This Is The Life

"I can't believe it took me having to go to prison to understand what you'd been trying to teach me," Joey said to me in a six page letter, in abject violation of the no contact order a deputy had served him with after his threats against me.

Seriously, dude?

Just sound like jailhouse noise to me, but obviously I'm jaded and abnormally suspicious of motives. I'd long ago forgiven him, but that doesn't mean I want him at family gatherings. For our own safety, that's not an option. To invite a felon convicted of assault and terroristic threats? Not a smooth move.

"Mom, can we please have some kind of a relationship?" Well, yeah, but on my terms, and in public places...someday.

I'd spent my entire day on the road, down to Macon and back, participating in family therapy with Paloma and yet another therapist. Paloma looked great, she's a very pretty girl, she was glad to see me, yet her behaviors there have been abysmal.

"I never really thought I'd get sent away," she told us, deeply believing she could continue to live at home, control everything and bully everyone, not just the family, but school mates as well.

I hate sitting all day; restless, fidgeting, squirming, and knowing I was not getting any of my chores done, all my pent up energy coursing through me, yet I behaved appropriately, knowing I was doing what was required of me, however I've been to this rodeo before, and am just not convinced there'll be a good outcome for quite some time.

Returning home, my house door was hanging open, I knew I'd shut it, preventing Shadow from running after my truck. For a brief second I was angry that it appeared we were being robbed, which irked me, as we have so little left to steal, since the kids had already done a remarkable job of that over the last 20 years.

Well, dummy, I suggested to myself, you're really gonna barge in and maybe face thieves that likely aren't kin to you, as your severely larcenous ones are locked up?

Reaching for my cell, thinking I'd at least call a deputy, Grandma walked out the door, evoking a deep sigh of relief from me. She'd spent all day taking out the 25 drawers in my kitchen and cleaning them thoroughly. She, too, is genetically unable to hold still, knew I'd been gone all day, and she simply wanted to help.

This same 80 year old is fixing to go camping tomorrow night with the cub scouts, as Jack's too young to go alone. Someone over 21 is required to accompany him. Grandma'd rather go sleep on the ground in a tent than stay home and babysit my wild children, which is good, as it'd been nearly impossible for her to also get everyone everywhere that they need to be during that time. One thing she does not do is to drive a 15 passenger van.

I have a Friday night ballgame in which Daniel and Marcela are coming to watch Sabrina cheer and Dillan, Maya's boyfriend, play, plus a soccer game the next morning, and a practice.

I was able to attend Wednesday night Services, getting to sit with Sarah and Preston, and be taught during Bible Study, an increasingly rare event for me, as I've been having to get Sabrina to The Force for gymnastics during that time. We got out earlier than the teenagers so I slipped into the back of the Youth Group room to listen to the band and be pleasantly surprised at the intensity of worship, our new youth pastor is marvelous.

After I'd blogged yesterday, I'd not gotten back to the computer again until this morning, but had cooked their favorite supper, picked up and delivered everyone from various school events, and on to church, only washed one load of clothes, so I have a heap of crudola to face today.

Nearly everyone wears a t-shirt and a shirt, giving me 28 dirty ones to launder each evening, plus the socks, towels, pants and other detritus, but the number that most impresses this knotty head of mine, that loves numerical results, is the fact that I've eaten 6-10 bell peppers a day for 100 days.

Do the math y'all. Who eats about 800 bell peppers in that short of a time? That'd be me, chopping 'em up for salads that are 80% peppers along with cucumbers, raw baby squash, sunflower seeds, flax seeds, pepper jack cheese plus olive oil and balsamic vinegar. That's where one gains a great deal of vitality with which to face each sometimes daunting day.

Grandma's told me store-bought bell peppers were 69 cents apiece. I've eaten easily $552, minus sales tax, in peppers alone. Organic ones would be even more expensive and that's how I grow my peppers.

Anyone else think I'm demonstrating a need for a life? Nah, this is the life.

Check out this 33 items for 90 days challenge, I nerdily can likely pare it down to 12 items for 90 days. Whatever, I just get excited to see other dorks like me doing stuff like this.

The picture here is of Grandma in the newspaper yesterday, she and this 92 year old guy have been members in the Senior Center Bridge Club, along with other old folks, having a grand old time, 2-3 days a week. And she also works her butt off around here, an amazing woman that I strive to be like, that's her wearing a white shirt.

God's Hand At Work

The fuzzy quality of this picture is a fairly indicative illustration of my view of the world. My own reality is oh so different from that of a normal, sweet-natured mother in the suburbs with two high achieving children who make her proud, and a husband who absorbs the other stressors of life, paying the bills and tending to the man's work - whatever that is.

I putter around my room, watering plants, reveling in the fact that there are no punched in walls in my room, everything is put away, the bed is made, and all the windows are intact.

"Do you really not have enough faith to believe that there is someone out there for you?" my therapist friend, Paul, had asked me several weeks ago.

"I'm highly dubious," I'd snarked back at him. "Who is this strong, dumb or crazy enough to even believe that this is a job worth doing?"

For all my whining here I still look around at my very beautiful children, at the very bonded ones, and at the high points in my life I simply can't believe there wasn't a long line of available parents getting home studies done, who'd have wanted to share in this joy of parenting these particular sibling groups. I'm not being sarcastic at all, I've had some extremely wonderful times over the years that I'd never have wanted to miss out upon.

If a man or woman is called of God, it doesn’t matter how difficult the circumstances may be. God orchestrates every force at work for His purpose in the end. If you will agree with God’s purpose, He will bring not only your conscious level but also all the deeper levels of your life, which you yourself cannot reach, into perfect harmony.

I'd likely never have experienced the hand of God at work had I not listened to His call upon me. I wouldn't have wanted to miss out on this for anything...even as hard as it has been, even factoring in the deep despair I've encountered at times.

Since Jonathan's made it to school two days this week and played decent defense last night on his soccer team, me of eternal hope, is again hoping for demonstrated improvement... yet that's the conversation I'd just had with Yolie, in which adoptive parents mistakenly think a change has occurred, since there's been a good spell of time passing, and then they let their guards down.

I've lived as hyper vigilant as any of my children, always on edge, teeth gritted, reluctant to smile, as if that'd jinx something. I've lived for so very long in this manner, that I have major doubts I'll ever be relaxed and normal again, not wincing at loud noises, nor cringing at certain reminders. Ducking blows like a kicked puppy.

HGTV just makes me mad, those beautiful homes seem so unattainable. Are there no traumatized children living anywhere in their neighborhood? Are they, these blessed homeowners, not afraid to express pleasure and delight, knowing that's simply an invitation for destruction?

My plant filled upstairs bedroom retreat is good enough for me at the moment, although I'm very exhausted by the end of the day, crawling up the stairs, looking forward to the few moments of peace before I fall asleep, but still antsy and fearful of being awakened suddenly.

"I don't know how you do this, Cindy," I'm told so often that it hardly registers. My devotion this morning, regarding The Call, spoke to me, as does every word I devour on this web site that does remind me how I do it every day. The words above in italics were lifted from this page today.

I'm very thankful that Sarah found this site for me, that we both read it every day, another discussion arena for us.

I went on the the next item in my Google Reader about debt and shook my head in agreement that he could be so succinct, saying exactly how I felt, me knowing my own inability to edit my postings to a more mannerly size, vomiting out my thoughts each day, hitting publish, then spending the rest of the day going, "Oh yeah, I did mean to mention this or that."

Want to end up with 2.5 million in retirement? I sure wish I'd had this head knowledge 40 years ago.

But, hey, debt free is good enough for someone who's raised this many children, a hefty bank account wasn't in the plans for me, which is OK as I have so few materials wants or needs.

I Wish I Knew

That's me with my back to the camera, having not gone very blonde in quite some time, my hair is truly dark again, some highlights in the front, but I'd forgotten what I looked like originally and had started to change back, maybe subconsciously part of the wanting me back for my inner authentic me campaign, you know again making it all about me, like a self-absorbed dork. But really, I used to be so strong, so very positive and usually happy as a clam, and I'd missed me for so long.

The kids had to take a TABE test at home, I had about 25 pages of paperwork for this tutoring/summer job opportunity. Martin qualifies because I'd held him back in first grade, now a tenth grader, it certainly was one of my few strokes of brilliance, yet I remember how his teacher and I had agonized over the decision. We'd started discussing it in late winter, not solidifying the decision until much later that spring.

Academically he was right on the cusp, I fretted over his self-esteem, she wavered as well, ultimately we both felt we should do it, and bingo, I'm now starting to believe all of my children could've, would've, should've all greatly benefited from an extra year of maturity overall.

