Christmas in May? REALLY?

I go through a larger array of emotions each dern day than most folks might experience in a week or so, and yesterday was no exception.

Almost weepy all morning, irked and aggravated as I did the chores, got more eggs from my hens, and weeded a bit, knowing I couldn't get that dirty, as I had a funeral and a meeting to attend in the afternoon, fighting with myself to get a grip, unglued later over a story about a teacher I know with ALS. Y'all, life is hard, isn't it?

A biker funeral, as the Christian Motorcycle Association has been alive and well around here for years, ponytailed men wearing their jackets proudly, the nicest bunch of folks you'd ever wanna meet, the Lynyrd Skynyrd music was a little disconcerting, making me smile, and I know the man who died, Bull, was already in Heaven, a very strong believer, a man with a heart of gold.

I'd literally experienced Christmas in May when I arrived at a meeting that had essentially been in the making for the last two years. Two Years. That's how long y'all have been praying Paloma into a residential treatment center where she can receive and benefit from the 24-7 psychiatric care that she so deeply needs. She's a beautiful girl who alienates everyone with her violence and aggression.

A done deal now. Miss Kim from DJJ has AGAIN done what the mental health folks could not accomplish, due to budget cuts or other sundry reasons. Again DJJ has helped me keep a calmer household by removing the offender, a safety plan in action for us.

Paloma is not a criminal child, she is a very sick child. Her severe mental health issues have clouded her judgment, paralyzed her thinking, and dis-enabled success for her in any way at the moment.

She's been accepted into OTP, an Outdoor Therapeutic Program, a prayer answered. Fearing she was too severe for them, I'd prayed even harder, knowing it's so much better for her than any lockdown facility.

There are more paperwork hurdles and a massive amount of clothes and gear to buy, Kim and I've already done much of the legwork regarding papers, possibly within a week or so, this could finally happen for us all.

I hate that she'll miss the soccer tournaments since she's a fantastic player, but it was iffy at best that she'd participate the entire season without a rage.

Sherry, a mom with five great home-schooled children, sent me the picture I'm using above. She'd managed that one year to accidentally capture the moment Mayra's nose was broken on the field, and last year's winning moments for CW, Allen, Chuy, JoJo and Paloma. A magnificent photographer, I'm grateful to be the beneficiary.

Watching my children intently play soccer is so rewarding, and I just can't help but wish this is what we'd do for the remaining years, minus the meltdowns, fits and rages. Allen played so well last night, taking the loss in stride, Chuy was angry as a wet hen over it, not so good calls were made, this I know as the ref that Chuy usually bumps heads with now has a son on our team, and I listened intently to him last night. My sons were outplayed as well, the other team played better.

"Notice I've never argued a call with you all these years?" I pointed out last night, wanting Brownie points from the ref, "It's because I know you know more than I do and I don't wanna model arguing with authority to my kids."

"Well, that's all fine, but the trouble is, I know what I'm arguing about tonight," he responded, leaving me to wonder if he'd just pointed out my ignorance over the nuances of the game.

Honey, nothing's gonna wipe this smile off my face, I thought to myself, feeling the relief of a great weight being released from my heart. A summer without Paloma's aggression and storms? Not having to constantly tiptoe and monitor her behavior?

Really? Can it be so? Can my traumatized self accept this gift I've been praying for without guilt and worry? Can I believe something good can happen?

Yeah, I believe I can do so.

Spinning, Stewing and Fuming

My beds of potatoes look good, I have another much longer, wider bed in the front area of The Big Back Garden, these backside beds were hastily constructed just a year or so ago, maybe two years, who knows? I'm spinning through life so rapidly, how'd I get to be almost 60 years old so fast?

Stewing and fuming in my gardens, this after having written a cathartic blog yesterday, read my Bible, and even while listening to gospel music, my attitude still bordered on baaaaaad.

I composed another blog post in my head, a bitter one entitled, "Oh I'm SO Sorry," going ahead and fictionally taking the blame for everything that's been dumped on me. Easier to just shoulder the load, than to continue fighting it forever. OK, I give. It is my fault that your birth families did drugs, or whatever they did, that put you in foster care, it IS my fault that you were moved repeatedly, and I'm just so sorry that I then adopted you with your siblings, and imposed such stupid rules upon you for so long. I apologize for working hard to support you, for sacrificing, and for demanding unreasonably that you get an education AND follow the rules of our society, so that those mean ole policemen don't arrest you so many times.

I just couldn't shake my immense irritation, then I received a phone call that Paloma was having a conflict at school, but before I could get there, since I stopped to call Miss Kim at DJJ first, Mayra went down with a severe sore throat, necessitating a doctor's visit.

I'd been angrily stalking through my gardens, stuffing myself with strawberries, thinking, "I don't wanna ever have to eat store bought food again," a life goal that'd be fun to attain. Why'd I choose parenting troubled children?

Oh yeah, God called me, and I answered. OK then Lord, I dared to dare Him, like the hard-headed know-it-all I can be, then EQUIP me for this. I know He wanted to say, "Stop yelling, foolish one. You're already equipped."

Then I got a devastating phone call.

A man we'd been praying for passed away very suddenly, just two weeks after his cancer diagnosis. Two weeks. Only 51 years old, his daughter was a long time friend of Yolie, his sweet, beautiful wife was left totally bereft.

The visitation was held immediately, last night, and while it's nearly a social event, seeing folks I never see, as I never go anywhere, (I wouldn't go anywhere if I were childless, there's nowhere better to go than to my gardens) it was again a reminder to me of how short our time is on earth, how we best use it properly, and how much folks mean to us.

At my age, I suppose, I need to expect more of this, I have a lot of older friends.

The funeral is today at 3, I have a big Pow Wow about Paloma at 2, somehow I gotta make this schedule work. We have a very long soccer night ahead of us, Chuy and CW have weight-lifting after school, and I have two tons of housework glaring back at me.

For the moment though, I need to go work outside where my life makes sense, where I can emotionally sort through everything.

A Blackberry Winter Morning

A Blackerry Winter Morning - where are the jackets?

Sweet, sweet and beautiful Lily, waiting on the bus, never making us late, never causing a problem, someone who folks want to be with, as she's just so nice. This morning, Paloma was choosing to miss the bus, snarling and dragging herself on purpose to control my time, to force me to then drive her to school, as my only other choice would've been to have her stay home with me today.

Nope.

A very common thread, according to the emails I get from y'all, is that I'm singing your song too, we're living parallel lives, which both alarms and comforts me. I'm comforted that I'm not alone in these travails, but alarmed that they're so similar...and what can be done about it?

Paloma's Pathways Counselor got s tiny peek yesterday into Paloma's impending agitation, realizing that therapy is, or can be, a trigger, in and of itself, as the emotional scabs are painfully scraped back. This therapist was very transparent about her own feelings regarding these behaviors, in that she knew she'd accidentally played a part in a potential explosion...but then again, what are our options?

This lady knows her stuff, we've benefited from spectacular therapies, but the wiring we're working with is extremely resistant. None of us are very sure it can be fixed, so to speak.

The Adoption Counselor spoke of it, her sadness regarding the ultimate future...and I get it too, sadly as well.

Scotty has a math project: design a game board utilizing math concepts. Scotty's intelligence is pretty good, but managing his high-intensity emotions can be trying at best. A project like this often gives my children what they wrongly think is a legitimate reason to explode and cry.

My stress hormones soar in response...I dig more garden beds to release my inner tensions, more food to eat, a more positive response to absolutely inane actions.

Five hours spent digging yesterday, three hours on the soccer field, an hour with Paloma in therapy, laundry and dinner, dishes and picking up, another day has zipped by me again.

A pretty easy week compared to next week's over-booking, another eight dentist appointments, and other mundane assignments over my time

I blast my Ipod in my ears, a boatload of the Gaither Vocal Band, trying to soothe my raggedy emotions. Me who used to be so strong, now dissolving from within, so much easier for me to cry than it used to be, feeling sometimes as if I've totally wasted my life trying so hard. Did I just house children? Make no difference?

I'm so sick of the resentment and the toxicity in either our relationships or in the lack thereof, my own inner and intense desire for reclusiveness rearing it's head as an the only desirable or viable option, slam the gates shut and simmer...wow that's not healthy. So I dig and dig and dig, weed, plant, haul wood chips, all in the hopes of exorcising my own nearly intolerable frustrations at the complete and utter inanity of it all.

I'm exhausted from being the dumping ground.

And now I've seemingly irrationally made y'all, my readers, the dumping ground as well. I'm a whiner and a complainer, disgruntled and vexed, and I don't like that in me at all. Sally Sunshine needs to get a grip, doesn't she?

Oh My Dear Gardens, here I come....and a better day at that is coming.

Thank Me Later

Did I eat all this? Yep, with another plate put aside for today's lunch. I grew it, too.

