficult life we've chosen when we adopt from the foster care system. We all desperately need the prayers and emotional support that we receive from church congregations, friends, the community and the schools.

And unbelievably Martin just called me from Mr. David's classroom, "Mom, I forgot to bring the cake, cookies and the icing from Miss Kimberly."

I could teach him a lesson and let him take the consequence (a zero) for his forgetfulness as I once would have done as a more inexperienced adoptive parent. Now I've learned that their brains are miswired after being pickled in utero from alcohol or drugs, I've learned that all the punches on their punch cards from not being prepared for class is not due to them watching cartoons too much, but rather from their absolute inability to use higher order thinking processes. This is not their fault. Behavior modification doesn't work here - it's so much deeper than that.

This takes forever. Period. Decades and decades, trial and error, mistakes and failures, small successes, and the most massive amount of love I've ever had to pour into children who, on the surface, are rejecting it outright. But I've FINALLY learned, it's not in vain at all, and every teeny, tiny inch of progress is the result of a hard fought battle in which outside folks think I'm nuts to keep trying.

But I'm gonna keep trying just to see each itty bitty, tiny ounce of success that I eventually see in all kids. I'm not raising Rhodes Scholars necessarily, but I'm raising some really neat kids someday.

Please someone remind me of this the next time I'm crying.

I Can Do That

A huge misconception in adoption is that the children are grateful that they've finally been adopted. No matter how many times I explain this to folks, they still seem astonished when my kids display their very uncontrollable anger. They're not angry with me, they're angry with all that has happened to them. They are hurt, damaged and incredibly furious with all the birth parents, extended family members, foster care parents and any other caretakers that they perceive abandoned them over the years.

Therefore, based on their experiences, they're fairly certain that I will bail also.

But I don't do so.

Unpredictable in their eyes, my commitment sets them on edge in such unfamiliar territory and they test me for many, many years, pushing buttons that I didn't even know existed.

Today I was called to the school for a meltdown exhibited by one of my fifth graders who then hid out in the boy's bathroom...like that would deter me? We can have this discussion amongst urinals just fine and we did so, the principal and the assistant principal keeping their distance outside the bathroom, figuring I'd handle it.

I found out later that my criminal bipolar son, who simply can't help it, was charged with aggravated assault. Yeah boy, that's what happens in a knife fight.

This stressed me somewhat, I'd been listening to Zig Ziglar all day, pumping myself up for the next round when my phone rang again, making me cringe in trepidation.

This time it was a good call. A grown daughter with significant diagnosed emotional illnesses, living on SSI on the streets of Atlanta has recently made some very good progress.

"Mom, you always told me to make you proud and I kept thinking about that," she faltered.

"Ok," waiting to hear where this was going.

And we had the longest, best conversation that we'd had in years...all through her five years of psychiatric hospitalization, jail time, rages and meltdowns...stuff she just couldn't help.

She's since done well, gotten an apartment, tutoring, and other help, and I'm really proud of her.

I despaired at times of ever making a difference in her life, I was terribly upset over the negative attention she'd brought upon our life, and I often feared she'd disappear into the streets with nary another word from her, leaving me to fret over her safety.

There's nothing better, nothing I would have wanted more than to have had this remarkably upbeat conversation this afternoon.

She only needed someone to call Mom, someone who'd still be there after all the difficulties, who'd offer advice and suggestions that she could choose to listen to...or not.

I can do that for her forever, even though this isn't how I imagined it'd turn out.

How Do We Fix It?

Standing outside last night, sharing a few muscadines with my son-in-law, Chuck, and his daddy, we were spitting out the seeds, (I eat the skins, unlike the majority of folks) when several kids came running out to inform me that there was a snake in the kitchen.

I stood there for a minute, weighing the value of said snake, with its remarkable ability in eating field mice, versus the ongoing rodent problem we'd been having, as we seemed to be catching a great deal of mice lately. Another negative byproduct to county growth as their natural habitats are wantonly destroyed.

"Is it a black snake?" I'd asked, definitely not wanting a copperhead coiled under the stove, nipping at my ankles while I cooked huge pots of vittles each night, like a witch at a cauldron so must I appear while using a three foot long metal spoon stirring equally as mongo-sized pots.

"Yep, and it's huge," they stressed in unison, six kids nearly breaking a sweat with excitement.

I still stood there, thinking.

Chuck, who is usually relegated to decision-making, walked over to his utility trailer that he'd just parked under a tree and got a rake. We all followed him into the kitchen, the kids terribly excited over the upcoming battle they knew Chuck would wage until he'd won.

These are protected snakes. You can't just chop its head off and be done with it.

Chuck's dad, Charlie, came in, "Let me see if Chuck needs any help," yet he stood back warily as Chuck kept reminding young'uns to back up and give him some elbow room. Hovering like helicopters over a crash scene, everyone wanted to help, to ooh and aah, but the funny thing was the snake wouldn't let go of a mouse and cooperate.

After several battles, Chuck finally won, and carried the skinny four footer out the door by it's neck and tossed it into the woods by the old barn, knowing it was likely to return, as we've seen it before in the kitchen over the years.

"My hero!" I gushed, hugging him in gratitude, glad he's soon moving into his dream house up by the mailbox.

The AJC just had a delightful article about our glorious muscadines that I had originally planned to link last night as well as Sarah's newest post, but ten kids had been at church youth group, Javy'd had a late football practice, Tommy needed a quick trip to the ER for a Nando-Tommy collision that resulted in a bloody mouth but no stitches, we'd had a homework battle, a project on wheels, levers and pulleys, and one that involved cooking a map of Georgia so time just got away from me.

An aside to Sarah: Yes, you have had pole beans, Kentucky Wonders at that, we just didn't call it pole beans, we called it green beans and we didn't cook it as well as you've done.

At ten I finally sat down and watched the first five minutes of Clean House and fast-forwarded to the end to see the final results. Thank God for DVRs as they've so fed into my TV ADHD mentality - just show me the results please. An hour long show reduced to ten minutes, and then I could turn off all the lights and go upstairs to read.

Several have commented that when it rains they think about me. I, too, consider so many of y'all when I'm watching The Weather Channel. I'd read about an early frost coming to Minnesota, but I couldn't fathom such a thing in August. Linda wrote of it though.

I think of Merilee anytime Idaho is involved in anything, Lord Have mercy it is so beautiful there, and since meteorology fascinates me, many of y'all cross my mind during the day - well that and the fact that I often think and pray for folks, y'all's trials and travails being so similar to mine and my family. But also the prayer needs or particular emails I've received. Miss Judy, losing her mother this week, is on my mind and in my prayers.

Miss Ellen answering a homework email after Lily, my resident space cadet, did the wrong homework assignment, or thinking about Catherine who's recently had a baby. Y'all dance through my mind at very regular intervals.

I listened to a dozen Joel Osteen podcasts yesterday as I'm a summer behind, and he really spoke to me. I'm still so sensitive to criticism and he spoke on it, deep into my soul where I needed correction.

My Pepe called last night again, at a facility where they'll work on his aggression. "I want to come home for a visit by my birthday," he'd told me.

Well, I want to not be slammed into a wall, I'd thought, but kept to myself.

