Sharon's post is a must read for adoptive parents.
I plan to read it over and over and over again.
Theresa's also in the same leaky boat with many of us.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Stuck in a Bucket
There's nothing quite as mood altering to me, nothing quite so zen, if I may, as the euphoria one gets lost in while mowing grass. Honestly, I'm not being sarcastic, I simply find it to be happy fun. My lawn tractor is enjoying a stay for exhaustion over at the repair shop, so I gassed up the push mower and looked excitedly out over acres of tall, soggy grass, and got busy, grinning with utter delight at the chore before me. The smell of Coppertone on my arms deluding me into thinking I was at the beach as well.
I pushed all my frustrations out of my mind, wore myself out, but happily so. I was the loud media specialist once, within the school system for 25 claustrophibic years, who'd look outside enviously at the grounds maintenance men, certain I'd missed my true vocation.
A warm day gorgeous enough to take my breath away, leaving me to marvel at the beauty of our property, glad every single day since March 20, 1993 when I'd discovered this gem sitting back through the woods, off a dirt road. Now with a locked gate to slam behind me, I'm feeling even happier with my lifestyle, shutting out the world that so often annoys me, getting emotionally and positively lost within my gardens, finding total satisfaction with my yard chores and garden choices.
Asked recently by a friend, "Will you stay here when the kids are grown?"
Oh heck yeah. All the sweat equity I've put into the gardens, having grown children live nearby plus my parents are here as well, this commitment is for good.
I'll change everything though, my head full of plans and dreams, energy surging through me each day, launching me out of bed like a rocket ship, raring to go, stuff to do, so many plants, so little time...
Experts are indeed claiming the drought is over, but I'd argue with that assessment. What about the three years rain deficit? That hasn't been replaced.
"Heavy rainfall in March finally has finished off one of the worst droughts in recorded history, state climatologist David Stooksbury said."
Hogwash, Honey, you just gave ignorant people an invitation to waste water.
Two soccer games last night. Fortunately for us, the fields are close to our home, we load up and head out after an early supper which means sandwiches before bed, leaving me up to re-clean the kitchen, but I don't mind. Sports are such a positive outlet for my rowdy young'uns.
A lady cracked me up, describing parking her car in the very crowded lot. She'd seen JoJo dart across the paved area, thinking to herself, "Wait for it...they're like deers...there's another one gonna shoot out in front of me," and sure enough, Scotty darted out as well right practically nicking her fender.
Normally I park close enough so that this doesn't happen, but we were running late. Kids living down a dirt road are always challenged by traffic patterns on paved areas. Even Sarah once expressed extreme reluctance to cross a paved road by herself when she was 16 years old. Now she too lives again down a comforting dirt road near me.
Since it's slow going with a push mower in tall grass, I only got about 20% accomplished yesterday, Scotty taking over, while I cooked supper, to cut Grandma and Grandpa's front area, today I can work more on it, and honestly it makes me smile at the very thought.
Expending physical energy results in happy endorphins for me. A life is good moment that I crave with every fiber in my being.
Monday, March 30, 2009
No Human being Should Have To Live Like This
One light left on continuously for one year will burn 714 pounds of coal and create 1852 pounds of carbon dioxide thus contributing greatly to crapping up the environment. I'd read that, and noted it, but not the source of the info, as I'd sat in some dumb waiting room somewhere. Earth Hour was all about shutting down unnecessary lights, another form of my aerobic exercise, and I think it's pathetic that we humans only wanna concentrate on one hour. Can't it be Earth Life?
I have to focus on an attainable goal and true to bipolar illness, Paloma is in a very dangerous down cycle at the moment. She careened out of control yesterday over nothing, absolutely nothing, as if an invisible switch was pulled within her mind. She unexpectedly went after Mayra who was cleaning her room, slinging the cleat end of any soccer shoe she could find at Mayra's head. Unfortunately for Mayra, we have a ton of soccer cleats.
The screaming brought both Javy and I running down the hall, he had to restrain Paloma, his only sister, because if anyone else touched her she'd scream false, yet dangerous, allegations of sexual abuse. As it was, she hollered that he was beating her and that I was yelling at her.
Sabrina, Mayra, Javy and I just stared at each other. I wasn't saying anything, as I know from sad past experience that anything I could possibly say would only enrage her. Javy had held her arms, not hit her. I don't allow hitting. As a parent I certainly have a right to yell anyway, but it would be pointless.
Several hours later, this after she'd already had all her morning and night medications, she calmed down, or so we thought. "Just leave me alone," she roared gutturally, which we stupidly did, all of us worn to an exhausted frazzle from the shocking craziness. She then slammed the door and cut up ten of Mayra's favorite outfits with scissors.
I cried in pure frustration.
Mayra cried in grief.
"Mama, get rid of her," Javy advised, as if, he was hating the fact that my mascara was running down my cheeks. I'd been given some free non-waterproof mascara that I'd worn to church. Dumb move Cindy, shell out the $4 for waterproof.
Parade Magazine, a Sunday supplement I've always enjoyed, even though I no longer subscribe to the newspaper, Sarah saves it for me, and it had a cover story, "What's Wrong With Our prisons?"
Get this..."Over the past two decades, we have been incarcerating more and more people for nonviolent crimes and for acts that are driven by mental illness or drug dependence."
We, myself, the Mental Heath system, the school system, Dr. Mandy, Dr C and DJJ, have all done a tremendous amount of paperwork and jumped through every single hurdle in order to get psychiatric hospitalizations for Jonathan and Paloma. We are now awaiting approval.
If we don't get approval then I will have to push through the justice system to have them punished for truancy, vandalism and assaults...all acts that are driven by mental illness.
They don't choose to disobey. I've watched them be absolutely unable to stop themselves.
The Divine Miss M, our local DJJ officer, will then be forced to help which is blatantly unfair. She is not a mental health worker. Her job is in criminal justice. The kids will be punished for acts they cannot help.
Yes they are dangerous, criminally so, but not through their own choices. Society, however does not recognize this fact.
When Paloma swings over to the dark side, she is unable to be reasoned with, she only wants to inflict her inner pain upon others as if that then releases her internal prison of rage. It is scary. It is sad. I feel helpless and stressed out, sending all the other kids to safety while Javy and I try to deal with the situation. If I didn't have a big strong sibling such as him, I'd have no choice but to call the deputies who'd be equally as helpless in the face of such irrational rages.
What are they gonna do? Mace her? They'd call DJJ who can't just take her into custody, nor would locking her up in RYDC help. She needs psychiatric intervention immediately.
If anything, on some level, there's a very tiny part of her that doesn't mind when a trusted sibling such as Javy stops her from hurting herself or others. We recognize this enigma.
She refused to go to school today and is sitting boiling just across the room from me now, but the Yorkies and the terrier are licking her face and doing all the calming work for me. They love her in spite of her demons and are capable of physical affection. If I tried to hug her, I'd be hit, this I know from past experiences, but the too-cute dogs demand no normal emotional toll from her. They have no expectations, other than to be petted, which she does perfectly to them. Princess is licking her arm, giddy with delight, soothing her toxic turmoil somewhat.
All my friends, readers, church folks, school personnel and everyone else that I come into contact with ask me how they can help. Like I know how?
Keep praying y'all for doors to open.
I dread age 18 when the police will have no choice but to lock her up for acts she can't help committing. Until you've stared down mental illnesses, lived with the trauma of out-of-control dangerous ragers, you just cannot imagine the depth of sadness that is involved.
If they do get the hospitalizations that they desperately need, I'll then be treated as the problem. I know this from past experiences. I'll have to fight like heck to keep getting them services while the professionals will fight back harder to have them deemed "safe" when even they, psychiatric experts, cannot control the raging, the attacks and the craziness. It is incurable. Face it.
Sharon is living through a parallel existence with me right now. She describes perfectly what we too are dealing with and my gut tells me, due to the age of her kid, her situation is even more dire than ours at the moment. No human being should have to live like us.
We are mandated to keep everyone safe, yet we are forced to allow dangerous predators to live in the home.
What's wrong with this picture?
I have to focus on an attainable goal and true to bipolar illness, Paloma is in a very dangerous down cycle at the moment. She careened out of control yesterday over nothing, absolutely nothing, as if an invisible switch was pulled within her mind. She unexpectedly went after Mayra who was cleaning her room, slinging the cleat end of any soccer shoe she could find at Mayra's head. Unfortunately for Mayra, we have a ton of soccer cleats.
The screaming brought both Javy and I running down the hall, he had to restrain Paloma, his only sister, because if anyone else touched her she'd scream false, yet dangerous, allegations of sexual abuse. As it was, she hollered that he was beating her and that I was yelling at her.
Sabrina, Mayra, Javy and I just stared at each other. I wasn't saying anything, as I know from sad past experience that anything I could possibly say would only enrage her. Javy had held her arms, not hit her. I don't allow hitting. As a parent I certainly have a right to yell anyway, but it would be pointless.
Several hours later, this after she'd already had all her morning and night medications, she calmed down, or so we thought. "Just leave me alone," she roared gutturally, which we stupidly did, all of us worn to an exhausted frazzle from the shocking craziness. She then slammed the door and cut up ten of Mayra's favorite outfits with scissors.
I cried in pure frustration.
Mayra cried in grief.
"Mama, get rid of her," Javy advised, as if, he was hating the fact that my mascara was running down my cheeks. I'd been given some free non-waterproof mascara that I'd worn to church. Dumb move Cindy, shell out the $4 for waterproof.
Parade Magazine, a Sunday supplement I've always enjoyed, even though I no longer subscribe to the newspaper, Sarah saves it for me, and it had a cover story, "What's Wrong With Our prisons?"
Get this..."Over the past two decades, we have been incarcerating more and more people for nonviolent crimes and for acts that are driven by mental illness or drug dependence."
