Cute as a Button

A great deal of horrible vitriol has been screamed at me over the years, as others project their own inner raging anger upon me, lying to me, and about me, and later when the storm's blown past, they're fine with it as it assuaged their inner pain, yet left me frustratedly furious at what all was said to me. "Well, I was just mad," they'll whine at me, as if that's a reasonable explanation for viciously ripping me a new one. They're the ones with a history of mean-spirited comments about others.

I do forgive, of course, yet continue to recoil inwardly, self-protective modes become my norm, I retreat further within, unwilling to participate in such inappropriate behavior. Sinking into silence, there's no point in a discussion when the combatants won't listen to either logic nor reason.

I think I become the angriest when they lie about me, saying, "Mom said such and such about so and so," which was blatantly untrue. I never said that. I generally refer to everyone as beautiful, lovely, good looking, and gorgeous, all positive adjectives since I truly feel the world needs more positive output from others, so to lie and say I said such negativity is callous at best.

Yesterday I'd gone to visit with Paloma, being very impressed with where she now is staying, even more impressed by the folks working with her. They get it, they truly do, and looking at me, an older, worn out lady who's spent nine years trying to manage behaviors that an entire staff is working on at times and they have shots to administer when she won't calm down, it's easy to note the indication of secondary trauma oozing from my pores.

I rewarded myself for the two hour trip each way, googling and stopping at a totally impressive Goodwill store that had a separate books and music coffee shop attached to it. I sat on their floor and thumbed through an vast collection of $1.99 CDs and found several of the Southern Gospel Quartets that I so adore, downloading them later into my Iphone for my musical enjoyment. I desperately need this music as a balm to my soul. And, Praise God, I found the Legacy Five CDs, one of my favorite groups.

Coming home on a Friday afternoon, right when the school bus dumped all my kids out who were clamoring for their respective Friday night plans and outings, I ended up taxiing everyone everywhere until 11 o'clock when I'd finally collapsed, no garden time at all, Up and out early this morning for soccer games, home for lunch now, and back for one more game in the blazing sun which should be seeing me pushing a lawnmower, but that's gotta wait.

Dillan makes a pretty girl, he'd raised enough money for Relay for Life showing off his legs. It takes a real man to pull this off.

Trying Everything

New potatoes for breakfast, steamed with just salt and pepper, melting in one’s mouth, having just been dug up from the earth. Relishing a spinach, lettuce, radish and onion salad for lunch, munching on strawberries fresh as I work, wishing tomatoes produced when lettuce did, but our lettuce will soon bolt in the oppressive heat, leaving me to make salads with piles of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and baby squash.

We have a team of IFI counselors in place yet again for Jonathan, who seems to cycle in and out of variously unstable phases, dark moods where he lashes out violently, only to eventually recede into just annoying behaviors, which I greatly prefer.

They sent us Mikey again, an unlikely name for a giant of a guy with longtime OTP experience and deep insight into troubled youth. I was very glad when he called to set up a time to come over and start working here, having once earned his stripes in the trenches with Paloma and Jonathan.

Dr. Mandy yesterday afternoon was praising Mr. P for continued improvements, indeed it’s been remarkable, yet I’m always wary as he’s cyclical as well. JoJo surprisingly opened up to her easily, later telling me how much he liked her. Her rapport with kids is wonderful and so nonthreatening to them emotionally.

We’d had a Dr. C psychiatric appointment this week as well, making me remember those days when I still worked in the school system, while trying to maintain a staggeringly complex load of mental health appointments for various children in dire need of professional help. Thank God for retirement, although this was a benefit I’d not fully considered years ago when once only dreaming of free time.

I’m a bit discouraged though, to think back upon the many programs, resources, teams, therapies, counseling and other plans put into place, trying to help children make good choices, and now looking back, wondering if it had done even one iota of any good? Several then severely troubled children have improved, giving me hope, while others seem as hardened as ever.

I just don’t have the answers, I just keep trying, I dunno, everything?

Before & After

I totally took this from The Drudge Report, lemme give them credit. These were historic storms according to CNN. I'm obsessed with weather.

Still Praying For Folks In Alabama

Astounded by the damage from tornadoes in Alabama by sundown, bracing for the same line of storms to later hit us, I'd explained to the kids that we'd go to the basement on Grandma's side of the house, if necessary. Warnings would come in sometime around midnight, and those kids with TVs in their rooms went to sleep with the Weather Channel on.

I'd admonished them, " Any warning in any adjacent county is enough to warrant hollering for us all to go take cover."

When it's still 82 degrees at 10 o'clock at night, you gotta know the weather's unsettled, I was uneasy and wary as a cat, afraid I'd wake up sprawled out in the front meadow since my room is perched so high up, the rotating winds would take me first. I clutched my cell phone in my sleep.

I figured the thunder would wake us up, and it did. I heard Lily and Chuy's bedroom doors open simultaneously, both of them barrelling up to my room, backlit by very impressive lightening flashes, to tell me our county had a tornado warning, as did most of the counties around us. It was around one a.m.

I'd not locked the front gate, nor our back door, I'd left the garage light on, and door alarms off, no security alarm had been set, as I knew both Sarah and Yolie's families might come running over to the basement.

I woke everyone else up and we all piled into the basement, including seven restless, disgruntled dogs. "What about the chickens in the coop?" Nando piped up worriedly.

We were absolutely totally spared, I'd taken all the clay pots of amaryllis off the porch ledges, battened down everything, but by bedtime the baby chicks in the house, who are now right big. were all screeching idiotically, as if the negative ions in the air were affecting them. "The sky is falling!"

At 1:45 the warning expired and I sent everyone back to bed, so grateful that it had been a complete non-event for us, not so for so many, many folks. Early this morning the death toll hovered around 159 people between Georgia and Alabama.

Weird to think that clouds, forced air ends lives, people waking up, searching their neighbor's rubble piles for signs of life, while I moronically fretted over losing my strawberries to hail. Or figuring I'd be outside hunting all my tomato cages that would be blown across the acreage.

Jack's finally returning to school today, his nasty tick bite plus a sore throat and fever knocked him out for three days, even the CHAMPS deputy had Facebooked me asking about him, as she's presenting a class this month at his school.

He beamed at her concern, absolutely preened. He's shy around folks, openly admiring police work, and to have been singled out so positively boosted his own morale, although today, knowing him, he'll look downward like Princess Di, while quietly absorbing everything about this deputy.

Blueberry, the Snake

Lord knows, I sure don't wanna be depressed, I need to shake this funk offa me. How can I look at such cuties and ever be blue? Mae, Alyssa, Cj and Marissa, children of my older kids, Yolie, Joe and Marcela, sitting at the Easter Egg Hunt. I was across the way then watching Tabby, Nando and Ray's age group tear the place up, getting their eggs and candy.

My friend, Marcella with 2 l's from Kentucky, cracked me up for the rest of the day with her retort, "My 'give a crap' is busted."

Oh my goodness, my own inappropriateness finally kicked back in and I used her line all day long.

It's true though, I just can't get so worked up about much, knowing how ineffective or uninteresting my theories are to those who'd choose criminal activities, no matter what.

"I'm a gonna hustle for a living," I've been told by one, who shuts his mind to my explanations that his blatantly dishonest intentions involve deceit and thievery. He truly thinks I'm a total idiot for working hard, for budgeting, and/or denying myself something until I have cash in my hand.

Another lost his temper last night, irrational as all get out, so I'd had to take two sick kids with me to soccer games. There are times I just don't want Grandma to even have to think about explosive behaviors.

Sabrina's better today, apparently she and Tabby had the 24 hour puke bug, but Jack's still recovering, still has a slight fever.

A really superb U16 game last night, I was proud of my sons and told 'em so.

I'd been mowing when the stupid blades on the riding tractor quit engaging. I know Chuck can fix it in a heartbeat so I hopped off and drug out the push mower, kept on going. I ended up going to soccer smelling like cut grass, but I explained, "Look y'all, you can either have a clean and sweet smelling mom, or I can get the grass cut, but you just aren't gonna get both."

"All these Mexicans around here and the white lady's cutting the grass?" JoJo smirked after school, but hey, we had only an hour then, in which this stinky white lady needed to get the beans on the table.

Sarah's resident snake, which she'd recently discussed with the wildlife guy, and had learned it wasn't territorial, the only reason it'd be showing up each day on the same bush would be to seek food. Sho'nuff. She saw it and heard a high-pitched mouse ruckus, connected the dots, and decided snakes do less damage than rodents to a house. It's a thin, long sinewy black snake that the kids have named Blueberry.


