Violence and Agression

Clearly remembering a walk home from junior high school down Kecoughtan Road in Hampton, Virginia, more'n 40 years ago, and a big, mean girl bully was following close behind me, taunting me, wanting to fight.

I. Don't. Fight.

Never, ever. I don't even know how, and dadgum if I ever wanted to get hurt, or to hurt anyone, talk about a pointless endeavor. Eventually that afternoon long ago, she grew bored with my scaredy cat non-compliance, and galloped off in search of someone who'd give her a run for her money.

Feeling this morning as if I'd been in a car wreck yesterday, clearly this is why I wouldn't wanna ever fight. Especially 40 years later when I'm rounding my age up to 60 just because I like the way it sounds.

I'd heard a scuffle in the family room yesterday afternoon, and ran in there to pull apart two tussling 14 year olds, one of whom was clearly looking for a battle, yet he'd picked the clear-headed one who was not one to fight, I easily broke it up with a yell and a tug.

Not two minutes later I heard chairs being knocked over and the rest was a frightening blur of fists flying and yelled threats. The one who'd been wanting to fight found exactly the one who'd fight back for no reason whatsoever. Allen and JoJo can provoke each other in a New York minute, they dearly love each other to pieces, but also can reach an eerily mutual violent boiling point in seconds.

Martin, Mayra and I tried hard to pull the two apart, the fight fell into the hall, me on the bottom again by the back door, yelling for someone to go get Chuy, finally Nando unfroze and took off hunting him, we couldn't get them pulled apart, and I had a flash of 'should we call the deputies?' moment, but it was all happening so fast, and we couldn't get either JoJo or Allen to stop.

Finally Chuy got there, and, for some reason, was trying to pin JoJo, which only allowed Allen to continue pummeling him. "Get ALLEN!" I hollered, trying to avoid being hit, but also still trying to pull JoJo away.

It seemed like an hour, but was probably only a very long minute or so, and finally the five of us succeeded in pulling two raging teenagers apart. JoJo had already had his afternoon Depakote for his sometimes severe aggression issues.

The only sound was seven puffing, hard breathing folks standing there sweating and angry. Yolie witnessed it all, fortunately her kids were in Lily's room watching Mr. Jingles, the pet rare (non-existent breed) Dalmatian mouse, and didn't see any of this conflict.

"I don't know how on earth these two will be able to avoid jail when they're older," Yolie told me later in the kitchen, "Their blind rages are astonishing, to say nothing of the inner violence, aggression and laziness."

I wish they'd be too lazy to fight.

I'd felt shooting pains in my back, I'd sat down hard next to JoJo to wait it out, "Are you OK, Mom?" he solicitously asked, not having a clue that just moments before he could've accidentally broken all my fragile bones, it was as if now he was back to reality. Yolie stared at him in shock, that he could be so clueless overall.

Within minute thankfully, the arcing pain had totally stopped, and this morning my neck, back, arms and shoulders ache, but I am not bruised - thank you Vitamin K.

Allen hovered like a helicopter close to earth the rest of the night, peppering me with "I love you, Mom," anxiously, not even giving me a chance to respond, but cutting me off with his next question, "Do you love me?"

"Yes, Allen," I dutifully reassured my two year old in the body of someone who'll turn 15 next month, "But honey, you gotta get a grip or your life will suck."

He never gets it.

Yolie'd earlier pointed out that this inner anger in Allen was fairly predictable after us having successfully seen Dr. C who'd prescribed Focalin for Allen's ADD attributes. I'd bragged on him as not being a behavior problem, he's usually a sweet, attached and loving son, but that he nutted up every few months and would always then be extremely emotionally unmanageable during those spells.

Dr. Mandy had already left our house, I'd been bragging also to her that we were in a good place, that the kids were all acting right decently lately, she'd hardly backed out of the driveway though before this melee ensued. I wish she'd seen it, it would've given her yet another layer of insight.

Family therapy, occurring here in our house, helps greatly in that Dr. Mandy gets different versions, or maybe it's just different perspectives, from each kid, overall she has a pretty darn good picture of the many-layered interactions here within a large, complicated, emotionally thorny family.

And this is my life, within an hour of this fight that left me shaking, I was fighting tears, and was very upset, but Allen and Jojo were baking a cake in the kitchen and laughing at each other. This is so how they interact, not remembering that Mayra had burst into tears while trying to help me quell the disturbance, that I'd been thrown around the hall, that it had taken the sweaty combined efforts of Martin, Chuy and Dubs to pull them apart, there's no introspection in their genetic makeup, no comprehension of proper methods of negotiation that wouldn't involve fisticuffs.

It does make me very uneasy for their future.

The Adoption Counselor had written a few days ago, "Many of our children have also come from a genetic background of violence, likely with the same brain issues in the frontal area – but they didn’t get any nurturing or care either pre-natal or post-natal, and by the time we adopt them, many more experiences of rage and victimization and loss and fear have further damaged those vulnerable areas of the brain – so sometimes what we offer is enough to build new neural pathways, but sometimes it isn’t."

She was quoting a Cornell researcher, a leading neurobiologist researcher who had studied the frontal lobes of countless murderers and found they had a very different brain – lots of action missing in the pre-frontal orbital cortex.

I am just a lay person, but I read, I learn, and my long difficult experiences living with violent people has taught me simply that they are truly hard-wired differently, that no parenting methods will either cure, nor change, this genetic predisposition, and you all know it has deeply frustrated me for decades. But I do agree that what we offer can, and sometimes does, help somewhat.

Yolie pointed out too that we'd had to appease the boys to calm them down. Really? Do you think that'd be an option out in the real world? I know that police sometimes have to take that tactic as well with criminals at certain times, other times everyone involved gets locked up.

It's as if I see a freight train barreling down on these two boys that I truly and deeply love, but I can't get them off the tracks, it's like a nightmare, I know it's gonna hit them, but they'd prefer to stand there and oppositionally argue with me about the obvious. They'd rather get hit by the train than agree with a straight-laced ole bat like me.

It grieves me deeply.

I pray that maturity will come before they hit 40 or 50, I pray that God'll get through to them where I can't seem to do so, that all these resources and outside help will reach into their miswired psyches and somehow get some work done.

I'm praying for a miracle, because when they hurt, I hurt.

Yesterday I did get Jonathan to school by ten, I most certainly did not write a note excusing him, "Natural consequences son," I told the one who didn't get it and really didn't care anyway.

Everyone's gone to school now, I'm going to clean up the kitchen, wash another load of laundry, and go outside to process my very challenging upside-down life. I'm going to think hard about this statement, "Living a full and overflowing life does not rest in bodily health, in circumstances, nor even in seeing God’s work succeed, but in the perfect understanding of God," because in spite of all my verbal regurgitation here, I do get it.

I was called to this very life, I'm not a martyr, not a saint, just a raggedy ole dirt digger who also full time parents a lot of emotionally damaged children.

And such a daily, stark contrast is what I experience. The picture today is of a very sweet-natured Jack, 100 percent nurtured here since birth, who'd been to Cub Scouts.

Should Yolie have videotaped the fight instead?

I don't think so.

Home School and Refusing School

One of the sweetest, most unexpected and delightful acts of generosity landed on me yesterday afternoon.

Coming home from a funeral, one in which the man had lived a very long, full life, I arrived to find that Kimberly and Travis had blessed us with eight ginormous veggie pizzas. "Didn't think you'd feel like cooking," they told me.

This is a man who himself grew up in a very large adoptive family, like Sarah he was a birth child, and obviously quite attuned to his own mother's stressful workload it would appear.

Even Grandma chowed down on two pieces, not like her at all, but she's Grandpa's sole caretaker and it's a big job, she also has a three story house to clean and a garden to keep. No, like me, she won't look into hired help. Doing is hard-wired into us.

Yet for me facing 14 hungry kids three times a day plus, countless snacks, is a never-ending chore.

Right after church I'd told the kids we'd make ghetto-pantry fixings until payday, just another day or so, and the pizzas both shocked and thrilled the kids.

"Live right so the preacher won't have to lie at your funeral," James, the son of the man who'd passed away, told us all during the service, and his brother-in-law spoke about life having commas, not periods. This is a pause, not the end. He so firmly believed in this philosophy that he wears a comma on his lapel in the church he pastors.

So many of us adoptive mamas need to wake up and smell the coffee, me the most, as it has so often felt like a caged existence, a life sentence when one deals with severely disturbed children. A follow-up to that in this morning's devotional: If you keep your relationship right with Him, then regardless of your circumstances or whoever you encounter each day, He will continue to pour “rivers of living water” through you ( John 7:38 ).