We, myself, the Mental Heath system, the school system, Dr. Mandy, Dr C and DJJ, have all done a tremendous amount of paperwork and jumped through every single hurdle in order to get psychiatric hospitalizations for Jonathan and Paloma. We are now awaiting approval.
If we don't get approval then I will have to push through the justice system to have them punished for truancy, vandalism and assaults...all acts that are driven by mental illness.
They don't choose to disobey. I've watched them be absolutely unable to stop themselves.
The Divine Miss M, our local DJJ officer, will then be forced to help which is blatantly unfair. She is not a mental health worker. Her job is in criminal justice. The kids will be punished for acts they cannot help.
Yes they are dangerous, criminally so, but not through their own choices. Society, however does not recognize this fact.
When Paloma swings over to the dark side, she is unable to be reasoned with, she only wants to inflict her inner pain upon others as if that then releases her internal prison of rage. It is scary. It is sad. I feel helpless and stressed out, sending all the other kids to safety while Javy and I try to deal with the situation. If I didn't have a big strong sibling such as him, I'd have no choice but to call the deputies who'd be equally as helpless in the face of such irrational rages.
What are they gonna do? Mace her? They'd call DJJ who can't just take her into custody, nor would locking her up in RYDC help. She needs psychiatric intervention immediately.
If anything, on some level, there's a very tiny part of her that doesn't mind when a trusted sibling such as Javy stops her from hurting herself or others. We recognize this enigma.
She refused to go to school today and is sitting boiling just across the room from me now, but the Yorkies and the terrier are licking her face and doing all the calming work for me. They love her in spite of her demons and are capable of physical affection. If I tried to hug her, I'd be hit, this I know from past experiences, but the too-cute dogs demand no normal emotional toll from her. They have no expectations, other than to be petted, which she does perfectly to them. Princess is licking her arm, giddy with delight, soothing her toxic turmoil somewhat.
All my friends, readers, church folks, school personnel and everyone else that I come into contact with ask me how they can help. Like I know how?
Keep praying y'all for doors to open.
I dread age 18 when the police will have no choice but to lock her up for acts she can't help committing. Until you've stared down mental illnesses, lived with the trauma of out-of-control dangerous ragers, you just cannot imagine the depth of sadness that is involved.
If they do get the hospitalizations that they desperately need, I'll then be treated as the problem. I know this from past experiences. I'll have to fight like heck to keep getting them services while the professionals will fight back harder to have them deemed "safe" when even they, psychiatric experts, cannot control the raging, the attacks and the craziness. It is incurable. Face it.
Sharon is living through a parallel existence with me right now. She describes perfectly what we too are dealing with and my gut tells me, due to the age of her kid, her situation is even more dire than ours at the moment. No human being should have to live like us.
We are mandated to keep everyone safe, yet we are forced to allow dangerous predators to live in the home.
What's wrong with this picture?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Signing Up For It
A man who was at my sister's funeral, 13 years ago, died this week, obviously not knowing he'd only live to be 62 years old. My Uncle Joe had then guided my terribly stricken parents, comforting them as well during that horribly difficult time, and within one month, we were at his funeral stunned beyond comprehension. The ironies, the tragedies and the mundane sometimes just take over my pea brain and make me over-think every situation. Maybe it's simply a wonder that I still function at all.
I'm obsessing over this, this morning. Thinking what would I do if I knew I only had a month, or 13 years to live. Would I live differently?
My last 13 years has been a total blur of new children, three infants (now almost 9, 12 and 13), retirement, and a slew of ordeals, shocks and traumas I never dreamed of facing.
Lines have grown all around my eyes, worry and stress wrinkles, I've become emotionally battered and physically stressed way beyond what I thought I could take. I've also had 18 of my 19 darling grandchildren born since then. Baby Yolie soon to turn 14, heading off to high school next year.
Dealing with the mental illnesses and the severe emotional disabilities has nearly made me crack in half under the stress and strain.
But in becoming Bita, the diminutive of Abuelita, I'm seeing the sweet side of life, other than those children of mine who'd use the grandchildren as pawns.
There'll soon come a time when I live in a home with no explosions nor fistfights.
For some unfathomable reason yesterday, Jonathan went after Mayra who'd verbally corrected his behavior. My money was on Mayra, what was Jonathan thinking? Allen did a classic double take, and then slung Jonathan neatly upside down, "Leave my sister alone, boy." Likely giving Jonathan the relief he needed, as Mayra could handily clean his clock with one hand tied behind her back. Prozac doesn't make you Superman, Mayra towers over him.
I'd made a massive pan of lasagna in a stainless steel bin I'd bought for a buck at a yard sale years ago. Whole wheat noodles, ricotta cheese, pepper jack cheese, spinach and a ton of mushrooms marinated in garlic. I ate two platefuls. Tony'd baked a birthday cake for Miriam who came by to show us her new car. A 2001 Mustang? Who'd have thunk it? With her 80 pound part Mastiff, part pit bull-boxer mixed dog, Winston, taking up the entire back seat, drooling on a blanket and setting off my nine over-protective dogs to barking up a storm.
It poured buckets of rain yesterday, a frog-strangler, a gully washer bout of precipitation, as I delightedly stared out the windows while spending all day long watering the houseplants. Sarah'd called me to let me know the Braves were playing the Yankees, the team I love to hate, on TV at the Disney Wide World of Sports Complex where I'll spend my real retirement someday, eating hot boiled peanuts and yelling at the players, already sad that Bobby Cox will likely soon retire.
6-4 Yankees...ouch, but my day of pondering death came full circle as I was emailing my brother-in-law, a Yankees fan, my sister's husband who'd been to the above mentioned funeral and had written many thoughts for me to ponder regarding death, Christianity and friends. I'm thinking about, and praying for, his sister as well who'd also lost a friend suddenly this week.
And truly, I don't know what I'd do differently if I knew how long I had. My life is dictated by the demands of my family that I deliberately, with prayer, planning and much thought, chose.
I'd had an immature hissy fit last night over kids disobediently eating in the family room. I'd slung a metal bowl in the kitchen and crashed around over-dramatically, sighing loudly, tired of being the maid around here...but really Big Mama, this is what you signed up for, isn't it?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Loving The Rain
"Mom is the drought over?" I'm asked everytime it rains and I launch into the exact same spiel that I've presented over and over and over again regarding the massive amount of rain we will need to overcome several years deficit.
It has thundered and lightened for several days now and there's standing water in my garden. Best thing I ever did for myself ten years ago was to have a deck built off my second floor bedroom to better look down on the gardens, like Yertle the Turtle.
I do get a lot of emails with garden questions. If I could just suggest anything, it'd be to start small so you don't get overwhelmed in the stifling heat of the summer and get discouraged.
Even a small garden bed with just tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and squash and you'll find yourself hooked. Just pick a spot with at least six hours of sun and go for it. Don't stress, don't worry about having great soil, don't bother with a tiller or any extra expense. Just dig it up as deeply as you can and mulch with something...drag pine straw from the woods or stop the guys trimming trees down the highway and ask them to dump the wood chips in your yard.
I got to thinking that my pathways were too narrow, hardly 12 inches, my feet aren't that big, but my hips sure are. Looking at the pictures of my favorite gardeners, I was relieved as their paths are narrow also. Why waste good growing space?
I'm a Scavenger, a Dumpster-Diver, a Pride-less Used Goods Consumer
When two different people, totally unrelated to any other aspect of my life, suggest the same thing, I call it confirmation and give it serious thought. Call me selfish, but I blog for me, not for my audience, although I deeply appreciate y'all's interest, your prayers and comments. I blog my thoughts, just as I might once have journaled, to keep my hard head glued on straight and to work through stuff.
This picture of Sarah, eating a salad...it's a very large salad, look at the size of that bowl. Skinny girls like her can eat a ton, because it's the right kind of ton.
Meg, an Aggie reader, had sent me the link, from The Compost Confidential, about this man's $25 victory garden while another dear friend yesterday suggested I write about frugal gardening.
Why am I so obsessed with all this? I think everyone has a genetic capability to obsess about something, this just happens to be my own peculiarity.
Today's economy sucks, mainly due to previous excesses, very poor decisions such as stupid sub-prime mortgages, and crazy credit.
That I just don't understand...spending money one doesn't have, on stuff one doesn't need.
Huh?
And folks think I'm nuts for parenting 39 children?
I love the Unclutter, The Simple Dollar, L.A. Green Girl, even hippie, left-wing Freegan info, Frugal for Life, Little Homestead in the City, Zen Habits for Productivity, today about the misery of discontentment, and I'm a huge Dave Ramsey fan.
My favorite book, the Bible admonishes us to be content. Christians should be leading the way in this arena, especially not spending to impress.
I've read blogs about no spending days where one doesn't go into any stores to spend any money. Let's take it a step further to see how many days in a row one can accomplish that admirable feat. Will we accidentally band together and crap up the economy? Like it isn't already in poor shape from doing the opposite?
Why do we spend? Why don't we save?
Maybe there'd be less self-damaging behavior if folks would tend to their own house, so to speak. Shopping as therapy isn't the answer to society's maladies.
I know I'm way the other extreme, my determination to only own used items, to not shop for new clothes (The Compact) turns folks off, but isn't there a middle ground?
I want a hot tub made of stone by an outside firepit. I want to soak my stress away out in the garden, but I'll not pay for new one, I'll someday build one somehow. My point is, I too have materialistic wants, but I also prefer step two which is wait for it, step three is salvage it.
I want to live off the grid, sustainably and with very little negative impact upon the environment and I'm so not there yet, but I have the second half of my life to work on it. That fires me up.
There's nothing about second-hand stuff that embarrasses me, if anything I sustain a great deal of unwarranted pride in the fact. This is not sacrificial martyrdom on my part, it is fun and rewarding to me.
Am I a social misfit? Yeah, maybe. Possibly I've lived isolated way too long, but it works for me. I don't feel like I'm missing out on a more materialistic life or any big social events.