We've got unsettled weather coming in tonight, a chance of tornadic activity, I wanna keep on planting in response, I have no dumb errands to run, so the day's mine, all mine.

A Hard Tailed Chick Writing An Emotionally Painful Admission

My brother, Gary, with his wife and three daughters, has a house and a dock on a river, not far from where we'd grown up in coastal Virginia. He's on my list of future plans to visit for three major functions and events that my friend, Becky, offered to dress me up for, which cracks me up, as I'm truly undressable.

That's why God made black slacks.

Even I can't crap that up, right?

Good thing I'd decided to have the pediatrician take a look at a nasty tick bite scab on Jack's leg, as he later ran a high fever which would've been emotionally stressful to me, but preempting the strike gave me some relief. $65 medications, after insurance, stung me. He's a grandchild and doesn't have Medicaid, of course.

Tabby barfed last night, now Sabrina has a fever, and is upchucking.

I pushed my mower around in the Upper Gardens, overheating and sweating like a pig, which is what I do best, while ruminating deeply on Becky's email to me.

Really? This is so? I kinda think it to be, but being such a formerly Methodist PK, I felt guilty about the grief. He was my Dad, and I'm not a young kid (like Jack) or a grieving spouse like my mother.

Dad and I'd spent 30 years of my adult life living in two different states, that he was here for the last ten years must've made a mark on me. Ya think?

Some of Becky's thoughts included: Cindy, ...wanting to shut yourself off from the world. You are even too apathetic to interact with inappropriate behaviors. I guess if a snake came up and bit you on the nose you'd sigh and say who cares?!?! You melt down and cry in the garden, the carport, the bedroom and you are even sleeping past 5 AM! On anyone else you would recognize this as grief. Your father passed away combined with the recent anniversary of your sister's passing. Get it? You are depressed!!!! Grief induced depression sneaks up on you and gets a hold on you. Your poor sweet daddy passed away and you are so busy tending to the needs of your mom and sons that you haven't really paid attention to the fact that YOU are grieving too. Loss of a parent is overwhelming and takes a long time for your brain to process. Combine that with the huge responsibility (emotional) for your mother and her recent health scare and voila'! You've lost a sister and a parent. Somewhere in the subconscious mind you are bracing for the fact that this will happen again. Hopefully your mom will live another 20 years in good health and happiness. You are a hardtail chick and I get that, BUT this was your daddy. Attention must be paid!! Did I forget to mention that you were the total family rock when Preston got so sick?

My initial defensive response included, "I ain't even got a carport. It's a garage," but I caught myself and comprehended that wasn't the point.

Am I really so blind to my own foibles and feelings? I think I might be. I've deadened myself emotionally in many aspects. Yet the light bulbs going off in my brain were impressive. I'd wondered about my crying jags and inability to drag myself out of bed, and I literally am bracing myself. I'd even recently decided that we live, we die, ho hum, what's the dang point of existence?

I've become even more slovenly than before, hair raggedly clipped up, little, if any makeup, why bother with face cream, unwrinkled clothes or matching socks? I feel draggy, sluggish and blah. Disconnected in my mind. Kiss my butt, who cares if I left my lawnmower out in the rain? I've been a bird turd.

I've always been somewhat reclusive, preferring a great deal of alone time, able to go long stretches without company, busy and active, yet nowadays it's been tempered by a total distaste for the entire world.

No, I don't go back and read my blog posts. I don't look in the toilet when I leave the bathroom. Catharsis doesn't require reflection, right? I spew and vomit out my words and move on, feeling as if they've served their purpose for me, which was, and is, to release figurative toxins, and/or to understand the world around me, yet I totally again missed my own point, it appears. I misunderstood my ownself.

I'm gonna blame my mama for this recessive gene that propels us into over activity, which conveniently prevents us from looking inwardly at our ownselves, feeling it's just too self-indulgent...and bor-ring. If we gave in to grief, how would we ever crawl back out?

Sarah's reading a Joan Didion book on grief that has allowed her to see Grandma in a better light, a more empathetic and understanding role, I'll read it next.

I seriously don't know what to do about me, other than to wait it out, pray about it, and continue plodding forward, knowing time is a healer. I do, however, feel relieved to have labeled this as such. Becky's clearly correct, she's lost both of her parents, she gets it.

I think of my darling niece, Lauren, who'd lost her mother, my sister Ellen, at age 7. I'm nearly 57, 50 more years of learning how to cope with loss. It's high time for me to get a grip. I do wanna talk about this with my brothers though. But they're very much like me, inwardly solitary, repressed (it didn't happen - Dad's somewhere on a vacation with Ellen and Allen who was her late, first husband), restless and antsy, diving into projects, books and plans.

Interestingly we're all three, Jimbo, Gary and I, like mom with our tightly regulated emotions, while Ellen was much like Dad, way more openly emotionally expressive about everything. The two of them are likely cracking up right now at us in that beautiful alternative universe called Heaven, while we grapple here below with being left behind.

Jim reads my blog, Gary doesn't, but I'm gonna email this to him. Like Jim and I, he'll likely cry later when he's alone, because that's what we do. We'll even try and rationalize that it's the sensitive ones who die early...not us tough ones.

A Blueberry Piglet

Tabby'd found this cottage bed tent, unopened and still in it's original box, purchase price $59.95, the yard sale proprietor wanted $3, kinda high for me, but Tabby dearly desired to own this tent for her own self and her dolls, so I capitulated. She absolutely loves it, well worth the $3.

Tabby has a bed in Sabrina's room, and another in Lily's room, it just depends on her moods, or theirs. Her white bed matches Lily's room theme. A Bodie Matching something? There's a surprise.

Sabrina's cheerleading equipment for next year just cost me $170, this is only the beginning of the expenses, it's all too high, but I do not complain at all. This is a positive endeavor for her and I totally support it, even if I don't necessarily understand it all.

Not necessarily disillusioned, restless certainly, I can't quite put my finger on it. This 12 X12 makes for great reading, yet it's stirring me up rapidly, increasing my irritability at the entire world. It's clearly me. I'm the one struggling with abject annoyance at everything on so many levels.

Maybe it's me having to keep picking up the same stuff, keep laundering ten tons of clothes daily, or watch my boys be so obsessed with video games, at the expense of knowledge and ambition.

Yet, given a do-over, my own ambitions would have been radically different. The thing I love most about everything, producing food, would've been my first line of work, not just an obsessive hobby.

I think the entire vapidness of the world, the futility of monotony, whatever one wants to call it, has aggravated me overall for no singular reason. I'm just so antsy.

The Braves swept the Giants for the first time since 1998. They couldn't have pulled this off last October and stayed in the playoffs on the last night that Atlanta would see Bobby Cox as a manager? The Giants broke thousands of Southern collective hearts that night, not that I hold a grudge. However, I'm still mad at Bernie Williams for catching Ryan Klesko's last pop fly in the 1996 playoffs.

I was carrying my ten year old aloe plant outside yesterday when Jonathan heavily plowed into me at full speed, knocking the weighty clay pot out of my hands, shattering on the floor, me wide-eyed with stunned disbelief, he immediately jumped into his blame someone else mode, even though a dozen people had seen it happen.

It escalated. He ran away...on an Easter Sunday...no one went after him, he came home within ten minutes, slammed around the house, trying to provoke me into correcting his behavior, so that he could legitimately explode, but it defused itself, since no one engaged.

I repotted my battered aloe quietly, not saying anything I was feeling inside of me.

I'd purposefully planned no holiday activities, tired of being thwarted by those who'd turn it into Holiday Hell. I sat with Marcela & Curtis, Daniel and Megan, in church, made a huge spinach and cheese lasagna, and had a quiet day...other than Jonathan's meltdown, me mumbling, "Thank you, Jesus," under my breath that Easter was fairly unmarred.

I'm just burned out, I think. Tired of the endless negative feedback I receive for not being their birth parent, but rather their whipping boy? That just isn't right, and it's taken a toll. Inhumane treatment has injured my soul deeply.

I wanna skirt under the wire, totally avoid humanity, keep the front gate locked, phone off the hook, cell phone upstairs where I can't hear it, retreat into my peaceful, yet stimulating gardens, hang out only with those darlings who bring me joy, while absolutely 100% avoiding those who treat me poorly.

