Danger, danger

I'd gone up to the mountains yesterday on a grey, drizzly day to visit Pepe who was turning 15, surprising him with my ability to pick out clothes he actually liked from Rugged Wearhouse. We had a good visit, but his anger at the world, his weird fixations on sneseless power struggles, and his inability to comprehend decent behavior - as in not wanting to bully others - all combined to make me very grateful that he's in a residential placement. Three assaults on people, on me, Chuy and a camp counselor, have left me very wary about continued interactions. Both Chuy and I have been injured, the counselor just merely alarmed, but they did press charges.

He doesn't understand this at all. He think that dominating people earns him respect, there's zero comprehension in his mind, that normal folks don't ever attack others. He thinks all attacks are justified, for so little as they looked at him wrong.

His many diagnoses, and his continued inability to not attack when denied his way have all combined to cement in my mind, a refusal to ever allow him to live with us again. I deeply regret that I didn't stand my ground about Joey many years ago, dumb gullible me, thinking he'd changed because I'd been told so by officials, it was certainly not true, and resulted in way too much damage on us all.

Pepe was happy to see me, we had a good visit, but his counselor tells me he always refers to me as That B%$ch. Wow, because I tried to hold him accountable? Because I provided for him? Got him to school, church, soccer and other activities? I'm very, very weary of the resentment dumped upon me, for all the misdirected anger. It's taken quite a toll on me after all these years, leaving me wanting to have as little as possible to do with the human race, fantasizing about being a hermit someday.

I've attended hundreds of counseling sessions over the years in which the kids blame me for their behaviors. The very behaviors they were diagnosed with long before I even met them. The kids are very convincing actors, having learned early on to manipulate the system, leaving me having to constantly verbally defend myself.

Good therapists, such as Dr. Mandy, Dr. C, and Dr. G, all understand the dynamics in the adoption of older children, but other therapists that we've encountered in various programs? Their emphases come from working with dysfunctional birth families that produced screwed up children. Sorry, folks, that ain't us. Then I just look pissed off, feeding into their 'hostile mom' approach to everything. Ya wonder why I'm burned out? How about a little support from folks who should know better?

Another child, diagnosed with schizo-affective disorders early on, attacking three different policemen over a five year time span, I kept hunting for help for her, in spite of professionals wanting to return her home, I'm so very glad I stood my ground as now that she's an adult, her behaviors are no less bizarre and dangerous both to herself and to others. I am in touch with her fairly regularly and I'm glad for that connection, but I do not want to ever attempt to live with dangerous people again.

A long drive involved, blessed time for me to be alone with my thoughts and in listening in peace to my Ipod, a sermon by David Cooper, later sending seven kids to the high school football game, allowed me to put the younger children to bed and watch a show I'd taped on PBS, The Botany of Desire, which was incredibly well done, saving it to watch again late one night when I won't be able to sleep.

$14 Haircut

Tell me that $14 expenditure wasn't worth it? I still however miss our backyard hair clipping times. Teenage boys are so incredibly vain nowadays.

Our enthusiasm over the middle school's undefeated league championship spilled over yesterday into me sending clips from Daniel's iphone to Sarah's computer so she could post them for me. I was then trying to get my three of my five U14 players, Allen, JoJo, Paloma, over to the fields for their last game before playoffs.

Daniel made it two counties away to the football game - logistics, time constraints and family demands prevented me from attending, yet Daniel updated me on every score, I'd loudly hollered them out here at home to the other kids, so very happy that CW and Chuy were experiencing this victory. They've had very good football coaching and an extremely good season. Daniel also, when he was their age, had played for the same team at the same school, the program then in its infancy. Given a choice, both boys would have made Daniel their first choice as the family member in attendance, they strive for his approval of their efforts, knowing mine are simply expected.

We have two spare cell phones, no way for me to even think about providing enough phones for each kid, and CW had one of them with him, calling to let me know where they were, in relation to how much further until they arrived back at their school, "We've got another championship to go for," CW excitedly informed me. Their soccer coach, an EMT and supervisor of our county's school bus transportation system, had also been calling the driver, knowing he needed CW and Chuy out on the field.

His wife had texted me to warn me the ref officiating was the one Chuy had difficulties with, hoping I could calm down Mr. Hothead, but in all the excitement, I never even heard my phone sounds at all, a big uh-oh when I got there and sent Chuy flying out into position, but the evening preceded along fine.

1-1 when we arrived, Chuy and CW, both strong leaders of a team, roared onto the field and there was still 35 minutes left into the game that they won 7-1, playing beautifully. My other three children play so much better when CW and Chuy are there to help intimidate and conquer with their soccer skills. Allen'd made a goal with a mid-field strong, well-aimed kick, he'd been working on his distance shots and that particular one was dazzling.

Ten years ago Big Joe played football for the high school and their team won the state championship, Joe's very proud of the ring he earned, and tonight the school has welcomed back the 1999 state champs for a recognition event.

I'm not even much of a sports person, but every part of me knows how important all this is for my kids. Sabrina piped up on the ride home last night, "Mom, thanks that you make sure we all get where we need to be, that you cheer for us."

"Yeah, thanks," several others surprisingly chimed in. I really don't hear compliments that much around here, they simply expect me to do what I'm supposed to do, the acknowledgement took me aback. They have many expectations including clean laundry, supper on the table, a family routine including bedtimes and me waking them up each morning, doing what needs to be done, and I'd all along just thought they took me for granted...which they usually do.

I'd had several hours of wonderfully uninterrupted garden time, getting ready for next spring which comes quickly in the South. I'd been clearing out the old garden refuse, a clean slate upon which to pile on more organic materials that I'll be dragging home all winter.

An end-of-the-month eat what's left in the pantry time of the week, scrambled egg sandwiches for supper, as bread and eggs was just about all that's left by now, we stuffed ourselves and barreled out the door for soccer, coming home later to eat again before bedtime, our schedule's been like that for the past three months, next week it'll ease up considerably.

Middle School Undefeated Champions

The middle school football team played an undefeated season and just won their league championship game. This is their first championship in the 12 years the school has been open. These two videos, according to Daniel, show Chuy kicking off and helping tackle. CW is on the team as well, but was sidelined all year (completely against his will) with his collarbone issue.

Note: No exclamation points were harmed in the making of this message. They would have been, if Cindy had been the one actually posting, but as she couldn't figure out how to upload the videos, The Punctuation Police was able to exert her authority.

All My Jagged Edges

Written some seven years ago, before he became so well known, Salatin immediately starts off with the fact that his then 14 and 20 year old children are truly enjoyable. That alone got me to reading.

But only for a minute before the kids came home from school. Other than a minor disruption in which I'd had to run to the middle school to tend to Paloma, I'd been happily able to spend a couple hours outside working.

Soccer is truly kicking our butts what with make-up games due to the rain I wished we'd had last summer instead of now. It was nearly physically impossible to get six kids to youth group, four kids on two teams to two fields, pick up two from football practice (thanks you Grandma), cook supper, and leave two kids doing homework with Grandma and Pa at home.

Running back to the church, back to two different games, not home until nine, some five hours after supper, we tore the kitchen up again, getting full before bedtime and tonight is hardly looking any better, then we go into the playoffs.

There's hardly any possible way for me to get to the football championship game in another county, Daniel will cover for me, and I'll get the rest of the kids fed and to soccer tonight. As it is, I'll grab CW and Chuy after their football game and jet 'em over to the soccer fields for their next soccer game. Four hours of games after a full school day equals tired, satisfied kids.

Joel Salatin pointed out that nowadays homes are empty all day and into half the night with jobs, school, sports and activities, home cooked meals are rare, and there's so little sense of a family life. In soccer season we're rushed and crushed and I won't change that because my kids love it, but I hear what he's saying.

Even I'm looking forward to after the playoffs when I can cook with more leisure, add more variety to our meals, and linger at the table. As the time changes, my kids are easier to get to bed, calmer even, and that's always a good thing.

When I'd let each kid choose a chick last spring, cute little buggers scurrying around at the feed store, each child chose a fluffy little ball, and get this, more than half turned out to be roosters. Oh brother. The crowing each morning is spectacular and so far there's been no jockeying for position in the barnyard, but me gathering only a handful of eggs a day isn't gonna cut it.

