Just What I Needed Today

All y'all know how much I have emotionally struggled with my calling for quite some time now. It's been a tough row to hoe, so thankless and discouraging so often.

I think it might date back several years ago to my surgery, when I had that week long vacation on morphine, yet was gutted something terrible.

It's been a long fight back what with other battle injuries, health issues, trials and tribulations, but I received a massive dose of beneficial medicine this morning at church... that I almost missed due to Jonathan's bipolar issues.

Bruce Deel, from City of Refuge, preached at our church and it was a rip-roaring, absolutely hilarious message that I absolutely took to heart. JoJo and the other Bubbas hung on every single word. None of my sons have any possible clue that my life is kinda hard. They think because I make it look easy, that it must be so.

This visiting pastor has a calling to serve 'the last, the least and the lost' in the most crime-ridden zip code in Atlanta against all odds. He fights astronomical battles each day and still smiles.

He captivated our entire congregation, likely me most of all, with every single word.

It was as if God sent him to minister only to me, but even I'm not that egocentric, I know that most folks there received his words of exhortation to live out the gospels.

I was laughing too hard to take many notes, trying not to holler out a thousand "AMENS!" as he was singing my song.

The essence of his sermon was about living outside the box, where there is great risk and sacrifice, but also great joy, celebration, energy, excitement and satisfaction.

I was simply blown away, running home to subscribe to his podcast, and to blurt out my happiness here at being so encouraged, fixing to text my out-of-town pastor my personal thanks for having brought such encouragement to me, via this guy who daily lives with crazy-making behaviors, danger, lack, and other downers.

Yeah, buddy, that's what I needed to hear.

Making Hay on a Sunday

"Gotta make hay while the sun shines," I'm often hollering around here, choleric to the core, it's not about having fun, but rather it's about getting it done, my priorities driving me all day.

A farmer up the road must've cut his hay down yesterday, knowing we had sunny days ahead, because if he doesn't get it baled up while sun-dried, it'll mold and rot from within, rendering it useless as cattle feed, which is a whole different story anyway as any good vegetarian who's concerned about world hunger knows this one thing. It takes six pounds of grain, fed to an inefficient animal, to produce one pound of beef which'll eventually kill a human anyway what with it's high fat content and all the chemical crap injected into the grain-based feed.

Frances Moore Lappe introduced me to that concept nearly 40 years ago, I'm still staggered at the thought.

Jonathan very darkly informed us all he wasn't gonna go to church, well, that's no surprise. He did his dead level best to provoke Paloma all morning, but her Abilify/Lexapro/Clonedine/Lithium helped her maintain her cool. She's taking a summer vacation from Concerta. Why build up an immunity to it when it helps her to concentrate so much better in school?

I'm sitting here with him, missing Sunday School, knowing I'll have other backup in an hour so that I can get to church for the sermon, knowing deeply that a hard head like me desperately needs to be reminded of God's goodness as often as is possible. My quiet time this morning was interrupted by a necessary phone call, crud to tend to, extremely grateful that I don't have to still deal with this on a daily schedule. I did successfully find the help that I needed for her...even though she's rejecting it as well.

A big vindication for me, an I told you so that I'll withhold, as it would be a negative, pointless waste of time to bother with gloating.

As frustrated as I am, I still know that it'll all wash out in the end. There's a reason I do what I do, even though there are often few encouragements and even less external rewards.

Someday I'll know, to my core, that I'll be able to look back with very few regrets in that I've poured myself out into children who can then choose to reject everything or can choose to excel. It's up to them.

I'll keep on making hay while the Son shines, and strengthens me, on this gorgeous Sunday morning.

The Man Who Would Feed the World

I changed over from row cropping to permaculture in 1977 and have never looked back. Green L.A.Girl has a great review on a book that explains why I do what I do. If you're interested in Gaia's Garden Guide, have at it, I loved it.

I get as many responses, questions and emails about gardening, as I do about adoption.

Dee recently sent me the 7th edition of John Jeavons' How to Grow More Vegetables which is parenthetically subtitled (and fruits, nuts, berries, grains, and other crops) Than You Ever Thought Possible on Less Land Than You Can Imagine.

I'd read about his biointensive methods over the years in gardening periodicals and I've always been impressed. I have a ton of gardening heroes, folks whose books I turn to for knowledge and wisdom.

Everything he'd once explained in 1974 makes tens times more sense now in our very depleted, over-strained world. The need is greater now, more than ever, for folks to produce and to create.

I was reading aloud to the kids, "Up to six billion microbial life-forms cane live in 5 grams of cured compost, about the size of a quarter."

So thrilling to a dorky woman like me who cranks it out by the ton each year.

But even as careful as I think I am, as ecologically conservative, allegedly thoughtful, organic gardening also exacts a toll from the soil, something I must work to regenerate each year, fretting even at times over manure from a local barn, worrying that there's antibiotics in the horse feed, even though they're largely pastured.

Maybe I over think.

Can You Can?

Recently asked if I knew how to can my vegetables, I was momentarily at a loss for words. Who doesn't know how? Or is it becoming a lost art? Something only rural, stringy hair, elderly jungle freaks are capable of performing...a leftover skill born from years of moonshine history?

Yes, I know how.

Yes, I own a canner and empty ball jars.

And I really enjoyed this article.

Only An Aberrant Fist Fight

CW is hauling Jack on a dolly that has a broken wheel. The kids had played for hours with this defective apparatus, reminding me once again that it is very unnecessary to spend the big bucks on toys that'll soon be either broken, discarded or destroyed.

We'd walked down the hill to lock the gate for the evening, only to find a fawn lying broken by the side of the road, still alive, but only barely. No, I have no guns. Can you imagine weapons in a house full of folks with anger issues and zero impulse control? There's a recipe for disaster, illustrated daily here by dumb choices and impulsive actions.

I'd debated about calling my neighbor, Johnny, or another friend of mine as a gun possibility, thought the better of it, and called Chuck who I knew would think of what to do. Oddly enough, by the time he and his very large Mastiff dog, Ella, had ambled up the road, the fawn had disappeared.

Not so this huge, prehistoric turtle I'd found in the pool area. All of my kids and a handful of grandkids had surrounded it in disbelief. Usually turtles are ceremoniously taken to the creek or to Sarah's pond, but this bugger wasn't having any of it. Raring back, hissing and snapping at the kids, I ordered them to leave it alone, only to have it angrily jump into the pool, trying in vain to escape the loud crowd of children.

Chuy hauled it out carefully with a heavy net and pole, last we saw of it, it had retreated up under a tree Chuck had given me for my birthday, maybe back in my mid-40s.

But see, no fights, no problems, no flareups, and no blazing issues to resolve all day. Kids swimming, playing, riding bikes, kicking soccer balls, playing Nintendo or on the computer, allowing me to plant more Edamame Sayamusu soybeans. I carefully showed Tabby what to do, digging a long furrow, preparing for her to painstakingly count out the seeds and plant them a couple of inches apart.

Only just out of kindergarten, she was telling me about the big imaginary garden she was gonna grow when she's big. I'm cynically, sardonically thinking to myself, oh yeah, child, after you rebel, break my heart and make me nutso. Aloud, I just enjoyed the moment with her as we chomped on raspberries and strawberries.

I just haven't felt like going to yard sales, feeling we own too much crap anyway, although with the kids growing like weeds, I know they'll need more clothes. I just want to own less stuff, have less upkeep and maintenance. I'd read yesterday about a woman who owns 401 pairs of designer jeans in her luxurious mansion, but I really can't imagine that makes her any happier than a fool like me who revels in food production outside.

Maybe my head is screwed on backwards, who knows? Maybe I don't even know what I'm missing. I'd had a large salad of lettuce, radishes, snow peas and spring onions for lunch and a massive plate of steamed chard for dinner, knowing I'd not ingested any cancer-causing chemicals, nor contributed to a large carbon footprint via shipping miles, I'd cut out the middleman, taken control and produced. The 100 foot diet in action. I love it.

Too ambitious for my own good, stressing over what's not done, amazed that the front garden has again given way to weeds while I swept the back paths. I'll never catch up, but I'll never be bored.

I've never had a massage, a manicure, nor a spa retreat in my entire life, yet I've watched many of my grandchildren being born and I've heard amazing words from troubled children, such as Vanessa last night again repeating to me over the phone, "Well I just want to make you proud," as she laid out her goals before me. I expressed my pride and urged her to keep on going this way.

A pile of kids had slept upstairs with me, camping out, several Yorkies joining us, and I'd awakened with a start when I saw a shadowy figure on the wall looming and slipping past. What the heck? I jumped up and ran downstairs, checking where everyone else was asleep, not realizing until I'd returned upstairs that it had only been Nando getting up to use the bathroom. "Where've you been Mama?" he asked me suspiciously, as if he'd caught me sneaking back in the house after a night of dancing on tables or something. Apparently it had frightened me, I couldn't go back to sleep, so I'm sure to be dragging today.

I'd told Sarah I'd go with her to a homeschool curriculum yard sale. A product of Montessori, the New Orleans Free School 1979-80, and our rural public school system, she's pretty much decided to homeschool Ray for awhile. In retrospect I wished I'd been free enough to homeschool her as her rampant curiosity, high intelligence and love of reading had been stifled somewhat by the regimentation that is necessary to prevent anarchy in a regular school setting.