Two of my daughters, Yolie and Sarah, 30 and 36, both were awarded Servant Leadership Awards at a church banquet the other night, a topic I harped upon for years when they were young. Our pastor preached about serving others this past Sunday, I only know this as both girls later told me, since I was housebound due to some immense servant-heart issues here at home. Me and my very bad, resentful attitude clearly did not demonstrate the Beatitudes this weekend.

Heck yeah I'm proud of them both. Gorgeous, well-educated, stay-at-home moms who've both managed to generate incomes as well. Sarah is also home-schooling Ray, no easy feat with a rowdy two year old demanding attention in adorable ways.

I'm a dork and proud of it, hard-working and so not a party girl as to appear stick-in-the-mudish, but glad about that as well. All my life I'd rather have been gardening, no matter what opportunities were placed in front of me. I'd already found my passion, my sense of well-being, and what grounded me.

Our society has tempted females to look like strippers or porn stars, so says this author, and overall the use of anti-depressants is at an all time high. I could link articles out the wazoo, but just look around you at the overall desperation and ills of our society.

I gotta teach my children to feel fulfilled somehow, this along with teaching them not to use violence and aggression to get their way.

Scotty and Nando, even Jonathan, enjoy working with my hens, dragging in some 22 eggs last night, shirts also stained from heaping strawberries in them, as Jack had done, wanting to carry a load up to Grandma and Pa, knowing she'd make him a strawberry shortcake when he knew I'd just eat 'em all plain as God intended them to be.

I've not raised a single child who eventually didn't know how to grow food. They might not have found it to be as thrilling as do I, some hope to never haul another bucket of wood chips in their lives, but by Golly, they could grow a garden if they so desired. I think it's a life skill, right up there with knowing how to swim. For Pete's Sake, who can't swim?

Apparently Sabrina's boyfriend du jour, who'd sunk like a stone recently at the lake, pulled out by friends.

OK kids, let's add and subtract so you can budget, let's get our rear ends to church so you'll find eternal salvation, let's throw some seeds into the ground so you can eat, learn to read some books, and let's do everything possible to find a fulfilling life.

I'd called Sarah about this startlingly high statistic I'd read yesterday after I'd pigged out on a mongo plate of Swiss Chard and garden onions (plus pepper jack cheese and Balsamic vinegar). Leafy greens reduce one's risk of pancreatic cancer by 75%. That's huge. Sarah and I are so such same page nerds regarding stuff like this.

Put all that aside, eating right gives one massive energy reserves with which to enjoy life, am I not a decent example? Scratch that, maybe. Who wants to end up having raised 39 tough kids.

Well, I do.

And I wanna know they'll eat right, after first rebelling and stuffing themselves with McFat Burgers til they puke.

I hope and pray that they strive forward, hitting achievement marks that'll make 'em feel good about themselves, and that they'll all find their passions in life.

My house was just a going full blast at 5:30 this morning when I'd awakened CW who'd wanted to go to a Bible Study at Chick-Fil-A with a friend this morning, running up to the gate by 6, book bag bumping on his back, dogs accompanying him. He'd had a rough day yesterday as another friend had betrayed him, a friend I wouldn't let him hang out with some time back, as I felt the parents didn't provide any supervision. Was I right, Dubs? You can thank me later.

Eleven Stinking Hours

More so than any child of mine, getting me cleaned and dressed for church is an ordeal, and I only have one or two choices to begin with. I don't use any hair products, other than shampoo, my makeup is limited to about two items plus Burt's Bees chapstick, so I can do the entire boring thingy in about two seconds, which I did yesterday.

Paloma came out of her room dressed slovenly with unbrushed, tangled and matted hair, "I can't find my brush."

Well, duh, I couldn't find an elephant in her pigsty room.

"I'm not going to church," she tossed defiantly. There was a dead-eyed look about her that promised an explosion if crossed. I've been down this highway before.

CW had already barfed, therefore he sure wasn't going, but I can trust him alone, no way in heck would I allow Paloma to stay home too. Then Allen went down squalling over nothing.

The other 12 children were already dressed and loading up in the van, while I stared in disbelief. There's a line that gets crossed, when dealing with traumatized children, and it's clear to me, both through experiences and learning, that it's gonna take hours to redeem.

Oh brother.

I got the kids out of the van, shuffled off angrily to get out of my own monkey suit, Paloma's eyes shooting daggers at everyone, and then I dove into housework to keep from screaming my frustrations.

Eleven hours later I was finished. 8 p.m. with only a quick sandwich break at one point.

I'd been four days past furious, but I know to throw myself into work to release my own pent up fury at folks who'd cause problems for everyone else. I don't lash out at humans, I pour myself into working.

Paloma had amped it up, hitting Tabby, forcing me to deal with her while she raged, "Tell her not to talk to me!" as if Tabby'd provoked the entire incident.

I felt like filing charges with the juvenile court system, something I should do every 100th unreported assault? But the deputies just treat it as if it were a family squabble, not worth anyone's time, while I sit there bumfuddled as I don't call the law unless absolutely necessary.

I even vacuumed closets yesterday, hauling trash, every single bedroom got the full treatment, felt the wrath of my throbbing stress. I thought about blogging, but it wouldn't've been pretty. I deeply needed to express myself through intensive, break a sweat, labor yesterday.

I am so fed up with ingratitude, rudeness, oppositional behavior and all the severe emotional issues that surround me. Most of the kids pitched in, Paloma of course sullenly glaring at everyone. JoJo, lazy to the core, helped a tiny little bit, Allen knew he'd angered me, and stumbled all over himself trying to make up with me. My dogs gave me a wide berth, seeing boiling, pressurized steam emanating from my being, wisely figuring they best leave me alone. Sweet Lily went out to pick me a very large bowl of fresh strawberries, Mama's version of Valium, so good that I went back out there right before dark for another bucketful.

I even tackled Paloma's heap of balled up, stench-ridden pile of greasy clothes, throwing away two sacks of stuff that was way beyond redemption. Indeed her clothes are nearly disposable, stained immediately upon wearing, and nasty beyond belief.

I growled on the phone at both Yolie and Sarah, who'd called to see why I wasn't at church, snarling later at Edgar, I was just too fed up to try and be nice, acting like my own kids, wasn't I?

ELEVEN stinking hours of boring crap, but I knew better than to try and work outside, as the behaviors would have resulted in mayhem inside. My presence was needed.

A Hard Worker

I work really, really hard in the garden in order to eat super delicious anti-oxidants that'll make me oh so stronger to keep working like a dog in the garden, so I can live even longer to work even harder out in the gardens, to produce the food and so on and so on.

"What's wrong with this picture?" I'd asked my very strong, hard-working mother, who was busy digging in her own garden.

Having put up with me now for nearly 56 years, she didn't even bother to answer my rhetorical question, knowing I was just blowing smoke outta my armpits again.

But oh honey, did we get rain, or what? A gully washer if I ever saw one. Only lightening cancels soccer games, so my deluded-into-doing-housework-instead plan never materialized, and I loaded up 8 kids after the games to go to town for Ray's Master's Academy Program which was too cute for words.

Church this morning, and then, I hope, an afternoon of easy weeding after our deluge of yesterday.

Paloma is, of course, on a tear, that's what bipolar is in our home, producing irrationality and oppositionalness constantly, her control issues surging, a refusal again to bathe, nearly gagging us all, but she did play a great game of soccer yesterday.

A postcard from Ms Carr, "We are in Big Bend National Park," prompting CW to blurt, "Who's we?" as if she'd taken one of our kids.

"Her husband," I responded, "Who'd you think she was talking about?"

"I dunno," he thought for a minute, "Maybe one of us?"

Like we're missing anyone?

Sometimes I just don't know 'bout my kids. Where are their heads?

CW, JoJo, Allen and Martin had walked down the hill to watch a movie at Chuck and Yolie's house last night, Chuy'd gone to a birthday party with a friend, Mayra was out, leaving just nine kids at home, but Paloma amped it up to make it seem as if there were 900, wondering why she never gets invited anywhere. Her behavior in school and her assaults upon others may have something to do with the alienation. Ya think?

Fun Times

The lizard is hanging on to Nando's finger by its teeth, notice the open mouth.

What other family is banging around the house at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning? Travis had gifted my children last night with a very large TV in which for them to play games, which was exactly their plan this morning. It appears as if rain will cancel out soccer, which suits me, as I'd have had to spend all day watering if not for nature's bounty, which'll drive my raggedy self indoors to holler about chores, in which my children will scatter like cockroaches in their chore avoidance methodology, leaving me to do it all, as usual.

I've never lived with 39 children at any one time, 26 was at one time our highest number of inhabitants. I'd just round it up and plan every dinner for 30, never daunted then, but now I realize everyday how much easier it now is to cook and clean up. I don't miss my former workload at all, no part of me feels unfulfilled, an empty nest is my goal, not a dread for me.

In Scotland, several years ago, Sarah's friend Beth met a guy who had a friend who'd grown up in a family of 16 kids, talking about our friend, Travis. "Really?" Beth had said, "My friend, Sarah, is one of 39 kids."