We spoke for awhile about his anger that seems directed towards our family - especially me, his massively inappropriate behaviors here, and what he thinks he needs to address while there. His behavior has been good while gone, yet dangerous here at home. Pinpointing this situation - how do we fix it?

Parentified Behavior Again

Someone googled 'parentified behavior' and came up on one of my posts about Yolie and Daniel that I'd written a year and a half ago.

Yolie is still very, very parentified, here she is soon looking at 30, Daniel will be 23 in less than a month, but that simply doesn't matter. She will always absolutely adore her two birth brothers. She's equally as caring to her 38 other siblings too.

I'm older than my own three sibs, but I'm not parentified. Bossy and overbearing certainly, but we had parents. My siblings didn't need me to fill that role.

All of the sibling groups that I've adopted had a parentified child with the exception of one super dysfunctional group from East Texas. They hardly even claim a blood relation to each other at all.

Daniel had just sent Yolie and I a way to track him via his iphone, as we both literally fret when this Army man goes out of town for an away UGA game. That makes Yolie and I the insecure ones, this we agree on, and illustrate it daily by our actions.

But interestingly, Daniel is so incredibly secure that it doesn't bother him at all that we have a need to know he's OK at all times. Only a very sure of himself college man would give his mama and his parentified sister that much room and ammo.

It's been my positive experience, over the years, to not interfere with this phenomena. If a sibling is parentified, they've earned it. In our case it always involved and sprang from their former years of neglect, severe lack, and abuse wherein the sibling bond grew very deep and a leadership role was usually taken on by the oldest sibling.

I mean heck, Sabrina was called Memaw by her sister and two brothers, and now we all refer to her that way.

Edgar was heavily parentified, the older male Latino position, and he so had earned it by his genuine care and concern for his six siblings. He gladly turned the reigns over to me at age 13 when they arrived here, it was a heavy load for him to have carried for so long, but he'd done a great job. In his brothers and sister's eyes though, he is still their main man no doubt, but they've eventually grudgingly allowed me to mother them.

ODD Arguments

One can see the concern on some children's faces here as they'd visibly wondered and worried about which part of the Go Diego cake they'd get to eat. A large cake, everyone had very generous slices and ice cream, but their regular high-octane, inner fear dictates apprehension at nearly all times.

Bart had articulately described the level of oppositional behavior that we parents live with every single day of the year. His phrase bears repeating, "Oppositional Defiant Disorder is characterized by consistent refusal to comply with even the most basic, inconsequential requests of an authority figure."

The italics are of course mine. I need to remember the word 'inconsequential.'

ODD is the most maddening, nerve-wracking, annoying and irritating behavior on earth. It has taken me a very long time to deal with it, to not argue back, nor point out the illogical thinking involved on the part of the child. It makes no sense at all which is what bugs me the most. I cannot see how any child thinks they can then grow up and hold down a job with that behavior. Oh wait, so far they haven't been able to do so. That's why the arrest record of some of them is longer than their job-holding list.

Most of my children have had this diagnosis in varying forms, I'd venture to say that likely nearly every child in the foster care system, every child who has been traumatized has this dysfunctional coping, defense mechanism, and it will wear a parent down faster than fingernails on a chalkboard.

Bart's mighty fine wife wrote a post that perfectly fits one's response to this behavior - must reading for us all.

It's been almost two years since my surgery that I still attribute to the incredible amount of debilitating stress I'd been under. I've worked hard with nutrition and vitamins to build my body back up, to repair the damage that's been done. I've put on 20 pounds, bringing me up to a perfectly normal weight for my height and age.

I've built myself back up spiritually with my beloved country gospel music, through prayer, reading The Word, and listening to a great many inspirational, motivational podcasts.

Emotionally I'm still internally twitching. I hate the sound of the phone ringing, I despise it, dread it and nearly fear it. I can't shake this malaise.

I have from 7:45 a.m. until 2:45 pm each day to myself. Seven hours in which I can wear my Ipod and listen to that which builds me up. I can weed, work, walk, or even read something. I need these seven hours desperately. They are more rewarding than a seven hour sleep period. Right now I only hear the washing machine and the overhead fan whirring. That's all. I relish this silence. I treasure this time.

Late last night I watched two young women on Maxed Out, one of my new favorite shows that I can DVR and watch whenever. I adore Intervention and Clean House. Why? Not because I can see folks wallowing in their discomfort, but rather because each show, with the exception of a few jarring finales on Intervention, ends with a solution. A positive outcome and smiles on people's faces because they've changed the behaviors that got them into trouble.

I find this to be immensely encouraging to me, another level of a buildup that I seem to crave. I also tape America's Funniest Videos because I particularly like to laugh. I get to actually watch the shows maybe 50% overall, but that's not the point.

I laughed myself silly this morning over Cindy Adam's joke in the comment's section.

Daniel just called, "I like how you gave Chuck half the credit for the arbor I built."

I cracked up laughing at Daniel's absolutely indignant response to my earlier words.

"OK, I'll fix it," I promised.

"Chuck checked my measurements, but I did everything," he went on to verbally list every single step in the process.

As I'm now typing this correction, he texted for me to take a picture of it, it is a monster arbor. It really is huge. Either Chuck or Daniel had designed it...did Chuck draw it up? Anyway it was built so that it could be added on to, lengthened as needed, and the way I eat, I'm ready to double its size. No one can have enough scuppernongs.

I love this arbor. Thank you Daniel. I love everything you've built for me. He did all my raised beds around the house as a 12 year old, using a large drill that spun him around, his determination and single mindedness over every project was, and is, amazingly impressive. Hardly ten at the time, when he'd fenced in part of The Big Back Garden, he's also hauled the paving stones between the beds and many of the bricks.

I had about 13 solid, wonderful years of Daniel growing up here with me. Arriving a day after his sixth birthday, at first wide-eyed and scared, he's been a superb blessing to me ever since.

He's the one that Javy and Chuy look up to so much. Javy, now playing high school football, has set a goal to play all four years like Daniel did. Chuy will literally ask me Daniel Stories, wanting so much to be like him, having many of the same capabilities.

And it bears stating, neither Daniel, Yolie nor Joe were ODD. Joe was ornery, but not ODD. That was likely my last sibling group that wasn't so. Cristy wasn't ODD, she was BPD. Cristy has miraculously succeeded in so many ways. But oh honey, the sibling groups that followed....

Pole Beans

Sarah blogged her ennui.

It's Still Raining

Rain, we got rain! Maybe three inches so far, more than I've seen in the last six months put together.

Two tornado warnings in our county alone, one was in the tiny northwest area of the county where I live, kids at school were sent out into the halls twice this afternoon, but fortunately no touchdowns.

Soccer practice cancelled and more rain on the way, making me absolutely ecstatic, giddy even.

Is That RAIN Falling From The Sky?

Just as all Southerners know all the verses to Amazing Grace, whether they go to church or not, we also have a bunch of silly, inane sayings, and we usually do verbally stress italicized words with a drawl.

I blundered down the hall early this morning, needing turbo coffee and muttering, "Lordy, Lordy I'm sure past 40," to which I then heard a resounding, "You're way past 50 too," comment from the peanut gallery AKA a smart-alec Bubba.

