Red Meat Sucks

For those of you who think I'm nuts to not have eaten meat - pretty much in my entire life - we couldn't afford much when I was a kid...read this.

Women Who Need Trucks

I keep several clay pots tilted on their sides out in my gardens, to provide shelter for frogs and toads, who'll then oblige by eating mosquitoes and aphids from my plants. I'd startled this one yesterday as I weeded, but I was glad to see him anyway, breaking out into a grin at the sight like a doddering old frump who gets her thrills from nature. Nearly perfectly blended in with the wood chips, he ought to count his blessings that I didn't clobber him with my hand rake. I'd have been devastated, but certainly not more than he would have been.

JoJo was checking the new pictures on my cell phone, as if attempting to determine if I'd had fun that day while he was in school. It sure didn't look like I'd gotten very far in housework, but my extremely dirt stained hands were a clear indicator of a day spent outside. Doesn't that boy know I can delete?

He came across a picture of the back seat of a car crammed with gardening tools, a sliver of a woman's outstretched arm pointing at the implements, prompting JoJo to holler accusingly, "Hey, when was Ms. Carr here?"

The hyper vigilance continues each day. Suspicious children with trust issues makes for fairly entertaining living. Although retired from the school system, Ms Carr is running the Garden Earth Club, of which Scotty is a member, and this is a woman who obviously needs a truck.

One of my main gardening essentials are empty Sheetrock mud buckets which I fill with weeds as I work or use to haul wood chips, compost, manure, and what have you. Ms. Carr borrows ten buckets each month for her GEN work days at the school, cramming them into her already over-filled tiny black car, leading my own children to comprehend I'm not all that weird. Or maybe they think it's just women of a certain age.

Whatever it is...the emotional freedom a woman has after age 50 is amazing. No longer caring about dumb stuff, confident in who one is now, or who one has become in spite of tough lives, challenges and accomplishments, it's a very fun age and I wouldn't choose to go back one day in time, preferring to stride forward, even though the accumulation of experiences, or more precisely the cumulative effect of the last five years has taken a toll on me.

Or has it?

It, the traumas and the events, led me to discover what I could do to improve my life and my health, now I'm feeling strong and happy again.

With Shasta daisies and antique roses blooming, the irises now nearly spent, vegetable seedlings taking root and gaining ground, it's such a promising time of the year. Allen took down my large dead fig tree where I'd planted it way too close to another, changing the landscape of my Big Back Garden, opening up a large area for me to finish with the tomatoes.

Paloma wanted to push the envelope yesterday, was prowling around with that dangerous look in her eyes, hunting prey it would seem, when her meds miraculously took effect just in time and slowed her to a crawl. Coming off risperadol last month, she's lost weight which is good as she'd quickly over-gained due to the medications.

Jonathan had his crappy, angry look as well, blatantly defying me and others, simply just taking what he wanted, as opposed to minding any rules or time frames. I just wanna scream, "must suck to be you," as his inner demonic drive at times compels him to steal, to destroy and to rage throughout a family. I can't punish him in any way as nothing matters to him. Nothing. I don't scream though, I watch warily, ready to intervene for the safety of others if necessary.

He has a psychiatric appointment this morning, but that too means nothing as he simply refused to go last time. One can't force him into the van, he'd jump out in traffic. One can't force him by withholding privileges as he does what he wants with no impunity. Must suck to be him. I don't want to get into a battle of wills as it's pointless...there's no logic. It is so sad for him.

He got into it with Paloma and told her he was going to yank out all his 23 stitches from yesterday's bike accident. She reported this to me and I stood there wondering what in the heck I'd do if he did. Fortunately he backed down. But truthfully? I could picture the frightening, nasty possibility of him doing such a crazy thing.

Tabby's melting down here at the end of the school year. Good-byes are traumatic for her, she's regressing and fearful, acting out and disobeying. The kids are out May 22nd and the school countdown does nothing to allay her rampant fears, rather it triggers their intensity. Tony, at age 13, is also falling apart at the thought.

My three emotionally grounded, here-since-birth, children - Lily, CW and Jack - simply can't wait for long summer days of good eating from the garden, pool time, playing in the creeks, Nintendo, marathon soccer games in the meadow, and computer time. Such contrast to the other children.

I'd awakened at 4:30 this morning, running downstairs to guzzle coffee and read newspapers on the internet, loving this time alone. By 5:30 I had Sabrina, Jojo and Paloma all in the living room with me, staring at me sleepy-eyed as if I were now single-handedly responsible for entertaining them all, when I'd so prefer they'd sleep until 6:30 in the morning. Did they think I'd sneak out to Waffle House?

What's up with all this? Now Scotty has joined us and I truly want to read more newspapers. Or do I? The fear mongering tactics, the coverage of the economy and Swine flu are stressful. I'm going to go wash another load of laundry instead.

A Medical Education

I get so bored with my endless house chores, with the mundane, with that which must be done over and over and over again, but tough toenails, my list is long and tedious.

Working outside, clippers in hand, a task ahead of me, I almost always get distracted by what seems to be more pressing. I'll get over involved and forget what I first intended to do, leaving an area for a more demanding one, and hopefully eventually getting everything accomplished.

Asked on the soccer field, "Do your kids practice this game a lot?" as my U14 boys have picked up some fancy footwork. Yesterday I noticed the boys had kicked a soccer ball all the way up the driveway and were playing in the dirt road while waiting on the bus, stirring up dust, and sending rocks flying.

I don't want to borrow trouble, to jinx up another drought, but it's dry again and our rain chances seem minimal. Due to heavy winter rains so far though, my strawberries are producing copious amounts. Allen kept picking and handing the huge ones to me, as if offering up a sedative to a mom who was irked over his suspension. It worked. When one grows food free of chemicals, one can stand there and stuff one's face without worrying.

I worked hard and fast yesterday, squeezing in the last tomato plants wherever I possibly could, thinking about how I'm gonna ever get Allen through school?

Handsome, athletic but very academically challenged, he's unmotivated, rude as a self-defense mechanism, and way too negative at times, he's a challenge. More reasonable and emotionally stable than JoJo, but stumped by school from Day One.

He may soon earn himself a trip to Alternative School, which might not be a bad thing, as they have smaller classes, more online focused learning, and highly structured days which might be just what he needs.

I should've sent Carolina and Yolie to nursing school as they both show an aptitude and an intense interest. Yolie with her Master's degree in Social Work has already been a blessing, maybe when her kids are in school she can add a medical education to that resume. Carolina, with five kids, might have to wait awhile.

At the emergency facility yesterday Yolie watched them sew Jonathan's leg up, explaining my squeamishness to the doctor who we've always thought favored George Clooney. "With all those roughnecks she has?" he redundantly remarked. When it is me in the room, rather than Yolie, I have to turn my back, count imaginary things on the wall, just to keep my head clear. The sounds alone gag me.

It'll be a year next month since Big Jose left for El Salvador. We were originally told it would likely be a year so we're hopeful for him to return soon.

My three guys here, CW, Nando and Jack, are easy to raise, loving and helpful. The majority of my children contribute a great deal to our family, at times it seems that the negative actions of a few suck the life out of all of us. We have another month of intense soccer schedule which is always a plus in our lives.

Sarah's New Hairdo

A Fugitive?

I'd no sooner started working in the garden when Allen got put out of school. 18 days left and he gets suspended for 10 of them. Shooting off his mouth, making an ignorant remark, just playing around, but there is zero tolerance for any kind of threats of exploding the school.

Allen was extremely upset, I let him simmer down in his room, then he came out to help me, tears in his eyes, knowing he'd done wrong. No one can work as long as me, he quickly wore out and I blasted my Ipod, alone and happy.

Through all my own noise I heard a loud, speeding, diesel engine Chevy come tearing up my dirt road, through my front yard, spinning around in the meadow. I was astonished, then pissed, as Tommy usually rides his Big Wheel there while Alana and Josiah had just been playing in the meadow.

I grabbed my cell and called Yolie to see who was driving that truck as it immediately roared away. "I dunno," she replied, "A bunch of deputies are speeding by."

I got Allen to go with me and we headed down my driveway up to the dirt road to slam my gate. Keep out marauding trucks.

My neighbors, all both of them, were standing around up on the main dirt road, telling me that one of them had reported seeing the red jeep after a triple murder on Saturday which has since sparked a nationwide search.

Well I'll be derned.

The AJC, and minutes later, the Athens paper, were online reporting this investigative activity, while I was standing in my kitchen wondering if this was even possible? Why would this suspect choose a dead end dirt road? Yeah, there's about a thousand acres of woods to hide in, but this guy had a passport, not a wild hankering for rural life.

I'd allowed my kids to keep riding bikes on our long driveway as we're quite a ways off the dirt road, telling them to stay behind our gate. They were fascinated by all the police activity.

Naturally Jonathan fell off his bike and cut his leg badly, me once again screaming for Carolina as I can't even look at blood, much less view a deep gash.

"Mom, he needs stitches," she advised, but immediately he and Paloma irrationally got into a fight and he was stubbornly refusing to go.