Maybe a fifth of my children have been held back, in a more Utopian world, as I now look back, maybe I should have done so with nearly half of them, leveled the playing field, maybe even calling it a home field advantage. They were initially SO very disadvantaged academically, socially, emotionally, physically and spiritually, so darn unfair to them all.

Yet, even now, I fret over all the children who'll never find families, while simultaneously struggling with encouraging anyone to ever adopt from the foster care system due to my knowledge, and crazy dead-on fears, over what they'll eventually encounter, yet I wouldn't trade my experiences for anything. I know it's taken all this to change me into how God wanted me to be, I'm too hard-headed, ignorant and stubborn to have ever capitulated in any other way, this I know with certainty.

When Allen failed his second attempt at the CRCT by one problem alone in Math, the school recommended holding him back only because that was protocol, but this time my gut said no. He's already older than most in his grade, I met with the school, and as a group they also felt he should move on with many resources in place, so that's what we've done, and so far, so good. Inclusion classes have been invaluable.

Mayra struggles academically in a very big way, so she too qualified for this program, my pitiful tax returns guarantee a spot for us as an economically disadvantaged family. Funny thing is, due to my money managerial abilities, an Olympic sport for me, staying out of the mall, buying used, living as minimally as possible, we're contrarily right secure in our finances...dang it's easy when one rarely spends, unless absolutely necessary, long ago having learnt the difference between a need and a want, vastly preferring not to have to deal with the natural consequences of the gimmes, which would be debt, as I try and teach my rebellious young'uns.

So this Federal program seems like a godsend to us, providing tutoring from UGA students and summer jobs for three? Thank you Lord, it fell into our laps literally.

There was surprisingly little resistance to spending an hour at the kitchen table taking a test that places them, that then gives them a baseline.

Dr. C always weighs my kids who are on medications, an indicator of side effects, and I'd been a tad afraid that the Focalin had caused Allen to lose a few pounds. I'd noticed he'd grown an inch or two, but thankfully we also found out he'd gained 3 pounds, maybe due to the very small dose he's on.

The kids had taken a chipmunk out of Shadow's mouth, a terrier mix who chases squirrels and mice, they'd tended to the chipmunk last night, only to find it deceased this morning. Sigh. Tabby'd proudly shown it to Dr. Mandy yesterday as they'd made it a pretty nest and tried to comfort it.

Nando's soccer game was called off due to rain-saturated fields, so a rare night at home allowed some catching up, Grandma took Jack to Cub Scouts, and I cooked a New Orleans Monday (laundry day) tradition of red beans, corn and rice, Mexicaned up with pepper jack cheese and Fire Hot Pepper Sauce. Nevertheless, my bottomless pit, CW, 14, was later frying up a tall stack of crispy fried cheese quesadillas for his bedtime snack, wrapping chunks of pepper jack cheese within flour tortillas, dipping them in sour cream and salsa.

The show Hoarders fascinates me, folks who spend ruthlessly and mindlessly in an attempt to make themselves happy, just as Til Debt Do Us Part demonstrates. Yet they're not happy, either one, with all those possessions. They're simply in trouble. I don't get it.

So where does happiness come from? A million dollar question that I'm still seeking after, beginning to believe it lies solely from within; a choice, a connection with God, maybe in being productive, or involved in a purpose or a mission, conquering challenges, or overcoming obstacles?

It's not my families' job to make me happy, that's my job. I find complete bliss in gardening, in watching when my kids do succeed, in spending time with them, in delighting in my own free time while they're in school, even if free time means laundry - it's productive isn't it?

Where There Is Faith

This table is at the end of the long kitchen section that now only has three tables, the capacity now to only seat 18, as I whittle my family demands down due to folks growing up and moving out.

We use this back table to pile the clean laundry on, after I hang up all the shirts. That was the theory anyway, no one ever comes to get their clean clothes, it falls on me to deliver.

Really? Y'all think I can force miswired humans to comply?

I have a whole lot less house damages and injuries if I do it all myself, I learned that very slowly the hard way, and with no little amount of fuming, over the years.

The three crates hold soccer socks, daily socks and boy's boxers. I snicker when I think of JoJo once telling his teacher, Ms. Carr, that he was late getting up and therefore all the socks were gone...so not true, he just didn't wanna put any on that day.

See, we adoptive parents mistakenly believe that we're getting house guests, so to speak, who'll politely acknowledge all our many and sacrificial efforts. Maybe it was just me with that cockamamie notion?

What was I thinking?

I'd been taught about grief and loss, which is a major component in adopting from the foster care system. Grief is nearly deadly in the damage it can do to one's psyche. It's insidious, difficult to manage for an adult, and a child truly flounders.

We all grapple with the finality of a comprehension of a loved one just not being there anymore, not existing on this earth, that concept alone is mind boggling, yet for a child the disappearance of an adult can have many reasons excluding death.

Abandonment and rejection, abuse and neglect, taking drugs while pregnant or staying drunk while sniffing inhalants all combine into a recipe for a miswired explosive child who's not the least bit grateful to be rescued, but rather is justifiably pissed off at the entire hateful world, and also is extremely inarticulate in expressing that rage.

I had no clue.

Now, years and years after living with such children, combined with a myriad of other issues, leavened with some very reasonable, fun children, I look back in complete bafflement that survival was even a possibility for any of my children...or me, or my sense of humor and optimism that's only a bit banged up now.

Yolie's sweet Mae had strep throat last week with febrile seizures, and Yolie, of course, had taken her to our very superb pediatrician. Mae was so helpless during all this, and I wondered aloud, "Who took care of Yolie back then?" knowing the answer was a sad, resounding "no one."

Who takes care of all the millions of children who are living with gang-banging, drug-imbibing zombie parents? Who's gonna do so?

An infant lays there totally unable to do anything, dependent upon a responsible adult for their every single basic need. Every need.

Raising my three grandchildren from birth, now 10, 13, and 14, has reminded me how normally demanding infants and toddlers are. I've also raised many of the teenagers here since they were toddlers, who'd arrived here with serious issues and many older, furious siblings.

I still don't totally understand how to help my children heal from their grief and losses, much less the many trauma issues. I read, I seek help, I try different strategies, look for new resources, and expound upon what we've found. Yet here we still are with unhealed children who resist all efforts.

I have Paloma pushing the staff at her lockdown psychiatric facility. Pushing? What's the degree of assault between pushing, shoving and attacking? Her two older brothers cannot live here with us anymore, haven't been here in over a year due to safety issues, which is stating the case politely. The baby of that bunch, Jonathan, inexplicably has gotten up and headed off to school, after only attending one out of five days last week.

Jack had to go very early in order to be a cameraman for the morning announcements, I have an 11 o'clock appointment with Dr. C for Allen to discuss his focus meds, which have been nothing short of miraculous. His girlfriend's mother came by to pick him up yesterday after church, and Allen returned home later with an impressive notebook full of organized assignments. I adore his girlfriend who tells him the same thing that a parent would say, only she's dressed in a much prettier, appealing package.

Chuck worked on his truck in the garage with Jack, 10, nipping at his heels, asking a thousand questions, because he's a curious, nurtured little boy, while I organized my canning jars into soldier-like submission, rather than having them willy nilly lounging all over the kitchen, as I spent my rainy Sunday afternoon yelling at the TV because the Braves were losing, while nonstop cleaning the kitchen that stays trashed, because kids snack, pig out, eat three or so meals a day, and then simply walk off, oblivious to the resulting disarray.

A young whippersnapper of a man was discussing, on the Christian radio station this morning, a rebellion he wants to spark against low expectations.

Dude, I like it, but good luck with that in traumatized children.

I hit another radio button in frustration and heard this golden olden beauty that always soothes my soul and reminds me of the bottom line.

Forgiving Part 4789

Random photo by Allen while we were leaving church today, out the van window, messing with my phone as usual.

My pastor taught a great sermon on forgiveness, me having received the brunt end of so much violence and acting out, having to constantly forgive those that are mis-wired or otherwise socially challenged, mistakenly thinking that lashing out is proper conversation. I had no issue with any of his thoughts today. I've never been one for retaliation nor revenge, I don't even like any sort of confrontation, no dumb war games, preferring to be alone anyway, where it's usually more peaceful

Pastor Tony talked about forgiveness meaning you don't have to jump back in and trust the other person, nor enable them to continue their hurtful ways, nor should you set conditions on your terms of forgiveness - just do it and set up boundaries.

Boundaries?

I kept smarting off to Sarah through the service. Boundaries? I want space...lots of space, and then the boundaries can be set up outside of that space, but I want an inner moat as well, filled with alligators and gunned turrets on the top.

I'm tired of being used and abused, lied to and stolen from, my patience wearing very, very thin.