Ray is an independent, free-spirited child who'll be very self-motivated and eager to learn.

I'm loving our easy-going summer with long afternoons at the pool, mornings and evenings in my gardens, less stress after many years of massive turmoil, yesterday's dumb fist fight only an aberration lately.

60,000 Gallons

A 60,000 gallon pool and Hazel prefers one of my weed buckets...while wearing a life jacket.

Slinging Kitchen Chairs

I only allowed myself a brief moment of dismay, an indulgence in which I watched globs of black beans and brown rice slide down my sunny yellow kitchen wall, thin trails of The Bull hot sauce visible, suddenly glad that Allen has an aversion to cheese.

JoJo, however, does not, preferring to smother every morsel of food with melted hot pepper cheese, the same cheese that was plastered, at the moment, on Allen's heaving, angry chest.

Game on.

Fists flying, chairs thrown, the other Bubbas sprang back in shock and surprise, the fight erupting so suddenly that no one had time to react.

No one had been angry, indeed we've have a quiet few days here at home, with laughter and pranks, low stress, and very decent behavior.

I jumped up from my table where I'm usually securely ensconced with Tabby, Nando, Jack, Scotty and Lily, hardly a foot away from the table that was volcanic.

Throwing myself between the two offenders, hollering something inane like, "Y'all better not shatter my ole bones or you'll be eating oatmeal all summer," immediately glad that Javy is big and strong, as he had grabbed Allen and was bear-hugging and restraining him. Mayra had tackled JoJo who was already crying with anger, both of them landing in the connecting laundry room in a heap of coat hangers and dirty clothes. Me hoping they'd not knock over that $12 bottle of detergent. It's the end of the month and I'm broke.

Somehow she wrestled him through the laundry room and down the other hall while Javy was struggling to contain Allen's blazing fury. Threatening all sorts of mayhem, no one can pull his chain more than his own baby brother, Jojo, Javy was laughing and telling Allen what he'd do to him if he didn't calm down.

"Bring it on," Allen is emotionally unreachable at times, "I don't care."

Allen broke free, ran through the family room, into the garage, and down the hill. I called Yolie to send Chuck out his own front door to tend to Allen while I went after JoJo. The rest of the kids settled back down to eat dinner. Grandma had just walked back over to her side of the house fortunately, totally missing the uproar.

I went to JoJo who was furious in his room, ignoring me totally while I tried to talk him down. Mayra had run after Allen. Within minutes I could hear Chuck hollering for me, no doubt remembering I'd been injured in their last fracas. They'd managed not to get into any huge fights for six months, and that's pretty amazing. Loaded up with pharmaceutical grade calcium and massive doses of Vitamin D to increase absorption, I was strong and ready for them both.

This fight simmered down fairly quickly. I even went back to finish my own supper, glad they hadn't crashed into my last jar of fire hot pepper sauce. There'd have been serious ramifications if that had occurred. I can't eat bland foods, I'd starve to death.

Within the hour both guys were best friends again, the Butthead Brothers, I'd snapped at them both, making them hug and apologize. "OK stupid," they glowered at each other, but were fine once again, and I trotted out the back door, wondering where in the heck I could plant anything else as the garden beds are chock full.

Spent and exhausted by their intense emotions, watching reruns of Tool Time and George Lopez, our night remained uneventful, calm and quiet as dark fell and I put everyone to bed.

I'd cleaned the kitchen, made them (the fighters) upright the dozen slung chairs, while I wondered if sun spots had made my yard dogs wanna come inside to chase barn cats down the hall, while the gorgeous and prissy Yorkies were constantly pushing open doors and flying outside to yap at surprised squirrels who don't feel any need to run from tiny avengers, choosing instead to hiss back and repel the teensy dogs.

An A For Effort?

Where did we all get the quaint notion that if we work hard enough, we'll be rewarded for our diligent efforts?

Adoptive parents of severely troubled kids pour themselves out day after day while society and resources seemingly sneer at us and the disturbed kids call us ,"F%^*ing idiots." That's my truant Jonathan's answer to life.

Wonder why we end up so bitter and jaded?

Out of the blue last night, Vanessa did call me up and surprisingly express her own appreciation for all I'd done for her, shocking me into silence. She's so not where she should've been, but all in all, she's ok right now, moving out of the nasty trailer park, across the county into a decent area with friends.

I read The Adoption Counselor this morning and she could've been talking about me and my exact same experiences with Joey which eventually ended up with the deputies serving him with Prohibited Entry papers to our home. Or my friend, Pat in the midwest, with her own locked gate and security cameras. Same song.

I've been beat down and lambasted, mistreated by those who should've helped us and, conversely, I was taken aback by Miss Kim's supervisor who told me he "wished he could help us more." I nearly teared up at his kind words, knowing how frustrated both he and Kim are in regards to their own lack of funding and the hell they endure from juvenile delinquents. And they have helped me, more than anyone else overall.

Sadly, when Mental Health won't step up to the plate, punitive measures are put into place, and DJJ has been phenomenal, seeking programs rather than cages.

Pepe, my Jose, is in such a place at the moment, but he's teetering on the edge of dismissal after assaulting both a staff member and another teenager there. We'd planned on a visit this week, I'd set the date for Friday, with his counselor.

Paloma, Javy and Jonathan were to accompany me to see their birth brother, with Chuy expressing reservations and a deep seated reluctance to join us, as he'd been the victim of Jose's last rage in our home.

I've said it a million times, but it bears repeating...when a kid is a documented danger to others, then the family needs help and protection.

A union official here in Atlanta recently expressed his own frustration with the mayor and he made a statement regarding what he felt like doing. Not what he would do, there was not a direct threat made, yet all Hell broke loose in the local media.

Well, dadgum, what about these juveniles who do make violent threats, who do aggressively attack, who do assault? The warning signs are there, the negative actions are there. Please send help folks.

I don't want to dwell on this today, our visit was cancelled by the staff. I feel safer with him being over an hour away, but my gut roils with fear at the thought of him ever in my home.

As usual, I cope with fear by being busy, by working hard, spinning my wheels with endless, mindless household chores that get undone faster than I can finish each lame, repetitive task.

I awoke to the caterwauling sounds of squabbling, snarling barn cats, only to find that my upstairs toilet had overflowed. What a way to wake up, mopping up water and plunging the nasty mess before I'd even had any coffee. Standing there in my barefeet, initially surprised and confused, springing into action without the benefit of caffeine. That sucked.

We'd slept with the attic fan pulling in the cool night air, honeysuckle-laden air, scenting our entire house with intoxicating bliss, a combination of the Asiatic jasmine and banana shrub flowers. I'd slept hard, tired from hours of outside work in which only CW came to see if I needed any help, weed-eating for me around the garden beds, while my other lazy children avoided me. Sabrina had helped in the kitchen though and I greatly appreciated her efforts.

Sarah, Yolie and I took the kids to the pool, a three hour event, Ray's first swim of the season, as we've been so far behind with everything. Reluctant to get out of the pool later in the day, forgetting he had months of this activity stretching out before him, Chuy cooked yet another omelet, plate sized, Bubba sized, and a ravenous, five year old Ray scarfed it down and wanted corn flakes for his chaser. My guess is he slept good last night.

My ironclad rule involves life jackets for any child inside the pool fence who can't demonstrate an ability to swim the width of the pool in the deep end. No exceptions. This year, first time in ten years, none of my children need life jackets, it's now a Grandchild thing. Tabby, my baby girl, showing us her strong abililties in swimming, happy and proud of herself.

Mae, four months older than Hazel, fearlessly leapt into the baby end, where it's just two feet deep, CJ right behind her, while Ray treaded to and through the deep end, knowing his life jacket will keep him afloat.

We're headed today, me and three kids, to see the psychiatrist for a med check. We've added clonedine at night for JoJo which has helped calm his inner anger down greatly.

Late last night, right before dark I planted a packet of Blue Speckled Teprary Beans, wondering aloud later to Sarah, just how many rows of beans would it take someday to become self-sufficient? Is it even possible or is it an unattainable goal that I'll have fun pursuing?

I wear a lightweight nail apron, as my favorite shorts don't have pockets since they're technically cut off pjs. I always take a seed packet, or a jar of seeds I've saved, when I go outside to work, tucking seeds into corners and areas I've weeded, knowing no matter how much I grow, we'll always need more.

Releasing my inner pig, just because I can, relishing the intense emotional and physical freedom that I feel so vibrantly in warm weather, I'm always trotting in and out of the house, spinning through my chores, answering ten thousand questions, tending to a billion things, just so glad I'm retired, and free to try and get it all done each day...and surprisingly finding myself rewarded for some of my huge efforts.

Nose Wrinkling

Chuy, my cover boy of yesterday, is again featured here with his brand new haircut courtesy of Fantastic Sam, where we spent the big bucks, as a teenage boy has nothing on a teenage girl when one factors in vanity. He's so much more concerned with his looks than say Sabrina. I was hollering at him to smile, while he chose to attempt and pose a sterner look, for some 13 year old adolescent reason.