OK, bleed out right there. I waited and waited and he finally decided to go as I stood there shaking the van keys with irritation and a faint head, forgetting about the alleged fugitive sighting, even though my kids had counted 7 police cars passing our driveway.

Hey, I was just happy they got to pass us by, every single one of them knowing where we live.

Yolie met me at the Doc In A Box building, knowing I'd be swooning by then. Even the receptionist was shooing me away, knowing I'd likely barf. 23 stitches. "That's instant karma," JoJo, with the Jonathan induced black eye, intoned gleefully.

Heading back home, stopping to unlock our gate, an Atlanta Fox Five TV crew was waiting. "I don't want to be on TV," I told them. Like I had anything to offer? What am I? The hillbilly mama reaction shot? I have all my teeth, thank you very much. I sniffed imperiously and slammed the gate behind me.

I turned on the TV and watched the story unfolding up on our dirt road. Daniel calling me, "You know your road is implicated in the paper doncha?"

I really was curious, nosey even, wanting to go up there, and down another dirt road branching off the main dirt road, to watch the deputies, but even a fool like me has some boundaries. Mayra and Sabrina wanted to be on TV and indeed were in one quick shot with Martin on Jack's bike in the background, barefoot rural kids. They've slow mo-ed it over and over.

The sheriff had the final shot, "We've eliminated this area as a possibility," driving off, most of my kids peering through the gate like street urchins, waving excitedly at the men in uniform. Such hicks, my kids.

"Y'all better NOT let that TV crew see you," I yelled. "I ain't playing with y'all."

I never did find out who the men in the truck were in my meadow.

My Favorite Coffee Mug

I raced my ownself through Wal-Mart yesterday. Honestly. And I'm supposed to be the role model around here?

Time flies in the garden, it looks like I'll have a lot of potatoes to dig, never enough for a family this size, but I'm doing what I can. I'd forced myself out of the gardens after three hours and noted the 11:56 time on my watch when I dashed past the Wal-Mart greeter. A ready, set, go moment.

Running into Yolie and the kids held me up a minute, plus I didn't know where Pablo's, Martin's new gerbil, food was located but otherwise, shopping the perimeter walls of the store, slinging groceries into the cart, I was in and out, loading my truck after spending close to $200...in 27 minutes. Y'all I'd even had to wait in line to pay.

Breaking five dozen eggs in a bowl and lining up four loaves of bread, I'd dutifully started cooking french toast for supper in my massive black cast iron skillet when JoJo came screaming into the kitchen with an obviously injured eye.

I don't do well in medical emergencies. I'm no kind of a potential nurse. I'm a nurturer, a mama, not a paramedic. Fortunately Carolina was cooking on the other stove and she took over, as I was fairly certain I was gonna faint clean away at the sight.

My first suspect was Allen as he and JoJo, birth brothers, constantly get into fights although they love each other dearly.

I was already white hot furious with Jonathan as CW'd caught him trying to destroy the only valuable jewelry that I own. Years ago Kevin, my brother-in-law, had given me a gold necklace that my sister, Ellen, had always worn. I love this necklace dearly, but almost never wear it. I simply treasure it.

When I found out Jonathan was hell bent on taking this sweet joy from me I nearly lost it. Better judgement prevailed and I simply walked away, necklace in my hand, with very horrible, ugly words wanting to spill from my lips. My eyes said it all, kids scattered every whichaway, CW hugging me. I was literally shaking with fury, but decided to pour my stress into cooking.

Turns out Jonathan had flung a heavy coffee mug at JoJo's head, immediately resulting in a huge egg sized lump on his brow. It was my 'Eat, Drink and Remarry' cup that Sue White had given me nearly 20 years ago after my divorce was finalized. I love that cup and I still miss drinking coffee with Sue at work.

JoJo was crying, Carolina decreed it needed no stitches, Grandma rushed out the door to pick up Chuy from weight-lifting, I had the tiny presence of mind to get an ice pack out, console JoJo, and finish cooking as JoJo had a game at 6.

His soccer coach, an anesthesiologist, cringed at the sight of JoJo an hour later. "Does he still want to play?" the coach politely but hopefully asked, knowing he needed JoJo's aggression on the field. I knew JoJo needed to release that aggression properly so he played, but he clearly had a black eye an hour later as the swelling receded.

I'd contacted DJJ, left a message as I'll press assault charges on Jonathan, the truant. This is a child, a very good looking child, who will certainly release his murderous issues upon society if left untreated. I'd have already made a stink requesting punitive help, but a big part of me comprehends that this is a mental issue, not a willful choice to be so out of sync with normal people.

Surprisingly it was Paloma who'd immediately wanted to attack Jonathan, her birth brother, when she saw JoJo's eye, but somehow I'd stopped her from hurting anyone, while Javy had restrained Jonathan from further attacks.

Javy, emotionally closer to every other son of mine than his own nefarious baby brother, was hugely angry as well, but held it in until his late soccer game, then releasing it properly as a wonderful player. His game went past 9:30, too late for a school night, and we'd hardly gotten home by ten.

However I am very, very aware of, and grateful for, the value of organized soccer as a tension reliever in adolescents.

My favorite coffee cup was not a casualty of yesterday's event.

Such A Monkey

Mayra took this picture of me, evidence that I'd worn the same thing to church three weeks in a row. Girl, no one cares what I wear, least of all me. Wait til you're nearly 55 years old. She should be happy I don't go in my dern pjs.

JoJo wasn't playing soccer very well on Saturday and I stood there with my hands on my hips yelling at him to step it up. He slammed his own hands on his own hips, stuck his butt out three feet, blew his lips up, and mimicked me right back there on the field for all to see.

"Lemme take a picture of that," I'd burst out laughing, but he retorted a very un PC remark and ran off after the ball, copying my uncoordinated loping gait, then scoring the only goal his team made that day. He is such a monkey.

I know it's my own fault for expanding more garden areas than any human can possibly tend to, much less one raggedy ole hyperactive woman with 39 demanding children, but I just can't help myself.

I literally broke into a sweat yesterday, way behind on all chores, knowing I'm just not gonna be able to get it all done, running between areas, dashing inside to do more laundry, wash a sink load of dishes, and back outside to weed.

Javy did dig me another garden bed, I just can't get the entire compost pile moved, so I'm going to spread it where it is, and make it a quick garden. Yet some yoyo named Cindy put wisteria in that spot 16 years ago and it's running rampant, competing with honeysuckle to overtake the antique roses that I love so much I nearly kiss them goodnight each evening.

Allen and JoJo wanted to get into a fistfight yesterday before church but I threatened to body slam them both. "Yeah, you and who else?" Allen asked in wonder, still too gullible to be my son. But it did the trick, they giggled and calmed down and we uneventfully managed church attendance minus a predictably sullen Jonathan who stayed behind with Grandma and Grandpa.

My New Dawn roses pictured here are starting to burst into bloom, my spinach is bolting, but the leaf lettuce is providing delicious lunches for me. I'd stacked 30 leaves of it on my sandwich eaten with dirty hands outside yesterday where food tastes oh so much better than when one eats between four stifling walls.

When the kids are grown I might not ever come back inside. I'll put a gazebo out in The Big Back Garden with my bed in it. An outdoor shower or hot tub will complete my dreams and I'll be as happy as a pig in a poke. Mosquitos don't bite me, I'm not sweet enough. Snakes do irritate me but I'm sure my nine dogs barking will scare them off.

I mowed the Fruit Yard and CW got the meadow looking perfect. Scotty drug the push mower up to the gate where we're growing azaleas and got that area tended to as well.

Now we're even out of milk, the kids have eaten everything not nailed down, but do you think any part of me wants to go to town and shop? Heck no, but I know I'll be internally forced to do so eventually today. Two soccer games tonight plus one practice. Last game over at 9:15 on a school night, meaning my hyped up babies won't be able to calm down until way too late for any of us.

A Nest of Many

I so often blog about our challenges, but I'm picturing two sons who bring me nothing but pride and joy: Daniel and Chuy.

It takes way more of an effort, for me, to just sit around, than to be busy. Being productive seems normal and exhilarating, while sitting still and just watching others makes me squirm. Nearly 90 degrees yesterday and facing seven hours on the soccer field, just sitting and watching games, literally wears one out, although I often jump up to holler encouragement.

Yet Daniel, who'd attended a military ball the night before, staying out until the early morning hours, was there for the very first game at 8:45 on a Saturday morning. Chuy, CW and Allen played all the harder just knowing he was watching them, winning 5-0. They were a force to be reckoned with, like an unstoppable wave, in the second half, the three of them were impressive, bearing down upon the goal, determined to pass and to kick it in. That's my boys.

Nando shone in his game, kicking some 7 out of the 12 goals in the U8 league. Daniel dashed across the park by noon to catch Ray's T ball game and then went to Athens where he lives, while I stayed for the rest of the games, glad that Scotty is turning out to be quite the soccer player, as were all the rest of my children. If only they could be that focused in school.