Jeepers, Cindy, quit obsessing and making everything about you. You're just a tool, girlfriend. This is a comma, not a period. I like that thought.

Travis and Kimberly, now new parents to an incredibly cute baby, have quietly helped us for several years. Quiet and unassuming, as Christians should be, to ornery and often ungrateful children, modeling for me how I should be more often. Sarah particularly likes Travis, one of the few humans on earth that has experienced nearly exactly her own thorny circumstances, when a birth parents upsets the apple cart, by adoption, in a birth child's once very normal, stable life.

"Can anyone wear size 10 and a half shoes?" Travis had asked, my sons staring impassively, as they often do, afraid to trust anyone for anything, yet into the night they'd all tried 'em on, deciding CW and Martin would share. "We'll keep 'em looking good, you're a pig," they rebuffed Jonathan's attempts at a day of wearing the new shoes.

Indeed I wouldn't share with Jonathan either if I were them. Yesterday he'd provoked Scotty so badly that they only way to finally solve the pent-up aggression was an old-fashioned wrestling event on the living room rug that turned comical with the older kids cheering them on, eventually Jonathan pinned Scotty, and the organized melee was over properly, both boys laughing over their Sumo wrestling physiques.

JoJo'd been bear hug restraining Scotty earlier, sweat flying everywhere, but minus the severe violent tendencies of years past, when I'd had more disturbed children living with us.

Jack had bolted from the sanctuary suddenly yesterday, I'd followed him only to witness a barfing moment, some bug is coursing through the entire county, Facebook statuses reflecting moms going to pediatrician offices, several of my kids have summer colds, a anomaly that irks me. Already? It's not even fall yet.

Allen has an appointment this morning with Dr. C, we'll attempt to remedy his anxiety and focus issues, Dr. Mandy comes this afternoon, plus soccer and cub scouts.

I'd love to bolt outside to my neglected gardens, but I have monster laundry piles, and the detritus of a weekend of kids eating constantly, the house is calling my name, "Clean me now." Thank God for podcasts to distract me, and keep me from dying of boredom, while I work.

Here's a good explanation debunking the soy-estrogen possible detriment, I've read several lately, another Chicken Little scenario brewing.

Because she is so conscientious, Sarah has stressed a bit about homeschooling, I watched her in action last week when I was there for the internet, it's a thankless hard job, one in which I wouldn't want to be involved after 25 years spent in the public school arena, but also those years taught me how much better learning could be when it is self-directed, and home schooling eliminates the ya-ya crapola of standing in lines, busy work, and other time fillers.

I'd put Sarah in Montesorri schools long ago at age 3, New Orleans Free School for a time, and finally in the best public school system on earth, that which is found right here in our county. She and I both graduated at age 17 from our respective high schools in our very different eras, but were both frustrated with spending an entire year learning from one textbook that could've easily been learned in a month or a week.

But we're very self-disciplined and self-directed, annoyingly so.

My hat's off to all you hard-working homeschool mothers who read my blog, I know you're working your butts off, it's nearly a fulltime job.

Jonathan is again refusing school, second time this month, forcing me to go to the courthouse and file truancy charges. I cannot believe we're facing this issue again.

Trumping Snake Fear With Great Pitching

Who can smile for the camera with the hot August sun in one's eyes? Not Tabby.

After soccer practices, a few profitable yard sales, and a trip to get JoJo's stitches taken out, after I'd argued with him because he wanted to pull 'em out his own self and be done with the whole matter, Sarah, Emily and I plopped down around the pool, talking 'bout the stuff that snares our inquiring minds.

I'm telling ya, readers are leaders, books open the doors to so many ideas, and right here on the cusp of another sea change, for an old school relic like me, to go to ebooks from holding the real thing in one's hand, is startling at best. Certainly disconcerting to me, jarring and too high-tech to even seriously consider, yet I read tons here on my laptop each day.

I'm not totally there yet, nor willing to eliminate the stacks and piles of books that surround and comfort me. Discardia? Interesting philosophy, but not for my books.

Reading today about The Moneyless Man, fascinating stuff, our world is changing so rapidly, yet look at us going back to bare bones basics. Not flying in spaceships now in 2010, but foraging and bartering.

Hardly 20 minutes spent yesterday with Daniel, but it'll have to tide me over until he's around again, doing beautifully, still making me proud, of course.

Marcela joined me for a trip to the funeral home, and dare I say the words? It was fun. This 86 year old patriarch has led a full and wonderful life, now in Heaven, his family will miss him constantly, but he left this earth with no regrets wearing his UGA Bulldawg tie. He, and his wife of 58 years, raised a beautiful large family and I've been blessed and privileged to know four generations of them all.


Miriam had taken JoJo and Allen for the afternoon, Mayra was out with Dillan, so Grandma babysat the rest for me, and it's always a great two hour foray out into the world when I'm not called or texted. Thank you, Grandma.

Most teenagers would balk at a babysitter, but my kids have just grown up this way, always someone is in charge, otherwise we'd have anarchy and chaos, it's just the way it has to be, get over it y'all.

Nando prefers the DVR up in my room, taping his Pokemon and Bakegon stuff, but he came down to tell us he'd heard a racket in my closet. Figuring we needed to capture a mouse - and yes often we grab it and repurpose its implied intention from house dweller wannabe to forced treehugger - Martin, Scotty and I went up to tend to it, taking the broom I usually ride while cackling.

Scotty was just fixing to step into the closet when he calmly reported, "Dang! Looka here at this snake," without changing one iota of voice inflection.

"Bullcwap," I responded, hoping he'd seen a random electrical cord. I mean, hello, we were up on the second floor of the house.

"Nope, Mom, it's a snake, and it's coiled up," Martin solemnly backed up Scotty.

I tore downstairs, coming out of my flip flops, hollering like an hysterical five year old girl who'd dropped her ice cream cone in the mud.

Chuy, snake warrior extraordinaire, led the way, a ragtag shirtless brigade of ten sons gallivanting in my room, the snake's triangular head and patterned body was the bad news, the good news was the relatively short length, maybe two feet long at best.

I was nearly gagging. Not so brave anymore, for all my pompous hot air, trash talk and bravado.

"Dude, don't swing an axe on my hardwood floor," I warned Chuy who was already done with the deed, blood splattering. A snake bleeds? Maybe it was the field mouse inside, whatever, I was about to lose my lunch.

"A sight one rarely sees," Lily narrated, "CW washing a bloody axe off in Mama's bathtub."

"I'm not sleeping up here," I carried on, but I did so later, shaking off my initial fear, knowing it was such a comfortable bed, and I could watch the rest of the Braves game to calm down.

"What a guy to have after you’ve come off a little end-of-a-road-trip [losing] series,” manager Bobby Cox said about Tim Hudson. “He was the guy that reminded us of old [Tom] Glavine and [Greg] Maddux and [John Smoltz].”

Those words trump snake fear for me.

Future Me & Stuff

So appealing to me, such peace and quiet...

Thanks to these blogs, Please Sir, the Sells Brothers , and Good for today's smirks.




And seriously? Who still puts this chemically preserved, non-nutritious crap in their bodies?

Raising Boys and Men

What a luxury to wake up this morning and connect to the internet, again a big thank you to my son-in-law, Chuck. Reading news pages, soaking up worry, stress and anxiety? Not a great idea. I've hugely curtailed this activity, and am not sure that keeping up with current events is emotionally healthy anyway.

I've been adding frugality, personal finance, simplicity, sustainability and minimalism blogs to my Google Reader, glad that Sarah had patiently set me up with this option. She calls it her own personalized daily magazine and I so agree, adding the Oswald Chambers, My Utmost For His highest, inspiration that she too reads, we read a great deal of the same subjects, books, and web pages.

Yeah, I know the economy has tanked, I do listen to Dave Ramsey podcasts, and he's so not a Chicken Little about everything which I find comforting. His logic and his polite scorn, for the mass stupidity with which our society has willingly allowed, is fascinating. Duh, debt is dumb.

Sabrina doesn't cheer until third quarter, and if you wait until after halftime there's no admission price, a significant financial hurdle with this many children. My high schoolers have purchased the All Sports Passes and we were generously gifted by three passes, so we're in half decent shape. It's again already the end of the month, four days til my retirement check lands in a bare bank account, but bills are paid, there's food in the pantry, and gas in the van.