How co-incidental is that for this guy, Mike, to have been talking about two people in America who only live a few miles from each other? Weirder still is for them to have figured out this connection way over in Scotland.

I picture Scotland as all classy and proper, versus our redneck Southern ways.

Beth's in-laws, my friends, go to church with Kimberly, wife of Travis.

So energized at the thought of water falling from the sky that I spent all day yesterday, 9-3, while the kids were busy in school, planting and sowing seeds, doing garden chores that seem fun to me, fulfilling and enjoyable, loving the two Point of Grace CDs I'd added to my Ipod. After supper I'd run back outside to finish spreading compost, Lily trailing me and telling me about her day.

This is the life I'd planned in my head, in which the children going to school would allow me enough alone time to rejuvenate myself, so that when they came home I'd be ready and happy, and it was so yesterday, a bit enough unusual to make me wary, a byproduct of secondary trauma I'd never anticipated when I'd run through various scenarios in my head, figuring how I'd cope and tend to a large family.

I eventually learned so much on the fly, thinking on my feet, calling my friend, Emily, for behavior explanations. Her longtime experiences in the adoption world, her education and abilities to get to the root of the problems, served us all so very well.

Gardening is my thinking time, and I was thinking and praying for a decent resolution for Claudia's son's court time yesterday, and thinking 'bout how she'd once spent a day outside working in the yard, only to later write beautifully about how much she hated it.

Really?

How can that be? How can folks not enjoy sweating and battling bugs? What about the back-breaking fun of hauling compost and wood chips or the strain of double-digging? Crouching and weeding in contortionist poses? A blazing sun dehydrating a person into complete dessication? Fighting crabgrass and poison ivy? Snakes? Field mice the size of trucks? How can this not be fun, I'd asked myself in complete wonderment, in love with the opportunity I'd had this day to be alone and peaceful, working out my many frustrations and struggles.

Lord Have Mercy, thank you that I'm enamoured of it all, even more so now than when I'd planted my first tomato plants nearly 40 years ago.

Singing loudly and way, way off-key, but blithefully unaffected, as I have a tin ear, scratching at my mosquito bites and squinting into the sun, thus creating more eye wrinkles, so hot and dirty I turned the garden hose upon myself, refreshed by freezing cold well water. I was born to live like this, so productive and gleeful, cramming fresh strawberries into my mouth, spitting their leafy caps as far as I could, just because I could, watching my hens, wary of my roosters, phone turned to 'ring only' so I wouldn't be distracted by emails or texts coming in, a limited window of opportunity before today's rain system moves in.

I'm blogging with the front door hanging up, now before the sun comes up, listening to a beautiful distant rumble of thunder, the roosters crowing and other birds singing, figuring I'd best make sure Nando's soccer jersey is clean, as he has the first game still scheduled this morning at nine, no rain cancellations just yet.

I don't feel like going to yard sales in between games, as Paloma's behaviors are fairly amped up, I don't like taking her out in public, where she's likely to throw a fit over something ridiculous, she was emotionally difficult last night, wearing her shoes without socks, kicking them off and stinking up our very large family room, provoking Jojo to make realistic barfing sounds that further infuriated her. Heck, the stench reached me in the kitchen, as did the impending explosive warning signs - angry voices raised, chairs kicked over, blustering and posturing cartoonishly.

As usual we all had to appease her wrath or risk having to call in the deputies to keep us safe, as she has zero compunctions about using deadly force.

Oh my dear Lord, please open doors soon and very soon.

Popcorn and Cookies

Now that my life is easing up, I don't have to dress anyone in the mornings, I just have to supervise, sign papers, check bookbags, and other dumb and mundane, routine stuff, I can even be blogging, or socializing on Facebook, while they skitter about the house.

Sometimes it's better that I be a tad distracted, as I can disengage more deftly, rather than be sucked into a fray that is ridiculous beyond comprehension.

I should know better than to say this aloud, but with no meetings today, no appointments, I've planned myself a Leave Cindy Alone Garden Day. Unless of course I enjoy hearing from you, y'all know who you are, I'd rather not hear from the school today.

Of course I'm behind everywhere in everything, but I've learned to live with it.

Having a passport here into a Third World nation, has surely changed my perspective over the years in a very big way.

Soccer is sucking up every minute of every night plus Saturdays. I'd had to turn down Daniel's invitation to go with him to last night's Braves Game. It's one thing to get a babysitter, another thing to rent a driver and find another imaginary annoying soccer mom like me. Then who would've taken care of the exploding toilet besides Grandma? Forcing me to wash a load of towels when I could've been eating popcorn popped in olive oil with sea salt before bed.

I'm getting collect calls from the jail, but they're all hang-ups. Like I don't know who's in jail? Mr. I'm Going To Shoot Out Your Windows? I need to block the collect calls, I just took my phone off the hook, as we rarely use the land line anyway.

I have a lot to do, time to walk away from the computer, leaving y'all with a link to Sarah's post. We, she and I, really do consume a lot of food, but it's usually all the good stuff, truly with wholesome ingredients, Sarah's way more high brow, I'm a plain ole rice and beans kinda girl, brown rice of course, but one needs to take in a lot of calories in order to function at one's best.

Now, a pot of coffee later, I'm hungry for breakfast.

Happy Earth Day

Trying to intervene in their daughter's drug addiction on Intervention, since that is clearly the point all along, the parents were informed they could be charged with kidnapping, and then the deputy dumbed it all down for them in a moronic explanation, "She's over 18, she's an adult. She can do what she wants to do."

Illustrating perfectly why my over 18 year olds need to go to college, get a job and/or find their own place to live. If they couldn't, or wouldn't, be reasoned with as teenagers, what would make me think anything had changed other than a bigger sense of entitlement?

I hated when Daniel went to college, loved that he'd been accepted to UGA, proud and happy for him, but I knew I was gonna miss him terribly. I cried when Sarah got an apartment while attending UGA, I cried over the way Yolie initially left, struggling with her primal emotional scars at the time, it wasn't pretty, but she's long since made up for, recovered from, that very brief estrangement period.

I seem to be watching a lot of TV, huh? It's stuff I've DVRd to watch when I try and wind down, not an easy task for a hyperactive dorko.

Other than another emotional Allen meltdown over nothing, it'd been a fairly uneventful day.

I've crammed my garden beds full of plants and seeds, I'd built new beds, and still need a few more, while I've totally neglected the flower beds since eating's more important.

A rustling in the pampas grass became a downright racket, prompting me to call out to my dogs to see which was was digging around so loudly. I called out ten different doggie names, no response, so I ambled over there only to confront a very large black snake with it's head up as if to strike. A gargantuan-sized reptile.

I was outta there in a flash, across my gardens in shock, wondering if it was safe to work way over there. I know black snakes are harmless and beneficial, protected under the GA DNR, and this one had surely fought a big old field rat to have stirred up such a ruckus over there. Heck with it, I ran into the house and slammed and locked the doors.

The children soon came home, heard my wild-eyed, breathless snake story and gone out to look for themselves, finding it had entangled itself in its haste to leave the yelling ole witch, in poultry netting. Oh brother.

They carried it to the meadow, held its head away from them, and diligently worked with scissors to untangle it, the rest of them watching in awe and amazement, nature in its glory, and Little Miss Treehugger keeping her safe fraidy cat distance.

Hey, Happy Earth Day and all that, but like Mother's Day, it ought to be everyday, not just some empty gesture.

Psychiatrist appointments this morning, Lord knows they're vital, and I just don't feel like cleaning again...speaking of empty gestures...pointless when one lives with dedicated, single-minded destructomainiacs.

I'll choose instead to spend my time working outside where my mind becomes peaceful and serene, even though the released snake high-tailed it right back into my gardens.

"Probably has a nest of babies there," CW tried to cheer me up. Oh, and now I feel better?

Life's too short to spend it picking up what they're, the kids not the snake, gonna throw down just to get a reaction, a negative one at that, but that's their point, upping the ante, causing the chaos they prefer, versus the orderliness I desire, control issues that eventually kill any semblance of concern on my part, justifying my newer refusal to not let grown kids live with us, the danger and the intense damage they've wrought upon us has eliminated that option for others.

As Claudia wrote about, trying to control her own logical responses to thorny situations, explaining the consequences should one choose to still break laws, policies, rules and procedures, we may as well bark at the mailman for all the good that'd do.

Several of my children are disturbed, emotionally wounded, and I have to remember that just because I can't see their wounds, doesn't mean they're not there and causing these challenging behaviors. A physically crippled person would more likely endear themselves towards others, their obvious need for help would provoke sympathy, versus normal appearing children who act and react oppositionally, rudely, badly, violently, aggressively or otherwise anti-socially toward everyone.

This is sometimes very difficult to either remember or to endure.

At age 18, the legal age for adulthood, it has become impossible for me and the other kids at home to survive, especially with those who'd willfully break laws, fearing no consequence.

