Offering To Come

In spite of my utter despair and complete frustration, I've also experienced the usual mishmash of positive experiences within our family.

I've spent every night, hours on Saturday, all our free time, probably 20 hours a week for 12 weeks, making sure I was there cheering them on, watching them practice and being a normal soccer mom. I don't mind the off season, so I can catch my breath and barrel back out there in the early spring.

The younger players don't have division champs, they don't do tournaments.

Across the board, the three soccer division championships for the park department went to all the number 2 teams, as they came out roaring. Fortunately for us, U17 (Javy) and U14 (Sabrina, Chuy, Allen and CW) ended up being the division champs, but the U12 (Jonathan, Paloma, Scotty and Jojo) lost a heartbreaker last night. Paloma scored in the last second of the game, pushing for sudden death overtime in which they ultimately lost.

Scotty sobbed in my arms. He's the one I was planning on writing about anyway as he's been totally a doll lately. Diagnosed in Texas with conduct disorder, separated in foster care from Nando and Tabby, placed with his Memaw (Sabrina), she was his nurturer and, I believe, his saving grace as he did learn to attach.

Heck, I'd consider Jonathan and Paloma attached, if nothing else.

Scotty is the one who gets the Yorkies out each morning, and he feeds the chickens each afternoon. He's a ten year old boy slob, but I've yet to see a neatnick boy in our family. Even Daniel then was a piglet about his room.

If I ask Scotty to take the scraps to the compost pile, he'll do it. He'll also melt down unexpectedly and inexplicably at times, but it has occurred to me that these times have been hugely diminished and, in a large family, it could be easy to overlook small steps.

I've also learned conversely if I make a big deal, then the child feels too much pressure to keep performing, so I've had to modify my approach to just about everything in my parenting.

This ain't my mama's family. My brothers, my sister and I were grade-grubbing and high-performing, but not competitive with each other, as our interests were so different. Gary took to the water and to sciences, Jimbo to literature, writing and history, Ellen was more sorority girl to my, shall we say, free thinking ways (hippie) while I flew headlong into gardening at age 18, enraptured and in love with soil...right before I had my first child.

My kids, here at home, are as different as snowflakes, as individual and unique as a shuffled deck of cards and I've tried, for years, to encourage their very varied interests, skills and abilities.

I'm often criticized and examined which irks me. Other kids can show up at school this morning disheveled, coat less and laughingly say, "Well, we overslept."

I'm held to a higher standard. No coat? Someone might call CPS and say the family can't afford to put coats on everyone, which is blatantly untrue as we have about 3-5 coats, fleeces and jackets per person.

I literally fussed this morning at Javy who never feels the cold, "Do you want us to get reported?"

Now why should we live like this? No other family, well no other normal birth family, lives under that stress.

Ten kids leave tonight for a weekend retreat with the youth group so I need to make sure all the laundry is done and that they're well fed before leaving at 5.

Ms Carr has gone down to Pepe's residential therapeutic placement facility to bring him home for his birthday today. "Are you OK with me coming home?" he'd asked me on the phone plaintively last night.

"I suppose," I'd reluctantly answered, when, in truth, I have very mixed feelings. He's Jonathan and Paloma's birth sib, the other two older sibs (Chuy and Javy) are doing well here. Best case scenario would be treatment facilities for all three where I could still be their parent, but not live with the daily danger and violence. They need a parent, but it is the very parent figure that the rage against and want to destroy.

This is the ultimate dichotomy in adoption. Ms. Carr's not afraid of Pepe, she remarked, "I'm not the one who adopted him, mothered him and gave him a great life."

She's right. He sees her as a teacher from his favorite school, even through she's mama's friend, that's not an emotional threat to him at all. He'll be charming and excited to be with her and initially glad to be home. I truly believe he'll maintain properly all weekend, I really do, but it's the long run where he can't get it together.

Several of y'all have emailed or contacted Sarah this week while I struggled, offering all sorts of help. A mom of a dangerous RAD child, offering to come while her child is in respite...well I've had a great deal of offers that I deeply appreciate, just for the fact that y'all care, but again it's your prayers that I truly need. Prayers for my children's emotional healing, for protection over our family, for strength and wisdom for me, for all of our needs to be met, and for my children to eventually succeed in life. I've done this long enough to have seen a ton of success...and that's what keeps me going...and it is with the knowledge that the prayers of others has sustained us throughout everything.

Thank you all so very much. I have literal tears of gratitude in my eyes as I type this with my two fingered pecking, should-have-taken-typing-class in high school instead of French.

In a Psychiatrist's Office

According to a team of UCLA psychologists (this from a mag I read in the psychiatrist's office today) "verbalizing feelings helps make sadness and anger less intense." That's why I blog, however cryptically it may be at times. I'm simply sad and angry.

I quickly unloaded to a psychologist and a psychiatrist while there, Jonathan refused to go, as he's also refused any and all schooling.

I went down hard Monday night, standing with my friend Robin, who later had an injured son thanks to my son's aggressiveness on the soccer field, when I received The Phone Call that Big Jose's Visa had been denied, that he could apply later in 6-8 months while cooling his heels away from his family, sitting in El Salvador, unable to work and send money back to El Salvador as he's done for 15 years.

I cannot begin to describe the family grief... when several more blows followed.

My dad's lost an alarming amount of weight, a trait our birth family shares when under stress, one can literally see pounds dripping off of our angular frames, and we feared the worst as PTSD has settled upon us all with a blanket of apprehension at all times, but his colonoscopy this week eased those fears.

See, I'm trying to decide which problem to face first, it's been a tough week.

I am to the point of abject grief, sorrow and desperation regarding two of my children. Disruption may be the only way to keep the rest of us safe from their unmitigated rage, hatred and anger and an intense inability to function normally at all. They physically attack anyone in eyesight.

A meltdown at church last night, triggered over nothing, resulted in several pastors, Javy, Martin and I trying to get a raging child out of the church bathroom in which she'd locked herself, before then running off into the night once again, a cold, very dark rural night in which there's nowhere to run, but that's not her point.

She doesn't have a point. She later told me that I'd been screaming at her, and I wasn't even there at the church. When reminded of that, she said, "oh yeah," and tried to come up with another explanation.

I've cried all week in pure frustration, from the pain of figuratively banging my head against stone walls where the assumption is, "If YOU parented her right, then she'd behave."

Yeah, that's it.

I told Dr C that I truly suspect bipolar in these two children, I got a reserved agreeing nod as she told me that no medication would, or could, make these behaviors go away. "Do what you need to do to keep your family safe," after I'd shared the descriptions of this week's behaviors with her.

IF I make this decision to disrupt, I'll not justify it to anyone. I'll grieve for a long, long time, but I'll go with my gut feeling. Another professional told me this week, "When families live with such crazy-making behavior, it affects everyone so negatively," as I explained my intense feelings of loss and sorrow.

Another adoption professional talking about her own situations, "I'm watching my own face crack into lines in front of my eyes."

I'm aging rapidly and visibly.

A phone call to Sarah, "How can we help your mother?"

"You know mom, she won't ask for help"

Yes, that's right, I won't ask, because the only help I truly need is for mental illness to have a cure.

"Well," continued Miss Lisa, "I only know two very stubborn women, your mom and I. She's been knocked down, so I can take her," and she brought 15 pizzas to my house with 30 cupcakes and two bins of baby greens, knowing I'd likely not eaten in a few days.

My pastors are propping me up for now, my dad took my truck to get repaired, Ms Carr had saved the day, showing up when I most needed help, and tomorrow also, and my friend Emily's been a phone call away - the hot line - for days now.

Throughout all this, life has to go on. I did early voting, took Martin to his orthodontist appointment, Yolie and Chuck got moved, and we've had 2-3 soccer games each evening in very cold weather.

CW, Allen, Chuy and Sabrina, my U14 team, won the entire division championship. "We'll win it for you," CW promised as he'd caught me in some very stressed out moments when uncontrolled tears would form. A one goal game, 1-0, against the number 1 team that season, when Sabrina made the kick, the happiest I'd been in quite some time.

Two more championship games tonight, U12 and U17, and then soccer season is over.

Jonathan and Paloma are both here glaring menacingly at me, silently daring me to make them go to school, or to clean the bedrooms they've destroyed. If I do so, they'll break a window, or punch a hole in the wall, or run away, or devise some other way to punish me for acting like a mom.

So crazy wins.

Been slammed hard. Each time I stand up, I've been knocked back down. Please keep our family in your prayers

2700+

Like my other grandbabies, Hazel is uncomplicated and happy to see me. After decades of living with, and parenting, severely troubled children, this next generation seems like a breath of pure oxygen. Some of my grandchildren will unfortunately find themselves deprived of a decent relationship with extended family members while their parents work through their damaged emotions. Just as some partners of my children find themselves bewildered and ambushed by past childhood issues, so too will some grandchildren find themselves. I hate that for them, but there's nothing I can do to prevent it from happening.

I've given several of my older children permission to hate me for what their birth parents did to them. They seem to find it too painful to acknowledge that a birth parent would have abandoned, abused or neglected them, leaving them with fear and despair, it is so much easier now to simply hate me. OK, go ahead, hate me and see if that helps you to heal. I'm physically and emotionally withdrawing greatly from the drama of others.