I do forgive, and then I'm done with it, moving on, preferring my avoidance techniques, slamming my gates shut, and staying isolated down my dirt road obsessing over the futility of industrial agriculture, and figuring out all the more ways that aversion will contribute to my hermit-like preferences.

I Said I Can Do This

A very major event I'd not blogged about was my Cristy moving out west this summer, selling off her possessions, renting out her house, and moving with her husband to Oregon where they're settling down nicely. She was here this week to tie up loose ends, visiting and hanging out here yesterday with her birth sister, Gina. They've been my kids for more'n twenty years, now they are 32 and 33 years old, both college educated and, of course, living on their own.

Their entire sibling group, and the resulting offspring, are sometimes just a little out of focus, prompting Cristy's husband to propose there might be those monkeys banging on cymbals in their head, distracting the hearer from listening.

Maybe so, I remember being right frustrated years and years ago about it, clueless at the time that it'd later be a behavior I could look back upon with fondness, compared to the severity and destruction that would follow with other adoptions.

We've not had any rain in nearly a month, after a fairly decently wet summer, peppers can take dry spells and I'm still harvesting them by the ton. I'd made a late planting of field peas, hoping for more to eat before the dreaded frost that usually strikes around the end of October. Cristy'd been in quite a bit colder weather out west, blasted here once again by the ninety plus degree temperatures of last week.

Now that my life has settled down so much, without having to constantly micromanage Paloma's outbursts and dangerous proclivities, I'm shocked at the condition of my house. I have some areas on the exterior that must be replaced, rotting away, rain gutters that've been torn down creating the moisture problem, I noticed another broken window, I need to repaint, as it looks as if folks wipe dirt on every wall, but the regular chores are more than enough to keep me very busy. Thank God, I love to be at home, thankfully I'm challenged by it all, rather than either overwhelmed or depressed.

I can do this.

I'm trying to focus more on what all I've managed to accomplish, and I'll risk sounding like the blowhard I really am, and admire the massive work I've already done lately.

In my mindset of literally handling and evaluating every single item I own, I filled my extended truck cab with kitchen stuff to take to Goodwill that I've not used in quite some time. The more I have, the more the kids will use up, rather than washing something to use. Do I want a ten foot pile to wash or a three foot stack?

So much of what we've used has been literally so terribly destroyed that Goodwill won't take it, leaving the dumpster as the only option. Good thing I've never invested much money in anything material.

The Adoption Counselor recently rued her earlier lack of understanding in raising her older children, and I totally agree, both of us wishing we'd known then what we know now.

The issue of trauma was not even mentioned in my earlier adoptions, it just wasn't recognized as an issue.

Trauma is stress run amuck. Stress dis-regulates our nervous systems - but for only a relatively short period of time. Within a few days or weeks, our nervous systems calm down and we revert to a normal state of equilibrium. This return to normalcy is not the case when we have been traumatized.

I was reading this web site on trauma, as usual bopping my head in agreement, wincing at the unbidden thought of what my children had endured in their early lives that eventually gave me such traumatized children, then I felt guilty for my impatience and lack of understanding of it all.

I'd once gone to a beauty salon, yeah I know, fruitless for a mud doggie like me, but there'd been a sign, "I'm a beautician, not a magician." and that thought has resounded with me ever since.

I'm a mama, not a psychiatrist - so not a mental health expert, or even a half decent mental health worker, I just stumble and muddle through, very grateful for outside help such as Dr, Mandy, Pathways, Dr. C and a host of other professionals who've held my trembling hand along the way.

Cristy was a very difficult teenager for me to raise, arriving here at 13, troubled and severely traumatized...but I didn't understand trauma then, really even the psychologist we used, a wonderful man who has since passed away, never used the word. I'm not sure my caseworker did either, although she was very adept at pinpointing precisely what we were dealing with, as I literally bombarded her with phone calls, questioning everything, second guessing myself, totally unaware of the true value of her education and social work resources, as she literally coached me along every land mine embedded step.

I then was parenting four children in that sibling group who'd already disrupted from an earlier adoption. My caseworker made certain it didn't happen to them again, the only credit I might grab here was in the fact that I did listen and follow directions, I truly loved the children, and I was young and unjaded, unaware that the stress we were encountering then would disrupt my marriage soon.

But here I am, likely all the better for everything, for what all I've learned.

I can do this.

A Pink Cake

As our temperatures leave the mid-90s, I'm seeing smiles all around me, and hearing startling comments about this being people's favorite season, what with football and sweaters looming in their futures.

Me? Oh, heck no, this represents dying leaves and a slain garden while being cooped up indoors and facing two cruddy coldish seasons including winter. I claim Springtime as the number one time of the year with infinite growing possibilities blooming in my excited face.

Wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I'd left a sullen Jonathan helping Grandma unload her car and I'd driven around to more than a dozen Friday yard sales, coming away with only two towels for a dollar each. We, as family, just have very few needs at the moment, all I found were fiction detective books, which make me inexplicably feel manipulated versus a good forensic tome, so I headed off to Grandparents Week to eat lunch at school with CJ and Kortney.

Hazel's three now, and Edith, Preston's mom, joined us last night for a birthday celebration. She'd recently given Tabby a ton of clothes, and truly, for this particular family, we'd had a very quiet non-drama night. I'd been excited all day, like a dadgum kid, knowing Sarah'd made a wonderful two layer cake from scratch.

Hazel had requested a pink cake, and Sarah'd obliged after first questioning the cooks and bakers at Earth Fare. They'd grabbed a beet, run it through the juicer and happily given Sarah a two ounce vial of it for free. Voila, a beautiful cake with no chemicals nor preservatives which we'd countered with Dominos pizza in my lazy attempt to prove how un-virtuous we can also be regarding our food choices.

A dramaless day...thank you God.

Time Bombs At Puberty

Y'all's comments will percolate in my mind all day, to be addressed at some point. The anonymous social worker was clear in stating the understanding that we need resources, and I've been mulling over exactly what resources I'd have wished to attain over the years, still stuck on the fact that there are so few possible, even in a dream world, that can "fix" the damage that'd been done to my children, long before I ever met the little darlings.

Please know how much your comments register with, and minister to, others. I'd read several last night, nodding my head vigorously in agreement, hey, that's my song you're singing.

What about Jonathan's school refusal? Do I have any hopes for a fix? Not really. A lack of motivation mixed with utter apathy and a complete unconcern, a disregard for any sort of a future that involves motion of any sort leaves me believing that inertia is his goal. The school social worker is stumped, over the years he's addressed this issue with Jonathan, as have therapists and school officials. Is it fixable? What would a fix look like? A grudging attendance in body only?

"You are breaking the law," I point out each day, "School attendance is mandatory."

"Like I care?" he answers, in a tone reserved for speaking to doddering old, uncool ladies.

He has a point. He doesn't care. If laws such as thievery and assault are ignored, why would anyone care about truancy? This is our reality. It stinks on every level.

Sometimes my brain bubbles over with enthusiasm and hope, sometimes the literal slammed doors are too stressful to muse, I keep myself busy with housework, chores, appointments, and everything else, so as not to fret over the seemingly surface hopelessness of it all.

I've often read sad comments over information willfully withheld before an adoption, or of outright lies that were told, and in our cases, I'd have to say that was never an issue. I read files with a fine-tooth comb, highlighting and questioning folks, as if I was suspiciously interviewing everyone for an interrogation career. My adoption worker asked even more questions and explained the red flags patiently to me.

There was really no way to have known what we'd later face. Adolescence is a monster surprise, when the raging out-of-control hormones explode, when the simmering issues blow out, sometimes that's the last time a kid will live permanently with us.

I want to hope that both Allen and JoJo have survived that initial time bomb known as puberty, they've seemed to respond right well, according to my own revised, lowered expectations, and with a psychiatrist, a psychologist, mild medications, tutors, and a host of other adults who've stepped up to help us, I believe I can get these two challenging boys through their high school years.

I have very high hopes at church right now as well, our new youth pastor is on fire, deeply committed, and experienced already. My children need this level for their spiritual development, even if they won't, or don't, acknowledge it.

JoJo happily hugs my deputy friend, a smiling woman who'd taught DARE at the elementary level, and had gotten to know my children in a non-threatening manner.

Fabian seems to have simmered down, in large part thanks to Big Joe, who has mentored him. On a surface level that might be a frightening thought, but Fabian has responded well to Joe's gruff exterior and experience. Who knew?

Edgar's still out to lunch, so to speak. I'm not thrilled enough to write positively at the moment, his birth sisters are still up and down, all across the board, I'm sending Vanessa the money she'll need for her GED, all the while praying for her to pass.