I'm nearly 60 years old, have I not earned the right to choose silence and peace? I do not want to play anyone's mind games, nor be the recipient of hateful actions. Leave. Me. Alone.

FYI, Edgar and I are not estranged, I'm just hanging back, letting him find his own way in the world. I'm afraid, with too much contact and interaction, I'd just be correcting his behavior and choices, he's too old for that.

Jesse'd sent me an Easter picture of his handsome son Isaiah, Sergi's telling me how gorgeous Oregon is to him, and the other kids at home had been right good all day.

I'm the one who is feeling overwhelmed by stuff, by having too much, by an overabundance of crap to take care of, too many dishes to wash, too many towels to fold, too much space to vacuum, yet we're using it all. If we're gonna have too much of something, then why can't it be blueberry bushes? I have 40, that's not enough for a piglet like me.

Daniel, who always makes me smile, pointed out that these bushes might just morph into one gigantic one, which would be fine with me.

So, for a less whiny blog post, check out Sarah's ode to her dress.

Happy Easter, Please Excuse My Introductory Subject Matter

I certainly have spent an inordinate amount of time literally cleaning up the poop of others, be it via dirty diapers, feces smearing, minimally half-decent hygiene issues, overflowing toilets, or becoming literally buried within the sneaky and deceitful behaviors, I've absolutely been forced to wallow in their poo poo.

Plunging my ten thousandth toilet last night, late when I was tired and wanted to go to bed, but obviously needed a shower, I thought that this isn't exactly what Easter's all about in a normal family.

But it's what I have to deal with each day, wearily or not so much.

One teenager went to his room screaming at me that he wasn't gonna go to church today because I wouldn't let him have a friend come over to spend the night. I most certainly would not do so, because he would not help me even clean up his own stinking room.

"That's your consequence," I reminded him, only to be hollered at, "You blame me for everything."

What the heck?

Where was blame in that sentence?

Dr, Mandy has explained to me that there's always the perception of blame via my tone of voice, their own inner guilt, pointed glances, or a shared attitude.

Knowing such unreasonableness cannot be deflected nor defended against, I shuffled off, continuing to pick up that which he and his brother had strewn across the entire house, never bothering to offer any help.

I made an industrial sized pan of spinach and three cheese lasagna ready to be served after church today, loving for it to sit overnight in the fridge, and be firm and all the ingredients so perfectly commingled by the next day.

Both Yolie and Sarah's families took advantage of last night's Easter Service, freeing up seats today for those who only come on Easter and Christmas.

No way could I have gotten everyone clean and ready last night, we'll brave the crowds today.

We don't go out and buy new Easter outfits. Never have, never will. At a yard sale yesterday Sabrina got a dollar from me for a pair of Seven For All Mankind jeans (retail mid $200s) that fit her perfectly, totally delighted at her find.

But then she hadda listen to my own diatribe over who the heck pays $200 for a pair of britches? You could buy a lotta groceries for that same amount of dollars. Of course that would only then result in more poop being manufactured for me to clean up after...

Lily got more art supplies. Folks buy all this crap at retail stores, drag it all home, realize they're not gonna use it, and subsequently sell it at yard sales, unused, for pennies on the dollar.



Letting others take the depreciation is my Modus Operandi.

Now if I could only start my day off not feeling like an overused septic tank.

Sarah's Easter dress, brought years ago at a thrift shop, makes its appeanace each year. She wears it well, looking like a million bucks, having spent so little on it and owned it for over a decade at least. She could make a feed sack look good. Seriously.

And those heels? Standing next to her at church, I feel frumpy and dumpy, but I'd rather feel like her dad, in contrast, than try and teeter on those shoes. I'd so make a fool out of myself. These shoe choices perfectly illustrate our 19 year age difference.

Sports Balls

We'd had a cool, cloudy day in which it was 59 degrees here, but 79 degrees a county or two away, where the sun had broken through the overcast sky. I went to an estate sale, all by myself on a Friday while the kids were at school, my preferred mode of shopping, so as not to be beat down by the gimmes of others, for that which we don't need.

Sarah'd been telling me about a greenhouse addition on a house on that street that she knew would impress the snot out of me, and she was correct. That gave me the gimmes.

She'd taken Ray and Hazel on a home school field trip to a wildlife specialist who'd allowed them to pet a baby alligator, how cool is that?

Coming home later with 13 praise and worship, el cheapo, used CDs to add to my Ipod, I spent hours fine tuning my Itunes. There are some days when I gotta have soothing, inspiring music that lifts my soul, and other days when I crave the rollicking sounds of country gospel. My playlists would unimpress the majority of the world.

I'm surprised that I even know how to create a playlist. Duh, Sarah taught me.

I'm the mom of a varsity cheerleader now. Who'd a thunk it? She's goofily untrained, compared to the other girls who've been attending United Cheerleading classes and camps all their lives, but Sabrina is physically gifted, extremely strong, and graceful, all the tucks, rolls, jumps, backflips, and acrobatics just come naturally to her.

Today we have three soccer practices, sports physicals at the high school, two boys need haircuts, CW has a party event to attend, Chuck's getting our pool ready, I'm already behind in my spring planting, and I minimized our family room even more severely yesterday. Honey, if I took the plants out, it'd nearly be bare, but I adore open spaces and unimpeded hardwood floors.

Mr. P has been crazily helpful to me for two solid weeks, adhered to my side like a swollen tick, a head shorter, more than 20 pounds heavier than I, he hasn't even provoked JoJo lately, a guaranteed easy target. Yet, he'd gotten into a fight at school due to his uncanny ability to make someone instantaneously snap.

Coming home crying to tell me about it, I knew the other kid, and I was very surprised that he'd been the one to fulfil the prophecy. I've been warning Mr P for years that this was fixing to happen.

"Somebody's gonna beat the crap outta you," I've been warning him. "I won't be there to protect you, nor would I, when you've been growling ugly provocations and instigating everything. Someday, when you're grown and gone, the sheriff's gonna pull up and tell me what's happened to you, giving me a potter's field burial bill."

I can't even begin to tell you how inflammatorily awful he can be to folks at times, calling my girls skanks and hos for absolutely no reason, for example, knowing they've spent hours getting their carefully cultivated look just right, wanting to deflate them.

He cried for about an hour here at home, which was a surprising reaction, usually he escalates, but I've had him seeing Dr, Mandy on a very regular basis for these specific behaviors. I did the unthinkable and interrupted a session, entered his therapy session uninvited, when I'd gotten a call from an administrator about this fight, figuring Dr. Mandy would ask the proper and probing questions, which, of course, she did.

So at 5' tall, barely, 148 pounds, age 15...he cries? Yes, emotional immaturity combined with no verbal brakes, little empathy, and severe developmental delays...I have my hands full just keeping he and JoJo separated. I don't want JoJo to be the one who ultimately snaps.

The CRCT took precedence over everything this past week, the administrators will tend to the fight punishment next week, yet irony abounds, another administrator had called me about setting up even more tutorials and resources for Mr P, so 2 out 3 had been dealing with him these past few days. The third one was dealing with JoJo who'd yelled out, "Oh, balls!" in class, obviously not referring to those used in the gymnasium.

Probably both of them will be in ISS next week, together, their least favorite position. Two 8th graders with social conduct issues.

This Is How It Works

Scanning the newspapers each morning, today's stories are about Earth Day and what is one doing to celebrate it? Duh and dadgum, this should be a daily ritual, not a hyped up, once a year obligatory event. Oh, don't even get me started.

Thinking I'd jinxed our rain possibilities by planting so much yesterday, I was awakened happily at 4 by rumbling rolls of thunder, likely we only got less than a half of an inch, but, Honey, I'll take it.

I decided to clean the house yesterday evening, rather than have to face it this morning, when I'd obviously prefer to go outside. Martin, Tony and CW sprang to help me a little bit while two others predictably melted down in their own puddle of stress at the very thought. I cleaned their room, knowing it was the only way to avert a deputy visit. BTDT.

Yolie'd called about something, only to hear me telling one of the two, "That's a new door, quit hitting it," the noise of a fist striking wood drowning out our conversation. Knowing, deeply knowing, that they are both totally unteachable, allows me to stress less, yet one them then started crying, "You blame me for everything!"

I hadn't blamed him for anything. But this is just the way he perceives life. His teachers are staggeringly cruel to him, as are the administrators, according to his world view, plus he's seemingly saddled with a terribly hostile mother. Yep, the one who hugs and reassures, nurtures and tries to teach about life.