I drag home coffee grinds by the ton, manure, leaves and wood chips, but our hot Georgia sun bakes all organic material down to dust particles, nearly in front of one's eyes, creating a monster that must be fed. Good thing such productive work thrills me, less so Jack's dog who insisted on sleeping up in my room last night, bounding around goofy and active, waking me up wanting to play. I don't think so.

Today also seems to be my day, no appointments, warm beautiful weather, time for me to think through Dr. Mandy's comments of yesterday, "You're really traumatized," she informed me. Yep, I know. It's been massively difficult to shoulder and to stomach everything over the past several years. Feeling as if I've made absolutely no difference in several lives, kids who are totally incapable of not being violent perpetrators, and I'm doing my level best to concentrate hard on the very good kids that I do parent.

So many are thriving and shining in soccer, some have very good grades, some are courteous and helpful, and they're balancing my life out in a good way, for that I'm so transparently grateful. As I dug in the dirt and weeded the pernicious crabgrass rhizomes, I emitted the twitching negativity that I've been fighting against within my own psyche, knowing if I keep working and expending energy, bad air out, good air in, eventually I'll simply be a farmer gardener, happy in the dirt, producing crops, food and sustenance, but more importantly, healing from within all my own jagged edges.

Explain These Behaviors To Me

Blame the gloomy weather? Who knows? It's been Nutup City around here lately, Tony being the most recent culprit. Making Nando cry from an overdose of aggravation, all Tony's behavior infractions at school stem from the same source: muttering, inappropriate comments, disrespect and classroom disruption. Are there just some children who are born genetically incapable forever?

How will they ever hold a job? Pay bills? Abide by simple laws when oppositional defiance is in full sway? Re-direction only fuels their amped up levels, consequences are arbitrarily irrelevant, and the inner satisfaction that negative behavior results in, seemingly thrills them yet later they complain that no one likes them. A 'ya think?' moment once again. Door slamming, screaming fits and crying jags follow predictably.

"Well if you were nice to people. they'd be nice to you," I lamely explain, only to realize, well heck I'm nice to all these kids and they're mean as snakes back to me, further compounding my needs to become a hermit someday, a hairy-legged, self-sufficient farmer who slinks around unnoticed and unbothered by folks with issues.

Hmmm.

CW, Lily and Jack, bonded and secure, are very nice to me. Sabrina, Scotty, Tabby and Nando are fairly easy overall because they have no mental health diagnoses, Chuy's precious, Allen's trying to be so, but oh honey, the others do their best to counteract the decency that I so prefer and enjoy.

Word has come back to me that a grown child of mine is in jail in another neighboring state. I believe it, as I've heard nothing from that person lately, when I ask other grown siblings, I'm stonewalled by them. Why would it matter if I knew? They're grown, the consequences are theirs to work through.

Tony had dismantled his bedroom last night, angry because I'd sent him to his room for bothering Nando. He removed a ton of hung-up shirts, depositing them in another kid's closet for no known reason, put an entire Nintendo system and all the yard sale games we owned in another person's room, took down the camouflage curtains he'd recently hung, and pretty much emptied it...mainly to aggravate me, but I said nothing about it, knowing that'd only fuel his out-of-control flames on the inside.

After I'd done ten loads of laundry, folding, hanging shirts and sorting stuff, Chuy came home from football practice needing his jersey washed for tomorrow's pep rally. I complied, that's my job, while Tony worked on creating a mess for me to undo. I cannot begin to imagine what his grown up life will be like, if he doesn't begin to work on these anti-social, negative behaviors.

It's ridiculous, comical even, and all the other kids in the house just step around it, and he receives no visible positive satisfaction.

Soccer games were cancelled due to storms, here at the end of the season, playoffs looming, and I just puttered around, thinking about things that bring me joy, all garden related, plus the several very decent, interesting children who live here with me. Lily kept me company as I cooked, telling me every single detail about her seventh grade classroom yesterday, and Scotty volunteered to sweep after supper, putting all the chairs up on the tables, cafeteria style.

By 8:30, my house was quiet, except for the sounds of Tony acting oddly, alone in his bedroom, slamming what was left in there after his destruction process. I'm headed to Dr. Mandy's office with a child for counseling this morning, maybe Mandy can explain these behaviors to me.

Further Proof

I was supposed to be driving to Atlanta this morning, in a deluge, but the appointment had been cancelled...no one bothering to tell me, the mom who first needed to get 15 kids to school, attend a reinstatement meeting for Paloma, plan a supper for tonight, and get to two soccer games.

Yeah, folks, why let me know? And then there's wonderment at my disgust towards many futile processes?

I'd fortunately thought to call the respite provider, hoping against hope, and was very relieved to find it had been cancelled, even if they all thought my own schedule was unimportant.

It kind of falls into the mindset, "well she has too many kids anyway," as others continue to sabotage my efforts with their own preconceived notions.

I read Claudia's post this morning stemming from an article about why more Christians don't adopt from the foster care system. I'm pretty irked overall my own self with, I dunno, everything. I don't know that I'd advise anyone else to do this, knowing the Hell they'll encounter.

Part of me wonders if maybe no one should adopt until things change, but that would only hurt the waiting children, so that's not an appropriate response on my part.

I simply remain fed up.

Paloma was horrible in the meeting this morning, showing how mentally ill she truly is, refusing to do what was suggested and truly, the school had gone easy on her, knowing her emotional disabilities, trying to be nice, but resulting only in being sucked in to her irrational behaviors, control issues, and non-compliance.

She'd slapped Tabby yesterday right in front of me, "Paloma," I corrected her, "That's assault."

"I don't CARE!" she roared back, knowing there's never any consequence. What am I gonna do? Put her in time-out? She'll refuse to go. Ground her? She'll disrupt the entire family with her raging, breaking windows and hurting people. I spent the first seven years consequencing her with disastrous results, a total waste of my time, futility in action.

There are no consequences that work with mentally ill people. She doesn't care if the deputies are called or if I report her assaulting behaviors to DJJ. So effing what, is her attitude. There is no getting through to her at all and I'm seriously tired of barking at the moon.

I've walked down this dark road before, I have grown kids like this who teeter between homelessness, jail, chronic unemployment, and lawlessness. They are not allowed to visit us because they've demonstrated for years their disdain for authority and their hatred of others, their very unsafe behaviors have sadly crippled them for life.

Eventually I am free of these debilitating actions, but they're never so unencumbered.

What are the answers?

I dunno.

I just keep plodding on through, seemingly getting nowhere, yet I can't help but believe that there's a bigger picture that I truly do not understand. The old Christian example of a needlepoint work where the top is gorgeously crafted while the underside, when one flips it over, is a tangled mess of string, loops and mishmash visually giving us an example of life. We only see that ugly underside, not the beauty above, where God's plan truly is completed.

We are finite humans with a limited understanding of it all, me likely more so than most, as I'm so perpetually hard-headed, independent and strong - or dumbly thinking I'm all that.

I have 39 kids to prove I'm not.

Sugar Highs

Mae, Alyssa and CJ yesterday couldn't have been cuter, other than Alyssa recently hollering, "Aunt Yolie, Bita got all over my daddy!"

Well duh, Big Joe is her father, he needed to be got all over. That's in a mama job description, ain't it?

Alyssa says Ant for Aunt, like it ought to be pronounced, and Bita is short for Abuelita, which is Spanish for Grandma. I can't wait until all I ever hear is Bita. I'm so worn out from the constant yells of "MAMA!" like I'm hearing impaired or something. I'm nearly surprised nowadays when addressed by my real name somewhere, so many people who only know me as Mama or Bita.

There must've been a dozen enormous inflatables.


We had a totally wonderful time at the Fall Festival provided by our church. CW, a moody teenager sometimes, didn't want to go, "It's for babies," he'd informed me, but we all do everything together as much as is possible, and I made him go at 2 with all of us, only to later be told, "Man, I'm glad you made me go," as I had to practically drag him, and the rest of them, to the van when it ended at 5:30. Stinking, sweaty, paint streaked hair, covered in glitter and sugar, crumbs and chunks, this was one happy crew.

I'd seen every single one of my children rush past me, having fun and drinking canned soft drinks, bobbing for donuts, cramming their mouths full of all the crap that makes me barf, and I never said a negative word about it. I'm not a food police purist and they were having fun.


That's Ray bobbing there, he who has the best cook in the world for a mom, having a great time yesterday.

Lily's cousin, Vaia, has a real lizard clinging to her, while Scotty got ahold of a parrot, the petting zoo was impressive.