He's such a good kid, slap in the middle of a very tough sibling group, where three of them have bipolar issues, and the fourth runs away whenever he finds himself in trouble. Chuy's drifted away emotionally from his original sibling group, deeply troubled and often alarmed by their issues, preferring to instead spend time with Martin and CW who are both easy-going kids. He'd even moved his single bed into their very large room that already has two double beds, leaving Javy to enjoy his very own room.

We have ten weeks of summer vacation here now in front of us. It could be the best ten weeks ever, in terms of my gardens as the skies have opened up, drenching us with more water in the last few months than I've seen in years. Maybe even in terms of my children as issues have subsided somewhat. Jonathan got a good talking to by Miss Kim's supervisor at DJJ, a go-to-summer-school-or-else sermon. We'll see...

I picked lettuce, spring onions, snap peas, and radishes for my mongo-sized salads adding store-bought black olives, wheat germ, flax and sunflower seeds, wondering why God had arranged for lettuce to be a cool season crop, yet the much desired tomatoes come later after the lettuce has rudely bolted.

The weeds are shockingly profuse. I'm dragging around my weed buckets, pulling them up by their strong roots as fast as I can, only to watch the seeds that've lain dormant through the drought, visibly spring up in front of my face. I convince myself that biodiversity is the key to success. I don't want a sterile garden, mutated by sprays, in which nothing sprouts. Rather I'd choose to allow weeds to go to seed, feeding and tempting bees for pollination, being a food source for beneficial insects, noting the corresponding rise in the frog population, happy with the bird activity.

My first thought each morning involves the calendar on my Crackberry, me usually hoping there's nothing planned for me, no meetings scheduled, so that I can work around the house. Never caught up, never finished, watching my work get undone by the second, oh well, deal with it and move on. At ten o'clock last night, Chuy was cooking large omelets for the older guys with hot pepper cheese and buttered toast. Do y'all ever fill up? Two dozen eggs and another loaf of bread...we have one jar of fire hot pepper sauce left over from last year...can we make it last until this year's crop of jalapenos are ready?

Gina had over-bought for her own patio garden, excited in the spring, dragging the extras over here for me on Memorial Day. I'd also seen Daniel and Lauren that evening, relishing a quiet holiday with little drama, and that's what we'd experienced.

I'm still dragging outside my houseplants as each storm approaches, being rewarded with happy, shiny plants that I then feed with fish emulsion, stinking up the house, odors wafting outside, confusing the barn cats who immediately perk up in response.

Grown kids calling me, one just lost her job, upset and mad at herself due to an error on her part, bills to pay just for living expenses, another moment when a kid realizes that everything I'd tried to teach was for a reason. The cockiness erodes over time, an understanding of Mama's concern evolves, it's a slow, but sure process, repeated over and over as no one seems to be able to learn from another's mistakes.

I watch other grown kids struggle with dumb choices, deal with the repercussions, them hoping I won't find out when, in reality, they know that my other kids will tell on them, no matter if they're in their 20s or their 30s, it wafts back to mama on the same breeze as the fish emulsion, often with the same nose-wrinkling immediate response.

Jabbing and feinting, wondering how much I know, but reluctant to outright ask me, my kids dance around sticky situations, trying to get my advice without giving out too much information about themselves, but more than happy to spill the beans about others in our family.

I get six versions of the same story, ferreting out the truth is often difficult, sometimes I just back off, not caring anyway, as the consequences are theirs and theirs alone. Deal with it. Get you an attorney.

I will not enable. I hope I've made that crystal clear.

I will still emotionally support folks while holding back comment, if I am capable of keeping my big mouth shut.

I just mixed up about a dozen different stories that are happening right now within our complicated family. I can see my grown kids, reading today's post, wondering if I'm talking about them, or so and so. It's a conglomeration of issues and events y'all.

Twice Weekly Football Workouts

Lily's artwork, designed to be viewed either upside down or right side up, an art project at school, prompted Miss Kimberly to point out that this illustrated my life.

Hmmm, she's right.

Our school system automatically provides summer school for those who've not done well in the CRCT, Martin missed passing the math section by just a few points, thus qualifying him for the extra help that could only benefit him. A school bus ride is also provided.

Two middle school teachers, who were under zero obligation to offer any help to a kid who'd been suspended, and had also been difficult all year long, still allowed him to make-up his work at the expense of their time. Post planning is demanding enough, with meetings to attend and deadlines to meet, yet they both encouraged and helped a kid who'd acted out rudely all year. One teacher had one hour and fourteen minutes until grades were due, yet she made it happen. The other teacher, fresh from her return from maternity leave, more rushed than is humanly possible, still stopped to help him.

Another billionth reason why I feel so blessed to live in this county.

Mayra also will attend summer school, as she's academically challenged on a good day, now she can use course recovery to earn necessary credits. High school summer school has a hefty tuition, but our blessings continued as she also received a full scholarship.

I'd dragged Chuy's butt out of bed at the very last second, realizing he had a social studies problem when I checked Power School online. Turns out it'd been averaged wrong, the coach fixed it, and now both boys are good to go, having passed everything, eligible to play 8th grade football.

I asked the coach to kick their butts, work them hard all summer in practice, to expect a lot out of them, never letting them slide for a second.

This particular coach had been a senior, in 1987 when I'd started working at his high school, we know tons of the same folks from that county, and he's going to have a great deal of positive influence on my sons. The head coach had also coached Chuy in soccer and is equally as strong of a role model, thus further blessing us. I am a huge and ardent fan of all that kids can learn while playing sports. The motivation alone is amazing.

We need multiple layers of influences around here, factor in our pastors, brothers-in-law to my children, and older brothers like Daniel..."Oh yeah," he'd told me, "I'll come watch their football games." That alone makes my sons thrilled at the prospect.

So now we'll pencil in the twice weekly football workouts all summer for the boys.

I'm more than happy to do so, grateful for the opportunity.

Mumbling

Maybe I'm just getting old and forgetful, but I don't remember raspberries being ready this early. Maybe it's the rain? The bountiful, blessed rain we've been receiving after several severe drought years.

I was so energized by the dousing my houseplants had received on the deck that I hauled out another couple dozen early yesterday day morning and then I watched the skies like a hawk, fearing I'd jinxed our chances. Overnight though, off my watch, my plants were rewarded. The accumulated dust running off their leaves, freeing them up to continue performing for me.

The kids have taped The Rock's The Gridiron Gang, it seems as if every time I walk into the living room, a kid has replayed it. Our spectacular TV set, given to us by Travis and Kimberly, large enough that the kid's big heads don't block anyone's view.

"Mom, watch this," I'll hear, "This is so cool."

Like I want to watch angry young thugs fighting with each other? I don't mind looking at The Rock, but I've lived with enough male anger to not feel any voyeuristic need to view it in another. Same with Mayra's favorite show, Jon and Kate Plus Eight. I sure don't want to watch another 8 whiny kids clamoring for juice. They use paper plates for goodness sakes. They have help. I'm peeved.

I'm drawn to that which I can't have - such as the beautiful houses on HGTV.

Since there's no school, one would think my laundry piles would be diminished, but that's not the case at all, as my kids have been slowly cleaning rooms and closets, depositing tangled heaps of dirty clothes for me as if I'll be interested and thrilled? Like a cat dumping a mouse on the floor in front of their owner?

Gone are the days when my Bubbas lived and played in their Superhero underwear, now soccer shorts rule the day, and I'm gleefully tossing out the small T shirt sizes that have survived so many generations of children around here.

Watching them grow up is very liberating for me. Knowing there'll come a time that I won't have to be sucked in to drama, danger, pathos and fury. Fabian keeps calling me from jail, wanting to pass the time with his oppositional idle babble, but I have a choice now to ignore it, and I do, especially since it seems as if the tentacles of crime wanna reach out and touch us.

I'm not interested, thank you very much.

My parents lost another dear friend yesterday. A woman who filled my childhood with my very fond memories of her, sitting in the kitchen with my mom, back in the 1950s when everyone had linoleum floors, Formica tables, and air-conditioning was a luxury that very few could afford. We sure couldn't. We saved our pennies for Krispy Kreme. Priorities that continue to this day.

My mom looked lost when she told me, murmuring she had so few surviving friends anymore. One of six children originally, she's the last one left, nearly everyone of her generation gone, looking at what's left - my army of a family - which provides distractions from reality certainly.

Chuy, Javy, CW and Martin helped me out a great deal yesterday, heavy lifting, sawing down old stumps, and limbing up some trees to let in the sunshine and my ability to maintain my line of sight supervision. Allen and JoJo, lazy and oppositional, make it too difficult for me to stand there and argue to get them to help me. It's just not worth it to me anymore. Grow up, be lazy and then call me and tell me how that's working out for you. Allen responded immediately and scampered out to help while JoJo shrugged ignorantly.

He did come out later and haul off the limbs sheepishly, while I nagged and reminded him that Fabian would certainly desire a do-over if given the chance. JoJo knows this, but can he put it into practice for his life?

We've got to run up to the school, allow CW to do some makeup work, return Jojo's textbook, check with Miss Kimberly there, and get Jonathan and Paloma over to the DJJ office. Paloma's done surprisingly well lately, I'll attribute it to the Abilify which has stabilized her exhausting mood swings, yet I know she'll build up an immunity at some point to its effectiveness, which is disillusioning at best.