Fortunately for these troubled grown children, I understand.

I don't like it, I'd hoped for greater insight and maturity, but it is what it is, and I have enough other children who've grown to appreciate me.

Jonathan didn't go to school today. I went into his room about 72 times, "Get up, let's go," while my other children scurried around without fussing, victims of the Post Party Syndrome as everyone had a blast yesterday. Jonathan just stared at me with hatred and anger.

OK.

Let's see how this works out for you. Worst case scenario, 2700+ days of misery for me, years and years of prison for him, if he doesn't ever learn to comply with the most basic of rules and requirements.

I'm still emotionally recovering from the tremendous damage wrought by Joey here in my home, my family and my life. I do not go visit him in jail. I just cannot force myself to do so. I'd have to leave my children on a Sunday afternoon and I don't think that is fair to my children who are behaving and who want me to be home with them.

School will be closed on election day so I need to go early vote this week as I can't leave the children on November 4th.

Surges of tremendous anger course through me at time when I think about Cindy Adams having to fight cancer for a second time. It simply is not fair. I read or hear stories on the news that's heartbreaking and I bumble through my own emotions at living with incredibly difficult and oppositional children, but overall I do understand, on some very deep level, that this is what I am supposed to be doing. God knew this would be hard when He called me here. He knew I could handle it and obviously He will use it as a witness for others...and change me into what He wants me to be.

I even hesitate to type those words, knowing how very bad it can get at times.

I pray, read the Bible, I read other books to inspire me, to build me up and I listen to motivational materials. I hug kids who seemingly hate me, I forgive the ones who blatantly hurt me, and I struggle each day with my own human nature that so often grows resentful, or my jealousy over others who might have it easier...although I'm old enough now to know that is simply not the case.

In Sunday School yesterday a few women shared their sad heartbreaks, we had a fantastic prayer time, and some other women spoke some beautiful truths that we all need to remember.

Life is hard, yet we have resources. I just bellyached to my mother for awhile, then reminded myself of the pluses that I possess. I'm irked at Jonathan, of course, yet I need to keep my eye on the big picture. I need to not flail about in my irritation, but rather to keep busy.

I need to remind myself of my blessings, all that we have, and how all my needs are met. When my children make poor choices, it's not because I haven't taught them to make correct ones.

Edgar and Miriam took Allen out for his birthday, including all seven of their original siblings last night after the church festival. Edgar's doing well, pictured here with his girlfriend, Laura, who I adore. Miriam too has a great job and is doing her best. I need to remind myself of the successful children and their choices, of the positive emotions and feedback.

Such A Gorgeous Day

Our church Fall Festival was a smashing success. ALL of my children behaved. Sunday School was fabulous, the service was spectacular, Paloma was wonderful, 11 of my grandchildren were at the festival as were many grown children.
Hazel, held here by her dadddy, had a ball with both of her grandmothers, and several other family members on her daddy's side (plus the hundred of us).
Jonathan behaved as well...
We appeared normal today, even out in public.

Energy & Optimism

It is, no doubt, a glaringly vivid generational trait in which Grandma, Sarah and I are hard on ourselves, constantly driving ourselves to perform better for ourselves. My nearly 80 year old mother has put in six more blueberry bushes in the last year, hauled pine straw, wood chips and wood dirt from the woods surrounding her gardens, and coaxed an amazing poundage of produce from out second year in an extreme drought.

Why?

Because she can.

Just as I adopted 38 children rather than 8 or 28, it was because I do obviously relish a challenge.

Being bored would rock my world is such an unpleasant manner. I might have so much time on my hands that I might have married for a third or fourth time, and then driven him bonkers with my unbridled energy.

Sarah blogged about what she's done with hers. It hit me, reading her post, that she's just like Grandma and I, even though my mother and I claim we had later starts in life, in regards to our unbridled energy outputs.

I see it in Yolie also, as if it can be transmitted via love, Carolina possesses a good bit of this, as does Monica. Monica? My once labeled failure-to-thrive daughter who needed 12-15 hours of sleep each evening?

Yes, her too, because life stepped up to the plate and bopped her upside the head with a challenge after she married her husband, now she's also raising a step-daughter.

Jonathan cleared his troubled mind long enough yesterday to traipse after Grandma in the woods, listening to her tell him that wooddirt, one word in her lexicon, after decades and eons of being untouched by civilization, would provide her blueberries with nutrients, and so they hauled and hauled until Grandma was happy with the results.

The rest of my children sprang up into a mass of cooperation and we made trip after trip and corralled Yolie and Chuck's possessions, transporting them to the new house and absolutely trashing it up. Tools all over the front yard, boxes everywhere, my own five yard dogs running up to Yolie's house in alarm, no doubt wondering what the heck was going on. One of them jumped in front of Yolie's car, forcing her to slam on the brakes and tend to the dog's anxiety that must have been palpating as we took what seemed to be family stuff from Grandm'as basement up to this new abode.

I fell asleep late last night reading Rudy Giulani's Leadership book that I'd bought at a yard sale for less than a buck. My final thought was, besides supergirl energy, I do also have a gift for unflagging optimism, not unsagging apparently, as I've drooped lately, but in spite of Paloma's emotional meltdown last night over nothing when she sprang into unreasonable anger at Tabby over nothing, I need to choose to be happy and sunshiny today as autumn encroaches unpleasantly, my least favorite season because it brings the dread of winter.

Another Teenager In My Life

Allen, who turns 13 today, wanted 'cool clothes' since he's a teenager now, and he settled happily for UGA items, but, still being a boy, he wanted a nerf gun. Wearing his UGA apparel and running around shooting Bubbas with nerf bullets, yet another contradiction in terms, vividly illustrating our odd life.

At yard sales today, six kids huddling with me, deciding how many shirts they could get for 25 cents each, a man remarked, "You sure have your hands full."

I never bother to add that I have another 33 kids calling me mom. Who'd believe it anyway and I'm not out to get the sympathy price at garage sales. Tony'd found great deals and I found Sarah some very interesting old historical cookbooks, blowing maybe $2 on several great finds, another glass casserole dish for a quarter. Two pairs of expensive soccer socks, they run $10 each at Academy Sports, we paid a quarter for both pairs.

This is how I'm able to maintain a very large family. I know I could shop the sales at stores and do pretty well, but I have an inexplicable aversion to that, preferring dirt cheap as an alternative, running under the radar of consumerism, hopefully teaching my children to do the same, and remain ecologically on target at well.

Jonathan has done a complete turnaround, offering to help today. "Son, you gotta realize that this is like living with a cobra. I have to wonder each day if I'll be bitten or ignored."

He just stared, totally not comprehending anything, unable to understand even his own behaviors, much less to decipher his moods, foibles or shall we say...incidents?

I'm just a little ill-tempered about it all today, feeling irked that my house looks so bad, scrubbing the kitchen my ownself since no one helps without a meltdown. I just had to ask the Bubbas to leave the kitchen since Paloma was fixing to blow. "Ok, you win," I'd said sarcastically, with quite an edge to my voice, as she was trying her level best to pick a fight with everyone.

Then she was mad because everyone left the room.

OK.

Can't win for losing.

Counting the days?

Surviving.

Not thriving, but everyone's head is above water at least.

2711

This guy is so cool.

Sarah finally blogged again.

Eating Two Large Sub Sandwiches in a Four Hour Time Frame

Always a contradiction in terms, a tree-hugging conservative, the only vegetarian in my Sunday School Class, besides Sarah, a Bible-reading environmentalist, a not very well-dressed soccer mom who, last night, facing three games in windy, dropping temperatures, wore her long underwear under her jeans, who hung tight to what Daniel and Big Joe taught her long ago about not running on the field to check on an injured player. Repress the mama urge to help. They're big boys now.

However when blood is involved, the coaches look for me, not comprehending my intense nausea at the sight of blood, guts and mayhem, and last night somehow Nando managed to catch his tooth mid-air before he fell, busting open his lip, creating more blood flow than might have initially been warranted by a baby tooth mishap as a result of a head-on, full running gait collision between two seven year old boys in cleats.

I gagged.

Running to me with his prize catch, I immediately wondered if my previously eaten foot long veggie sub would spring forth, in alarm I remembered Emily bringing me a second sub that afternoon, as I've been chowing down tons of food in retaliation for my stress lead.

Fortunately both subs sunk, I ran Nando to the bathroom to clean out his mouth, and he returned to his game.

Emily'd met me over at Yolie's and listened to me vent, offering up her usual dead-on suggestions based on her decades long career in adoption, but more importantly, her baptisms-by-fire experiences of raising a large adoptive family as a single mom. She has six kids, five of which would challenge Pat Boone to cuss.

I'd been to town, drug home tons of Starbucks coffee grounds for my gardens before Meg's rain from Texas arrived here late last night, putting a goofy grin on my face, but the icing on the cake arrived when Jonathan got off his crazy bird perch and flew to school this morning.