This morning was rough, the teachers need everyone there for the CRCT, so three of my children predictably fell apart, missing the bus, fighting and screaming over nothing. I did not react, instead I blared praise music in the van and ignored their mindless fury, there's NO POINT in me continuing to explain that constant tardiness is a sign of poor character when they think lying, fist-fighting and stealing is OK.

Hello?

I just gotta shake it off. Yesterday's news devastated me, made me think of my friend all day long who's enduring this, while another friend's husband received a terminal diagnosis from the doctor. Life is hard, sure enough, and for me to wallow in my irritations seem petty when I could better spend my time constructively.

Oh Dear Lord In Heaven

I did not know this man, I know his sister's mother-in-law very, very well. We worked together for 13 years.

This is a tragedy beyond comprehension.

El Cheapo CDs

I can't help it. I hadda go to Claudia's post where she cracked me up. Humor's about all I have left anyway, and bathroom humor never fails me for some immature reason. Good thing too, as I live with JoJo and his apparent ability to fart tunefully impressive serenades at will

Surprisingly our dentist scheduled Bodies and another large family at the same day, well not their entire family, only Tina's husband, but she'd be the first to tell you, he's a handful.

More surprisingly is the fact that I do not have any appointments nor meetings today. Yesterday while being forced to run errands, I remembered it was Senior Citizen's Day at Goodwill, so I picked through their pile of CD's finding two Point of Grace, two Amy Grant, a Larnelle Harris, and three mood stabilizers. One CD was an hour of thunderstorms, another was an hour of gentle rain sounds.

Heck yeah I added 'em to my Ipod. My tangled, jangled and strangled central nervous system need soothing, as it appears we may well again be heading into a drought and Paloma's been absolutely incorrigible.

My amazing 80 year old mother, who could work circles around any 20 year old, has planted ten tons of produce-making plants and seeds, I'm trying to keep up with her, she's my role model obviously, and twice yesterday evening, during another major nutup by Paloma, Grandma had to run pick up and/or deliver kids to various prearranged practices, as I could not leave the kitchen where the drama was unfolding.

It was so bad I'd put the thunderstorm CD on in the kitchen to calm me down. I must not engage, I have to force my mind to control my mouth, I can't say what I feel, I can't say anything at all, as anything and everything sets her off, there's no trigger, no comprehension, never any resolution, just justification in her own messed up mind that folks deserve to endure her unmitigated wrath.

Sabrina and Mayra were helping me get a complicated supper on the table, knowing we had a long soccer night ahead of us, the baby chicks needed attention immediately, as one had escaped, and the dogs were barking wildly, so I ran outside to help Scotty, Martin and Nando. Paloma took that opportunity to jump Mayra, I was called for, sent Mayra to her room for her own safety, and spent the next hour trying to direct traffic, tend to an irrational breakdown, and feed everyone.

Who lives like this?

I'd read, this morning, of an awful incident in the next county over, where a murder took place. "He's had violent episodes before," family and neighbors concurred, making me shake and twitch here in fear, hardly any relief in sleep, as the emotional torment dumped upon me can be intense.

The therapist yesterday was working with Paloma and I, sometimes it just rips emotional scabs off of troubled children, and there's Hell to pay later, but it's a derned if I do, derned if I don't situation. I can't imagine not getting therapy.

"The prognosis is not good," wrote the psychiatrist, "despite the amount of medications, the aggression continues," as we seek help for Paloma.

Seriously?

Aggression?

How about violence and danger, irrationality and hellacious outbursts? Written up this week at school for inappropriately touching a boy, refusing to get out of bed this morning, after denying to the therapist that she ever does that, forcing me to drive her to school since she missed the bus on purpose. Three highly trained Intensive Family Intervention therapists and a psychiatrist helping me...to no avail.

Again DJJ is having to deal with a mentally ill lawbreaker, and, on all levels, that seems sadly inappropriate. I'm very grateful though that they can try and do something for us. Punitive repercussions will never work with her, only a therapeutic intervention can possibly make any sort of a difference, however now after eight years of therapy and us getting nowhere, I fight a bit of despair for her future.

And thank you mamas, for listening to me vent, as I never can say what I'm thinking out loud around here for obvious reasons.

I'm gonna force myself to work for an hour inside the house, then allow myself, no reward myself with outdoor joyfulness after that, Ipod blasting praise music that soothes my soul and lifts me back up again and again.

Begging For Rain

Three more dentist appointments this morning, my parents always took us four children twice a year to our doctor, Dr. Will Payne. Yep, that's his real name and my brother, Gary, still falls into peals of laughter thinking 'bout it. Dr. Payne's office had an elevator, probably the first we'd ever seen, certainly the first I remember riding up on. Heck this was in the 1950s, things have changed.

Our dentist here is so nice, I'd go to him just to absorb the sunshine he projects to everyone. He's never complained about my difficult children, Jonathan and Paloma nearly got into it in his waiting room, raising their voices, kicking each other, threatening to tell Miss Kim from DJJ that they'd been assaulted by each other.

"Smooth move, Metamucil," I'd remarked to Jonathan for stirring up a hornet's nest. Who provokes Paloma?

Paloma's Pathways team member called me right at that moment to set up our afternoon appointment, good timing son.

Another appointment today with another team member for Paloma, it is more than a full time job to manage these disturbed behaviors.

Three soccer practices tonight and a decent chance of rain today. Oh puh-leeze Lord, I am begging you for a good dousing here.

Miss Kim mentioned that Paloma's behaviors might be too intensive for OTP. That put a knot of fear in my stomach, remembering a counselor once sending one of my sons back home, "He's one of the most disturbed kids I have ever seen," she stressed, leaving me to wonder how they, all that trained staff, thought a scrawny single woman could manage him if they couldn't.

He ended up spending five years in a state mental hospital, a worker practically begging me, later pressuring me, to take him back, promising me he was much improved.

Well that didn't turn out so well for any of us.

He's in jail right now for threatening to shoot out my windows, probably his dozenth arrest in the past several years. I have a 'prohibited entry order' against him, a restraining order will be my next step, but I'm hoping he will serve time for his repeated probation violations. That's sad isn't it? That I feel like that? But for the safety of everyone, it's necessary.

I'd literally run into Yolie's house to leave her some plants, getting to see Joe for a minute, that boy's done grown his hair out, after having shaved his head for the past ten years. He looks much as he did when I first met him as an 'ornery as Hell' described his caseworker, eight year old boy. Now he's fixing to be 27 years old, doing right well. That's all I ask, son. Make Mama proud. He has a job and he takes care of Alyssa, therefore I'm proud of him.

I flew through Sarah's house, getting her to Xerox some papers, forgetting to thank her for doing my tax returns, marveling for a second at how well Ray reads now, watching Hazel spin in her tutu, and forgetting at both houses to tell either Sarah or Yolie about a karate special Miss Kim had found.

Some days my own shadow can't even keep up.

No garden time at all, other than watering house plants, which left me restless and squirming, but also no major skirmishes here, no real problems, just sweet hugs from CW, kind words from others, Mayra helped me slap together supper before Nando's soccer practice, and we were all home and in bed at a decent time, by nine o'clock, barely dark out, and my house was quiet as a mouse, allowing me some moments of peace to wind down.

I sure ain't too high brow for TV. I like Dr. Drew Pinsky's Sober House Show. The lady in charge there was dealing with adult raging addicts and I shook my head in commiseration. Pinsky linked celebrities with narcissistic behavior traits which makes addiction all the more difficult to treat. I find it compellingly fascinating.

"There were some times this season where things unraveled so badly that I could feel it from twenty miles away, got in my car and ran over there just in the nick of time," Dr. Drew tells Kevin.

Oh honey, try living IN it.

I'm thankful as I could be that I don't drink nor smoke. I wanna be large and in charge, substance free, full of vitamins and raring to go, not ever saddled with something that controls me...well outside of my family and their unique challenges.

It Works For Us: Fighting Bitterness, Grief & Loss

Claudia's lately been discussing her frustration, the fact that we adoptive parents need to change ourselves in order to accept our chosen circumstances, and I couldn't agree more.

I think back on all the intense emotional energy and tears that I seemingly wasted over the years, when nothing I could've said, or done, would've made much more of a difference. Adult kids who still want to blame me for their ills when at best, they came as teenagers and only actually lived a few years here with me. Years in which I provided ...I dunno....EVERYTHING, versus their earlier chaotic years that made it impossible for them to later accept, nor appreciate, what I lovingly offered.

I look back at those who'd pick fights with me, expecting me to then make up for their previous decade or so of neglect and abuse somehow. I'm a mom, not a magician.

Nowadays I still work hard for everyone, but some semblance of emotional disengagement is a must, or I'd have become a total nut job by now. We adoptive parents joke about ending up in baggy adult diapers, while drooling and babbling, but the reality of our stress load makes it so much more possible of an end result.

Grown kids smile at me and lie through their teeth about their living arrangements or their imaginary jobs, or where they've gotten the money they're flashing around as if they're now Mr Big Stuff or something. I don't challenge them about it, they know I don't believe them, it's not worth me having a heart attack from either the stress nor the crazy-making illogical inability to reason with anyone at all.