Starbucks is a socially responsible beacon in today's world, gladly giving out their Grinds for Gardens. Why shouldn't McDonalds do the same? There's a great deal of friendly competition for these precious grinds, the market is there certainly. Why aren't all restaurants forced by law to make their scraps available for either freegans, composters, or simply the poor, hungry people among us?
Waste outrages me. Resources are limited.
Yes, I just got a new Blackberry phone, but with a free upgrade and a discount as well. I was brought up by my magnificent mother to not ever pay sticker price. My siblings and I used to dog her unmercifully about her depression era mentality, but we've long since come to the obvious conclusion that she was right all along. My brothers too live uber-frugally and miles beneath their means. Gary will have two daughters at William & Mary College next year, but he can do it as he makes brilliant financial decisions. I've already put ten kids through college, Gina choosing an incredibly expensive, yet excellent, one.
Yolie and Chuck have a beautiful, high-end kitchen courtesy of Craig's List.
Sarah, exactly like Mom and I, is as ruthless regarding spending. We can only hope for the same in her children, both pictured here drinking free Horizon organic milks that I'd been given.
Check out my friend Devin's couponing abilities. Details, Devin please...I've never done that well.
My Hero Pudding
We're expecting significantly bad weather this morning, so much so, that all today's soccer events were called off last night in preparation for possible tornadoes today. Since all my children were home and accounted for, I slipped out onto the front porch, facing the meadow I couldn't even see in the dark, and sat sniffing the air like a coon dog, as I'm positive I can smell rain coming and other barometric changes. This is likely true of all gardeners over 50 who once upon a time did not have The Weather Channel nor the immediacy of the internet to inform them of approaching weather fronts.
Such a nice evening, I sat listening to my Ipod, looking in the window of my house to monitor my children, but totally appreciating the wall between us as I need some downtime desperately. They were watching re-runs of westerns and I was trying to best determine what methods I should be using to reduce my debilitating stress.
I'd run into a man yesterday, as I ran my mind-numbing, monotonous errands, who asked me, "Aren't you Cindy Bodie?"
My paranoia kicked in fast and I couldn't decide if I should confirm or deny. Walk away with a murmured, "You must be thinking of someone else?" But that'd be a lie and God thumped me on my hard head once again.
"Yes?" I answered, with utter dread and even less conviction, sure he'd then tell me what turds my children are. He was muscular, like a police officer.
See what secondary trauma has done to me? Paula and I talked on the phone yesterday and I tried to convince her that it isn't secondary, but primary trauma we've undergone. I didn't even answer her first call as she'd changed her cell number and unrecognized numbers cause me to shutdown in alarm.
"Doncha remember?" He pressed, "I used to see you at school and came out to your house for the Georgia National Guard."
Then it dawned on me and I broke out in smiles, "I do remember you," I exclaimed, "You drove my kids around in a Hummer. Is this your wife?" as a very pretty redhead was standing there smiling.
He introduced us and she backed up his story about coming home years ago and telling her about a lady with 17 kids who all sat in a circle and listened to every word he said, super polite and well-behaved.
Boy oh boy, those days are long gone.
Now I have 17 um challenging children. We talked for awhile and come to find out, back then his boss was Chuck's dad. Later, as I told Chuck and Daniel about this encounter I saw a light bulb go on over Daniel's head. Turns out this guy had approached Daniel, when they were both in uniform on a training weekend, asking about the family and Daniel had been trying to place the man in his mind.
That had to have been some 14 years ago, glad we made such a positive impression for once.
Of course, in the meantime, Jonathan locked my keys in the van, but my long skinny gorilla arm snaked through the narrow opening and saved the day, prompting me to dance in the rain and crow, "I'm da man," while Jonathan must have wondered why he was the one on Prozac when I was clearly out of the normal zone, into the one fry short of a Happy Meal category.
Hey, I'm just thrilled for so much rain, even at the cost of missing soccer, yard sales, no gardening for several days and stuck inside with restless, agitated children.
Georgeanne (Sarah's sister-in-law), Yolie and Lauren (Daniel's girlfriend), Miriam and Laura (Edgar's former girlfriend) have all become absolutely obsessed with the Twilight books. Stay up all night reading obsessed. "Oh mama, you'd absolutely hate these stories," Yolie explained to me, knowing how little patience I have for being manipulated by fiction when there's all that fascinating non-fiction available to me. "And a love story about a vampire? Oh puh-leeze, you'd explode with righteous indignation."
Surely not wanting to listen to me point out how utterly impossible to reality this could be.
She's right, not my cuppa tea at all, but I do envy them their unbridled enthusiasm over this series. JoJo asked me last night to buy him the Twilight set for his upcoming birthday present. I suppressed my response, just looking at him, this after he and Allen had punched each other, grew viciously angry over nothing, and Mayra, Martin and I'd had to pull them apart. He needs to read a love story, that's for sure.
I got even more stressed out reading about how stress kills. Like I can eliminate the BS around here? I'm going to focus on my positive kids, truly that's the majority, and avoid the negative crud like the plague. I'll get all my exercise aerobically side-stepping the emotional dumpers, choosing instead those that treat me respectfully, with love and some consideration for the mere fact that I'm a human being.
I fell apart laughing my butt off last night when Pudding, the only male dog out of my nine canines, a very good-looking, normally well-mannered Yorkie, jumped up next to Jojo and very uncharacteristically hiked his leg, shooting out a stream of urine all over JoJo. Totally shocked, JoJo jumped up screaming like a girl, pulled off his jeans and ran down the hall while a dozen folks rolled all over the living room hysterically cackling. Who hasn't wanted to piss on him? Should we give the dog a reward?
Pudding, relieved on oh so many levels, trotted off to the family room to see what was going on in there.
"I thought he liked me," my very emotional JoJo roared from down the hall, changing in his room."
"Boy, how do you think I feel?" I shot back, just as loudly. "I'm dumped on constantly by all y'all who love me too."
Good job Pudding. I'm guessing all this rain has made him stir crazy as well.
The Yorkies had taken lately to following me all over the Big Back Garden, hours everyday outside, sniffing the entire fenced in acre, sleeping hard at night after their big adventures on such short stubby legs.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Still Blessedly Quiet
Doing my level best to maintain a calmer facade, taking my pharmaceutical grade supplements, eating a great deal of food as well, knowing I hafta build my inner strength, I'm doing everything possible to cut down on my stress load that can't be eliminated totally. My hissy fit blog yesterday did help me get it out, as I went on to have a wonderful time with my Miriam.
I went way outta my way to avoid Edgar yesterday, both of us sending texts, and I'd even left him some birthday money with Miriam, who promptly forgot to take it with her to work. She too became sucked into our maelstrom, Mayra being just 15, texts better than I, so acting as my secretary, she typed out my responses to both children, if I can still call them children at 20 and 22.
Eventually Edgar was over here... who didn't see that coming? He'd snuck up on JoJo, bear-hugging him, but getting a politically incorrect response in return questioning his masculinity as he was so well dressed...well compared to JoJo whose choice of outfit caused Edgar to wince in fashion pain.
"Boy you're straight up Mexican aren't you? his older brother questioned.
"At least I'm not gay," JoJo retorted and the battle was on.
"Y'all best chill right now,"I warned.
CW, half Anglo, half Mexican stood up, taller now than Edgar, slim to the point of skinny, stuffing egg burritos in his mouth, causing a gasp to escape from Edgar's mouth as he complimented Dubs. "Dude, you're so tall!"
Still we maintained a very, very calm evening. So nice. By ten p.m. all lights were out, even I was asleep, someone keep reminding me of 2009's gonna be divine.
It's still raining here, watersheds filling up, a severe drought still on, but rain makes everyone smile.
I went way outta my way to avoid Edgar yesterday, both of us sending texts, and I'd even left him some birthday money with Miriam, who promptly forgot to take it with her to work. She too became sucked into our maelstrom, Mayra being just 15, texts better than I, so acting as my secretary, she typed out my responses to both children, if I can still call them children at 20 and 22.
Eventually Edgar was over here... who didn't see that coming? He'd snuck up on JoJo, bear-hugging him, but getting a politically incorrect response in return questioning his masculinity as he was so well dressed...well compared to JoJo whose choice of outfit caused Edgar to wince in fashion pain.
"Boy you're straight up Mexican aren't you? his older brother questioned.
"At least I'm not gay," JoJo retorted and the battle was on.
"Y'all best chill right now,"I warned.
CW, half Anglo, half Mexican stood up, taller now than Edgar, slim to the point of skinny, stuffing egg burritos in his mouth, causing a gasp to escape from Edgar's mouth as he complimented Dubs. "Dude, you're so tall!"
Still we maintained a very, very calm evening. So nice. By ten p.m. all lights were out, even I was asleep, someone keep reminding me of 2009's gonna be divine.
It's still raining here, watersheds filling up, a severe drought still on, but rain makes everyone smile.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A Calm Evening
While I didn't cook supper tonight, leftovers prevailed and soccer practice was rained out, I stood in the kitchen transplanting tomatoes from cell packs into larger pots, Chuy helped Lily with some challenging math...kinda how I'd originally dreamed a large family would be, ya know... cooperation and helpfulness.
I'd meant to use this article some time back:
"For years, psychiatrists have known that children who are abused or neglected run a high risk of developing mental problems later in life, from anxiety and depression to substance abuse and suicide. "The article gave me much to think about, like my brain's not already over-loaded and short-circuiting.
Miriam and I sat down to stacks of pancake and veggie omlets for a lunch at IHOP, chowing down like starving truck drivers, but we then sat awhile and talked. She said the simple words all mothers love to hear, "I'm thinking about taking some college courses."
Oh heck yeah, I DO know how to apply for college scholarships. I have much more trouble working through the system that is swanped with bureaucratic mishmash and no funding anyway.