Well good golly gee, I'll be 60 'bout the time Tabby hits middle school, hardly 30 the first time I had a kid that age.

But at the moment, life is good, quiet and rewarding, what with a ton of scuppernongs each day all day, a southern delicacy.

With three out of the past four police encounters last week involving the restraint of a child of mine, two of those ending up going to jail, it's a wonder I only turn to muscadines for solace, spitting the seeds as far as I can for good effect.

Daniel and Chuck had built that very strong arbor for me, years ago after I'd ignorantly planted the grape vines out in The Big Back Garden. They're so dadgum prolific that they can smother a house within a week, we quickly moved them out to the meadow just in time, yet ten years later I'm still encountering wayward vines and roots, yanking them out, not even bothering to transplant them as they'll take over this property and even I can't eat that fast.

The late night news informed me that most of Georgia was getting a rousing dousing of rain except for the Athens area that only saw a drizzle. "Lord, doncha still love me?" I'd fussed to the Heavens, begging for water to fall from the sky onto my gardens. This morning we awoke to a decent rainfall, naturally the one morning that I need to get Tony to school early for speech therapy, the bus driver laying on her air horn as my kids were running pellmell down the driveway in the rain, Mayra fretting over her straightened hair, Javy stressing over his dumb white shoes...jeepers y'all, we want the rain.

Somehow today, between shower bursts, I need to get outside and pick my lunch of cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, and squash for my daily five pound salad that I crave.

Between ominous clouds, the sun broke through last night and allowed Ray and Tabby's soccer practice to happen. I got to hold a wiggling, squirmy Hazel the entire time, and then Mae Mae and CJ stayed with me while Yolie helped Chuck paint their new house. Estrella and Alana live here on our property, so any day that I get time with the entire Fantastic Four is a blessing to me.

Jonathan proudly showed me several good grades, Scotty showed his butt to company (a phrase that indicates difficult behavior), but fortunately said company was not repelled too much, they ended up taking the lone female kitten off our hands. Good job Lily, as she'd been campaigning at school for a home for the kittens.

Before I could hit 'publish post', the Assistant D.A. just called me about Paloma's unruly charge, telling me it wasn't serious enough to merit a trip to court, should have been handled at the school level (which it most certainly was, but she left us no other option but police involvement.) We left it at a 'let's make a file, I'm building a case for help, documenting everything, yet still hoping for a better resolution than court,' decision. I can live with that for the moment, knowing I have Dr. Mandy and Dr. C helping me with Paloma.

Yesterday I had a blessed all-alone day that I sorely needed, drifting through the house, cleaning, and listening to podcasts including Dave Ramsey who echoes my thoughts and reinforces my very frugal, non-materialistic ways that I can't seem to get across to my children very well until they are much older and have faced the world's hard truths.

Pantry Meals

Mae Mae's Tia Sarah blogged again.

Use Me

That's me, with clipped-up, bottle blonde hair, in a white shirt way over there in front of the sink.

Edgar had briefly seen Fabian the other night and wasn't pleased at all. "He looks trashy," was his assessment, as apparently there's now a homemade tattoo gracing Fabian's arm. An utter no-no in that it's my understanding one cannot legally get a tattoo under age 18, but who knows in the underworld of illicit behavior?

Edgar and I had both gladly poured out eight long years attending therapy sessions and everything else required of Fabian as he made so many poor decisions. Edgar had done it eight years longer than me considering those rough years before adoption. To say he is now disappointed in Fabian's plunge is an understatement. Roughhousing with JoJo and Allen last night, who miss Edgar every day, just as long as he stays in contact with them, they'll be happy, Edgar brought me up to date.

Javy, pictured above, is also the oldest brother in a very troubled sibling group. The older sibling of Pepe, Paloma and Jonathan, he's often embarrassed and bothered by their rages, physically distancing himself more towards Martin and CW who are fun, sports-minded and compatible with his own interests, now that he's in high school.

Javy's early years here involved night terrors and some odd, rather bizarre behaviors that seem to have been resolved as he saw Dr. G fairly regularly for years. Now with a youth pastor and a football coach to mentor him, older brothers-in-law who are fine young men, I'm fairly optimistic about Javy's bright future.

Yeah, I know, I felt that way just last month about Fabian, but I can't allow myself to give up hope, it's kinda all I have left.

I downloaded three sermons from Pastor David Cooper of Mount Paran Church of God in Atlanta. Once my pastor, during the 1980s, his anointed sermons taught me so much and, Lord knows, I need a strong dose of encouragement today. I'm going to clean the house while listening, haul Chuck's grass clippings in my truck over here, and work all day. Hard, physical work always helps me cope.

We're seeing a little bit of rain as well today, the back bands of Tropical Storm Faye and a low pressure system have kept us in drizzly days, I'm loving it of course, hope to plant fall lettuce and spinach today as well.

For good measure I also have some podcasts from Joyce Meyer and Joel Osteen to hear today.

A non-believer once asked me how I could ever listen to, or believe in, such pie-in-the-sky nonsense. Kind of initially shocked at such a blunt assessment I was momentarily at a loss for words, I probably didn't give a very articulate answer, but I've since thought about it more.

I've spent the last 25 years as a believer and I've seen my own faith daily strengthened in spite of some intensely painful experiences. I've watched my own faith in action, I've literally heard from God, even though there have been many other times that I loudly and deeply despaired over stuff. God is very real to me, and I still don't have better words of explanation other than God is so real to me.

A balm for my soul, I wish I could literally bottle it and share with others. I wish I had more words, but I don't. Maybe my struggling ability to do what I do, raise troubled, traumatized children against some sharply steep odds might demonstrate that it could have only been done with the help of God. I'm just a scrawny, raggedy old hillbilly who allowed God to use her.

My Pride in My Brother - Brag, brag, brag - I know

Gary Bodie follows one of his charges during the 2008 Olympic Regatta in Qingdao, his last as the head coach of the U.S. Sailing Team.


High Performance Director and Head Coach for the U.S. Olympic Sailing Program, Gary Bodie (Hampton, Va.) said, “I’m really excited for our program because we won two singlehanded medals. We struggled in singlehanded performance for a few quads, so it’s really rewarding to win some singlehanded medals this time.”

Olympic Trials - Gary Bodie Interview - A short video.



This story is for Daniel, about Gary's Caltech times.

My kids and I spent two weeks every summer at Nags Head, NC with Gary and his family and it is only recently that they've comprehended Gary's position in the sailing world. He was just their uncle, their cousins' dad, someone who was as obsessed as Big Mama with The Weather Channel, who took them out on his different sailboats over the years.

Gary, and his family, was here this Christmas, between trips to Europe and China, while i stay down my dirt road, never going anywhere, tending to some tough, challenging children, thinking about the hundreds of miles of beaches that Gary and I've walked over the years, talking, thinking, planning and cutting up.

I sure am proud of him.

GARY BODIE TO STEP DOWN AS US SAILING TEAM HEAD COACH
by Stuart Streuli, Sailing World

After a decade at the helm of the U.S. Sailing Team—and 30 years as a sailing coach—Gary Bodie will be stepping down and moving away of professional coaching. The team has won eight Olympic medals during his tenure—three gold, four silver, and one bronze. The team has a replacement lined up and will be announcing that shortly. In the meantime we had asked Bodie a few questions.