I'll spend this morning with Ray and Hazel while Sarah has an appointment, we'll hopefully move Yolie's family into her new gorgeous house this weekend, and soccer tournaments start. For my U12 and, especially U14 teams, I do not sit down, but pace the sidelines yelling encouragement. A good thing too as the team last night resorted to bullying against my kids, knowing that was the only way to unnerve their very focused soccer efforts. I stood shocked when my very even-tempered CW banged into someone obviously on a retaliatory mission. "Cool off Dubs," I'd warned with an unmistakable tone in my voice.

He'd been slammed and tripped hard, intentionally into the ground twice already, and the entire van ride home was devoted to good sportmanship conversations that my hero, Bobby Cox, rarely demonstrated, now becoming close to the coach most often kicked out of a game for arguing, not necessarily a role model.

Wrong sport Dubs, listen to what I'm saying.

Their particular hero, Daniel, then called me about a financial decision, just wanting another opinion, telling me he was also gonna check with Yolie, but allowing me a good example yet again to teach the Bubbas. In wisdom there is counsel...something I've always depended on Emily (or my pastors or Yolie and Sarah) to help me with in this astonishingly blind and treacherous route of adoption.

I have so much in my head to blog and so little time, I'm hoping to get more written during our only off season (Nov-Jan) of no soccer, swimming or gardening. Well I still garden, but only at about 10%.

I don't think I even wrote about my hissy fit at the Mexican trailer park last week when I carried on to Vanessa and Fabian about their slugishness, yelling outside, aggravated at their inability to get it together. "Y'all wanna be grown-ups. Get a dern job," I yammered on and on, looking over my shoulder, wondering why we couldn't have picked a safer meeting spot, but hey this is the name of our game apparently.

Asked in a comment, do I regret my adoptions? No. I regret the evidence, appearance or the mere existence of mental illnesses, and I shudder to think of their futures if they can't be reached at some point.

Paloma had a runaway meltdown fit at the soccer park last night. I stood at the last game of the night, wondering if I'd need a deputy, later snarling at my friend Robin in exasperation over Paloma's stark inability to function at all. Surprisingly Paloma did an about face and wanted to snuggle, to cling to me at the game, and being the forgiving sort, I did so. Of course, Jonathan - Mr. Won't Go to School - wanted to cling also and I was a bit less forgiving, "Boy, I didn't miss you, you've been in my armpit for days."

He went to school today.

I'm re-venting the dryer to have less of a fire hazard, cleaning up all I didn't get done yesterday due to errands, guzzling my turbo coffee, and thanking God for my energy. My mother once bragged that in her 60s, she worked circles around women in their 20s. I'm not a fast runner, nor have I ever demonstrated any ability to play a sport decently, yet I can bust my butt from sunup to sundown and still feel too energized to calm down and sleep at night - a Gift from God that I deeply appreciate.

My mom, now 78, still super active, is an inspiration to me.

2712

Day Five of a refusal to go to school. "Make him go!" I'm told by others.

How?

How does one drag a kicking, screaming, raging kid who's hitting and lashing out...get him dressed and out the door without being injured?

It is not physically possible. Yes, I can take away all privileges, but that doesn't get him to school as it simply doesn't matter to him.

This is what mental illness is. There is no logic.

Asked, in a comment, about my assumption regarding mental illnesses before I adopted?

I had none.

It didn't even dawn on me that this would be a possibility.

I could call the police, press 'unruly child' charges, but I would still have a mentally ill kid with no services other than Medicaid paid-for therapy and medications that aren't touching this at all.

Like a lion, seeking to devour or to destroy, this child is walking around my house mumbling and refusing to comply with any directives at all.

My laptop thief, now homeless, gave all the kids a good talking to after church last night in the parking lot. A big ole, "I wish I could have a do-over. I wish I could rewind the years and make better choices because Mom was right. This is what happens when one lies and steals."

Silence as all eyes stared at him. I hugged him good-bye, "I'm still your mom. Make good choices."

He went off into the night. He's a grown man who has lost many jobs, alienated a ton of folks, and is having to start over with nothing.

It's on him now, not me. No one could ever accuse me of not teaching my children about life. If anything, I've concentrated more on life skills than academics.

Jonathan won't even have that ability. A mid to low I.Q., and a staggering lack of logic, combined with severe oppositionalism and likely, many more-to-come mental diagnoses.

I'm limply, weariedly, resignedly so very sad that adoptive, or birth, parents receive no help, and that we are expected to manage these behaviors and keep everyone safe.

I'm simply very sad and very resigned, yet still praying for a miracle.

I'm up to my neck in getting stuff done and I'll answer emails and comments as soon as I can. I really appreciate the many ways y'all have reached out to me. Thank you so much, it means the world to me.

Getting a Grip Yet Again...

As usual, prayers calmed my very shot-to-heck nerves and I bumbled through my day, eventually tossing Houdini the Hen and Rocco the Rooster into the ugly greenhouse because I'm tired of Houdini scratching up the gardens.

I weeded until I felt better, Joanthan gave me a meaningless apology and a pinkie promise to go to school tomorrow that I have a hard time getting excited about, and I picked 100 jalapenos, 25 purple bells along with a dozen sweet banana peppers that I chopped and ate ALL 37 of them, but the jalapenos, for lunch with fresh tomatoes later belching with delight all afternoon.

My eggplants are still blooming but likely a frost will come first, however I hope not, this has been a good year for eggplants.

We Are All Struggling

Parents who are struggling...I hope and pray that you go back, when you have time, and read the comments left on my blog, particularly Beth's heartbreaking one today.

I feel your prayers and I pray for you all as well.

This is such a long, hard, tough and arduous journey....

Ouch, I Hear Ya God

And there's NOTHING like a good butt-kicking Joyce Meyer podcast to make me think....

Yes, that's what they've done to me.

I come to you all each morning with full confidence that you understand. How I found such a like-minded group of readers, I don't know. I only know that I'm grateful, sad that you're in the same boat certainly, but the knowledge that you truly understand is obviously comforting to me.

I could write an entire post using your comments and then vomit out my own despairing frustration over our events.

I did first go to God this morning, indeed I woke up twice last night at 2:30 and 3:40 when God had me pray specifically for my dear friend, Cindy A, in North Carolina. I don't even know how to pray for us right now. I kinda just sit there in God's presence crying.

There's just no cure for crazy and I apologize for the abject political inappropriateness of such a statement, but living with it for so many years has affected me greatly, wrinkling my face, bagging my eyes, and shattering my nerves.

I've prayed for my inner strength, but crying for 20 minutes in front of my children this morning was uncalled for. I just couldn't contain my grief, my stark fears involved over living with crazy behaviors, and my despair for the next 2713 days until I'll be legally free...but that does not then mean I'll either be safe or undamaged.

I'm just too paralyzed by decades of frustration to even allow myself to believe that there's any more help available for seriously disturbed children. I've called in the chips, cried to head honchos, played every card, called everyone possible, leaned on friends, begged for prayer, sat through counseling sessions, and stood sobbing before God so many times before.

The seriously mentally ill kids that I've adopted, now grown, are no more capable of facing the world than they were when they first entered it at birth, other than now they can physically fight...which will just get them locked up. So all my parenting, my sacrifices, all that therapy, programs, resources and counseling...for what?

Theresa, you provide me the same odd comfort that you've told me you receive from reading my posts. Sharon's today about no ambition, Bart's in regards to Mike, phone calls from Paula, emails from Merilee or Cindy A, Lisa's comments and so many, many more.

We're in the same invisible jail cell of family mental illness that holds everyone hostage and prevents any sort of normal existence and theres' got to be an answer SOMEWHERE.

Paloma's nasty hygiene, yes a contradiction in terms, but she's choosing greasy, matted hair on purpose. Yes, I know that repels others, her aim, but it also makes our family look trashy. If I push the issues each morning, she'll rage and stay home, or break a window, run away, or tell lies about us...holding me paralyzed by fear that she'll spark a CPS investigation - BTDT - where I'm treated like a criminal, like a suspect, there must be something wrong with me for wanting to help children, while a crazy child would furiously yell that I hit them (which I don't) but they lie convincingly, and i stand there shocked, alarmed, shaking and defenseless, frightened out of my wits of false accusations, because my world has been so turned upside down where it appears that the crazies win and the innocent suffer.

Yes, that's what they've done to me.

An extremely educated Preacher's kid, a B.S. in Elementary Education (right after an Associates Degree I'd earned while married, pregnant and nursing a baby), an Master's Degree from a prestigious university (Emory) and a Specialist Degree in Instructional Technology from UGA. Twenty five years in the public school system and church-going, yet I'm constantly treated like an utter idiot who hasn't yet learned how to use a sticker chart for good behavior.

I always seem to be on trial.

Everything is my fault.

There's no help.

Our youth pastor called me after a church staff meeting and they offered, "to split the kids up among six or seven families for the weekend to give me a break."

On paper, a great idea, and the fact that anyone even cared about me made me cry later when I thought about it.

However the words 'split up the kids' isn't a good idea. They'd wet people's beds, smear feces (as they'd immediately revert to foster care behavior), punch in walls, break windows and other important possessions, rage, runaway, be defiant and ugly and/or any other possible way they could think of to make me pay for the desertion. They'd ruin my relationships with the volunteer families.