Chuy looks up to Daniel as they have a lot in common. Both were adopted from El Paso some 15 years apart, both are athletic, handsome and smart. Both are very stand-offish until they learn to trust folks, Chuy way more so, still emotionally shut off too often, as Daniel had Yolie to teach him how to love someone and to trust. Both boys certainly made me earn it, they don't just give it away.

CW, born here and lived with me all of his life, also is absolutely positive that Daniel hung the moon. Me too. And how gorgeous is his girlfriend Lauren?

Nothing like then later receiving a text : UGA Shooting from the university emergency alert system. I read the contents in disbelief unable to put the components together in my mind. A professor? I handed my phone to my friend, Robin, who'd just given pinks socks, pink shin guards and pink cleats to Tabby (who slept with them next to her last night) as if maybe I wasn't reading English correctly.

I called Daniel immediately. "Wow", he said, "guess you got the same text." He didn't know any details, but I was reassured knowing he'd arrived over at his girlfriend's apartment, the text had warned of another area in town.

Grandma and Grandpa had taken Jack and his bike downtown for the Twilight Criterium kid's races, but I knew they were already headed home. Grandpa had had to walk too far, leaving Grandma having to hold the lawn chairs and cooler behind. I'd called both Cristy and Gina to puh-leeze run downtown and find them for me, make sure they were OK, as this pulmonary fibrosis is taking its toll on Grandpa at times, although he still stays outside weeding for hours and tending to his gardens.

By the time all our games were finished even my energetic, athletic kids were whupped. Vegging out for super, leftovers or cook yourself something, I picked a heap of Swiss Chard, steaming it and dousing it with balsamic vinegar, pepper sauce and grated cheese, a huge plate that I devoured, drinking about a gallon of water as well.

This UGA shooting turned out to be a shocking crime that took the lives of three people at the Town and Gown, a place Sarah and I once used as our escape from the adoption world. So many years/kids ago, I don't think we ever went after our family'd reached the 11 children stage, I know we've not gone there together since I lived in this particular house which has been for the last 16 years. Three deaths in a fairly small town, this doesn't happen here had been my first thought. I'm so sorry for all the families that are involved in their losses. This was horrific.

Yolie'd finished teaching a class to prospective adoptive parents, unaware of the events unfolding, but when she found out about it, her first thought was of her baby brother, "Mom was Daniel with you?" only to then realize Joe'd also been downtown all day with Alyssa for the bike races. As a family, we're so emotionally traumatized that the sound of sirens in the distance will make me automatically try and determine the whereabouts of 39 children, the sons-in-laws, and 19 grandchildren, although I'm often unable to correctly do so, what with grown kid's schedules and attitudes. Will I ever calm down again? Someday be able to just garden with a heart that doesn't pound? Will I be stress-free? Barefoot and fancy free?

And as if we don't have enough animals in our house, Miriam brought Martin a gerbil named Pablo with a 2 level cage.

I closed out the day with a phone call from Sarah who was more than mildly annoyed to find a snake in her beautiful kitchen. A small snake, but that's even more alarming to us country folks who are usually sure that the small one comes from a nest of many. Preston had picked it up with his work gloves, petting it, and releasing it back outside. Shudder.

Pickle Picnic

Like his mother before him, Ray Ray is now perfecting the art of watching the garden grow. There's one small peach on this tree and he's mightily impressed. Lily picked me three bowls of ultra delicious, organically grown strawberries to eat last night after yet another full, productive day.

In the big town, in the next county over, there were two neighborhood yard sales on a Friday morning. There I was heading out to buy groceries and immediately distracted by the signs, only to find myself further preoccupied by sacks of curbside leaves begging to come home with me. Neatly bagged in biodegradable bags...who could resist helping out the soon to arrive landfill service?

Absolutely thrilled at such an accompaniment to my wood chip mulch, I hopped out and loaded up my truck, driving back home visualizing in my mind, the party that will occur underneath this mixed mulch of microbes and fat, happy earthworms.

I had stopped at one yard sale only to find that the entire contents of the house were for sale. Vintage linens and nice furniture, I had the eerie feeling that someone had recently passed away, leaving behind all their material possessions since that's the way life works. All this stuff left behind got me to thinking how little stuff means to me anyway. I only wanna drag my 39 children, the rest of my family and friends with me when I finally get to go to Heaven.

Given more gorgeously decomposing coffee grinds already, but still stopping at Starbucks, by the time I'd gotten back up to the new asparagus bed, I was hardly in the mood for grocery shopping, but it's gotta get done. I lovingly laid out all the grinds and mixed the leaves with wood chips much as one might stir the batter in making a cake. I flew through the grocery store, slinging dumb food stuff into my buggy, knowing it was all gonna get gobbled down and pooped out later...a what's the point of this moment? I could be digging in the dirt and producing something.

Dr. C has added another clonedine tablet in the evening to keep the edge of Paloma's inner rage and, for awhile, medications always seem to work. The State Office has found our residential applications, so we're again in prayer mode for two approvals, both for Jonathan and Paloma. Folks are always asking me how they can help me...here's your chance, pray for approvals. We can all move the hands of God in prayer. Aren't we all living proof of that?

I'd run into a friend of mine yesterday, someone I've known for probably 30 years, watched her do an excellent job raising her children, only to fall into despair at their later choices and accompanying mishaps. I reminded her, knowing it was true in my heart, knowing she knows it too, someday all this, all my whining as well, just won't matter. We'll have the answers then to our questions, our very many unanswered WHYS.

Dr. Mandy came by for our regular Friday afternoon sessions and helped me process and see so much that I often don't emotionally discover until later. All my children were so good all evening that I'd gotten to see the last half of Larry King's session with a brain biologist who lucidly explained brain dysfunction and violent tendencies in The Killer Among Us. I wish I'd seen the entire show, as he pointed out damaged areas in a brain model he held with the same awestruck devotion I also show to my worms.

Mid-afternoon, when the elementary children were home from school, they had a Pickle Picnic on the back deck. So easily entertained, even though Paloma was doing her level medicated best to control the situation, to run the show, but at least she was fairly nice and calm for the moment.

We have five soccer games starting at 8:45 this morning, ending by three this afternoon. Ray has a tball game at noon in the same park so I should get to see that as well. Packing a couple dozen pb & j sandwiches, filling the van with snacks to hold us until we get back home, like I could afford concession stand prices? Loading up water jugs, as we have very delicious sweet well water, and it's my turn to provide snacks for the U14 team, drying jerseys, picking up shin guards they'd slung every whichaway after Thursday night games, we'd don't have any free time it seems.

I really, really don't mind the massive time drain caused by so many soccer teams. Anything around here that doesn't involve the police, CPS, attorneys, judges, the court system or any other punitive, but natural, negative consequence is an activity I'll whole heartedly support.

I should have included over-flowing toilets in that list to avoid. Why am I the only one here in the family that can properly flush a toilet and why does everyone wait until bedtime before they explode one? I work right hard and by nightfall, I'm teetering on the edge of exhaustion, the last thing I wanna do is plunge a dern toilet such as I again had to do last night, muttering inane threats while barefoot and praying against any stinky type of resulting waterfall.

Fortunately I was able to then go to bed with dry, unassailed feet.

Inner Force and Strength

Even though it's tough to watch kids make pig-headed mistakes, it is more than gratifying to hear grown kids tell me they wished they'd listened to me all along. Such endearing words blurted forth from Vanessa yesterday, she told me she knew folks prayed for her, especially Nancy from Iowa. "Man I could've been almost finished with culinary school by now if I'd just buckled down."

"Yeah, viper girl," Miriam giggled. They'd come down to the soccer field to watch CW, Allen and Chuy's team, three powerhouse boys who are unstoppable on the field. Fabian, standing there listening quietly, his head bowed, knowing he has several more legal events ahead of him, was hugging Nando who'd been playing soccer on an empty field with large, Mexican older siblings of folks we know. One of the nearly grown men told Nando, "You're the best socccer player out of all the Bodies" greatly pleasing my little baby-man, who really is a talented, fearless striker.

I rarely even sit when my three seventh grade guys are playing, preferring to pace the sidelines and holler encouragement. Allen plays even harder when his older birth siblings show up. Pepe'd called my cell phone and Fabian spent some time talking to him, encouraging him to do good in his placement, "Don't crap it up, son," while totally missing the irony.

And then there's JoJo - the baby of that rowdy bunch of seven that joined our family nine years ago. If we could just inject what his older siblings have finally realized, into his hard-headed skull...but no, he was bopping around telling Vanessa that his sprouting upper lip hairs were sparse in comparison to hers.

She'd accompanied me that morning to court, looking at the pictures on my cell phone, super affectionate, child-like almost, needing reassurance and attention, surprisingly telling me she'd found comfort in Cristy's long ago story. "Mama, she was really messed up, right? Then look how much she got it together. I want to be just like her."

"Go for it, you know I'll help you," I encouraged, knowing it often takes my incredibly hard-headed, troubled, traumatized children a very, very long time to grow up and comprehend much about real life and being a normal family member.