Finally I'm recognizing the pattern. The one in which I want something done and he escalates his behavior so badly that I have to tend to that instead of the chore that initially needed to be done.

The chore will NEVER get done by him. Never. I've learned that now after 11 long years of trying to get him to at least put the milk back in the fridge. That's the kind of chore I'm discussing, not mopping, not vacuuming, just returning something to its rightful place that he'd gotten out. How's about a little personal responsibility? Just pick up the stinking dirty socks you've flung across the room and get 'em both to the laundry room?

I have to control my own stress in response to the automatic hatefulness from him that bubbles up when his supremely negative behavior is corrected. Minor things, very, very laughably minor, such as the milk situation, then erupts into a conflagration. His teachers call me with the same complaints regarding severely disruptive classroom behaviors.

Deep, deep sigh, Then I walk off and ignore his antics while I do all the work, hearing him wail, "You're ignoring me. Seriously.

This took me two and a half hours last night. If left uninterrupted by behavioral issues, I could've had the entire house clean, but nooooooooooooo, this is how it works in our world.

Healthy Living

Easter Egg Hunt at church last night was a rousing success. Miss Lisa, again for the billionth time, got some 125 children to participate happily, leaving every single one of them thrilled with the outcome.

Marissa maybe the most satisfied, certainly the youngest of my grandchildren there, heaped her basket the highest. My teenagers were all at Youth Group, so the absence of sullen attitudes was refreshing for me.

Chuy's in a wrist air cast for a few days with the recommendation by the doctor of seeing a specialist if he doesn't improve. Again I'm super grateful for Medicaid in the adoption of older children, I could never wrangle up the amount of money that would've been needed to provide medical care.

I had my own annual physical yesterday, something I'd once never deigned to bother with, until the stress began hacking away at my formerly formidable good health. Nothing but good news though, my BMI even better as I age. How is that possible? Hard farming work would be my answer, a nearly raw diet, vegetarianism, no sodas, no alcohol, no smoking, no meat...duh...it all adds up. A really good BMI adds up to a longer life expectancy.

I can't do anything about the appearance of the aging goofy woman smiling at me in the mirror, aiming for 60, aging's gonna happen and I may as well enjoy it. Being happy and content is a big aspiration of mine, to have found it is delightful.

I'm as pleased as punch about the way my gardens are shaping up. Extremely hard work resulting in a beautifully productive area. Watching the radar screen yesterday, storm clouds blowing past without any rain dousing where I needed it. Maybe today.

I listened to David Cooper's sermons, I got three of them absorbed into my soul, the one about one's life having meaning spoke to me immensely.

A friend of mine had brought a tremendous amount of snack foods and multi-grain breads to the kids, last night after church, after I'd served them the regulatory dinner, my boys were again pigging out before bed, while I was directing Sergi via phone about what to do regarding his cancelled flight. Hopefully this morning he'll head out towards Oregon.

I have all morning to myself, an appointment with Dr. Mandy for two kids early this afternoon and no soccer tonight, first night all week to get to stay home, it's been right peaceful and I'm loving it.

Sergi's The Picture Star Today

My oldest son, Sergi, is gonna turn 30 this year, pictured with Nando and Cristy's husband. Sergi's a wonderful son, sweet, loving and good-natured, in spite of me having learned on him about how to parent a son. Strange territory, and 21 sons later, I'm still learning to navigate. Sons are intricately complex creatures, lemme tell you.

Nando's my youngest son, nine, I'm slowly getting the hang of it now.

Sergi's moving out west with Cristy and her husband Chris today. They've been there for nearly a year already, coming back this week for a visit, other older children came by for a impromptu good-bye supper last night.

I washed a crapload of dishes by hand, having burned through both of my dishwashers a couple of years ago, but feeling no need to get them replaced. Washing dishes cleans my dirty garden hands, ages them certainly, dries them out, but seriously, at my age, how can that possibly matter to me?

Chuy may have messed up his wrist last night playing soccer, I'm taking him to the doctor today to get it checked out. He's a tough old bird, when he complains about a physical pain, I take note. I have other hypochondriac sons fretting over bumps, nicks, cramps, and bruises as they crash through life, but not Chuy.

Indeed one son irked a teacher so much yesterday as to have earned yet another free pass, and well-deserved, to In School Suspension.

Sergi's not a tall guy, pictured with Martin, who'll turn 18 this year. Sergi remarked, nearly sadly, on how fast everyone was growing up. Tell me about it son.


Within just a few more years my job'll be done, and I'll be wandering around out here reminiscing about how fast time flew by.

But, I've also come to discover, grown kids still need their mama, shouldn't I already have figured that one out? Here at 56 with my mama living here also? My only birth daughter living several acres away? Yolie, here too, as well?

This morning marks 15 years since my sister passed away, Grandpa was the emotional one, my mother's very emotionally strong, yet I know today will be tough with both of them gone now. I'll garden, she's going to her Bridge games, both of us dealing in our own ways.

Sisterless and fatherless, not uncommon at my age, I know my baby brother, Jimbo, will be reading this post, as he stops for his lunch break on his mail route down in Tallahassee, my other brother likely oblivious to the significance of this particular date, busy in his new real estate business, having retired from coaching in the Olympics, but his daughters read my blog, now barely remembering Ellen, but deeply knowing how important she'd been to us all.

My niece, Lauren, now motherless for too long, also reads when she has time. Honey, you know I'm thinking about you all day today.

I'd run some Swiss Chard I'd picked over to Sarah's house, getting to see her longtime friends, Beth and Jessi, and to appreciate the black snake curled around a shrub right out her back door, unperturbed by the nine rambunctious children in the house.

I'd blasted through the high school, leaving $3 for Chuy for some function, getting back home in time to meet and greet the elementary school bus, buzzing through my busy days, but they're decent days, in which there are no altercations, po po visits, or meltdowns.

Counting A Couple of Blessings

Such a gorgeous day yesterday, mine all mine, to do what I wanted to do, all the kids at school, so I choose a nine hour stretch of outdoor work, eating fresh strawberries outside for lunch. There's nothing on earth like a non-sprayed, sun-warmed, just-picked strawberry.

I kept planting tomatoes, having to go up to the Upper Gardens and drag down heavy tomato cages that Dad had built for me over the years. I have a couple hundred of 'em, Mom has a good bit also, yet we've run out, so heavily are we both planting this year, since the early tomato blight of the previous two years has made us both completely paranoid.

Shadow, AKA Shatter, always within ten feet of where I'm working. The more I learn about the human race, the more I like my dogs.

Reading Twelve By Twelve: A One Room Cabin Off the Grid and Beyond the American Dream, I slowly began to notice a trend in my reading choices lately, fed up with the world's commotion and society's bullcrap materialism, I'm craving solitude more'n food.

Frustrated the other day with the demands of my family, not the daily work, but the unreasonable, irrational, nonsensical issues, I looked around me in a moment of clarity and realized that I'd built the land situation that I truly loved, my gardens and the property on which I live, making me greatly look forward to the second half of my life when I can concentrate on logic and productivity.

In the meantime...

Drama amongst a grown son who never asks for help, the CRCT test week here upon us, my children sensing the importance of it by the school's atmosphere and are naturally rebelling against academic standards, and I remain bamboozled by my inability to have a functioning lawnmower, calling Chuck to ask about its throttle, the stupid thing sounding like a Singer sewing machine instead of a roaring engine that I need to hack away around my planted areas.

I'm just glad I'm retired and not stuck inside a school building all day. Losing that 14% a year for the rest of my life since I'd taken early retirement some ten years ago was the best decision I ever made. My freedom is way more important than my spending power. I covet nothing anyone has in the material realm.

Having grandchildren living down this dirt road is a major plus, as are so many other aspects of my life that I lose sight of in my immense frustration level.

New Dawn roses, 1930, ordered from The Antique Rose Emporium about ten years ago, make my heart swell with joy. Nando, now nine, is just about the sweetest son a mother could ask for, combining to make me consider this was a great day in my no neighborhood situation.

Praying For Paula

Questions posed to me yesterday included, "Is this a choice?" regarding the severely dangerous and negative behaviors of the children, and the one I ponder the most, “Did I even make any difference?”

Another person had mentioned recently that the bizarre behaviors of a bipolar child might be a bit of a choice. I dunno. When the rages come on, they appear unstoppable. They’re triggered sporadically, out-of-the-blue, or sometimes are fueled by a perceived disappointment of sorts.