My own evening schedules are incredibly packed so tight that even I'm a little astonished, that I can leave JoJo, (13), Tony, (14) and Scotty (12) unattended at their middle school football game while I'm two miles away watching Sabrina cheer and Chuy make some plays on the JV field is rewarding enough. The other three boys were watching the game, a participation in a game is how I plan my attendance. I knew the middle school staff would be there in heavy force, they'd call me in a heartbeat if anyone acted up. A deputy texted me they'd talked with JoJo...now there's a babysitter for ya. I was texting scores to Daniel who's at Fort Gordon.

My U17 boys were with their soccer coach at practice down at the park, and again I spoke my gratitude aloud in prayer, that everything was within the surrounding couple of miles.

I'd taken Nando to the pediatrician, fearing a strep throat incident, as it's rampant in his school at the moment, negative test results thankfully, but I'd put him to bed early, leaving Mayra, who'll soon be 17, home with him while everyone else was obligated to attend events. Mayra's reward? She gets to accompany her boyfriend's mother to an away Varsity football game tonight.

Thank God for the Federal Adoption Assistance, in the form of Medicaid, which covers payments to pediatricians and dentists, but, unfortunately, not for orthodontia. I've almost paid off CW's mongo bill, my fourth child to wear braces, looks like JoJo might be next.

Jack, 10, was helping Grandpa, who we really don't like to leave unattended, as he's nearly bed-ridden now from the Pulmonary Fibrosis, he chooses a chair rather than his bed, but even a minimal exertion is too hard on his heart and lungs right now. Grandma had to run out of town until today, usually she's the one 24-7 tending to Pa, but Jack and I've taken over for right now.

Allen'd stayed after school for Art Club, further adding to my pick-up list, but all these positive endeavors are activities I do with a smile on my face, as they're all so ultimately rewarding for my children, as opposed to my many years of stress filled negatives overall.

But all along I'd really held on to a once-dreamt of higher plane of existence, one in which there were more successes. The astounding level of emotional problems that would later show themselves, manifested in what appeared to be nearly self-annihilation took me slap off my feet, cut down at the knees, bowled over in injuries and damages. If someone like me spoke at MAPP, my hollowed out eyes and shock ravaged soul would scare off even the caseworkers I believe.

But someone needs to parent the traumatized children. Why not me? Or you? My imaginary friend, Merilee, had said as much yesterday on Facebook. Her acting-out child is leaving the RTC to again live at home, Honey, you know I'm praying for y'all.

But, heck yeah, we need resources. My relief at not having to micro manage Paloma's attacks and rages is more than palpable. I'm nearly in a party mode, pass the ice cream and cake.

There are times when psychiatric intervention must be accessed for family safety. It does cut at a mother's soul when a child is nearly unparentable, it doesn't seem as if that's even possible, that a teenager could be so dangerous...but it is so.

"Is Jonathan being violent?" the school social worker asked me, and it was with great relief that I could reply, "No, not really, but he's kept on a super short line-of-sight supervision," as I truly do not trust him at all.

I Still Don't

The MAPP class blog post prompted a social worker, with 30 years experience, to ask my readers, in the comments section, if they have any suggestions to better teach the MAPP class. I, for one, do not. That's my entire point, I have no answers. I'm as buffaloed as anyone. But please, use your experiences to respond to her, or him. I don't know who it is.

My own excellent MAPP class, taken some 20 years ago, was taught by very knowledgeable folks who laid it out reasonably; the good, the bad, and the ugly, but this was before the advent, or rather the onslaught, of crack babies and meth head parents, even society as a whole seems to have nose dived since then.

It's the same with my blog, I don't wanna frighten anyone away from adopting, I'm blogging merely for my own need to process our events, that I daily strike a chord with your events only tells us all how much more we need to learn and to do, I suppose.

I never thought we'd ever have had to endure what we've encountered. Maybe I took the it can't happen here mental and emotional approach, feeling I set into place many precautions and had taken preventive measures, but we've been devastated at times, nearly destroyed, and literally consumed with grief.

It hasn't been easy.

Sometimes I feel like an automaton, not even human, as I'm rarely allowed to have any reasonable emotions. I just gotta get up each day and keep on keeping on, in spite of shock, horror or sadness.

I'm an adult. I should be able to do this, and I do. But what about the children? They don't have my coping mechanisms, nor my inner emotional strength. And clearly, I feel as if I'm in the will of God, that He strengthens me, that this is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life. It's kinda hard to argue with God, although I do.

Jonathan's school refusals blow me away. He sits up, takes his Abilify, which should even him out, stares at me with a flat affect, literally darkens, or rather his mood does, frighteningly so, his older birth brother who's going through enough anger issues of his own, but is a really good role model overall, tries reasoning with him, but therein lies the crux of this issue.

There is no reasoning possible.

My words, or his therapist's input about cause and effect or natural consequences means nothing to him. Nothing. He doesn't want to go to school, and he simply will not go.

I'm built very much like this guy, annoyingly logical and reasonable. If I don't overspend, I won't have a money problem. Never drinking eliminates hangovers, and no drugs means good health. If this, then that.

I, of course, think the whole world ought to think and act that way also, but I know it's not the case. I'm very choleric. But that's where I come from, most of my children do not.

I talked at length with Paloma's therapist yesterday, as they're seeing her aggressive behaviors, yet she's denying she's a fighter.

"That's not what your files indicate," the therapist had stressed during their sessions.

But on one hand it's kinda true. Here she did not fight, she attacked. She lashed out at others who she knew she could bully; the younger, the sweeter, the unaggressive folks. There, in a different environment, she's coming up against bigger, meaner and equally full of issues clientele, plus the staff is huge, trained and able to correctly apply restraint techniques, as opposed to me, just the mama, who would be cooking dinner, signing folders, or otherwise totally uninterested in joining an affray, preferring to defuse an impending explosion.

I'll head down there next week for another therapy session.

"I don't fricking make hearts over my i's," Allen stressed last night, after I'd complimented him regarding an organized notebook that I knew his sweet girlfriend had helped him with, since she'd told me at the soccer game. She's an excellent influence over him, a very smart young lady, Beta Club material.

But I, while not circling doodles, do make an effort to document Jonathan's severity. I'll call the school social worker today, he's very aware of Jonathan's proclivities, having butted heads with him over this issue before. I'll add these dates to the list the court has, I'm staying in phone contact with Pathways, and his teachers are aware of what's going on.

We didn't cover this in MAPP, there are a billion issues that'll surface as I raise my children, a ten week course didn't have time to cover everything, but it did change my perspective immensely. I didn't initially have the empathy I'd later need, my naivete needed an education, that the traumatized children would not comprehend that I was the good guy, only that I, as a mother, represented their losses in a physical form that would take years and years to overcome.

That I'd have kids complain every single night I cooked supper from scratch, that they'd refuse to help with chores, or break vacuum cleaners so they wouldn't have to help, that there'd be CPS reports on me, that I'd be absolutely unable to consequence a child who willfully broke windows, that my house would literally be torn down from within, figuratively so as well, raising future felons was not in my playbook of expectations, I was so woefully unprepared for much of what was to follow.

But NO ONE would ever willingly sign up for what I, and you all, have faced. No one. They'd be stooopid if they did.

All my readings, shelves and shelves of books there in the UGA library regarding social work issues, my 25 years in the public school system, or decades of parenting, bizarre experiences, stark raving crazy nights, white-knuckled fear events, and weeks, months and years of good times...oh, y'all, I had no clue and still don't.

I'm just bumbling through, praying I make good decisions, and loving my children who usually don't wanna be cared for, as it goes against their very deep-seated self loathing that results from seemingly being rejected by their birth parents. When their perceptions change, usually years and years later, when they comprehend it was NOT THEIR FAULT, then slow, positive changes can emerge.

In the meantime, here I am...

I've Never NOT Cared About My Future

In spite of this morning's Debbie Downer post, I am still very much pro-adoption. The Adoption Counselor offered an interesting perspective to this also.

I'd accompanied Deysi, 33, and Ellie to Alexander's birthday lunch at his school, getting away from there just in time to attend another meeting at another school about In School Youth Services, which is a Federal Workforce Investment Act that's being offered to a few of my high schoolers who''ve demonstrated an academic need.

A bunch more paperwork for me, but it adds tutoring and summer jobs for them, well worth my time to jump through the hoops.

Phone calls regarding restraints being used on Paloma to stop her from hurting herself, an email telling me her birth brother had been removed from the group home, returned to a mental health facility due to his behaviors, evoking deep sighs of understanding from me, as I've spent eight years dealing with those as well. It's out of my hands now, thanks to an understanding judge, and an utter all-consuming need on my part to keep my family safe.