Plus, do you think I could relax knowing all that?

Heck, if they do this when I'm here, make me behave a certain way in order to avoid destruction...then how much more so in revenge?

And, basically it is just Jonathan and Paloma. I don't WANT to leave the other children. I want to give them a normal, loving family life experience.

I feel terrible that they saw me cry this morning. That's not a good way to send children out the door to school. Jonathan doesn't care, he's refusing for the fourth day to go to school.

I could try and force him, but I would be injured. I could call officials, but then he'd lie about me in his immediate self-defense, put-the-blame-on-Mom-mode.

When I called the police, visibly injured by Pepe that time, I was treated rudely and he received sympathy. Like a maze rat, I now cringe, shudder, and retreat from goodness, or help, or an outstretched arm that might hit me.

I am flat out paralyzed into inaction, having faced this type of insanity too many times to even think there'd be a good outcome.

Yesterday I brushed Paloma's hair, worked on the matted stinking mess, and washed it for her over the sink. She let me do so.

She'll make me pay sooner or later for her letting down her defenses and allowing that "closeness." I should know better by now.

Guess what?

Crazy wins.

I lose.

This is what my experiences have taught me.

2,714 More Days

Over the past two years, from when Pepe attacked me, but even before that when he'd come after me but was detained by others, as he spewed threats to my younger daughters, he was 10-13d to a mental hospital. At one point leaving me fighting about a ten thousand dollar hospital bill that was eventually either covered by medicaid or eaten, now a $4000 bill has been sent to a collection agency while I kept calling the hospital asking to speak to a billing supervisor who was always 'in a meeting.'

I just called the director of the facility which had also 10-13d Pepe. A long conversation ensued with her. She gets it, but is powerless to help.

Here'a stark, painful truth - there's no help for mental illness.

Funds are cut, budgets slashed, astronomical bills sent to beleaguered parents who've reached their limits. Families are unsafe as are other innocent people. Listen to your local news. Do those criminals sound normal to you?

I just did the math as I also figured at $10 a month, how long it'd take me to pay off this mental hospital bed, where they demanded he be released even though two therapists heard him say, "I'll kill my mom if she tries to make me do anything I don't want to do."

Fortunately, they, at least, documented his words.

Here's the ugly math: in 2,714 days Jonathan will be 18 years old. Until then, I see little relief in sight although I'm deep in prayer for a miracle.

Inflictions and Too Many Stressed Out Italics

I'm so terribly stressed out this morning that I hesitated to blog, even knowing how therapeutic I do find blogging to be for my own sanity, as I lay out the facts and internally consider the issues.

A social worker, and fellow adoptive mom of a large family, is allowing me to quote her, "Texas has no obligation to take kids back..you would be stuck disrupting through your local CPS and they would just place the kids in your community to torture you even more. (been there!)
I have kids just like yours...their psychiatrist keeps me sane! I couldn't do this without some of them being on meds and that only takes the edge off things....
Other than the grandsons I adopted (7 & 5) my youngest is 16 in two weeks...the older they get the more encouraged I am....yes, many have gone to jail, lived on the streets, etc...but as they are getting towards mid-twenties they seem to be connecting with decent girlfriends/boyfriends and settling down and reconnecting with me.
My now 19 year old that was ripping me off and running the streets is back home, second quarter of fireman's certification, and volunteering at our local fire department. It feeds his need for high drama without being the cause of it!
For years I counted the days until one or another could legally leave...my lawyer gave me a three day eviction letter to serve ...seems they always find people to take them in. Just count the days, girlfriend..."

Folks venturing into adoption, stumbling upon my blog must be wondering if it really gets this awful?

Yes, it does. It'll wrench your heart from your chest, your brain will be painfully ripped from its moorings, and your body will ridiculously twitch in automatic response to stimuli such as raised voices, a phone ringing, a different tone of voice in someone, or maybe at the sound of a siren.

Three phone calls yesterday from a newly homeless son of mine that I'd never allow to return home to live, as he's robbed me blind over the years, which is quite a feat as I have very little worth stealing. But what little I had? Gone in a flash.

I'd see it in his possession and he'd deny it was mine. Yeah, right. I had one Craftsman (bright yellow) spading fork. Can't find it. I'd see it in his vehicle and he'd scream at me that he bought it at Lowes which doesn't carry Craftsman and where's mine?

By 11 last night I'd had enough. "Look you are in an excellent place that will give you therapy and job skills, take advantage of that," as he begged to live with various other family members, while I reminded him that he'd hideously stolen from them all as well.

Will I ever be set free?

From Lisa, another mom in my comments, "My weariness is apparent for all to see and hear at this point, I sobbed in the psychiatrist's office and instead of seeing how serious the issue was for me to lose it like that, he suggested we get a second opinion because he doesn't know what else to do for my son."

He doesn't know what else to do.

I get it.

No one knows what to do with mental illnesses, other than medicate, and medications might soothe some behaviors, but can't completely erase them, or even hardly eliminate them.

I've had mental hospitals say the same thing about different children...several mental hospitals and several different children as a matter of fact.

Jonathan refused to budge yet again for school this morning. Why should it matter anyway as he won't do anything the teachers tell him to do. Even if I were fortunate enough to access our alternative educational system...he still has the ability to refuse to go.

Just as this obstinate woman chose jail over $7.45, so too would my children, and nothing about that choice would bother them. There's no carrot on a stick that works, None, nor nothing.

I'm looked at askance as if maybe if I parented differently, the child would behave.

Yeah buddy, that's it. I know sarcasm is unbecoming, yet it seems to now be all I have.

Count the days? Crud, I have over 2,000 more of Jonathan's inability to act decently. It is an inability...a disability and likely will be lifelong.

As I explained to my homeless one, "I cannot have grown men with police records living here. It is a safety issue for my family."

"These were misdemeanors," he protested.

What would that say about my judgement if I so allowed it? How much of an enabler would I then be? Oh, those mean old police are picking on you? I don't think so.

This man needs to stop stealing, stop lying and cheating folks, get a job and not get fired, pay his bills, and maintain some semblance of normal behavior and, all of that, will not be in my home. I tried and tried for YEARS to teach him all the simple things I just listed.

"Mom, if you died would I go into foster care?" I was asked last night by a seriously miebehaving pre-teen.

Ya think? "You best help me stay healthy," I told him dryly. Like I'd inflict this upon another family member?

So, if I'm merely serving my time, caring for and tending to children who hatefully rage, at least I'm getting to garden and to live on our family land in which several wonderful grandchildren also reside. I get to go to church (sometimes) and watch baseball on TV, or take long walks and eat when I want (sometimes) and someday these children also, like my homeless one, will have to admit that I (and society) might actually have a point about the benefits of straight living.

Ya think?

The Waiting Room

My three youngest sons, only one with any behavior issues. Scotty is diagnosed with conduct disorder but, to me, that's not a problem. I see such potential in him and I've seen a great deal of improvement over nearly the four years he's been with us. Along with Tabby, in just five or so more years, they'll be my only four kids left at home and my dream is then a Toyota or Honda van...retire the bus and the 15 passenger monster van that I've driven for so long.

I sat with a delightful family yesterday at Sabrina's Cheerleading Party. My own posts on Normal Adults running through my mind, I spend so much time, all of my time, with my family that I'm often ill at ease in public. I'm either internally fretting over my children, or trying to manage their behaviors, and thus unable to think about anything else.

The most difficult challenge here is not the number of children, it's not the back-breaking work either...what sends me over the edge is having to manage mental illnesses or severe emotional disabilities. I'm not certain that 'normal adoptive parents' should have to do so, but I'm also painfully aware of how few options we generally have at our disposal. Like ZERO.

I could go to court and force Texas to take back three children from a sibling group of five? I'd even, at one point, called several attorneys about this plan. I don't think it'd be what I should do, although it's a fantasy of mine. Out-of-home placements are now increasingly rare, due to lack of funding and all the financial cutbacks, and I've even had kids dismissed from mental health placements for being so disturbed.

I'd always stand in shock, wondering how they expected me to manage when they couldn't with a large staff 24-7, and the ability to use straitjackets and shots to calm a raging child.

My own family's safety should be everyone's priority, but it's not. It's not even on the radar and that utterly frustrates me to pieces.

Theresa's post this weekend on Paranoia has set me to thinking as I struggle to face the next six or seven years with Jonathan, Paloma and Pepe. I'm literally on my knees before God begging Him for help, solutions, possibilities and guidance. So far I feel empty and distressed.

No amount of reasoning works, their brains are seriously mis-wired, and I'm very alarmed.,

Jonathan again refused to go to school. Conversely Paloma went without incident, other than refusing to brush her hair, using her terrible hygiene as today's control issue.

No amount of if this, then that, behavior stickers, positive reinforcement, love and logic, natural consequences...blah blah blah...nothing touches true mental illness.

I am at a loss as to what to do.

They're both failing everything and this is only fifth grade. Paloma'd already failed first grade back then. Do I pull them out and homeschool them? Would I then lose any semblance of my own sanity or is that just what they need?

I don't know.