Excuse Me For Shouting
And reading about Sharon's parallel existence to mine is making me nutso.
Documented dangerous, diagnosed with mental illness children SHOULD NOT BE LIVING WITHIN FAMILIES.
That said, we would be charged with abandonment if we refuse to let the child back home. A child with domestic violence charges against them.
If we bring the child home and the child hurts someone, we can be charged with neglect. This even when the child is telling authorities that they'll hurt anyone that they want to hurt. Pepe once told a therapist he'd kill me if not given his way all the time.
WE TOLD AUTHORITIES THAT THIS WOULD HAPPEN.
I am so pissed off.
Honestly folks, residential placements with 24-7 therapeutic trained staff, with restraints and shots to calm down ragers...when they kick a child out, put them back into the family because the kid is too dangerous for the facility...what are they saying?
Who cares if your family gets killed?
I get all sorts of emails from moms who are in this position.
I once had a child punch three different policemen three different times between ages 12 to 17, drawing blood the last time. And y'all think I can manage those behaviors while keeping everyone else safe?
Get real.
What is wrong with our society?
Why are big-hearted adoptive moms treated so badly?
I can literally feel the negative stress surging through my veins.
I am so praying for Sharon's family today. Please join with me.
Documented dangerous, diagnosed with mental illness children SHOULD NOT BE LIVING WITHIN FAMILIES.
That said, we would be charged with abandonment if we refuse to let the child back home. A child with domestic violence charges against them.
If we bring the child home and the child hurts someone, we can be charged with neglect. This even when the child is telling authorities that they'll hurt anyone that they want to hurt. Pepe once told a therapist he'd kill me if not given his way all the time.
WE TOLD AUTHORITIES THAT THIS WOULD HAPPEN.
I am so pissed off.
Honestly folks, residential placements with 24-7 therapeutic trained staff, with restraints and shots to calm down ragers...when they kick a child out, put them back into the family because the kid is too dangerous for the facility...what are they saying?
Who cares if your family gets killed?
I get all sorts of emails from moms who are in this position.
I once had a child punch three different policemen three different times between ages 12 to 17, drawing blood the last time. And y'all think I can manage those behaviors while keeping everyone else safe?
Get real.
What is wrong with our society?
Why are big-hearted adoptive moms treated so badly?
I can literally feel the negative stress surging through my veins.
I am so praying for Sharon's family today. Please join with me.
Believing For This
Even with lithium, clonidine, lexapro, risperadol and concerta in her system, Paloma can attack and apparently enjoy hurting people.
We may as well get me a standing appointment with the orthopedic clinic, as I have no choice but to step in and protect all my children.
Immediately upon arriving home after school yesterday she'd slugged six year old Tabby for no reason, eventually calmed down only to deliver roundhouse punches to the back of Tony's head, who's 13 but developmentally delayed and a head shorter than her. I jumped in the middle while hollering for Javy who came running down the hall to help me.
She then screamed at Lily who burst out crying at the abject unfairness with which we are all treated, so I went to comfort Lily, which angered Paloma further, so I cried in absolute frustration, which made CW shed a tear in empathy.
Javy, her birth brother, asked me later, "Mama, when are you getting rid of her?"
"Son, I'm not getting rid of anyone, I'm hoping and praying for a residential psychiatric placement for her. She needs help desperately."
"She'd just like Patricia," he shook his head. Patricia being his birth mother who he has vivid memories of, especially the big final devastating fight in which she murdered his birth father with a machete.
The Children's Church was going to visit Pump It Up so I had to get a grip, get the middle and high schoolers over to the church for Youth Group and head to town with my elementary children, asking Lily to just go with me, knowing we could sneak away to Kripsy Kreme and drown our sorrows in chocolate iced, custard filled doughnuts - fat grams be derned, as in who cares? I'd not eaten a bite of supper as everyone seemed overly agitated and when I'd finally collapsed around ten p.m. it's just too much trouble to think about eating anything, which means I'd not taken the pharmaceutical grade calcium as I would've barfed. I did manage to digest a doughnut though. Duh.
Lily and I had a blast, time alone together, reassuring each other of an upcoming beach trip, if and when I can get Paloma into a residential program. If not...society will be in very bad shape with such a troubled, angry and dangerous child not receiving the help that she so desperately needs.
Miss Regina, the goofiest fifth grade teacher I've ever met, totally entertained me all evening...just what the doctor ordered. Her laugh is so contagious and her very silly, exagerated descriptions of teaching 190 crack baby fifth graders in another county just sent me over the edge with giggles. She'd once taught JoJo, Paloma and Jonathan, baptism by fire into the realm of nuttiness, and she makes me look oh so too serious in comparison to her complete obliviousness to behavior-disturbed children.
It's a gift. She simply sees the child whereas I get so unnecessarily wrapped up in their behaviors and sometimes unable to see the child underneath. That said, she's not planning on returning to elementary school teaching next year as the state, parent and testing expectations of a teacher are literally impossible to meet anymore.
She'd once been observed by some UGA faculty members when Paloma, then a second grader, had come unglued over snacks and thrown her cupcake or whatever across the room at the wall, the observers seeing it slide down gooeyly and with much fanfare. Regina not missing a beat, continuing to teach while also managing several challenging children at one time with no help.
A retired deputy, equally as wacky, entertained me the rest of the evening, giving me a new lease on life. Lily and I ended the evening both happy and reminded of the good side of living.
Everyone is in school today, but Jonathan, and I can get Grandpa to tend to him so I can meet Miriam for lunch as she's turning 20 while Edgar hits 22. "I wanna come," JoJo whined, angling for a chance to not go to school, but I talked him through the aggravation Miriam'd feel towards him for crapping her birthday lunch with me.
"Is that a chance you really wanna take?" I'd asked him.
"Nah," he quickly replied, thinking through Miriam's potential anger and devastating disappointment at him, "I'm good."
Jonathan and Paloma do not care how many probation violations that they accrue. They truly don't care. There's no part of them that take into consideration any aspect of negative consequences, rewards mean nothing. They do what they want to do. Period. They are hardwired by their mental illnesses and living within a nurturing family simply pisses them off. They glare at the successful ones, the majority, comprehending nothing, caring about no one, seeking only to satisfy whatever greedy urge or desire that they have at that moment, no matter what it costs anyone else.
A 12 year old assaulting a six year old? Unacceptable. The 12 year old doesn't give a crap about acceptable versus unacceptable. She only wants to inflict damage upon others, to spread her inner pain like lava.
The stress upon me, and the rest of the family, is phenomenal.
Dear Lord, please open the doors that we need for help.
We are really believing for this.
Lily went to school, gorgeous and happy, thinking about some other plans I've been laying out for her, upcoming positive events that I'll move Heaven and earth in order to make happen for her. I will continue to reward excellent behaviors and to nurture all the rest of my children who need my hugs and attention. You got it kids. I promise.
We may as well get me a standing appointment with the orthopedic clinic, as I have no choice but to step in and protect all my children.
Immediately upon arriving home after school yesterday she'd slugged six year old Tabby for no reason, eventually calmed down only to deliver roundhouse punches to the back of Tony's head, who's 13 but developmentally delayed and a head shorter than her. I jumped in the middle while hollering for Javy who came running down the hall to help me.
She then screamed at Lily who burst out crying at the abject unfairness with which we are all treated, so I went to comfort Lily, which angered Paloma further, so I cried in absolute frustration, which made CW shed a tear in empathy.
Javy, her birth brother, asked me later, "Mama, when are you getting rid of her?"
"Son, I'm not getting rid of anyone, I'm hoping and praying for a residential psychiatric placement for her. She needs help desperately."
"She'd just like Patricia," he shook his head. Patricia being his birth mother who he has vivid memories of, especially the big final devastating fight in which she murdered his birth father with a machete.
The Children's Church was going to visit Pump It Up so I had to get a grip, get the middle and high schoolers over to the church for Youth Group and head to town with my elementary children, asking Lily to just go with me, knowing we could sneak away to Kripsy Kreme and drown our sorrows in chocolate iced, custard filled doughnuts - fat grams be derned, as in who cares? I'd not eaten a bite of supper as everyone seemed overly agitated and when I'd finally collapsed around ten p.m. it's just too much trouble to think about eating anything, which means I'd not taken the pharmaceutical grade calcium as I would've barfed. I did manage to digest a doughnut though. Duh.
Lily and I had a blast, time alone together, reassuring each other of an upcoming beach trip, if and when I can get Paloma into a residential program. If not...society will be in very bad shape with such a troubled, angry and dangerous child not receiving the help that she so desperately needs.
Miss Regina, the goofiest fifth grade teacher I've ever met, totally entertained me all evening...just what the doctor ordered. Her laugh is so contagious and her very silly, exagerated descriptions of teaching 190 crack baby fifth graders in another county just sent me over the edge with giggles. She'd once taught JoJo, Paloma and Jonathan, baptism by fire into the realm of nuttiness, and she makes me look oh so too serious in comparison to her complete obliviousness to behavior-disturbed children.
It's a gift. She simply sees the child whereas I get so unnecessarily wrapped up in their behaviors and sometimes unable to see the child underneath. That said, she's not planning on returning to elementary school teaching next year as the state, parent and testing expectations of a teacher are literally impossible to meet anymore.
She'd once been observed by some UGA faculty members when Paloma, then a second grader, had come unglued over snacks and thrown her cupcake or whatever across the room at the wall, the observers seeing it slide down gooeyly and with much fanfare. Regina not missing a beat, continuing to teach while also managing several challenging children at one time with no help.
A retired deputy, equally as wacky, entertained me the rest of the evening, giving me a new lease on life. Lily and I ended the evening both happy and reminded of the good side of living.
Everyone is in school today, but Jonathan, and I can get Grandpa to tend to him so I can meet Miriam for lunch as she's turning 20 while Edgar hits 22. "I wanna come," JoJo whined, angling for a chance to not go to school, but I talked him through the aggravation Miriam'd feel towards him for crapping her birthday lunch with me.