By the time we got home however, that sugar rush into their bloodstreams that are way more accustomed to milk and water as beverages, hyped everyone up so severely that that the two hours before bedtime morphed in a riotous bedlam, as I swear, every single kid seemed to be screaming at the top of their lungs, running up and down the hallways like midget meth heads. Tell me the difference?

"See why I don't serve sodas?" I asked my kitchen sink, as no one else paid me any mind, what with the uproar that had ensued.

I received no reply.

JoJo had acted right, helping Miss Lisa for three solid, well-behaved hours, his beloved Alternative School teacher showed up, as did tons of their classmates. This is an outreach program for the community, and Lisa and I later decided we hardly knew half of the folks there, an indicator that her program had wildly succeeded. I've been to some 25 of these festivals, and this one was by far the best ever. Her husband, Tracy, a longtime mentor of mine, told Grandma and I about several wonderful ideas he'd had percolating in his mind as service projects for our county.

Later that night I thought back through all the times, years ago, when he was the youth pastor for Sarah, when I only had one kid and I worked alongside Tracy and Lisa then in that capacity. We'd attended work camps in Arkansas, retreats all over the place, Sarah'd been to a Jamaica mission trip, and I'd learned the two tons of info I didn't know I was fixing to need regarding servant leadership once I started adopting.

The kids got their hair painted, showered later at home, but glitterish, red, blue and orange scalps still prevailed this morning, as they shuffled off to school, dragging their reluctant rear ends out of bed, leaving the two suspended ones here with me knowing I'd scouted out a large manure pile at a neighboring farm that I can't wait to load up into my truck. Translation: let them load up. Reality will be Mama shoveling and muttering it just isn't worth the hassle to keep nagging lazy teens with severe emotional issues.

Oh well, I need the exercise, Sarah brought me two chunks of this, later shaming me into sharing with Angie and Grandma, jk, even I couldn't have eaten two, so sweet were they, yet delicious. I would've shared with someone Sarah'd invited there, to come hang with Preston, but was a no-show. Dude, you know who I'm talking to. See how the Bubbas' vernacular has creeped into my own pattern of speech - mangled versions of English.

So cool though to see several grown ups who once were in middle school youth group with Sarah, now parents.

They'll crash and burn later, all my children from the unadulterated sugar junk food high, here's hoping we make it successfully through soccer tonight.

My friend, Linda, over in the next county has prayed constantly over my family and any other needs I've addressed here, most recently praying over Paula's family, and now I'd like for any who will to please pray for Linda's health.

Received and Forgiven

Because I'm nowadays less about naming names, what with so many new readers and some local ones at that, I'm trying to creatively disguise identities while telling stories, and maybe even more so with my grown kids. Raising grown children, adopted as older children, is no less of a challenge, and the fact that I only raised one birth child, the first child of mine to leave the nest, doesn't give me much of a comparison basis.

Not that I compare my children, but Sarah made the very smooth transition from childhood to adulthood, capable and responsible, maybe if I'd have had a birth son, or a less socially aware young'un, maybe things would've been different. I'll never know.

Two of my sons, now living together, struggling in the adult world, paying bills, taking some rough financial hits due to blatant immaturity, made it clear I was not to discuss them, not to name their names here, and I'll respect that request.

I did mumble something to them about it's very difficult for me, as a parent, to watch kids make poor choices, to demonstrate to the world that it appears they never listened to a single word I said. "Mom, I have a job," the older one protested, even though we both know he's given me many grievous ordeals over the years, the younger son is emotionally equal to a two year old, what with his tantrums, emotional disabilities and rampant immaturity.

On every level, there's a sense of relief on my part, that the younger one is on his own, the veil of violence that he carefully, almost cartoonishly cultivated, is not welcome in stodgy desires for a peaceful existence. One he equates with oh so boring.

I'm totally uncomfortable with their need for adrenaline rushes, their ghetto-ness which seems so contrived when one considers they grew up down a dirt road and kept chickens.

I try and take long slow thoughtful inhales of oxygen, and no this doesn't involve Edgar, he's very preppy in comparison, and I need to just appreciate the fact that they come to see me, that they're maintaining a family relationship, even though they appear to be street corner thugs at best.

I blame our society which has such an unhealthy interest in criminal activities and this pitiful emulation of lawlessness.

Their overall immaturity and lack of self-identity contributes to a longing for acceptance in this lower class realm. They view me as an over-the-hill country bumpkin, a plodder who has no fun, not comprehending at all that I'd manufactured my total freedom from the work world simply by being simple for so many years, while also making some shrewd financial decisions.

Another very well-behaved son of mine had his panties in a wad apparently yesterday, telling me he just didn't feel like being a team player when we arrived on the soccer field, my blood pressure shot through my body in response, I slammed the van door so hard I nearly tipped the van over, stomping off angrily.

Hey child, we don't function based on how we feel, we function on what we're supposed to do.

He immediately pissed off his coach, heck they're 6-0, top of the league. I apologized to the coach, telling him that this was teenage boy hatefulness. "This isn't the regular adoption stuff I deal with," I mentioned, thinking of the trauma, rejection and FAE issues we routinely cope with, only to be very surprised when he, this coach, told me he'd been adopted also.

"Dang," I replied, "I didn't know that."

"Yep, me and my twin brother were adopted by our caseworker," he informed me. Nearly, if not already in his forties, policies were much different back then.

"Do you mind if I go talk to my son?" I asked him, careful not to overstep my boundaries as a spectator and parent, unlike say Chuy, who constantly bosses his teammates around on the field.

A quick pow wow ensued, the sullenness still apparent, I suggested he man up or lose a ton of respect from everyone on the field.

He sat angrily on the bench for the first ten minutes, steam pouring out both ears, eventually got a grip, and the coach sent him on the field to play where he shown like the star he truly can be. Now they're 7-0. Fancy footwork, no fear, intimidating natural aggression, and excellent soccer skills allowed them to dominate.

Crisis averted, apologies later given, received and forgiven, let's move on.

His original pissiness had ocurred when I wouldn't drive him to town, the night before, leave him unattended with folks I did not know, just because a girl he likes would be there. "Heck NO," I'd exclaimed, "You're 13 years old."

He totally did not understand my viewpoint.

Coffee Toffee Fudge

When I go fetch Hazel Basil from the church nursery tomorrow at my regularly appointed time of 10:20, I best find me a little sack of coffee toffee fudge waiting there for me in her grubby little hands, right?

Like that little headstrong two year old is gonna share?

Sarah blogs and I sit here and drool like a fool.

Sonic Pumpkins

I'm likely going to keep asking y'all to pray for Paula over this upcoming week, leave comments for her if you'd like, as the strength of corporate prayer is amazing.

I've rushed pellmell through this past week, accomplishing a ton, and dealing with another ton I've yet not had a chance to discuss out loud here, or in my head, where there always seems to be a loud crowd of opinionated populace.

I took my teenage daycare bunch (aka suspended from school) out to a free showing of Addicted to Plastic which was sponsored by the county's recycling program. A free No Waste Lunch was provided as well obviously using dinner plates, stainless steel flatware, and cloth napkins, serving me a delightful pimiento cheese sandwich on whole wheat, my big-eyed anti-social teenagers eyeing everything suspiciously, but not embarrassing me for once.

I'd checked two others out of school, they had credit for the day by 11, and I've been in enough school situations to comprehend that a Friday afternoon spent at an educational field trip with mom far surpassed an elongated recess and clean your desk out afternoon.

Addicted to Plastic, of course, blew me away, but JoJo's comprehension of all he learned from it was equally as impressive. I hate plastic cups, never drink from them, as I'm positive I can taste the plastic chemicals. Yolie'd taught me the trick of washing out empty jelly jars - don't toss in the recycle bin - but use as drinking glasses, opening her cupboards to show me her collection. Between that and buying coffee mugs for nickels at yard sales has finally got us covered. I confess I'd been buying indestructible Tupperware cups there also, but will not do so anymore.

That new care smell? Vinyl chemicals being emitted into the air, JoJo looked at our van with alarm, noting the vinyl seats, I'd bought the van used, but only a year old then in 2004, and we discussed it all the way home.

I'd finished Farm City, hating for it to end, passing it on to Grandma who nearly read it all in one sitting, and I'm slowly savoring No Impact Man, regretting I won't be able to get to town to see the showing of that documentary. However, a reader, Laura, informed me of Earth Cinema, and I believe I can justify the expense by sharing the videos with Sarah and Yolie's families, Grandma and Grandpa, plus all of us, divided per capita, there's a deal.