I don't have many clothes, don't wanna have to keep up with them, nor to take care of them, but needing a red shirt for the game was easy enough since I'm willing to wear one of my fifth grader's shirts.

Soccer practices today, maybe a couple of yard sales, friends coming over later to swim, and a funeral home visitation this evening, the father of my longtime church friends passed away, all five of his children now in their 50s, he was such a stalwart in our county, and will be greatly missed.

Miriam had called me grief-stricken and upset about a former classmate's suicide, he was only 21 and I'd kind of known him at the school from which I'd retired. My heart goes out to his parents, I agonize over losses like this.

Pepe's all-time favorite teacher ever lost his mother this week, and this very strong faith-filled woman, me, always struggles with the concept of folks leaving this earth.

Our pastor had done a super job last Sunday addressing the way we all question God, comically so, but it spoke to me, as I'm often the hyperactive, yammering one peppering Him with questions.

Although my life can be dangerously stressful, it is still a very rich and full life, one in which I'm usually challenged and spurred on, my mind hounding me with ridiculous thoughts at times, but overall I'm so happy with this land and acreage that offers me so many opportunities to do what I love to do, which is digging in the dirt, even though my time constraints are so crazily narrow usually.

My kids are behaving fairly decently, we're all so busy with activities and obligations that there's little time for acting-out, although we again had the Two Fatties Fighting Syndrome, both of 'em ended up crying, pulled apart by Chuy and Jojo, tussling over a piece of paper that didn't amount to anything to either of the two middle-schoolers at all.

"Oh come on y'all," I'd sighed, bored with their outburst, guzzling my delicious well water from a Mason jar. Surprisingly they also both shrugged it off, having already so physically released their pent-up aggressions.

And call me slow, but meeting Mayra's boyfriend's brother last night, ohhhhh, now putting it together, he'd played football with Big Joe, knew my Jesse and Sergi. I'd just taken this picture off Jesse's blog last night, missing him a lot, wanting to use it here, and now I have a tie-in, as if continuity in my blog posts has ever been a priority for a big mouth, blow-it-ALL-out like me.

Sad Story From A Long-Time Reader

I've corresponded with this lady for quite some time, seen her heartbreaking ICPC fight from afar and she's given me permission to share this letter. It spoke to me since it portrays a fairly "normal" version in the world of the adoption of older children. I'd ask you all to join me in praying for her and her family. Here's her story:
So often what you write, I experience. I pray for your parents more than daily. Your Dad is especially in my prayers. I know you worry.

I did do the gut surgery thingy earlier than you. So this makes me a winner of being less able to cope with prodigious amounts of stress than the average Mom of older adoptions. Mine was at age forty three. Not so coincidentally, this was when we HAD to hospitalize our version of Paloma or our Ebony or... fill in the name. Stress does kill.

Our daughter's hospitalization totally broke both of us. How I grieved, for all of us. We could not keep everyone safe, and she harbored serious homicidal thoughts and had serious plans for all of us. It was beyond impossible.

Six weeks after her admission to long term care we got the call of "How did you ever manage her at home. We had to use eleven men and three shots of Thorazine...". She weighed less than 90 lbs. Yep, cried a lot.

Only after she had been hospitalized several years did our youngest come clean, told us her older sister had been sexually abusing her since she was about three and it had continued even after placement in our home. Never got any treatment for that even though she was in a facility that addressed that issue, "because girls cannot sexually abuse". Really, try to explain that to our shattered younger girls.

Then we got the call that we had to bring her home because she was not, after three years, making any progress. Yeah, no changes, they could not handle her, so we were going to have to figure it out. This in the days of no door alarms, no window alarms..

Hummn, two weeks later, I had my first, supposedly innocuous surgery, at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the South, where I was the director of their psych facility. As a director, I got the VIP treatment. Lots of crystal vases of roses from the administration team...

I went in as an emergency, supposedly an easy thing to do fix, to be discharged the next A.M. Seems they "forgot" to do one teensy little blood test which led to peritonitis, seven surgical repairs, and fifty four days in ICU, a three month hospital stay, and wildly traumatized kids.

Kids who, after being placed with us spent not one day in day care because my wonderful husband and I immediately re-arranged our schedules as they were a hot mess, totally and utterly traumatized, largely in conjunction with the fact that CPS was so overwhelmed that they did not notice my nine year old weighed less than when she entered the system at five.

Yep, they were starved in every way, neglected in every way, and abused in every way, thanks to the care of CPS. Yep they had severe separation anxiety. Yep, almost watching me die several times over the next year had a huge, negative impact on all of them. Yep, was probably the biggest factor to some really crazy choices they made. Which led to more stress...

This has made me conclude God REALLY wants me to rely on Him, and I am so stupid, and do not get the message the first or the second time or the twentieth... Seemingly, it takes a lot to get my attention.

As a result of that surgical beginning, and subsequent surgical fixes, and frequent ventilator times, I now have pulmonary fibrosis. They call it idiopathic, but I know it was from settings on the vent. I went over my medical record with a fine tooth comb, and the vent was mis-set more than once, for varying lengths of time.

My first profession was as a respiratory therapist, so I knew exactly what I was reading. S. C. has a curious malpractice law that stipulates you cannot sue a health care provider for malpractice if you "fix" the problem. So, even though, after surgery that left me with thirty two holes in my intestine, a foot of burnt intestine-lasers can burn, when improperly handled,and over two feet of removed damaged and burnt gut, now I was cured, once the gut was reconnected. Once they got me to the point I could eat and digest food, I was considered "fixed" even though I suddenly had tremendous problems breathing, and my lips, fingers and feet were almost all the time cyanotic. So again, many prayers for your Dad.

It would appear, 15 years later and no longer able to work but not yet classified "disabled" because some days are better than others, that ventilator time is what injured my lungs, and set up the scarring process.I'm sick, I cannot walk some days, let alone work. My husband has been working two jobs for the last five years to keep us afloat. At least he has a job. We know so many that have no jobs, suddenly, in the last three years.

I am now on three liters of O2 24/7, more when the heat, humidity or cold are in play. Have been able to only get out in the garden five times this summer.

We definitely are going to be moving, as soon as my husbands mother and uncle, both dying, no longer need us. I will be sooo ready. I so miss and love the South.

My Own Life in an Undocumented Psych Ward

On a maximum security psych ward, you live under constant stress, With your antennae always up, ready to fly into action at the sound of a thump, a shout, or the drumming of running footsteps. When you have violent patients, you must be hyper-attunned, ever watchful as their moods escalate, day by day, waiting for the inevitable explosion to come. I did a stretch like that for five years once, without a break, though today many hospitals require personnel to rotate off such units periodically for the sake of their own sanity.

I’m reading Special Agent: My Life on the Front lines as a Woman in the FBI by Candice DeLong, she’s a forensic profiler, but had formerly been a psychiatric nurse for nearly ten years.

She had me enthralled by the first page, describing my own life that changed so radically in 1995 when I adopted my first seriously mentally ill sib group. Out of five kids, then ages 3-12, only one, the oldest one, has succeeded, and he’s done an awesome job. Their case histories indicated a mentally ill birth mother, but no signs were described regarding the children, so far off target that I’m still stunned by what all we’d later endure.

That was the last time I ever dared to shower in the middle of the day, or to turn my back however briefly for even a moment. I’ve not had a break either, other than my week long hospital stay for surgery three years ago.

She goes on, “Modern psychotropic drugs are a double-edged sword. Bringing relief and functionality to so many who might otherwise live in an internal world of torment, but also fooling us (or letting the legal system or insurance companies fool us) into believing that the profoundly ill, including the violent, are fully able to lead 'normal’ lives on medication. Our diagnostic measure are still too crude and the treatments themselves too unreliable to sustain the illusion that such people can get well."

No kidding, honey.

And when they are stable, and I do use the term loosely, they are sent home until another rageful outburst injures or kills someone.

This is where I am buffaloed.

I spoke with a mother yesterday who has a son being released immediately after nearly three years, when he’d been moved to another facility, they simply did not document enough of his detonations, or properly enough, for Medicaid to continue paying. They dropped the ball, and I fret and fear deeply for this woman.

Many of you all have read Sharon’s trials and tribulations with Ebony, I know that Sharon and her husband love this child dearly that they’ve raised since birth, but she is clearly a danger now.

The grown children that are estranged from our family are in prison, or on the streets, happy within their sociopathic lifestyle, delusional, dangerous, violent, incorrigible, or majorly dysfunctional due to mental or emotional illnesses. I mean really, do you ever see a person cured when they are miswired? Of course not.