"Is that a chance you really wanna take?" I'd asked him.
"Nah," he quickly replied, thinking through Miriam's potential anger and devastating disappointment at him, "I'm good."
Jonathan and Paloma do not care how many probation violations that they accrue. They truly don't care. There's no part of them that take into consideration any aspect of negative consequences, rewards mean nothing. They do what they want to do. Period. They are hardwired by their mental illnesses and living within a nurturing family simply pisses them off. They glare at the successful ones, the majority, comprehending nothing, caring about no one, seeking only to satisfy whatever greedy urge or desire that they have at that moment, no matter what it costs anyone else.
A 12 year old assaulting a six year old? Unacceptable. The 12 year old doesn't give a crap about acceptable versus unacceptable. She only wants to inflict damage upon others, to spread her inner pain like lava.
The stress upon me, and the rest of the family, is phenomenal.
Dear Lord, please open the doors that we need for help.
We are really believing for this.
Lily went to school, gorgeous and happy, thinking about some other plans I've been laying out for her, upcoming positive events that I'll move Heaven and earth in order to make happen for her. I will continue to reward excellent behaviors and to nurture all the rest of my children who need my hugs and attention. You got it kids. I promise.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Anhedonia
So I arise at five to drink coffee and enjoy my solitude, a couple of dogs and cats scampering around, all the children asleep as they should be. Now with my Blackberry in my pocket, I can check emails and comments from the back deck as I excitedly await the rain. It's a genetic trait, as I can see Grandma's light on, knowing she too had been outside, up in her gardens, planting fast in anticipation of water from the sky.
Allen had dug an area for me for a new garden bed, placing my chicken tractor square in the middle. They can finish the project for me, scratch the dirt, and eat the bugs, pooping away to fertilize everything for me.
Geraldine, a reader, sent me this link Journey to Forever which enraptured me immediately. Oh my goodness, this is right up my alley and an online book about nutrition and physical degeneration sucked me right in, so irked am I with my current state of affairs. Wonder how bad off I'd have been without a lifetime of good nutrition?
I sprawl because I can. I'm blessed to have acreage, a goal I'd spent years attaining, as this has always been my dream, but folks can grow an immense amount of produce on balconies and in pots. There's a world of information about container gardening all over the internet. I'll so dig around in this link, loving it immediately.
The school social worker dropped by yesterday while I was garden-dirty, which is my usual appearance, wanting to discuss how we can CRCT kids who don't go to school. If Paloma passes the CRCT, she'll go on to sixth grade in spite of failing everything. Social promotion which offends my sensibilities, but I understand the theory behind it.
Mr. Brian offered up a Jonathan theory which made total sense to me. Anhedonia, which we often refer to as a flatliner in the adoption jargon. A child who stares and is unable or unwilling to register any emotion, a child for whom rewards and/or consequences means nothing, absolutely nothing.
"People with anhedonia have an incredibly flat mood. They can't react properly or feel anything. There is no variation of mood, making it difficult to take things forward."
Hmmm, I pondered his thoughts all afternoon along with the information I'd gleaned on the subject from reading about it.
He'd nearly brought JoJo to tears, a jaw-clenching, slumped in his seat moment, as he probed, "Are you worried about your mama? Afraid something will happen to her if you're not here? Is someone bullying you in Alternative School?" and many other on-target questions. JoJo had just discussed, over the weekend, how much he liked Mr. E (Tabby's Pre-k teacher's husband - follow that? A small county.)
Afterwards, a more thoughtful JoJo followed me outside and helped somewhat with the heavier work. This morning he's seeing both a psychologist and a psychiatrist. I do not want to lose him to his own morose despair. He is not at all mentally ill, just a traumatized child in a large body with zero impulse control, significant anger and a mass of inner confusion. Mr. E is a parent to a large adoptive family and literally understands kids like JoJo.
Brian also mentioned that males cycle daily through their emotions, moody with highs and lows that come and go. Yep, that too makes sense to me.
Miss Kim had called me with information regarding a program for Pepe that gives me hope. I immediately balked with my usual defensive sarcasm that was certainly unwarranted, knowing he was then going to a rural, white county with little experience with the trauma my children have endured, although I was again wrong. She'd spoken with the director and came away with a good sense of understanding that they were capable of and familiar with issues such as adoption, the culture of one's race and adolescence.
I've surely gotten more help with DJJ than with mental health funding when it comes to my children. Although I've dearly wanted to keep them away from the criminal justice system, hoping that as adults they'd function with a comprehension of right and wrong, their inner compulsion to test boundaries or to rage unacceptably in ways that hurt others, we've been left with no choice but to call the authorities.
I understand their inner anger. We all have it. We all get frustrated. That's a side benefit to gardening, I can hoe, dig, haul, weed, plant, and drag heavy stuff around until I'm exhausted, versus their frighteningly furious driven drive to break windows, walls and doors. They'd not take kindly to any suggestions that one should properly harness one's anger and use it productively. If anything, I'd inadvertently up the ante to dare to make such a suggestion, I'm hoping that over the years, through role modeling, they'll eventually come to such an obvious conclusion.
It could happen.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Happy With a Capital H
How is it so possible to take a mongo pile of weeds, sticks, leaves, coffee grounds, kitchen scraps and all things organic that don't need to be sloughed off to the landfill, such an unsightly pile that heats up and steams, feeds the birds all winter, and then provides me with a ton of brown gold? In reality the above pile is over five feet high.
I've composted all my life and remain amazed, awestruck at the plant food that emerges, that is so nutritious for my plants that later feed me. Such a miracle of nature that I take for granted, yet adore passionately.
Yeah, I know I need a life, but the one I have is also fairly remarkable, if only for the life lessons that the kids and I learn in the garden.
Lily, who'd barfed early this morning, hung with me all day, following me around chattering, joining me at the stone table outside for a beans and rice lunch, me with my dirty hands that make me grin with goofy delight.
I planted more leaf lettuce, chard and radishes in anticipation of our 'Destined for a Deluge' headline that I seen in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, way to get me all stirred up.
Eliminating Toxicity
Two of the sweetest people in my life, Jack and Lily, pictured here, raised in this house by me since birth, nurtured and loving, make my world go round in very sharp contrast to some other emotionally disjointed family members.
Part of it is my fault, maybe a rescue complex, I dunno, but I always immediately try and help a situation when, in reality, walking away would be more helpful for them. I shouldn't enable, I should allow them to suffer somewhat for their own personal growth and maturity.
Zig Ziglar's Faith Daily comes to my phone and I've chewed on his thoughts. "The only taste of success some folks will experience, comes only from taking a bite out of you."
Or, "The hardest thing about climbing the ladder of success is getting through the crowd at the bottom."
Amen, honey. The folks that wanna drag me down have really stressed me out...but I've allowed it. I've been at fault for my willingness, or my inability to not extricate myself from toxicity.
Reading this page today, "*The best thing you can do when dealing with a toxic person is to walk away and not allow them to hurt you anymore. If you cannot walk away, then mentally walk away. You can do that by being kind to yourself. Allow yourself to disengage, disassociate, and detach. Detachment is a process of not caring.
It is something you do for yourself. It is a mental skill that takes some time to learn at first, but once it is mastered, it can help you to become stronger mentally and physically. Detachment is a necessary skill for preserving your own mental health. Detaching from people and situations that are not good for you is healthy and can help you to feel better."
The entire page is something I'll consider deeply all day as I dig outside.
Or I'll ponder this, sent to me by Yolie, "LAKELAND, Fla. – An eighth-grader was suspended from riding the school bus for three days after being accused of passing gas. The bus driver wrote on a misbehavior form that a 15-year-old teen passing gas on the bus Monday to make the other children laugh, creating a stench so bad that it was difficult to breathe. The bus driver handed the teen the suspension form the next day."
Pushing
If I were a better gardener I would have used all last fall to clean up the twenty something raised beds. I'd have drug all the old stalks to the compost piles, hauled enough new wood chips, manure and compost onto freshly spaded bed, plus should've, would've, could've gotten ahead of the weeds.
But I didn't. I could blame it on the fall soccer season or the myriad other issues we've plowed through that have sucked every free minute that I didn't otherwise sit around eating cream cheese cookies during, or who knows, but I'm slowly getting there once again.
This entire bed is finally planted, a month behind my preferred schedule, in Pontiac Red and Kennebec potatoes.
Supposedly later this week we'll get a good rain storm once again, thrilling me to my bones.
I don't write much about my older children, sometimes at their request or unreasonable demands that many still place on me, after all this is an adoption blog, and I don't need anyone of them breathing over my shoulder, attempting to control what I write.
A phone call yesterday from a grown one who has struggled mightily with varying diagnoses, asking me yesterday what did I think was really wrong with her. "Honey, I just don't know," I'd replied, letting her know that I was proud of her for seeking out counseling there in Atlanta, maintaining an apartment now for more than six months, and always seeking out employment, although punching your boss isn't a great idea and she finds herself looking for yet another job in which her peculiarities might be allowed.
"Look I'm just glad you keep calling me," I'd told her.
"Your my mom," she replied without any thought to the dozen years in which she'd raged against me, accusing me of outlandish episodes that had never occurred, my first foray into serious emotional illnesses. No, it was my second as Joey's emotional illnesses were parallel with her.
She gives me hope though. I'd gone before juvenile judges and probation officers with her, I'd spent years traipsing up the interstate for visits in which professionals, who found themselves helpless in the face of her enormous issues, blaming me for genetics in which I had no part. I know I'll face all this again with other kids, but a mended relationship with this one, plus a slight appreciation of my efforts is good enough for me.
I slammed my spading fork into the ground and hurled the soil every whichaway yesterday until exhaustion overtook my frustration, leaving me happy and content with the world. Today looks promising as well, another stretch of time with no meetings nor obligations, other than to turn over more garden beds in anticipation of planting the warm weather crops soon.