After court I'd called Cristy to meet me at her house. I really wanted to see what she'd done with her garden situation. There's hardly anything better than a child who once rejected nearly everything about me, eventually choosing to settle down, act right, and garden for personal stress therapy. I oohed and ahhed throughout her entire yard as she's done a very impressive job. The pictures are of her garden beds.

Gina'd recently told me that gardening is now considered to be a cool endeavor, all the trendy folks are gardening. "Oh, really?" I'd asked in surprise, only to then receive this article from Trish, confirming Gina's thoughts. Gina is container gardening, and growing quite a bit of plants.

Feeling foot-loose and fancy free after court, all dressed up for nothing, I called my best friend to meet me for lunch at Larry's Giant Subs. Originally my adoption worker, later the owner/director of the adoption agency itself, supervising the line of workers who've traipsed through our lives, offering help, advice and support, Emily and I grew into longtime friends. I so rarely get to do something like that, adult time and catching up, by the time I finally got home, the day was shot and Jonathan who'd been babysat all day by grandparents, whined at me, "Finally you're home?" as if I'd deserted him for years on end.

"Boy, go to school," I reminded him, knowing he too has been unraveling lately, showing bizarre behaviors, visibly sinking downward. Bedtime was tough as he was threatening to murder various family members, his face darkened, his eyes sunken inward, a mask of hatred on his usually very attractive face.

Another friend, a mother of a large adoptive family, who had gone through horrible ordeals now for several years asked me, "What were we thinking?" in reference to our original dreams of simply helping children who didn't have families. I innapropriately and immediately burst out laughing at her question, feeling mightily pained my ownself at times.

We'd once been so innocent, nearly simple-minded in our hopes of providing for others, in sharing what we had, in being doers of the Word, only to find ourselves nearly destroyed in the process. I don't know of a single large adoptive family who has not been beaten down by the system and through the process. It's not only the large families, it's anyone that's tried to parent an adopted traumatized child.

It truly has been at such a cost.

Yet, yesterday I was internally reminded after the soccer game, as we all got back into the van, that I'd once felt a very deep sense of joy and purpose to my life. I know that joy comes from God, I've lost my way a little bit, having been treated so horribly for such extended periods of time, I've fought back the bitterness and anger, and I truly miss the happiness and confidence I once felt and wore like an overcoat.

It's really time for me to reclaim my once optimistic, driven inner force and strength.

Oh My Goodness

Another phone call in the middle of the night, this time it is paramedics calling to tell me there's nothing wrong with my son who'd called them, as a taxi service apparently, wanting to go to the hospital.

"Put him on the phone," I'd struggled up from a very deep, exhausted sleep, "Boy, this sounds like anxiety, someone who doesn't want to go to jail."

"They said it might be stress," he lamely answered.

"Stress? You sleep all the time, all the time, and then sit around and shoot the bull with other unemployed, gang-glorifying fools. What stress?"

"Put the EMT man back on the phone," out of patience, needing sleep, I'm not going to argue at four in the morning.

Click.

Dude, what do you think caller ID is for?

I called the EMS man only to hear, "Ma'am, he's totally fine. We advised him to go to Urgent Care in the morning if he wants."

I know he's fine, that's why I didn't go out at 2 in the morning yesterday for nothing.

If you can't do the time, son don't do the crime.

That thug lifestyle is appealing when you think you can badger your mama into buying baggy pants and glittery, slouchy hats. Bug me all you want, I'm not buying that crap. Grow UP.

Won't this be a fun court date this morning? Me, putting on my monkey suit when I'd rather be digging in the dirt, to hear the judge tell him the same thing I've told him for years and years, both of us apparently baying at the moon.

The school had called me yesterday, telling me that Paloma was barfing during the CRCT tests and needed to come home. Yes, I totally understand the annoying and disruptive nature of a puker, especially a willful one, so I obediently went to get her, knowing she'd be totally fine once she'd succeeded in getting her way, and that's what happened.

I'd read this in a local paper this morning, "Officers arrested an 8-year-old student Tuesday afternoon after she fought with a female teacher.

The girl repeatedly struck the teacher in front of her first-grade classmates, then "wildly" waved a large stick outside the classroom, according to police.

The principal and two male teachers restrained the girl until officers arrived, police said. The girl was charged with battery, disruption of school functions and disorderly conduct and released into her mother's custody, police said."

And this, "Officers arrested a 62-year-old homeless man Tuesday afternoon for slashing another man's face, police said.

He admitted that he hit the victim during an argument. The officer searched him and found a knife.

The victim said there was no argument and that he was attacked without provocation."

Two separate disturbed people, ages 8 and 62. Do folks never learn?

Yolie and I talked about how hard it is to raise kids when their early behaviors are fairly indicative of future paths they might take. Pastor Mark reiterated that salvation is, of course, our ultimate goal in life, maybe that's all I was called to do. To bang my head against a brick wall, teaching right from wrong, no matter what.

Then there is free will and the children may choose which way to go. It's on them then. Those who still want my advice, or me in their lives, can choose to do so. Others may reject me, betray my values, be passive-aggressively hateful, or whatever.

I'll just go dig in the dirt happily minding my own business. That's what locked gates are for.

My son Scotty, pictured here, was described by his former caseworkers as a handful, a challenged child with anger issues, but so far, he's been only fairly disobedient. Usually a pretty good kid, with Memaw as an older sister breathing down his neck.

She'd written a sweet note to me on Facebook, thanking me for the best years of her life, living here down this dirt road. My last adoption of those four children, has been played out against a backdrop of some very mentally ill children and Sabrina has watched me carefully throughout a very tough four years here. She's college material, a wonderful athlete, and an overall great kid with the dumb teenage issues like a messy room and crushes on boys. Oh barf.

Scotty too has turned out to be a fine soccer player, a very decent student, a high-anxiety kid who needs constant reassurance plus he's very lovable.

And I finally heard from the residential situation. The one in charge, out on medical leave, no one knows where our application packets are. Are you kidding me? Do I need to go to Atlanta and dig through some desks?

Oh. My. Goodness.

Psychotic Breaks

"Are you at the hospital?" Grandpa asked me when I'd called him to take Tabby and Nando to their soccer game, worried I'd broken the bones in my fingers.

Yesterday started off beautifully. I was up in the Fruit Yard where we've added three new garden beds, hauling the tomato cages CW had made for me. My antique roses are fragrantly in bloom, heart-stoppingly so. It was a warm, breezy morning and I was listening to the most exquisite piano music on my Ipod. Honestly I was so moved by the peacefulness of my day, I wanted to gratefully text the person who'd given me the CDs, but I was too muddy and getting a ton of work accomplished, feeling real good about my life. This is as it should be.

I was thinking about two really sweet compliments I'd been given by CC and Hannah, on my blog, hitting publish from my Blackberry, gratified that life was going so fine.

Grandma'd watched a Lockdown show where the criminally insane were raging in their cells and guards suited up in teams to quell the disturbances of just one person, having strait jackets and meds available for their use. Still astonished at what she's seen me have to deal with all too often for years and years, she was wishing we too had a security guard. I'd settle for residential psychiatric care. We're still waiting to hear about the applications we've made.

Just as I'd put supper on the table, all Hell broke loose.

Paloma went after Jack, my 8 year old, for absolutely no reason, but she was tackled mid-air. She disintegrated in front of everyone's eyes. He ran and locked himself in Lily's room while Javy and Chuy jumped to my side, sure she'd make me pay.

She screamed and hollered gibberish, her face distorted, guttural voice emanating, wanting me to punish Jack for nothing, and when none of us fed into her craziness, she ran outside and smashed the chicken enclosure, letting the chickens loose in my gardens, knowing they'd immediately crap up all my hard work, ruin everything that was planted. A big F#&K You moment for Mom.

I had a mini-breakdown.

While Scotty, Jonathan and Memaw ran after the hens, I slung everything in my garden shed, screaming like a banshee, I must have punched the wooden cross beam because the pain was intense enough to bring me to my senses and make me holler, "Oh no, not my garden hand!" and I burst into tears.

Paloma immediately accused Javy of kicking her, when all ten of us saw it not happen. No one touched her, everyone was deathly afraid of her fury. She controls us with her false accusations.

Grandpa and Grandma came running, but I sent them to find Jack and to lock themselves up in their side of the house.

Yes, this is how folks live when there is documented insanity.

Paloma screamed she was running away and for a split second I simply didn't care at all. Tons of hateful, non-Christian thoughts were running through my brain.

But knowing the fallout that would then hit us as a family, Javy, Chuy and I went after her, finding her up on the dirt road, off our property, screaming, spitting and raging.

Mayra and Memaw supervised the rest of dinner while Javy, Chuy and I stayed for over an hour, waiting her out, arms crossed, making sure she didn't hurt herself. It'd make for a long boring description and I was so upset that I was missing Tabby and Nando's game that I again cried in frustration, sitting pathetically watching the most incredible display of unmitigated, unprovoked anger and hatred seething from her pores at me.

Here's two other mother's versions of my day at their house here and here.

Should I call the police? Miss Kim at DJJ? What's the point? Kim couldn't do anything and the police would only enrage Paloma further and not make me feel any better either as they don't really understand mental illness in a 12 year old.