Sorry, I've ceased to care if you understand that I value honesty.

I nearly broke my own hand in the most massive amount of frustration several months ago, pounding it against a hard surface, rather than where I clearly wanted it to land. Giving, giving, giving only to be shat upon tremendously.

Wow.

I'm done.

I will not participate in craziness, I will not be involved with criminals, liars, thieves, haters, takers, or those who'd do my family harm from within for any underlying reason.

The majority of my children need me, trust me and are as dependable as one might reasonably expect and I love them dearly.

I forgive, I move on, freed up from participation in those that only hate.

Chuck's tractor has revitalized my garden areas, he cleared and tilled so I could build even more permaculture beds, we put the 25 younger chickens outside yesterday in the chicken tractor Daniel'd previously built, they're so much fun to watch, so silly and curious. One of our tiniest Yorkies, Princess, loves squeaky toys and will work diligently to eventually remove the annoying squeaker. We caught her eyeing the chicks with supreme interest. "She must be wanting to take our their squeak," Nando wisely observed. Hmmmm. Uh-oh.

So today I'm facing five dentist appointments, three DJJ home meetings (we knock them all out together at one time) and a soccer practice. I need to Xerox papers for Miss Kim, get more groceries and figure out where on earth I can cram in more plants outside. I need to mow and to dig, to weed and to water, to do laundry and to cook supper for tonight. It's all that physical labor that releases my pent up frustrations, petty annoyances and massive resentment that is justified, but ultimately damaging to my health.

I've not spoken about an incident last summer that had me sobbing hysterically in a heap for several hours. Grandma too was crying, addressing the dead-eyed culprit who had no conscience, "I've already lost one daughter, I could not stand to lose an another one," as she watched me try and get a grip, very afraid that no human being could withstand this level of stress and despair.

We had no clue that only a week later the police would be swarming our house, leading that one out in handcuffs due to an attack on another. When I stop mentioning particular names, there's usually a horrifying story behind my omission.

Today is the 14th anniversary of my sister's passing, I was not called until before dawn of the next morning, so the 20th remains the devastating date imprinted in my mind, my mother, who was there, remembers it as the 19th. Either way, it's been a long, long time since I've been with my only sister, Ellen. I've hardly been allowed to grieve as CW was born ten days later, there I then was with a full-time job, a newborn, and many other children looking to me to guide this ship, to move forward in spite of my grief.

Then, as now, I just get up and put one foot in front of the other deliberately.

I'm choosing happiness for the billionth time and moving forward, ultimately sad at the poor choices I've seen in some of my very emotionally damaged children, but choosing to focus on the positives, instead of banging my head against walls that won't budge.

Like my own mother, I throw myself into work, work, work... because it works for us.

To Continue Seeking Joy

I just can't help it, JoJo makes me laugh out loud as many times as he also aggravates me. I'd asked my oppositional son to smile for the camera and this is what I got in response.

I do not love a good fight, I am not confrontational and will back down in situations that could dangerously escalate. I do not like the feeling of stress. I deplore heart-pounding situations, and I crave the simple peacefulness of listening to the birds sing. I do not get off on impending drama...I hate it.

It may appear that I've picked the wrong line of work

Still however I remain firmly committed to my children, not having a single doubt regarding the fact that these are the exact particular children that I truly believe God wanted me to parent...no matter if these same children fight me on every aspect of it all, even if some kids bomb out of our family, and especially if I end up with restraining orders for our own safety.

That's on them. Their violent behaviors made it so, in spite of counseling, love, security, nurturing, stability and every other positive adjective I may attempt to hang on to in my own rationalizing defense.

I want to be healthy, not to avoid dying, I wouldn't care if God took me now, allowing me to leave this painfully difficult earth, and go on to a Heaven in which I deeply believe in and long for, but while I remain here, I wanna remain healthy and be as physically and emotionally as strong as is possible.

My biggest enemy is stress. I hate the feeling it gives me. I literally feel it gnawing away at me sometimes. Adrenaline robs me of serenity.

Dr. Mark Hyman, a practicing physician and pioneer in functional medicine, writes some fascinating blogs, his take on life and our bodies coincides with my own deeply held beliefs and recently he'd written a ding-doozy on stress.

"The health of your mind and spirit and your sense of connection to your community has an immense impact on the health of your body. In fact, aside from eating breakfast, the biggest predictor of longevity is psychological resiliency -- being able to roll with the punches that life throws at us."

This punching bag here, me, dealt with deputies on two different occasions yesterday that had nothing to do with my own children. A long story that would've had a sucky ending were it not for my son-in-law, Preston's mother Edith, who happened to notice Mayra's boyfriend's wallet on the side of our dirt road. A flurry of phone calls, Mayra crying in fear, she was home with me, and me having to get the wallet to the second deputy, proving Dillan did indeed have a driver's license, this just an hour or so later after me convincing that fact on the phone to another deputy.

"Honey, this is Cindy Bodie and I promise you his wallet is sitting over at my daughter's house, I'll bring it to you if you need me to do so." I wouldn't be standing up for a law-breaker, but I knew this particular incident was accidental. Dillan never knew he'd even lost his wallet until that very moment. I knew because Sarah had just called me. These local deputies know I won't lie to them, I don't lie. Period.

Like I sit around my house waiting on problems to be solved?

Chuck was replacing 700 pounds of sand in our pool pump filter, I was working on the hillside gardens, Chuy was limbing up some trees, Martin, Allen and Dubs were hauling woodchips, Sabrina straightening up the house, Paloma helping Grandma, all this after four hours in the blazing sun on the soccer fields, all of us tired and hungry, I ordered ten large pizzas that we devoured, and I'd erased the obscene gesture that a white kid had drawn in the dust on the back of our van since she's jealous of a Mexican kid, her boyfriend, who gravitates to our family.

Well I might've dealt better with it better, if it hadn't been for my sweet Pastor Tony following me off the fields that afternoon, no doubt thinking one of my rebellious children had so decorated our van with crude pictures of male body parts.

Dr. Hyman goes on to point out, "Americans live on caffeine and Prozac. We use substances to manage our moods. In fact, the four top-selling items in grocery stores are all drugs that we use to manage our mood and energy: caffeine, sugar, alcohol, and nicotine."

Gag-a-roni.

I find that shocking.

I've put on some weight since my last major gut-wrenching ordeal, probably ten or so pounds, but I eat very, very healthfully, and a lot of it, since I burn an inordinate amount of calories each day.

"Stress hormones damage the hippocampus -- the memory center in the brain -- causing memory loss and dementia.

In a study of people who volunteered to have cold viruses injected into their noses, only people with a high level of perceived stress got colds."

I so believe this, having demonstrated it to my ownself so often. Jack recently asking me, "Why do you never get sick? You wipe our noses and hug us when we're sick."

I stuff my raggedy body with supplements and with superb nutrition, I believe I'm not gonna get sick, and I power through any days of feeling puny. Being sick would be boring to me. I'd rather work in the gardens.

Y'all remember though when I did have surgery for a abdominal mass - purely due to the monstrous stress I was enduring - it can get the better of folks, but that just taught me to amp up what I need to do. The fact that it wasn't malignant was amazing in and of itself, it's gone, along with more than a foot of my intestine, and I lived to continue this difficult fight...in spite of those children who'd wish me harm.

Why me and not others? I dunno. Only God knows, but for me, I believe He's sent me a thousand books for me to devour, and to comprehend, and a mindset that enables me to do what I need to do each day.

I get aggravated with my kids when their laziness is such a predominant indicator of a futureless life of poverty and strife, I pray that I don't intimidate them with my impossible level of emotional strength, but rather encourage them... If Mom can do all this, then can't they at least do their homework?

"In a study of doctors, those who scored high on hostility questionnaires had a higher risk of heart attacks than those who smoked, were overweight, had high blood pressure, or didn't exercise.

So, if you don't think the mind has the power to influence your body, think again.

The good news is that you can change your beliefs and attitudes and their effects on your mind and your body. You may need to learn a few new skills, like stress reduction techniques, but it can be done."

I do struggle with some hostility, as the dumping upon me by disturbed children who misdirect their anger at the only one who ever sacrificed for them, can be mind-boggling.

I've had painful, hurtful figurative doors slammed shut in my face just because I parent these children, situations denied to me, here I sit minding my own business just to get tempted, then suddenly shot down. What the heck? Voted off the island when I wasn't even playing the game. Thank you God for the inner strength that pumps me up to face another day.

Forgiveness is my saving grace, my ability to do so has kept me fairly sane, but at the same time, I categorically refuse to remain a doormat for grown folks who either cannot, nor will not, learn. I gotta move on to my own happy place, shedding myself of the venomous poisonous darts that they ignorantly believe they should propel in my direction.

Nah, I just don't think I'm gonna participate in negativity.