We're slap out of groceries as the kids have literally nonstop pigged out, I have a truckful of trash to haul, bins and crates of recyling that need to go, laundry, and a chore list, plus the constant demands of my family, gardens and pets.

Guzzling my coffee, swallowing my numerous vitamins, fish-emulsioning the houseplants, hugging my young'uns, talking, listening, whirling and diving in, my mind swirling with endless tasks, chores and ideas. The beach is calling me, I've got to figure out how and when we might be able to get away after summer school, soccer camp, Nando's All Sports camp, church camp, appointments, court dates, and the continuous, never-ending obligations that come with a family this demanding.

In Honduras, 20 something years ago, frustrated with red tape, corruption, politics and stress, I'd memorized these verses in Spanish from Phillipians, mumbling to myself over and over again: Sé lo que es vivir en la pobreza, y lo que es vivir en la abundancia. He aprendido a vivir en todas y cada una de las circunstancias, tanto a quedar saciado como a pasar hambre, a tener de sobra como a sufrir escasez. Todo lo puedo en Cristo que me fortalece.

I still mumble.

Size Zero, Not Me

Why are all my pictures so blurry? Too much caffeine? My hands shake? Sarah and I had chugalugged lattes, Hazel grinning at us in church, three generations of attitude.

The Adoption Counselor is disgusted, while I'm simply shocked in the face of all evidence, that anyone would drink alcohol while pregnant. In today's information age, with nearly everyone having access via computers, print, TV or radio to a plethora of information, how can stupidity still dominate so heavily? I sigh and un-Christianly think, "The masses are asses."

Claudia tried yesterday, but doesn't like to garden. OK, she tried. I wanted to comment, but had nothing positive to say, astonished that she was not immediately swept up into an uncontrollable frenzy, a pull that would draw her outside each day to smolder in the sun, working feverishly for fresh food. Imagine Georgia gardening in August, a humid, sweltering, furnace blast of a day in which house flies are too lethargic to budge. We may have such a gorgeous spring and mild winter and fall, but summers are brutal for the uninitiated. Your lungs are seared, your skin is scorched, your fingers burn and your legs ache as potassium leaches away in your sweat...still I absolutely love it. Georgian by birth, Southern by the Grace of God. I was made to perspire and to slog away in the gardens, dirty and giddy.

I'm still, after all these decades, invigorated by the indescribable heat, sweating enough to need many quarts of well water just to keep going, guzzling while I work, stinking and dirty, but inexplicably happy.

My soil is so fertile, since I spend all non-gardening time adding wood chips, coffee grounds, compost, leaves, grass clippings, manure and anything else I can scrounge up, but the downside is weeds flourish as well, leaving me unable to ever catch up, but still ecstatic over my possibilities and certainly neither bored nor finished.

I have three sweet black hens and a pretty decent rooster with few mood swings. My garden shed is open-air with a tin roof, and last night, in the evening, I sat out there holding a docile, even-tempered hen, past her egg laying prime, listening to the rain, watching my plants grow, thinking I've got it made.

All my life, all I ever wanted was to work the land, to be as self-sufficient as possible, to live in a rural setting, and to be free to work hard. I need to remind myself often that I've accomplished so much of what I first set out to do a long time ago.

Sarah and her family are nearby, indeed all of the Fantastic Four and their families are living on this dirt road with most of my grown kids fairly close by except for my Navy man and his family.

I can be magnanimous in the early morning hours with everyone calm and quiet, a day stretching out before me with no meetings and hopefully few conflicts. Jonathan had melted down in a big way yesterday, refusing to attend church. Church included a sermon that blistered me with its unconditional love theme as I obviously struggle at times since the ones I need to show this to, so often have broken my windows, punched holes in the walls or caused massive problems for our family. JoJo was so difficult we nearly had to leave until one of the ushers whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it worked. I whispered my thank you and the boys settled down.

Following me around constantly, asking permission to do that which he knows he's not allowed to do, whining, bickering, fussing, nagging and irritating me so much I thought my head would explode - duh that's why I chose to sit with a hen, not a son - eventually since I'd not detonated, he surprisingly started crying, so we sat on the stairs leading up to my bedroom and talked for awhile.

I'd been dragging several dozen houseplants out on my deck to be soaked by the rain, a nitrogen-fixing moment, giving me a brief opportunity to dust where I'd been unable to reach due to a tangle of vines and leaves, figuring I'd at least be able to unearth a lizard or so. Jonathan sucked all the oxygen available on this end of the planet. He's a good-looking kid with such severe and sad issues.

Glad that he cried, rather than raged, I was able to talk to him and to listen to some lucid sentences, working through the evening with him by my side.

Realizing how close my life so often resembles an episode of AFV, I'd been the one to sneak up behind a trash-talking JoJo and flip him out of his chair, surprising him and succeeding in dethroning him, but at a price. Good thing I take so much calcium as I tripped backwards and landed on my expensive butt (as the donated Polo jeans did fit me), a serves you right moment, Martin laughing at me so hard, he could hardly contain himself, reaching a hand out to drag me back up for Round Two.

I do not wear size zero, nor were these jeans those. I have an issue with a size zero as that implies there's nothing there, so how could this size even exist? It didn't exist many years ago and clothes designers know they can snow the gullible with the false impression that they wear a smaller size as they've dumbed down sizes. What once was a ten is now a four or something, sizes that didn't even exist when I was a young bird. Chumping vulnerable women with body issues, this sucks.

I want to advise my strong and beautiful daughters to strive for health, not specific weight goals, or impossibly stupid zero sizes. I wish my children would never even touch alcohol, especially when we'd stop to consider the damage done to them by hard-drinking adults in their birth families. I'm as opinionated as any ole bossy older woman and I despise sodas, equating them with chemical poison, linked to diabetes and a host of other detrimental results. Deep, dark chocolate is the only way to go, and with all the delicious fruits and vegetables in the world, to choose to bite into cooked flesh makes me wanna hurl with pure revulsion.

I'm glad several of my children grow gardens, most of them do not touch alcohol, I might have one smoker in the entire bunch of 23 grown kids, so many are well-educated, they're all great parents, and most are law-abiding...several more are needing to learn things the hard way it would seem, but I do hold out hope.

I have a grown son today with a broken nose...a case of mistaken identity apparently...another son, or so, in jail. Things I can't blog, things I need to deal with. I blog a lot, it helps me to cope, yet what I don't blog is tremendous. I open a window to 10% of our complicated existence.

Gratefully knowing the depth and the width of our prayer covering, knowing details are unimportant as God's in control, He sees the bigger picture even though I constantly rail against what I see with my own human eyes, I know it'll all work out someday.

I truly know that to be true and I'm grateful for the prayers over my family.

Ceiling Fan Dreams on Paper

One of Tyler Perry's best lines is when he says raising his parents is the hardest part 'cause they're so crazy. Just think how much heck I'm gonna raise for my children when they're all grown someday, what with all this pent up aggravation.

That's if they can even find me. I'll be a ghost, free of responsibilities, digging in the dirt, finding desolate beaches to walk on, and new plants to grow.

Tired of individually pulling all the weeds, I took my mower to the hillside, desiccating all in my path. Gonna haul woodchips and then divide irises and day lilies.

Now, in our tenth summer with the pool, Chuck's going to build me the arbor I've wanted for so long. Buying the materials on a cash basis, it'll take all summer as I want ceiling fans.

Longing for Freedom and Fun

Nearly five months into this, a boatload of dollars out of this, no emergency fund anymore available for me (oops), I'm slowing regaining my physical and emotional health. I've withdrawn a great deal from the human race, tired of being lambasted for everything, preferring not being involved very much, and doing my level best to lessen stress.

Stress can kill. It can give an ole fool like me a heart attack, or just dissolve me from the inside out. Labwork doesn't lie. I'm glad I hopefully caught it in time.

Countless trips to the osteopathic physician, several thousand dollars spent on pure grade supplementation, lab work, and BHRT...and the payoff, the difference within has been astounding. I can remember the old me and am seeing peeks of her again.

The meeting Friday, a team of professionals who were all supportive, telling me I need to invest in some me time, as if I could find a babysitter for these hooligans? As if there wouldn't be H E Double Hockey Sticks to pay later? Yes, I get it, I know I need to work on myself, but I'm having to do it within the confines of 50 acres or so. That's OK as gardens are therapeutic.

My locked gate is helping me immensely, figuratively shutting out the world, giving me an emotional line of defense from those who'd like to do me harm, not even comprehending the cost of their own mis-directed intentions, still lashing out after all these years, but now thankfully grown, and I'm not trapped within their maelstrom.

I've let go of many of my expectations here. Some of my children will never learn to keep a decent house, much less keep their own rooms clean. They'll likely struggle with being law abiding folks, as is evidenced by our local jail booking report, so I'm not going to stress over their blatant inabilities to follow simple rules. I'll serve my time here, patiently repeating myself, knowing I might as well just bay at the moon.