I do not live in the moment, I'm too hyperactive, but I'm working on it. An energetic person with 5, 10, 20 and 50 years goals and game plans is absolutely terrible about slowing down to savor life, but I'm forcing myself, trying to change, to just enjoy life, not stress, fret and barrel forward.

Allen turns 14 this weekend and I'd taken him shopping, a chore neither of us could possibly enjoy. He requested Rugged Wearhouse, I tagged along obediently, surprised at the very, very low prices, yet still bugged by the overpowering scents, dyes and chemical smells of a closed environment like that. I also had to buy Pepe's birthday stuff, knowing I was fixing to go visit him next week, up in the mountains at a DJJ facility where he's not really faring all that well, still fixated on ridiculous thoughts, still blaming everyone else, and having zero acknowledgement of authority, rules, empathy and obedience of any sort.

Chuy will have to play goalie today, as his ankle is wrapped tight from the doctors visit. CW, back in the game, along with Paloma, Allen and JoJo, face a tough team this morning, but are pumped for the challenge.

Still picking delicious, colorful, thick-walled bell peppers from the garden, I eat what's available and relish the opportunity, chopping the peppers, adding only hot pepper cheese slivers, sunflower seeds, wheat germ and balsamic vinegar, still hating the thought of a first frost that has not reared its ugliness here yet, live in the moment child, I remind myself, savoring every bite with joy.

Tomorrow is also the big Fall Festival at church, something we've not missed in decades at either church we've attended, the kids absolutely count down each passing Sunday until it appears.

The picture above was of last week's First Grade Breakfast with Tabby and her niece, Kortney, their other classmates peppering them with the predictable, "How can you have a niece in your own classroom?" or better yet, "How can you be old enough to be an aunt," not even having the knowledge of her other 18 nieces and nephews.

Last night, after I'd already ambled down the long driveway to lock our gate in the dark, Yolie called asking me to bring the kids up to see the pumpkin Chuck'd carved. About a dozen yelling, loud children followed me back up there, scampering like puppies, only to be blown away at CJ's Sonic pumpkin.

Paula

First thing I need to do today, and likely the only thing until later, as my day seems to be spiraling, is to ask for prayer for Paula's family, she wrote the North of Reality blog that many of y'all read.

They have an immensely difficult week coming up and need favor within the court system, miracles would not be out of order.

It's really difficult to minimize the shocking difficulties that one encounters when one adopts older children from the foster care system. Paula has been in a nearly yearlong nightmarish ordeal.

Please join me in lifting them all up in prayer.

The good news here is that X-rays confirmed Chuy did not break a bone last night at the soccer game, and while I have too many places to be today, a nearly impossible schedule, I am very happy 'bout Chuy.

Homegrown

My game plan had been to get to both conferences, home by ten in the morning, with solitary plans to weed from 10-2, my idea of a very good time, as in nothing I'd rather do. Planning on a shower at 2, before the kids came home, so that I could slip out for my evening's plan - a carefully orchestrated line of drivers and Yolie to babysit as the 5:30 p.m. showing was the absolute only chance for me at a small artsy place to see Homegrown.

I had supper on the table at 3:30...but before all that...

I was having a blast, alone and happy, when my cell phone rang at 11:30 with a call that Paloma was nutting up at school.

Uh-oh.

By the time I got there, muddy and irritable, she'd defied both assistant principals and refused all directions and threats of calling the deputies. The very excellent teacher, a friend of mine, tried emptying the class so the rest of the sweet little sixth graders wouldn't have to be traumatized by Paloma likely fist-fighting the deputies. That flopped though because Paloma figured out the game plan and followed the class out the door.

DJJ was called, the school board office consulted as to the best way to do this, a young deputy arrived, my hopes sank, she'd eat him alive, then an older deputy I know well appeared on the scene, "One of yours, Cindy?"

"No, dude, I just came to watch the action," I wanted to spout, but was too upset at the moment.

He wisely figured that he alone could coax Paloma out of the classroom they'd tried to kick her out of...and he eventually did so, to everyone's amazement, although she brought her severely ugly attitude to the office angry that she was fair and square suspended for quite some time, until a hearing can be held to determine if alternative school might be a better option.

Well DUH, it'd be better, but not as effective as the psychiatric residential setting she surely needs more than others need oxygen.

Short version included her finally calming down, coming home kinda whooped from her rage, but by the time Jonathan sullenly came home, she mustered up her hatred enough to physically and very viciously attack him, forcing Scotty and I to pull them apart.

Eventually she chose to calm herself down, a smooth move Metamucil moment.

Well, come Hell or high water, I NEEDED to go to town and see this movie I'd been dying to see for, I dunno, forever. I never got my shower, probably smelled like a plow horse, but my priority was that one singular 5:30 showing.

Not only was it even way better than I expected it to be, there were two short films Farm!, about Georgia organic farmers and Nora, a renowned restaurateur, who has single-handedly revolutionized the concept of organic restaurants in the DC area. The farm film even featured the CSA that Sarah uses.

I sighed dramatically to myself, I've chosen the wrong line of work.

I'd taken Grandma with me, she who hates movies, the last one I saw with her was some 15 years ago along with my late sister, but tonight Grandma was enthralled. No snoring to protest being made to sit still, she so loved it.

I ain't much of one to be going to artsy fartsy cinemas, as I'm a regular plain Jane, but really, most of today's movies bore the snot out of me, all young actors with little substance, totally unrelatable to a raggedy older woman, really, who cares about improbable romantic comedies? No Impact Man is also playing there, I'll wait for the video, but they sure do show a lot of interesting movies such as Addicted to Plastic, Tapped, and Saving Luna. When my kids are grown...but, for now, I have my books to sustain me.

A big old shout-out to Yolie and Chuck who helped me pull this off.

Now I'm figuring out today's four appointments, knowing I have both JoJo and Paloma to accompany me, reminding me of my teenage daycare days with Fabian and Vanessa, and then two soccer games tonight. It'll be a very warm garden day, but tough toenails for me, as duty calls all day and into tonight.

It has been years since I've been able to put the gardens to bed properly before winter. Weeded, composted, and mulched, ready for me to run outside in late January and plant peas, onions, lettuce and other cole crops. The demands on my life and on my time have been unreasonably tremendous and truly I've careened from chore to chore, from need to necessity and back again, leaving my gardens forlorn and neglected.

Hopefully not so this year.

Yesterday I worked my tail off happily, weeding, clearing and tending to everything in T shirt weather, happy as a lark to be alone and peaceful, no calls from the school, yes JoJo is still suspended, but it'd likely take a court order to get any decent help from him, they've all taught me, like Pavlov's dogs, that it's just easier and more productive to work alone.

Actually that's not a fair statement as I do have several children who'll amble outside, or into the kitchen, and offer to help me each day.

I just don't get worked up about it anymore, if they want to be lazy, then do so. I'm tired of the hassles involved. Looking back at some grown kids, knowing all my massive efforts amounted to nothing, really doesn't fire up any initiative to nail jello to a tree anymore.

That said, because I ignore more crap nowadays, I am conversely seeing more progress at times. Go figure. Oppositional living at its best.

Last night at Nando's soccer game, where he always excels, such a cute little guy who neither lies nor steals, has a few unacceptable hissy fits, but that's ok, I couldn't help but wonder what his life would've been like had he stayed in foster care. He so deserves a family, someone to love him, and no I'm not saying that others don't deserve love, I'm just saying how glad I am to parent him.

I have a couple of parent-teacher conferences today, a beautiful day in which to neglect the laundry and work outside, soaking black beans this morning for tonight's early supper, glad for no strife at the moment

Flag Football and Soccer

After this little cold snap in which tender annuals have taken a dive around here, I've gone out each morning to inspect, only the elephant ears have been nipped, but this morning, Day Three of Too Cold, it's dark still and I can't go check, but the suspense is getting to me.

For another week or so our temperatures will be back to normal and I'd a heap sight rather still be harvesting than cleaning up frost killed plants. This time of year makes me cringe inwardly to see all my hard work curl up and die. My life is ruled by temperatures, rain chances, the calendar on my phone, and the many demands of my children, certainly not in that order.