When is this going to happen?
End of the year, although I'm going to change roles pretty quickly after the Games. I'm still going to stick around and help with Rolex Miami OCR and then go back to doing some volunteer stuff with US SAILING.

What will you do to occupy your time?
My wife started up a little business a few years ago and she's been running while I've been doing all this.

Can you tell us what it is?
It's real estate investment

That's a pretty drastic change. Will you miss the coaching?
I'm going to miss it the day after I quit. It's been 10 years with the team and 30 years coaching and I just felt like it was time for me to do something else.

Did knowing that this would be your last Games as the head coach make the experience any different, any more special?
I tell you Anna [Tunnicliff's gold in the Laser Radial] was pretty special for me. If feels to me like kind of full circle because 30 years ago I started at Old Dominion in 1978, my first coaching job. It was a club sport, unranked, no facilities, six penguins, wood penguins. So I feel really good. Debbie [Capozzi], Sally [Barkow], Anna, and Charlie Ogletree are all ODU graduates. For Anna to win the gold, it feels like full circle to me.

Will the duties of the head coach change at all in the immediate future?
They're going to reorganize the role a little bit, try to take out some of the administrative and logistical stuff, including ISAF and Miami OCR and shipping and yadda, yadda, yadda, which I end up spending over half my time on and put that back into the office so to speak. So this person would be able to focus more the head coach and high-performance role.

Will the person be more of a team manager, more big picture?
I've pretty much taken an active role coaching individual athletes during my 10 years. I've done it where I've been coaching my share of the load. But again that takes away from the big picture kind of stuff. So I think the new person will be able to focus more on being the head coach.
I think [high-performance director] is a pretty popular title in Olympic sports, not just ailing. I think my replacement will actually be more involved with the athletes, and still be doing some on-the-water coaching, moving from class to class, but less focused on one or two athletes and one or two classes and hopefully it'll be successful in taking some of the administrative and logistical stuff off the plate. The reason that Sparky [Team GBR Olympic Manager Stephen Park] is able to do what he's able to do is they have five people doing what I'm doing and five more doing what Katie Kelly does.
One of their athletes came up to Katie and commented, "I can't believe you and Gary do all these things."
He was more admiring it than being critical.

With this change the program at all, make it more like the Team GBR approach?
I think one of the big strengths of our program, and it predates me by 30 years, is the independence of our athletes and the decentralized structure of our programs and the entrepreneurial spirit of our athletes. Entrepreneurial as applied to athletics, not in the business sense. They running their own programs pretty much and I think that's a real strength of our program and it's very American.

A Prefectly Uneventful Saturday

I spend quite a bit of time reading these posts and watching their videos, absorbing everything with huge enjoyment. This morning reading Paula's post, I marveled as well.

I just can't seem to grow enough to can. Yes, I give a ton away to my grown kids and what goes bad to the chickens, but even so, with over a hundred tomato plants, we're eating everything. Is it because I'm such a pig? I, alone, eat two dozen or so tomatoes each day. My kids would eat two dozen cucumbers apiece each day if I had that much, necessitating several hundred cukes a day to be grown. With our long growing season we get very accustomed to so much fresh produce that maybe I should ease off of myself, freezing what fire hot pepper sauce I can manage to get done, canning tomatoes, and trying for more fresh greens all year long.

Five of my grandchildren, Carolina's darlings, who're living with us while Big Jose is in San Salvador, are just as impressed with the constant garden variety being hauled into the house. "Abuelita?", Blanca asked me while picking San Marzano Tomatoes, "Will you teach me how to garden?"

"Yep, darling, just plant, weed, haul wood chips, manure, leaves and compost all your life, and you'll have food to eat."

"That's all?" she asked suspiciously.

Yeah, really that's all it takes. I just enjoy it so much that I spend every spare minute I have outside, but even so I'm falling farther and farther behind as my soil is so rich that even in a drought, plants flourish - especially the wild weeds.

When I wrote about not going into Vanessa's trailer the other day, I used the word 'demurred' which provoked guffaws from my neighborly Punctuation Police Officer who is now apparently monitoring my word choice.

"Demurred?" Sarah hooted and hollered. "You didn't politely and primly demur."

Ok, OK, what I really said was, "Are you kidding me? I have two sacks of dog food in the back of my truck that'd get stolen in this scarey trailer park if I went inside."

But hey, ain't that demurring?

Our little three footed dog, the fourth hanging uselessly, Amelia, has fitted in here easily. She's a lap dog, soothing the temperamental children somewhat, scampering off in alarm when someone's fixing to blow, jumping on my bed this morning as I'd slept past daylight. Well jeepers I'm kinda tired from the non-stop turmoil involved in raising children on the edge, but even the dog wants to interfere with my rest?

I couldn't get to yard sales yesterday due to soccer practices, but I'm glad the kids have ballgames again as an outlet. Chuck and Yolie got moved, Tabby was in Hog Heaven as Kortney was here for the weekend, Paloma never raged - she even bathed the dog and made me a plant stand with some wood she'd found outside and the rest of my kids got along for the day.

My mother was hauling wood chips alone when we came home from soccer, so I sent Allen, CW and Paloma to help her, yet I'm convinced that so much very hard garden work keeps my parents young and strong here facing 80. Dad had gone again to Gina's house to work, then they went out dancing (Grandma and Grandpa, not Gina and Grandpa) and today they'll head to church and then off with some friends for the day to some theater for a play. Grandma has a bridge club and some Bridge-A-Rama going on plus she's grown a ton of corn for us.

Basil, Basil, Basil

Sarah blogged about my lastest penchant of unloading basil on anyone and everyone who comes over. She's perfected a pesto recipe while I wait for my favorite brother-in-law to send me his recipe.

My Billionith Reality Check

There's something about a child turning 18 that is incredibly liberating for an embattled mother like me. "It's on you now," I stressed yesterday to Vanessa as I spent the afternoon with her, lamenting several of her not so great choices, but really enjoying our time together. She was sweet and fun, pretty and not the least bit viperish even when I predictably embarrassed her at Lowe's, quibbling over a price and winning when I offered them $50 less than the sticker price on a clearance, scratch and dent appliance.

"Mom, this isn't a yard sale," she snickered in surprise when they accepted my lowball offer.

We'd had lunch and run errands, nary a cross word which surprised me as I'd dreaded having to bring up a few minefield subjects, not the least of which was Fabian who'd also called me later in a rather sweet way. Go figure.

Why they want to recreate their past trauma, setting up similar living conditions to that from which they were originally rescued still bumfuddles my logical thinking patterns.

This is a very ragtag, crime-filled trailer park into which I ventured. "Wanna come in?" Vanessa had offered.

"Maybe another time," I'd demurred, kissing her cheek good-bye,

"Bring me more garden vegetables than you gave Miriam," she'd reminded me, always wanting to bring in her own birth sibling rivalry issues. When I'd been bemoaning that sibling group's mean-mannered issues, she'd brilliantly brought up a very good point, "Well, mama, none of us have gotten pregnant," which in my world is akin to a Nobel Peace Price victory.

"Yeah, you're right," I enthusiastically conceded.