Candice Delong continues, “We can barely help those who are primarily a danger to themselves because they are dysfunctional – look at the legions who roam the streets of every major American city, many of whom have the medications that can allegedly allow them to live in the world, but not the psychsocial supports – intractably addicted, or chronically depressed."

Another mom wrote me a heartwrenching story, I’ve emailed back, asking for permission to reprint here, she makes my own experiences seem fairly tame.

That Paloma was nodding her head so vigorously in agreement as I explained to the therapist what all we’d encountered, and survived, over 8 years of living with Paloma’s issues, shows how much Paloma also knows she needs help. At least in this moment that she was lucid. In the middle of her bad times, she’ll scream lies, accusations, ridiculous and ludicrous nonsensical, guttural demands.

If they release her to come home and she attackes someone, I'll be blamed for not protecting everyone. HOW CAN I?

I’ve said this over and over again, that the folks sleeping under bridges and mumbling to themselves didn’t just get that way due to bad luck in the work force, rather their sicknesses progressed and ultimately conquered their every attempt to fit into society, crippling them in every way. This is a debilitating disease.

It’s not their fault.

So what do we do?

I truly don’t know.

I do know there’s no way on God’s green earth that I’ll ever allow Joey in my home again, he’s in prison for violating his probation, not the least of which involved threats to shoot out my large family room windows from the woods behind my house.

I could drag out reams of paperwork documenting my years since he was 8 years old, the psychiatric facilities, the places he was kicked out of for being too disturbed, the crimes, the assaults, the jail times, yada yada yada…eventually the safety of my family is paramount.

Do YOU think you could pluck a murderous disturbed person off the street and reason with them? Then how does anyone think I can do so?

Have you ever watched any of the MSNBC shows about lockups and the criminally insane wards? Those are the adults now – but we've raised their children, or our children became them, due to their own tragic mental health issues. It is ultimately heart breaking for everyone.

It’s left me feeling sad and defeated, frightened and frustrated, wanting to become a recluse from society.

Then if it has left me feeling so badly, and I’m incredibly strong, how much more so for them?

I’m gonna switch gears, change stories, climb out of this self-induced morass of sadness and grief over a futureless life for them. They'll end up in and out of jails, hospitals and prisons as there seems to be no available safety net for mentally ill adults.

Chuy and Allen didn’t get off the bus yesterday, and none of the other kids had seen them. I figured maybe they had detention and would walk home afterwards, or sit in the gym and wait with Sabrina after cheerleading practice. They are all three fairly dependable.

But no, that wasn’t the case, and I drove around the school asking folks if they’d seen them, finally an all-call over the intercom brought them trudging out of the art room where they’d stayed for Art Club along with Alen’s pretty girlfriend, Camille.

“Why didn’t y’all call me?” I was fixing to stress bigtime, traumatized and wondering if they'd been abducted by aliens, worried a bit since they never do this, never don’t inform me where they are going.

“You didn’t pick up when we called. We called five different times and it went straight to voice mail.”

Sarah and Yolie both have complained all week about my cell phone, guess I’m headed back to Verizon this morning, third time in ten days, still working on the internet connection, I’m seriously disconnected from the world, step one into my future reclusiveness.

Folks keep asking me, "What're ya gonna do when all these kids are grown?"

I'm a gonna sit quietly all alone in the woods and take deep, long breaths of air until I quite trembling, twitching and spazzing out. I should be ok after six or seven years.

A thunderstorm awoke me at four, I’d gone to check on my frightened dogs, look in on all the kids after I’d turned off all the alarms, wandered around my house thinking ‘bout how much I loved the silence at the moment, how much my soul longs for peace and simplicity, for no drama, no tension, no stress, no crazy-making behaviors.

I can take the massive hard work, but I’m buckling a bit from constantly having to beg professionals to help me keep my family SAFE.

Raised in a Trailer

The stresses just keep piling up in a staggeringly dumb way, nothing really all that important, but rather the culmination and accumulation of such increasing aggravation keeps taking me out at the knees.

I hadda go down to Macon, a two hour drive that always dregs up a memory in my mind of Duane Allman dying in a motorcycle wreck there nearly 40 years ago. Am I losing my ever-loving mind? Or maybe it's because I just downloaded 6 CDs of their music from Preston's collection. See I just type what pops into my mind, a stream of random discourse apparently.

Whatever, I hadda visit Paloma, knowing I'd be stressed about being out of town, afraid I'd be needed at home by someone, and sitting in my truck for four solid hours sends me over the edge at best.

"They're twins," Paloma informed me, in regards to one of the largest guys I'd ever seen in my life, the word linebacker came to my mind, and then the sparks circuited through the ragged conduits in my brain that's full, bingo!, and I mentioned to the therapist, "Aren't they the guys who'd played football in South Carolina years ago?"

How'd I pull that outta my hat?

She didn't know. I asked him, and he nearly fell out that I remembered.

"That was a looonnngggg time ago," he told me, smiling and preening.

I don't really even follow football, I'm a baseball fan.

I can remember a newspaper story I read some 10-15 years ago, but not what I need at the grocery store?

Paloma is snowing them there, they've dismissed the two fights as not really her fault. I begged them to call OTP and get their rundown of the last two months before they came to a wrong and dumb conclusion, even Paloma was agreeing with me that she often had violent, aggressive and dangerous rages.

My stress levels soared and it took the two hour trip of Greater Vision and the Legacy Five to calm me down...but then to no avail, because AT&T sent me slap over the precipice.

I cried again, one million percent frustrated.

Chuy tried to help, taking the phone and trouble shooting with AT&T, so I could finish cooking supper and get us out the door to church, a meeting in which everyone was gathering together since we were getting an associate youth pastor as well. He's from a trailer in south Georgia, raised by his grandma, I suppose to counter-act the high-faluting influence we'll get from a married couple from South Dakota?

Just kidding, but the contrast was there y'all.

I know my kids already like both new youth pastors and I'm super glad about that, the associate guy was so young and relatable to my children. He'd sealed the deal, "I don't know who my father was," a sad commentary, but one many of my children share with him.

Pastor Tony surprised the congregation with ice cream and blueberry cobbler, capping off an otherwise yucky day.

By the time I finally got upstairs to my room I was just slap worn out from not really expending any physical energy all day, not my favorite kind of day, but glad that all my kids were in school while I'd gone to Macon and back, not stressing over a babysitter certainly helps.

Such a Mexican

I wrote the following paragraphs yesterday morning, I'll write today's post in a minute. I'm at Sarah's house again today for internet.

There's a story behind this dive, but I'll get to it in another post. I'd put the video of this on Facebook before the internet crashed.

“You're such a Mexican,” my dark-skinned Mexican son, Chuy, hissed at me.

Huh?

My friend, Jimmy, a teacher to many of my children over the years, was showing me, and passing on to me, some of his very beautiful peppers, cayenne and cowhorns, that truly were shiny and gorgeous, a work of art, yet we must’ve triggered some memory in my son’s mind of paisanos in the marketplace of Juarez.

Jimmy saves seeds, he’d sent me some okra pods years ago that are still going strong, I’m gonna save these pepper seeds too.

Tabby and I’d been walking the park, me stressed out over such disrepair in the all items, the tools, I need to work with at home, stomping always feels good to me, the park has a long and pleasant walking path, and Tabby’d wanted to gallop along side of me while the other kids had soccer practice. We walked for nearly an hour in the hot evening sun, but I did then feel wonderful.

A quick supper, I froze four more quarts of Jalapenos, two quart bags of bell peppers, and was later commiserating with Jimmy over mutual lost tomatoes. He blames the blight again, I don’t know if that was my problem as well. 200 plants have slowly ceased production, they weren’t that good looking at all this entire summer, dissipating to measly, cruddy ones here in late August, leaving me crushed with disappointment.

He told me he’d never had this problem for decades, but has now battled it for five years, I’ve had three yucky summers of it, but, like, him, the pepper harvest has been admirable. We’ve had a stupid drought for many years, but this year’s rainfall has been almost up to par, now, of course, bringing out hordes of mosquitoes.
I’d forgotten how much I love fresh cow peas, crowder peas and field peas. Used interchangeably, in reality, they’re all slightly different variations, but oh so delicious with fresh tomatoes, onions and Fire Hot Pepper Sauce. Next year I plan to quadruple my plantings of peas.

No modem and no garbage can ever arrived as promised, and doggone if I hadn’t called again about the trash can, only to get a lying promise of that day delivery. If I wanted to get lied to…oh never mind.