Lately, I, very withdrawn and resentful, just do the dishes, cook the food, feed the chickens, take the trash, wash the clothes, sweep the floors, pick up the crap, feed the dogs, and motor through every single chore my ownself, knowing it's just easier than fighting about it, and so not worth the hassle. I'm shocked at the number of houseplants I've lost this year, as I've just not had time to nurture them, the kids come first along with their incredible and no resulting payoff demands.

I've carried a very heavy load, absorbed too much negativity, and am learning to just keep on keeping on. If I sound sad, I'm not intending to do so. Resignation is more like it, as I change my own expectations about life, as I withdraw so much from society, and even from my own family it may seem. If y'all can't treat me right, then go away please.

I should've seen it coming, since I wanted to go to the dollar theater, several kids oppositionally did not want to go. "I don't feel safe there," JoJo incredulously explained to me. "I'm NOT going," Tony stubbornly exerted his emotional control upon the family, while I loudly sighed in resigned exasperation, constantly butting my head against all logic, feeling my blood pressure rocket. I literally have to sit down and count my inhales and exhales until inner calm resumes. An out-of-body experience where I can see myself doing this, coaching myself through each trial.

I worked outside all day, slowly clearing out the Hillside Garden, which more resembles a Jungle Nongarden of brambles and reseeded whatinthehecks. Thinking as I worked, how much this once pristine garden now represents the jumble of strife over the last ten years, how figuratively it illustrates the irrational demands upon my time and my emotions. And for what? So I can feel unrewarded, unappreciated and constantly aggravated?

I'm pulling up beautiful four o'clocks that have reseeded themselves where I'd rather plant vegetables, hating to mar their possibilities, but preferring to eat, I'll uproot them and toss them. It's not like I don't already have hundreds elsewhere. My rudbeckia, yarrow, cleome, and cosmos, all prolific re-seeders, are being treated the same, as if they were weeds. "Sorry y'all," I catch myself saying aloud, proof positive and sure that I have lost my mind.

I did take ten kids to the movies last night, leaving the rest home with my parents.

We had a good time, the movie had too much drama, not enough silliness for me, but I still enjoyed it. Driving home, it had rained and we'd picked up coffee grinds from Starbucks. The van windows were open and I was awash in a mix of my favorite fragrances - rain, damp earth, coffee and honeysuckle - making me long with all my guts for freedom and fun. I closed my eyes for just a second to attempt to recapture the once peaceful memories and emotions that those smells conjured up within me, as my life has been upside down, illogical for way too long. I briefly caught a scent, like a hound dog, of what my life once had been.

I really have built up a protective, strong emotional wall between myself and those who'd do me harm. I like it. I may be shutting too many folks out, but it has come down to my own sanity, health, and peace of mind. This over-kicked, bruised and scarred puppy is protecting the second half of her life. I'll withdraw totally in my own shell if necessary. I've spilled my heart and guts out, to no avail, for way too long at too high of a price.

I've just taken in too much hell and I'm tired of it.

I want to breath again and to smell the roses. I want to laugh and to have fun, to spend my time with those who are not passive-aggressive, violent, disturbed, angry, thuggish, and/or hellbent on making me pay for the actions of birth parents.

My physical and emotional health depend upon it. I'm learning to say no.

And I like it.

A Wow

Jean sent me a link to this amazing video.

The Chicken or the Egg?

Do I garden because I like to eat well, or do I like to eat well because I garden?

An article about Bridge Players like Grandma, and their resulting brain power, questions, "Are they active because they are sharp, or sharp because they are active?"

And I spent some time questioning my ownself about everything I do, or think, because that's how my mind functions. Sarah's much the same, and that's how and what we talk to each other about, especially in the realm of nutrition, the environment, gardening or other matters. Imagine what a sad sack I'd have been, after this past stress slamming year or so, if my body had been comprised of Twinkies, cheez doodles and Diet Cokes? At least I had some building blocks to work with as I've recovered.

My driveway was a hubbub of activity last night, me on so little sleep, counting the hours until bedtime. Daniel with a piece to improve the chicken tractor, Miss Cissy came by with loads of clothes for everyone after cleaning out her closets. If I can squeeze my 54 year old rear end into those lah-de-dah jeans, dern I'm gonna look expensive. My sons swooped in, dividing everything that was manly, and taking tons back to their rooms to likely not hang up.

Mayra's friend, Courtney, and her parents came to take Mayra to their lake house for a few days, Miss Kimberly brought by coffee grounds and the news that Chuy'd addressed her lately as "Yo! Teach" which is 100% unacceptable. Boy, are you kidding me? Stand up straight and address her with respect. He mumbled an apology, no doubt wondering if he could ever catch a break from all my teacher friends.

Chuck has wired all the family room computers somehow to a hub at his house, several hundred yards down the hill, and can see what web pages my Bubbas are looking at, adding spyware protective programs, he can send up messages to them, scaring the snot out of Allen last night by shutting everything he opened from afar, sending Allen screaming into the room I was in, sure aliens were controlling him, while his silly brother JoJo dressed up in women's clothes from Miss Cissy, prancing around with his long, gangly, hairy legs in high heel, pointed boots.

Finally it was bedtime. I absolutely crashed, face first, asleep before I hit the pillow that a brave and foolish barn cat had coiled upon, another school year accomplished, worn out but successful with everyone except Jonathan. I had 16 bookbags of papers to go through, and I mentioned to the kids we might venture out to the dollar theater if I can find us a funny movie.

If I do nothing else for the second half of my life, Lord puh-leez let me laugh. The whole jogging on the inside concept, eliminating stress and sloughing off everyone's misdirected anger. I think a Madea movie is playing. I know Tyler Perry has taken some flak for his portrayal of African American women, but if you've lived in the South for very long, like more than thirty minutes or so, you've met plenty of women like her, maybe less witty, but certainly as bossy and opinionated.

I think she's hilarious and such a dead-on throwback to uncomplicated, un-politically correct times that are still acceptable down here. The PC police need to get their panties out of a wad and enjoy a good guffaw. Life's too short to stress over comedic accuracy.

"An unpardonably primitive, repetitive dramedy that promises a farce yet delivers the same tiresome Perry brand of spiritual and empowerment hooey..." See that's the real issue as liberal critics can't comprehend the folks who are believers yet are hilarious. An unsettling combination? Whatever, it works for me. We want to be entertained, not educated at a Madea movie.

Just as I'd seen a kid from the high school yesterday, trudging home from school in his pjs. Is it just a Southern thing? Are we more free down here to be lackadaisical? Shiftless? Ridiculous? It works for me.

Madea or Jeff Foxworthy's redneck illustrations...it's just about a relaxed lifestyle. And yes, I'm upset over My Name is Earl being cancelled. I may be highly educated, which allowed me to retire early, but I ain't above bathroom humor.

You might be a redneck if you got stopped by a state trooper. He asked you if you had an I.D. And you said, 'Bout What?'

Maybe I'm just immature, but who cares? At times I can't believe I'm already as old as I am with a granddaughter heading off to high school now. If anything, over the decades, I've lost ground in the maturity department. Just ask my parents...or Sarah. I'd simply rather be goofy than serious. I'd rather laugh than preen. I'll choose giggling over stressing, and chuckling over fretting. Given the clowns I live with...Or are they silly because I am?

I just hope I'm continuously given the chance to be a whack job.

Wrong With A Capital R

As I complained to Miss Cissy, who'd called my cell while I was barrelling down the highway, "On my way to a cruddy meeting," I'd fussed.

"Darling!" she hooted in the comforting manner only Miss Cissy can pull off, "You are a child of God! You'll find favor!" in her very confident tone, then praying aloud to me, warming my heart and easing my pointy-headed brain.

And I did.

The meeting was comforting, understanding, productive and worthwhile. Dadagum was my initial assessment way far off base, or what?

The total lack of sleep contributed to my stress, I believe I might have gotten a total of four undisturbed hours, certainly not enough to battle Atlanta's notoriously sucky traffic here at the beginning of Memorial Day Weekend, but even that wasn't too bad.

The Ups and Downs in a Life Like Mine or Congratulations Paloma

Although I run full steam, forging ahead, working my butt off, I'm always behind, and always the surprised victim of unexpected, unprovoked potshots.

You'd think I'd learn.

But no, not me.

I dashed between meetings and obligations yesterday, struggling with one kid and their make-up work, but getting it done thankfully, I have a pile of paperwork that needs to accompany different children out the door this morning, as they head off to their last day of school, while I need to be in Atlanta for a meeting about Teresa that left me unable to sleep longer than a couple of hours last night.

A doggie commotion downstairs woke me at 2 and I literally watched the digital clock rudely click its loud, regular reminders that I had then spent the next two and a half hours stressing. I gave it up and came downstairs for coffee, still stressing.

Each meeting, in every therapeutic setting where my child is purportedly being treated for their issues that all sprang from their birth families and early childhood trauma...well because the kids just get more manipulative while I sit there wide-eyed and still hopeful and optimistic, I always take a beating.

The professionals in the room, who do not know this child well, as they've never lived with them, never been their target nor truly spent much time involved as the turnover in the mental health profession is amazingly rapid, well they just pontificate and bluster, point fingers and make lame suggestions, always leaving me aggravated, insulted and feeling hopeless. I want to scream and cuss. These folks have never been constantly robbed, lied to, lied about and had their homes destroyed by angry kids.