My very successful older children did not do that - did not return to sub-standard living conditions. Daniel would have chewed off his arm first before living there. Big Joe, in all his former rebellious glory, would never have slummed like that.

Joey is now officially barred from stepping foot on two different ghetto properties in the next town. Whoa. Go figure. He's in jail, at the moment, for some severely disruptive behavior involving a knife threat to an 18 year old in that trailer park.

My gifted son, Chuy, was kicked out of a middle school activity last night for setting off a stink bomb his friend had brought. The one who had to call me, was shocked at Chuy's last name, because she'd graduated with Daniel. I was fairly annoyed with Chuy's lame-brained thinking as well, contrasted with my pride at Chuy's birth brother, Javy, and his high school football debut at a scrimmage last night.

An extremely busy Friday night with nine middle schoolers down at the rec dept, Mayra, Javy and I at the game, Lily and Jack went to Cristy's house for the evening, while Carolina and Grandma switched off babysitting the remaining few elementary kids.

This morning starts our fall soccer league practices, Dr. Mandy's making a Saturday visit, and Yolie and Chuck will leave their now sold home for a temporary apartment as they finish building their new home here on our dirt road. In today's real estate market I'm happy their original house sold so well, this other living arrangement time will fly by.

Sarah blogged again yesterday and I may do so later this afternoon after everything. Tropical Storm Faye dumped about 20 minutes worth of drizzle on us, that's all folks.

In an email from Linda B and a heartfelt comment from Cindy Adams, my life is back on track. Linda called it a 'come to Jesus moment' and Cindy reminded me of my life's calling. Thank you and I love you both. You remain in my prayers and my children too feel compelled to pray for you both.

Cindy Adams had received some difficult news again, compelling me to beg everyone for even more prayers on her behalf and for her family's strength.

My Eyes

A ringing phone is enough to immediately launch me into literal paroxysms of hand-wringing, shaking stages of anxiety. Twitching is now second nature. My spasms are evident to all.

My mama taught us not to call folks after nine at night, yet that now seems to be a throwback attitude rooted in the 1950s.

I slept through a phone call late the other night, so stressed out was I, the house phone rang 10 times and then my cell phone chimed in, yet I heard nothing for the first time in my life. I've never not awoken to a phone. I'm just so emotionally exhausted lately that I've dented the bed in my heavy slumber. The sleep of the totally spent. Praying for my mind to heal from the vicious verbal attacks and the onslaught of so much trauma now poured out on me constantly.

A phone call early this morning telling of yet another arrest and all that runs through my mind is how many gazillion times I'd told my kids, "If I don't teach you right from wrong, then the world surely will," as I apparently fruitlessly worked on their self-discipline, manners, values and morals all seemingly to no avail. I might as well just have been talking to a vapid air space.

Paloma is refusing to attend school. The juvenile judge will not be impressed.

I answer many of y'all's comments in my mind while I'm cleaning, weeding, working, cooking or tending to everything. Then I forget if I've actually typed it out, thinking I must have already answered as my head is so full of churning thoughts.

I've been thinking this morning about Amanda's comments which were intended to encourage, yet trying to reach Paloma on any level seems to be less than a wild shot in the dark. If anyone has time each day to go back and read the comments, one will learn that I'm in a full boat (sinking) with y'all. Lisa shared her struggles there too.

Vanessa turns 18 today and my older children have expressed surprise that I'm planning on taking her to lunch today. "After the way she's cussed you out?" Monica asked. Carolina too was shocked, " Even though she's been so rude?"

Yeah, even so. It's called grace.

Yet she'll still be angry at me that she chose to quit school and suffer the natural consequences of the many poor decisions she's made, other grown kids will continue to lie about me as they sap the resources of others folks that are enabling them to not work. Kids who've had to learn street survival skills at a very young age are usually then expert manipulators.

I'm crushed and embarrassed so often, it's tough to hold my head up, so I'm becoming more of a recluse than ever. I talked with Gina last night away from the other children. My grown kids too are shocked at the level of craziness in the later adopted children as if the kids who were adopted after the mid 90s had a weirder drug in their system than the dope smoked by earlier sets of birth parents. Did meth and crack make the difference? What about the inhalants that criss-crossed their brain wiring?

I will literally trudge through my to do list today as it is long and I only have until 3 p.m. to accomplish it all.

And honestly, sometimes I feel like a whiny fool carrying on about this stuff when my friend, Cindy Adams, is in the fight of her life, and my other friend, Linda B is facing surgery. I do have my health and maybe I ought to keep my focus on that rather than succumbing to my ill tempered feelings that have stemmed from disturbed folks like the one who was arrested last night for the dozenth time.

Dear Lord, Please let me keep my eyes on the prize.

She Should Be A Food Critic

Sarah blogged.

My Absolute Harsh Reality

Sitting down each morning on a coffee buzz, I can pound out a post quicker than some folks poop and honestly, it's that cathartic for me. My favorite brother-in-law had already IM'd me before 7 wondering if I'd soon post. Between 6:30 and 7:45 I'm on high-alert, getting everyone out the door to school...except Paloma.

The principal had called, pow-wowing with me about what the heck to do with Paloma. If she can apologize and act like she'll behave (and her meds have been increased by her psychiatrist) she can return. This morning however she refused. OK, go ahead and fail fifth grade with non-attendance. It'll be your consequence.

Edgar'd called me last night with some slammingly cruddy news, not about him, that resulted in a flurry of late night phone calls on the family party line. A 'what-to-do' moment, how to handle this, and what will be the repercussions. We now need to work through it, can't talk about it at the moment.

A comment yesterday raised some hackles amongst my readers, surprisingly I wasn't offended at all but I do have an opinion. "when they don't earn it is teaching them that they do not have to follow anyone's rules. Isn't it time to revoke the adoptions of those unwilling family members? What are you teaching them by permitting them to have free room and board, without cost, without contribution? How will this translate when they are on their own...if they ever decide to go out on their own."

A bunch of superb comments, I'm painfully aware that I'm singing all y'all's songs as well.

My parents totally agreed with this comment. They've witnessed first-hand my grief, despair, frustration, pain and agony. It's hard on them, my elderly parents, having lost one daughter to cancer, only to then see me in pretty bad shape at times. "Why put yourself through this Cindy? Maybe it is time to quit. You've done all that is humanly possible and these particular ones are dead set on destroying the family."

Hey, I agree. But it's not that easy. These are mentally ill kids, they're not behaving this way for fun, it is not willful. What if they were my birth kids? Can I just call 1-800-I Quit This Spit?

I did call Texas about one group. Texas flat shot me down. Literally. Tough toenails, they're yours now. Deal with it.

In court I'd slap refused to take Pepe home, possibly facing abandonment charges, but I'd rather face that than bury a child he killed in anger. I was already banged-up by his fury, The D.A., looking at a picture of my injury and recoiling, standing by my decision. DJJ and our juvenile judge supporting me as well.

I do not have the luxury of quitting. No one else wants a mentally ill teen or pre-teen. There are no options. I can't just say, "Well they're not learning how to be family members."

Believe me folks, I've looked hard for an easier way out.