The child appears dazed and confused afterwards, still smoldering, often needing a nap, as if this visible brain explosion had taxed all of their remaining strength. Indeed these stormy anger fits demonstrate a super human strength, the adrenaline fueling horrific acts that leave damage and destruction in their wake.

The victims are just as exhausted afterwards. Honey, I should know.

When bruises appear on my arms later, I’m usually surprised, as I’d not noticed the pummeling I'd taken when I’d tried to protect others. Sometimes I’m merely sore all over from using muscles I never expected to have needed to use at my age.

Maybe the only difference made has been made in me, not by me. I’m more understanding, I hope, more relatable to others.

If Martin, now almost 18, had been my only son, his very good behavior would’ve given me quite the swollen ego, a “Look what a great mama I am,” moment that would’ve been undeserved by me. Martin's just a great kid. Maybe his attachment to CW made him so, they're both delightful, helpful and very bonded sons.

Right after church yesterday two younger boys, Scotty and Jonathan, both of whom outweigh me, were angry over nothing and darkly explosive. Sometimes it’s church itself that sparks an incident, a reaction to an uncomfortably positive event.

It’s as if Satan himself is inhabiting their bodies, offended by church going praise and worship, all riled up, wanting to hurt someone.

It calmed down rather quickly, as I scurried about our large kitchen, appearing to ignore their ugly taunts, yet keeping a very wary eye on the situation. A gut feeling that I best stay inside to do chores, save the outdoor work for the next day when they were all at school.

Getting help with chores was totally out of the question, that’d just give them the ammo they think they need to explode. “We’re NOT your slaves,” they’ve been known to holler, when I suggest they take their own dirty dish to the sink, so I could have the lovely privilege of standing there washing some 20 plates.

I’m just not willing to continue fighting that battle, knowing they absolutely don’t understand my inner motivation, which is to help them learn to treat others decently and with some vague semblance of respect.

Chuck and Yolie came by in response to Mae Mae’s repeated wailings of, “I wanna go to Bita’s house,” knowing she could wallow in the mudpit sandbox, watch the baby chicks, run wild, and jump ferociously on the trampoline.

Chuck’s as unable as I am to sit still, so he fixed my push mower, cranked up Grandpa’s DR Trimmer, and we both tore up an area that’d been neglected due to the mind-blowing demands placed upon me by my own choices to adopt troubled children. We worked our butts off happily, Chris and Cristy bringing the three kids back by late evening, and I finished off my night with a freshly picked spinach and Lolla Rossa lettuce salad also with sweet onions I’d grown. I added wheat germ, sunflower and flax seeds, happy as a pig in a poke.

We’ve already encountered quite a few snakes for mid-April and clearing out around the house ought to help that scenario maybe a bit. They may startle me at times, but I do like the black snakes that keep down the mice population. Field mice are large and notorious for gnawing up and making a serious mess.

JoJo got busleft again accidentally on purpose, running back to the house spitting mad at the bus driver for not waiting on him. “Are you kidding me?” I shrieked. “You want him to wait on each kid as they dawdle? If each kid cost him 30 seconds apiece at every stop, he’d never get them all to school.”

JoJo simply didn’t give a crap, then he was mad at me too for being so mean as to explain this fallacy to him.

And while I’m pointing out inconsistencies, I’m appalled at grown kids of mine who call job seeking walking into a place of business looking like they’re fixing to rob the joint. Yeah boy, wonder why they’re suddenly not hiring? Why they're shooing you out the door so quickly? Get a clue puh-leeze.

When they lived with me, I’d make them dress nicely and practice what they’d say, although they’d immediately rebel and call me controlling for being so bossy. Nurturing is construed as mean and heavy-handed. "I wanna do what I wanna do," they'd wail at me, unemployed toddlers in twenty something year old bodies.

Truth is, they don't wanna do anything at all.

When Sarah, now 37, was three years old, I'd met my longtime friend, Janet. We had a blast back then, she just starting her career as a social worker, and me as a media specialist. She'd called me yesterday, both of us missing each other a great deal, and as I hung up and thought about how the life's been sucked outta me for twenty plus years of challenging child raising endeavors, I sighed deeply and went back to my thankless work.

Appalled later to read that Paula's now undergoing the most despised trial of parenting the adopted older child...it happens, sadly, to all of us, a gut-wrenching, humiliating expeience that depresses us terribly. It's an anathema to what we'd expected, as we'd once set out so naively wanting to share our blessings with needy children, leaving us crushed, bitter and down-hearted, deeply in need of the healing prayers of others.

Paula, you know I'm on my knees on your behalf.

Anti-Social Personality Disorders

I've always considered myself a tad anti-social, more reclusive in nature, but in a normal sense in that I can happily go for very long periods of time completely alone. I don't need social stimuli, artificial entertainment, nor boisterous crowds, rather I tend to shun it all, preferring to work outside, enjoying the natural world, as it gives me a wonderful sense of accomplishment.

That said, I've scarily come to know another side of the coin in terms of antisocial personality disorders characterized by chronic antisocial behavior and violation of the law and the rights of others.

This condition is characterized by repetitive behavioral patterns that are contrary to usual moral and ethical standards and cause a person to experience continuous conflict with society. Symptoms include aggression, callousness, impulsiveness, irresponsibility, hostility, a low frustration level, marked emotional immaturity, and poor judgment.

A person who has this disorder overlooks the rights of others, is incapable of loyalty to others or to social values, is unable to experience guilt or to learn from past behaviors, is impervious to punishment, and tends to rationalize his or her behavior or to blame it on others. Also called antisocial reaction.
(Mosby's Medical Dictionary, 8th edition. © 2009

It is hazardously difficult to live with folks like these. I have about 6-10 children that fall completely into this category. Most, but not all, are grown and I bear the emotional scars of having lived under severely stressful circumstances. Two are in prison, most of this group can not come onto our property ever again for the safety of everyone. It's sad.

To a Perfect T does this describe what I've seen and experienced. Any police officer would tell you exactly the same. These folks with badges and guns though, haven't had to live under these horrific conditions 24-7, while also trying to protect the safety of others.

That I can still walk and talk and get food into the vicinity of my mouth amazes me totally.

This is why disengagement helps me to some degree. Engaging would be beyond pointless, and would only increase my stress load. I have to ignore antagonistic behaviors that are designed to provoke me.

I throw myself into physical work to fight the anxiety and the blood-boiling, maliciously button-pushing provocations under which I live.

It's why I sometimes fight tears at church, the contrast of the peaceful building, the soul-sirring music, motivational and comforting sermons, and the opportunity for a prayer covering sometimes simply overwhelms me.

My eyes bug out with abject frustration, my heart grieves for their futures, and my heart continually pounds with the unrelenting stress.

Why, Lord? Why?

I have to stop focusing on the odds against us, confirmation in Sunday School today. I sat in church, on this beautiful Palm Sunday, between Marcela and Sarah, both giving me hope for the future. Yolie went to late service as she also had Alyssa, and, likely today, I'll see Gina and Cristy. It's these thirty something year olds that help calm me down from the crushing load of anti-social disorders permeating my world.

Bookworms Forever

There's something about dressed up bookworms that make me smile, Ray'd read an entire library book aloud to Hazel, today's his Master's Academy play in which he's a narrator.

But back on my own home front, a question lobbed at me, "Why do you always blame me?" one roared, after catching me staring blankly in his direction.

Blame him for what? I was spacing out, wondering if Delbert McClinton's keyboardist still played in his band, what about Elvis Costello's piano player extraordinaire? Was he still around? I'd taken piano lessons for five years and often play air piano accompanying my Ipod out in the gardens.

It's a little egotistically preposterous, or paranoid, that one would assume he was on my mind.

But that's the thinking around here.

Reading an news article, I came across the term criminogenic, and I scrambled for an understanding of its meaning, landing in this page which sucked me in with total fascination.

...quite a bit of research has been done not only to identify risk factors, but also to determine which are the strongest. Research by Andrews, Bontà, Gendreau and others have identified six major risk factors associated with criminal conduct:
1. antisocial/ pro-criminal attitudes, values, and beliefs
2. pro-criminal associates
3. temperament and personality factors
4. a history of antisocial behavior
5. family factors
6. low levels of educational, vocational or financial achievement.