Do I send them to school and let them bomb in the futile hope that their documented misbehaviors would qualify them for services that seem to be totally unavailable?

I really am stumbling through this.

It feels so hopeless. After spending years with children with mental illnesses to now see them as adults in jail or homeless because they simply cannot function is so dadgum frustrating. I'm way more unhappy about it than they are. Joey's happy as a clam in our county jail, three hots and a cot, and other folks just like him who have no ambition, no morals, nothing, but the simple joy they find in sitting around and talking trash with others just like them. So much easier than a job.

I see these three children of mine wanting the same outcome, while I bust my butt trying to help them, to give them the help that they don't even want in the first place.

They simply refuse to do anything. Certainly no chores and no amount of losing their privileges matters to them. They rip the sheets off their beds, wet on themselves, tear up everything, creating complete and utter destruction, don't do any homework, lose everything, hit other people, steal and lie, refuse to comply with anything at all, and they work very hard to make everyone else miserable.

Yes, this is all a good argument for an adoption disruption. But six years into an adoption, after me proving I've tried absolutely everything, it's just not that simple, or maybe even just not an option.

So what then?

I simply don't know.

I do believe in miracles, I do believe that I'm doing what God would have me to do. I believe He'll make a way where there seems to be no way, that He'll lead me the right way, and certainly that I'm guided.

I just must be in the Waiting Room for a spell here.

A Normal Adult

Two birth sibs, walking ahead to the creek with Ms. Carr the other day, who'd once been separated in foster care, reunited, and sent to the same emergency center twice because the foster home imploded, eventually being moved from Texas to Georgia, landing here with their other two siblings, wide-eyed and grief-stricken from the shocks they'd endured.

Now, four years later, happily ensconced in the best school system I've ever seen, sheltered and cared for, they're blooming. I still see traces of high anxiety in both of them fairly often, as if they dared to believe that this would last...poof...it'd then be gone. Unwilling or unable to trust, who knows?

What little I do know involves the amount of time it will require before my children will ever begin to trust me. I'm just another smiling face in a long line of well-intentioned adults who've stepped up to care for them.

Immediately becoming a 'daughter' or a 'cousin' to folks one doesn't know, doesn't necessarily add up to family connections in their super traumatized minds.

I've had to be the one to adjust my expectations to the stark fact that it takes years and years and years to heal. I've watched my grown-up children retreat back into their childhood armors at times when faced with adult stressors and changes.

Grown kids who've come back into the house after moving out, wondering if their relationship with me was over, relief washing over their faces, as I hug them and continue where we left off. They have no role models, nor experience in their minds, as to how to comprehend extended family relationships after that 'aging out' date they'd always heard about and subconsciously dreaded.

Even watching me with other children who've successfully moved out doesn't always, I mean ever, translate to them as an example.

My friend, Barbara, who left this morning for the rest of her vacation, remarked several times on how much I've changed over the last three years which have undeniably been the hardest years ever in my adoption process. Having known me since I was 14 years old, she's very qualified to remark on my personality.

My optimism has certainly taken a hit, my faith in the system is severely damaged, my own ability to trust folks is shaken, and my inner twitching is evident. I'm nearly paranoid, close to agoraphobic and retreating inward more and more each day, unsure and uncertain about who I could ever trust - glad my gate locks, filling me with a false sense of security as the demons seem to be within our household.

Barbara knows that which I've endured, telling me her own 60 hour stress-filled workweeks look pleasant in comparison to my existence. And get this, my children were surprisingly well-behaved during her visit, but it's not looking likely that I'll get to church this morning, as they've woken up ill-tempered with half of them itching for a fight with someone.

As if they feel it necessary to make me pay since I so obviously enjoyed my nice, but too short, visit from a normal adult.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Well we made it to Sunday School, but we were late and Chuy refused to go in the church as he called me 'ugly and hateful.' In the Sanctuary JoJo and Allen literally fist-fought with each other, so I sent everyone to the van and we left, ten minutes into the services, coming home to severe acting-out behaviors, two pantry lectures, computer restrictions, and me with a drawn, gaunt face - watching the wrinkles grow and wondering about a muletitude of The Big Whys of Life.

A Few Minutes...

Paloma was questioning me this morning about my friend Barbara, who was still asleep at the moment. "Where did you meet her?"

"In P.E. class."

"Well, when was that?' she persisted.

I thought for a minute, "Umm, early fall in 1968."

The Bubbas stopped what they were doing to stare. "You were alive back in 1968?"

"Do the math, guys, Sarah was born in 1973."

As a group, they behaved and let just Barbara and I run out to a couple of yard sales this morning where she scored, buying the kids a soccer Foosball table and I got some excellent hardback biographies and leadership books that boost my spirits when I'm stressed by the demands of my family.

We're fixing to walk down the road to look at Yolie's new house while Chuck and Preston paint the exterior.

Somehow Paula and I managed to get in some phone time late last night (Georgia time) with more than 60 children between us, until Chuy and Martin's pillow fight escalated into a brawl and I had to say 'bye-bye' and tend to it...

Self-Sabotaging Behaviors

This probably annoys me even more than the wanton destruction. Why does one self-sabotage? Why blatantly trip yourself up? Why put up your own obstacles to success?

Failure is comfortable.

Losing is what one knows and, all too often, recreating this familiar sense is comforting.

It goes against everything I know.

Jonathan has completed the first nine weeks of school with perfect attendance. Getting him up is a battle each and every morning, as that's one of his control issues. Knowing that I have company this weekend, especially someone I'm looking forward to seeing, gives him ammunition to use against me.

He wanted to fight with Scotty over a shirt which wasn't the issue at all, so he stomped to his room, slammed the door, banged on the wall, and then completely shut down. Honestly, a look of abject stubbornness falls over his face, it slams shut, and a rage visibly creeps over his countenance. Then comes the destruction.

I got the kids to school, blessed to have Carolina, Grandma, Pa and Monica available to babysit a ten year old rager who, I knew, would save it for me.

I returned home only to hear him say, "I'm leaving!" Translation: Please stop me.

Usually I ignore these attempts, knowing he'll eventually calm down, but this time, after 20 years of constant assaults on my soul, knowing if I physically tried to stop him, he'd injure me. He's big enough to do so and unless you've personally tried to restrain a severely emotionally disturbed child, you've not encountered such unbelievable strength.

I burst into tears of frustration. I just started mopping the kitchen floor and sobbing. The physical activity calmed me.

Jonathan self-soothed by petting the dogs.

Conversely, Paloma pranced off to school without incident.

I'm still too irked at the moment to write much.

The Sadness Involved

I think everyone should read Bart's post today.

I could substitute Big Mama and Joey because, word for word, the conversation is eerily identical, the parental feelings are sadly the same.

This is NOT what we once-hopeful, stunningly middle class and incredibly naive adoptive parents ever considered when we began our journey into helping children, but this all too often happens and I have no solutions or answers, just dismay and sadness.

That's What She Wants

Not that my fellow adoptive or foster moms have any free time, this I know, but if you ever have time to go back and read some of the heartfelt comments left by folks like us, you'd be rewarded through their candor.

Maia had questioned me about RTC services wondering how I'd been able to access several over the years since funding seems to be nil, knowing I couldn't pay out of pocket, not knowing that my Blue Cross is even less helpful than Medicaid. Sadly, because my children have broken several laws, DJJ has stepped in often to help. Fortunately we have an awesome DJJ officer here in our county. That's how Fabian received the best, which was OTP, and because they, I and our local mental health knew that Teresa was so intelligent, we didn't necessarily want her locked up so this therapeutic home setting, through mental health, was then our best option.

CPS has never helped as they have nothing to offer, post-adoption services in Texas can't help either as I've called them before in desperation only to be offered parenting workshops. Gee, thanks.

It is even less likely anymore that I'd be able to find any outside help with all the budget cuts which made me wallow in despair yesterday when Paloma hit my grandson, Mauri, in a rage. He'd done nothing. His mere existence irritated her just as she's also lashed out here over the years at whoever she chose for her target of the day. Happy normal people annoy her.

I truly do not know what I'll be able to do with her. She apologized to me in the morning for her school refusal, had a decent three hours or so, then went plummeting down hill for the rest of the day into the evening. Hateful, raging and ugly to everyone as they avoided her much as one would shun a visible plague.

Lisa's comment "Crazy making behavior I must say. The need for control is so extreme it is pathological and it's almost an OCD behavior if you think about it," ran through my head all day as I tried to think about it while managing the crazy behaviors. It made me crazy literally.

In just five years, Paloma will be facing her 17th birthday. In six years she'll be tearing up the streets if she doesn't soon get a grip on sanity. Worst case scenario is her living here like this, I cannot imagine her going downhill from here. Getting worse? Oh my goodness.

The kids have two days of early release from school and that change in their schedule bonkered everyone out this morning. Even Nando'd burst into tears over nothing, Jonathan wouldn't take his book bag, and I thought my head would explode from the group oppositional meltdowns.

The thought of just three peaceful hours this morning didn't help. Tabby is home sick with a fever, but I am looking forward to my oldest best friend, Barbara, coming from Louisiana for a visit tomorrow. We've maintained a friendship for 40 years now which blows us both away.