I'm especially discouraged now, as I've tried so dadgum hard on several older children that I will likely never hear from again. They are not capable of responding appropriately in society. It is unfair of me to expect them to do so. They CAN'T. They are mentally ill. It cannot be cured or fixed. I hate hard realities.

I'm sad for them, that's all. To be honest, I'm also relieved that they are adults and that I do not have to try and manage their behaviors. I can't do it. I'm not superwoman, I'm only a mom. An unappreciated mom certainly, but I willingly signed up for this.

When I was a young woman my old pastor, who left a profound influence on me, once preached, "What is our purpose in life?" Long before Rick Warren wrote his best-seller, Pastor David explained, "It is to glorify God."

My first thought was, "well that sure doesn't sound like much fun," being 28 and carefree with only one child who was then 9 years old and a breeze to raise.

But as I very, very slowly matured in my Christian walk with God, I learned a great deal. Being inside the will of God is fun. Duh, Cindy. It is safe, secure, a confidence-builder, an empowerment, and it gives me a very strong sense of who I am.

I get it.

But that doesn't mean I'm not a human slacker who doesn't argue with God at times. Of course I am and I do. Especially all my whining cries of WHY?

Heck I whined to the electrician yesterday. His wife reads my blog, he's a long-time friend of Sarah, back to when she was still in high school. I hadda explain the punched in walls and broken light fixtures.

It ain't easy, but this is what I do. I parent my children whether they want me to or not. I'm their mom and I'm committed to finding as much help as is possible for all of my children. If they'd have remained in foster care, slipping between the cracks, unloved and unattached, separated from their siblings, blown to the winds, they'd have been worse off than they are now.

This I truly believe even though I am terribly unhappy with some of their situations at the moment.

Yet the majority of my children have, and will, make me very, very proud. Remember that Cindy, repeat it over and over and over in your mind.

And look at my darling grandbabies. Lord have mercy, I am blessed beyond measure by them all.

Argh

Grandpa's about tired of being referred to as the resident old fart. "We're not 80, Cindy" he patiently explain to this brain addled moron, "We're 78," as if it takes great gall to round it up 18 months.

He surprised Gina by driving all the way out to her house today with his riding mower and got to work tending to what needed to be done to get it rented back out for her. Grandpa knows his real estate and Gina's glad for his knowledge and help.

And I'm glad I'm Gina's mama.

But before I could hit post I just got another phone call that stressed me out............

Not Nutting Up

"Mama, something's going on, the schoolbus is stopped at the top of the dirt road," Monica told me.

I'd always admired Bernie Mac for saying what Iwas thinking, something along the lines of, "I'm gonna kill them kids," when he had a TV show parenting his druggie sister's three challenging children. Yeah, it was a fictional sitcom, but it was dead-on and hilarious.

I was thinking about Bernie Mac as I got in the van and drove up to see which one of my middle schoolers had pissed off the bus driver.

My son-in-law stopped me halfway there, "You know the bus is stopped up there doncha?"

"Yep, that's where I'm headed," I said through clenched teeth, sure I was gonna have to tie someone's legs in a knot.

I jumped up on the bus, already irked at the thought of my rude children, only to surprisingly learn it wasn't ANY of my kids that were on the bus.

Some other kid had nutted up, they wondered if he was on drugs, and had called the first responders.

"Lemme just take my kids out of your hair," I offered.

No can do, everyone stays here until they work this out. By then the county transportation supervisor was there and the first responders showed up within a second.

"Dern girl," he cracked, "When I heard which road, I tought we were headed out to your house again."

Jeepers.

Soon there was another paramedic truck and you could hear sirens coming, the deputy already there, the same one who'd taken my missing report about Fabian and had then immediately headed to where Vanessa was known to be.

"Find your boy?" he asked, not surprised at all to learn he'd been at Vanessa's all along.

But hey y'all this ain't about me. I can't tell you how glad that thought made me. A slight disaster here and I'm not involved, nor are any of my children.

The white kid kept acting up and the deputy yanked him off the bus and gave him the what-for, shaking his finger in his face.

Sarah soon came running up in tears having heard from her sister-in-law that my kid's school bus, deputies and paramedics were involved. Sarah nearly buckled in relief that it didn't involve any of us.

They still wouldn't let me take my kids, so I paced alongside the bus windows keeping my kids quiet and well-behaved in contrast to several other teenagers who verbally indicated their annoyance. This lasted an hour.

In the meantime, Grandma had taken Sabrina to get her finger x-rayed after a school injury involving her klutziness in the presence of solid doors, Grandma and Grandpa had helped me get the house presentable for the electrician who fixed a ton of broken fixtures, outlets, light, fuses and my attic fan.

So in my emotional roller coaster I went from this morning's abject despair to the late afternoon relief that none of my kids had nutted up on the bus.

Stressssssssssssssssssssssssssss

I am almost too discouraged at the moment to type, yet blogging helps me gain perspective.

I've called an electrician to come this morning to replace the broken overhead light fixtures once again. How do they get broken? Why are there no screens in any windows? Why do kids smear feces, poop on a floor, or wipe up and toss turd-encrusted toilet paper on the floor?

Unless one lives with a child who has encompresis, one would have no clue as to the above behaviors. Once someone has lived for a very long time with several children who have encompresis and enuresis, one begins to comprehend the severe depth of an emotional illness.

Even taking those children out of the equation, I have the severely traumatized children who've broken their bedroom doors and windows, torn furniture to pieces, shredded pillows, shattered every breakable item, and pulled down every piece of clothing that I'd meticulously washed, folded, hung up and put away properly. Then, for good measure, they pee on top of the pile of clean clothing, successfully forcing me to redo everything - gaining the upper hand in their tormented minds.

I do all the chores. ALL. The. Chores. I have to if I want a marginally clean house. I can force the children to do chores to even earn TV privileges, but they'll rage instead and break everything. The price is too high for me. Yes, of course they are in therapy, and have been for years and years, but therapy can't necessarily fix a badly broken child. I had one child in a psychiatric hospital for five and a half years only to punch a policeman and spend her 18th birthday in jail. 24-7 therapy and professional help available to no avail.

The bitter truth is I am wasting my time, health, energy, money, good years and effort on several of my children. They are badly damaged but I have not quit trying even when the truth is evident to all.

I know the rest of Paula's post as she'd called me that day, she knows what all I can't/don't post here...THE HELL we endured for a couple of years. Behavior charts, meds, stickers for good moments, re-direction, positive reinforcement, beyond consequences and a loving parent matters nothing to someone sometimes. Nothing.

At this point in my 20 year journey through the very tortured mental illnesses of others, I'm doing it purely because God told me to do it. Period. I've despaired deeper than I've ever let on to anyone.

The principal yesterday was blindsided by the depths of Paloma's vitriolic hatred of him and he'd done nothing. The deputy responded sympathetically, "Bless you dear, I don't know how you do it. I'd beat her ass if I were you."

Well, that wouldn't do any good either. Nothing will work. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing. I've been here too many times before.

There are some kids who will simply always despise me because I'm not their birth mom. They'll make me pay for loving them, for caring for them when their own birth mother would not do so. They'll scream their rage at her, but direct it at me - a replacement. I represent what they think they lost.