This is why I come to you sweet ladies each morning, my support group, my coffee klatch, in which you understand and share your own experiences via comments or emails. My church means the world to me, I have great friends, and strong, happy and succesful grown children who also shore me up. I'm blessed to have supportive, intelligent parents who live here with me.

I have hopes and plans, dreams and goals...all necessary ingredients in combatting stress.

This is a great article, a good read, as all adult experience stress, none of us escape grief, pressure, heartbreak and crushing life events. For years I'd pumped myself up with leadership and motivational books, I read theology and self-help tomes, I know my mind controls every aspect of who I am, I get it, and I need to continue feeding my faith and controlling my body via my mind. I know that I'm gifted with drive, determination, a boundless enthusiam, and a very annoying hard-headed push from within, and I intend to capitalize on that fact for my mere survival and continue seeking joy that I so prefer over stress.

I hope this article will speak to those of you who are in desperate straits as well.

Heck I've read it several times and bookmarked it for future reference.

What's Your Point?

Even though I'm typically slow to respond to comments and emails, thanks to my Blackberry, which I do check while outside working, but by the time I go back near my computer, something else demands my attention.

Yolie and I'd discussed Lisa's comment yesterday, both of us irritated, because it is the way it is. Unfair, unjust and nearly impossible at times for parents like us.

This morning I woke up to a comment written last night, "Is there something wrong with us? We live such lives of stress and unrest and one of our most helpful coping mechanisms is shoveling horse poop. Think about it. I just did. I have to say it made me laugh."

Bingo! I'd been thinking yesterday, as I worked, that I had some very impressively large horse turds, so much so that I was tempted to take a photograph of the biggest one, but my middle class sensibilities reminded me that most folks don't get so much joy this way. I don't know what's wrong with people like that

Because I'd dug a new bed for tomatoes, I was carefully, and lovingly, tucking in the prize poops for their slow-release fertilizing capabilities, knowing they'd feed the plants properly over the season. I usually make my own tomato cages from strong wire, both Grandma and I need more this year, as I greatly over-planted in retaliation for last year's blight flop. Although I've added quite a few new beds, my ambition has again exceeded available space...but it truly does make me very, very happy.

My niece Lauren called to tell me they'll be here at the end of May, sending me rushing to the Braves Schedule, as there's no one, other than Daniel, that I'd rather see a game with, my favorite brother-in-law is loads of fun and Pittsburgh will be in town at the time.

I just truly enjoy being happy. Duh. Who doesn't? My gardens provide that feeling for me, finding my very old Facebook friends, being found and surprised by others, and the fact that the majority of my children have been so much fun lately has truly helped my teeteringly roller coaster moods.

The Power Unlimited Team - Real Strong Motivation had a shindig last night at the high school. I'd once gone to one of their events with Big Joe and Daniel, it's an amazing show of muscle men with a mission, “To shape the character of this generation of youth, one school at a time.”

"JoJo I promise you that you'll love this," I urged, as he balked about going. Four hours later, JoJo, Martin, Chuy, Allen, Sabrina, Mayra and CW were still there, helping them load up after the show, so impressed I thought I'd never get them settled down for the night.

One man with 23 inch unadulterated by steroids biceps was bragging he had 21 brothers and sisters. "There's 39 of us," Martin intoned to the man afterwards.

"Your mama birthed all y'all?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nope, we're adopted," Martin still felt he'd trumped the guy. "Mama claims childbirth hurts too much."

He ain't kidding. Us dumb hippies wanted natural births in the early 70s. Can I hear a big ole OUCH? I sure as heck wouldn't have ever done that again. (Except to get a beautiful daughter like Sarah which is what I'd then done)

Paloma is predictably amping up her behaviors, knowing that DJJ can swoop in and take her at any moment, screaming and roaring, "I don't CARE!" and restlessly disobeying my every word, as I do my level best to just not engage, the other kids scattering, and all of us praying her meds'll take effect before she hurts someone.

Yolie and Chuck live down near my front gate where they'd built their lovely home, calling me about suspicious vehicles or recalcitrant children storming past their house, Chuck questioning Jonathan who nonchantlantly passed by with a large bucket, "Whatcha doin' boy?"

Collecting caterpillars and showing them off to CJ and Mae ended his big evening, he even meandered through and helped Chuck weed a bit, while I stayed home scrubbing my over-used and slap worn out kitchen.

Three soccer games this morning and three kids needing to get to the high school for sports physicals, later I have garden plans, and will need to convince those that actually wanna help, that we need to haul wood chips to the new tomato beds and likely dig me up just one more bed.

"You keep saying one more," Dubs stressed.

"What's your point honey?" I'd redundantly asked.

Always Teetering On The Edge

Soccer games until nearly nine last night, kids acting as if they were starving when we returned home, another grand mess to clean up, plus Paloma had a major nut-up episode over food she claimed was hers, as if she'd somehow gotten a job and went to the grocery store. In her mind, what she wants becomes hers apparently by osmosis, and although Mayra backed down and allowed Paloma to get her way yet again, knowing it was the only way to not have to call the police, Paloma still amped it up, threatening to hurt Mayra, but Chuy and I stepped in the middle of it.

Mayra ended up sleeping safely in Lily's room, behind a locked door.

Who has to live like this?

I was asked about Jonathan and his behaviors lately, he's markedly improved over last year, and I'm beginning to be able to breathe again in regards to his future. He and Scotty are both finishing up fifth grade and will leave me with only my last three there next year as second, third and fifth graders, this from an all-time high, one year, of a dozen children in that particular school.

The D.A.'s office called yesterday, "We'll feel certain he'll be indicted," regarding the grown one who threatened to shoot out my windows. The jail nurse calling me yesterday to see if anyone could be paying for his much-needed medications. Until you've stared into the frightening eyes of pure insanity, it's kinda of difficult to truly comprehend its depths.

Again, why are adoptive parents expected to live in danger?

I have some issues with this. Maybe if it were only me to worry about, it'd be different, but I still have other children looking up to me to provide safety, which should be a God-given right in the home.

One's home should be a sanctuary, one's happy place, a nest that gives a sense of safety, but when one's inhabitants are violent and dangerous, one becomes a bit unnerved at times. A teacher told me yesterday of the one child of mine that truly scares her, I share her fear, and, as such, he is not living with us. The fact that it makes me happy to be shut of his aggression is not necessarily a very rewarding feeling, but it is what it is.

I took my frustration over to the horse farm yesterday and loaded my truck up with aged horse manure all by myself, timing myself, 15 minutes of wheel-turning motions of my arms. I came home, carefully spread it on the new tomato beds, listening to very uplifting music on my Ipod, trying to amp up my sometimes crushing fears of what might happen here, it's as if I am always teetering on the edge of some potential disaster, as many of my children are unstable at best, violently emotionally ill at worst.

A great soccer game last night, sitting with dear friends of mine, Robin and Willis, their son did a superb job as goalie, ensuring the win by preventing the other team from being able to score at all. JoJo was a distracting handful, Mayra and Sabrina were a bit witchy, and Paloma hangs on that invisible borderline cliff in which she could easily plunge into a darkness that would hurt others, or sometimes, just teeters on the edge. I can see in her eyes that she wants to explode, but there are times that she is able to hang on to a single, tentative shred of decency.

I, on the other hand, feel like a nervous twitching wreck. My plans this morning include slamming another 100 strawberry plants in the ground, squeezing different varieties of pepper plants where I can find a free space, and continuing work on the new tomato beds, while loudly praying for rain, safety, peace, joy, and for God's provisions in our lives here.

Respite Of A Sort, Maybe?

Lisa commented the other day, "Hang tough, mama. I know the devastation that is left in the aftermath of that kind of episode. Does your state offer any type of respite care services?"

She's very on the money about the aftermath, I'm fairly certain Yolie went home and cried. There's just no way to be emotionally human, to witness this kind of fury fueled by such intense inner pain, and then just shake it off, business as usual.

No, I do not have any access to any respite, other than my gardens, which generally do the trick for me.

Paloma will preditcably sleep some 12 hours solid to recover while I toss and turn, fume and fret, and marvel at our mere resulting survival.

In court yesterday, charged with two separate counts of battery on students at school, Paloma admitted to the charges, and DJJ has again become our helping agent, as opposed to mental health, where we can now hopefully find help.

I mentioned we'd had a bad weekend, me the queen of understatement, and the judge questioned me about confining her at YDC, which I am still balking at, knowing she needs help, not punishment. She'll surely not learn a thing from confinement, it'd only make her more furious with society in general, so we are pursuing OTP, an Outdoor Therapeutic Program that I believe she will truly love.

I'm cautiously optimistic. My son, Joey, was once kicked out of OTP for being too disturbed, as was another adopted child I know, Fabian had been turned down for an OTP for being too violent and aggressive. Paloma, as well, might get eliminated from consideration, she might fail to finish the program, but in my gut, I feel she's a good candidate.