Allen’s teacher had called me, he’d not served detention nor even told me about it. I explained his acute anxiety issues, this first year in high school, I’m well aware of his tormented fears, there’s no way he’d have stayed, deeply fearful that he’d have been stranded, abandoned or forgotten about forever. I know how his mind works.

Fortunately this is an inclusion math class situation with two specialized teachers, the one who’d called me has taught many of my children and is aware of their peculiarities. I told her I’d discuss this with Allen, he’d serve his time the next afternoon, and, of course, after I explained it to him in great detail, promised to pick him up at the front door of the high school exactly at 4, that this teacher was a friend of mine, he relented, and agreed to stay.

This high school is hardly a mile away, but Allen’s insecurities run very, very deep, as do his often irrational fears. He’s emotionally needy with a capital N.

“He reminds me very much of Edgar,” his teacher remarked, not knowing they were birth siblings until I’d told her, “Oh, that does explain a lot,” she’d murmured.

Yeah it does.

Last team out of the park last night, should we turn off the field lights? Driving off at 9:15, hungry kids again, clamoring for water at home. We do have sweet, very tasty, cold well water that we all adore, they guzzled gallons, snacked, and tromped off to bed.

I’m so used to being totally wet with sweat this summer, the humidity is a little less this week, to me it’s extremely noticeable, but I’d a heap sight rather be hot than cold, it’s getting dark earlier, I ‘d noticed it being completely dark right before nine last night. I dread the upcoming fall and winter. I’m a spring and summer fool.

I don’t wanna be stuck inside, I absolutely thrive outdoors working, digging, weeding, it’s so truly my idea of having fun. It really is, and if that makes me odd, it goes right along with my fabulous at 50 mentality, the freeing up of older women from the stresses of trying to be cute, knowing now it’s a lost cause anyway, and there’s no point in all that fruitless work, it is simply liberating and exhilarating to me.

Eccentricities and quirkiness can be let loose, celebrated even, the pressure of younger days, even the self-induced stuff goes away, evaporating in it’s pointlessness. I feel as if I can putz around happily, all I want to nowadays, I can be dismissed or overlooked as batty, dotty or half-baked. What ever, I find it oh so much less stressful overall.

If I’d have know how much fun being older could be, I’d have gotten here way sooner. Oh wait, I’ve always kinda been like this.

Trying to Take Some Deep Breaths

Well, at least the pool works. Very. Deep. Sigh. Following along the lines of, "If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all," I ought to end this post right here, as yesterday sucked rotten eggs big time. I carried on all day having mini temper tantrums with no witnesses, probably a good thing.

Sunday was so decent, with all my grandbabies swimming. Deysi (33), Saray (32) and Marcela, who's soon to turn 30, are three original siblings I'd adopted in Honduras some 23 years ago. We've had our ups and downs over these years, but generally we've all gotten along.

Jonathan refused school yesterday. That's all I'm gonna say about that. He did go today.

I still don't have internet, I'm at Sarah's house, doubting that AT&T really will send a new modem as promised. I'm also going through Preston's CDs to add to my Ipod. Dang this man's old, 44 I think, he has stuff my brothers and I used to listen to in high school. Neil Young? Seriously? Now I have Cinnamon Girl stuck in my head and I feel like hanging out at Buckroe Beach with my old friends that I'm finding again on Facebook. I didn't even have Sarah back then, the one Preston's married to now.

My grass is sky high, my garden is full of weeds, and I've had no available time in which to even pick everything. I never weighed anything, nor kept proper notes, I've hardly saved any seeds for next year, but I've eaten right good.


I've been to Verizon twice and am still missing and dropping calls.

Turns out JoJo had not had his tetanus booster shot, necessitating another trip to the pediatrician, this after an unscheduled visit for Sabrina, but we ruled out strep throat on her, and got the varicela booster shots for my two sixth graders.

My lawnmowers, the riding one and the push one, are in various states of non-functioning disrepair, Tabby ran through the laundry room and knocked the liquid detergent down, flooding the room with slippery blue stuff.

For some reason the trash company took away my trash can, two phone calls later, they've still not returned it, and I'm driving my truck around with all this week's trash. I really don't think they wanna hear from me again, but if I don't have a trash can this afternoon, I'm taking the trash in my truck to their office, since I'm paying for the trash service that they're not providing.

I busted into hot tears of frustration twice yesterday. Twice. It got me nowhere.

Today I went outside at 8 in the morning, plugged in my Ipod and sang along to old Jackson Browne songs I still love. I danced, weeded, picked, and admired that my garden's fairly decent for an overworked ole brat with so many kids I can't even sit down to eat dinner, rather I stand at the stove and eat when I can.

Jeepers.

Scotty has FFA today, and Miss Kimberly's supervising the Chess Club, so I will allow JoJo to attend.

Tabby's already attending rehearsals for the Christmas Musical at church, hoping for a solo part, while Nando's doing soccer, and Jack's loving Cub Scouts. Thank God for Grandma, who's in charge of getting him there, while I drive the rest of my kids to the soccer fields.


OK, take a deep breath, do what needs to get done on the computer here so I can go home before the kids get home,

A Grandbaby Afternoon

Pesky Trees

Sarah blogged.

JoJo's Hand

Oh my goodness gracious, it’s the little things that send me over the edge such as no internet, something I take for granted? As if it’s my inalienable God-given right? What it is really, is a mental exercise, a first thing in the morning internal jog, but I prefer to jump start each day by reading the news and drinking coffee, winding up to a half decent post that generally explores my yesterdays before I face a new day.

Other than me on the phone for 75 fruitless minutes to AT & T, or the mundane never-ending laundry, that vies only with the kitchen, as in nearly pointless attempts to ever get ahead, it was a calm day in which I groused to JoJo, in particular, for never ever picking up after himself, for throwing down whatever is in his hands, for his complete disregard for the fact I’m not his personal maid, but truly, his brain doesn’t work that way.

He opens something, trash always on the counter or the table, an inability to get it to the trash can, no thought at all that it would be an appropriate place to land. He leaves dishes and glasses out, silverware not in the sink, cupboard doors open, dirty clothes on his floor, and in the bathroom, and he nearly breaks into tears of frustration when I complain. He never realizes he is doing this, he’s always shocked when I correct him. His future wife is gonna be at her wits end, I kinda, sorta understand where he’s coming from, she’ll have no clue.

Several of my high school kids wanted to go up to the schoolhouse for a 5K run last night, Allen preferred a good-bye party for a friend of his, and JoJo topped ‘em all with a trip to the ER, cutting open the palm of his hand with a can opener and the can. “Dude, how in the Sam Hill did you do that?” I yelped from the laundry room as he ran to me, dripping blood, wanting to show Mama, just as a cat would dump a caught mouse on the sofa cushions. Really? I live for this?

Remembering an ER nurse I’d once quizzed about in regards to when a kid needs stitches, she’d told me if it was gaping, it needed to be sewn, no matter the amount of blood shed in the process. This quit bleeding, but gaped terribly. “Let’s go,” I told JoJo, getting Grandma to babysit the two youngest at home, while I loaded up the rest to go with me, glad that others were already elsewhere.

Four stitches later, me burying my face in Sudoku, so as not to have to watch, “Mom go in the room with me,” JoJo beseeched, knowing I’d ask the doctor what he’d never remember to consider, nor even feel he had to listen to the replies, as that’s how he rolls.

A bunch of fun grandkids this afternoon, including Alexander, Ellie, Alyssa, Marissa, Mae, CJ, Heidi, Gianni and Isaac, swimming after church. JoJo's best bud, Hudson, joining us while I mentally planned ahead for the upcoming week.

And two silly cousins accidentaly dressed alike to go to church today.

Opinionated Stuff

Tell me stuff doesn’t eventually catch up to me. So emotionally whacked out over such a long period of time, I slept until 7:30 this morning, jumping up in alarm, afraid I’d missed something, knowing we had a busy morning ahead of us, yelling for everyone to get up, dressed, eat breakfast, and let’s fly. I never sleep in, never, ever.

Why would anyone spend $25.95 for a book when one can wait, hunt, and likely find it later at a yard sale for a buck? And I love me some books. I spent 25 cents today for Michael Connelly’s Crime Beat today, twenty-five cents. Hot diggity dog, it doesn’t take much to put a smile on my face.

Thunderstorms ruined soccer practices today, but not before the kids were dressed and on the fields. Rain stressed folks out who were having yard sales, one lady told Mayra, “Honey, just please take all these clothes, I don’t wanna have to drag them back in the house.” Prom dresses, blouses, sweatshirts and dress pants – all in their tiny, petite sizes.