Three long hours later, Paloma's inner rage finally subsided enough, or her meds kicked in. This child was raging through Lexapro, Clonedine, Lithium, Concerta and Abilify. How on earth can one woman be expected to manage this level of craziness? If I hadn't had Javy and Chuy, I promise you I'd have been badly hurt. Paloma wants to hurt someone, feels a deep inner need to do so, and someday she will succeed. I will always throw myself between her and her intended victim...therefore I'm going to be hurt. I have no choice. She knows this too, and, in her mind, feels justified to hurt me since I won't let her hurt someone else.

Javy and Martin had an 8:15 game that Grandpa had eventually driven them to, but didn't have the energy to stay there, so with him and Grandma plus Carolina to babysit, I jumped in the van and made it by 8:30 along with four other children who desperately needed to get out of the house. By then the younger ones were in bed and Paloma had conked out, as if recovering from a psychotic seizure of sorts.

I sat with Pastor Mark, just the person I needed to be with, as he calmed me down, brought tears to my eyes with his understanding of the situation. I never went to the hospital, my fingers weren't broken, but jammed and swollen. Big Joe brought Alyssa down there to get her energy out and watching her play helped me as well. Pictured goofily below, this is how my heart will heal someday via the grandbabies.

Two phone calls in the middle of the night regarding a hospital situation, but I'm too emotionally whupped to blog it. I NEED to go out and repair last night's damages to my gardens and to heal my own inner fury and sadness. This isn't parenting, this is managing mental illness in a child that can't be parented.

While the boys and I'd sat in the dirt road, waiting the psychosis-break-from-reality out, I'd dreamed of the restraining order I'd someday need to keep this documented insanity away from me.

I closed my eyes, prayed that my angry heart wouldn't explode, prayed for a resolution to this situation, and thought longingly about the beach.

Still Drinking Water From The Well

Alyssa's holding one of the kittens birthed upstairs this week, Big Joe, her daddy, spent all last night pinging me to get me to forward this picture, not via email, but through MMS, or whatever. Soccer game, soccer practice, get the young'uns to bed routine is leaving me precious little time to learn a new skill.

Memaw gave Yolie a large, ripe, just picked strawberry last night, uneventful in a normal world, but as the sun-warmed flavor burst in Yolie's mouth, tears sprang to her eyes. "The taste of my childhood," she explained to a rather shocked 14 year old called Memaw. Sitting in the same kitchen, nearly 20 years later, reminding Yolie of the second half of her childhood, living with me, as compared to the horrific first 11 years in a drug-infested, cruddy series of government projects. The contrast never goes away.

Cristy came in the door a minute later asking, "What's for supper?" as her husband was out of town. Piling a staggering amount of Fire Hot Pepper Sauce on her red beans, corn and rice plate, she too ended up crying over the obvious fact of Lily growing up so fast.

"Wow, y'all...get a grip," I'd advised, but I've found myself to be over emotional lately as well. Blame it on sun spots or global warming, or maybe the incredible load I've been under for so many years. Life's getting easier for me now with no babies, no diapers, and way less kids at home from my all-time high a few years ago.

My young teens, always surprised at my older kid's reactions to so much, forgetting they too were adopted, but instead viewing them as old school family members, generally watch in silence as if the older generation around here speaks another language. "What's wrong with them now?" is the unspoken translation of obvious glances between the too-cool-for you middle schoolers.

Thinking over a phone conversation yesterday regarding the cwapload of wall to wall work around here, I do it by rote. First thing in the morning I hang up shirts from the dryer, put socks and underwear in the correct buckets, and wash another stinky load. After I've gotten the children to school, it's another load of laundry and scrape the kitchen clean, going through the living room and family room, picking up, before hopefully running outside to get my fun work done. Today with no appointments, I should have clear sailing until soccer games tonight.

I'd purchased another roll of hog wire and using Grandpa's wire cutters, CW is patiently counting out 12 squares and then cutting, wrapping a circle tomato cage for his SAE project, making it look so much like Tom Sawyerish fun, that Chuy and Martin started helping as well. Working in the garage, they'll get me another 50 tomato cages possibly, that'll last for decades.

I've planted 140 tomato plants in The Big Back Garden and whatever I don't get planted today up in the Fruit Yard's new bed will go to Chuck's garden, as I'm slap out of empty garden beds and still have more seeds to plant, squeezing them in every spare inch possible. It's OK for me to crowd the plants as the leaves create a living mulch and the beds are dug so deep that the roots plunge straight down.

I fuss at myself, over the garden beds in the front of the house that are filled with weeds such as honeysuckle and brambles, but the back looks nearly perfect and even if I worked 24-7 while childless, I've set up an impossible amount of work to humanly get done. That said, it doesn't stress me, but rather fills my days with activities that I truly love.

I'd listened to my Ipod, the Cathedral Quartet, belting out old country gospel songs that stir my heart and remind me why I do what I do. Still Drinking Water from the Well...what with fiddles and honkey tonk piano riles me up big time with it's rip-roaring, foot stomping, contagious sounds of happiness. This is what fuels my tank and reminds me why I do what I do.

Our lives have been incredibly peaceful lately. Paloma has been fairly calm, yet I'm experienced enough to understand that it won't last. Jonathan is refusing school knowing there seem to be few consequences. Yes, he's on behavior restrictions here, but he simply does not care. Not at all.

As insensitive as any dirt clod, I'd blurted, "Child you are really disturbed," to which he'd stared at me with his uncomprehending, blank countenance and asked for computer time.

"Yeah, IF you go to school," I'd responded, and there was absolutely zero connection in his mind between rewards and consequences.

Zero.

But I'm still drinking water from the well and my soul's satisfied. I'm doing what I was called to do. that's all, the end results are in God's hands.

Work, Work, Work

My own emotions are fairly slammed shut, very, very emotionally exhausted from the unreasonableness and blame game I'm too often forced to participate in much against my will.

These two guys, survivors of a very troubled sibling group, "Shut up fat lard," Chuy'd whirled on Paloma, his birth sister, very aggravated, but I don't care.

"Watch your mouth boy," I'd warned him. Name calling escalates to fist fighting and I'm sick of the violence.

After church I again, as usual, retreated to my gardens, asking Javy and Chuy to come dig me yet another bed. Scotty, Jack and Nando riding bikes in circles around me as I worked. The house dogs scampering every whichaway, particularly when Paloma almost mowed over a turtle.

"Is this the last one?" Whining in unison.

"Maybe." Yeah, right.

"What would you do without us to dig the beds for you?"

Are you kidding me? Who do you think double dug all the other beds? And who's sucking up all my free time on the soccer field? And do you think I'd need to grow all this food if it were only me?

All valid thoughts, but what's the point?

"Dig it or run off whining, it's all the same to me," I growled, used to doing all the work anyway.

They dug.

Gina came by, delightfully cheering me up, bringing coffee grounds and her pretty smile.

I stayed up there in the fruit yard until dark, watering, mulching, weeding, mowing and planting while Martin drove the yard tractor around the 1/3 mile circle in the second meadow, keeping it clear for me to stomp out my many frustration, Scotty trimming the branches that might slap me in the face...likely fearing the explosion from me to the branches.

Work, work work. It's all I got, but it is therapeutic.

Unbelievably so.

I drug Fabian's criminal butt to the dentist this morning, hauled in ten tons of groceries, soaked the beans, and have soccer tonight, but there's been very, very little drama here and for that I'm grateful.

Gotta go plant melons. I sound grouchy but I'm not. First time in weeks I can plug in my Ipod and go.

He Knows He Can Count On Me

Maybe it's the quirky, unpredictable nature of bipolar illness, and Paloma is in one of her upswings, but life is almost uneventful around here. Her soccer coach took her to lunch yesterday with his family, loaded down with warnings, threats to her and inner reservations by me, his own daughter has only been in the U.S. for less than a year, adopted from Central America, but more importantly, he's a big, burly federal Probation Officer, a man who can handle outbursts and is most certainly experienced with behavior disorders in his line of work.

That gave me a sorta free hour to concentrate on Scotty and JoJo's soccer game. Both are talented players, but JoJo didn't put forth much effort. "Get in the game," I'd hollered at him, only for him to grin back and galumph across the field, swinging his arms every whichaway like a monkey, not caring at all for anyone's opinion of an immature 12 year old. "What a freak," his older brothers have often commented.

After all was said and done, six solid hours of soccer, Martin had promised to move the massive compost pile for me, but at age 15, easily frustrated, realizing it was awfully hard work, he'd balked and whined. I'm real tired of begging the kids to help, tired of crappy work, tired of all the accompanying hassles, so I rudely, dramatically hissed at him to just go away and I'd do it myself, muttering under my breath, realizing I'm not going to be able to impart as much character in them that I'd once hoped to do. A work ethic would be at the top of the list.

It's just not worth the heart attack.

I shoveled and shoveled, filling bucket after bucket, truly enjoying the backbreaking work, but I'm apparently a freak like her. Certainly like my mama who was up in her gardens toiling all afternoon, but with a smile on her face.