A CA-Rappy soccer evening, one of the worst we've ever experienced, and it was all totally my own children's faults. Totally, and it cost them both games.

Lackadaisical efforts from Scotty and Jonathan, a major meltdown from Chuy, who was then rude to the new youth pastor who'd come to watch them play, arguments on the ride back to the house, and then Scotty walked in the door and got into a wrestling match with Tony, dissipating his anger. Tony always knows how to push buttons.

By ten o'clock I found myself yelling at the TV, questioning accusatorily to the Braves, who weren't listening, over their own participation in and conspiracy to ruin my evening. Daniel'd sent me a photo one of his buddies had taken inside the locker room...how in the world did he get that?

Jonathan refused school yet again, doesn't care a whit about his future, as I lay all out all sorts of possible scenarios, I'm met with a blank countenance and a mumbled, "It's better than going to school," response.

Phone calls to his Pathways Counselor, me fretting over this dark spell he's found himself once again mired in, making his future not so enticing, but I feel helpless to be able to get into his head and inject any sort of knowledge or comprehension over what he's doing to his own future. He just does not care. Doesn't care at all.

I've never not cared about my future.

I Have No Answers

I do hear from many of you, often asking for advice which I never give, as I do not feel qualified. I do not know enough about your life, nor about any potential children.

However, there've been three recently who came to the conclusion to not foster or adopt, usually not to add any more children to their family.

In each case I certainly agreed, especially with the one I'm quoting in this post as she had several young adopted children already.

However I'm equally as aware, of the many incredibly successful children that I, and you all, have already adopted and raised. Indeed Daniel'd tagged me in a photo yesterday for all of his Facebook friends to see regarding our 19th anniversary and his very positive, loving and appreciative feelings towards me. I wouldn't have missed raising him for the world. The majority of my children have been wonderful. I repeat, the majority of my children are superb kids, who've blessed me, changed me and taught me so much.

Yet I have a sibling group of five, adopted 8 years ago, that has repeatedly damaged our family through attacks, assaults, lies, thefts, destruction, hatefulness, bizarre behaviors, and severe aggressiveness. One child, the middle child, might be the only one who will make it through their childhood without DJJ involvement, RTC, psychiatric facilities, or lockups.

I have no answers. I grapple too. Every. Single. Day.

I asked this lady if I could share what she'd written, as it succinctly states what potential adoptive or foster families will face, not might face, but way more than likely will face.

Something has to change drastically, if we're, as a society, going to continue forth into this arena. Too many people are suffering as it is. Sad, traumatized, damaged children, through no fault of their own, and well-meaning, naive, clueless families who are unknowingly walking into Hell.

Below is her edited letter:

I continued to read books, blogs (including yours) and websites, and spoke to a childhood friend through Facebook who adopted from the foster system about 20 years ago. Her story was that she specifically asked for children who had NOT been sexually abused, and she ended up with three of them who had been horrifically sexually abused, because her caseworker was dishonest with her. She was 24 when she adopted those kids, ages 4, 6 and 8, and has had a lifetime of hardship with them, as you well can sympathize.

We went to our first MAPP class. We were told, flat out and right up front, that 80% of the kids (that they know of) come into foster care having been, at the very least, sexually abused. That is 80% that is confirmed, probably more than that, in reality.

They also advised that it is almost guaranteed that you will have a report made against you at least once in the first 6 months. The speaker said that he has only one family that did not get a case report filed against them in the first six months, and that's because it was a medically needy home.

They pointed out a recent local case where an newly adopted foster child reported that her new father was having sex with her, and the father was removed from the home. As it turned out, her birth father always began his molestation of her with a nightly rubbing of the arms while cuddling and watching TV. When her newly adoptive father would cuddle and rub her forearm in a similar fashion, she assumed it meant her wanted sex with her as well, and reported him. So the new dad was removed from the home and from the other kids, all for naught.

They also warned that if you have birth (or, in our case, adopted from birth) kids in the home, the foster system kids will absolutely resent the birth kids and will probably teach them all sorts of dastardly deeds of misbehavior to get them into trouble and in the hopes of creating parent/child strife and having the the birth kids removed from the only home they've ever known.

They also were very hesitant when I asked if it would be allowed for potential adoptive parents to review medical/behavioral/case histories of the potentially matched kids and, with names and other identifiers redacted, allow our own very trusted pediatrician to review those same records to check for flaming red flags in the file. That scared me as well.

And please don't feel bad, as if you talked us out of adopting. It really was the MAPP class that scared us....and they even said, "if what you hear tonight scares you off...all the better, because you will need to have a stronger stomach for this than for anything else in your life. And we intend to weed out those that simply cannot do it."

Here's To The Next Twenty Years

I got the peas shelled, blanched and frozen, and need to finish up with the okra this morning before heading out to my grandson's birthday bash at Pre-K. Alexander's turning 5, and pretty Alyssa, Big Joe's daughter, was in the newspaper yesterday.

A 6 p.m. soccer game, in which it is still 95 degrees, here right before the onset of autumn, was a little disconcerting, but no more so than the Phillies defeating the Braves last night. I think I have bigger World Series hopes than they do. Today it'll cool down to 94, I'm totally immune to the heat, enjoying it now, wishing I could store it within me for winter.

Nando, not even nine years old for a few more weeks, kicked an amazing, midfield goal last night. Wowza boy, was I blown away, or what?

I put away 6 more quarts of Fire Hot Pepper Sauce yesterday, and had a 'who's man enough to eat the most FHPS' round at supper. I did not win, didn't come close to either Lily or Martin's ability, but the fiery feel of it lingered throughout the entire game period.

No drama, Jonathan went to school properly yesterday, homework got done, Jack and Nando have to immediately get their reading time accomplished right after school or it'd never get done with all the demands around here, two soccer games tonight, this is all so doable.

But back to food issues..."Mom, you think everything is carcinogenic," I was told.

The real issue here is one's higher order vocabulary expression. Who knew?

But back to their statement, I'd counter with, "No, only the non-food crap that is passed off at the grocery store as food, when in reality it is cornstarch and chemicals with less than zero nutritive value."

Folks don't even know the difference anymore between real food and non-food. "Well," they'd whine, "I like McDonald's french fries." What percentage actual potato is involved in that piss-poor deep fried oil conglomeration? That ain't real food. It is "potatoes, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, natural flavor (beef, wheat and dairy sources), dextrose, sodium acid pyrophosphate (to preserve natural color). Cooked in partially hydrogenated vegetable oils (may contain partially hydrogenated soybean oil and/or partially hydrogenated corn oil and/or partially hydrogenated canola oil and/or cottonseed oil and/or sunflower oil and/or corn oil). Contains derivatives of wheat and dairy. "

Slice your own tater and fry it if you must, but oh Honey, a better treat is thinly sliced home grown taters lightly brushed with olive oil and seasoned with your choice of real herbs and baked in the oven, go heavy on the crushed garlic and you'll think you're slap in hog heaven. I'm all for overeating, but let's chow down on the real stuff. For dessert? Hop over to Sarah's blog, choose and enjoy. My favorite is this one.

And that purple cloud bruise on my heel? I'd stepped on a mouse trap, almost correctly dodged the slam, but it'd nicked me enough to spur a ferocious howl. In my haste, I'd totally forgotten what had happened until I noticed the bruise later. What a klutz.

Sarah has a tendency to move too fast as well, this may not bode well for Hazel, if she's inherited our speed and lack of agility. My advance apologies darling girl.

I'd almost wanted to blog a real whiner about all this relentless housework, but for all y'all who truly, deeply believe in God's calling on your life, that we're here to glorify Him, well, here's where I got nailed for my initial grumpiness today.

Oh yeah, servant leadership and all that good stuff, bopped on the head again, wasn't I? A daily event for a hard head like me.

But big whoop, my kids still love me, clumsy buffoon that I can be. Megan had taken this picture of their raggedy ole mama, with her pj shiny britches and her THANKS BOBBY shirt that's now torn mid-section. I couldn't take a decent picture if I was paid to do so, let's face it, I am what I am, and not unhappy about it at all. This is what 56 feels like.

Now I'm beginning my 20th year of being their mama, I'd tried to tell Daniel how fast the next 20 would fly, then he'd then be in his 40s, I'd be looking at 80 and probably still in this tshirt, still missing Bobby Cox, the greatest baseball manager of all time.

Where Food Comes From...

Sarah's so correct in her latest blog post. I pondered my jalapenos today, dragging in 25 pounds of peppers, I didn't weigh either the okra nor the peas, but jalapenos don't come from a can with a label, they come from a plant that's simple to grow and can take less than great soil. A fail safe plant, no kidding, so simple.

Kids can tell us all about Justin Bieber or ICarly, but have no clue as to the origin of that which they stuff their faces with, much of what isn't really food anyway, but rather foodstuff.