Did we score or what? Plus my friend, Barbie, gave Tabby, Nando and Jack a ton of superb clothes yesterday. Their closets are bulging, actually everyone here has a great many clothes, and we have practically nothing ever spent from our nearly nonexistent clothes budget.

Blessed is what we are.

These home game football outings are gonna be expensive, I’m getting the All-Sports passes for my high school kids since we live so near the school that I can easily take them up there for unlimited sports events. I’m not much of a football fan, Sabrina only cheers third quarter, but Mayra’s boyfriend, Dillan, is a senior and played the whole game, so I watched him out there. I was pretty impressed, even more so later when a deputy told me what a great guy Dillan is overall.

Yeah, I think so too, plus I got to meet his mother yesterday.

Forever grateful to live in a county that’s safe, where my kids can walk around and socialize at the games, everyone all met back at the van right afterwards, really? After all these years? Life is settling down?

A teenage son in tears by the time we got home though, as his girlfriend-du-jour was walking and talking with a reknowned bad boy. “Mom, you don’t know how bad I wanted to beat him up,” he sobbed to me.

Now how would that have helped? Always logical, sometimes my advice is wildly unappreciated around here. I commended him for the obvious, for not fighting, “Son, get a grip, let her go. Why should you care so much?

He looked at me with that ‘no wonder you’re single’ look.

Whatever. It’s not that, it’s 39 other good reasons.

Sarah’d seen this article yesterday, I might be willing to pay full price for this woman’s next book, as it is, I read Joan Dye Gusow's last book three times, an amazing octogenarian who long ago put two and two together and very early on realized the locavore situation. Seeing the devastation she’d recently endured, pictures on her web page, watching her pull it together again in spite of her age, inspires the tarnation out of me, making me so excited about the upcoming second half of my life that I could barely sleep last night, explaining why I overslept so drastically this morning.

And when one’s dad takes the time to explain The Rule of 72 during dinner table conversations, along with his opinions regarding junk sold in stores, it stands to reason he’ll produce a bunch of underspending money nerds, which is exactly what happened with my parent’s ridiculously thrifty kids. Money spent on experiences, or security and stability, versus money spent on things, is money well spent and brings happiness, according to researchers. My parents could’ve told them all that years ago. Click that link, it isn't just me spouting off my eccentric ideas and notions.

What’s up with all the duh moments lately?

Jonathan picked me a bowl of scuppernongs for snack this afternoon, I’d eaten my usual large, heavy-weight salad for lunch, all stuff I’d grown, even Daniel’d recently remarked there soon wouldn’t be all that much I’d need outside of our land, “Maybe the UPS driver’ll toss you a box over your gate every now and then,” he’d stated.

Yep, a girl can dream.

Happy Birthday Lily!

Mass meltdown all morning, Tabby crying over a hair clip, Tony throwing everything I’d bought him for a project on the floor because I indicated he needed to show gratitude, a simple thank you would suffice. Even Jack was fussy, fighting a touch of a sore throat, not wanting to take Motrin, an issue I don’t push as doctors are understanding nowadays how tough it is for our livers to process these analgesics, pain relievers, and chemicals.

I've already been to two schools today, a fifth grade teacher telling me she'd had three students already out with strep.

Sweet, beautiful Lily turned 13 today, a smart 8th grader who always does her homework and strives to please the teachers, pictured here with her sibling group, three wonderful children I've raised from birth, nurtured and stable, such a joy.

My three boisterous 8th graders had a social studies project that involved gummy worms and cake icing, forcing me embarrassingly down that candy/cookie aisle at Kroger, plus Sabrina needed cookies for cheer leading. The sweet, syrupy smells seeping from boxes nearly made me gag.

A walk of shame in my book.

Kripsy Kreme doesn’t make me gag…go figure.

Dee’d written me yesterday, telling me I sure knew how to rant against foodstuffs, could I rave also, let folks know what I do eat each day, as anyone wanting to go vegetarian can get intimidated over consuming enough grams of protein.

I bored my ownself answering her. My blogs write themselves, a stream of consciousness pouring out each morning, no brakes applied, my filter askew, gotta write what comes, and sometimes food’s on my mind, or it’s all about baseball, or the garden, but most likely it’s the kids.

Adult women need about 44 grams of protein a day. Between yogurt, soymilk, cheese, and my beans and rice combinations, I have it covered, it’s second nature for me, as is gardening, or driving a stick shift in my truck, but both gardening and vegetarianism are the result of many years of reading up on the subject.

Sabrina just asked for a dollar to buy chips to fill her up after school, before she cheers at the football game. I’d squawked, “Are you kidding me? Make a sandwich, take a NutriGrain bar.” Jeepers, often I’ll tuck pepper jack cheese in a tortilla, knowing it’ll melt beautifully by the time I’m ready to eat it, then I’m not at the mercy of a growling stomach and nothing but cwap to eat.

I’m getting suspicious of food, what kind of cheap oil do they use that’s gonna cake up around my overly stressed heart? I wanna know exactly what I’m eating, as I really do consume more food than the majority of the rest of the female population, but it’s all good food. It just takes a lot of food fuel to keep me going.

My garden is still producing a great deal, super duper weeds too, an equal amount which frustrates me constantly with such limited free time. I’d spent two hours shelling peas, freezing and putting up peppers for winter, but I do enjoy that time. I’ll enjoy it even more when I drag it out later to eat.

Verizon replaced my still under-warranty Blackberry yesterday because it’s slowly been losing all capabilities. Like a big fat baby I’d been pouting all day about Daniel being gone, what am I gonna do when he gets deployed? It isn’t even like we see each other more than once a week or so when he’s in Athens, it just feels weird with him gone.

“I won’t call you and dog you,” I’d promised. He’s a man and doesn’t need Mama hovering, but when he’d texted me last night I sprang into action on my new phone, calling him excitedly. I really had wanted to know how his first day there went. He’d met a guy from Minnesota who’d driven 23 hours straight to get on the base, and I’m reasonably certain our Georgia heat blast was a shock to his system, even though it’s now not as hot as it has been, muggy as a swamp though. Hot liquid air in our lungs that requires slow acclimation.

My internet’s messing up, my lawnmowers suck, a toilet’s seeping water out from the bottom, we need groceries for the weekend, I have a ridiculously boring To Do list, more palatable when I plug my Ipod into my rattled mentality, playing some soothing praise music that helps me focus and calm down. Third Day? Casting Crowns? Talleys? Gold City? Dixie Echoes? Thank God for Ipods that have it all, especially for restless, antsy folks like me.

“Keep your eyes on the Phillies,” I’d reminded Daniel, knowing that team’s trying to creep up on Atlanta, and has the capabilities to stress us all out in the process.

“Be ready for the playoffs,” was his even-headed response, as he’s nearly never rattled about anything. I wanna take my new broom, ready to sweep a series, NLCS is a mission accomplished already in my mind. I’m prematurely excited, wearing my THANKS BOBBY shirt constantly, but I’m bad about having a favorite t-shirt, and loving its comfort too much.

His new, very beautiful girlfriend had unknowingly given us the highest compliment ever. “They sure do love you,” she’d told him, after meeting Yolie and I separately.

There’s no doubt about that.

We liked her a lot too, and that‘s always a good thing in our hard-to-break-into family. Folks here automatically throw up defense mechanisms and figurative walls, eyeing new people suspiciously, with the backgrounds and histories of my children, it’s a wonder they ever trust anyone new.

Eating Out

I gotta brag that I eat out every day.

I eat outside from my garden to be specific.

After reading this, I'm absolutely shocked, grossed out and appalled.

I picked a smaller bowl of pink eye peas, cucumbers and tomatoes.

The Bed Springs Might Be A Problem

Great day yesterday spent with Daniel, but today he leaves for Fort Gordon.

Four months of his Signal Basic Officers Leadership Course, likely back here for UGA home games, soccer playoffs for the kids in October, and maybe a game to watch Sabrina cheer. Maybe. I didn't cry in front of him, but teared up later from holding it in. Trying to not cry gives me a headache, I'm pretty good usually about not holding stuff in.

Turning back to face my demanding family, and running out the door after supper to get everyone everywhere. Sabrina got her nose bashed in at cheer leading practice, resulting in a very bloody nose and an ice pack, great way to go meet the much anticipated new youth pastor.

He's from South Dakota, of all places, the only man in the room with that kind of accent, as nice as he could be, facing probably 70 teenagers who still miss Bronson. All of my kids responded appropriately, and I like to think it's because of the pep talk I'd given them.