Although Jonathan and Paloma are faring quite well on their psycho-tropic meds, I understand that their increasing behaviors and tolerance to the dosages might not be enough to keep us all safe, so I've sought out yet another avenue recommended by a mental health organization that we'd recently exhausted. I met with an intake lady yesterday, and although I prefer to work with more seasoned professionals, her youth made her no less insightful. She was impressive and hardly older than my shoes.

Reminding me of Dr. Mandy in her ability to succinctly sum up my wordy descriptions, she totally understood and will be getting the ball rolling for us, this is yet another attempt at residential, if needed. Best case scenario would be for my children to improve their behaviors. Interestingly I've been hearing from some severely troubled grown kids lately, touching base, making sure I'm still emotionally available, in spite of the unmitigated Hell they'd once subjected us to in massive doses. Yep, I'm still here.

Yesterday was the first chance JoJo and I had to empty my truck of its full bed of sacked up leaves we'd picked up last week. The two of us could barely lift the monster sacks and as we poured 'em out yesterday, the explanation for their weight became clear. Apparently they'd mouldered in someone's yard for years, rotting down heavily, rained upon and added to, I hollered with pure childlike delight as rich, dark, crumbly earth and leaf mold came tumbling out, allowing us to put a one foot thick layer on a new bed for new asparagus. I can't begin to wrap my knotty head around the amount of asparagus necessary to keep even one person happy.

Ten of us went to cheer Ray Ray on in his flag football game, too cute with a bunch of adorable five year olds playing, later we had the U14 soccer game in which I nearly froze to pieces. Impossible to restrain CW's athletic ability any longer, his collar bone hopefully healed, we have his dismissal appointment this week, he exuberantly tore out upon the field, scoring two of the six goals, to win the game 6-1, Chuy scored, as did Allen, my ball hog children dominating the field, me acting like I taught 'em all they know right after I must've birthed four 14 year olds in a six month time span? Yeah, right. Honestly some folks around here still haven't figured our family dynamics out after all these years.

I'd gone through my five last elementary kids report cards this past weekend and nearly passed out from shock and surprise as all their grades were good. Even Jonathan earned straight Cs which, in our world, translates to genius level. No kidding.

I have a routine conference with each teacher planned for this week.

As I totally lose interest in the adoption world, a world in which I've been utterly consumed for 25 or so years, ever since The Call, I've eliminated most adoption websites, actually all of them, from my laptop, still reading y'all's adoption blogs because they reflect my life as I'm obviously still a parent, but replacing everything with some serious and sometimes bad-attitude gardening sites that are cracking me up such as Garden Rant. Their manifesto is hilarious and on target.

I find myself off the computer each morning after I blog, indeed CW, Martin and Lily have almost totally commandeered this laptop for their Facebook and gaming activities, while I putter around wondering who on earth needs this many houseplants to tend to. This year I'm adding a galvanized tub of indoor leaf lettuce that I'll drag out each morning to sun on the back deck. Hey, everyone needs a project to keep them happy.

We're heading into the last two weeks of soccer and middle school football, playoffs and intense rivalries, I won't mind getting to stay home after supper since we've been careening out the door every night for the last three months.

Nicole asked me to mention some of the meals I cook, but I can't, as I'm not a food writer, nor even a very imaginative cook. That's Sarah's domain and she writes about all the meals I do not prepare. I don't even use recipes, just cooking what I'm hungry for, or what the children have requested. Last night was tacos, tonight they want me to fry up the corn tortillas, which takes forever for this many folks, but it's so worth it, topping them with pinto beans, hot pepper cheese, sour cream and fire hot pepper sauce. Paulanne asked what spices I use in my beans, chili powder and garlic tops the list. We're all about comfort foods and getting filled up. I'd grown some right decent garlic last year, but never enough, not even sure there's ever enough garlic availble for us.

Daniel Makes Me Smile

There’s nothing as unattractive as a six year old refusing to comply with a reasonable request, screaming, “I don’t want to go to school!” and not getting out of bed. I'd ended up dressing her and carrying her out of the van up to the schoolhouse door, the sweet art teacher taking over for me. I was clearly out of patience.

It was a rough morning overall, exhausted teens who had too much fun over the weekend at their church retreat. Paloma went to bed yesterday mid-afternoon and slept until seven this morning, thirty minutes too late, as the bus is here by 7:30.

“Man, I cried there,” JoJo informed me over a nighttime snack of baked apples, heavy on the cinnamon.

“Why?” I asked a 12 year old boy who is totally out of touch with his feelings.

“I dunno,” was his honest answer.

My predictable know-it-all response followed, “Think it was God’s conviction on your heart?”

“Probably,” he warily answered, sure he was fixing to receive a lecture.

I couldn’t let it go at that. “JoJo," I paused for effect that was wasted on him, " Likely it was regret over your negative actions and the one thing I want for you, is for you to never wake up in a jail cell regretting that you allowed your anger to control you.”

He thought about it, chewing his apples and the pumpkin seeds we’d also baked in the oven, “Guess you’re right,” he conceded.

If only. If only that’d be it, lesson learned, behavior changes to follow, but I ain’t stupid, this is not my first cattle drive y'all, hardly even hopeful anymore, but able to emotionally distance myself when needed finally, to not engage in some of the pointless arguments, nor to respond to the blatantly oppositional behaviors that precariously spike my blood pressure.

It’s only Day Four of his ten day suspension. Grounded to a grown-up, stuck with me, sucks to be him, but oh well. He can hardly keep up with my driven determination each day to get it all done.

Still reading Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer, a woman who majored in English and Biology, giving her both the scientific knowledge plus the gift of writing beautifully, she’s only Sarah's age, and writes about her parents. Hippies in the Back to the Land Movement that swayed my own heart in 1972, she describes her father as now nearly feral, unwilling to leave the woods, a hunter/gatherer, simplistic, yet happy.

Oh, how that appeals to me.

A life with little mundane paperwork and less strife. No conflicts from oppositional people, grown kids who made their own beds and can lay in them now without me having to parentally correct their behaviors. Many will blame me forever for what their birth parents did to them, kids who only lived with me for their very brief teen years, like they weren’t emotionally damaged years before? My sons are so much less likely to do this, as they just plod through life, non-introspective at best.

Like a turtle, retreating into a hard shell, I’m emboldened by my dear friend, Linda, describing her 82 year old aunt in a recent email, a happy, mismatched, hard-working, spry old lady who scrounges what she needs, yet owns two homes having parlayed her thrifty ways into a real estate bonanza. I so admire that.

I’d recently explained to JoJo how the rich get richer, letting their money work for them versus working for their money, earning interest instead of paying interest for stuff that disintegrates and doesn’t even bring happiness anyway. Using scratch paper from the recycle bin, I showed him how not buying cigarettes, sodas nor beer adds up each month, apply that saved money to a real estate principle payment, eliminating that month’s interest, there are so many wonderful books on personal finance, heck start here if you’re interested.

Life could be so easy if folks wouldn’t self-sabotage themselves. Why do they do that? Spend money they don’t have, eat food that leads to dangerous health issues, and make choices are so obviously self-destructive.

I don’t get it.

Am I too simple minded for this dumb ole world?

Believing in a God I can’t see? Blissfully digging in the dirt? Happy with second-hand clothes and a stack of used books to read? So what?

Aware of my own short-comings, living without perfection that I can’t achieve anyway, non-artistic nor athletic, I once bought into the theory that my love and care for my children would enable them to overcome their early childhood traumas, yet I'm still shocked that I’m such an easy target for their rages and anger. I wish they’d find their birth moms and talk to them about what happened before they met me. All my efforts feel so futile at times, as if I’m a big dumb sucker who stepped in for the backstabbing, viciousness that still blows me away.

That’s likely why I cling so much to those who have responded appropriately. Is it a boy thing? An intelligence factor that leads to success? Look at Danel, smart and loving, there's nothing better for me than to sit at a football game with him, my ignorant-to-the nuances-of-football eyes on CW and Chuy, no emotional pressure, just a simple fun afternoon each time. That's what I like. Or I'll call Jesse and talk to him 'bout Isaiah. Or IM him.

Daniel, happy this weekend in Nashville since UGA won, always makes me smile.

The Severity of Mental Illnesses

If you live with, or teach, a severely mentally ill child, then you need to read this story.

It illustrates exactly why I will stand my ground on several situations and absolutely, unilaterally refuse to allow several individuals to ever live with me again.