If their own mother didn't, couldn't nor wouldn't love them, they simply cannot, nor will not, believe that I could love them. Their internal, primal feelings of worthlessness prevail no matter the amount of therapeutic intervention, love , concern and caring. They will rail against all of that. They want to make me pay.

Duh.

Yes, I do have some very outstanding children. I have some grown kids that have blown me away with their successes. I am way past proud of them into the realm of the upper stratosphere. I am amazed, grateful and simply glad for them and for me.

But some of my children, and their severe emotional illnesses, have nearly pushed me to the breaking edge.

I'm cleaning for the electrician, picking up some mummified turds under beds, stolen food that I'd have given them permission to eat, and gathering up the peed on clothes - a visible indicator of their pure hatred that I'm doing for them what others wouldn't do.

A wordless F&^% You Very Much to Mama.

Now that's overwhelming at times.

Needed At School

Garden time decimated by one phone call. "We need you at school, Paloma's raging."

"OK, lemme change clothes," as I had on my garden shorts and cwapped up t-shirt.

Up there within minutes to find an enraged principal, shocked at Paloma's hatefulness, disrespect and non-compliance. "Do you want me to drag you to the office?" he asked when she refused to do anything she was told to do. She ripped her finger splint off and threw it down the hall in reply, glaring daggers at us all.

I scooted him around the corner out of her earshot. "Bad idea, she'll make false accusations if you touch her."

"Then what do we do?" he asked.

'I'll stay here," knowing this could take a long time, "You go on and do what you need to do."

He was glad to hear that, fixing to leave, when we both noticed she'd vanished.

"This is on me," I quickly reassured him, but he was terror-stricken that we didn't know where she was. Eventually we found her out front, refusing to get into my truck, even though he was repeatedly telling her that she needed to leave the school premises.

She refused, headed to the highway but turned around, making sure we were watching her.

"I'm gonna run away," she defiantly informed us all.

I called DJJ, they suggested we call the deputies, which we did. A really good one got there, read Paloma the riot act in a very big, forceful way and told Paloma what she'd do if Paloma was her kid. It involved a spanking and a boot to the nether regions.

The principal filed a juvenile complaint with the deputy, he's suspended Paloma and isn't sure anymore that the school can meet her needs. I'm on his side. There are behavioral schools that may better suit her.

I've had a talk with Dr. Mandy, Paloma took her meds, and is now fairly calm and doing her after-school Reading Time that is set in stone around here.

What am I gonna do? I dunno.

Sarah blogged again and I would have eaten two pieces that morning had Tony and Jack not messed up my Sunday School Time. Tony was trying to help and he'd done a dead-on, totally hilarious imitation of me twitching with the stress of raising 39 challenging children. That's it boy, just go on and crack me up, way to distract me.

Soaking wet with sweat, but so happy at my three hours alone in my gardens weeding, I'd picked my lunch and came inside to chop it all up. I chopped all the vegetables in this photo and finished it all with three pears I'd picked. Again the 100 foot diet. Two cucumbers, one sweet banana pepper, 3 purple bell peppers and a dozen San Marzano tomatoes. I'd snacked on figs while working and was fairly sure I'd gone on to Heaven on such a beautiful day.

I'm full now and I think I'll waddle back outside and haul woodchips. Heck my spry and strong mother, nearly eighty years old, hauled 48 buckets yesterday to her gardens.

Garden Times

Several hours spent at the orthopedic doctor's office to find out that Paloma's did not re-break her fingers. However it would have served her right if she'd done so after hitting to many kids in her 48 hour Nut Up Rage, but then the rec department likely would have disallowed soccer-playing for her and she'd have all that pent-up mess needing to be expelled somehow.

A UGA sociology Professor, Coach Tom, again claimed my kids for his team. They're a tough group emotionally to work with as they'll sometimes melt down on the field, but hey, he's the man for them. He's very good at coaching and they truly like him, so I'm always glad when he's their coach. This is probably his fourth of fifth time with my kids and he'll again have his hands full with JoJo, Jonathan, Scotty and Paloma. That said, they really are good soccer players, aggressive and hard playing on the field - just like at the dadgum dinner table. He's the coach who taught JoJo so much about being a goalie.

I'm not allowing myself to watch the Weather Channel anymore as the projected path of Tropical Storm Fay is edging too far east to do us any good. It's making me a nervous wreck. I'd gotten to work for two solid hours alone yesterday in the Big Back Garden and I was in such a great mood... until I came in and saw the news at noon.

Six more potatoes for lunch plus six pears for dessert, I'm sounding like Sarah now who blogged again yesterday.

I have a fairly free morning once again so I can work amongst the pepper plants and smile with pride, sweeping the pathways more than I sweep my kitchen, I'd cut down my four o'clocks to nubs lest they take over their beds, yanking out some beautiful morning glory plants that act like kudzu around here and trimming my prolific lettuce leaf basils. The rest of my time is spent weeding, weeding and more weeding, a chore I adore, finding errant blackberries and strawberries that should have given out weeks ago, treating myself to bursts of flavor and remembering that this is all I ever wanted to do - live on some land, living off the land - my dream since the 60s.

Now I need to momentarily shatter my dream and drag some young'uns out of beds where they'd rather stay. Nope, school waits for them...

A side note - I constantly link Seeds of Change as I think this is the definitive planting companion. Heck I read and re-read the catalog as others would read a novel, completely enraptured with its contents.

A Rocky Weekend

Just six months apart in age, Ray and Tommy shared a moment yesterday. Celebrating Tommy's fourth birthday, everyone missing Big Jose, Carolina still pulled it off, spending three days on the cake.

Neither boys are in Pre-K. Sarah downloaded the Pre-K curriculum and is teaching Ray at home, explaining how to do it to Carolina. Last year Tabby needed Pre-K, yet Nando didn't attend and is doing beautifully in school, making a 100 on his first spelling test in first grade. His teacher is wonderful, she's taught CW, Lily and Blanca, she's quiet, firm, loving, structured and stable - everything Nando craves and he's happily bouncing off to school each morning to see Miss Sims.

Scotty, Jonathan, Paloma and JoJo all had pretty impressive morning meltdown moments today. Ever since I was 40 minutes off schedule last Thursday, Monica was here for after school Reading Time, as I drove home from my movie date with Daniel and Lauren, Tabby has been whining, crying and throwing fits, "I NEED Mommy Time," she'll scream at me while sitting with me, stroking my arm.

"OK, I'm HERE," I'll stress, knowing that's not even what she means, rather it is an 'How dare you leave me?" reaction to my 40 minute absence. She even got sent to her room for spitting, sniveling and throwing a tantrum during Tommy's party when a large plate of cake and ice cream didn't suit her. "I want more!" she screamed before she'd finished her first plate and everyone else had not yet been served. Oh so not the issue anyway.

CW, Chuy, Allen and I went back to get another truckload of grass clippings - three so far on my rose garden. Conventional garden rules advise an inch or so of mulch - a practice I've defied for years, using a foot or so instead several times a year knowing it'll rot to nothing under our brutal summer heat, leaving dust for the earthworms to digest into rich castings that'll further nourish my plants.

We are picking a remarkable poundage of produce with next to zero rain simply due to the mulch trapping what moisture we do get. The mulch rots and makes the soil more porous and increases its ability to hold water and get it to the roots.