"You know we'll need her birth certificate, shot record, and other papers," Miss Kim from DJJ began, as I literally shot out of the courthouse like the cartoon road runner, flying to the schoolhouse, shot record soon in my grubby little fist - Oh honey, I can get this file together for you in about 30 more seconds.

I restlessly sat through the IEP meeting for Paloma, liking what all this particular teacher has in place for Paloma, but knowing no matter what we seem to do for this child of mine, her very severe emotional issues will always badly trip her up. Later with her Pathways counselor, who I also like a lot, I watched Paloma concentrate so hard to follow Miss Charley's statements that I feared Paloma's mind would crack down the middle. Logic and comprehension, empathy and thought processes elude Paloma, literally I will watch her try so hard to understand words, even in court, she struggled with the Judge's quiet questions, misunderstanding and so clearly lost in her own mind. Social cues? Forget about it, ain't gonna happen.

Paloma is a very pretty girl, very athletic, and she can also be guilessly charming, yet she is so constrained by her inner demons, for lack of a better word, their visible presence so tangled up within her, as to be almost a deadly army when she's raging.

An OTP program can span maybe 6-9 months, she could, or could not, bomb out, She may yet end up in a psych ward, she might hopefully improve...the unpredictability is enormous and unsettling.

This has been a long time coming and could conceivably happen very soon.

I have very mixed feelings. Very relieved that there's relief from this dangerous pressure upon my family, yet ultimately sad that Paloma just couldn't get it together. It's unfair of me to expect her to improve if she simply cannot do so here.

Her birth brother, Chuy, expressed relief at the news yesterday, as he truly wants her to benefit from programs, the rest of the children just want a more normal existence.

I'm emotionally flattened from so many long years of this turmoil caused by someone so disturbed. No, I rarely get any form of respite. I'm afraid if it were offered, if I got a taste of normalcy or freedom, I might simply disappear from this earth, leaving little trace that I once existed. It's better for someone like me to soldier on through, get 'er done, and eventually move on.

I do wonder, when this is all said and done, when my kids are grown, will I know who I am? Will I fall apart without the daily challenge that might be what keeps me going? Will I slump in a chair in a raggedy heap and forget to breathe? Will I waste away? Turn feral? Become a most reclusive hairy-legged hermit eating bark and grass, drinking out of the creek, barking at strangers and howling at the mailman?

Nah, I have plans....

Lunch at The Last Resort

Within a six day period in April, right after Edgar turned 23 and Miriam hit 21, we have four more birthdays.

I took Marcela, 29, Gina, 32, Yolie, 30 and Cristy, 33, all college graduates, out to a fabulous restaurant in a college town, The Last Resort, yesterday, a former dance hall where I'd once danced all night to Delbert McClinton and others. "Mom I love to hear your old stores," Gina encouraged me, but my mouth slammed shut, while my memories soared from within. What happened 30 years ago, stays there.

We had a great time; good food, good company. I shook off my bad mood regarding dry rot truck tires, but I got that accomplished as well, plus several other dumb errands that cut into my gardening time severely.

Several soccer practices last night, after I got a large supper of spaghetti in everyone, still having to first pick up Chuy from his weight-lifting class at the high school, and Jonathan and Scotty from their CRCT tutoring classes.

Running into my old friend, Tami, looking fan-tablulous now in her early 50s down at the park, was a super blessing that put a smile on my face. Not only do I miss the good ole days, but the many people that then populated my life.

It'll be an antsy me sitting in the dentist chair, if and when I can get everyone headed to school, running back to the middle school afterwards, after the dentist and recycling, to pick up an overly-agitated Paloma for her court date, back to her school for an IEP meeting, and then on to a Pathways counseling session with her, where all she seems to hear is that her relentless anger and dangerous violence is understood, and even justified, when that's not the case being presented to her at all.

An updated psych evaluation is a priority, and I'll need to help Miss Kim gather up the nescessary paperwork to get this show on the road. Fortunately I keep good notes and files folders of documentation.

I'll again slam supper on the table so we can get to youth group at church tonight, the relief of my bedtime is only some 17 hours away from this very moment.

No garden time, no rain in sight, the housework is getting ahead of me and my list of chores is expanding alarmingly, but such is our way of life.

I can do this.

Lemme Go Try Again

So full of thoughts and experiences here in child raising, yet so bereft of time.

Today has some happy plans, but I'm already so dreading tomorrow, a dentist appointment, a court date for Paloma, an IEP meeting for Paloma, and a therapy appointment for Paloma - all frustrating - as it appears that every attempt made to help Paloma just doesn't work. The bottom line is how does one fix severe mental issues?

Living with a houseful of merely oppositional children is frustrating enough, add in the severity of all the other issues, and it's a wonder I can still make a complete sentence at all.

And today?

I just don't even feel like trying to express a thought.

I'm swamped by the laziness and bad attitudes, by the wall-to-wall fussiness and destruction, yesterday working like a dog, I'd blasted my Ipod, hoping to clear the cobwebs of resentment and irritation, still just absolutely bamboozled by the utter lack of logic everywhere.

I'm still ill-tempered overall, usually hard work helps....lemme go try again.

Enough Sleep Please

Well son of a gun, it looks like I'm doing something right.

Dr. Frederick Danner at the University of Kentucky conducted some of the seminal research that shows the adolescent brain requires 9.5 hours of sleep on average for optimum development -- and no one is getting it. Only five percent of high school senior sleep even eight hours these days.

Well whoop-de-do, we're in the top five percent of something.

The kid's computers shut down automatically at 8 each night, thanks to my son-in-law, Chuck, by nine everyone is in their rooms, and my house is generally quiet within the next 15 minutes or so. I wake them up at 6:30 the next morning. My younger kids are sent to their rooms no later than 8. It's what we do and my kids generally fall asleep on schedule.

Yolie'd once remarked on that, "You've always made sure we get enough sleep," and I remember my own mother was the same way with her four kids. Truthfully I'd lose my mind if I didn't enforce a bedtime. I'm the one who needs the quiet time. I find that peacefulness in the early morning hours also.

I know that I don't cope well on a lack of sleep, being older it's tough to fight age-related insomnia, but pushing a wheelbarrow of wood chips all day, or digging hard in the dirt, helps me expend the necessary energy to eliminate restlessness later.

Sometimes I feel as if I can barely crawl up to my room some nights, the emotional exhaustion around here alone could kill a bear. I sleep hard enough to dent the bed but because I'm always semi on alert mode, I feel that my sleep quality will benefit someday in the future when I have less responsibilities.

We did make it to church yesterday, Paloma had a totally good day, such an uneventful day that it made me happy, after church everyone kept busy; some helped me, some didn't.

That's just how it goes, by dark I was still up in the Upper Gardens, Tony was questioning me on personal finance of all things, he's only 14, but curious, Lily was sitting there grooming the Yorkies, and Yolie soon found us. I keep chairs everywhere outside and my gardens offer the best environment for confidences or chatter. I listen better while weeding.

CW was batting a ball in the meadow, a bunch of kids were bouncing on the trampoline and yelling happily at each other, scooters were going on the driveway and soccer balls were being kicked as it was a gorgeous day.

I don't know how I ever functioned before without the door alarms, a system from Wal-Mart, nor without our security alarms, $16.95 a month. Maybe it's ultimately pathetic that we have to live this way, but it has given me relief and peace of mind.

I still struggle with my own anger at what's been done to us by various alleged family members, forgiveness is a daily journey, having to socialize is a choice I don't have to make, I have the freedom to keep hateful, destructive, or predatory, people out of my life, and I can force my mind to a happy place.

Derned if I don't sound like a mental patient, but the secondary trauma here has been tremendously damaging over the years, leaving me deeply preferring my locked gate mentality.

Today I have nothing on my schedule. Nothing. No meetings, thank you Lord.

Spring Break is over, if I spin like a dervish I can knock out the housekeeping chores, and get my silly self outside to keep on working where I'm the happiest I can be on earth.

I'm Going To Stab Him

"Mom, where's a knife?" Miriam asked, wanting to cut a chunk of pepper jack cheese.

"Ask Paloma," Chuy responded darkly, as we'd just had an...um...incident.

A beautiful day, mid-seventies all week versus the upper 80s of last week, I'd finished planting a long bed of peppers, making triple rows within, one foot apart in each direction, scrumptious aged manure, nutritious compost and a glorious wood chip mulch all combined in layers to slowly, yet efficiently, feed the plants all summer long, as I never use chemicals in my garden, not once in my 38 years of gardening has one dern drop of chemicals been used - never have, never will.

These nasty chemicals, designed to indiscriminately kill everything, including beneficial insects, songbirds and small animals, eventually collecting in the tissues of humans, resulting in deadly declines in one's health. Why do we need chemicals to do that when we have Paloma who's dead-set on murderous intent at times?

Chuy, Dubs and Martin completed the first 100' of covered with poultry netting chicken moat, Chuck had several kids up at the pool with him working, before he later hopped on his tractor to clear yet another area for me. I have plans, big plans, in my garden areas.