I think today I'll act as ignorantly as they treat me. Maybe I'll just sit there and smack and pop bubblegum, twirl my hair through my fingers, and grab at imaginary bugs in the air. Why not? That's how I get treated.

It's pointless for me to point out my children's success stories here as they'll be treated dismissively. It's useless to remind folks of the early trauma and the different diagnoses as everyone seems to have their own agenda. So while this certainly cost me a good night's sleep, I'm still going to try to slough it all off the best that I can. Maybe I'll wear my Ipod and dance in my seat while they blah, blah, blah all around me. Or paint my toenails? Crap, I don't even own any nail polish.

But nooooooooooo, I'll sit there politely while steaming on the inside, smoke possibly billowing out my ears, but my honest assessment of this annoying situation will remain stuffed inside me. I'll smile, but snark inwardly.

Daniel, Lauren, Yolie and the kids, Edgar and his girlfriend, plus Grandpa, all joined me last night for the last two phenomenal soccer games in the Championship Tournament.

For CW, Chuy and Allen's team, we paced, yelled, and encouraged from the sidelines. Daniel, knowing way more about the intricacies of soccer, coached loudly while I just hollered. Lemme tell ya, my boys listened to Daniel. Their own volunteer coach admits he knows little about the game and allows them to boss each other on the field. I can especially hear bossy, opinionated CW and Chuy telling the other players where to go and what to do.

For all their best efforts, and they were mightily impressive, my boys lost in an upset, as they'd been the most undefeated team all season, losing only once and to this team that won last night...even though they'd beat them soundly earlier in the season. There just seemed to be no defense, and while my boys played their brains out, they needed some back-up there.

Surprisingly they took the loss better than I expected.

Paloma's team faced a cocky, talented, undefeated team that had beat them before. I'd explained the concept of an upset to Paloma before the game and she made the only goal in her game that tied them up, sending them into overtime, and later into sudden death a shoot-out in which Paloma not only defended well, but she kicked in the winning goal.

Unbelievable, she was the game hero all the way around, justifying her coach's tremendous patience with her, as she'd nutted up before on the field over this season.

This from an emotionally disturbed child who'd also had a DJJ visit from her Probation Officer. Miss Kim and I'd both complimented Paloma on a relatively decent month for her which worried me as if the compliments are too effusive, Paloma makes us pay.

"Don't take this wrong," a soccer dad told me, as the team seemed lethargic at times, "I was really hoping her manic phase would kick in and whoa buddy look at her go!"

Nah, I wasn't insulted at all. Paloma's mood swings have become well known around here, even a deputy had goofed on her yesterday at the fifth grade graduation.

She made me really, really proud last night and she knew it. Glowing, she bear-hugged Daniel probably for the first time in her life, but he'd been so loudly supportive, telling her to watch for the corner kicks and to focus...which, for once, she sure did. Martin and Mayra had scurried over to the team bench to verbally walk her through there at the end.

No wonder I have a tough time sleeping. Joy and worry, pride and stress, and this morning Scotty's been up early with me, scurrying around the house, fretting over his last day of school as goodbyes translate into loss for my kids. Tabby's going to lose it today, and Sabrina and Martin will say good-bye to middle school and be high-schoolers. It won't be easy for Paloma either. She successfully passed everything on the CRCT, even with her failing grades, so she'll be socially promoted.

And there I'll be...an hour away in Atlanta...hoping and praying the hotline doesn't ring for me from the schools, yet knowing this is a very emotionally trying day for children like mine.

And Fabian may or may not have another court day today, calling me last night from his lock-up. Paloma can't ride the bus home as she's still kicked off, how am I gonna be six places at once?

Dear Lord, help me maintain my Christian witness throughout today...

A Fool

Yet another day spent spinning my wheels, losing ground, working uphill, in general just being me.

Arriving at the fifth grade graduation shindig, I see 5 deputies. Uh-oh, I hope it isn't about us, my paranoia and/or PTSD kicking into high gear. I try to pass by unobtrusively, only to have one of the men catch my eye and nod me on. Something about a custody dispute that sure eliminates me from any fray. Who'd fight me for these kids?

Paloma pointed out my shirt was on inside out. Great. I'd already been with administrators from the other school and hugged a bunch of folks at this school. Sometimes I just feel fortunate to have found a shirt to put on.

Well, I noticed Cindy," another principal later told me. "I've just learned to not say much about how folks are dressed."

OK, just let me make a fool out of myself.

Or does that go without saying?

Peas and Beans

Only two more days of school left and Paloma has spun into high gear. Absolutely battling to seize control over every aspect of our lives, making Tabby especially miserable if she so much as ever utters any opinion, stressing me out, and the rest of the kids are tiptoeing around her once again.

I don't even feel like blogging her stuff, I've rarely mentioned her lately, as I sounded like such a broken record I was boring myself, wishing to move on, and dealing with other issues.

I'd only gotten outside for a short while yesterday, needing to clear my clanging mind, looking at my so-called 'Welcome Garden' knowing it more resembled the troll under the bridge, figuratively discouraging and shooing folks away, as the wild blackberries and ten foot tall poke sallet had overtaken it while I'd been busy sweeping my many stone paths out back. But if I had to choose between my fruits and vegetables versus perennial beds...y'all know I love to eat.

The principal at the Alternative School had shocked JoJo even more than he'd rattled my cage when JoJo overhead him call mama yesterday. "I'm the best kid in that whole school," JoJo often brags, leaving me to believe the rest of the school population must really stink.

Sadly, the administration backs JoJo up. He is one of the best kids there.

Because my little darling had taken a total of ten self-imposed vacation days from school during the past nine week session, they'd come up with a more than appropriate response. When school resumes in August, JoJo must return to A.S. in order to get credit for this past school year. If he does so and does well, he can then return to regular school. JoJo teared up and the tears trickled down his face which was oh so much better than when he'd rudely stone-walled Miss Kim of DJJ last week.

JoJo's grades are good and the kid is a great reader. If he can overcome his anger issues that have exploded in adolescence, he'll make it.

A comfort food for me includes black eyed peas, soaked overnight, cooked with garlic, and served any way possible. The tantalizing aroma is earthy enough to seduce me, the flavor soothes me, and beans are so good for you. Yet, I've never grown them, not ever. I've grown purple hulled cow peas, which are delicious, yet never had the time to invest in growing enough various beans for the winter. Yet, someday...

DJJ meeting today for both Paloma and Jonathan, Paloma started bucking me on it last night, I'm sure this morning's gonna be fun with her.

It Ain't Just Us?

Why am I still inside blogging? Because the world, and my children have conspired against me today, sending me to different schools, forcing me to supervise take-home exams, and answer phone calls about quickly scheduled meetings.

The Principal at the Alternative School just called, "Come get JoJo. He's being awful."

"Tell me about it," I sighed.

"I'm just kidding you."

Oh...well then cancel the ambulance I nearly called on myself.

"Can you come to a meeting at one?" he asked, still giggling at having chumped me so good. Don't think I won't retaliate, I'll just bide my time, waiting on an opportunity.

"Yes, if we're on the same page about JoJo remaining in Alternative School," warily hedging my bets.

"We are," he concurred, muffling his laughter.

I'd not gone out into the garden, as I'd already been called to the middle school, running into my favorite deputy whose daughter is lately obsessed with CW. As concerned parents, we both agreed to shut this young teen relationship down. It is unnecessary.

As we were discussing several of my other kids, those who've turned their lives around and those getting sucked into dumb thugness, he reassured me, "Between 18 and 28, I seem to lock the same folks up for the same stupid stuff, then they miraculously grow up and act right."

Another mom listening in, piped up, "Oh darn, I have three more years to endure?"

It ain't just us then?

Money Matters For Single Moms Especially

It's not that I'm obsessed with money, it's more the money management that I crave knowledge of, how can any single mother properly tend to a family, large or small, without the all-consuming, constant quest for financial education?

Suze Orman is a genius, I love her TV shows and her books, this article spoke volumes to me today.

So often I get voluminous emails from women who want to adopt children, asking how to get started. Get your own house in order first, starting with money management. Foreign adoptions are expensive, domestic adoptions are subsidized, but still extraordinarily difficult over the ensuing years.

Sarah sent me to the New York Times Magazine this week which is about money. I read every word with the rapt interest only a nerd could possibly muster up.

From another great article:

"I had interviewed people with very modest incomes who had taken out big loans. Yet for all that, I was stunned at how much money people were willing to throw at me.

Bob called back the next morning. “Your credit scores are almost perfect,” he said happily. “Based on your income, you can qualify for a mortgage of about $500,000.”

Thank God I never fell for that. I'm equity rich and cash poor, thankfully I never took out a home equity loan that I'd have been subsequently unable to repay. The Simple Dollar recently had a great post about the best money is money not spent in the first place.

He argues, "While I certainly appreciate the value of earning more, I argue that spending a dollar less is significantly more valuable than earning a dollar more."

I agree.

But what Sarah found the most fascinating came in this article where the apparently demonic credit card folks are even tracking how worried you must be when you check your balance owed at 2 a.m. They see you.

If anything I err on the side of frugality into penny-pinching, but at least I keep this large family afloat. I've modeled good spending (or not spending) habits all my life, having been taught well by my own parents and grandparents and even great-grandparents.