Paloma was so incredibly violent, aggressive and vicious all weekend. Last night in the pool she continuously attacked others, it was a full-time job monitoring her actions. She may even have re-injured her fingers hitting other kids. I'm calling the orthopedic doctor this morning for a re-evaluation. Her behavior this weekend was shockingly difficult, especially all the more so after a fairly decent month from her. Even the new dog, Amelia, refused to go near her, choosing to sleep in the mess of a room that Jonathan and Scotty have trashed. They'd cleaned it by noon on Saturday, yet messed it back up within minutes.

I don't even allow "play hitting" here. It is an absolute no-no, a line that Paloma crossed all weekend long.

A lady who's considering adoption told me my blog posts had scared her somewhat, but had not dissuaded her from her calling to which I felt relief. That's my purpose, to open folks' eyes to the reality of parenting older, severely traumatized children while sharing and gaining emotional support from like-minded parents. A positive by-product for me has been the number of folks who care and have prayed so heavily over my family resulting in our obvious survival and often thriving days.

Miss Londa told me yesterday how she prays and a great sense of comfort washed over me. She's Memaw and Lily's Sunday School teacher, a mighty fine prayer warrior, and I'm actively recruiting and campaigning for folks to lift Cindy Adams up in prayer, to join me in beseeching God for her healing and strength.

A Potential Drought-Buster?

Oh dear Lord, let it be so. Northeast Georgia's drought has been severe, bad for years, but awful these past two years. I am glued to the Weather Channel this morning, but after this post I'll type my real one for this morning.

Last Night Again and Again

While Paloma is in the midst of a severe mental health relapse, refusing to do anything at all, arms crossed, glaring but, not at the moment, hitting anyone, as I've sent everyone to their rooms for safekeeping.

Should I just turn off the rest of the lights and go to bed? Take a chance on her not bolting out the door into the night, as she gets blinded by an internal rage that flows out of her with nary ever a trigger.

Chuy and Javy are trying to reason with her. "Just send her to the nuthouse," was their final, rather insensitive verdict.

Mental Health Issues, Part One Million

As I deal with the relative calm around here lately, my severe case of PTSD will not allow me to relax. Any loud noise and I'm instantly on edge, going in to mental crisis mode, sure that a calamity is just around the bend. It has been difficult to maintain this constant level of intolerable stress for years now. My nerves are shot and I crave my garden time, where the hard physical work pays off in starkly direct contrast to my family life. The more I pour myself into my children, the more alarming it is for them, the internal fear of success seemingly rears it's ugly threat within them.

I keep thinking about Fabian (and Vanessa), and how we'd had nary a conflict, just praise and affirmation, and bam! He's gone, unexpectedly leaving me gaping my mouth in disbelief and wondering what the heck happened. I didn't see the train coming.

I wish I could just relax and enjoy the lull in the action right now. Even Pepe calls every two or three days, happy and full of himself, as if he'd never injured me, nor needed deputies here to calm him down, mental health workers to take control and DJJ involvement.

My elbow screamed in pain last night from overuse with the wheelbarrow, a lingering reminder of when I was hurt. Two different xrays show no broken bones, but the pain remains which is an unusual experience for me.

Our local newspaper tells of a court system being put into place to help deal with the mentally ill that they only see on their best behavior. Imagine living with folks like that? Trying to protect everyone and maintain irrational behaviors in someone who's larger, meaner and very angry at nothing? Welcome to my world. It sucks.

Amanda just dealt with it and was told, "he's calm now," like that makes everything OK? I wish the workers would just take these ragers home for a night or so and experience firsthand the terrors we usually live with. There was no other way to end that sentence without ending it in a preposition. I literally ran out of words as my heart pounded in fear while remembering some very tough times here.

He's calm NOW? That's OK with y'all? Would you like to return to her house and clean the broken windows and pick up everything that was flung? Will you clean the blood from the other child's mouth? Are you genetically incapable of recognizing DANGER? If any of us adoptive parents screamed what we were thinking, like these questions i just raised, we'd be locked up.

I'd read this article that infuriated me as well as twins and siblings get divided up in foster care...reunited for a week each summer. Well big whoop. I'm spectacularly unimpressed. Knowing that the system is broken and I'm doing my part to rectify these injustices, if only on a very small scale, and all too aware of the uphill battle situation.

It makes me wanna holler..........

If one does adopt the entire sibling group of special needs children, one will be treated as an idiot. "It's your fault these children act out," will be the pointed implication. "What triggered this episode?" you'll be asked as if you were a moron who is incapable of managing any parenting.

Excuse me, it's the kids who have the diagnoses.

I always just want to scream in frustration, but I try and answer stupid questions through my clenched teeth and utter fury that the deputies/mental health emergency workers or whoever can't see that I'm a fairly competent, educated adult who IS JUST TRYING TO HELP SOME SEVERELY DISTURBED CHILDREN.

Even my usually totally calm son-in-law, Chuck, was visibly angry the last time the deputies saw MY injury, yet totally dismissed the idea that a large angry child just out of a mental institution could possibly be at fault. "What'd you say to him, " I was asked in an accusatory manner as if I'd provoked him when I was trying to protect Scotty from Pepe's rage over nothing.

My blood pressure is rising now as I remember my chagrin and fury that night, crying in frustration in front of both Chuck and Dewayne who were as infuriated, helpless and frustrated as well.

That said, I do have a long list of folks and supporters that truly do understand and are as baffled as I am in the process of obtaining mental health services.

Amanda, I send you my heartfelt sympathies as you struggle. I intensely and personally can commiserate with you, yet I, like everyone else, can offer no suggestions for help, as there appears to be so little available.

Someday, when the kids are grown, let's all meet at a beach somewhere, and just scream into the ocean? Let's fight the waves and get our anger out at the way we've been treated. We'll brush the sand out of our wrinkles, drool on ourselves and probably need training pants bathing suit bottoms, but we'll also get to share grandbaby pictures and war stories. We can eat til we pop and y'all can listen to my big mouth food opinions... or just ignore me like everyone else does...

Swimming in the Rain

Less than a 10% chance of rain today so I hauled two truckloads of grass clippings from Chuck's yard for my big back rose garden, there's at least two more loads to go get tomorrow. What could be better? Rain. And it actually rained on us for 22 minutes.

However the kids were in the pool for that time period and begged to stay in as it wasn't thundering, just pelting rain, so I let them. I sat under the umbrella fairly dry and they had a yelling happy fit, glad to play in the rain, and it would have been fun if eventually Paloma had not decided to rage.

She went after JoJo - a full-on attack, then Mayra, but Chuy intercepted and pulled her off everyone. It took another 45 minutes to calm her down and she hadn't even been angry about anything...but this is what she does.

The meds have improved her certainly, we used to have daily rages, now they are pretty far between incidents.

Chuy is her older birth brother and birth siblings can usually soothe their other birth siblings, others seem to only add fuel to the fire. Javy, the oldest of that group, wasn't home - 12 hours up at the high school on a Saturday, the entire football team working on a 5k fundraiser.

Sarah blogged yet again, silly as a goose. I don't want to give away her stumbling block but I soooooooooooo understand.