I'd found Monica's Lifebook the other day in a drawer, made 20 years ago, I dumbly thought Monica would want to see it. What was I thinking? Yolie diplomatically told me, "Mama, doncha think you might should have run that past me?" as she's the emotional translator here for adoption issues, she's earned her Queenful status certainly, proving herself right when Monica came over in tears later. Nearly 25 years old and the past still hurts. My ignorant and still naive thinking was based on the fact that now that Monica has two daughters, maybe she and they would like to see toddler pictures of their mother? Yeah, I got that part right as Kortney enjoyed it, but Monica didn't.

Then I get a phone call, "Well I just thought as his mother you'd let me know if he had a history of lying?" from a girlfriend I hardly know of one of my sons.

"I think you need to discuss this with your parent," I stressed, trying to get off the phone. "This is none of my business."

Nope, don't drag me into this.

"Well I've been in abusive relationships before," this 20-something year old tried to tell me, as if that'd earn her brownie points? My thought was WHY would one have been in abusive relationships with the emphasis on plural.

I got off the phone as fast as was possible, only to have it ring immediately and be the one I didn't want to talk about. Being his mother I did admonish him for the thousandth time about untruths.

Miriam came by later to fill me in on stuff I didn't really want to know. She's still doing well, but her concern for some birth sibs, who insist on learning everything the hard way, was evident.

Then Paloma refused to go to bed, wanting to have yet another reason to rage as everyone else went to bed peacefully. She knew that I wanted to be alone there at 9:30 at night, thinking I'd earned the right to have a few minutes of peace and quiet and it was her extremely rude mission to destroy that which I might have enjoyed.

I finished cleaning up the kitchen thinking 'I can do anything for six more years. I can do anything for six more years. I can do anything for six more years. I can do anything for six more years' over and over and over again in my head until my own blood pressure went down, Paloma realized I was refusing to engage in a battle, so she took the three-footed dog with her and stomped off to bed, leaving me too emotionally drained to even think.

The phone rang yet again, sending me into paroxysms of twitching, my caller ID usually on the fritz like most everything else around here. Fortunately it was Sarah, so I vented, and sat down to read her most recent post which I thoroughly enjoyed. Calm enough then to go to bed and read myself to sleep, knowing the next day and the next day and the next day I'll still be living with someone who resents my existence and my ability to not lash out at her when that's what she wants.

The Price of a Hug

This cutie, hugs and kisses me, clings and cuddles, laughs and cuts-up. Edgar's baby brother to the core, no doubt asbout it. Chuy dogged him about cuddling with mama at that age...in very sharp contrast to Paloma.

"Edgar does and he's 21 years old! I'm only eleven," JoJo indignantly defended his actions.

I'd even told her, when she flung herself into my arms last night, that I knew she'd make me pay for this privilege of a hug. Yes, I know that I made a negative comment but, in my own defense, I was simply trying to point out, predict, or explain her behaviors to her in an attempt to help her see them as others do...the first step, maybe, in changing them?

She'd stayed fairly close to me all evening, riding when I took the U14 team to practice, up to Yolie's house to ooh and aah at Chuck's genius in this house design, and later as I scurried around doing chores.

This morning (and I should have seen it coming) she appeared in the kitchen wearing her lacy undershirt on the outside of her shirt, kind of like Madonna in the 1980s.

"Nope, go change," I immediately responded, setting off the match that lit the tinderbox and ignited her fury, which it immediately did, as it'd been simmering within her all morning over nothing.

Screaming down the hall, "I'm NOT going to school if you won't let me wear what I want."

Nope, honey, no 11 year old is going to run this household. I just stared at her.

Deeply wishing I'd scream at her, so she could then feel justified in going over the top, I didn't respond at all, even though all heads swiveled cartoonishly in my direction. Her next feeble attempt was an argument that held no water, knowing I could easily rebut it, and therefore feed into her deep need for a negative control battle.

Don't you think I've been here before child? I thought, but didn't say, as I continued to unload the dishwasher, write the checks for the school pictures, pour cereal, and brush Tabby's hair.

Everyone ignored her, weary of the idiotic struggles, thinking about their own school day, and going out the door.

I checked on her at load-up time, still defiantly sitting on her bed with Amelia the three-footed dog in her lap, scowling at me, still wearing a clownishly comical outfit that she knew would provoke a big fat NO, seemingly getting her way about no school today.

And, on the surface, she has won. She's not going to school, and I have no answers for that other than the school is very aware of her control battles and severe oppositional defiant disorder. If I'd have caved and allowed her to go to school dressed inappropriately, she'd then have gone on and picked a fight with someone as her free ticket home.

A severely defiant child will seemingly win, leaving me frustrated and perplexed, consoling myself that she still is getting better. She'd not hugged me in quite some time, using that as a control issue, last night she let her rigid defenses down, and she's gonna make me pay as I know her inner alarm bells are clanging in her head, drowning out reason and logic, leaving her own self baffled and dismayed, internally furious that she'd reached out to me.

Just because I can see this though doesn't mean I have an answer or a solution. I just get it and maybe, for now, that's enough.

Managing her behaviors is a full-time job and her adult future will be frightening, a series of jail cells, if she soon doesn't learn to get a grip. I don't know if she can. I really don't. Is this a precursor to a bi-polar diagnosis? I don't know. Will she get on top of her difficulties someday and be a success? That's my hope and, for now, I'll keep motherly working on her, trying to help her and trudge along with her through her behavior challenges which are way more than significant into the category of disturbed.

Right now, as a retiree, I do have the luxury of not having to get myself to work, to be able to rearrange my own plans for today, and to allow her to cool off, not confronting her, praying that she'll soon come out of her room with an "I'm sorry," as she knows that's all it takes to get back on track.

I even dared to believe last night before bed that she really might be able, someday, to overcome all this....

To Best Guide My Children

"You better put that on your blog," Mayra insisted. Not this gorgeous picture of The Fantastic Four grandbabies that have so blessed us all, but the fact that my children did not melt down over chores yesterday.

Big Mama was wrong and Mayra wants folks to know that.

"When I'm wrong, I'll say I'm wrong," a platitude I often spout, and nearly as often have to own up to publicly if necessary.

I was totally wrong in my post this one time. They all helped me without fussing. CW'd swept his room before I even hit 'publish post,' we all plowed through the unfolded mountain of clean laundry...right before I washed ten more loads, dishes were done, rooms clean, and no one acted out. No one at all. Granted Monica was supervising down one hall and Yolie ended up washing dishes too...so not their jobs, and I was very effusive in my compliments.

Paloma visibly blanched when I again pointed out how well she was doing. Admitting to me that she found praise to be 'uncomfortable,' that she knew herself better in her usual self-imposed whirl of negativity.

"But Paloma, I can't not acknowledge when you're doing well or all you'll ever know is behavior correction. That's not right," I tried to explain, realizing I was gonna have to tone down the praise, knowing she deeply, inwardly feels as if she doesn't deserve it.

My former caseworker, Emily, has helped me to slowly comprehend how worthless a child might feel on the inside after losing a parent. To the child, who always illogically blames herself, she then thinks she must be worthless, or the parent would not have abandoned them, when in reality said parent either didn't follow through on CPS directives, failed to keep a child safe, abused, neglected or chose drugs, alcohol and partying with zero regard for the child's well-being. There was usually no thought, by the parent, about the child at all - the parent usually also a generational victim of severe family dysfunction - was self-obsessed, self-medicating, and a self-perceived victim of everything.

It falls on me to teach self-worth to a child and Paloma's older brother, Chuy, a very intelligent child is lately misidentifying himself with the wrong crowd at the moment and is acting out rudely when he knows he's a smart kid...but on some level I can't quite reach with him, that too is alarming in his psyche.

He apologized last night for his ill-mannered behavior of the other day and I tried to explain to him what I think I see going on. Chuy does watch my relationship with Daniel carefully, he sees we are still very close emotionally, and I know he values that, maybe even believe it is possible for him to achieve as well.

Daniel is everything Chuy aspires to be someday, plus their backgrounds are achingly similar. On the downside, Chuy didn't have the benefit of a loving older birth sister (Yolie in Daniel's case) to nurture him when there was not an available parent. Why trust me?

Chuy is a complicated, intense, closely guarded, walled-off very tough nut to crack.

Please forgive me when I don't respond to comments. My excuse? A lame one, but true. I read the emails and comments periodically through the day and then walk off thinking about each one, formulating a response in my head, and then I'm seemingly done with it. No kidding. My head is so full of stuff that I sometimes can't remember what I said versus what I thought. All day today I'll be thinking about Anne's comment over grocery costs that seem astronomical to our reality, or Lisa's response to chores. I ponder what people have told me and I think, think, think about what best to do each and every day in order to best guide my children through life.

Peace?

Another day of Fall Break in which I slept past seven in the morning, as if in my advanced age now it takes bones longer to recover from hard physical work? Who knows? But with significantly less children at home, from an all-time high once of 26, I'm spending much more time now on painting and repairing, decluttering and not saving clothes 'for new kids' as there'll be none, and way more time making some big changes. I'm liking it too.