Grandpa took both the lawn tractors in for repairs yesterday, something we also should have already done, but I've found myself in this position before. I don't mind. I'll push the push mower over acres of overgrown grass. I absolutely love to mow and that truly is genetic as you can look up the hill and catch both my parents, pushing 80 years old, on or with a lawnmower. There's just something about hard work that soothes one's souls.
Counting my blessings, that I am retired, that I don't have a 9-5 job, yeah I know I have a 24-7 endeavor, but I chose it and I need to remember that this was my dream at one time, my calling, and no one ever promised me a rose garden (although I did make one for myself) and so far so good... overall.
Ain't it?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Grateful For Today
Before anyone worries about me and sharp objects, I gotta say it's been a bee-yoo-ti-ful day for me. Five almost uninterrupted hours in my gardens, finally planting potatoes a month later than I should have done, really warm temperatures, solitude and emotional healing for me, strengthening me for the next battle that's sure to come, but I thank God for wonderous days such as today.
I Ain't Lazy
CW, Martin, Mayra, Sabrina and I watched a dvr'd version of A Man Named Pearl, last night on HGTV, the channel that makes me cry with envy as their homes are so undefiled.
This man, Pearl, living in Bishopville, SC has topiaried his entire acreage into incredibly beautifully shaped trees and shrubs, most of which he pulled from a discarded plant dump behind a local nursery. I've read about him in gardening periodicals, admiring from afar, and his show was so peaceful and inspiring, making me utterly long with a pained, wrenching heart for such freedom. Someday, Cindy, someday...
In this show, when there'd be a voiceover, you'd see this man on his lawn tractor speeding behind the talker. "Looks like Mom," the kids offered up. Who's not in love with their lawn tractor? Duh. It's a workable contrast to my life, where hard work produces good results...unlike my existence.
Maybe I can be called a failure, but you best not call me lazy.
I certainly failed in detering emotional issues from winning in their hold on my children, but uncurable is uncurable.
Bipolar illness usually is marked by bouts of mania followed by depression, but in younger children it seems to be manifested more by behaviors that are surprisingly sub-normal followed by drawn out instances of pure craziness. Pardon the political incorrectness, but it is debilitating for the caretaker and family. Never any relief, respite would only make me understand what I lack...like I need that?
I'm now literally afraid that stress will dissolve my bones. I'm the strongest woman I know, or I once might have been, and now I'm a shell of a human being. Heck with unconditional love, what about about mere survival?
I had everyone clean and dressed, going out the door to church yesterday and Jonathan and JoJo both glared at me, Jonathan with a maniacal laugh, and they jointly refused to go.
I burst into tears as that's my only option. Period. I can't physically force them to go as that's impossible, do I want screaming, mis-behaving large boys in the sanctuary? I can't leave them at home either as Jonathan plays with fire and JoJo will either run away or steal from neighbor.
The normal kids, the majority of my family, looked at me in dismay, the leader going down in grief.
I, of course, changed clothes and went outside, working my head off so as not to go bonkers, you can imagine in my mind what I was thinking, what I'd like to do.
What does one do with such fury?
I dunno.
My body shuts down. I can't eat because food tastes like sand and who can digest?
Later Cristy came over, bringing me a case of Perrier that her husband gets at cost, or free, and some tomatillo plants she'd grown that I swapped out for the large leaved basil plants I'd grown for her. "Mom, I never expected I'd become such an obsessed gardener," she exclaimed, needing to borrow my truck for the afternoon.
Well I never expected I'd run a mental hospital either, but it is what it is, I thought bitterly.
"Cristy, I'm sorry I've been bad to you," Paloma surprisingly offered up. Left unsaid is any type of apology ever to me, to the one who bears the brunt of insanity.
"That's OK," Cristy replied, "I get it, I understand."
I'd warned Paloma she better not nut up when Cristy got there, but this blurt took me by surprise.
Allen has been suspended for three days for leaving P.E. class without permission, Jonathan and JoJo have refused to go to school today. Allen is alarmed at JoJo's idiocy, "Mom, do you need help?" he just asked me, knowing he's in Big Mama Boot Camp for his school infractions, but I waved him away, fighting a depression, knowing blogging helps.
"Gimme a minute," I told him. Often if I pound out my frustrations here, I feel way better...a "Thanks for listening y'all" moment as I know many of you are in my sinking battered tugboat across America. It's not that misery loves company so much as it is the empathy I receive from those that know.
We're, Allen and I, fixing to go outside and double-dig some garden beds. My fury at these crazy-making behaviors is palpable, I can feel my body detonating on the inside, I need to work my butt off to not be so mad, so tired of these a*^%$#@& behaviors. Miss one Sunday and I wanna cuss? See how badly I need to have my batteries recharged?
What's the point of fighting genetics? They are bound and determined to be criminal losers, probably physically unable to change positively, and I just can't take it much longer. Some of my grown children, as well, keep me from sleeping at night as I uselessly worry which I know is unBiblical, as are much of my thoughts lately...thank God for forgiveness.
But just when I'm looking for a way out of this life, Linda sent me, "If you have an adult child (or grandchild) whose life is one crisis after another and you find yourself constantly caught up in the drama, author Allison Bottke shows you the way out. Using the acronym S.A.N.I.T.Y., she encourages parents to take a tough-love approach in dealing with their dysfunctional adult children. Written by the author of the popular "God Allows U-Turns" series."
S = STOP Enabling, STOP Blaming Yourself, and STOP the Flow of Money
A = Assemble a Support Group
N = Nip Excuses in the Bud
I = Implement Rules/Boundaries
T = Trust Your Instincts
Y = Yield Everything to God
And I do. I truly do give it to God...everything...absolutely everything. If He wants this or that in my life, I leave it ALL to Him. He knows better than I do. Lord knows I've proved that to myself over the years.
I know that I know that I know that it's gonna get better...
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Such a Dork
The antsiest days of the years are upon me right now. Warm temperatures entice me to plant early, as if Good Friday is just too arbitrary, and jeepers, it's unpredictable anyway, never occurring on the same day each year. Less countrified folks might wait until a secular date, a more dreadful moment in which to be rewarded, and that would be tax day.
I have nearly everything now, all 30 seed flats, out in the greenhouse which is unheated, and I awoke with a start, anxiety-ridden now after decades of PTSD, worrying that it was too cold outside for my delicate seedlings. I watch the five day forecast like others check their cholesterol, knowing below freezing temperatures would instantly erase three months of work for me. It's risky business to be as obsessed as I, yet ultimately it's unbearably rewarding in the end when I harvest, inhale the fragrance of my herbs and flowers, or when I bite into a sun-warmed gi-normous strawberry that's been untouched by chemicals, polluting transport, or nasty minimum wage hands that resent their jobs.
I plant my own seeds, both to save tons of money, but also because the varieties I prefer are heirlooms and unavailable at local Wal-Marts or even my favorite plant nursery.
I lost a small bed of lettuce yesterday, when Paloma accidentally on purpose allowed a hen to get loose, leaving trash next to the coop as evidence, resenting me for making her run outside and feed them. She'd had a pretty good day overall in very sharp contrast to Jonathan's blatant defiance and hatefulness. I was so stressed out over managing his sick behaviors that I'd burst into tears at bedtime when I couldn't find the remote to my upstairs TV.
Whoa girl, get a grip...which I did, feeling foolish and morose over nothing.
I'm very slowly attempting to emotionally distance myself from those who are unable and unwilling to act decently towards me, stunned and angry over my own health issues now, I'm very reluctant to work so hard for nothing.
JoJo stole something from my neighbor yesterday, breaking my rule first of all for leaving our property, fortunately the item was recovered, and I apologized profusely, but JoJo's criminal tendencies are alarming. Allen and Mayra, two birth siblings, were both upset and angry over this, Mayra running to the phone to call Miriam, their eldest birth sister who merely murmured her sympathies that we should have to live with such law-breaking antics.
I'm flat sick of it, wanting nothing more than a halfway, semi-peaceful living situation where rages are unheard of, where folks smile and get along, where there's some simple appreciation for my sacrifices...which there most certainly is and I need to not wallow, but to remember Allen's many warm hugs yesterday, Javy soldiering through soccer even though he had a fever, or Nando's absolute delight in the Hot Wheels set I'd purchased so cheaply at a yard sale yesterday.
I'd gotten to watch Ray Ray's T-ball practice for a few minutes, wondering why there were nine or so shortstops, as if youngsters understand anything about field positions, Ray hilariously distracted by rocks to pick up, just as the other team members were wandering around looking at clouds or bugs, all too cute for words. A group of untraumatized children, dressed in their hats and ball gloves, doting parents just as it should be for all children universally.
Duh, Cindy, you've lived in a dark, disturbed world way too long. Hold your head up and smell your beautiful antique roses that are fixing to bloom real soon.
Daniel, eating at a Cracker Barrel Restaurant with his friends noticed a Bill Gaither CD for sale entitled 12 All-Time Favorite Homecoming Hymns. He'd bought it for me, enduring smart mouth remarks from his friends, making me as happy as a pig in a poke, downloading it last night to my Ipod, thinking how blessed I am to have a grown son, an Army man, who keeps his mama on his mind.
I'm telling you, I plan to spend the second half of my life avoiding broken bones and dwelling only on the positive aspects of our family. I'd tripped like the clumsy goof that I am, toting a heavy bucket of weeds to the compost pile, falling flat and thinking on the way down, "oops, there goes my thigh bone," but fortunately not busting my butt, glad that only my sweet rooster, Rocco, was watching, as the kids would have laughed themselves silly at my gracelessness and constant dorkiness.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Entertaining A Little Cindy While Thanking and Questioning God
Hazel missed her nap yesterday and was beautiful, cranky and cantankerous, growling at everyone, until left to dig a hole with a spoon. Immediately enraptured with her new pursuit, dirt-digging genetics oozing out of her, a tenth generation gardener/farmer in the making, not a peep seeped out, she'd delightedly found her life's work at age one and a half.