Oh my goodness, I've long had a gut feeling around here about this thought. Coincidentally Yolie'd just had lunch with her best friend, a caseworker with advanced degrees, who'd mentioned a child that was terribly anti-social, reminding her of one of mine that's now in prison.

And that #5? Family factors? Look in the background criminal history of some birth families.

For example, while unemployment is correlated with criminal conduct for many probationers and parolees, by itself it is not that strong of a risk factor. After all, if most of us were unemployed we would not start selling drugs or robbing people; we would simply start looking for another job. But if you think work is for someone else, if you have no problem letting someone else support you, or if you think you can make more in a day illegitimately than someone can make in a month legitimately then being unemployed does add considerably to your risk of offending.

I'll go out on a limb, based on experiential data obtained living here, and mention that slothfulness must be a huge contributor here.

Risk factors 1-5 come marching into my home with the adoption of an older child. Risk factor #6 is a battle I fight here daily, often losing the battle, dismissed by my children as a backwoods dolt for stressing higher education and academic goals, leaving me perplexed that they cannot, nor will not, connect the dots.

Grandma, weary of my tears and frustration, such a pragmatic woman is she, has often said, "You've given it your best. You've done all that you possibly could have done. Now you just have to let go."

True certainly, but it's hard to let go, knowing they're headed straight into destruction, heartache, incarceration, and poverty.

Am I so simple-minded that The Golden Rule, or the New Testament admonition of Jesus paraphrased as, "If you wanna eat, you gotta work," or what about The Ten Commandments I've passed on to them, secrets of a successful life that are summarily thrown back at me as being boring and stupid?

But then look at where I'm coming from. A long line of nerds, so maybe my expectations are unreasonable? I don't think so, I'm not trying to raise geeks, although I'd dearly like to do so, I'm just wanting honest, hard-working, non-violent folks to grow up from my home.

I do retreat emotionally, I know that. I can't stand the pain and humiliation of allowing them to continue trying to hurt me by hurting themselves. This is why we went to therapy for so many years...and are still going.

I'll keep fighting for what's right around here, using what little down time I have trying to heal my own battered emotions.

I'm reading Woodswoman III and Off The Grid: Inside the Movement For More Space, Less Government, and True Independence in Modern America by Nick Rosen. Anyone else see where my mind has been heading? Into seclusion, isolation and reclusiveness where I know I'll someday find peace and healing.

In the meantime I remain baffled bout our world. What's up with this?

Mills reports that indoor Cannabis production uses 1% of the nation’s entire electricity consumption. This comes to energy expenditures of $5 billion per year.

While 1% may not seem like a lot, the report claims that smoking one single Cannabis joint is equivalent to running a 100-watt light bulb for 17 hours. That Cannabis cigarette carries two pounds of CO2 emissions.

Reason 1,000 to toe the line, thus reducing one's impact on our earth. Let's be drug-free and educated, gainfully employed and nice to others. Seriously.

Deep Seated, Subconscious Is Very Redundant

Because it's just not worth it to even ask for help around here, knowing that'll set off a firestorm of protests and hassles, I just do it all myself, falling farther and farther behind in the process, which led me to a crying jag alone in the dark garage last night as night fell. Broken machinery, the kitchen getting trashed after I'd cleaned it again, and kids whining and bugging me all combined to fray my nerves totally.

I'd had funny emails and remarks over my rant, I Suck, and I'd been giggling to myself about it. Sabrina does spring to my side to offer help, Lily and Mr. P have been helping me pull supper together every night, for kids to routinely complain about only because it was me cooking versus their subconscious, deep-seated desire to have their birth mom do this for them.

Not many of the kids still living with me even remember their birth moms, adolescence just increases their identity crisis and other emotional issues dramatically.

Jack, ten years old and very, very bonded, helped me keep cranking my pisspoor push mower that stalled and balked, much like many of my children, as I looked out over too many lawn and garden areas for one person to even begin to try and keep up with, but what would I do with myself without these stress reduction areas that were then stressing me out?

I slept so hard as to wake up disoriented and sore all over from doing so much. I'd hauled wheelbarrow loads of wet, heavy wood chips, stormed around during the school day, trying to accomplish as much as was possible, knowing the afternoon would be fraught with turmoil and conflict...just because that's the way it is.

Time with Dr. Mandy to screw my head back on tight and straight, she'd also met with two of the children, one who knows how to benefit from therapy, and another who'll fight it and make me wish we'd not gone, even though in the long run, I solidly believe in the beneficial aspect of seeing a professional about the major issues in our family.

If everything produces properly, we're in for a bounty of produce, as I've over-planted just about everything. I've gotten to the point of shutting off my laptop each morning and not returning to it all day long, I can see emails on my phone and that's good enough for me, I don't need to obsess and fret over news events and that which I can't control.

Since everything is a control issues here, potential for battle, I've learned to just let much of it go. It's pointless to stress some things to children who'll use it oppositionally anyway.

Looking back, seeing areas in which I fought so hard, against so many odds, just to have tried to teach these areas of morality, decency, hard work, compassion, selflessness, responsibility, virtue or any other mindset I'd tried to explain - so blatantly ignored and rejected - leaving kids with resulting severe consequences that they've brought upon themselves. Why did I even try?

Yet my very responsible children did listen, did go out in the world and bust their butts responsibly, that there've been many successes does make me smile and give me the initiative and strength to go on.

I do get up every day, I will keep on parenting, even knowing I'll get slapped down figuratively for even trying. I'll just keep on.

Maybe everything is redundant?

Arena - A Short Word For A Long Post

I honestly think it’s me, we changed Internet companies again, got everything hooked up, and blammo, no Internet this morning.

Should blog posts be short so as not to lose the reader? Or may the writer selfishly vomit words as long as it takes for her to get her own point across to her own self? This is how my mind works.

I’m not sure I’d even mentioned when Chris and Cristy moved to Oregon, they’re now back here for a week, and had brought Lily a guitar to accompany the one Cristy’d gotten for CW some time back. Lily’s finishing up middle school and is very artistically gifted, musically so also.

Cristy’s their birth mom, she’s Jack’s birth mom also, she’s my daughter. I’m a birth mom, many of my daughters are birth moms, which makes my tirades on birth moms touchy, but I trust that you adoptive moms, who are also often birth moms as well, follow through the conflagration of my tangled words.

A man at church startled me last night, asking how he could help after reading my blog. I slap forget my audience as I write, I just barf it all out, mainly for my own benefit, although I tell myself it’s to offer support to others like me, moms (and dads) who went into this adoption arena thinking, hoping and praying we could make a difference.

Maybe the word arena should’ve given me pause, reminded me of boxing or wrestling event fights?

I forget when I complain about picking up used Kotex, or wiping smeared feces, that others might not live like this. Most folks don’t have broken windows, punched in walls or destroyed furniture.

This super nice man, Michael, is excited about his second child coming this fall, he has a gorgeous wife, and an absolutely adorable son already, yet he still pours himself out into the youth at our church. He’s been especially supportive towards my difficult children.

When I was upset last Sunday at church, after a fairly grievous weekend, I found myself extremely jealous of all the normal people sitting in front of my family, knowing they very likely had not been screamed at, nor had to stop a violent altercation, nor gone before the court to plead for their family’s safety…but God thumped me upside my head for the billionth time, reminding me that all folks have their own issues and struggles, mine are just so out there, it seems to me.

This, however, is the stark reality in the adoption of older children.

I had little clue going into this, even though I falsely prided myself back then on being so well read, as if that had any bearing on what I would soon encounter? Get your nose out of books little girl and live a real life.

Oh, to have my undamaged naïve moronic self back…

I went back and re-read my blog post of yesterday when another man, Chris, had called to remind me that I don’t really suck. I’d not been fishing for compliments, truly I was just venting, knowing that adoptive parents everywhere have also woefully been accompanying me in these banged up shoes of mine. My beautiful niece, Lauren, had texted me hugs of support as well, as did my cousin, Hannah.

After I’d typed hard on the keyboard, washed another interminable load, done the dishes, and vacuumed one room, I’d stormed outside and worked my tail off for hours, until I heard the school bus brakes down on the dirt road. All of my dogs then go on High Alert, barking happily.

I’d fed everyone, yet one used supper itself as a control issue, “I’m not hungry,” he’d said, yet while the rest of us sat down to eat, he defiantly went into the pantry and ate snack foods, his emotional twin later refusing to go to youth group, after I’d reprimanded him for hitting Mr. P, who’d, of course, provoked the incident.