Vote for Sarah here today please, you do have to join Foodbuzz to vote, but it's no biggie, easy to do.

Dumb Cheese Grater

If I have three cheese graters, a kid will get another one out, rather than wash the one in the sink.

It's taken me the last 25 years to figure that out.

When I only had one child, we only had one cheese grater. A bonded, nurtured child has the ability anyway to think ahead, or to consider the welfare of someone else. Sarah's chore was to do the dishes...yeah, both dishes. We were very, very minimalist in those days. I miss the simplicity of that, of course.

I've again winnowed us down to one cheese grater, and I'm considering minimalizing our kitchen stuff even more so, due to the fact that the more we have, the more they'll misuse.

Children like mine are absolutely over-stimulated and overwhelmed anyway by too many choices, preferring structure, and the boundaries that they'll push out on nonstop.

I pondered Sarah's post deep into the night, wanting to take all the credit for teaching her, so long ago, every single thing I'd learned in reading Frances Moore Lappe, Adelle Davis and all the many other books of the 60s and the 70s that shaped and influenced us, but then I also thought of all she'd taught me since then, sharing her own food writer books, blogs, thoughts and knowledge.

Vickie mentioned on Facebook that she'd watched Food, Inc and was struck hard by it. Yep, it should be required viewing for everyone, I mean heck fire, we all eat, don't we?

Jonathan refused to attend church yesterday. Back when he was on probation, this infraction kinda sorta feel under the directive to follow the rules of the house as one can't be charged with church truancy. Here it's a control issue, of course, not a one of them comprehending the Big Picture of obeying parents, or even of personal salvation, which is a deep belief of mine that ought to at least be respected in that it got them out of foster care, due to Mama's salvation, into a family they could rebel against 24-7.

Since I filed truancy charges last week, I feel fairly sure, from experience, that Jonathan will again go on probation, I feel even more sure that we need to up his Pathways Counseling sessions, and I do like his therapist a lot. My kids gravitate to the young and pretty ones that've counseled them here, contrasting them obviously with me - the old, tough one - and I'm fine with that. We can do good cop, bad cop.

Miss Kim from DJJ once fell into the young and pretty category, but her toughness has startled some kids around here. She has confused the kids with their category placement ideas, just as I, too, threw them off balance after the UGA Recycling Initiative, by stopping at a convenience store and buying them each a GatorAde.

I never do that.

But keeping them a little off-balance helps at times, especially when there's a happy surprise in store.

I fed them HFCS.

Sorry 'bout that.

But just as I choose Krispy Kreme at times, it's not about self-denial, austerity, nor ironclad rules, there's room for grace, rewards and treats.

I don't argue with Jonathan, I don't quarrel, nor have a cow, that'd only feed into his many other issues. I did, however, compliment the teenagers effusively who'd performed two service projects on a Saturday, plus had attended Sunday School and church, way to go kids, all indicators of good self-discipline...without which one will struggle in life way more than is necessary.

The numerical odds regarding Sarah's food blog contestants are impressive, for her to forge ahead is admirable, I'll link soon where she'll need votes, and if you'd do so for her please, we'd greatly appreciate it.

It's been nearly ten years since my parents moved here, selling their beautiful house that'd been on the cover of a Hampton, Virginia magazine. Initially my mother was more than a little surprised at my isolationist tendencies, how I'd happily count the number of days I'd get to stay home, to not have to leave the property, to not go to town.

After her extremely busy week, she, too, had retreated into her nightgown/housedress, not leaving here since last Thursday, resting, puttering, tending to Grandpa and her gardens, recharging her batteries, reading, and enjoying her own company while she worked outside.

There truly is healing in retreating from the world, in being alone with one's thoughts, contemplating events, issues and situations.

Today is looking good for me, a day of getting to be alone, not having to leave the property, Lord knows I have more than enough to do, I best get started, especially happy with the fact that Jonathan got up, dressed, and headed to school. If I made a big deal about it, he'd shut down and regress, dive back into his bed, pull the covers up over his head, angry at the world.

Yep, it's just me and my dogs today, while Daniel turns 25 years old, 90 miles away from his mama.

I think I'll go pick and eat some wild muscadines, a Southern delicacy, for breakfast.

Happy Birthday Daniel, I know you know how much I love you.

Children Change You

Nineteen years ago tonight my then husband and I were packing to go to El Paso to meet Yolie, Daniel and Joe. It was fixing to be Sarah's first day of college, UGA of course, and she was soon to be engaged to a really nice guy, who she later obviously dumped, not even knowing Preston was ahead for her.

I didn't know that my marriage was also soon to collapse, that he wasn't strong enough to deal with the 11 children, he sure as heck would've never survived what was later to come, and at this point I'd not yet even seen a picture of my three new children, other than one in which their faces were blacked out by a faulty copy machine, and Yolie then towered over her young brothers.

The next day when I arrived in Texas, Daniel was having his sixth birthday party that he didn't want me to come to, didn't want to go to Georgia, and surely didn't want to leave his very nice foster mother. Yolie was even more vehement in her desire to not go live with some farming fool in Georgia. Joe didn't care either way and was goofy and fun the first night, rambunctious the next, while Daniel warmed up quickly, but Yolie kept her arms crossed angrily and her lips blown out, indicating her total disapproval regarding this new white mama.

Nineteen years sure can fly by.

This afternoon Daniel wanted to watch the Falcons and I wanted to watch the Braves, so we met after the games over at Yolie's house to eat birthday cake that his gorgeous and brilliant girlfriend, Megan, had made.

I'd walked into the house with my "Happy Anniversary!" shouts, facing a VERY different sibling group some 19 years after the fact. Yolie'd built her dream house right here in my armpit, she and Daniel have graduated from UGA, and Joe's got a great job at the hospital that he loves, plus his daughter, Alyssa, who's almost six years old now.

So I was thinking 'bout how children change you, I'm so not the same person I was 37 years ago when I was expecting Sarah, who wrote a superb post today about why she eats as she does...simply because of her children and the world she wants them to grow up in.

Soon she'll need votes regarding this contest, and I, of course, hope you'll cast yours for her. Daniel offered to get his Army buddies behind her, and Megan's Master's Degree program is in Food and Nutrition, hopefully some level-headed locavores campaigning there as well.

Yolie now works for the adoption agency director that was her adoption caseworker back then. 99% of Daniel's closest friends even now are the ones he'd gone to school with here in this county, and Joe was shocked and surprised tonight to see the folders I'd kept on his high school football accomplishments, all his report cards, school pictures, awards, and other memorabilia. A young picture of him in his football uniform standing with his best friend Curtis...who Marcela later married.

None of my kids initially wanted to be adopted, they never wanted to have to have endured what all they went through in their early childhood trauma-ridden pasts, nor foster care, nor shelters. Duh.

Yolie and her brothers were then my third sibling adoption, five more sibling groups followed, plus the three grandchildren I've raised.

I do have the perspective now though to remember the H E Double Hockey Sticks we've been through, to come out on the other side, a happy Abuelita and a proud mama.

When Daniel sends me the other picture to use tomorrow, the one in which I'm included, and Joe's smiling, I'll use it here.

A Bouncer

Not wistfulness on my part at all, but I gotta say, I wouldn't want to be anything else, but a happy 56 years old right now. As I scan the internet news each morning, or even look at TV shows, the intense pressure to be young, hip and cool is a crushing load I sure wouldn't wanna face. I couldn't pull it off anyway, even if I were in my 20s, the relief and the comfort one finds in their 50s is priceless.

Such freedom to be and to do what is uncool in the eyes of others. "Mark my words," I'd told those who're chomping at the bit to run the streets, "you'll likely end up gardening too."

They look at me like I'm a nutbird, yet I sure have seen it happen over the years.

I truly thought we were all that last night, again it was Emily, her sister and I, all in our 50s, with a bunch of young bucks, managing to scour our very large section of the stands in hardly 30 minutes, filling massive bags full of empty bottles and cans to be recycled, a give back moment that I rarely participate in anymore, due to all the heavy time demands at home.

"That was quick," I'd crowed proudly to Emily, only to notice another group finishing just as quickly, yet full of grey-hared women in their 70s.

JoJo was astonished at them. "Honey, I'd be grey too if I didn't color my hair," I pointed out to him, the one who thinks I'm young enough to be a bouncer in my own home, the one who depends on me to stop him from hurting his ownself each day as he grapples with his temper and his zero impulse control issues.

"Then why is your hair black underneath?" he'd reasonably asked, as my hair is almost always up in a clip, kinda blonde on top, the dark undersides clearly visible. A chocolate cake with lemon frosting?