My electro-magnetic field has totally cwapped up my cell phone, the DVR downstairs is faltering as well, and this morning even the internet wouldn't work, making me just wanna run outside and dig in the dirt instead, but it was still dark, and I had 14 kids to get up and out the door. I swear electricity crackles from my high-speed tension-filled and releasing activities.

I'd read this article yesterday, just after I'd been talking to Daniel about shedding myself of a set of box springs and my antiquated bed that my grandfather gave me in the 1980s. Really? I super respect this reknowned doctor, and this thought had never occurred to me, but I believe this is important to consider. (Sarah, check it out, whadya think?) I felt radioactive all night, confirming my initial thought to sleep on a harder surface anyway.

I've been wanting a platform bed, pricing them for several months now, Craigslist, classifieds and all over the internet. I have my eye on an el cheapo, attractive one that'll do wonderfully, as this saggy ole used thang I've been sleeping on for 25 years has just about bitten the dust.

The three babies I've raised since birth, now 14, 13 and 10, have had their moments of sick nights, puking, etc., upstairs in my room, it's really time for a change for me.

Does anyone know if blog-reading from Google Reader affects the site meter? It'd have to, right? I'm lately very sucked into reading frugal, minimalist, simple living, and environmental blogs, adding more each day and thoroughly enjoying it all, reading one yesterday written by a raw food devotee, who was exclaiming happily over having to eat embarrasingly large salads to keep her weight up. I think I eat a lot of food too, but it's usually all good food, nutrient dense and fiber rich, and one does have to eat a lot to keep up with meat eaters.

Well that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Antics and Aggravations

The cops came to my door this morning and said my dog was chasing someone on a bike. I said, I don't think so, my dog doesn't have a bike.

This was a Facebook status from my friend, Butch, yesterday that sent me into peals of laughter, reading it aloud to the Bubbas, who all burst out laughing as well, except for my very literal Allen.

"Wait," he truly looked perplexed, "I don't get it."

JoJo set about explaining it, while I went into my own mind, thinking 'bout how my Facebook friends can be divided into those who knew me before children, and then every one else. Since Sarah is just a couple of months away from 37, I have some very old friends, huh?

Down on the soccer fields until nine last night, glad Jonathan and Scotty got an EMT man as a coach, if my memory serves me well, he went to high school with Sarah, he was the first one down on the field that night Mayra's nose was broken in a championship game, and he was there when Edgar's car went down an embankment, reassuring me as my eyes were bug-eyed wide with fright, and Vanessa was sobbing in abject fear beside me that scary afternoon years ago.

"Do you ever feel the world is evolving, and you're not?" JoJo asked me yesterday.

"I can see where you might feel that way," I'd answered him, and he'd gone into a very long story about school, what other kids say that he has no idea about, "It's like I'm there, but not there. They tell me about stuff I don't remember happening, like what the teacher just said to us, and what I said the other day."

All simple examples of the short term memory loss that plagues those who've suffered trauma and grief. It used to drive me bonkers, but I finally, after many, many years, came to an understanding of this is what I live with, get used to it.

JoJo was jumping all around and over me, yapping and yipping at my heels, a curtain climber deluxe, a yard ape inside, silly, dancing, spinning, and carrying on because the psychiatrist left us cooling our heels for too long, according to JoJo who's impatient, erratic, and impulsive 24-7.

"Outta meds kid?" someone unhelpfully asked him, sarcastic and ill tempered, completely shutting JoJo up for about 15 blissful, quiet seconds.

In our tiny county weekly newspaper I check the police report each week with dread, sometimes notice community photos that show my kids, there's so many of us, it's kinda hard to snap a photo without a Bodie popping up, but how on earth did I miss Daniel's picture in a MS 5K run? Front and center, handsome and athletic.

He's coming over today to eat a goodbye lunch before leaving tomorrow for Fort Gordon. Only ninety something miles away, thank God for cell phones and email, but I just feel disoriented when he's not in the next county, even though this is only a four month training.

Tonight after I drive Sabrina to a gymnastics thing, thus making she and I late for church, the other kids will already have been dropped off, I'm going with her to Youth Group to meet the new youth pastor. Pastor Tony's already so excited, telling me how much we're gonna love this new guy.

"I'm prepared to like anyone you've selected," I told him Sunday, knowing his own son is in youth group plus his huge heart for our church, I know he's chosen well.

As opposed to my children who seemingly never choose correctly, Jonathan choosing to fight last night in the parking lot of the soccer fields, with Tony, over a seat in the van, they were the only two and the van seats 15. They whaled away at each other, punching and kicking, Tony came home and went into his very, very dark place where he growls hatefulness, lies, venom, and ugly, stabbingly painful remarks to everyone, provoking deep rage from others.

I kept trying to defuse the situation, the other potential combatants got bored and scattered, Tony refused to comply with every single directive, from getting into the van without hitting anyone, wearing a seat belt, coming in from the van at home, and going to his room, absolutely refusing every command I issued.

His adult life will absolutely suck rotten eggs, if he doesn't get past his inability to listen to authority, or his crazily dangerous need to provoke others into blinding rages. He especially will provoke those that he knows have no inner compunction to adhere to society's basic rules.

A phone call at ten, letting me know Paloma'd been in another fight at the lockdown psychiatric facility.

Seriously? And an old lady can then just calm down and go to sleep? I don't think so, dragging out my book to read until I can relax my bouncing mind. Feeling somewhat ridiculously shy of sugar in a funnel cake, discombobulated and irked, my pulse pounding with unidentifed emotions. Maybe a level of gladness that I'm not having to deal with her very irrational outbursts? Plus sadness over her future if she's unable to pull herself together? I was still stupendously irritated and aggravated about Tony who launched into another round of hatefulness this morning, an oh brother moment, here we go again.

Nurtured Children

From the LA Times today via Sarah:

Feeling stressed-out? Anxious? Overly sensitive to things other people say? You can blame your mother. (As if you weren't doing that already.)

A growing body of scientific evidence points to the long-lasting effects of maternal nurturing while children are young. One study found that adults who said they felt more “warmth and closeness” with their parents when they were kids were less likely to become alcoholics, develop ulcers or have high blood pressure or heart disease. In animals, rat pups that were doted on by their mothers grew up to be less stressful adults (based on the levels of stress hormones in their blood).

Read the entire article here.

Another deep sigh.

Elementary

Up at Yolie's house this morning, can you tell which kid is the most excited about school today?

Sowing and Reaping - So To Speak

Can't remember if I've used this photo or not, it's of this year's 8th graders. JoJo, 13, Lily turns 13 this week, while Tony will be 15 in January. CP has left him developmentally and emotionally delayed, he provokes everyone negatively to the extreme, even a cancer patient at school one time, shocking me when I'd heard this from an administrator.

He does this at home also, he'll find the ugliest, and most hurtful, thing to say to someone, and keep at it until that person slugs him, generally muttering so that I don't hear him and lying to me when I do. I've learned to walk away from him when he does it to me, most of my family can do so, but when he's older and not within the safe emotional confines of our home, someone's going to hurt him if he keeps this up. Yes, of course it is being addressed in therapy, but I'm not seeing much change, this after nearly 12 years of him living here.

Lily has a stomach bug. A great student who was barfing around dawn this morning, I advised her to try and sleep it off, I'll take her to school a little later if she feels better.

Soccer was cancelled yesterday, a new coach calling to inform us just as we were sitting down to a very early supper, fields were too wet, but we did get Jack to Cub Scouts, thus adding yet another evening outing for us, Scotty begging for FFA, but I have a few reservations due to his tendencies to melt down over any one minute chore. Really? And you want your teacher to see that?

Sarah passed on to me an intriguing book, The Town That Food Saved, that had me from page one. I planted more cow peas yesterday, a 60 day maturity turnaround, that's still possible around here with our late fall frost date, what do I have to lose from trying? I'd punked out on my own attempts to plant something every day, felt too chore-like eventually, so I rationalized into changing it to 'plant as much as I can, when I can.'

Last winter's lettuce planting indoors failed and my tomatoes look like crap, I have no explanation other than can't win every time. I'm barely getting enough for fresh eating, I had already frozen a great deal though.

The forensic profiler I'd quoted yesterday also had said how rare it was to find a remorseless murderer emerging from a secure, loving and attached environment. She stressed how critically important those early years were - yeah the same early years that so emotionally crippled children in the foster care system. I've raised four children from birth, I know the difference.