“That’s assault!” I’d bellowed, which made one half of the ETs immediately melt down like a toddler.

“I hate it when you yell at me,” he cried out in frustration, storming to his room and slamming the door.

Seriously? I should use a genteel tone of voice when he’s slugged someone? That wouldn’t be my normal first response, nor will the nice policemen later in life sweetly ask him to comply.

Wires don’t connect, neurons don’t fire properly, messages and signals are not transmitting successfully.

So how does one then force an angry one to go to youth group? He’s way larger than me, and even if I forced him somehow, he’d likely only act out there. If I take away a privilege, in his mind, he then feels justified in lashing out at others.

There’s no cause and effect link available in his brain. It’s just not there. That’s the reality.

He truly thinks punishments are ridiculous, unwarranted and arbitrary, he’s the victim somehow for hitting someone, I’m a mean old B&^ch that no one gets along with, because I yell when someone gets assaulted.

I’d wager, if I weren’t a church-going, know-nothing prude, according to my rebellious children, that’s there’s millions more like him in our state penal systems.

I can already hear him yelling the word ‘penal’ thinking I’ve now used a bad word.

Deep Sigh.

“Stand your ground, Cindy,” the sheriff once told me when I was super embarassed for having had several grown kids in jail at one time. “I wish there were more mothers holding kids accountable instead of running in here screaming at me with their lawyers.”

When ET divided by 2 gets suspended, it’s always the teacher’s fault or it’s just the mean old whims of the administrator in his mind. He’s the victim and I cannot break, nor penetrate, this mindset.

He eventually wants to join the armed forces, mainly because he wants to legally shoot a gun. I, of course, support this desire, well not the gun part, and if and when I remind him that he’ll have to obey his superiors, he tells me that’d be better than listening to me.

Whatever.

Defiance, extreme rudeness and disrespect, oppositional behaviors, aggression, an appalling love of violence, totally untempered by any desire for hard work, is just a scary combination.

This is not how the real world functions.

Bill paying, honesty, hard physical work, church attendance, good sportsmanship, respect for others, and boundaries are all stupid concepts according to his world view.

I truly love him and I grieve already for the hardships he’ll bring upon himself someday if things don’t start clicking in his mind. I pray for brain healing, therapeutic responses, empathy and academics to someday break through into his spirit. He’s a fairly smart kid who could really go far if he ever channeled what he has in a positive manner.

Dear Lord, please make it so for him.

I really do go around praying under my breath all day long. All. Day. Long.

Cristy and I’d once said that we’d give it a rest, quit talking about how terribly difficult she’d been as a teenager, but Honey, you just gotta let me use it here again today. I obviously need a reminder that there’s hope, as I look at her now, at age 34, with a college degree, great job, and a marriage.

It Hurts That I suck

My mission yesterday, headed to the courthouse, was onerous and eliciting deep dread from within me. I’d called my former, yet still there for me 24-7, caseworker, Emily, discussing my options, of which there were none, other than what I was then heading in to do. I've already discussed this with Dr. Mandy and others in my inner circle whose advice and counsel I treasure.

I drove past Grandma’s church, knowing she was there for circle meeting and my heart plunged upon viewing an ambulance out front.

Oh my goodness. My trauma reactions immediately began surging through my chest, heart crashing against my ribs, turning my truck around to go check, but oh so relieved to have her actually answer her cell phone for once.

My heart banged within me for the next several hours, I just could not calm down.

I don’t even wanna discuss yesterday’s ordeal, suffice it to say, I did the nearly unthinkable, or at least, something I prayed I’d never have to do, yet family safety is my ultimate bottom line.

I’ll talk about it later when I’ve properly emotionally worked through everything. I feel like a failure, even though intellectually, I know that is not so at all.

I remembered a police sergeant coming in my back door one day, looking at all the computers, game systems, big TVs, toys, bikes, and asking a then teenaged boy, “What the hell is wrong with you that you can’t appreciate what you have here with this family,” knowing there was a huge swimming pool right out there also within sight.

Surprisingly enough, this man had been adopted as well. But I think it was when he was a baby, older child adoptions come with an entirely different, massively challenging set of circumstances. No matter how nice this home was, it was not where any child wanted to be, they wanted to be with their birth parents, no matter how marginal of a situation that might’ve been, it now reached mythical proportions within their minds.

They think I’m the only one standing in their way, it’s my fault, I must’ve manipulated the system to kidnap them. When they allow themselves to think logically, they know it’s not true, yet their inner pain is so wrenchingly deep that they only know how to lash out at the caretaker du jour. Ten years studying French and this is all I retained? I should've studied psychology.

“I hate you and the horse you rode in on, I wanna live anywhere else but here,” they’ll scream at me, as if folks were lining up to provide homes for raging teenagers.

“You suck, you’re a horrible parent, you don’t treat us right, you love so-and-so more,” they’ll holler, adding a weird litany of outlandish complaints about everything regarding me.

Some days I just agree, “Yep, I suck,” knowing there’s no possible logic here. And, get this, these are the good rages, those that don’t involve angry teenagers attacking others or destroying the house.

Therapy has helped me cope, has helped me learn disengagement strategies, and has hopefully helped the children learn something to some degree as well.

Two teenage sons had a difficult evening, not wanting to go to soccer practice as it’s a control issue. They can control my emotions, knowing this behavior humiliates me. Coaches wrongly think I’m not teaching good sportsmanship, when the big picture involves me trying to teach basic decent human behaviors, that battle alone is nearly impossible.

They accused me of forcing them to play soccer. SERIOUSLY? I spend 2-4 nights a week down on the field with them twice a year for both seasons, six months total each year, like I have free time? Nothing else to do?

Next season? Nando wants to try Little League, Tabby wants to be a cheerleader for the peewee football team, and I’m gonna oblige them, knowing my older sons are just too emotionally difficult for the volunteer rec coaches, several of whom have complained to the staff lately. Honey, I get it, I understand.

And our participation has been scholarshiped, this is yet another gift to them that they spitefully hurl back in the giver’s face.

That they sabotage all good things is singularly frustrating, knowing how tough the real world is gonna be on them is crushing to me, yet I get up each day, ‘cause I’m supposed to do so, and keep on advising, cajoling, nurturing,housekeeping, and tending to those who simply wish it weren’t me doing so, but their birth mothers would’ve chosen to stick around.

The lesson for me in all this is obviously God molding me into what and who I need to be, there’s a germ of something here for me to learn. I have no clue, I’m not as warm and fuzzy about this as I ought to be obviously, because I fight resentment, fear, stress and negativity within me all too often, but knowing I’m in the hand of God is comforting at all times, even when I’m whining and carrying on about the emotional toll which has been staggeringly humongous on me.

Lord, I’m some kind of weary though, lemme just tell you.

I'm pretty crushed overall. It all appears so pointless sometimes, so inhumane. Who treats people like this? Always biting the hand that feeds you? I love them, they hate me for not being the birth parents. Not all of them act this way, but those that do are shockingly harsh and debilitating to me.

When I respond nicely to those who want me to parent them, then the others scream ridiculous accusations at me. Tabby and Nando want parenting, so do about eight others who live here, and I desperately want to parent them into the successful adulthoods I envision for them, while tiptoeing around the others who glare, snarl and lash out at me.

Time to go outside and dig hard in the garden, planting a couple hundred pepper plants today before Good Friday which is unusually late this year.

Learning Through Therapy

God's way of editing me and my verbal diarrhea was to mess up our Internet for a week or so, leaving me no creative writing outlet for my frustration and discouragement. I could've done so on Word, yet I just didn't bother cranking up a computer, instead I threw myself into a flurry of hard, demanding physical work, sweating like a pig, but releasing some toxic reactionary emotions.

Standing atop my overloaded truck at the dump yesterday, lifting broken down bicycles over my head with what appeared to be super human strength, but was really stress induced adrenaline, no man standing around offered to help this apparently mad woman, looked like she could handle it.

I swung by Grandma's rental house and filled my truck with yet another load of roofing materials and construction mess, this time at the dump I was a little winded, yet still impressively heavy lifting and slinging it angrily at the pile, a substitution for what I felt like flinging, after so much having been flung, smeared and ejected upon me over the years.

Some super strong man appeared, "Honey, you're gonna hurt yourself," and he lifted two pieces of heavy, banged up furniture, deftly projecting them over my head, in spite of my ridiculous protestation about me wanting to eliminate my aggression this way.