"I dunno, vitamins I suppose," I lamely answered, but it's probably true.

We'd picked Tabby up from a birthday party celebration, the adopted daughter of her guidance counselor, the two girls have been in class together since kindergarten, and this evening Tabby'd wanted to go to UGA with us after the party.

Sabrina, Mayra, CW and Martin had already spent most of day working with our new youth pastor at a Habitat for Humanity house, and the fact that they'd willingly dove in to participate in yet another service project, won them Big Mama's Gold Star.

Allen's anxiety being off the charts, he'd chosen to stay home for both events, dithering in circles around me all day long, peppering me with questions he'd never bother to listen to the answers to, as he was off and running with his next nervous blurt.

I'm allowing Sabrina the very rare excuse to miss church today, going with her boyfriend's family to the Atlanta Zoo instead, at 7:30 this morning, our temperatures still baking us all in the low 90s, have fun with that today.

I'd just stepped away from blogging to greet his parents, super nice folks who've been in Georgia for years and years from Mexico, speaking English way better than I do, what with my very Southern grandparents and great grandparents, for many generations back, all true blue Southerners with a propensity, like others in the deep South, for mangling sentence construction and choosing odd phrases with their heavy drawls.

Turning back around to herd the kids to church, dragging feet and acting as a group as if I've surprised them with this routine we've followed every minute they've lived here with us.

"What time do we leave?" I've already been asked 14 times, as if we've ever varied from our 8:45 departure for the nine o'clock service.

Saves The Day

"Mom," JoJo piped up, "Who's your favorite super hero?"

I remain completely flabbergasted that they don't know who Mighty Mouse is, as I clearly remember in the 1950s, going across the street to my friends, Mickey and Rickey Roger's house, to watch this on Saturday mornings. Most people on our street didn't even have a TV back then. We did have a telephone, and it's number began JU8-5755, if area codes were then invented, I sure was unaware.

Standing in a paved road, not a busy one, but a residential one, at ten in the evening, swooning over a piece of cake given to me by my sweet, beautiful friend, Barbie, but made from scratch by a friend of hers, I'd had another piece several months ago, and it almost nearly rivaled a Miss Cecelia cake or that of Sarah or Yolie, when made from scratch. A bunch of clauses here seemingly going nowhere except in the labyrinth of my mind that was on a sugar high.

I swanny, my grandmother might've blurted, now I hear her words coming outta my big mouth, but dadgum if I'd not spent an entire Friday night driving three groups of children to and from three different events. The Braves-Mets game blaring at home, the Braves inching out of their slump, Jack calling me with the scores, and I was Facebooking with some Philly fans over the next match up scheduled for next week.

I can do busy, and do it happily, little to no negativity involved at all, JoJo bounded into Middle School Madness at the Parks Department, hugging a pretty deputy, and behaving decently.

Jonathan is deep into one of his very dark spells, refusing school for three out of five days this week, glaring angrily at me when I awaken him each day, the disturbed, glazed veil over his eyes apparent. I filed truancy charges at the juvenile court, it's been five absences in hardly five weeks of school, a three year history of this, his aggression at home is increasing as well. He's my height, still growing upwards like a weed, and he outweighs me already by 25 pounds, He cannot be forced to go to school, it took three deputies one time to get him there.

Jonathan," I'll stress, without raising my voice, "That's assault," when he hits someone, always someone younger, as he's a bully like that.

"I really don't care," he'll say defiantly, and I truly do know that he absolutely does not care at all. It's utterly sad to dwell upon for me.

There's no inner normal fear of a lockup situation, none at all, his baseline of emotions is fairly flat, and that scares me as well for his future. I'm starting to wonder overall, if on some level that I truly do not comprehend, a lockup situation is comforting to folks with severe mental or emotional issues?

I know for a fact that Joey is happy with three hots and a cot, an absolute lessening of any, and all, responsibilities in life. He has friends, as such, there in that it is an equally challenged peer group that generally just wants to loiter and shoot the breeze all day long, versus those who'd get a job, and function on some level slightly above marginal.

Sharon's told about her older sons that feel as if jail time is the mark of a successful urban kinda guy. How are we, as parents, to fight that mindset?

Our new youth pastor has organized a service project today, and predictably Allen and JoJo are melting down over either the concept of 'service to others' or 'work.' Lazy, anxiety-ridden, and fearful of challenging situations, they're balking and arguing with everyone over nothing at all.

Should I just grieve in advance for their futures? Or take a more optimistic approach and continue on expecting good things? I think I'll take the GTR, the good things route, as it lifts my own spirits, and if the leader is happy, hopefully it'll flow down to those that look up to her. In the real world that'd be the case, in our world... not so much each day.

I need to find joy where I can, and usually I do so. Finding a John Maxwell book for a buck at a yard sale helps, Developing The Leader Within You, an author my own mentor, Pastor Tracy, adores. I'm equally as happy with the one buck part. Such a blast of a book, this blogger used two posts in which to review it.

But get this, for every step forward into my own recovery towards normalcy, someone pushes back hard. My sweet Lily'd been working diligently and super intelligently on a Rubik's cube we'd bought for a quarter at a yard sale. Leaving it unattended for a brief minute, Scotty, AKA MR. I Like To Break Things, peeled off all the colors, leaving her with a totally black cube. As I calmly, logically, choosing my words carefully, addressed this issue with Scotty, he had a very predictable meltdown, as if everything in the world is MY fault.

Such is life here.

Yolie'd stressed that I need to shield myself emotionally, a form of self-preservation, so that I not implode, nor grow another stress tumor requiring surgery, nor wallow in heart-broken misery over lame-brained choices that I have no control over at all. I agree, but it's easier said than done, I have to work on disengaging from deep within my soul.

Flung Aside

I've really been pushing my mind through the different scenarios that will result in the adult life of those who've not understood any natural consequences as children. As a parent, I'd always felt it was incumbent upon me to get that one point across somehow.

Learning now that it's nearly futile, that I should instead be concentrating on the parent-child relationship that's built on their shaky self-esteem, that they equate behavior re-direction as criticism towards them as a person, has just made it all the more thorny for me. My mind doesn't think that way, yet theirs does, so it behooves me to try harder to comprehend this level of thinking.

Their very wiring has made this a forefront issue, plus the complete lack of early childhood nurturing, and a further push into the far beyond was the extreme neglect and abuse that resulted in this early and completely devastating childhood trauma - recovering from all that will take the rest of one's life, or so it's beginning to appear to me.

I remember my own shock years ago when I'd taken away Pepe's Nintendo privilege, over an infraction for hitting someone, trying the old school approach that works so beautifully with neurotypical children, appropriating this very fitting adjective from The Adoption Counselor. Pepe'd looked at me with a blank countenance and had viciously ripped the wires out of the console, an "I'll show you," moment. "Here's what I think of your stupid, arbitrary rules," leaving the more normal children to gape in shock at the now broken Nintendo.

Because that area of the brain has not formed properly, or worse yet, has been damaged, it all truly does appear capricious and arbitrary to the child. So years later, finally comprehending the tip of this iceberg, I'm still unsure as how best to proceed, as I have enough adult children who frighten me terribly with their inability to function in a world based on natural consequences - the good and the bad.

There's no way on earth I'd run a home eventually comprised of such adults. The blatant, nonstop thievery alone would shatter my good nature, the self-medication which is only a euphemism for drugs and alcohol, the sad deep-seated propensity toward criminal activities, the victimization and the victim mindset, the continuous deceit, destruction, chaos, and defiance would eventually kill me, there's no doubt about that.

I've been damaged enough in my many attempts to even try and help these non-functioning adults, adults only in the chronological span of years.

Enabling, or in any other way, shape or form, preventing them by my very presence from growing up and accepting some form of personal responsibility would not help anyone...yet it is heart wrenching and gut-destroying to learn of their many mistakes, faltering, failures and hurts.

I do not have any answers, just some comprehension now, of how incredibly complicated this can be, the eventual replication of where they once came from, or the poverty produced by chronic umemployment, or the very unemployability is mind blowing.

Homelessness, dead-end or dangerous relationships, running from bills, stealing, jail and prison time, constant court dates due to multiple arrests, and a complete inability to understand that it is one's behaviors that is causing all these results is staggering to me.

It is a small majority of my grown children that continue on in this way, forcing the rest of us to keep our distance for our own safety.

Maybe it's enough to know they'd once been loved and taken care of, I can demonstrate the fruits of self-discipline in my own life, but enforcing what they perceive to be harsh discipline, or slavery even, their warped terminology, has resulted in banged up walls, injuries to me, police visits, busted furniture, and broken windows.