This is not an adoption story, this is someone's birth child.

I don't think society has a clue as to what should be done in cases like this, considering the rights and freedoms of people versus the safety of others. The potential for violence is rarely weighed out appropriately.

Thanks. Kathleen for sending this to me.

I Hate Cancer and Love My Pjs

What's up with wearing a sweater in October? Our usual high should be 72 degrees this afternoon. Scotty took this picture before church, I'm now happily back in my raggedy comfort clothes, long underwear and sweats. JoJo and I saw a much older (than me) lady shuffling through the grocery store the other day in blue flannel pjs and her hair sticking out of pink sponge rubber curlers. I wanted to go shake her hand, to heck with decorum. She deserved a trophy in my mind. Actually she was as blazingly wild-eyed as a crackhead, twitching every wichaway, probably didn't have a clue as to what she was wearing.

"Ha!" I spouted off to JoJo, "And y'all make fun of me?"

Looking me straight in the eye, JoJo mentioned, "Well you slept in what you're wearing right now, didn't ya?"

Oh yeah, guess I did. So what?

President Obama was recently chastised for wearing old Dad jeans as he threw out a first pitch in a ballgame.

"Well they're comfortable," he explained. Yep, I get it.

We have a brown thrasher flapping around in the family room that no one can catch. Was it on the large palm that we brought in last night? By we, I mean Jonathan and Scotty, buckling under it's weight, suggesting an attached greenhouse should be my next project.

Oh honey, soon as this house is paid off, I have a ton of projects...that don't include children.

And all these posts I've written? Sarah can edit them into some semblance of a story, I'll hope it sells, hope it convinces someone else to adopt older children...with their eyes wide open.

Snarling teenagers, over-tired from a sleepless weekend having great fun with 400 other teens from all around north Georgia, squabbling with each other now, snapping even at the air around them, the dogs and little kids have wisely scattered.

Tabby is obsessed with saving seeds from my purple beauty bell peppers, we ate the last 25 for lunch, unless we don't get a frost tonight, some three weeks ahead of schedule. Saving one's seeds makes them uniquely more suitable to one's own micro climate. My orange bell peppers were not at all impressive this year, too weak-walled for some reason. The green ones were keepers though, we've saved their seeds as well.

I set my DVR to tape Larry King Live tomorrow night as Suzanne Somer's new book comes out. Her ability to elicit cutting edge medical information from brilliant alternative medical doctors and then make it readable for folks like me is impressive and helpful.

I hate cancer, everyone has lost someone to it at some point.

Lentil Steam

After quite a bit of unexpected early morning oppositional defiance from Jonathan, “I’m not going to my soccer game,” he pronounced, which reminded me why I was reluctant to even let him play this season, not even sure the Abilify would pull him through, I walked away from his escalating rage, muttering to myself.

He wanted a big ole fight, he was trying to provoke me, to get me to hollering about sportsmanship, just so he could justify in his own mind about having a ridiculous explosion. I just didn’t wanna play that game, the weather was calling for lows to be in the 30s, maybe even a freeze, and I still had not brought the many houseplants inside.

I ran outside, in the rain that had not been predicted, and woefully picked as many colorful bell peppers as was possible, whining to my hens that these would likely be my last meal salads, dramatically as if there’d never be another spring, but I surely hate this time of year when stuff dies.

My brother-in-law, Alan, died one late fall day, and for the next 12 years my sister came severely emotionally unglued when the temperatures fell. That she ended up dying in the Springtime just seemed too ironic for me to even contemplate long, losing both of them just stunk, no matter what time of the year it occurred, but they were both still on my mind as I picked what might be the last of my Spring ’09 plantings. Alan has been gone since 1984 and I’m still upset at losing such a very young man to cancer back then. 25 years of missing him, a kid I'd grown up with who became a part of our family.

Ellen died in 1996 after telling us all she’d wished she’d die too ever since Alan passed away, leaving my brothers, parents and I simply horrified and grief-stricken. But by ’96 Ellen also left a new husband and a daughter on this earth. I grapple with this to this day.

Checking the temperature, first thing this morning, I was relieved to learn it was 38 degrees, maybe I’ll have a few more days in which to harvest. I did get up enough jalapenos and the Czechoslovakian Black peppers to freeze another batch of Fire Hot Pepper Sauce. I have no explanation as to why I don’t have enough for the coming winter, my other peppers over-produced, these other two varieties of peppers only spluttered.

Walking away from Jonathan, praying under my breath later, he finally manned up on his own and got his soccer gear together to go play in the rain, still pissed off, first game they’ve not won, but it was a tie, so at least they’re still undefeated.

Us Southern sissies were totally freezing, heck it was 48 degrees at game time in the rain, so Lily asked me to teach her all about how to make lentils.

“Boil ‘em,” I snickered.

“That’s it?” she questioned me, adding garlic, “Cooking’s that easy?” as if I’d been withholding state secrets all along.

I loaded up the six kids, Jack, Lily, Tabby, Nando, Scotty and Jonathan and after stopping for coffee grinds at two Starbucks, arrived at the Dollar Theater to see Ice Age which I totally enjoyed. A big screen in the dark can capture my restless attention better than a TV screen. I didn’t fidget at all, but rather really enjoyed the movie. Sarah’d seen it the week before and told me even Preston had belly-laughed, it truly was hilarious and very well done, amazing animation.

Our evening was like normal folks I suppose, no drama, no acting out, no meltdowns, no nothing. Mayra texted me from camp to reassure me that my nine kids there were behaving, which is always good to know.

I did finally get to curl up in my new chair that matches my new sofa and love seat (my Goodwill find minus my 25% Senior Citizen Discount) with Wild Raspberry Tea and this wonderful book Farm City. This brave woman raises rabbits, pigs, turkeys and chickens for their meat in Oakland, California.

The books begins with, “I garden in the ghetto,” and it has captivated me, she’s an amazing woman. All urban farmer/gardeners would love this encouraging look at what she’s doing on rented land.

She points out there’s be more vegetarians if folks had to raise, kill, clean and dress their dinners, that puffy yellow ball of cuteness that grows into a hen, is not easy to eventually murder. She, however, can do it. I admire her for that.

And what about grass fed beef? She writes, “Guilty carnivores had realized that soy and corn fed to beef cattle could feed starving people instead. But if the cows ate pasture grass, inedible to us and starving people in Africa, then we could have our steak and moral high ground.”

On Facebook, one of Sarah’s longtime friends asked her if food was all she ever thought about, to which she cleverly retorted, “Well it’s all I ever eat.”

Today after church my other nine exhausted teenagers will crawl back home, leaving a wake of dirty laundry and sullen attitudes due only to a lack of sleep, as I’m positive they’ve had a blast at camp. I needed this time to catch my breath, now I’m raring to go again with them all, facing a new week.

Farm City and Ice Age

I've always resisted anyone telling me I can't do something just because I have so many children. I do not like anyone else's perceptions of my personal limitations, so I bristle at the very thought. However, I do know myself extremely well, and I can say with full confidence that homeschooling was not in the cards for me to accomplish, what with so many children.

I did however have to attempt it several times due to children's severe inabilities to function in school without fist fights or other mayhem, calling my Teenage Day Care what it was back then. Fortunately we are very blessed with a supreme school system here in our county, but I do have several children who would have truly enjoyed the home school experience.

Ray, guiding CJ though the elementary school that neither of them attend, is home schooled beautifully by Sarah. Sarah would have been a great candidate her own self many years ago, but I was a working mom...in the school system of all places...but a voracious reader like Sarah, a kid who is at complete ease alone, living in rural situations like we did, would have loved it.

As it was, us rarely having a TV in those years, and if we did have one, we never had cable until I bought this particular house 17 years ago, left us reading tons and tons of books, shaping our world views similarly, and now we find ourselves living on the same dirt road with our very matching opinions.

Outraged that the government has a food police that allows nasty carcinogenic chemicals in our food, but disallows us to choose raw milk, Sarah'd let me know yesterday what was going on in the closest town to us. It's OK to drink coca-cola with a sweetener linked to brain cancer, but not something fresh from a cow? What planet is this?

She'd just finished reading A Very Small Farm and she totally loved it. Heck this man threshes his own wheat. I am in love just with the thought of it.