Martin, a man with a heart and a conscience, quietly started hauling the buckets, a grin on his face as I oohed and ahhed over the magnificent brown gold. I know I sound like a dork, but I really do get excited over compost. Sometimes I look around me and am amazed at the amount of hard physical labor I've put into this house and land.

An onlooker could easily point out massive lists of what's not been done and what needs to be accomplished, but only I know about the 16 years of hard labor here.

By dark the newest garden bed was very heavily composted, planted in tomatoes, and mulched with wood chips, plus I'd carefully mowed the Fruit Yard only to bemoan my Paw Paws aren't doing squat. Nothing. Nada. I take my garden failures too personally.

Shaking it off, I'd discovered a place up there where we can quickly put in several more garden beds and hope the deer don't help themselves. Peanuts grow underground, so they should be ok, except the tender shoots are tempting. Tabby scampered around, collecting mown grass clippings for her buckets, and painstakingly mulching the fruit trees, yelling about nitrogen, "I sound like you Mama!" she exclaimed joyfully as that's the only way to be in the gardens. Night was falling while I wished for a solar spotlight that would bathe the gardens in light for just a few more hours.

That's probably not a good idea as I'd then never leave the gardens. Never. Ever.

Everyone else had run to the house at nightfall to be midwives, throwing my sheets and covers in the laundry room, unfortunately encountering a stillborn kitten, and moving the entire surviving litter downstairs, as my room's clearly a jungle, not a birthing center.

The Fruit Yard, Old Goose Yard and the Big Back Garden are all fenced in together, covering an acre of interesting biodiversity and the Yorkies love, love love it. The freedom to run and sniff, sure that the kids are close by, as they aren't that brave, except the lone male Pudding who even snarls at my ornery yard dogs, prompting Allen to inappropriately point out, "He's as ballsy as mama"

OK son, you're gonna irk your future wife with an attitude like that. Fortunately for him, I take it as a compliment. He knows he can count on me.

T Ball Time

Recently a friend was remarking on the fact that I handle all this mess 'all alone,' and hoped that didn't offend me. Nope, not at all, but it startled me.

I'm all alone?

Hard to consider oneself alone in a family this size. Having been a mom all my life, having never lived alone ever in my life, this 'all alone' amuses me.

Alone would be not having to share socks with the Bubbas, or having a dry toilet seat, lids on all the jars in the fridge, and stuff right where I left it. Alone is appealing to me, I slip out in my gardens to be alone, I value 'all alone' and I crave it, as sometimes I think my head will blow off if I have to even hear another sound.

I get up early to be all alone.

But I'm probably missing the point.

I also forgot, this morning, to factor in Ray's T-ball game and Mayra's volunteer time at a golf tournament as we buzzed all over the different soccer fields for six straight hours.

When I'd gone to pick Mayra up, a deputy stopped me, as if riffraff like me shouldn't enter the country club?

No you didn't, I thought, explaining I was going to pick up my daughter who was working there. "Boy you know I have kids scattered all over two counties." He smirked at me, knowing several of them bad boys already, while somehow Mayra got up with yet another deputy, at the other entrance and was impatiently waiting for me, borrowing his cell to call me again.

Later in the evening, I'm working outside and the same second deputy called me to ask suspiciously "Who's number is this?"

Now who's forgetful?

There I was minding my own business, thinking how much work I put into eating, still dragging tons of compost carefully to each garden bed, side-dressing, digging and spreading it out just so.

And now I need a shower and the kids just told me a barn cat just had kittens on my bed. "Are you kidding me?" I'd hollered in disbelief.

"Y'all best get that mess cleaned up before I see it," I warned. I'm going to first read Sarah's newest post.

Watching The Gardens Grow

Since my own mama popped out four kids in four and a half years, way back in the 1950s, my siblings and I are very close. Jimbo the baby, now 50, comes up here several times a year to visit, while Gary used to travel extensively with the Olympics, now has a new profession that still put him in the newspaper recently. I'm the oldest, the bossiest, and the oddest it would seem, what with my big ole family, but it's my sister that we've had to learn to live without for 13 years now.

This weekend marks her final exit from this world, leaving me stunned and surprisingly unglued for someone with such a strong faith. I remember standing there, surrounded by my children, knowing then that within a week I'd be raising an infant grandchild, while Ellen didn't even get to see her own beautiful daughter, Lauren, grow past age 7. I struggle emotionally and spiritually with unfairness and injustice.

We were comforted back then by the words of one of Ellen's friends, who reminded us that she too had lost her mom at age 7 and had grown into a remarkable young woman, as did Lauren as well, her wonderful father has done an exemplary job of raising her alone. Now attending William & Mary College like both her parents.

And CW, the tall one I'd pictured yesterday, soon to be 13, towering over his siblings here in our family, never knew Ellen, but in needing me to tend to him, helped me recover from the blow that year through pure busyness, along with all Daniel's Little League and high school baseball and football games, plus Big Joe's football games. That's Joe's daughter, Alyssa, pictured with Tabby. Life goes on, generations unfold before us all.

I had no clue how many more children would follow CW into my life. The Alternative School Director told me in a meeting yesterday, "Oh you'll probably always be adopting children."

Oh? No, I won't.

I'm clearly finished adopting children, now I'm trying to finish raising them all. I'd also pictured Javy yesterday and when he didn't get off the school bus, and none of my kids knew where he was, my first thought was I'd jinxed him by bragging on him yesterday. My heart was pounding, why'd that young'un run away? We'd not squabbled, he'd hugged me goodbye, and all was hunky dory.

I knew I had to get to Sabrina and Chuy's game, but immediately all my kids threw various fits, sensing Javy's apparent family betrayal. I knew most of them wanted to attend Middle School Madness so I was able to harness the negative energy and convert it into pure bribery. "Yall ain't going nowhere until you straighten up."

An hour later Javy called, telling me he'd stayed after school to finish up work, could he stay for the baseball game?

Dude, you stopped my weak heart with fear.

I did get to the final middle school soccer game, girls won, boys lost, only three of my children wanted to go to Middle School Madness after all, and we had a peaceful night, with my thoughts still on my sister who I'd love to get just one more long phone call from. She left this earth before any of us had cell phones when we could've talked from her D.C. home way down here to my rural refuge for free with Verizon.

As if on cue, my cell phone rang...it was Sarah, not Ellen, but for just a minute there...

Losing my own sibling reinforced my God-given, God-driven desire to keep adopted siblings together.

Today is soccer. Period. Five teams needing Picture Day Appointments, practices and a game as well.

Rain coming tomorrow and I really want to finish moving the compost onto new beds, and a list of other chores that makes my heart sing with joy even while thinking about Ellen, Lauren and her dad, Kevin. Tabby and Alyssa are pictured watching the gardens grow, a favorite pastime for me, right before Braves baseball games.

Kevin, I hear baseball calling our names. I can't even begin to number the amount of games we've attended since then, several World Series as well, honestly as part of the grieving process. There's nothing like being in a professional ball park to take your mind off of worldly sorrows that will someday pass away.

Hey, we all have our own methods of coping.

Can't Get Dirty

Well this stinks, an hour to kill between meetings and if I run out to the gardens I'll get too dirty to be any sort of presentable, so I'm reluctantly lingering indoors. Any movement towards the freedom of my gardens results in me totally losing track of time and getting muddy.

I've made yet another garden bed, pleased as punch with the progress of my gardens, the only facets of my life that genuinely do not stress me out, yet the four guys pictured here are right easy going as well. Javy, CW, Martin and Nando can be counted upon, which I dearly appreciate. So can Chuy and Jack. Allen, JoJo, Tony and Scotty are iffy on a good day, cruddy on a bad day, yet all three have potential.

"Smile y'all," I'd suggested to the boys at 7 in the morning, not cranked up on caffeine like me.

JoJo did go to school today, Jonathan slipping deeper into his sickness, watched with dark eyes, shrilly crowing like a bird loudly in his room while others ignored him. Paloma is amping up her control issues, while the rest of the family step around her, not wanting to get sucked in.

We are 24-7 deep in the rec league soccer season and I'm gonna run to the middle school late this afternoon for the boys and the girls games, finishing off great seasons for both Chuy and Sabrina.

I just plotted my time schedule and I'll be unable to work outside until late Saturday afternoon. I'd stood on the upstairs deck though, pleased with the way everything's shaping up so far, thanks to all that rain. Chuy's working on the rock pathway near the greenhouses. CW's building more tomato cages, Javy needs to dig out yet one more garden bed. "One more? That's what you said last week," he reminded me.

Boy, at my age, I reserve the right to expand my garden production into the next county if I so desire. Fortunately for him, I prefer to stay close to home. I haven't yet planted peanuts, I want Ray Ray to help me with that. His garden fascination is impressive.

I've eaten a few strawberries, we're fixing to harvest a ton, and now my roses are beginning to bloom. What could thrill me more?