Sharon posted a must-see link to a 60 minutes segment that is must watching for all of us adoptive parents. Adopted at ten months of age, these twins chose street living, tossing out the love, warmth and security of a remarkable family, leaving me scratching my skull in surprise.
This original story about Romanian orphans aired in 1989, prompting a friend of mine, Bonnie, to declare the next day, "I'm glad Cindy missed watching that story or she'd have been on a jet to Romania the next day." Nah, I was never called to do that, I specifically was called to adopt older Hispanic kids in sibling groups from the foster care system. I've not veered from that either.
But regarding these homeless twins...I thought to myself Are you kidding me? What's then the point of my life? Am I so audacious that I'd shout down God who called me to do this? Yeah, I am, but I'm working on it. He didn't give me any sort of money back guarantee, this is called 'walking the walk' and I obviously have much to learn.
Bart's dialog with his son, Mike, where Mike likes to shake things up stung me as well. This is Everyman's Story, my Fabian, even some of my older sons who should know better, the sabotaging of success, or the two steps forward and a crushing slide backwards...what are they thinking?
I know that my job is to keep on keeping on, I get the testing behaviors in spades, the bitter disappointments, and the surprisingly joyous moments. Y'all have watched my own up and down surges, my shock and outrage at times, and the very beautiful grandchildren that have so blessed my life. Duh Cindy, this is life.
Getting my hair done yesterday, trying to up my vanity while also forgetting I had any, a man who's been a church friend for a very long time was there. He sat in the shampoo chair and talked to me, he and his wonderful wife had lost a grown child seven years ago, a huge shock to our community, and it nearly did my friend in forever.
He's very slowly pulled himself out of his severe depression, he has other daughters and now grandchildren who need him, and he came by later to see my gardens, bringing me a heavy bucket of pulverized, then ground into fine powder, eggshells that CW and Jack dug into a newly constructed raised bed, all of us grinning with delight. Amazing stuff.
I care nothing for jewelry, trinkets or gifts, but honey chile, you bring me coffee grinds, sacks of leaves, manure or these eggshells that now resembled flour and I'll be deliriously happy, imagining my earthworms cavorting under the wood chips, turning the additives into rich castings. Indeed my friend, Ed, has set up a vermiculite system in his shed that I'm chomping at the bit to go visit and copy.
I thought about him and his wife all evening, feeling deeply guilty that I obsess so much over stupid stuff. I still have all my challenging children and they'd lost their oldest daughter who truly was everything a parent could dream of - she was beautiful, successful, athletic and intelligent...and then gone in a heartbeat, leaving bereaved parents who'll likely never fully recover.
Why God? Why?
I spent the rest of the day, newly blonde, with my kids home for an early release date again, CJ deciding to be a speed bump on the hill they'd built a ramp upon at the bottom, to further dangerize their game. Hazel and Mae Mae, seemingly fearless, jumping on cars, carts or wagons, and riding down with the boys.
I thanked God over and over, in my knotty head, for Keith's successful kidney transplant that many of y'all prayed over. A friend from church, Rod, stepped up to the plate and generously donated his own kidney. People give me credit for all these adoptions, yet I guarantee you I couldn't have done what Rod did. Seeing God work like that, I questioned me for questioning Him.
Five soccer practices today, I'm very thankful for such positive endeavors, thinking about Claudia's post on character, pondering each child of mine, and realizing I'm losing ground sweating the small stuff.
I'd even hollered at my best friend, "How DOES a Type A personality learn to slow down?" Knowing I'm so internally driven, so determined, so energy laden...at 54 I still have so much left to learn. A know-it-all knocked down again, all my bluster and bravura blasted out from under me, leaving a bewildered girl who'll do anything to maintain her health, crazy in love with all these grandchildren and desperately wanting to be a strong woman still attending all their ballgames in her 90s.
I can do it....italic overuse and all.
Friday, March 20, 2009
The Scent of Yolie's Childhood
Notice the missing shingles? In my world, kids climb on the roof to further continue their destructive, irrational ways once again illustrating the futility of sticker charts and gold stars.
Likely she'll soon overdose from hyacinth intoxication, deeply inhaling, murmuring, "This is the scent of my childhood," while forcing away the intrusive, infected memories before age 11 when her childhood was a drug-infested, gang version of the projects where Yolie constantly fought single-handedly each day to keep Daniel and Joe safe.
16 years ago today we moved into the house where we now live, digging up and dragging bulbs, plants and bushes with us on the first day of Spring in 1993.
Making certain that her children enjoy the heady fragrance of these flowers, she's fairly sure Heaven will smell the same, while I hold out for the gardenias that make me swoon with unbridled delight.
Sarah's house and land is heavily draped with wisteria, soon to burst forth with an unbelievable display of nature. If earth can be this gorgeous, how much more so will Heaven be?
13 years ago I dug furiously in my garden, angry at the world that my sister was dying, helpless and afraid, deeply worried about her daughter, upset that we'd also already lost her first husband, Alan, to cancer. Within ten days of Ellen's death, CW was born and I became a working mom of a very large family, shocked to find myself holding an infant, not knowing there'd be two more for me to raise as well in the next three years.
Those three children, CW, Jack and Lily have been an incredible blessing to me, full of love and sunshine, nurtured and emotionally secure, and I do count my blessings very often while looking at them.
I dug furiously in my garden yesterday as well, releasing stress, pissed off over my spider web bones and limp throid, but determined to put forth a huge effort at improving my health, strength and emotional well-being.
Dang it, I've always taken calcium supplements, but the physician informed me that stress had leached it all away.
A reader, Lynn, had emailed me that after deep consideration and discussion, after already raising a difficult adopted child, considering another, they'd decided, in their quest to do something positive for society, to work with an Adopt-A-Puppy organization.
I don't fault them for this at all, I totally get their decision. In many ways I am simply envious.
I'm not anti-adoption, please hear me on this. I'm aggravated as heck with the system.
I forced myself to view some adoption photolistings yesterday, thinking maybe it'd pull on my last two heartstrings and remind me why I do what I do. Instead I got angrier, looking at these children, seeing the dark fear, anxiety and trauma in their eyes, now I'm virtually paralyzed. I'm reluctant to match children anymore with AAN, knowing how badly these once-normal, big-hearted, dedicated families will be hurt by the system.
We all have horror stories and I'll share mine with you someday, but part of my debilitating stress has come from a major incident two years ago. I'm still unable to talk about it, still demoralized and emotionally defeated, stunned by the way I was treated for doing the right thing.
I need to work harder to shake this all off. My Gina suggested yoga, as did Sarah recently. I'm so jangled that calming down seems too exhausting to ponder. As if I'd be a bull in a china shop to try and act out yoga moves? An impostor with no motivation?
My kids, of course, amped up their negative behaviors upon learning about my stress levels, irking Yolie beyond measure, but oh so predictable. Now they're shutting down, last night 16 pairs of eyes silently watched me do all the work, cleaning up the kitchen before bedtime, like The Adoption Counselor (I think about Brenda every evening), no one lifting a finger to help, but at least not raging.
I think about all y'all all so often, your emails, comments, thoughts and suggestions. You'd be surprised to know how often you're on my mind, you'd think I'd be so busy here with everyone, but you're my window to the world at times, my only connection to the human race.
I've blogged for nearly four years now, soon I'll have a million page views, maybe one day a book, if an editor falls from the sky to pull it all together for me, because there's no way on earth I'll voluntarily revisit the trauma.
I need to continue to stride forward.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Everything
Donna asked if Jonathan and Paloma read my blog and the answer is no. They have neither interest nor inclination to do so, and when they do earn computer privileges for simple stuff like attending school, they choose AGame.Com.
I've been gratefully reading all y'all comments from my Blackberry while working outside all afternoon, early release for elementary and middle school kids, Paloma by my side the entire day, working uncomplainingly and not hitting anyone so far. I'd allowed her to chose whatever she felt like doing and she'd decided to lift up the pavers and resettle them much more neatly than I'd originally done many years ago.
Scotty came outside wanting to help and lo and behold they both got along together.
The older boys brought me buckets of wood chips for mulch and made silly cracks about not hugging Mama too hard or 'snapping her in half'. Asked if my sons-in-law could help referee any fights...they flare up so quickly that I'm often even unable to holler for Javy from another room, much less get to a phone and call for help.
I will back off though, I won't throw myself in the middle of a fracas anymore, I'm scared straight so to speak.
I'll seek out solutions, talking a long time today to my best friend about me learning to manage the stress better, knowing she understands and certainly knows me well. She'd echoed FosterAbba's comment about reporting everything, yet I'm still reluctant to do so as there are so many things so often.
Writing also helps me manage stress, to step back and comprehend some of our stuff. Gardening is my big dose of relief, as are my hens, dogs and cats. Truthfully I feel like my body betrayed me. It was supposed to be stronger than this.
Paloma and Jonathan likely will qualify for residential psychiatric help and that'll be a stress reducer once I get over my own grief regarding their futures. I KNOW that none of this is their own fault, they didn't chose to be bipolar, and I find it so infinitely sad for them. They are both very good looking children, so young, yet so deeply troubled and I, of course, question God about everything. Everything.
Stress Kills
"If you don't start taking care of yourself immediately, you're not gonna be here," the osteopathic physician sat me down and discussed lab results and a bone density test.
"Stress is killing you," she stared me down. "You are one fist fight away from a broken hip."
"How can that be?" I asked her in absolute astonishment.
"Stress has robbed your bones and your thyroid, you are in the danger zone right now. I'm serious and you have to reduce stress, get rid of those who are hostile to you."
"Uh...I can't do that. Adoption is like birth, you can't just call 1-800-Send Help because a kid hates you for not being their birth mom." I searched my mind for possibilities.