Nothing matters more to me than peace of mind. No material possession can give me the same thrill I get from not owing money. I was hard-wired this way. I read financial papers obsessively, not totally understanding everything, often going to Sarah with my questions as she majored in accounting and reads ten times the amount that I do, and certainly the deeper, more complex information that she translates for me.

I raised her absolutely dirt poor in rural areas. Schoolteachers in Georgia in the 1970s hardly made squat, but we made do, and I even was paying Montessori tuition for Sarah as a pre-schooler. We shopped at yard sales, grew gardens and everything was second-hand. Our philosophy that we both still follow was embodied in the words: Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without. Who needs it anyway?

There seemed to be no other way to raise one child, much less the 38 more that followed...and still retire early, plus put kids through college, several in private colleges, give them braces, sports activities, and all the other strangling demands, while never browsing through the mall as recreation, nor blowing bucks on crap.

I keep a budget to the nickel, balance my checkbook to a penny, and get a dollar's worth of stuff for a dime. I love the challenge, I truly love it. I thrive on it.

Lynn asked me on Facebook about coupons, yep to that, although not as well as my amazing friend Devin. I read Dave Ramsey for fun, Larry Burkett for years, and all the others that I pick up at yard sales to teach me what I need to know. Larry Burkett predicted this crisis we're now in, sounding like an alarmist 20 years ago, but able to see through the morass of borrowing that there'd eventually be a massive price to pay.

I have no back-up, it's all on me. It behooves me to drum up the courage to remain different.

I may end up each month broke as a mule, likely in the same t-shirt I was wearing on the first, but not owing anyone, not looking at stuff I didn't need in the first place. I sweat it all certainly, but it's doable if I keep learning and growing. Too bad that many of my kids later rebel against frugality and accountability. The successful ones eventually come around.

Folks who want to adopt - learn about money management. The three articles I've linked are a great start.

There Nonetheless

Daniel, on the left holding Jesse's son Isaiah, is a good-sized man. I've seen one picture of his birth father laden with similar, strong shoulders. I can see his imprint on my son. However, everyone is dwarfed when standing next to Jesse, whose birth father I've never seen. Two great sons of mine, giving me hope to continue forward in this great adventure of life. How's that for putting a spin on things?

Most of my children clearly remember their birth mothers. The memories were often awful, but that never stopped my children from missing the moms who once, at least, fed them. They hang on to, and forever struggle with, the thought that the same moms wouldn't follow through on case plans to get them back, choosing a life of drugs, parties and no responsibilities, in two cases, leaving behind emotionally shattered groups of seven children.

That's very hard for me to wrap my brain around, but that's what I must deal with every single day. Oh poor me, imagine how much more so does it cut into my children? So I stand here, knowing it'll take a lifetime for them and for me. One grown child recently sobbing apologies over the way I'd been treated by her during her childhood. Paloma was hovering and listening intently, comprehending nothing, as the other three of us were in tears over the situation, knowing I forgive, but there's no do-over for that lost childhood...the same childhood Paloma is now jeopardizing.

Jonathan is flitting about the house at the moment, acting as literally as insane as a deranged bat in a dark, dank belfry, irking the tar out of me. "He just likes to push your buttons," I'm told when in reality they're unwilling to acknowledge the depth of his mental disturbance, furthering aggravating me. Maybe professionals ought to be required to spend 24-7 within their own household alongside a more depraved kid, as the increased understanding would benefit us all. See if you're able to sleep or even to digest your food. Get a firsthand look at secondary trauma and the damage that is wrought upon a family.

But I'm tired of caterwauling about it, bored and disillusioned. I have an almost free morning in which to run outside and work. A few of my raspberries are producing, surprise morsels that thrill me.

Javy and Martin, members of an undefeated soccer team, lost the Championship Game last night...but at least to the son of my friend, Robin. It went into sudden death overtime then a sudden death shoot-out. A dad came up to Javy later, as Javy was fighting tears, "Son, you're one of the best goalies I've ever seen," and not coming from me, it seemed to have emboldened Javy somewhat. "You're my mom," he'd have responded to me, "You have to compliment me."

No I don't. But I would and I do.

Martin doesn't take a loss so hard, "Hey, it's just a game," shrugging it off and moving forward.

His sixth grade science teacher, Mr T, and his family, had called to find out the game time, supporting my children which is love one just can't purchase. "He remembers me?" Martin asked incredulously, leaving me even more surprised that Martin would wonder such a thing. Mr T has been involved with our family for ten years or so, heck yeah he remembers you boy. Short term memory loss is not epidemic, although it would seen so here within our group.

"OK, that makes me feel better," Javy acknowledged on the ride home, as the layers of emotional security within our community run deep. Mr T's son, John, cutely peppering me with millions of question in very sharp contrast to the sadly flat affect of a kid like Jonathan. Sometimes I simply marvel at normalness when I'm privy to being around it.

The lying grapevine I'd referenced yesterday was, in fact, lying. Fabian is safe in jail, the beneficiary of three hots and a cot. He's supposed to serve 40 days, good behavior will cut it in half, and he also got the unexpected, unbargained for credit for the four days already served. That's good I suppose, but better would be if folks obeyed the law. Wishful thinking maybe as genetics kick into such high gear once adolescence has a stranglehold on kids.

Crappily enough, Fabian has another court date in this county coming up. I guess the jail will transport him over here to the courthouse. Yes, I'll be there for him, somewhat resentfully, but there nonetheless.

Do They Ever Learn?

I'm with Claudia - I didn't sign up for this. At one time I had some crazy notion that I could make a difference. Ya know that ole not walking away from a problem, but trying to do something about it...at times to no avail. I shoulda just got a job barking at the moon for all it's seemingly done.

I'd no sooner left Fabian in the custody of a police officer, dropping Vanessa off, before getting some disturbing texts from Joey, who's not allowed, by law, to contact me at all. A flurry of phone calls back and forth between Vanessa and I and now we're befuddled about Fabian's whereabouts. I'd asked no-show Edgar to meet us at the courthouse this morning, while Miriam ignored my phone calls as they're both out of patience with Fabian.

I've heard through a possibly lying grapevine that Fabian is not in police custody...that he might have run off and made a very dumb choice. I can't verify this yet and I sincerely hope I'm wrong. I don't even see how it could've been a possibility, but his name is not appearing on the jail roster and I've been checking since noon, even from my Crackberry constantly.

Again I just get really aggravated that I'm expected to maintain violent criminal behaviors. Fabian was very difficult to raise, I got physically slammed around several times...without Edgar and Sergi then living here it would've been much worse. Fabian's life choices suck, and I don't have a problem with him being locked up as a consequence.

My prayer is for him to learn a lesson and turn his life around.

Can I Title Every Post "It Ain't Easy"?

A teacher gave me her husband's cell phone number so I could contact them in the event she didn't hear her own phone ringing. Nope, not gonna happen. I don't call other women's husbands. If Claudia were in Atlanta this week with Bart, I'd jet over there in a heartbeat. While I'd love to see Bart, especially during this time of turmoil that I'd preceded them in experience through, I'd really love time to sit with him and encourage him through his despair over his children. But I don't go visit husbands either. Call me prudish, prim or proper, call me too Southern or whatever, that's how I am.

I'm finding that life is getting in the way of gardening all too often. My calendar is demanding and today, on my fifth trip to court with Fabian, he ran out of excuses and chose to serve his short jail time. I stood with him in front of the judge, embarrassed, upset, humiliated and angry that Fabian literally believes the cops provoke him just so that they can arrest him. The judge was understanding, sympathetic to me even though I stood silently, never saying a word.

"Son, you have a mom who obviously loves you," she preached, not knowing anything about our situation, "You need to straighten up now and make her proud."

Tears welled in my eyes a little bit, but I maintained control. Vanessa did cry though as the police officers took Fabian into custody.

Fabian had a bruised eye from a trailer park fight earlier in the week. He gets off on these altercations, full of super-charged adrenaline, he's become an excitement junkie and it's costing him dearly.

Vanessa'd earlier informed me she'd gotten a job as a receptionist, to which I immediately responded with pride, "Way to go Baby Doll, that makes me proud. Where?"

"At a tattoo parlor."

Whump, my brain slammed shut.

"I've wanted a tattoo like forever," she dumbly informed me.

"Make it a big garish one with a picture of a butthead losing brain cells," I snapped, irked and disappointed once again. Then sliding back into a calmer mode, "Nessa, no one who's ever gotten a tattoo remained proud of it years later," I blindly predicted.

"Oh yeah, I know," she continued, "When I'm old like you, I'll probably regret it a lot."

Nice, Vanessa.

Jose ran away from his facility twice yesterday, blaming all his mental illnesses and emotional problems on me. Like I was the birth mom who'd murdered their birth dad? Son, get the facts straight. They'd told me his future in their program is in jeopardy as they're not a lock down facility. The thought of him being kicked out makes my blood run cold. I couldn't sleep again. Insomnia is not my friend.

On the bright side, Paloma's U14 team won their game easily and will continue onto the final championship game Thursday. CW, Allen and Chuy continued their awesome playing as well, winning 4-0 last night. Tonight Tabby and Nando have their final game at the same time that Martin and Javy's Championship Game will be played. Grandpa, send help please. I can't be on both fields at the same time.