I Can Do This

I'm already sweating my schedule for Friday. Jack's class requires that I be there for an 8 a.m. presentation as he presents his Caesar Chavez biography, complete with costume, and needing two 13 X 9 pans of grits for the breakfast served later. Thankfully Grandma's doing that part and then we'll run errands before my meeting at the alternative school where JoJo isn't showing up regularly. I'll cap it all off with the last two soccer games of the middle school season, leaving me only to attend to the five rec league teams and football practices.

I had an absolute cow this morning, broke a stupid Christmas tree coffee mug in my frustration over an 11 and a 12 year old, both on probation, again refusing to attend school. They see no consequences, nothing scares them at all. A life in prison? Who cares? They smirk at the thought. Then don't call me to bail your sorry butts out. I stormed upstairs to put on my monkey suit.

I blew out the door and Grandpa read them the riot act, making JoJo cry, but still refusing to attend school. Yolie came over later to relieve Grandpa. A babysitter with a Master's Degree in Social Work...what a waste of her intelligence and talent as both boys bristle and ignore her, but slightly fear her as well. Her husband was 100 yards away as back-up if necessary.

I spent six hours in court with Fabian minus my dash across town and back, getting Martin to his orthodontist appointment that trumps court dates. Sarah's husband ended up having to search for Fabian, to no avail, to get him home later.

Give the option of a year's probation with fees each month, a required expensive class, 40 hours of community service, and a large fine, Fabian is considering choosing jail time instead, 30 days with time off for good behavior and credit for time served.

Sadly I think he's making a good choice because I know he'll be unable to fulfill the stipulations of probation. He knows it too, heck he's already missed two court dates. I lectured him profusely today free of charge.

He'd fought with a police officer at one point last month. And folks wonder how I was able to manage his behaviors while at home? I sure could not have kept us all safe then without Edgar, and I resent the crap out of having been expected to do the impossible while remaining angry at the system that not only doesn't give proper support to adoptive parents but so often punishes them horribly as well.

Pat said it better than I here.

Knowing I can see the end in sight...knowing there'll come a day with just grandchildren instead of ragers...I can do this

Tough, or What?

Three wild-eyed women, me the most, leaning across a conference table recounting to an intuitive school psychologist taking notes about the most bizarre behaviors we've all witnessed out of Paloma this school year. Her teacher, very calm and level-headed, has really born the brunt of it this year, plus Mrs. W, soon to go from A.P. to Principal, has tried to document the massive blocks of time that she has had to pour into maintaining calm behavior from just one student.

The three of us sounding as if we've been on a bad drug trip, so disoriented by Paloma's lack of reality, as her delusions and her different personas have distorted everyone's reality. We are still waiting on word from Mental Health, but in the meantime are determining special ed eligibility as, at the very least, she's earning a behavior disordered program slot.

An exhausting meeting in which I fought tears of frustration, a good meeting though in which mental illness was totally understood, I'd had to take a phone call from Fabian who'd missed yet another court date. "OK, son, I'm in a meeting, I'll get there as soon as I can," I replied, aggravated as his inability to even tell time, much less notice the changing days of the week.

I got him over to the next town in the Public Defender's office where I was literally vibrating with irritation after yet another skirmish with both Jonathan and JoJo who should have been in school. This time I had burst into tears, shocking the two of them out of their self-imposed inertia right into the van. Fabian then lit into JoJo, "Why aren't you in school? Don't be like me boy." JoJo's big, dark eyes widened with sadness at Fabian's disappointment in him.

Silence ensued all the way to town.

"Hi Cindy!" I heard from a booming male voice behind me, and I hated to turn around knowing I was surrounded by ragtag criminals using the free legal representation.

It turned out to be an attorney thankfully, from a previous situation that I'm still devastated about. The last time he saw me I really was sobbing with grief and loss. I didn't look much better this time, these boys of mine are about to do me in. He and another attorney advised us to get to court, there in the next county, bright and early this morning, which I'm dreading once again, but I will emotionally support Fabian. And somehow get Martin to his orthodontist appointment at 11:40.

As if the day couldn't get any worse, four hens escaped and tore up a carefully planted garden bed, but the last straw came in a phone call indicating a hefty sum of money regarding the therapeutic situation of another child. "DHR requires for you to pay, sorry for such short notice," I was informed. "It's a new policy."

I politely thanked them, after all they've helped me tremendously, and burst into tears again, this time while driving home from Fabian's mess, alarming JoJo who was remorseful to me for the rest of the afternoon, but he'd aggravated Grandpa within minutes of our arrival home.

A very sweet friend of mine was trying to get me some positive attention via the newspaper but, when approached separately about it, both Sarah and I had blurted out, "No!" in sheer alarm, as if we'd just been told to repaint all the county highways with a brush held in our teeth or something when, in reality, we both know I wanna just fly under the radar and survive the adoption of older children from the foster care system. I don't even wanna bring attention to the subject of adoption right now. Which reminds me of a witty crack I'd made to relieve the tension yesterday, Fabian bursting into guffaws, but it was probably inappropriate to our situation. Hey y'all...laugh or cry? I gotta shoot my mouth off sometimes.

Sweet Daniel sent me a picture from his Iphone of Turner Field as he attended the Braves game last night, I watched along with him, upstairs on my TV, texting a few responses to different plays, falling asleep before it was over though, so whupped from such a day, not looking forward to this morning's ordeal with Fabian, but at least tonight will be nothing but soccer practices.

Garden? What garden? How can I fit it in my dumb schedule?

I need to ask permission from Sarah's equally gorgeous sister, Jenny, in Baltimore to use a video of her son eating chocolate from a shovel. Looking like an amazing cross between Ray and Hazel, he's so cute, the camera then pans over to Jenny who looks so much like Sarah that even I still get surprised when I see her. It's actually unnerving, but in a very pleasant way.

If you haven't seen this youtube video, then hop to it. It made Claudia (via The Adoption Counselor) cry, but I wanted to be oppositional about it and act tough. However it hit me between my bug eyes and laid me out flat. Blew me away. Maybe I ain't as tough as I thought, yesterday was a rough one...

Still Bound and Determined

During a windy bout the other day, a tree fell, a transformer blew loudly, and there was a house-shaking explosion on my dirt road. Sarah, Grandpa and my neighbor, Johnny, all called my cell phone which rang as I bought groceries. Did they, as a group, think I'd finally detonated?

It appears more and more likely each day as I come to an understanding of what this constant, debilitating stress has done to me. Taking Methyl Protect now as recommended by my osteopathic physician who's trying to put my battered body back into shape, inside out, as even my blood cells are showing damage.

I'm not surprised, looking back on some of the horrendous trials we've undergone.

That explosion took out my dearly beloved DVR as well, the man who came to repair it encountered Grandpa who told him I had 39 children, something I rarely mention to anyone anymore as I'm so ashamed of so many of my children's behaviors. "Is this a group home?" he asked my dad. Might as well be. I think I'm gonna change my own last name.

Later the man gave me all sorts of compliments, yet I'm so stung by everything else, I just brushed him off. "What would you do if I called Extreme Home Makeover for you?" he persisted.

"Please don't," I stressed. "Just let me get through these next several years."

Ain't that a rub?

Eavesdropping in an email group, one I've been a part of for many, many years, I remain stupidly surprised at the physical and emotional damage done to us moms of older adopted children, not only by the children, but by the resources that we seek out to help the disturbed kids, as faulty fingers always are pointed at us.

We must be the monsters who did all this damage to the children. Even most professionals can't step back enough to understand we were GIVEN severely damaged kids. When you find some understanding professionals, as I've been fortunate to have found, hang on to them, as they are few and far between. Claudia wrote a great post yesterday on this matter.

So I swallow some 60 organic, healthful supplements each day, all natural, in an attempt to regenerate that which has been destroyed by the shocking hatred and extreme violence that I encounter at times.

"These kids must be so happy to have a great mom like you," this young, handsome man kept going, demonstrating the normal public's total lack of perception in our upside down world in which we are constantly bombarded by ignorance, prejudice, misguided attempts at help, and/or deadly shrapnel from misdirected furious explosions.

I don't even bother to explain. I just nod and smile. What's the point? I save it for a forum such as this where I'm surrounded by many moms like me, plus my friends who pray for us. And truly your prayer covering sustains us. I'm living proof...well raggedy, banged-up proof.

Paloma had yet another incident last night, a chair slinging fit, lashing out at everyone and refusing to attend school this morning driving up my blood pressure as I constantly attempt to emotionally disengage myself.

JoJo wouldn't go either and I find him to be a real heartbreaker. I'm very emotionally attached to him, nine years he's been here, but has transformed himself from a sweet little boy into an ignorant-acting, thug wannabe, lawbreaker and it makes me wanna cry at what will happen to him. Even his entire body has undergone a bad metamorposis, from a goofy, gangly monkey into an arm swinging, pre-convict stance that alarms the tar out of me.

It's ultimately so sad, given a chance to live in a once beautiful house with a swimming pool and a loving mom, seemingly rejecting it all for a life of crime. Is it genetic? Is he as mean and as violent as his birth father who constantly attacked his family? A rebellion of all that's good and worthwhile? So pointless and such a waste of potential.