This is why I do all the dishes, all of the cooking, all of the laundry and all of the cleaning, making a big complimentary deal out of anyone who so deigns to ever lift a finger to help. My attached children, which is the majority, do pitch in and help somewhat, but they're gone to school all day long, I'm home, I might as well get it done, allowing them free time for homework, soccer and other activities that will help them in the long run.

The loud, destructive minority though are those that truly baffle me, as I can't even begin to put myself into their shoes without feeling dejection and complete despair - which is literally how they must feel - Bingo, Cindy, there's your answer - now go and learn to show empathy over this condition that truly is not a choice in their lives.

I think I was obsessing this morning about this as I've noticed several small bruises now fading totally away on my upper arms from the last two battles here, fights that we'd quelled, no kid got hurt in their own explosion, yet I'm bruised in my attempts to maintain normal peace? This rarely happens here anymore, for which I'm very, very glad.

These bruises on me will disappear, they're barely discernible even now, but my memory of them will not. This so isn't the first time this has happened, but it certainly cements my firm resolve to not enable grown kids. I wasn't hit, I wasn't attacked, I was merely slung aside, but flung right hard nonetheless.

Who's Weird?

“I lived in solitude in the country and noticed how the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind,” or so says the physicist genius, Albert Einstein.

Creativity isn't my strong point, not in the way of a beautiful garden, productivity is my goal, and therein I find truly such inner peace in solitude. Funny, isn't it? That I ended up with so little of what I treasure?

Nearly zero garden time and even less solitude.

In my long ago misspent youth, I loved a loud stereo, dance halls, and the then very exciting cacophony of life, whereas nowadays I also enjoy my Ipod, but more often than not, I happily listen to silence, feeling that it heals me from within, my very jangled emotions and demanding lifestyle simply, and constantly, absolutely craves peace.

My gardens are still feeding me, yet are overrun with tangled weeds, I concentrated this season the most on my back gardens, never even beginning to catch up to the front areas, "You sure do need some help," my therapist friend proclaimed over last weekend, "A maid service? Landscapers?"

Or better yet, due to my own very innate preferences, I'd rather continue to muddle through, feeling the vast sense of personal accomplishment I internally receive from getting things done, in spite of all my other daily, and sometimes ridiculous, demands.

Obviously I don't get it all done, the fun's merely in the attempt.

Each day is a silly sackful of choices, lists, appointments, or time constraints, but each night I go to bed feeling as if I've gotten a great deal done, even though my undone mocks me. I mean, hey, just ensuring 14 other people are fed at least three times a day is no easy feat...and then there are dishes, laundry, and a thousand other interconnected, dumb chores.

"What do you do for you?" I'm asked constantly by outsiders, as if I'm abnormal for not making sure I get a manicure, of whatever other women do for themselves.

"I garden," I automatically respond, and find the predictable reflection of my answer in their eyes, as they try and veil their Bo-ring telltale acknowledgement. Well jimdoggy, it IS fun for me.

"Do you have $15 so I can take a gymnastics class after practice today?" Sabrina'd warily asked me.

"Well yeah I do," I explained the latte factor to her, how adhering to this principle then results in freed up bucks to purchase experiences, rather than something she'd just pee out anyway.

Baffled and bored by this story, she thanked me, took the proffered check, and skipped off for her hour of learning.

The kids went to church youth group, thoroughly liking this new youth pastor. I'd spent yesterday morning with Hazel, Mae and Ray, cringing earlier when two of my children again did not pass the written test for their learner's permit, another reason why I don't push getting their license the minute they turn 16.

Why is JoJo picking socks up and smelling them? Walking in circles telling me about a dream where I'd dropped him off alone somewhere and he had to figure out the task that'd get him back home.

"Ya don't think it exhibits your own inner sub-conscious fears, do you?" I'd asked him. "Have I EVER dropped you off randomly somewhere?"

"No ma'am," he yapped back, unwilling to comprehend that I won't abandon him, just as he won't abandon his abandonment fears, hanging on to them simply because they are comforting in their consistent constancy.

I get my truck back today with its new fuel pump and rebuilt dash panel. I'm so excited, I've missed it so bad, I might just kiss it on its grill.

"I'm the son of a weirdo," Allen informed me.

Weird because I have 21 son maybe...

It Makes Me Smile

Honestly, so many thoughts racing through my head, containing them here on paper, so to speak, is enough of a rodeo for me each morning, the words shooting rapidly outta me, it'd be nice if I were a more concise editor, but I ain't, and this is the result.

Grandma'd taken Tabby, Nando and Jack to the circus last night, while I took everyone else to the soccer fields for two different games. My 4-9 p.m. schedule is packed every single evening, and requires careful and specific planning, the bottom line is everyone must be fed and have water bottles packed, because stopping anywhere to buy anyone anything would slap wipe out cash reserves, plus the wastefulness would grate on my nerves.

I was like this many moons ago when it was just Sarah and I, I've always been thrifty and full of plans. Sarah'd sent me this article about the lady I wanna grow up to be, I'm certain this winter I'll re-read this book for the third time as well as her new one.

Coming in last night at nine, allowing a heyday again in the kitchen, as everyone was hungry, we noticed one of our dogs had a swollen face, as if she'd been stung by a bee. I hoped that was all it was, a snake bite could be deadly, but she wasn't acting nutso. I gave her benadryll and she's fine this morning.

But really? I need something else to tend to? Martin had slung his book bag over his shoulder on the bus ride home, neatly clocking Allen in the face, gouging out a piece of skin near his eye, he came home swooning all dramatically, took to his bed for an hour, but recovered enough to impress me mightily on the soccer fields.

My four U17 boys, Chuy, CW, Allen and Martin play so beautifully together, I can't take my eyes off of them, so athletic, fast, talented, and strong, but hot-headed and opinionated as a group, a little tough to coach I'm certain, and I saw the other coach yank his own son to the sidelines from the opposing team to correct his mouthing off. My kids saw it too, eyes cutting over to me, hoping against hope I wouldn't do the same.

I was more concerned with Chuy's ribs and Dub's limping, as it was a rough enough game for all. Jeepers boys, only the first real game of the season, y'all best hold back something in reserve.

Jonathan did not go to school yesterday, this is 3 and a half days so far this school year, I did go down to juvenile court, the clerk wasn't that impressed by my willingness to file, as 10 days absence is more the norm for this sort of thing, but this is the third year of this, duh, Houston, I think we have a problem. He did go today, but I don't ever write a note excusing his refusal to attend.

When he finally faced me yesterday, I didn't carry on at all about all this, knowing his deep seated itch for a fight, it's on him, not me. I do what I can to get him up each day while he growls angrily back at me. Chuy, his birth brother, tries as well while Jonathan's very pretty, yet dead blank eyes, stare furiously back at both of us.

Tabby'd wanted to wear fur lined boots on Sunday with a sundress, temperatures at 90, even I, so not a fashion plate, know better. I made her go put on more suitable shoes, she obeyed, but fell into a crying jag, snuffling the two mile ride to church.

My friend, Paul, the therapist, later remarked, "I'd have let her wear those shoes, it wasn't worth the hassle, was it?"

He contends that my children mistake behavior correction personally, as if they feel it is totally a personal attack on them. The words "don't" as in "don't do that" are too harsh for kids like mine, it's better if I say, "I'd rather if you didn't do this," they are uber sensitive to my every word, hyper-vigilant, gauging everything through their warped sensibilities, which I knew, but hearing his explanation clarified it for me.

"Do you think I need therapy?" adoptive moms will ask me, to which I can't help, but shout, "Well, duh," knowing their worlds are now as cockamamie as mine.

A therapist for us mothers is more of a guide, a sounding board, an interpreter even, for our very upside down worlds, where we deeply love children who resent us daily for doing what their birth parents would not do.

The Adoption Counselor worded it better, "She can recall always being angry with me while she was growing up so she assumes I must have earned that anger – she doesn’t consider that she arrived with it and that I wore the impact of her anger in place of the bmother who created it. She remembers feeling that there were too many rules but she can’t remember that they were about safety and trying to keep her alive."

Yeah boy, we are unjustly criticized, attacked even, simply for our attempts to parent, but parenting traumatized children is a feat unto itself.

I'd asked for prayer on Facebook for my Aunt Neva who'd been rushed to the ER yesterday, it has turned out beautifully, my own inner trauma acting up at the thought and fear, my worries over my dad are intensified each day enough.

Grandma's driving him to Atlanta today to see the lung specialist at Emory Hospital. I wish I could go, question the medical professionals, but then no one would be here when the kids came home from school and this evening is as busy as every other one, precluding my attempts to add anything else to our schedule.

A big shout out to my friend, Marianne, for sending Jack his Weblos hat, this photo is now the background on my cell phone. It makes me smile.