All of us were more than exhausted, back in the house, when Paloma inexplicably went into a crazy rage threatening to stab Nando. Literally, she had a knife in her hand. Somehow I got it out of her clutch, but Chuy was the true hero, as he's the only one who could possibly have physically restrained this rage. You just can't imagine the adrenaline-fueled strength of someone that insanely out-of-control. She outweighs me by 10-15 pounds, but I'm six inches taller than her. However I'm 55 years old, versus her 13 year age manly strength.

Nando fled to Grandma's side of the house, locking doors behind him, and my older kids got Yolie's kids back outside outta the fray, Chuck had already left for his landscape business appointment, and Yolie came up behind us with her hands on her cell phone.

I thought she was fixing to call 911, as this was an intense, screaming, spitting out-of-control rage that threatened to be deadly. My heart was pounding, Chuy was tense, every muscle flexed in his body, and truly I was glad Yolie was there as a witness, because Paloma was accusing Chuy of hitting her when he most assuredly was not doing so, but rather was vise-like holding tight to her upper arm so she couldn't reach the knives.

Yolie mouthed the words, "I'm videotaping all this."

Brilliant.

Absolutely genius of her to do so, I was incredibly glad for that, and even my heart quit pounding with the insane fear that goes along in moments like these. The stress however continued.

I thought about the Tennessee mom who'd sent her kid back to Russia due to severe psychological issues, and while that may or may not have been the proper way to carry out a family safety plan, I totally understood her crushing frustration. I was then wondering how we'd be able to sleep that night if we couldn't calm down Paloma.

She'd already taken her late afternoon meds, I was really hoping and praying they'd kick in, but it felt as the minutes ticked by, that her rage was stopping even the medications from having any effect at all. How is that even humanly possible?

This went on for another 30 minutes, she also indirectly insinuated intentions of self harm, so when she screamed she wanted to just go to her room, I couldn't let her go alone. Chuy, Yolie and I followed her and eventually Yolie was able to talk her down somewhat. When a kid goes from screaming maniacally to sobbing, progress has been made in our world. I slumped down on the floor, waiting this one out.

By then though Chuy too was fighting tears, as this is always horrible to witness. It appears to be almost neurologically related, as if it were a seizure of some sort, as Paloma professes to have no memory of it afterward. Her perceptions of reality are skewed at best, even on a good day. This is a very disturbed young girl.

During all this she was shrieking that I was screaming at her when I wasn't even saying anything at all, nor did I ever raise my voice. Chuy was careful in the way he held her arm, trying to keep both her and the rest of us safe, yet she claimed he always hits her. I know for a fact that he doesn't hit anyone. He just doesn't hit, it's not in his nature.

I know this, I'm the mom who's as hyper-aware as can be, due to the monstrously difficult circumstances in which we live.

The only way I haven't been put into an early grave is that, at this point, I see the end, it is in sight, and I believe I can make it. In my mind, I can smell the scent of low tide that I'll be inhaling as often as is possible when they are all grown, I can feel the sand between my toes in my mind's eye. Visualization is the key for me.

I'm a little wary this morning though of Paloma's ability to get it together for church.

Condensing a rage to these few words just doesn't do the hellacious moment justice.

Why didn't we call the police? Because they'd have come and just returned her to my custody, justifying in her mind that she'd done nothing worng, she thinks she's untouchable.

So jump off this disturbing blog, click over to a house hardly more than several hundred yards away, to Sarah's much more normal, happy life, the way it's supposed to be, as she blogged about a simpler, happier Spring Break. Pictured below is her house and some of the dazzling wisteria that's blooming.

Screaming Issues That Never Cease

"No, I don't wanna cry in public," JoJo sniffled, when I asked him to ride with me to take Vanessa to the bus station, leaving to return to Alabama, looking over at Mayra who had tears running down her face. They said good-bye properly and we left with Allen who wanted to ride.

After all these years and I don't know better?

By mid-afternoon Allen was in massive meltdown mode, needling me in ways in which I had no choice but to correct his behavior, which then justifies him, in his grieving tangled-up mind, to amp it all up, to escalate his behaviors, eventually writing on FB something mean and ugly about me. I made him get off the computer and he stormed off right when Daniel came in the house for a visit.

My blood pressure was pounding and my pity party commenced, OK I'm the one that's made it possible for them to even have a computer in which to publicly badmouth me, I'm the one who raised all seven violent, aggressive children together, as in I was just about their last chance in their childhood, to say nothing of how much I'd been trying to help Vanessa, but again, that clearly wasn't the issue. He felt supremely abandoned by Vanessa, and who better than me to take it out upon.

Daniel's presence alone calms me and I just let it go. Hours later, Allen took down his ugly remarks, wrote a terribly misspelled poem in it's place and apologized to me, hugging and clinging, but by then their older sister was in tears on the phone to me, Edgar was over at our house, and we launched into the next round of emotional outbursts, halfway settled later by a full-on denying phone call from Vanessa. I ended up calling Yolie to try and unravel what all each child was saying to me, or was trying to say, gauging my reactions by ratting each other out, or what?

Allen's poetic verbiage, or possibly words from a forbidden song, " dont know whats worth fighting for or why i outa scream i dont know why i instagate and say what i dont mean i dont how i got this way ill never be alright... im breaking the habbit im breaking the habbit... TONIGHT..."

Dr. Mandy came by to work with Sabrina and Scotty, while Paloma melted down and refused to even speak with Miss Heather, her therapist from Pathways.

What was I saying about a peaceful Spring Break Week?

Sarah often sits in the midst of a storm peacefully knitting, having done yoga, able to find her quiet place, she babysat when I realized I'd dumbly forgotten the starter feed for the 25 eight-week old chicks I'd procured from the side of the highway, via a man on Craig's List, who'd exhibited largess in throwing in 4 extra chicks, the exact proportion I'd prayed for, no kidding, aloud, to Sarah as we drove.

We've started on opening the pool, or rather it's all being done under Chuck's direction, forget the yard sales today, I'm not in the mood to bring anything else into our house to get strowed every whichaway, I have so much more planting and weeding to do, emotional fires to contain, and round #1,387,998 of, "If you aren't completely truthful with me, how can I ever begin to help, or to guide you?"

Why am I STILL trying to work logically around here?

Yolie wondering aloud,"Why do they continue to sabotage themselves?" making terrible choices, poor decisions, and selecting the lowest common denominator which with to hang around with each day? And then they wonder why their life isn't working out very well for them.

I ended up calling Yolie twice more last night, heck she was here until after dark, but raggedy detonations kept occurring, the fallout was tremendous, other issues kept rearing their infectious contagion, and I was beginning to think I was gonna lose my mind.

Sarah knits, I weed. Either way it's therapeutic.

Paloma bullied Nando until he screamed in frustration, I re-directed her every step to no avail, the older kids maintain a wide berth around her, it isn't worth their time to even try and reason anything there, I nearly threw my Blackberry in pure-T frustration, receiving two very sad emails about very decent folks who were suffering intensely with health issues, one who'd sadly succumbed, and I stared back at the children who are so clueless about the real world they'll face soon enough, after years of fighting me on every logical possibility.

Yolie'd once bemoaned the fact that she just wished they'd quit rebelling against me, against decency, and enjoy what little childhood they still had left. At age 30 now, she remains upset over all the years that were stolen from her, and the fact that it seems to go on and on, that the damage that was once done to her before foster care seemingly has such long, inextricable tentacles that will negatively color any human being's world for so long.

"You and Yolie don't understand that I am absolutely totally removed from anything in my past," Daniel explained to me for about the millionth time yesterday, demonstrating by his actions for 20 years that he truly has the mental discipline and the emotional wherewithal to have walked away from it all so long ago, throwing himself successfully into his life here in Georgia instead.

How I deeply wish I could bottle his extraordinarily strong attitude and serve it here for dinner every single night. I'd drink a gallon of it my ownself just to cleanse away the daily trauma I've had to absorb in this journey.

I am much better able, after all these years though, to not engage emotionally, to just walk off, and take my resulting anger from the mistreatment with me. I forgive everything that's been done to me. I truly do. It's the only way for me to remain emotionally and spiritually healthy.

Someday soon enough this will all be over and then I'll be allowed to choose who I spend time with, and it will only be with those who mean me no harm. Those who are still lashing out at me for what the birth parent has done to them, will just have to unleash their rage elsewhere. I'm here for them if they will do it properly - crying, talking, seeking out therapy, and working through everything is acceptable - hurting me is not an option.

And then there's JoJo, the family clown, who'd leapt high in the air, farting at the same time, labeling it as his version of Air Jordan, and I just can't help myself. He's so silly that I completely dissolved into gales of laughter.

Grandma cracked me up, dragging Grandpa off to a dance at the Senior Citizen's Center, coming back to tell us that all those old people did a great job. "Those old people? I'd hooted, "Dang Mom, you're 80 years old," but knowing she didn't feel 80 colors her world view, giving me great hope for the coming decades, knowing we're so similar in genetic makeup.