And are Sarah and Yolie my favorite children? It would seem so from this blog wouldn't it? Daniel, my golden boy? Miriam, my pride and joy? Cristy and Gina, my success stories? Well why wouldn't I seek out those who've followed my one rule and request, Make me proud. That's all I ask of folks.

I'll go miles out of my way to avoid children of mine who break the law, who still viciously dump on me, who are passive aggressive, who are mean and hateful, who steal from me, lie about me, and still emotionally abuse me. Grow up.

I'm done.

I forgive everyone and I'm moving on to greener pastures, finally taking steps to become physically strong again, healthy for my grandchildren and for those children who want and need me in their lives.

Think about my surgery, nearly three years ago, when all the venomous crap dumped upon me became a non-malignant tumor, leaving me scarred, weak, and weighing a 109 pounds. That was my turning point. Knowing that stress kills and later receiving evidence of it all, charts and test results, has scared me silly and straight.

The large majority of my children need a healthy mother and that's what I want to be.

That's what I will be again.

I'm bound and determined.

And I'll add pantyhose and girdles to my list of things I'll never wear again. Do they even still make girdles? I'd once asked Edgar if his girdle was on too tight as he was acting like a PMS girl one morning. "What's a girdle," he'd responded.

"Boy, did you just fall off a turnip truck?" I'd screeched.

"What's a turnip?" Blonde to the bone, a good thing he's handsome.

Pointless, I tell ya, pointless.

Wear a Dress?

"There's kittens in my bathroom," Paloma bellowed up and down the hall at 3:37 this morning(thank you digital clock), waking the entire family up, coming to my room to make sure I was so informed. Like I give a good cahoot? I don't care if there are dancing donkeys in your bathroom at three in the morning.

"Go to bed right now," I ordered, irked and therefore unable to return to my peaceful slumber. The only place where I feel total peace, I was even dreaming of Pawley's Island beach and for some reason, in this dream, I was arguing about off season rental rates.

There were no kittens, but the truth never matters to Paloma. As a family we've stopped confronting her with evidence to the contrary as she simply ups the ante and insists on facts that are not available, lashing out at the disbelievers.

The pregnant cat lumbered down the hall this morning, living proof of no kitten births, yet Paloma swears she saw kittens in her bathroom. Delusional? Disruptive? Whatever you wanna call it, it is very difficult to live with, and this entire initiative to 'treat the children at home with wraparound services' is a dismal failure for those of us who live with 24-7 craziness and violence. Pepe is now beginning to show his true self where he is staying. I can see him ratcheting up his aggressiveness from afar, thanks to emails from the counselor who seems to be right intuitive.

I finally convinced myself to go back to sleep when a crack of thunder startled me and I gave up any more of my lame attempts at sleeping, swinging my legs off the bed and landing on an outside dog, Lizzie, who has never, ever found her way up to my room before. Scared the tar outta me. I need to get our doors fixed, but what's the point when some violent family member offender thinks it's OK to destroy them again?

I'd gotten disturbing news about incredbly criminal behavior of another grown son of mine, further irking me and making me again glad for a locked gate. I am annoyingly honest, always willing to do without rather than to either borrow money or ask anyone. This kid is borrowing huge sums from people that he has no intention of ever repaying and he's not even working. Lazy and dishonest - a very unattractive combination of behaviors. I'd advised the person who contacted me to take legal action.

I've taken kids to church, preached conservative morals, and explained the consequences of negative choices over and over and over again to no avail. Barking at the moon. I feel terribly sad for those who choose to act ignorantly. It's not like you haven't been taught.

I, on the other hand, burrow deeper into my own hermit-like existence, digging in the dirt that is now pure mud, ignoring the threatening world out there, feeling safe here and more than slightly agoraphobic, tired of criticism and veiled insults, really sick of the barbs, and the way my grown children wanna make me pay for the sins of their birth parents. Just leave me alone.

Sarah absolutely cracked me up, eliciting giggles the entire night as she'd put that picture of a protesting, crying Hazel on her Facebook - the following is copied totally without permission, but it entertained me so much that it's my hope to end this post on a silly note and honestly y'all, at my age why should I ever have to wear a dress again? Or heels? They suck.

Sarah wrote
at 10:55am yesterday
Now that I think about it, Hazel is making the same face my mother makes when we make her dress up.

Beth wrote
at 12:30pm yesterday
so cute, sarah! beautiful dress, too!

Sarah wrote
at 3:42pm yesterday
Looks kind of like a wedding dress, doesn't it? Which, now that I think about that as well, also reminds me of the face my mother makes on her wedding days.

Beth wrote
at 3:44pm yesterday
you crack me UP! but you are probably right about your mama ... on both counts (the dress and the wedding). ;)

Yolie wrote
at 4:51pm yesterday
Yep, this is the face mama made when I took her shopping for a dress to wear to my wedding. I think the whole store could hear her from the dressing room. She also picked the flower off the dress (it was pinned on) and acted like she was puking it up...

Well y'all...I don't care who gets married, me again or anyone else, I ain't wearing a dress. You can't run fast, you can't sit right in a dress, and I swear dresses make me itch like a monkey.

And don't even get me started on high heels...

Spring Break Is Over

How boringly repetitious is it of me to point out that Jonathan once again flat-lined and refused to go to school? Or how redundant is that sentence? Mixing metaphors, so to speak, would be my Sarah with her vintage Easter dress paired with cowboy boots, looking fabulous on Easter Sunday in contrast to me, of course, as it goes without saying, I'd worn my usual, and only, pair of black pants to church, but with a shocking pink shirt we'd been given in a bag. Colors confuse me, I prefer neutrals, even nondescript matches, as I have enough challenges already in my kinda full to overflowing life.

A very rainy Monday. We've had more rain this month than in the past three years combined and I'm so thrilled. Spring Break is over, my house is silent, and strained from everyone clamoring to eat and strowing their possession willy nilly throughout the rooms.

CW and Chuy will start Spring Football Practices today to add to our already incredibly busy soccer schedule but again, I don't mind. This is a positive endeavor that I'll promote with all my heart even though it isn't my thing. Duh, that's why God made baseball...and how 'bout those Braves? Finally showing up after several lackluster seasons.

My pantry is bare, but my gardens are fully planted to the brim, several unplanted trays of plants waiting for me to dig out even more garden beds, which I'll joyfully do this week.

One of my oldest, dearest friends, Janet, dropped by yesterday, bringing me a fig plant with a history, and keeping me company outside. A social worker for 30 years, she'd likened my existence with countless court dates for children who seem to crave learning everything the hard way, as to that of a caseworker. Sigh. Honey, tell me about it.

As usual I don't blog some of the depths of our family's immediate trials and inner pain, preferring to plod through, hoping for the eventual best and doing my darndest to only encourage and not to enable further criminal mischief. I know I'll blurt out the stories later when some time has healed my stressed out heart and soul, although I'm still super tight-lipped and grief-stricken over than which had plunged me into very deep despair two years ago.

Even with Janet present, although few of my children know she once was a social worker, Lord Have Mercy, that'd send them off the high ledges of their turmoiled minds, JoJo and Tony got into a fistfight, the hollering sending me leaping like a track star over fences and toys in the yard. Chuck who was working in the garage got there first, but the combatants had been pulled apart by others in the apparently misnamed family room, leaving JoJo with a torn t-shirt.

"OK, y'all now what did that prove?" I'd asked irritably and sarcastically.

Blank stares and empty minds. A politically incorrect retort from JoJo that I'll not repeat and a lie from Tony's lip who is our family instigator. "I can see that," one of his teachers had recently reported to me.

Knowing the rains were coming today, I squeezed in several seed plantings of cucumbers and squash, still so many more seed packets to go. No room for anymore Nicotiana and I'd sent the abandoned plants home with Janet where they'll enjoy city living amongst her bowling ball decorated front yard.

Daniel'd gone to Atlanta with his girlfriend, to her parent's home to build garden beds, pictured below. I wish all homes throughout our over-burdened world, would do this, would include this necessity for healthful, environmentally-friendly, vital accessory to living. I hope Joan, Lauren's mom, will send me pictures later when it's planted, as I know it'll so encourage others to do the same.

"Happy Easter Mom," my dutiful son Daniel told me. No fanfare, no drama, just the way the two of us prefer life to be. Yolie'd gone to church with her in-laws bringing by her beautifully dressed children that I'd post pictures of if she'd hurry up and send them to me.

I have an alarmingly full to-do list today, fairly ambitious when all I'd really like to do is curl up and read from the stack of books gazing reproachfully at me. As if I'd invested millions of dollars versus the reality of pennies on the dollar I'd really spent at yard sales. Going from mixed metaphors to anthropomorphism, like others might bounce from a winter to a spring wardrobe. This is the best a goofy, but happy, dork like me can do.

And, not surprisingly at all, here it is 8:40 in the morning and the middle school nurse has just called me to come pick up Allen who's having an emotional, crying meltdown. Tabby also balked hard this morning, after ten days at home, it's very tough for some of my children to return to the real world, leaving the security and stability I provide by my 24-7 presence in their once traumatized lives. I get it, y'all, but there's not much I can do about it.