Our population nowadays is so very removed from what is real food. A video was circulating on Facebook about how we have everything, but no one is happy. OK, I'm happy. I really am. I have a big challenge before me, well several really. I have kids at home who clearly need me and I have a lifetime challenge of sustainability that thrills my socks to the toes.

I've already eaten all the onions I'd planted late last winter, the cooler rainy weather has slowed down my peppers, I'd sadly lost all my tomatoes to the blight, and I read yesterday that our local cotton crop is struggling due to drought then deluge, but there's nothing I'd rather do than keep on keeping on in regards to farm life.

It all so much makes sense to me.

JoJo and I could barely lift the mongo sacks of leaves that were saturated with rainfall and soil yesterday, but we filled up my truck. I have some 60 or so garden beds, including the flowers and roses, that I plan to cover this winter with an inch each of compost, manure, coffee grinds, leaves and wood chips. Five inches in all that will decompose beautifully into incredibly rich soil that'll produce delicious food. Simple, and I adore simplicity. Lasagna gardening in action, easy yet productive.

I'd so eagerly anticipated last night, putting nine kids into Bronson's capable hands for a weekend youth group retreat, figuring I could curl up and read Farm City while drinking Chamomile tea and eating popcorn popped on the stove like God meant in the first place.

After all these years I'd forgotten how Tabby and Nando act when Memaw is gone, the racket was incredible as they amped up long forgotten behaviors that demonstrated the levels of their sky-rocketing anxiety that they could not begin to verbalize. My book went unread, I drank so much tea trying to calm myself that I was up at 3 this morning, glazed eyes and a short temper, finally drifting back off to sleep only to have Amelia, the three footed terrier, come barrelling up to my room and spin anxiously on the bed like a grieving dervish because Paloma, the dog whisperer, was gone as well.

Jeepers, this is not what I envisioned.

For all her anti-social and bizarre behaviors, Paloma does relate extremely well to the dogs, one of the Yorkies, Princess, looked absolutely lost this morning, having to sleep with Tabby, versus Paloma and Amelia. These dogs only see Paloma's loving side, the side we humans rarely see, but she does lavish her doting, flea-picking attention upon the dogs.

It is 46 degrees outside. Can I get a big ole YUCK from the peanut gallery? We do have one soccer game today, that of Scotty and Jonathan (U12) and because it'll only be 60 degrees this morning, all of us parents got emails reminding us to wear jackets. Can I hear my up north readers snickering at full volume? Southerners like me are true wimps.

In observance of this, I'd told the remaining six kids that I'd take them to the Dollar Theater to see Ice Age after the game, hoping for a quieter night tonight as I never even touched my new, used book last night.

Friday Yard Sales or NEVER Pay Sticker Price

Often the best day of the week, while the rest of the world is at work, my Grandma Bailey, long gone since I was in third grade, told my mama that non-working folks ought not to go to town on Saturdays and gum up the system, do your errands on weekdays, something I have to do anyway while the kids are in school. Soccer consumes our Saturdays for months on end.

I bought this silly book for 50 cents today for JoJo, who in spite of his many behavioral issues, is a really good reader and certainly fascinated with this subject matter. I also found a dirt cheap X-Box, and we'd recently been given, by Mike and Barbie, a Playstation Two, so my kids are in hog heaven.

I got a Patagonia fleece for a few dollars for me of all people. JoJo got a Nautica jacket, but the most fun was in seeing my friends Vanessa, Mary, Sharon, Juanita, Gayle, Lu Ann and Susan, most of us retired now and happy as clams to rummage around and get things done.

I've lately taken to checking out the 'leaf and limb pickup' schedule for the next town, published in the online newspaper, learning which neighborhoods have bagged up their leaves and running over there in my truck this morning, having JoJo's help to lift the heavy-to-bursting bags up into my truck since the tailgate's busted but, hey, the wipers work.

"Mama, is this how you can afford all of us?" JoJo questioned me.

Ya think?

I'm dragging all this organic, soil-building stuff home to increase my own food production, disgusted with mainstream, corporate grocery store crap that is inedible and unhealthy. Let's wake up and smell the soybeans folks. Sarah'd called me today about this outrage.

This short video is about urban homesteading, anyone, anywhere can do this.

Outside As Well

Some of the happiness rushes lately have included a pretty decent season in sports for this fall, except, of course, for CW's broken collarbone from football. The middle school game yesterday was won, making it an undefeated season.

I'd planned to get to Ray's flag football game, then two soccer games, all of which got called off due to storms, while Daniel and Edgar high-tailed it over to the next county to be there for CW and Chuy.

"Honestly Daniel, you're off the hook if you don't wanna sit in the rain," I'd called him, knowing his schedule at UGA is busy.

"Nah," he reassured me, "You did it for me, I can do it for them."

I flashed back to one particularly stormy night years ago, when I'd sat lower in the concrete bleachers, hoping to doge the wind, only to discover the rain rushing in torrents down the levels, ending up pouring into the back of my britches as I sat under a useless umbrella with the pretty teenage daughter of my friend, Emily. Yolie, who also never ever missed one of Daniel's games, was with us, chagrined when one of Trina's friends asked if Yolie was her mother.

"I'm 22 years old!" Yolie'd even used an exclamation mark that night as we cowered under the storm. Yolie does not look old, but with me being white, the other kid just assumed the other Mexican must've been the mom.

Trina hollered back, "No my Mom's not here," and wisely did not snicker at Yolie.

I, however, guffawed.

We've often said Yolie was born being 40 due to her very high maturity level, but her beauty cancelled out the old lady thing.

This middle school's undefeated season is record breaking in a school that's only a dozen years old. A playoff game next week is looming, an away game that'll conflict with two other soccer games, Lord knows how I'll work that out, but you best believe I'll do it somehow with Grandma's help.

Today is the last day of early release, the first day of a youth group retreat, and a massive lessening of my own weekend schedule. Edgar is hollering to go to yard sales with me to furnish a kitchen he now has, I doubt he'll get his butt up as early as I like to go, our nighttime temps are dipping into the 40s and all my houseplants are still outside, JoJo's still suspended, guess I have a job for him today, don't I? Drag 'em in son, I'll put 'em where they need to go.

I only have three hours this morning to get groceries, refill prescriptions after the Dr C psychiatrist meeting yesterday for three kids, pick up coffee grinds, and get back home before the bus deposits some happy kids to have been released from indoors early. Our soggy land will see sunshine, I'll squint and make more wrinkles around my eyes, and simply not give a good cahoot, because I'll be outside as well.

Adoption 101 - Still No Progress

Adoption 101 indicates that love and logic is never enough, so too do consequences, natural or instigated, fail to teach anyone anything leaving baffled parents who are working against all odds still trying to instill the values and morals one might find in a person with any sort of conscience.

Pepe wrote me a long, beseeching email about wanting to spend his birthday here with us, the mom who raised him (his words) versus the strangers at his facility. A long email, seemingly well-thought out, my heart began to waiver, as I must still be some sort of a sucker, but then my red flags waved briskly enough to knock some sense into me, knowing if we had an incident while he was here, fingers would be pointed at me, and folks might then have the right to ask, "Well you knew he was dangerous, why did you agree to this?"

Yet we all know, especially since I whine about it so much, that we adoptive parents could potentially be charged with abandonment if we refuse to parent - in whatever shape or form that might take.

Again, derned if we do, derned if we don't.

I was saved from having to break the news to Pepe that I'm simply afraid to have him ever be in my house, by the fact that he's defied authority there enough that he's not earned an off-campus pass. My other constant refrain involves me screeching, "Well if y'all can't maintain him with a staff of big men and therapists, how in Sam Hill do you think I could ever be expected to do so?" For Pete's sake, I am a retired librarian, not a sumo wrestler.

This is the part of the adoption process that I still can't wrap my head around ever.

I now have less kids at home, if I don't count Carolina and her family, than I've had since 1995, and I am loving it. I still have more than a dozen, 15 to be exact, two bipolar, two severely oppositionally defiant ones, one with CP, but the majority are sweet and loving, and for this I am supremely grateful.

I have another who'll soon be 18, severely unable to live with us, and I thank God that we'd found a residential therapeutic intervention placement, but my blood pressure still soars with every encounter, every counseling session in which I'm blamed for eveything including sun spots and city crime rates. Sarah'd finally had enough of my bellyaching, and pointed out that this child's counseling sessions should involve the birth mom, not me, as this child is RAD to the core, and will never, ever even think about beginning to attach to anyone, it's not a possibility.