I've had yet another emotionally challenging week where severely misdirected rages have been spewed out upon me.

"Some of your kids are blatantly unteachable," a social worker told me, "Just back off, don't engage, swallow the points a parent might make regarding teachable moments, so they won't be misconstrued."

Dr. Mandy has often told me that the children's perceptions of an if this, then that scenario translates into their minds as, "You're gonna fail," rather than simply hearing "If you follow this law-breaking criminal path, you're going to jail," advice.

When I explain I will not bail anyone out of jail, reminding them to toe the line so as not to get a consequence, such as jail, they only hear, "Mom, thinks I'm a thug."

"No," I've patiently said, "If you break the law...then this will happen. If you steal, you'll be arrested, for example."

All they heard in their minds is you'll be arrested. Mom says I'm going to jail. I'm going to jail. Mom hates me, Mom's mad at me. NO comprehension at all that Mom is looking out for this child, afraid all the bases haven't yet been covered before they burst angrily out of my home into the real world that'll violently smack them upside their pretty or handsome faces.

Years ago it slipped my mind to mention, "If you sneak out of the house at night and break into your girlfriend's house and get caught, you'll be charged with statutory rape." Dadgum if it didn't happen exactly like that.

I do know something. I just can't get them to understand much because our relationship is so hindered by their original, yet unacknowledged love and grief, unworked-through, for their birth mother.

Nothing I do will ever be enough to fill that hole that was deeply and painfully seared through their souls...through no fault of their own.

I've now taken on their original persona. Where they wrongly blamed themselves for the birth parent's abandonment, I'm blamed for everything. I'm now the kicked puppy cowering in the corner.

Last night's soccer game for JoJo and Allen ended in a scoreless tie. I don't believe that's ever happened in all these years. They both played their hearts out, JoJo making some very good strategic blocks as goalie, I complimented him effusively, actually quite surprised at his focusing abilities. Thank you, Concerta.

A middle school math teacher came up to me in surprise, "That's Allen darting around out there so expertly?" She'd watched him struggle so hard in math, knowing it was undecipherable to him, telling me later that he'd truly have no need to understand differential equations later in life, that the Georgia math curriculum was geared too high, and so many students, just like him, were frustrated and lost.

Her comment rang in my head for months. She was right on target, and I was reminded of a comment from a therapist we'd once used long ago, who pointed out to me that I should concentrate on another son's good qualities and learn to live with his absolute and complete inability to function in an academic setting.

"What's wrong with a sweet, loving, handsome, emotionally attached son that has trouble even passing a grade?"

Good point, doc.

I needed to work with what I did have there in that guy, who'll be 30 this year, my first son, man did these 20 something years fly by.

Allen came off the field, now 15, and was surprised to see his former math teacher, his current girlfriend, and I, all there cheering him on, a flicker in his eyes of acknowledged understanding that all three females were on his side. "Hi Miss Betts," he shyly mumbled, not meeting her eyes, knowing I require eye contact, but kinda overwhelmed to even think that this woman still cared about him.

And life goes on through all our events, stressors, grief issues and all the other unfathomable behaviors. Sweet Preston gave up his entire Saturday to drive Grandma to Greenville, South Carolina as she took care of her last sibling's estate matters. Chuck brilliantly changed, fixed and rewired this Internet mess and I believe we're on again online for good.

The picture I used was taken by Sabrina last weekend, she'd been in the Upper Gardens with me, idly raking up grass clippings for writing, "I love Mom," with the remains. She doesn't often say much about love, yet I'd wager she's attached. The other photo was Lily's chalk drawing in the driveway.

Zero Tolerance, Emotional Walls, and Keeping On Keeping On

I once felt it'd be hard for Daniel to find a woman that both his overly possessive mom (me) and his doting birth sister, Yolie, plus all the other kids who look up to him would approve of, that we'd think was good enough for our golden boy...and we all think we have a say in this matter.

Sarah, too, thinks Daniel hung the moon. We all do, he's so nice, so honorable and affable, so easy going and intelligent.

His equally as wonderful girlfriend, Megan, got everyone's approval immediately some time back, pictured here with Daniel at Turner Field. She's simply adorable and brilliant, two qualities I'm drawn to, even if it means ending in a prepositional phrase.

He's one in a billion, as are many of my children. The majority of my children are absolutely superb human beings.

Yet, like The Adoption Counselor, I'm coming up on a zero tolerance outlook as well. She wrote a great post, a must read for all you adoptive parents that struggle. She and my own caseworker are also adoptive parents, a tremendous baptism by fire lifestyle that makes them so relatable, so compassionate and so deeply understanding in a professional and empathetic sense.

I've started to call it a boundary issue. If you want to emotionally abuse me and you're a grown kid, I just can't allow it. I'm seriously too beat down to accept any more strife, bickering, misdirected rages, and emotional destruction.

I hope you have a wonderful life, all you who despise me, it's what I'm praying about for so many of my children - blessings, inner peace, successes, and their hearts desires to be fulfilled.

But I really need to be left alone to heal.

I've had grown kids, over the years, make horrific threats, brandish weapons threateningly, commit unspeakable acts, steal massively from me, disable my car at one point while I slept, go steal from other grown children, steal my mother's car and sneak off at night, lie about them or me, rage at the system, or break laws for the heck of it.

I've had college graduations, commissioning, graduates from boot camps, programs, high schools, baptisms, and thousands of other accomplishments that I enjoyed being a part of to happily celebrate.

But like The Adoption Counselor and her zero tolerance, Big Mama's got some big ole invisible walls built up for self-preservation. I see no other way for me to maintain any vestige of mental, emotional and/or physical health.

I listen to older gospel songs from the 1980s that make me cry, make me mourn for my lost hopefulness, my crushed spirit, and once big dreams for my children. I'm stunned to find myself so broken down. I cried in church today, hiding behind my hair, overwhelmed by the music ministry that pierced my walled-up heart. I sobbed, trying breathing techniques to get a grip, sniffling like a baby.

I'm putting one foot in front of the other, continuing forward, as I've been called by God to do, in spite of all circumstances.

Get Up and Do It Again

Motivational psychologist Heidi Grant Halvorson says that when you expect something to be easy, you get quickly discouraged when it's not, and you're more likely to quit. Halvorson's extensive studies in motivation and achievement reveal that people who think the path is difficult actually invest more effort and work harder than those who expect things to be easy. For example, the people who believed that getting a good job after college would be easy sent out fewer applications.

In my times of abject discouragement, I believe always that God sends me encouragement, having read about this woman today, and hearing what I needed to hear from her.

My upside down world, where my giving is perceived as stifling, or where my love is puked back at me, where there is often no peace in my home which should be my sanctuary, sometimes I have to physically force myself to face another day, knowing folks try their dadgumdest to make me wish I'd never gotten up.

Antagonistic, hateful and dishonest, my head and heart reel from it constantly.

Stop and cook dinner only to hear whines and complaints, a trashy kitchen left over, my frustration grows, yet I tell myself that washing all the dishes, at least, gets my garden hands clean.

I am momentarily totally discouraged. I'll get over it. I always do.

Yet Daniel came by and we watched the Braves on TV, two games in a row, one there, one here, spent with him, makes me incredibly happy.

I also have some sweetly smiling children, that others resent for deep reasons, but that I adore, that follow me around happily.

Tony was shocked last night, to find me crying outside in my Big Back Garden. Everyone thinks I have no feelings when they lash out at me. I'm overwhelmed by the fact that I'm being emotionally tormented and punished for ever attempting to help children. The backlash for doing so is severe.

Jack cried about Grandpa yesterday, upset that all of us seem to be going on with life.

He told me he'd hate any kind of new grandpa, which isn't gonna happen, but that's his biggest, deepest fear.

Light Bulb Moment: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I get it. Extrapolating how some of my children blindly hate me for being the new mom who seems to be rudely taking over the birth mom's position. "We didn't ASK to be adopted," they'll scream at me, wrongly thinking that I kidnapped them, that I am all that stands between them and their original mom.

Oh, I understand.

I really do.

But I don't know what to do about it, and we avail ourselves of many levels of therapy in order to help them, and me, to cope.

My own mother frets over me, over the severely negative morass heaped upon me constantly.

But what can I do? I signed up for this.

I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, investing my time and efforts, even though I am constantly being thwarted and despised.

Oh Dear Lord, please heal me from within.

Now I begin the weekly struggle to get everyone dressed and out the door for church...