I've also raised the majority of my children who eventually learned to trust me, to accept my love and nurturing, and to benefit from it.

It's those that didn't that frighten me for their futures.

Go back and look at the picture above, one I'd snapped quickly that beautiful day at Tybee. It's kinda obvious which child I've had since birth, yes she's adopted, but she was nurtured and treasured from Day One.

I've had JoJo since he was three, Tony was nearly three when he came, and both boys from two different sibling groups had very unfair, challenging, dangerous and stressful early childhoods. It still shows in most everything they do, yet I've seen slow improvements over the ensuing years.

Changes and Deep Fears

My Honduran Roman Catholic children in the 1980s would cross themselves before going down a dark hall and were alarmed by the fact that I do not like curtains in a house. Unadorned windows lets the sunshine in, something very important to me. We live out in the country and have the luxury of privacy.

JoJo and Allen have taken their deep fears to a whole new level, positive that La Chupacabra is under their bed, brujas drift down our stairs, la llorona wants them, and robbers are dying to break into our flat-broke house and steal all our busted, second-hand stuff.

I used to never be afraid of anything, sleeping behind a screen door with zero fear, no locks, no problems.

Now I fear insanity, psychosis, and irrational behaviors. I'd listened to a forensic profiler, Candice Delong, who'd once been a nurse to psychotic patients before her FBI training at Quantico, explain that when girls threaten to kill you, you better take note. That's a major warning sign, not an idle threat. Yep, I just ordered a used copy of her book.

Paloma has threatened every single one of us specifically by name over the years, especially my younger defenseless ones. I DO take this seriously, I truly do.

I do have major fears and reservations where she's concerned. The birth daughter of a female murderer, the incredible explosive rages, and the deep anger that detonates like lava so often, combined with a bipolar diagnosis doesn't bode well.

Last night Allen woke up because our three legged terrier was galumphing down the hall, but Allen was certain he heard four feet hitting the ground, and he went white with terror and snuggled up under his emotional twin's (JoJo)arm. "JoJo, that's NOT Mom."

"Did you think it was a robber hopping down the hall on one foot?" I later laughed, when told the next morning of his night. This handsome kid will soon be 15.

He's afraid of being left at Wal-Mart, of a plane crashing down from the sky, of the Mayan calendar, aliens from outer space, runaway trucks careening down the mountains that aren't anywhere near us, and dozens of other random thoughts that plague him, contributing to his acute anxieties. I've spent 121 months reassuring him about everything.

Dr. C's gonna have her hands full with this one. I've long asked him to consider talking to someone besides me, he's always resisted, but finally asked me, as if it was his idea all along. He trotted off with Dr. Mandy recently, surprising us all. He's painfully shy.

Like JoJo, he can be extremely irrational at times, but neither of them are mental, not even severe, just troubled, and with issues, but conversely they're both very loving and attached to me, emotionally difficult 24-7, needy, oppositional and sometimes rudely defiant, but much of it is just adolescent malarkey.

I love them dearly, I see hope for them and I've watched progress being made for the last ten years.

They'll meet their new youth pastor this week, a new soccer coach, and Allen's at a new school, since he moved up to high school. That's a lot for him to deal with, change stresses him out, but this is all so very doable.

A Clear Head

Yolie's best friend is a social worker, a LCSW, a very pretty redhead, a former college roommate, who recently remarked that we're a hard family to break into, as trust issues run rampant, and simply because there's so many of us anyway, no one ever gets lonely enough to go out and make friends, maybe a downside, but possibly a plus overall.

Audrey's right though, she's in, of course, she's a valuable asset, someone who'll speak up if necessary, give her opinion, which is an educated and a valuable one around here. She means the world to Yolie, lemme tell ya, and I too think the world of her.

My best friend, Emily, is a social worker also, up in the realm of possessing a six year degree as well. Two longtime friends, Janet is a retired social worker,while my friend Peggy is now a medical social worker. To me, longtime means decades.

I'm attracted to educated folks, those who'd discuss child welfare policy issues versus a new shade of lipstick, or whatever some ladies obsess over on a daily basis. The rest of my friends are likely all teachers. Hey, that's who I hung with for 25 years in the work world.

Yolie's a brilliant child, if one can refer to a 30 year old as a child, yet she needs Audrey's perspective, just as I need that of Emily's opinion. Living swamped in an upside down existence, as we do, in the world of illogical rages and trauma, one needs to remember to come up for air, to touch base with knowledge, before diving right back in to the morass.

Dr. Mandy provides a clear head that I need, as does Dr. C, with whom I have an appointment tomorrow. As my mind bops through my week's schedule I note to myself that it coincides with Goodwill's Senior Citizen Discount Day, Tuesday, which is the only day I'd go there, as a 25% discount is right impressive.

Yet in another blog I was reading, Frugal Babe, I felt a check in my spirit about even spending money there, so what if it's cheaper, do I really need this item?

And in another blog, he writes, "Basically, I think that we’ve been duped into buying things by an advertisement-dominated society for the last 50 years. The Internet is just now allowing us to break free of this mess and start to realize that the junk doesn’t matter.

Because I live with less stuff, and don’t buy much, all of the money I make from my minimalist business can go towards experiences such as travel and learning.

In my mind experiences are what life is worth living for, not possessions."

That's exactly the same advice my parents have always given me, my two brothers are even less materialistic than I. Gary only wants his boat, Jimbo not even that, both preferring long beach trips over posessions.

Even at yard sales lately, I've been way more careful, do I really need this item? Always bobbing my head in response to a delicious looking book though.

Today is only the 8th day of school, yet it's been drama free, we have soccer practice tonight, Grandma is taking Jack to a Cub Scout ice cream social, as we try and see if we can work this in our lives also. Sabrina has a cheer leading practice at the exact same time, how can I be three places at once? Supper best be served at 4 p.m. which will only mean hungry kids again before bedtime, but oh well.

It's so blissfully quiet right now, I'm headed happily outside to weed and sweat, after I throw another load of laundry in the machine, gotta feed the chickens, and make two phone calls, the next seven hours are mine, all mine.

Criminal Life Cycle

I'd written this yesterday while watching the Braves game, then wandered off without publishing it. More to come in a minute...

In my former naive existence there was way more black and white, way less nebulous grey areas, yet I'm not sure that the issues, to which my eyes are now opened to, have been all that enlightening. Frustrating might be more accurate.

Thinking 'bout someone who has been in jail for a month, a compulsive thief, disorganized and unable to hold down jobs, an amazingly good liar, when one just disappears into a lockdown, then it stands to reason another job is lost, living arrangements dissipate, one's belongings become scattered, or stolen by criminal cohorts, so when one does get out, one theoretically has absolutely nothing, thereby prompting one with a stealing problem to yet again go and steal.

Criminals have huge fines, probationary fees, maybe court costs or lawyers to pay - and generally these habitual criminals have no means to pay anyone back, nor even the wherewithal to find another job, to get up everyday, and force oneself to go to work.

"Work is NO FUN," they've often screamed at me, "I don't wanna have a boring life," then they spend much of their early adult years imprisoned which seems kinda boring to me.

Hollywood glamorizes criminals all too often, portrays them as 'getting one over on The Man,' as if these seemingly smarter-than-cops, good-looking Robin Hoods have a better life than the staid and boring middle class bill payers that end up being made fun of by this ignorant money-grabbing industry.

People with no discernment, without the ability to comprehend that this isn't real life as they whine, "I don't wanna go to work every single day for minimum wage," yet they chose to not finish school, to not become trained for anything, desiring to party instead, zero self-discipline, impulse control issues that really aren't their fault, and it's a dang vicious circle in which I've fought against with my children, who seem to want to revert to that which they'd seen in their early years back with their birth parents - for whom absence has made their hearts grow fonder, conveniently erasing from memory the beatings, the abandonment, neglect and every other reason.

I don't have a leg to stand on once they turn 18, if they choose to go, then they go.

I take a very hard stance regarding lawbreakers though. I don't go visit them in jail. If they want me to visit, then stay outta jail. I'm certainly not gonna send a care package, nor to enable them in any way to think I condone these criminal behaviors.

I literally want no contact, having been victimized and stolen from for so many years. If you're involved with drugs, then don't come over here. I've even had to go so far as to not allow some to come here ever, and it's been a smart move, as I can then tell that to law enforcement when they come a looking. I've had three deputies here in three days.

I also do not allow grown children to bring their grown friends out here, knowing that so many of them choose a very criminal element with which to consort. I have too many potential hearts to protect still living in my home.