"Cindy, do you hear me? You are not in good shape." She didn't back down an inch. "Your bones will shatter."
Looking at my lab results, she added "You might already have kidney damage."
I know that ladies my age shouldn't have to get physically involved in raging, violent disputes, but I do have to protect the younger children. That's my job as a parent.
Thank God I see a physician that I totally trust. I'm now on pharmaceutical grade, high dosage calcium, magnesium and large amounts of Vitamin D to increase absorption, equal to what she'd prescribe for a 70 year old dowager. Ouch. This certainly explains several injuries I've suffered over the last few years, apparently broken bones or fractures that went untreated.
Wow, that makes me feel very frail and damaged. Hitting me at a point of former and cocky confidence, as I thought pridefully that I was someone who's right healthy.
"I'm telling you now," she kept insisting, "You better pull back physically and emotionally or you're a goner."
I'd spent some time talking all this over with my own mother. I'm simply shocked, but I don't know why this should be such a surprise to me.
When I think about some of the very bizarre and violent mentally ill behaviors that I've been expected to manage over the years? Are you kidding me? I'm thinking back to two of my children who eventually spent years in psychiatric facilities raging against a trained professional staff ( and later policemen) armed with medications, restraints and PRNs.
Lord have mercy, I'm just a mama.
I'm absolutely going to follow Dr. Schultz's advice. I'm drawing a line in the sand.
I will not allow any grown children to express hostility, passive-aggressive bullcrap, emotional damage nor destruction to me ever again. I've done all I possibly can do to parent them properly, to get them educated both spiritually and academically. I've provided love, structure, guidance and supervision and if they still chose to reject everything, then I'm sorry and I wish them the best...but it's time to leave me alone to heal. I'm a wreck.
And the ones who still live at home need to get it together. It's been a long time since any new additions to our family as I've stopped adopting. It should have been a more peaceful existence for us.
With the exception of two significantly disturbed children at home, the rest of them are just goofy, struggling with no impulse control, and not much school motivation, but are basically pretty decent children like Javy and Martin pictured here.
I'm praying for help with the two who need residential.
And wondering what to do about myself now...
How does one reduce stress under these circumstances?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Crackberry Delight
One of our yard dogs had snuck into the house last night, trying to sleep peacefully in the family room, but our one male Yorkie raised a ruckus about it. I'd awakened to a melee, ran downstairs - this with no caffeine in me - only to have to pull two snarling ones apart, yelling my head off to sleeping children to come help me.
Eventually JoJo wandered in, scratching himself, his face furrowed in bewilderment, but by then, I'd gotten Pudding, the aggressor, off the yard dog who was simply shocked at the events.
Try and go back to sleep after that.
This wonderful Crackberry now holds my Franklin-Covey planner, alarm clock, email and documents. I'm so loving it, now that I've figured it out. I didn't get the touch screen, as I'm too clumsy and rough, but the older version is superb for me.
I can read your comments while gardening, I could respond also if I weren't so muddy.
I cleaned up only slightly after planting 150 strawberries, running to town to pick up meds and, of course, running into a lady I've known for forever, looking spectacular, I felt dingy in comparison, but oh well.
"You garden and raise kids?" she asked in amazement, noticing my hands and banged up nails.
Jonathan was slouching behind me, black eye courtesy of Paloma, and I quickly explained my conundrum, waiting for psychiatric help for him.
"Oh honey," she replied, "I know Sonny Perdue, want me to call him for you?"
Perdue is our governor.
Thinking about yesterday's article, I asked her to hold off, knowing I'd certainly likely need some later help, but I left the pharmacy smiling, knowing there was a Plan J available to me.
Who doesn't get their hair done when the seasons change? A standing appoinment on the first day of Spring (Friday) and each time I think to myself, "Girl, look at those roots."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A Dry Uniform
Between 6:30 and 7:30 each morning I spend all my time getting oppositional children to dress properly and get to school on time, most of them fighting against me regarding any sort of logic. Jonathan screaming from his bed everytime I walk past his room which might be a hundred times an hour, "I'm not going to school!"
I wanna holler back, "No spit?" but I restrain myself from feeding into his frenzy.
It is wearing me out. It feels pointless. Why don't I just let them settle to the bottom of the pond as seemingly that appears to be a group desire?
Because it goes against my grain.
I'll go down fighting. I might lose every single battle, eventually they'll be grown and on their own, floundering mightily, pushing a battered shopping cart full of aluminum cans, and possibly wishing they'd have listened to Mama, but then I'll have the satisfaction maybe in knowing that I did all I could for them.
At the moment several grown kids are absolutely unwelcome on my property. I'd roll out the red carpet for the rest of them.
I'm picturing two charming teenagers above, now 14 and 15. Great kids with few issues, yet both possessing every reason on earth to have problems. Martin was found in an abandoned apartment 12 years ago, with lice and scabies, an unchanged filthy diaper and rotting garbage everywhere. All of his siblings have diagnosed issues, severe emotional impediments while Martin is relatively unscathed and I have no explanation.
Sabrina also, resilient, beautiful and popular amongst her peers. A crappy background, not adopted until four years ago...how do some children make it, while others will not?
I have no clue.
Mine is not the reason why, mine is just to do or die?
Or maybe get through life without ridiculous rhymes in one's head?
I'm not going to describe Paloma and Jonathan's anti-social behaviors today, I'm going to concentrate on the normalness of some other children as I dearly want to do so, to hold my head above the sucking, swirling maelstrom of mental disabilities.
I found Chuy at 10 p.m. last night washing his middle school soccer uniform in the bathtub. "Boy, whatcha doing?" I asked in alarm, as I run the washing machine 24-7 it would seem.
"I forgot to put this in the laundry room, I have a game tomorrow," he reasoned.
"And it's gonna dry itself overnight hanging on a rod?" I questioned, knowing that as smart as he is, he'll try and sleep until 7:15 and expect me to miraculously dry his outfit, that he never told me about, by 7:25 when I start hollering, "Let's go!"
I walked off muttering, but, of course, tending to his uniform.
I'm really almost done raising children. I can see the end in sight, even though I sit here at my advanced age with a kindergartner. I once had 26 kids at home, I worked nonstop 24-7, a blur of constant activity, no sleep and little food for many years. In contrast now my life is a spa resort where I sleep nearly 8 hours a night.
Emailing a mom of another large family yesterday, she wants to continue to adopt, but I'm unwilling, at the moment, to work with anyone in that arena. I need a break, I've taken a self-imposed exile from the adoption world, knowing the almost insurmountable battles ahead for once-normal folks.
This article saddened me immensely. Until things change, I just can't bring myself to help others find themselves in this sinking boat....
I dare anyone to read it and not scream with frustration. You think this won't happen to you?
Monday, March 16, 2009
If Only...
Asked if my grown children resent the demands on my time nowadays, that seemingly precludes me from tending to them as much as they'd like. Well, yeah, probably, but more so they resent the dangerous flareups around here. They dislike the constant destruction, the rages that spin off like tornadoes over nothing, no provocation, no logic nor any warning, increasing the stress level too often, setting me on edge.
It's easy to discern as my weight drops and I grow more haggard, later when things calm down for a spell, I pig out, tank up, getting ready for the next siege and truly this is no way to live.
I received an email from a lady who runs an attachment center with information on yet another adoption disruption. Sounded like she was describing a foreign-born version of my Jonathan, she used the words 'flatliner' regarding his emotions, exactly what I see here as well. A child who lies and steals for no reason, unable and unwilling to attach, I find it so sad. I would not however label Jonathan as RAD because he isn't. He is attached to his birth siblings, and maybe even to me, somewhat, but the characteristics of unattachment would include an inability to function honestly, without deceit and insistent demands for control over situations.
Sarah has been a remarkable un-complainer, especially when one considers she was an only child for her first fourteen years of life and then I rather unfairly expected her to innately understand when my first sibling group was so emotionally demanding. Looking back, I should have been less dismissive of her obvious emotional needs as well. I suppose I simply thought that because she was so intelligent and well-grounded that she'd survive.
She certainly survived, and thrived, but I'm left feeling kinda guilty that I just didn't understand the depth of her pain when it came to both sharing me and later seeing me get so banged as well.
She lives very close to me now, on the same dirt road and, for that, I'm super glad. Glad that her dear husband intuitively understood how close we were, he more than agreed, he heard from God, about where they should live and that they should attend our church as well, as did Yolie's husband later on.
I talk to Sarah several times each day, see her almost every day, spend hours involved with her and her very beautiful children, and I'm grateful, after all this time and all the emotional abuse that we've both endured, that she's still here, hanging on with me.
She goes to early service at church and since our church is growing so fast, some folks don't put her with me, don't realize that I have any birth children. We'd gotten a funny story yesterday by a man who mistook her for me, thinking to himself, 'her hair sure grew fast,' all I could think of was a big 'thank you fella' as Sarah's 19 years younger than I and so willowy and glamorous, compared to my often wild-eyed, ragged stare and total lack of composure.
Today again, Jonathan refused to get up and go to school, laying there watching us all run up and down the hall with his very flat eyes, totally uncaring that all other ten year olds attend school and are not on probation.
Paloma made it out the door, but struggled visibly to maintain, wanting to decide where everyone sat in the van, who could look at her, even who could breathe. "Mom he's breathing so hard I feel his spit," she inaccurately hollered, regarding Tony, her preferred target for the morning.
I literally just concentrated on very deep breaths, in and out, keep calm, keep going.
I've moved most of my plants out from under the grow lights in the kitchen to the greenhouse, adjusting to chillier temperatures, hardening off in preparation for their big move to the garden. We've gotten an impressive amount of rain over the last three days and I can see my wood chip mulch struggling to contain the moisture, protecting the ground from later evaporation, ready at the root level when needed.
If only child raising could be so predictable, so easy to prepare for....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