The kids all wanted computer time this morning, but I demanded all bedrooms be cleaned up, as there's really been little to no help in the housecleaning department around here since requested chores can trigger rages and meltdowns, I'd just bitterly resigned my self to doing most of the work.

In The Unclutterer or some other blog, I'd read about keeping some totally bare, clean surfaces to improve one's peace of mind and now, after enforcing this exercise for months, our huge coffee table, a long kitchen counter, and the dining room table have learned to breathe beautifully free while I've ruthlessly shredded papers, tossed stuff, and weeded out the detritus to better streamline my own twitchy, nerve-wracked existence.

All we really need is food right? That's the aim of my life - to produce more - and although I steamed a huge mess of collards last night, I prefer raw veggies any day of the week.

If I didn't have a thousand houseplants, I wouldn't spend hours watering them...but I'd miss them so. Hundreds of books line our shelves, all bought at yard sales or book drives, rarely, if ever, at full price, yet I find them comforting and don't mind dusting those friends of mine at all. I'm all about peace of mind, a balm to my severely jangled nerves and some peace in my life.

My laundry room is calling me to come wash a mountain of dirty clothes, I'd rather disappear into the garden, but the issues here are rearing their heads, of course. Mama wants cooperation? She wants us to help out? Well, heck no, I'll hit someone, force Mama to tend to it, then I can rage and get out of doing any work - a prevailing thought, a pattern I see over and over and over again, powerless to break it. I end up resentfully doing absolutely everything, an ill mood settling over my shoulders like a nasty cape, while they sit angrily and simmer with thoughts of their pasts that they seem not be working through in therapy, and hellbent on making me pay for everything that was ever done to them in their past.

I suppose I then play into the process because when I am angry and put-upon, I bury myself in hard, back-breaking physical work so that I can expend my own negative energy into something positive, knowing the only way anything will ever get done without someone breaking a window in their anger, will be to do it myself, like I always do, while thinking about cooking supper, and getting everyone to soccer where I will cheer them one positively, even though they act so terrible so often that it wears me down.

I won't scream and holler, because then I'd feed into their issues, give them a reason to rage, when they sure never need one. I got my aggravation out here, in my writings, now I'll go start picking up everything they've flung, which is a considerable amount, I'll put away the laundry that I washed for them, and I'll clean the kitchen they trashed this morning getting cereal, and not washing their bowls...and I'll do it again tomorrow and forever, because if I forced the issues, honestly I'd have to call the law to protect myself, and then the very challenged ones would make false accusations such as 'she treats us like slaves' to get the spotlight off their own issues, make me look bad, shift the focus, create a smokescreen, and transfer the blame, rather than take any responsibility for their own actions.

So yes it does seem as if I'm perpetuating it when I just do it myself to avoid a scene. But I've been on the receiving end of the violence and the horrible anger, the irrational urge to hurt someone, and I now know there's no help out there for me anywhere. I've tried and tried and all I get are stupid parenting tips that don't work with severely emotionally disturbed children where no logic or rationality can survive.

It is what it is.

So in just maybe six more years, some of my more troubled ones, who've had years and years of therapy, resources and programs, will hit the world still wanting to be the lazy, perpetual self-perceived, oppositional, demanding victim and then the law really will teach them a lesson that all my talking, loving, helping and providing for seemed not to make a whit of difference.

Then they'll take up with someone who feeds into their issues also and double the folks who resent me. What more can folks expect of me? How much more so do they feel they need to punish me for ever even trying to make a difference?

I'm their very easy target as I constantly forgive...But over the many, many years of this, I've emotionally shut down so much, I've quit chasing after the prodigals, preferring to wait them out and make myself less of a target. If you can't be nice to me, then please just stay away, and let me be. I think I'll make holidays and special events be an invitation only affair since folks forget to check their issues at the gate.

I crave peace...just simple, quiet peace....nothing material, no accolades, just peace.

Mothers & Daughters

I am so often asked, "How many children do you have now?" and I'm rarely sure as how to best answer, stumbling a little, I know folks are just being nice and polite, and likely don't know what on earth to ask me anyway. My reply is, "oh, the same."

For me it is never the numbers, it is always the issues and the challenges. They were in rare form today - group oppositional to the core. Daniel and Lauren came by this afternoon only to witness complete and total butt-headed oppositional behaviors. Daniel, usually patient, was clearly irked. Lauren pays such positive attention to the girls that they love for her to come visit.

I'd had my own personal hissy fit at Blockbusters. Oh brother, nearly every single movie was completely unacceptable. Are you kidding me? You ain't watching that trash. Finally we found a PG movie, Her Best Move, about soccer.

Upon arrival home, Chuy had a total meltdown, rude, disrespectful and hateful over nothing, but it'd been brewing in him for days. I sent him to his room.

All the kids came running in the house hollering, "Alex is here! Alex is here!"

And she was.

She's been living for five years in psychiatric settings, now on her own in Atlanta, nearly 19, she's been reaching out to me fairly often lately, and the man I refused to "meet" on the phone the other night brought her here from Atlanta. He was incredibly nice, a young Mexican-American guy that I really liked. Alex ran off with the kids while he and I leaned on his truck and talked. "M'am, we're just friends, she and I, that's absolutely all," he insisted, "I'm just trying to help her out," and he questioned me about a bunch of discrepancies between what he'd heard from her and what he found himself seeing.

Yeah, I know, welcome to my world.

She looked great. And just like my Teresa, daughters who'd pointedly rejected me, hated me and wanted nothing to do with me simply because I wasn't the birth mom...I'm finding out later that I must've been better than nothing as in everyone needs to have somewhere to call home, a place from which to have sprung or whatever. I know mother/daughter relationships are ripe for conflict anyway, ours are even more complicated and tangled as both girls have lately confided in me their real feelings and fears. Duh, y'all, I knew that, I'd been trying to get that across to you both for a long, long time.

Let's just let it boil down to, "I'm still here aren't I? Just like I promised."

Yet I have others who waited until their adult years to unleash their anger with me as the surprised target who didn't hardly see it coming. OK, what part about your past, before you met me, would you like me to try and fruitlessly fix for you?

Again, I'm still here, but I'll wait it out as I'm right tired of getting my head bit off.

Stop Trying To Impress Everyone: The Heck With Peer Pressure

He is nearly five years younger than her, yet CW continues to grow. He's starting to remind me of Jesse, tall and thin, quiet and adorable. Because he's been here since birth, I expect more out of him and I know it's sometimes hard for him to deal with the behaviors of others, yet I remain very proud of him, as he is a leader here even though he's one of the youngest Bubbas. There's something to be said for even-tempered and good-natured - such a breath of fresh air in a tangle of issues and challenges.

I'd recently told Teresa, "Quit trying so hard. You are beautiful anyway," as she'd been getting up and working for two hours on her appearance. Jeepers, just put on clean clothes and head out. Who needs all the other accoutrements?

By the time we leave this morning for church, I'll have been here at home for the past three days without moving a vehicle or leaving the property. That's Heaven to me. I've deeply dug down into one of my garden beds in The Big Back Garden that has had a tough infestation of bermuda grass. For two long days I've done nothing but dig, sift and pull, and now after nearly 17 years, the bed is virtually free of rhizomes. There are 20 large raised beds out there and finally the entire area of relatively free, even of the roots of bermuda grass. Big Joe, Jesse, Sonny, Edgar and Javy have all used their muscles over the years to turn the bed with shovels and spading forks so I can pull the nasty, clinging tentacles of roots.

Daniel and Chuy have used their mental engineering skills to build sheds or structures and re-route fences, oversee projects and boss folks around.

What with the complications of raising my 39 kids plus the fact that I've only been retired from the school system for six years, factor in all the sporting events and other activities, it's a wonder I have any free time to grow anything at all. Trent at the Simple Dollar, said it best, in this post, regarding time management choices and I so agree. Just as Sarah pours her heart, soul and time into cooking, so too do I run outside to use any spare minute that I have...and have done so since I was 18 years old and grew my first tomato.

My children so needed this downtime, this Fall Break, here at home. We've really run, run, run and dealt with our issues and challenges while careening along. I deeply believe in down time, in time home alone without society's distractions, or negative peer pressure.

JoJo asked me, "Mom, when you were young, did you have peer pressure?"

"Son, do I look like I caved?" I'd asked, dressed in the same t-shirt all week. "Do I look like I've dressed to impress?" Trent again hit the nail on the head here as he verbalized so well that nobody cares anyway, so stop trying to impress folks. Plus that's an expensive habit. Duh.

After church I have a few errands to run, I promised to go rent a decent movie for the kids, get Javy and CW a store-bought haircut, and drag home more groceries, but then I'm going to replant lettuce that's been so decimated by our drought. I think I also have lost one of my very large fig bushes that was the size of a tree.

Dr. Mandy stressed, "I see Paloma improving," which I certainly didn't see, due to her recent severe school difficulties, but Dr. Mandy reminded me of other behaviors, such as her targeted hatefulness here at home, that seems to be dissipating. She's had a very tough time lately getting along with her own four birth brothers, but I think they're finally fed up and are holding her to a higher standard, tired of being publicly embarrassed by her shenanigans. Yesterday Chuy and Jonathan, still intent upon clearing out the old chicken yard, refused to let her help, "She causes too much trouble," they protested when I intervened on her behalf.