There was a time I'd have despaired over this non-attachment, now it is some sort of a relief even, after her punishing me for years and years with her negative behaviors. OK, child, you win, tell me how it works out for you. You can lie and steal all you want to do and I'll not say a word about it to you.

If this appears cold-hearted then I can only offer up, in my defense, that I'm now emotionally traumatized as well by the constant beat-downs, the lies, the violence, the thefts and the animosity. What's left of me doesn't have the wherewithall to continue in a free for all, I'm moving on. There's been less than zero progress in her anti-social behaviors after eleven long years.

I need to conserve my emotions, save them for the grown kids who show no disrespect. I require nothing of anyone, no gratitude, no gifts, nothing at all except common decency and if I can't get that, then nothing remains. Sorry folks, that's all she wrote. Didn't I mention I'm moving on? I'm done. I want to stay emotionally healthy.

As it gets colder outside, ever so slowly in the South, I'll have more time to address and answer emails and comments. One yesterday about a marriage failing, a partner bailing from the adoption stress, asking my thoughts.

I dunno, my then husband, a second marriage that didn't last very long, needed alcohol to function, a dry alcoholic when I met him, and I didn't at all understand the dynamics of addiction, nor was I even remotely comprehending of the underbelly of an enabler, his very co-dependent mother. I don't want to mother a grown man, she wanted him more than I did, as far as I know he still lives with her, he's nearly 60, guess he'll never change, huh? I also can't sensitively enough address the issue of infertility. I've never even read up on it.

However, over compensation? That might touch home, but if I did all this in an over-compensating activity, wouldn't I then and now be blind to my own whys?

I am a very driven individual, very strong and super-determined, very motivated from within. I clearly heard God's call in all these adoptions, and I was surprised when it ended, when He allowed me to feel this was enough. Five years ago, in July, I heard it, The End, no more, you're done, and it took me some time to re-adjust my mindset, but I didn't fight it, I just worked within it. I'd originally thought this was something I would do all my life, that I'd always either foster or adopt. I greatly admire older women who are still doing so. It won't be me though, I heard that from God.

I have a ton of other plans, dreams and goals. I have 5 year, 10 year, 20 year plans, that's how my mind works. I'm excited about my second half of life, I'm happier in my 50s than ever before in my own existence, even living as I do under great hardship at times. So what?

So what'll I do with this big ole house? I dunno, I haven't yet heard from God about that. I've prayed over a lot of issues, everything actually, and duh I don't always, if ever, get an immediate answer, some things just have to evolve as I learn. I do know which ways not to turn, God's made that clear through His Word, but I don't always know exactly how to proceed forward, so I simply wait, impatiently yes, as I'm too energetic to sit still.

I can hear His voice through my own racket. I know His Will for me is to keep on keeping on here, Tabby will soon be 7, and just because in the next couple of years, a bunch of my teens will move on, doesn't mean Tabby and Nando will need me any less.

Homemade Granola Bars

They are that good, I ran by this evening just to try one. Getting past the girl with the gun might possibly slow other granola hogs...but not me.

I sure am blessed to live near this woman who cooks so well. Sarah sure didn't get that talent from me.

Grinds

I've been terribly remiss about answering emails and comments, blame it on the kids. I'd been asked about the Oklahoma farmer...it is William Winchester, author of A Very Small Farm.

And asked about Starbucks, these pictures answer that. Either they just bag up the coffee grounds trash or put the grinds back into the original bags and seal 'em up. You can see I was topdressing my Sweet Williams that'll bloom next year.

Getting emails that I've not deterred folks from adopting older kids, I'm very glad to hear that, it was not my intention, Obviously you all will be much more aware and less naive than I was so many years ago...although my caseworker extraordinaire was very clear to me about potential problems and has never dumped an 'I told you so' on me after twenty years of having a front row seat.

And God's Will for you mamas? That's totally 100% between you and God. Just remember who He calls, He equips. When you can't not do something, then there's your call. When you see a need you can fill, there's your call, when you simply can not get it out of your mind, there's your call. God will guide you.

I think God is pretty direct, even in my own silliness I can still discern his voice, or maybe it's because it is way more obvious in contrast to my own goofy self?

55 More Hours or It's JUST a Game Y'all

Hardly 55 more hours until I get a much needed parenting break, kids going every whichaway, leaving me with The Gift of Time. Nothing I'd rather have in my life.

Last night's late soccer game didn't get underway until almost nine o'clock, Edgar scrunching his self into my occupied by me chair, reclaiming his oxygen-sucking ways, "Mom," he reminded me, "when you don't have a mom for so many years..."

OK, I get it, Allen and Jojo thrilled to have Edgar there watching them play beautifully in severe contrast to a very hot-headed Chuy who violently and constantly charged the other team, got a yellow card, kept being disrespectful, bossy and over-opinionated, so much so I nearly charged the field, to have a Come to Jesus meeting with him.

Parents on the opposing team irked as well, one dad told Chuy, "Show some sportsmanship," further sending a patently irate Chuy into the stratosphere of frustration, eventually crashing and slamming into a girl and getting his male package squashed so hard that he hollered at CW from his face down position on the field, "Dubs, my nuts are crushed!" Well, what did he want CW to do about it?

The other parents stifled their, "serves him right," remarks. Chuy finally dragged himself up, but cupped his hand over himself for the remainder of the game.

I apologized to both refs, "Y'all know I raised him better than this."

One ref telling me, "They shoulda won 6-0, they're the best team, but Chuy's anger made it a tied game. What's up with him?"

I'm only giving y'all the highlights, it was a long hour of ridiculous, unmitigated fury emanating from Chuy, for no other reason than the other team scored first.

CW got irked with me because I wouldn't let him play, here only a week or so before the orthopedic clinic releases him to play. "Heck NO!" I told him, like he didn't already know the answer before he asked the question.

Leaving the park at ten at night, I was struggling to keep Chuy and Paloma from fighting, Paloma only angry over a seat in the van, Chuy wanting to fight with anyone and everyone. Paloma threatened to break CW's other collarbone to which he'd angrily retorted, "Just try it fatso." I jumped between them.

Not even a full moon, full of a delicious dinner, a church retreat coming up for all my teens and preteens - everyone here in OBVIOUS need of a spiritual renewal, I just got called up to the schoolhouse because JoJo got suspended for ten days for double flipping off a teacher - a friend of mine at that. I went in my pjs.

"I know this seems harsh, Cindy, but we can't tolerate it," Dr. W informed me, and I agree, but JoJo does not have the innate ability to link consequences with his actions, it's all arbitrary in his mind, mean ole adults kicking him out for nothing.

"I told you he needed to stay in alternative school," I lamely offered up, "I'll waive a hearing, let's get it done."

We'll see. The wheels of anything turn way to slowly for my hyperactive self.

My house was loud last night past 11 o'clock, verbally replaying the game, everyone tired and snarling this morning, "See why I insist on decent bedtimes?" I asked, only to receive grumblings and irritability illustrated by crappy behavior.

55 more hours...

Nando turned 8 during Fall Break, but knows that I bring cupcakes to school on birthdays for anyone still in elementary school, asking me if I'd still do that for him, five days after the fact. I assured him I would do it today, but didn't tell him that Ray and CJ would be accompanying me, that's a surprise that I know he'll enjoy.

Chuy was walking funny this morning, still a little sore, silently daring anyone to make a remark. I restrained myself, but he could see in my eyes that I was inwardly snickering. I'd hollered in Spanish last night for him to chill out, knowing if I'd addressed him in English, he'd have been angry that I corrected him in public although his behavior certainly needed an adjustment. One of the refs is South American, he'd come to Chuy's defense before his yellow card became a red card, the other ref is racist - or so says my kids. Bull. I don't think they are right, I think he's a nice guy, frustrated with the excess passion my children have for the game that sometimes spills over into very unnecessary roughness.

I pointed out, for the fourth time this season, that the sixth Mexican kid on the team is not my kid. Just because he's always with my children does not make him mine. Duh y'all, do they think all Mexicans look alike? That particular kid did get a red card, tossed out of the game for telling the white ref, "You suck."

Honey, I'd make MY kid write a letter of apology for that, kinda like JoJo's gonna have to do today for disrespecting his teacher.

55 more hours...I can do this, then I'll tag team God, tap Him in, ask Him to work on their hearts during the weekend they'll be at the retreat. Change them before the next game at least.