Meeting Edgar's newest girlfriend last night, a beautiful, college girl who has nine adopted brothers and sisters, I blurted, "And you chose Edgar?"

"Yeah," she laughed, "What was I thinking?"

According to Sarah, it's simply proof that this pretty birth child was emotionally damaged by her adoption experiences. Honey, Sarah ought to know. She's been banged up, ignored, and mistreated time and time again by my other angry children. No one gets out of this unscathed in some way. I'm gonna again have to cross reference my friend, Pat's comment of yesterday, a woman badly burned (like me and so many others) by the Hell she's endured.

Bart, Claudia, Pat and all y'all...we've somehow got to remember we were called to this life and somehow, someway we'll understand more...all the stuff we can't see nor comprehend right now.

I Know What I Want

"MOM!" JoJo loudly bellowed at me in the church parking lot, "You have retarded children."

Where does one go with this? The fact that I had the cutest Downs Syndrome cousin on earth, Scottie Joe, helps me to comprehend this word should not be bandied about lightly. But JoJo, son, you're one of my kids.

What I shouted in response was, "Oh now they're my kids?" to which he had no quick answer.

Can we not get through five minutes in one day without a dumb outburst from someone?

These folks are today's heroes for me. See how distractible I am?

All large and unusual families get contacted by producers, reporters and authors. Some of these opportunities could be quite lucrative, but so far I've not felt released by God to get involved in anything. I have my hands full as it is and a camera crew documenting our pain doesn't seem very desirable...until I'd recently read about the big bucks I didn't realize I'd turned down.

Nah...still not worth it for me. Like I'd need anyone else stirring up drama around here?

Right here at this point in my post, I'd walked away yesterday afternoon, distracted or busy, who knows? This morning I took it back up after reading some other blogs and being snagged by this one in particular.

Simply put, "We saw a problem and we didn't walk away," in response to the over-asked question we adoptive parents all too often listen to, "What on earth made you do this?" as if we're must've been dropped on our own heads as babies. Ya know, normal folks wouldn't take this on...the implication is always there. We're treated almost accusatorily as if our ulterior motive must be so inherently selfish or certainly suspect.

Dusty Hart's simple reply, "We saw a problem and we didn't walk away," plus the short video there says it all. I need reminders like this.

Yet I, as usual, feel compelled to go on and on about it, when the truth is, I also needed to be again reminded why, as loving and parenting traumatized children is difficult and challenging. There's no gratitude, no rhyme nor reason to one's life, and the backlash is shocking. Really shocking, as adoptive parents are usually treated so badly on so many levels.

And then folks wonder why I retreat from society? Why I prefer to run out back to my gardens? Why being alone isn't undesirable? I'm all too often left feeling like a kicked puppy that it's just so much easier for me to emotionally and physically retreat. My fruits and vegetables fill me up, my gardens soothe my ragged soul.

Yesterday's sermon on dealing with difficult or destructive people got me. Especially the part about anger, as JoJo, sitting between Chuck and I for good measure, kept jabbing me in the ribs. A "ha ha" moment as Mama squirmed uncomfortably while she got a reminder straight from God. Ok son, I can take it. I know when I've failed but I attempt to turn my own personal ship around.

Tony, Jonathan and Paloma all conspired loosely, and not as an organized bunch, to make us all miss church yesterday, yet I shoved another plan into action, missing Sunday School, but getting to go hear Pastor Tony's sermon. Later, blessed by rain, but stuck inside with rambunctiousness, it wasn't a bad day at all.

I know why I do what I do, I was clearly called and loosely equipped. I need to remember that in the bad times and do what I'm supposed to do, regardless of the shenanigans exploding around me. Jeepers I pray about everything, except maybe my doomed plates, I don't hardly take a step without a prayer, as I maintain that connection with God on a 24-7 level, quick popcorn prayers and tons of "Thy will be done" moments since I want nothing but His will in my life... as I face several interesting possibilities.

Shut the door, Open the door, lead me this way or that, but please Lord, lemme know. Us headstrong, willful women need clues so as not to strike out unprotected and out of bounds, where we shouldn't be going. So far so good. I know what I want...but....

Saturday Games

Typing hard with my two uncoordinated fingers, blaring my thoughts - angry or frustrated - has always helped me. Nowadays I journal aloud and with company here. Folks worry and call me, but those who've known me for so long, Sarah for example, barely mention any post to me, knowing that the act of furiously typing was cathartic enough for me. Rapidly moving on, I'm usually involved in the next episode of our lives by the time my readers are still wading through evidence of my childish hissy fits.

I'd busted out laughing at a text, "Do you ever run out of plates?" and my children ragged me a great deal yesterday for my obvious immaturity of the night before. I'll agree with them, it wasn't very mature of me, and I'll yank down a convenient excuse from mid-air, lamely pointing out "Well, it ain't easy being me," as if that justified my plate smashing fury.

"Guess you better some hit some yard sales and get us some more plates," was our family's general consensus yesterday, but soccer prevailed over everything, as usual, structuring our day with games and practices, the tournament getting underway, and JoJo and Scotty's team went down hard in an inglorious defeat in sudden death overtime. Scotty fighting tears, JoJo blaming everyone, failing to understand that his own attitude contributed to the loss.

Yard sales will have to wait, we still have enough plates for now, cowering in the cupboards, silent witnesses to the potential for their own inevitable destruction. "Don't piss her off kids," they're likely murmuring, leaving me to wonder why I think my mis-matched, perilous and endangered plates talk amongst themselves.

Grandpa was with us down on the fields, witness to JoJo's wanting to have a fit over a pair of shorts that he'd chosen to wear, informing us all that he was freeballing, earning a piercing glare from me, as I was sitting with other parents and irked at his inability to keep quiet while I watched Tabby and Nando play...and play well they did.

JoJo and Scotty's team is totally out of the running now, (guess ya should've worn boxers son) leaving me to sweat through only four more family teams. I called Daniel to tell him to not come on Saturday, if he was in a time crunch, save it for Monday, Tuesday and Thursday nights of next week as those are the major tournament games.

"Mom, I'm at Fort Gordon," doing his Army National Guard duty, infinitely patient with me, as he's been for all of his life, but I'm glad I'd checked, as Nando did eventually ask about Daniel in his squeaky, nasal voice, "Hey! Where's Danny?" His hero.

And the newspapers making a big deal about President Obama yelling on the soccer field. Well, duh, that's what folks do.

Neither a burst of rain, nor impending thunderstorms, interfered with the soccer schedule and with a short break between obligations, we all ran to the back of the park to watch Ray play T ball. A fairly clean Hazel awaited us, busting into smiles when she saw the Bubbas with me, immediately finagling Tabby into a muddy area, so that she could then happily smear it on me and on others.

Sarah handed JoJo, Tabby and Scotty a wet wipe to work on Hazel bare feet, sparkling with pink toe nail polish, prompting our usual line of speaking without thinking, "How many Mexicans does it take to clean a baby?" this time as opposed to this morning's earlier theme, "How many Mexicans does it take to find shin guards and to dress JoJo?" (Answer: There aren't enough Mexicans in the world to properly accomplish dressing JoJo.)

Any new readers to my blog might think we're being offensive, what with a smiling picture of a white boy featured here, not knowing that a white Abuelita is a tiny minority in a large family of Hispanics. And I don't talk like that, my children start it all up.

My niece Lauren, headed off to six weeks in Mexico to work this summer, has spent most summers visiting here with us, her large extended Mexican family. Her aunt on her dad's side also has Hispanic children, Lauren's boyfriend in college is Hispanic...our family has evolved slowly and steadily. And Lauren and her father are due here around the fourth of July, sending me scurrying to the Braves schedule, uh-oh - come before the weekend while they play the Phillies at home, as we've likely not missed a year of baseball since my sister went on to Heaven.

Research has proven one should consume colorful vegetables for anti-oxidant and premier health benefits. The phytonutrients so important and so over looked by the general population that seemingly subsists on white bread, fried dead animals, and chemical drinks.

I'd planted, grown and picked Pretty in Pink radishes, Rhubarb and Vulcan Swiss Chard, Bronze Arrow lettuces, Oak Leaf Lettuce, Strawberries and Sugar Snap Peas last night, while marveling at the weed's abilities to trump all my best efforts, apparently shooting up and out at least foot a night. A friend recently reminding me to look at what all I've gotten accomplished versus fretting over what all needs to be done. A great idea in theory, but oh so hard to accomplish or acknowledge as an obsessed gardener.

My kids tiptoed around me after our daylong soccer schedule, allowing me to work peacefully out in the gardens, other than Tony irritating Sabrina so bad, again being sent to his room, where he worked diligently to destroy his bedroom door, we'd had a decent evening.

Me, so totally exhausted I felt like a robot, sleeping so hard I never heard the next thunderstorm, ready again to face what's hurled my way today...hoping to be able to attend church in peace, running stuff through my mind that I have to attend to for the last week of school, and eagerly looking forward to reading this, a book Ms Carr had passed on to Sarah, now it's my turn.

So many books, so little time.

So many children....