I stepped back from the verbal fray and listened to them argue for a few minutes and to her promises to 'just help,' and eventually they allowed her to the other side of the fence, knowing she'd quickly lose interest, which she did. Crisis averted and she wandered off, not to aggravate anyone, but rather to cuddle the four house dogs who love her no matter what. I swear, they've been more effective than any medication.

Another sorta warm day, it's called a chilly day in the South when it's under 8o degrees, when one peels off shirts and hangs them on the fence, down to a t-shirt by noon and I truly reveled in such beautiful weather although I dread fall and the impending winter. When I finally came in for good last night, I had an email from my friend, Merilee, who was facing this - more snow than I'll ever see in the next ten winters combined. the Drudge Report claimed it was Idaho's earliest snow in over a hundred years. Heck, I'd take it just for the water it'll provide... but then I'd lose my peppers and tomatoes. Is life a trade-off or what?

Racial Identity

A midnight phone call from a daughter in Atlanta who is on SSI due to a severe emotional disability, full of questions about her past that I can't answer and wanting me to talk to her new boyfriend over the phone. "I want your approval," she insisted, like I could tell from the tone of his voice if he were criminal?

"No, I'd rather talk to you," I stressed and asked my usual questions trying to ascertain her health and safety, knowing my insurance reflected an ambulance call lately for her that she told me was related to an asthma attack.

The up side to the weather down here is our longer growing season as Paloma picked a bushel of peppers yesterday, the downside is the often stifling, sweltering heat, but gardening in October offers nearly magical weather that included a soft breeze and temperatures slightly under 80 degrees. By the time I realized how nice it was, I'd happily worked for six hours with the Returned Runaway chattering the entire time, still unable to articulate his flight, certainly not understanding his own reasons, no way to explain it, other than admitting he must have been in sixth gear - that which is Stuck on Stupid.

Chuy spent all day working out his own anger at himself, by busting his butt on a chosen chore, "I'll fix up the older chicken coop," he offered and found himself as entertained as Mama-In-The-Garden and didn't come inside until nearly suppertime.

Even Jonathan helped a lot, blurting, "You're right Mom, it is fun to be productive," aping me surely, but starting to comprehend a few points, getting to use a bow saw always helps, even though he reminded me of someone in Deliverance.

Yep, it was the kids from the Most Troubled Sib Group that volunteered to help all day yesterday. I'd not assigned chores as I wanted to garden peacefully, and was pleasantly surprised to find so many kids eventually drift out back, "Need help, Mom?"

We picked almost the rest of the watermelons, which didn't taste very good, and were stunted due to the drought. The peppers can take it, they've been delicious.

Edgar brought his girlfriend by who'd had an article published in Ugazine. I really do like her. Another son of mine, a true Southern gentleman, had asked his girlfriend in astonishment, "You called my mom Cindy?"

"She's supposed to," I'd stressed to him. I really like her also, beautiful and intelligent, an excellent combination. It's the Bubba's friends who have no business addressing an old lady by her first name. I'm certain I've told the friends of older kids to call me Cindy.

My kids are all so much better home with me, away from the sassy influences of the troublemakers at school. Heck some of them are the troublemakers, but here at home they can ease into our version of normal.

Claudia wrote a good bit about that which we've been dealing with, their racial identity, more so with this group of kids at home than with any others in my years and years of parenting a Hispanic family.

Edgar, who speaks fluent Spanish, entertained me the other night with a George Lopez routine that he felt represented our family.

Soccer Is A Full-Time Job

Soccer is our world, literally. It's all we do, all consuming, but so rewarding. I'd so much rather spend hours and hours on the soccer field, even at the expense of gardening time, just to be involved in such a positive activity with my children.

The only downside is that the thugs I'm working hard to prevent my children from being attracted to...well they hang at the park, ridiculously thugged out, not playing soccer, so I'm all the more eagle-eyed and ill-tempered about it. There's some nice kids too who are unguided, yet attracted to our family...a family where the mom is super-involved and caring - not allowing this hanging out lifestyle. Where my kids want to resent it at times, or buck me about it, I know that they also appreciate obvious outward signs of me visibly caring for them.

Nearly 20 years ago, Big Joe and Daniel were cute, very young boys in foster care with an older very angry sister named Yolie, who was in therapy being prepared to be split off from her brothers. Fortunately a woman named Maureen, their caseworker, felt very strongly that they should be adopted together and preferably out of Texas away from the gang environment of their birth family. She worked hard to make it happen for them.

I remain eternally grateful to Maureen and I've often thought how lost Daniel would have been without Yolie. His anger and grief would likely have consumed him and prevented him from excelling as he has done. Big Joe would have combusted in a rage, as it was he still gave us years of grief, but had those two boys lost their sister, I truly believe they'd have been unreachable.

I was talking to Chuy yesterday about this as he thinks Daniel is a super hero (Duh, so do I) and Chuy only sees Daniel now as a grown man...he has a tough time understanding that Daniel's background was as hairy as his own, similar in too many ways. My gifted Chuy got put out of school yesterday morning for punching Tony who really does work hard at provoking folks. Chuy had a glued-to-a-grownup day yesterday, by my side, as we drug home a truckload of groceries to last us our four day weekend of Fall Break.

We need a four day weekend to regroup and work through some issues and stuff, Dr. Mandy coming today thankfully, and oddly enough, Paloma has successfully made it through two solid school days without being kicked out. We need to capitalize upon that. It's her entire sib group that, as a group, has given me so much trouble this school year.

This is their seventh year within our family and it's been a difficult ordeal for a long, long time. The Defector/Returned Runaway is the oldest, Pepe is locked up, yet calling us every single day, yearning to be home, Chuy is the middle brother - angry and defiant, yet gifted, and then there's Paloma and Jonathan...'nuff said.

It's more than a full time job to be The Mama.

Sarah updated her blog with her Eat Local Challenge while I ate an entire box of Edy's Fruit Bars all by myself.

Cwap

Memaw on the left, is cheering this afternoon at a middle school football game until 6:30, then playing in a U14 soccer game at 7. Jack has piano lessons at 4, Nando has a game at 6 while across the highway, JoJo, Jonathan, Paloma and Scotty have a game going as well, then the U14 game will include CW, Allen, Chuy and Memaw (Sabrina).

This is when I call in reinforcements, in the form of my older children, since even a loudmouth like me can't be in six places at one time, but my big feet and long legs will propel me place to place, allowing me to cover more ground than that which seems to be physically possible...after I get supper on the table just about the minute they get off the bus.

We can do this, this is what we do, and tomorrow there's no school due to Fall Break.

My pjs today consist of Daniel's Army National Guard T-shirt that I've worn constantly plus some red satiny pj bottoms, and yes, I got on the bus alongside my middle and high schoolers to bellow next to the driver about decent bus manners as my rude, smart-alec preteens think, just 'cause mama ain't there, they can act up.

Oh, NO you can't. In front of about 30 other startled students, I threatened to ride the bus, as a free hall monitor, in my pjs with my hair every whichaway. And don't even think I won't do it. The bus driver was valiantly trying to hold in her laughter. My children were dead silent because they know I'd do it in a heartbeat.

JoJo and Allen got in a fight this morning because JoJo was overtired from trying to be good the three days they were gone to 4H camp. Tony fell asleep last night at 6 p.m. from his own internal exertions and Lily was fine, because she's been here since birth and knew, of course, that I'd still be here when she got home. JoJo and Tony stuffed their emotional fears, had a great time, and came unglued upon arrival. Predictable as punch.

My sweet Nando turns 7 today. My youngest son out of 21 tough boys who've kept me on my toes for decades. Daniel called me a nerd last night about my rain gallon numbers yet told me, "Put it on your blog so I'll remember it." Ok, nerd son of a nerd mama.

I awoke to a thunderstorm at 4 this morning, pouring rain yet again, my best estimate would be close to two inches of rain in 24 hours. Thank you Lord.

I love to work outside after a rain as I have raised beds with stone pathways, but we need groceries, I have stupid indoor chores and am taking doughnuts to Nando's class to celebrate his birthday.

Questioned yesterday about teflon - heck yeah I cook everything in olive oil in a black skillet. It doesn't stick if you heat it up properly first but it is messier and harder to clean...but safe.

What's wrong with hard to clean? Or messier? All these labor saving devices invented over the last 40 years have done is result in heavier folks who never lift a finger anymore. I don't have to pay to go to a gym to lose weight when I'm burning calories all day long because I seemingly chose a harder way of life. I'm way easier on the environment, reducing my carbon footprint...everything from never using an electric can opener in my life to hanging clothes on the deck to dry. More work yes, but so what? Would it be better to sit and eat chips in front of the TV? Nope.

Honey, I'd get shut of teflon faster than I'd say no to crack cocaine. No kidding folks, we gotta eliminate all these cancer-causing, new-fangled "helps" that have so greatly reduced the quality of our lives.

Crap...the school just called - a kid in a fight...I'll edit this later...a good kid is involved